Heat hovered over the football field. The marching band students slapped at their arms and legs in protest to the blood-thirsty mosquitoes. Mr. Prescriptivist, the band director, called roll.
“Semicolon?”
“Here!”
“Comma?”
“Here.”
“Colon?”
“Here.”
“Dependent Clause?”
“Here!”
“Where are your sisters?”
“Right here,” said Independent One, Two, Three and Four, in unison.
It was hell-week — one week of torturous rehearsals that could drive even the quiet parentheses twins to Dr.Hyde delirium. “Okay, everyone, let’s get into formation!” Mr. Prescriptivist placed his whistle his between his lips as he watched his humble band position for the halftime show. He sent a sudden gust of air through the shrilly mouthpiece.
“No! Semicolon, what are you doing! You stand between Independent One and Independent Two! Not between Independent One and Dependent!”
“Oh, my bad.”
“Your bad what?”
“She means she made a mistake,” said Comma.
“Comma, for heaven’s sake,” said Mr. Prescriptivist, “How many times do I have to tell you? Your position is between Independent Clause Three, and Coordinating Conjunction!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you put me between Independent Clause Four and Noun Phrase.”
“No! That’s Colon’s position. Where is he, anyway?”
“He needed to run to the restroom, sir.”
“Argh!”
This was going to be one hell of a week.
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