Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.
He was fallened, flat as a pancake—never knew what hit ‘em, boom time on to the next incarnation. His walker was a little mangled, but I grabbed it thinking I could hang my underwear on it to dry. I hoisted it over my head and started walking home. My husband “Lousy Joe” was sure to ask me where I got it from. I was going tell him it was in a trash pile out in front of somebody’s house. I’d tell him the pile had a “free” sign stuck in it.
When I got home Lousy Joe was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. “What the hell is that?” He asked. “I found it in a trash pile—it’s an old-fashioned laundry hanger,” I told hm. “Oh no you don’t. I’m going to use it as a step ladder, Hand it over.” We could share it, but he never would. He confiscated everything I brought home. Last week it was a tennis ball. He grabbed it and threw it at the living room wall and put a dent in the wall. Once I found a rubber boot by the creek. He took it from me and pulled it on one foot although it was way too small. He wore it on one foot until his foot got really sore and started to smell. His foot was so swollen we had to cut the boot off and go to the emergency room. He had to have is toes amputated. It was pitiful. He cried like a baby and actually thought I would try to comfort him. Instead, I went out side and smoked a half-pack of cigarettes and met a guy whose wife had fallen down the stairs during an argument and fractured her skull. I told him why I was there and he thought it was funny—my husband limping around in one boot with his foot rotting. I told him I thought it was pretty funny too. Since we shared so much in common, I asked if he wanted to go for a drink. He said, “No. I’ve got to get out of here. I think my wife is going to die.” I said, “Oh, that’s a shame.” He mumbled, “I planned it. I had a mannequin that I practiced with for a month when my wife was at work. I got really good at pushing it down the stairs, until finally I could make it land on its head every time.” All of a sudden a woman walked out of the hospital and told hm she was cleared to go home. It was his wife. He was really angry. His plan had been thwarted.
He told her to wait by the curb. An old pickup truck came roaring toward her. Her husband was driving. He barely missed her. You could him swearing in the truck. Her turned around and came back, and missed again. The third time was not charmed. He missed again, drove up on the sidewalk and hit a concrete barrier. He flew through the truck’s front windshield. There was hole in the windshield where he had flow through. He was lying on his face, still alive.
I was completely shocked, but I envied her. There was a good chance her husband would die, and she didn’t have to kill him. I wasn’t so lucky. So, I bought a mannequin, and hid it in the basement.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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