The engine began to roar before finally taking off. It sped down the white road, making skid marks as it went along. It swirled and twirled until it no longer could. Suddenly, the engine stopped. The mighty engine ran out of steam—it finally ran out of gas. A shadow peers over the white road. It begins to feel the black soft marks, tracing the symbols with its finger, feeling the tenderness of the road. The shadow with the dripping black oily engine in its hand leans back and utters one single word under its deep booming voice, “Finished.”
The mighty engine, the mighty pencil, that twirled and swirled, huffing and puffing, snarling and gnarling, weeping yet sweeping, has stopped. The pencil ran out of gas because the shadow, the man, could no longer pump fuel to it. The man, an overly sized crazed demon, had finished, and he hovered over the wild markings like a hawk, watching its prey, hovering over the wild letters he had jumbled onto the white road, hovering over the rough paper covered with dust and smog from the engine. The man then gently lifts his engine yet again from the table and places it in between the two words, “calm and.” His hand hovers over the two words, covering the entire paper. A surgery is being performed, a deadly operation on these two word, these two creatures. Suddenly he smears the road with a strange curve. The man laughs and yells at his horrendous actions, “AHA! How did I miss a comma here?” As the man smears this curve, this “comma,” onto the paper you can hear the cries, the yelps, and the whimpers of the paper calling out for help. The some 40,000 inhabitants all pleading for their life, “Please, we mean you no harm! Stop! Help! Ahh!” The cries of prisoners of war begging for mercy, a traitor begging for forgiveness, or a child crying for his mother. WHAT HAS THIS MAN DONE? He has disfigured the paper, he has ruined the road, and he has KILLED the foundations of his own ideas. These two silent, innocent creatures. Yet this man has taken their innocence, their virginity. He has destroyed the nature. He has destroyed mankind, civilization, and the natural habitats of these innocent creatures. As he is finishing, he lifts his hand off of the road, wipes the sweat from his forehead, smiles, and sighs, “They’re perfect now.”
The crumply road was once desolated but was recently filled with these wild creatures. Yet this man has imposed a deadly sin. There in between the two words, a darkened curve like no other. With its half-smile glaring back at its creator, this hideous creature, this virus, this bacterium and parasite now thrives within the road. It now thrives between the two words suffocating its every essence of life. This thing, this curve, this comma has ruined relationships. It has separated the family from one another. What have these two words … these two innocent and beautiful creatures done to deserve such a heinous act imposed on them? Nothing. This black curve has been imposed by the man, by the life which created them. Betrayed by their master, by the giver. This black curve deserves no life in this world.
The man smiles, gazing over the road, reading over the symbols and markings. He smirks and says, “I think this one needs a comma too.” His deep voice echoes against the paper creating sound waves seen by the naked eye, yet his voice shrieking, terrifying, and shriveling. He wraps his fingers, strangling the engine that once could no longer chug along, and hurdling it over to the road once again. This time, the man plans on planting the very same virus, the same curved structures, his so-called “comma” between two new words, “Charlie who.” The screams can be heard again. The markings from the beginning of the road can be heard chanting names, “Lord save us, Lord save us … Ancestors hear our cries, help us!” Their calls for their ancestors, for God to save their brethren has failed as the operation has been performed and is disgustingly successful. Another family has been separated by this evil parasite, this virus, this evil entity which haunts the entire silky white road. There are no heroes nor anti-heroes on this road, only the scoundrel villain of the curved line, only the sound of the traitor of the man.
This road belongs to the creatures, not the man. This road was once bustling. The wild markings weren’t wild at all. They were simply out and about on this road, playfully cheering on as they talked to their neighbors. Yet somehow these neighbors, who were very close to one another, turned into a family until this accursed curve and evil man, separated this once happy family. This so-called “comma” is the entity which haunts families, it’s a story parents tell their children before sleeping. This “comma” takes children away, killing off family members, and separating them as if they lived in an apocalyptic world. And in the beginning the wild markings knew how to play, and they played safely with one another. They knew when to stop at each intersection within the road, they knew when to pause without indication, and they knew when to sound excited or question life. They had no problems, but the man did. He demanded there be solutions, and wanted perfection. He demanded that there be short stops in between different intersections. But instead of solutions, he caused collisions within the road, burning them into flames. This man of all people has turned his own masterpiece, his own artwork, into a pile of goo by injecting this acid into the road, and he regrets nothing.
Maybe fear created numbness over the delicate creatures, because the screaming had stopped. Yes, the crying and whimpering may have stopped … but the man has not. Peering over the road again, the man realized how dumb he was. He leans over his desk, tilting his head down like a weeping flower and smiles again uttering the malicious words under his breath, “Oh shoot, I forgot this one needs a comma too.” The man grasps the little engine that couldn’t and swings it towards the road as if he was batting a ball away. He lands the engine on the road, safely, but once again his deadly operation begins. The man’s intentions have increased this time. He plans on separating a family of three now, and three little innocent creatures will be left without one another, without a family. His operation won’t work this time, will it? The man picks up his engine and slowly pours the sinful gel onto the road, encasing the once white road with an unholy liquid. The target, the following creatures: “apples shoes and cats.” Once together, the three creatures have now been separated. They have been made into a list, placed in order. This man, this traitor, is trying to become Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus. He’s made his list, now he’s checking it twice, only to realize everyone is naughty and not nice. He’s separating families without a care in the world, imposing this disgusting so-called “comma,” a purging idea to destroy this once bustling road. He has injected fear, a virus, a poison, a parasite to eat the road, to destroy the road, to kill off the creatures. And the cries, the tears, and begging does not halt his progress as he continues his murderous rampage. This man … this man … with his radical “comma,” is murdering the creatures; he’s pillaging now the lifeless souls of a once structured community.
And finally, the man has stopped. He has played God and was successful. The engine that once chugged and continued to chug under stress has finally stopped. The man has left the road riding on his engine, but at what cost? The creatures have been sprayed by the wicked substance, this “comma,” which has separated them from their families, poisoned out of their own free will. The numbness has taken effect, halting the whimpers, the cries, and the agony that swept through an entire habitat. The man has left one message at the very top of the road, to the creatures, to the road as a sick, twisted, demented warning: COMMA RULES!