Aposiopesis

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

I was riding my electric bike. Humming down the highway of life, I felt the wind in my hair and my pants flapping around my legs—like a pants leg massage, keeping me limber, although the electric motor made it unnecessary.

I was rolling along at 3 MPH, the landscape a flying blur. I was on my way to Home Depot to buy a clamp. I wasn’t sure how it would work. I was thinking that maybe a nail or a screw would work just as well, but I did’t have a screwdriver or a hammer. It had to be a clamp.

The door jamb to my upstairs bedroom closet had come loose and the doorknob had stopped working. It took too long to get a shirt out of my closet.

Suddenly the battery went dead on my bike. Its big fat tires made it nearly impossible to pedal manually. I was in front of Mrs. Breenlap’s house. She was always really friendly to me so I figured I would ask if I could charge my bike up in her house. She told me it was ok, but I had to take off my shoes before I came inside. I complied.

When I got inside a man wrapped the charger wire around my wrists and told me to stand with my nose against the wall. He handed me two string beans and told me to stick them in my ears. I couldn’t do it with wired wrists. Mrs. Breenlap apologized for the man’s behavior and told me he had invaded her house 2 years ago and wouldn’t leave. She told me he was harmless as he pulled the clamp out of the Home Depot bag. He clamped my legs together and pushed me down. He covered me with a blanket and ran out the door. Mrs. Breenlap yelled “You, you look. . .” She helped me up and untangled the wire from my wrists. We sat on the couch waiting for my bike to charge. She told me to put my head between her legs and make growling sounds. I complied out of curiosity.

Soon, my bike was charged and I went my merry way. I shouldn’t have given Mrs. Breenlap my phone number. She has been sending me a steady stream of nude selfies. She looks pretty good for a 70-year-old woman. I have 200 selfies of her. I pasted them on the ceiling above my bed.

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

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