Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.
It was Halloween. The kids were finally old enough to go out on their own. Mickey was going trick or treating as a mower man, pushing our old broken rotary lawnmower around the neighborhood, wearing overhauls, boots, a t-shirt and a New York Yankees ball cap. Our daughter Roxanne was going out as a big lump of bituminous coal with “No Coal” painted on the front and back. We were left at home alone with two big bowls of candy—one filled with little ‘mprinted heart candies left over from Valentine’s Day, the other, filled with homemade candy I had made—cubes of sugar soaked in cherry Kool-Aid with a raisin on top. The raisins had kept falling off so I had glued them on with maple syrup and kept them in the freezer overnight. We were dressed all in black to try to be scary. We were a little eccentric, but that’s what we liked about us. The children headed out, each carrying a laundry basket for the candy they would collect—a family tradition. About five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Three little costumed guests pushed through the door and stood silently by the candy bowls.
They were weird looking. They wore black robes touching the floor, a small fire extinguisher on their backs, eye-masks, and knitted hats with a logo that looked like a liver with feet and raised arms with blue, very hairy, armpits. “What team is that on your hats?“ I asked. Their little eye holes flashed twice, once green once blue. I thought how clever they were to use solar-powered Christmas lights that way, but they didn’t answer my question. I was starting to think they were rude—they barged into our house and didn’t answer my innocuous question. I looked at my husband and he just smiled. I asked them if they were going to take candy. Once again, their eyes flashed twice, this time once red and once yellow. Then they immediately and simultaneously drew what looked like 1950s Buck Rogers Sonic Ray Guns from their robes. Playing along, I raised my hands and cried: “Ooh, don’t shoot me little Moon men!” That was a mistake. There was a flash of light and a tickling feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t move or talk. My husband was gone. A least I was conscious.
I was being dragged toward an old, rusted, dented up green Jeep Cherokee. It had tinted windows all the way around and NY vanity plates reading “BLASTOFF.” After a bit of a struggle, I landed on my back, buckled into a reclining seat, like a chaise lounge. I was shocked when I looked around. The Jeep was loaded with lit up consoles, some with what looked like typical computer and video screens, others I guessed, after all that had happened, with some kind of extraterrestrial technologies. That is, I came to the realization that my cute little “trick or treaters” were abducting me, and there was nothing I could do about it. They were actual space aliens on a mission to earth.
Suddenly I felt I had turned into a warm ocean wave. I closed my eyes and I could see my brain pulsing wildly, pushing out aloha shirt prints and finally turning into a baked ham with pineapple and maraschino cherries. Then it all stopped. We had arrived. My restraint unbuckled. The door opened and I stepped out. It was a beautiful day. The air smelled like jasmine and there was a tall woman walking toward me. She was smiling. It was Amelia Earhart! She reached out and we shook hands. She told me the “one good thing about this place is you don’t age—you’re immortal.” I was completely taken aback and thought I was hallucinating. But I wasn’t. Amelia was really there, but nobody knew why we were there. She invited me to dinner that night with Jimmy Hoffa and Anastasia Romanov. We had a wonderful time and I couldn’t help but wonder why a nobody like me had landed here.
I miss my family, but the longer I am away from them, the less I miss them, especially my husband who is a certified asshole. I have been dating D.B. Cooper for 4 years. We went parachuting again last week. I loved it. He is hot with the parachute and the sunglasses. He wants to get married. I told him I wouldn’t marry him in 100 years. He took off his sunglasses and said, “I can wait.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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