Emotional Words

“Are we ever going to get serious?” she asked abruptly.

“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”

“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.

“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”

“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.

“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”

“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”

“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”

“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.

“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”

“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”

“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”

“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.

“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”

He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”

She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”

In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.

“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”

“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”

“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”

“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”

“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”

“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”

She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

~~~

The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.

He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.

The First Day

Billy walked to the back of the bus and sat down in an empty seat. He was excited for his first day at his new school, but he didn’t know what to expect. He held his backpack close his chest and looked out the window as satellites flew past. After another stop, a girl got on and sat down next to him.

“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be new. I’m Melissa, but I go by ‘Issa’ for short. What’s your name?”

“Billy,” Billy said nervously.

“Well, Billy,” Issa said, “welcome. Is this your first time to space-school?”

“Yeah,” Billy said, feeling a little embarrassed to be so new. “My family just moved here. My mom’s an astronaut.”

Issa nodded. “Yeah, most of the space-kids here have space-parents that are astronauts. My dad’s a space-engineer and my mom’s in the space-navy.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘space’ in front of other words?” Billy asked.

“It’s just way we talk up here in space,” Issa said matter-of-factly. “You just add ‘space’ to most common, concrete nouns.”

“Huh?” Billy asked, confused.

“You know what nouns are, right?” Issa asked.

“Um, I don’t remember,” Billy said, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” Issa said, “I didn’t know what they were when I first moved here. Nouns are words that are the names of people, places, things, or ideas.”

“Oh yeah!” Billy said, recognition spreading across his face. “I remember learning that in school back on Earth. So, should I be called Space Billy?”

“No,” Issa said, “we don’t add ‘space’ to proper nouns.”

“What makes a noun proper?” Billy asked.

“Basically,” Issa said, “proper nouns that are the names of someone or something specific. So, you’d call yourself a space-boy, but not Space Billy. Does that make sense?”

Billy thought for a moment. “So, we go to a space-school, which is a common noun, and its name is Yuri Gagarin Elementary School, which a proper noun. Is that right?”

Issa nodded. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

“Don’t you mean I’m getting the ‘space-hang’ of it?” Billy asked, grinning.

Issa shook her head. “No, ‘hang’ is a verb.”

“Verb?” asked Billy, his grin fading.

“Yeah,” Issa replied, “verbs are action words. So like “walk,” “talk,” read,” “write,” “play,” “eat.” If you can do it, it’s a verb.”

This is a lot to keep track of, Billy thought. “I think I’ve got it. I don’t space-play with a ball, I play with a space-ball.”

“Right,” Issa said.

“If I wanted to add to it,” Billy said, “I’d say ‘I threw the space-red space-ball to my space-friend.”

“Almost,” Issa said. “You added an extra ‘space’ that time. “‘Red’ is an adjective.”

“Good grief!” Billy said, channeling his inner-Charlie Brown. “What are adjuctives?”

“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Issa said while subtly rolling her eyes. “Adjectives are just words that describe nouns, like colors, smells, and other stuff.”

Billy twisted his face in concentration. “So,” he said, “We’re space kids, sitting in a yellow space-bus, on our way to space-school. I’ve got two space-pencils: a green one and a blue one. I’ll use them to write my name on my space-homework. Did I add any extra ‘spaces’ that time?”

“Nope!” Issa said, smiling. “You’re doing great.”

“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” Billy said. “This is space-fun!”

“Oops,” Issa said. “That one was extra.”

“Why?” Billy asked, confused. “Isn’t ‘fun’ a noun?”

“Sure it is,” Issa replied, “but it’s not concrete.”

“Of course it’s not cement,” Billy said, a little annoyed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Issa said. “Concrete nouns are, like, solid things, you know? Something you can touch. ‘Fun’ is just an idea. Does that make sense?”

Billy furrowed his brow. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”

“It takes some practice,” Issa said, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember that you only add ‘space’ to common, concrete nouns.”

“So,” Billy said, giving it one more try, “I sleep on a space-bed, but I don’t have space-dreams, just regular dreams. We’re riding on a space-bus having a conversation, not a space-conversation. Right?”

“You picked that up quick,” Issa said. “Most space-kids are still figuring out lingo for the whole week, but you got it figured out before space-school even started. Not bad!”

“How long did it take you to learn it?” Billy asked as the bus pulled to a stop in the loading bay of Yuri Gagarin Elementary School.

“No time at all,” Issa said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stood up. “I was the one who invented it.”

Billy’s mouth dropped open as Issa walked towards the door and stepped off the bus.