That morning, as a dusty new page flipped over in Exacting Clam 22, word ran through the issue of an approaching gang of terms—marauding titles and phrases looking for new pages. So sheriffphrase “There is no swan in this story.” called all available language—“a nearby fox,” “Orchid Tierney's this abbattoir is a college,” “oozed on as it had for many,” “a frowny face,” “The Afterlife,” “Unusually Credible and Precise,” “A Density of Spirit” and others—to the Connecting Sinew Saloon. The language chatted and laughed and sipped from their whiskeys until swan whistled everyone quiet. “Listen up!” said the sheriffphrase. “We’ve got real trouble coming our way. You’ve all heard of these language gangs taking over books and journals? Well, a posse of terms is riding in from the west right now and they intend to drive us out.”

A few phrases chuckled. “What does that mean, drive us out?” hooted spirit.

“Like, kill us?” said “Rubberbands of various colors, thicknesses, and circumferences.”

“These marauders take over books, tell any sort of wild story they want there, then leave the pages in ruin and move on.” Swan began to pace in front of the bar. “Remember The Sorrow Quarterly? They were run over last month. Words like “hooligan” drove out the stories, told their tales, then burned the place down.”

“They burned the pages?” said fox.

“The entire book,” swan said.

Just then the bell for a page turn sounded. The Afterlife looked out the window of the saloon to see words on scaffolding struggling to haul hemp ropes through pullies, hoisting the next page and momentarily blocking out the sun and the horizon until the paper flipped over. The words shouted directions to each other as they lowered the page slowly and tied off the ropes. Then the scene continued.

Unusually credible raised his hand and said, “Can we meet these phrases at the margin, fend ‘em off?”

“I don’t think so,” said swan. “We’re hearing they’ve got full paragraphs—dozens of ‘em.”

“So what do we do?” said abbattoir. “Just leave? Run?”

“Bullhonky to that,” said unusually. “I say we arm ourselves with the words ‘gun’ and ‘rifle,’ go to the western margin, and stand our ground.”

“Unusually’s right,” fox said.

“But they’ll kill us!” said abbattoir.

The Afterlife spat on the floor of the saloon and pushed through the swinging doors. Outside, the phrase looked around the issue—at “no future for you and you” in one direction, “Out of the gloom a voice said unto me ‘Smile and be happy, things could be worse.’ So I smiled and was happy and behold, things did get worse.” in the other—and then to the page horizon and up at the blazing sun.

Inside the saloon, phrases had begun to raise their voices. “Y’all do what you want,” unusually was shouting, “but I’ll die before I give these pages over.”

“Don’t be a fool,” oozed oozed.

Then the doors swung open and the Afterlife strode through them. “I think I know what to do,” he said.

The lost language arrived in the issue two days later. That afternoon, exhausted phrases—“I’m just really hungry,” “How many years have we been riding?” “Is this, finally, my home?” and dozens of others—trotted on the word “horseback” to the edge of the issue and then stopped to survey the scene. The posse was prepared for pushback, but strangely, they found the cover of Exacting Clam 22 empty.

“Where is everybody?” said “Where is everybody?”

How many years shrugged. Then he commanded his word horse forward and the other lost language followed. As they crossed the cover, home checked the horizon. “Hungry,” said home. “You see any sharpshooters?”

Hungry scanned the margins. “Nope,” he said.

They rode onward into the issue—across the inside cover and towards the Table of Contents. While that was the most common page for words to corral for a language counter-offensive, the paragraphs saw only two lone words—“The” and “Afterlife”—standing at the very top of the first page. The phrase held the word “pistol” in each hand. The paragraphs thundered towards him and lined up in the middle of the page. “Howdy,” the Afterlife said cooly.

“This here your journal?” hollered home.

“Reckon,” said the Afterlife.

“You here all alone?”

The Afterlife spat on the page.

“I see you got yourself some wordguns,” home said. “What’s your plan—kill us all with two pistols?”

“If y’all are smart?” The Afterlife pointed east, towards the edge of the page. “You’ll turn your wordhorses around and find yourselves another publication. This one’s taken.”

“This one’s taken,” mimicked “Where is everybody?”

“No offense, partner?” said how many years, grinning widely, “but you seem slightly outnumbered.” Then he waved his hand and four phrases on horseback drew the words “rifle.” “What do you say, hungry?” sang how many years. “Do we kill him here and now?”

“Let’s bury him in the page,” hungry said. “Send ‘the Afterlife’ to the afterlife.”

A shadow fell on the page as the paragraphs laughed and cheered. Then all the words went silent. Home stared at the Afterlife and looked to see if he would flinch. When he didn’t, home said, “Alright, I’m bored of this hereafter. Any last words, eternity?”

The Afterlife grimaced and winked. When he did, home caught something out of the corner of his eye: words, poised on the scaffolding of the page turners. Before home could say anything, the words signaled to each other and released the ropes holding the cover up, and the page turners’ pulleys started spinning wildly.

“The cover!” shouted home. “Run! Run!”

The Afterlife was already sprinting for the top margin. The lost language reared their wordhorses and reached the side of the journal just as the cover came crashing down. “What the—” shouted home, looking back at the closed cover. “Are you crazy? You could have killed us!”

“It’s like I said,” shouted the Afterlife. “This journal’s taken.”

“We need to get to those page turners,” whispered how many years.

“We’ll keep dropping pages all day if we need to,” said the Afterlife.

“Listen, home—let’s just keep moving,” hungry said. “There are other journals.”

Home turned back to the Afterlife. “You think this is over?”

“Reckon I do,” shouted the Afterlife.

“Oh this is not over. We’ll be back.”

“Whatever you say, partner,” said the Afterlife.

Then home motioned to the paragraphs, and they turned their horses and began trotting onward. The Afterlife watched the words get smaller and smaller until finally they disappeared into the horizon.