Chiasmus

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).

Yesterday, I sent an email to you expecting a reply, But today, no, no answer, just a blue screen with a cursor’s arrow resting in the upper left-hand corner. But then, a message lit my screen telling me I have a new email—maybe a reply! A new communication blinking on my desktop. Then, I realize that I must open my email app to see and retrieve my messages. Oh silly me, as foolish as a circus clown.

Her reply is “Leave me alone or I’m calling the police.” I thought that was rather harsh. After all, I had sent her ten messages. When she didn’t answer, I worried. Maybe she was tied up and couldn’t access her keyboard. Maybe she was critically ill, on the floor unable crawl to her computer. Maybe she was locked in her bathroom. Or, God forbid, maybe she was dead lying in a pool of blood on her kitchen floor. All of these scenarios were troubling. Then I realized! She hadn’t sent the email! It was her assailant trying to throw me off. So, I sent another email saying I wasn’t going to send another email, that I was leaving town for a week. But, how to make my ruse work?

Anyway, I couldn’t imagine why she rebuffed me—she had to be in dire trouble. I had spotted her at Starbucks. She was talking to some guy. She lit my fire. She had given her business card to the guy and he left it on the table when they left. I snatched it up. Her name was Jane Doe. I thought that was weird, but life is weird. Nevertheless, it forced me to have an image of her lying naked, dead on a slab in a morgue. The card had her address, phone number, and email address. I was too shy to call her, so I emailed her. I told her I had used magical powers to find her, powers I had been granted during my sojourn on Planet Blue, where everything was blue. I told her that my affection for had made me want to teach her a couple of magic tricks—I would show her how to turn into an Audi and turn cold water into warm Ovaltine. How could she resist my boundless generosity? She’d have to be crazy turn me down. Or not to realize I was just kidding. I could hear her laughing all the way down in my basement apartment. I could be a comedian..

But, even then, I was crazy and I wouldn’t turn her down. Love was in the air. When I opened my window, I could smell it. It smelled like pepperoni pizza.

I was going to take a chance. There is a dimly lit alley near where I live. We could meet there without bright lights that would break the mood. One more email. Just one! “Jane, meet me in the dark alley across the street from the church on Bow Avenue. Please.” I expected the police to pound on my door. They didn’t!

I put on a splash of Brut, my black leather jacket and gloves. Just in case, I pulled my balaclava out of my sock drawer and stuffed it in my back pocket.

I walked to the alleyway. She was standing there smoking a cigarette. She said, you remind me of my loony second cousin Red. I loved him. She smiled at me and started into the alleyway. I was overcome with excitement. I pooped my pants—it was a full load.

She took a whiff and ran into the alleyway. I was right behind her, sort of limping/hopping along, my load swinging in my underpants. She stopped and turned and said “I know what you did, follow me.” So, I followed her. She lived across the street from the end of the alleyway. She told me to leave my pants on the stoop and come inside. She pointed down the hall and said “The bathroom’s on the right. Take a shower.” I told her she was the most wonderful person I ever met, ignoring my poopy pants and welcoming me into her home. When I got out of the shower, I heard a washing machine running. She was washing my poopy pants!

There was a bathrobe hanging from the bathroom door, so I put it on and stepped out into the hallway. There she was with a machete in one hand and my balaclava in the other. “What the hell is?“ she asked, shaking my balaclava in my face. I told her it was supposed to go down to 10 below tonight, and I thought I might need it. At that, she calmed down a little bit, but the machete still looked pretty threatening. She put it down and came toward me laughing affectionately. “Open the robe,” she said in a soft voice. I knelt down and picked up the machete and cut her head off.

I put my pants in the dryer and checked the refrigerator for a snack. I opened a container of yogurt and laughed diabolically. I was getting good at that.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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