comma

“We put commas, not periods on everything—it’s never over.”

The lively canvas, hardly an illustration of an event, employs light-reflective silver and golden-brown metallic paints applied in vast fields of paisley-like commas that dematerialize into a spatially ambiguous surface shimmer.

I’m a comma, and I get to exist.

Then, it coils itself into a comma, bunching up its lower half.

There’s an unwritten law that literary fiction set in the high plains be sturdy and simple — sentences firm as fence posts, commas hammered in as clean as barn nails.