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Diaskeue

Posted on August 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I was wondering where I was, when suddenly I was run over by a camper van. At that instant I realized I was in the middle of the street at the entrance to Yellowstone National Park.

I was pretty badly injured so it was no surprise that a huge brown bear started dragging me toward the woods. My brand new hiking boots were getting scuffed all to hell. I had paid $200 for them two days before. The salesperson told me I could scale hills like a mountain goat looking for a mate. I believed him, but now I would never get a chance to find out if my faith was well-founded.

The bear was dragging me by my left arm. That wasn’t too bad given that I’m right-handed. If he tore off my arm, I’d still be good to go. Arm-wrestling would still be a possibility, and hygienic wiping and eating with a fork too.

The Rangers were closing in. One of them had a gallon container labeled “XXX-Bear Spray, Jackson Hole Hardware.” That filled me with optimism. A whole gallon in the bear’s face would make it drop me and send it packing to Idaho. Suddenly the bear said “Only you can prevent forest fires.” It came from a little solar-powered black plastic box hanging from around its neck. The astonishment pushed back my terror. For at least two minutes I was laying in a warm soft bed with a fresh loaf of bread. Suddenly, I awoke from my revery and realized the “warmth” of my revery bed was my blood. A Ranger yelled “The bear spray didn’t work. Make yapping tourist sounds. Bears hate that.” I said “Get away from there Timmy,” “Stop it right now!” “No! I will not buy you a Smokey the Bear T-shirt!” “Give the Ranger back his gun!” “Wait until I tell your father!” “Is that mud or dog pop?” I kept spewing them out. The bear put his paws up to his ears and began shaking his head back and forth violently.

He dropped my arm and ran into the woods making a whining sound. It sounded like a cranky baby crying. Then, he was gone. I was free! The ambulance ride to the hospital was uneventful, except at one point I thought there was a bear driving, wearing a white coat. It had to be some kind of hallucination, so I forgot about it until I met my doctor, Dr. Bear. He was gruff and had a really thick beard. He was tall and plump and wore brown Birkenstocks. He was a really good doctor. He advised me to eat fruit and nuts and the occasional salmon. I lost 25 pounds on what he called the “Ursine Diet.”

What did I learn from all this? I learned how to grunt like a bear and accept my fate.

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.

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Diaskeue

Posted on January 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I couldn’t get over it. All my life I had struggled to achieve it. I didn’t falter. I didn’t waver. My resolve was firmly embedded in the depths of my emotions and the firmament of my soul. I had sacrificed companionship, family and anything that distracted me. I live in a pup tent behind Walmart. I live off my veterans benefits for PTSD and bi-polar disorder. I had my $349 check mailed to Walmart and cashed it at the service desk. My medication (Lithium) was mailed to Walmart too. I was so grateful to Mel the store manager. I shower, brush my teeth, and shave at the YMCA. It’s all the Village People say it is.

All my life I wanted to be a professional tap dancer. I have an unwavering desire to succeed. I will be 80 on my next birthday, so time is running out. I am still taking lessons and I haven’t improved. My psychologist tells me my insistence on doing something I can’t do is what makes me “mentally different.”

Some days I sit in my pup tent and cry, hugging my worn out tap shoes to my chest, wanting my mommy to assure me that some day I’ll be a success, and hearing my father say in his stern voice: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” “Over and over, father, I have tried, tried again,” I say to the door flaps of my lonely little tent.

6 MONTHS LATER

Now that I am dying of cancer, I have slacked off on practicing. I put on my tap shoes and crawl out of my tent and struggle to stand up. I grab ahold of a dumpster and pull myself up slowly and painfully. I hum “Mr. Bo Jangles.” I let go of the dumpster, take a step, and fall on my face. The asphalt smells like garbage and I feel sick. With great effort, I drag myself back inside my pup tent.

I lay on my back. I look at my tent’s ceiling and try to ignore the pain, but I can’t. My abdomen is burning. The pain is excruciating. I have failed. I close my eyes.

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.

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Diaskeue

Posted on April 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Her baby was crying. It had been crying nonstop for five hours. It was 3 O’clock in the morning. She had to be to work at 7:00 am. She had to take a bus. Her husband had abandoned her and little Emile one month ago. He had run off with the 18-year old gymnast he had been giving guitar lessons to. Her mother had disowned her when she had married Morton. She was 22 and he was 45. Her mother was appalled by their age difference and threatened to take out a contract on Morton. Now that he had left her, she was threatening him again.

Morton worked in a MAGA hat factory on the outskirts of town owned by a state-run Chinese conglomerate: Moo Shoo Hat. Each hat came with a free set of chopsticks and a bar of jasmine soap. Morton was proud of himself—he believed he was making China great again—that the hats were turning China around—like opium did in the 19th century. In fact, he was thinking of selling fentanyl to help move things along—tucking it in the hats’ hatbands along with a coupon for a syringe from CVS. When the bosses found out about his scheme he was beaten, fired, and thrown out the factory’s back door. His pockets were full of fentanyl when the police found him. Morton is currently in jail awaiting trial.

“But that’s all behind me. Fu*k Morton and his girlfriend too—who, by the way, ran out on him when he bottomed out. Anyway— I’ve got to figure out how to get to work. Finally, baby Emile shut up and I put her into her crib. I set my alarm for 5.00 am and went to sleep. I woke up crying. I opened my window and held baby Emile out the window. I yelled ‘I’ll drop my baby if you don’t take care of her today, for free!’ People just looked at me with scolding looks. I live on the first floor, so my threat didn’t have much traction. Then, a man with a seeing-eye dog yelled ‘Throw me the baby. I can help.’ Without thinking, I threw baby Emile at him. He said ‘I was just kidding’ as my baby flew through the air. Suddenly, a young man in a Brooklyn Rampage baseball uniform jumped up and caught my baby. He came inside and promised to take care of my baby, and I made it to work. I was going to permanently hire him when I got home, and I did.

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.

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Diaskeue

Posted on September 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I am lost again. I’m like Mary’s little lamb, only I couldn’t find the school. I could’ve wandered in front of a FEDEX truck, and maybe been served up as gruel. In a way “Road Kill” was the story of my life. I found myself in strange and unintended places all the time. Two weeks ago, I set out for the dump. I ended up at the edge of the Grand Canyon, marveling at the sunset’s painting of the canyon walls’ shadows with purple, pink, and, orange-colored light. The air was warm with an almost imperceptible breeze blowing on my face scented with sand and time. The canyon was deep, a tribute to patience and the Colorado River’s unceasing flow.

My revelry was destroyed by my car alarm going off. There was a bear rocking my little Fiat back and forth trying to score the Oreos on the front seat. I watched as he flipped over my car and it rolled over the fence into the Grand Canyon. I heard it bounce and crunch, and eventually explode as it hit the bottom of the Canyon. I thought, “That’s one hell of a bear,” as it came toward me. On its hind legs it was probably eight feet tall. I ran and hid in a nearby porta-potty. The bear rocked it back and forth a couple of times and left me there alone to figure out what to do. I called park ranger headquarters and told them what had happened. The Ranger asked me if I had Oreos in my car. When I told him yes, he said “Uh oh. There goes Ollie again. We’ll have your car retrieved by helicopter for $2,000 and assume all your possessions were destroyed in the fire.”

That afternoon I flew back to Ohio with a burning desire to overcome my getting lost malady. I explained my problem to Siri and she told me there was a “Lostologist” in my zip code. His name is Dr. Magellan and he helps people like me learn how to “stay on course.” I couldn’t even stay true to my GPS, so this sounded like I was taking the best route to a cure.

Dr. Magellan gave me a Bluetooth-enabled seat belt buckle that communicated with my cellphone’s GPS. If I started to deviate from my programmed route, it would shock the hell out of my lower torso. The buckle didn’t cure me, but it kept me on course in my car. I wore a similar device strapped to my head with an elastic headband when I was walking. It worked as well as the driving device, as long as I had my walking route programmed into my GPS, but it shot what felt like bolts of fire through my head.

I haven’t gotten lost in five years. I know where I’m going and that I’m going to get there prodded by my “Go-Shock.” I experience daily pain, but I don’t care as long as I reach my destination.

I looked up from my laptop and realized I didn’t know where I was. I had forgotten my “Go-Shock” on my walk to the park. I looked out the window and everything was in French. I would have my “Go Shock” sent by DHL tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll have my new friend Collette, who I’m sharing my room with, to keep me on course. We’re staying in my room—taking no chances on me getting lost. She told that she was going out to get coffee and croissants. I gave her my wallet. That was four hours ago and she hasn’t come back yet. Maybe she decided to get lunch instead of breakfast. I wish I could remember how we met.

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

Print and e-editions of The Daily Trope are available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Diaskeue

Posted on December 16, 2022 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I was panic-stricken. I kept hearing a scratching noise down in the basement. It would be quiet for about ten minutes, then it would start again, slow at first and then faster and faster until it abruptly stopped. I was running in circles in the living room with my fingers in my ears. But, my fingers couldn’t block the sound. I ran out my front door yelling for help. I yelled “There’s a scratching noise in my basement! Help! Help! Help me!”

My neighbor “Bad Eddie” came running out his front door holding some kind of pistol. He was a biker, a member of “The Killers” a motorcycle gang he had been in since Junior High when he first got his motorcycle license. Although the gang was called “The Killers” nobody in the gang had ever actually killed anybody. It was formed by Vietnam veterans in the mid-1960s, and Eddie’s main goal in life was to be the first “Killer” to kill somebody.

The scratching noise in the basement presented a great opportunity to kill somebody in self defense—an intruder lurking in the basement waiting to do me harm—maybe a serial killer, or just some angry person looking to vent their rage on a random homeowner. Exactly what Bad Eddie needed!

We went into the house. Bad Eddie yelled, “Ok. You go down first. I’m right behind you.” He had a gun and he wanted me to go first! What a bunch of bullshit. So, I turned on the basement lights and started down the stairs. Bad Eddie was about ten feet behind me. I heard the scratch! It got faster and faster and then it stopped. I looked in the dimly lit corner by the furnace. Omg! It was my crazy brother who ran away from home when he 10. Eddie asked: “Should I shoot him?” I told Eddie to “Go the “F” home.”

I had thought some random food was missing, along with a can opener, and a large soup spoon. Anyway, my brother was holding what looked like a belt buckle, and also a nail he was scratching the belt buckle with. It looked like he was scratching an “M” which is my first initial. My birthday was in two days and he was “engraving” the belt buckle for me! He said, “You can wear it to the rodeo.” I had no idea what he was talking about. I had never been to a rodeo, and I didn’t care—I was just so happy to see my brother after all these years! We had a lot to talk about, especially since he had been on his own since he was ten. He pulled a pile of small gold bars out of his backpack. “I am rich,” he said.

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

Print and e-editions of The Daily Trope are available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Diaskeue

Posted on June 8, 2022 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

My mother was dead. Two weeks in the hospital and off she went. The restraint on her bed had come loose. She rolled over and the life sustaining tube yanked out of her arm. I’m no medical expert, but I don’t how one tube can make the difference between life and death. I demanded an autopsy but the hospital dismissed me like I was dirt.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother and the single tube that had killed her. I hired a lawyer and told her what had happened. The first thing she asked me was whether my mother had any enemies. I told her my mother was her own worst enemy. She ate like the pastry shop was a health food store. She drank the cheapest gin money can buy—Mr. Boston—smells like cleaning fluid flavored with juniper berries. She smoked Mavericks—a brand of cigarette that might not really be a cigarette. They are under investigation for using lawn clippings and recycled cigarette butts. The lawyer frowned and told me if we were going after a death rap, we needed somebody to blame before we’ll be granted the autopsy. I told her I thought we could blame anybody, so we blamed the orderly who mops the floors. It worked! The autopsy was performed. They found one of those little umbrellas that go in drinks lodged in my mother’s throat. She had choked to death. My mother always liked a Mimosa with a cocktail umbrella.

I sued the hospital for $5,000,000 and won. They had lied about the cause of death and we nailed them. My mother’s funeral was semi-festive. She was so quirky I know she would’ve loved it. The mortician had decorated her hair with cocktail umbrellas and put a Maverick cigarette between he lips. There was a bottle of Mr. Boston tucked under her arm. She looked great laying there. If she had gotten up and headed to Towne Liquor, it would’ve seemed perfectly normal.

You only have one mother. She was mine. It still hurts every time I think of her. I can remember her making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every day for my school lunch. She always gave me extra jelly. She was so nice to my friends and girlfriends. We would play in the yard and she would pop out on the back porch in her apron: “Come on kids, the cookies are ready.” We would race to the kitchen. I loved her with all my heart.

Some day we’ll catch the bastard who killed my mother. In the meantime, I’m in a serious relationship with the lawyer, Theresa. In a weird way I feel like that’s some kind of justice, and she bakes cookies that might be better than my mother’s.

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

Print and e-editions of The Daily Trope are available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Diaskeue

Posted on October 11, 2021 | Comments Off on Diaskeue

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

It was 96 Fahrenheit. I was standing in front of the airport terminal in Manila, waiting for a bus. I had just arrived from northern New York where it was the middle of winter and 15 Fahrenheit when I left. I should’ve been wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but I was wearing a suit and a heavy woolen overcoat. I had one suitcase, a carry-on bag, and a briefcase with nothing in it. I took off my overcoat and laid it on top of my luggage.

A raggedy-looking teenage boy ran by and grabbed my coat and briefcase. I needed to cut a low profile, so I kept my mouth shut and watched my stuff disappear down the sidewalk. That’s when I realized, when I paid for my entry visa, I had put my wallet into my coat pocket—my credit cards, my cash, my passport. My cellphone was in my other coat pocket. This was truly bad. Thank God I had my bus ticket.

The bus arrived at my stop near my hotel after over an hour of stop and go through Manila’s jammed traffic. I walked into the lobby and up to the main desk. I told the guy behind the desk my name. He asked to see my passport. I knew a saga was brewing. I thought for a minute and did what the situation called for. I took off my suit coat, rolled up my sleeve, and showed the deskman the tattoo on my left forearm. Given how the plane and hotel reservations were made, and paid for, I figured he might be part of the story, recognize the tattoo, and give me a break. He did more than give me a break. He put me in the Presidential Suite. He must’ve known why I was there. I called my contact and he told me his crew had already caught “the little miscreant” who had stolen my coat and briefcase and that he had been properly disciplined. I was not surprised—the people I work with have networks as deep as the Mariana Trench.

I had the maps, the photographs, and specifications in my suitcase. It was time to go to work.

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

Print and e-editions of The Daily Trope are available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Diaskeue

Posted on October 13, 2017 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

He had his dirty hand outstretched: filthy fingernails pointed directly at me. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot and there was a fleck of spit hanging from his chapped lower lip. His beard was out of control, like some kind of genetically modified weed patch. He smelled like urine and his clothes were ready to disintegrate. He wore no shoes.

“What are you looking for? Chevy? Ford? Mazda? VW? We have a really good selection of preowned cars.”

My God! He was a used car salesman! I turned and ran.

He called after me: “Jeep? Chrysler? Volvo?”

I kept running and didn’t look back.

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

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Diaskeue

Posted on January 24, 2017 | 1 comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

He was kind, merciful, full love, and brutally murdered, here, in this vacant parking lot. His blood has soaked into the black asphalt. His cries for help, though, have dissipated into the cold winter night.

We will find the person who did this. No matter how long it takes, justice will be done.

Please help us with any leads you may have–even if they seem like reckless rumors, or flat-out lies. We want to hear it all.

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

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Diaskeue

Posted on December 4, 2014 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Stabbed, the schoolteacher’s heart spit up its warm sustenance . Dry clotted footprints run across the cold tiled floor.

This is Abu Dhabi,  and this is anywhere where defenseless humans are slaughtered in public by lunatic zealots; by blades, bullets, bombs and stones.

We mourn the death of Ms. Ryan. We also mourn hatred’s conquering of public space even as we mourn the death of its spirit of charity and grace.

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). A paperback edition of The Daily Trope is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is also available for $5.99.

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Diaskeue

Posted on April 27, 2011 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Total destruction. No warning. Houses torn to pieces. Cars turned upside down. Furniture scattered everywhere. So many people torn by grief.  How will they ever recover? What a tragedy.

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

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Diaskeue

Posted on June 27, 2010 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I had just climbed into bed after a long flight from Taiwan to New York. It was about 10:00 a.m.  I was exhausted. I heard a loud thud on my bedroom window–like someone had thrown a soft object at it with a lot of force. I pulled up the blinds and saw a small hole in the screen with a greasy stain smeared on the glass behind it. Lying dead on the grass was a beautiful little sparrow hawk–perfectly still–its neck twisted too far to the side–broken by its collision with the window.

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

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Diaskeue

Posted on November 3, 2007 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Look! Look at this! This is his face–his head–a horrible jagged scar from cheek to ear, ear to forehead, forehead to the back of his neck; and what’s more, a battered heart beating out panic attacks like he’s on a constant roller-coaster ride from hell! They put in him in harm’s way, and there is nothing in the world (not even love and money) that can make his mind and body whole again. Nothing!

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

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