Category Archives: alliteration

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

Crows cawing in the middle of the night. They were crowing away like they were having a convocation in the field across the street. I didn’t usually get too irritated by things like this, but my girlfriend had gotten up and was getting dressed. She couldn’t stand the noise and was going to go home. She wanted me to call her an Uber.

I resisted and told her all would be well. I took my double-barrel shotgun down off the gun rack and grabbed a box of shells—number six birdshot that would send the noisy bastards to their graves. I had no idea how many were out there, but I was sure when I fired the first shot they’d all fly away.

I got outside and saw that there were hundreds of them. They had shredded the scarecrow in the field and were all turned facing me. I remembered the movie “The Birds” and laughed to myself. I was getting ready to fire my first round and one of them flew past me and tore a button off my shirt. All the crows cawed like he had won a victory over me.

I yelled “Bullshit” and raised my shotgun to my shoulder, ready to kill a crow, and chase the rest away—back to Wisconsin or somewhere. Then, a crow swooped down and pecked me on the forehead. It bled. It hurt. I tried to get a shot off at the crow who had pecked me. I missed it. The entire flock started circling over my head. Most of them were clutching corncobs with their feet.

I knew what was coming! I ran across the street to take shelter in my house. My girlfriend was on the porch yelling “Where’s my Uber?” A crow soared in and let its corncob go. It hit her hard in the face and gave her a bloody nose. She was crying and cursing me. Just then, the crows swooped toward the porch like a shining thundercloud. We barely made it inside. I had dropped my shogun on the lawn, so we had nothing to fend off the crows with.

They started pecking on the front door and were beginning to penetrate the wood. My girlfriend and I huddled together on the living room couch. Our phones didn’t work. We were sure we were going to die. We talked about whether we would go to hell together or separately.

Then, suddenly it was dead silent. The crows had stopped cawing! We were going to live! I opened the front door and there were crows all over the porch. That was it. We were going to die after all. Mauled by crows.

The crows took off and circled over my home shitting on it until all of them had a chance to go. My house was coated with an inch-thick coating of crow-do. I do not know why they did it: they annoyed me until I took action, then they shit on me and my girlfriend and home. I know I’m not the only one that crows have shit on. It has happened to the White House in Washington, DC. I have a theory.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

It was the dreaded dog. It had gotten loose again and was dragging a chain behind it. He was running towards me. Soon, my windpipe would be hanging out and I would be the dreaded dog’s latest victim. But it wasn’t meant to be. Instead of ripping out my throat, he was whining and running in little circle like Lassie did when she wanted Timmy to follow her.

I took the cue and we ran down the street together, crossed the street to the park, and ran into the woods. He growled at me. “This is the end,” I thought as he shook his head back and forth. “He suckered me into the woods, now he’s going to kill me.” That was it. I closed my eyes and waited to be torn apart. He could catch me if I ran, so, forget that.

Suddenly it got quiet. I opened my eyes. There was a smiling baby lying at my feet, kicking its legs. I picked it up and carried it home. When I got home I yelled “Ma, I found a baby!” She said “You found a what?” “A baby.” I answered. We decided to take it to the police station. There was a $500 reward. That gave me an idea.

I could train the dreaded dog to lift babies from their bassinets, I could “find” them and return them for the reward.

My plan failed when I realized if I started finding babies everywhere, I would become a suspect for kidnapping them. So, I toned it down. I befriended the dreaded dog with beef patties and Milkbone treats. I taught the dreaded dog to snatch purses. I took off his chain and gave him a respectable name: Marlon. We did well. He’d go up to a woman carrying a purse and look cute. She would bend over to scratch him behind the ears, and he’d grab the purse and run home.

Two months ago Marlon was caught by animal control. After being in doggie jail for awhile, he was adopted by a nice family and the kids loved him. When they were taking him for a walk, he got loose and grabbed a women’s purse. He brought it home to me. I was happy to see him—it was just like the good old days.

I emptied the purse, and I went to throw it on the pile of purses on the living room floor. But I noticed it had one of those little GPS trackers in it. There was pounding on my front door.

Guess where I live now. It’s not Elm Street. I’ll be at this address for two years.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

Big blue balloons bounced around the city square. It was the annual celebration of the balloon’s invention in the little town of Riva in eastern Peladys. It was a joyous week-long celebration of the balloon with a different shape being celebrated every two days. Today was day one: hot dog shaped oblong balloons. For hundreds of years they have been twisted into various animal forms and other thing we won’t mention here. The restricted twisting would take place in back rooms, away from the square, in adult-only performances, for men only. Otherwise there were dachshunds, seals, giraffes and even platypuses, twisted into existence by the performers around the city square.

Nobody knows how or why the balloon was invented, let alone, the material they are made of. The genesis myth says that in 1601 Jules Glower was boiling his shoes to remove cement residue from his work as a mason. He fell asleep. The mixture of beer and sacred spring water he was using almost boiled away. The smell awakened him. He reached in the kettle to retrieve his shoes. They were at the edge of destruction—soft and falling apart. He had a small penny whistle that his mother had given him for his 30th birthday. He jammed it into the shoe’s heel thinking he may invent a shoe whistle, with a shoe giving the whistle a unique sound, like putting a mute on a trumpet. He blew into the whistle and the shoe began to expand. It was not unlike a pig’s bladder, but it was thin and transparent. He pried the shoe off the sole. The sole had expanded to the point that it was paper thin. He pulled out the whistle and quickly filled the hole with chewing gum, which had only just been discovered. He held up the inflated sole and hit it with his fist. It almost floated out the window. He named what he had it the “ball-loony.” Because of its shape and erratic trajectory when it was batted around—it was “loony.” Ball-loony.

Quite a story! There is no way it can be true, but who cares. Like all genesis myths, they are concocted to underwrite an event that needs justifying or accounting for. The myth accounts for why we are how we are. My family subscribes to the myth that we are descended from Vikings. It helps to account for family patterns of bipolar disorder, its fighting spirit, and generally dysfunctional tendencies. We all take Lithium, attend anger management workshops, and have arrest records. The men own boats, have beards and tattoos, and carry compasses. The women are all beautiful, carry handguns, kick ass, run the family, and make great soup.

Every year at the celebration of the balloon’s invention, there is the Great Reenactment staged in accordance with the myth. Every year it fails to produce a balloon—or “ball-loony.” Nobody cares. Hooting and yelling, nearly buried in a sea of balloons, celebrants, at sundown of the celebration’s second day, begin the “popping.” It symbolizes the fragility of life and the suddenness with which it may take leave. This is why the “Poppers” affect a solemn demeanor after their initial elation as they “kill” the balloons with antique stickpins from the 1600s, most of which have been passed down in families.

Tradition. The celebration of the balloon’s invention will go on forever. It keeps the past alive in the present. It keeps us in suspense until it’s advent each year. Or with some traditions, they are enacted every day at a specific time. Suspense runs deep into the human condition. Anticipation seasons life with hope and fear.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.