Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.
He struggled, got into his secondhand wheelchair, and rolled toward the kitchen. It was another morning of being disabled. Everything was a struggle, everything was hard. He could still remember being able to stand up and walk—or even jog, or hop, or ice skate. He pounded the kitchen table as he waited for his coffee to brew. He was frustrated and angry.
Like he did every day he tried to stand up on his own. He was determined, but he fell on his face every morning. As usual, he got a nosebleed. He locked his wheelchair and struggled to get back in it. Once he was reseated, he grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen counter, dampened it in the sink, and pressed it to his bleeding nose.
His coffee was done. He poured a cup and gulped it down.
Five years ago he had been run over by a teenager speeding through a parking lot. As a consequence, he lost his mobility. He had been angry and bitter, and even murderous, ever since.
Once again, he picked up a kitchen knife. He was about to stab himself in the heart when he heard an old man voice coming from the pouch hanging from one of his wheelchair’s armrests. He looked down. There was what looked like a red cone sticking out of the pouch. Then, a little man wearing a red pointed hat climbed out of the pouch.
He said: “I’ll say it again: Get off your ass and walk.” The man was shocked, but the little man seemed like some kind of supernatural creature who knew what he was talking about. So, the man tried to stand up. He fell on his face. The little man said “Good” and held out his hands in front of him and wiggled his fingers like he was controlling a marionette. Suddenly, the man stood up.
The man and the little man became a team. The little man would follow the man from around five feet behind. The big bonus was that the little man could make himself invisible! Nobody knew he was following the man and orchestrating his mobility. Moreover, the little man assiduously “went” wherever the man wanted go.
The man was blissful. He was overwhelmed by his good fortune, even though he understood he was no more than a a sentient puppet.
Then, one day he and the little man were headed for the library. They were cutting across the library’s parking lot when they were hit by a bookmobile pulling in from a day of serving rural patrons. The little man was unharmed, although his red pointed hat was knocked off his head. When he was hit, he lost his walking spell power and the man fell to the pavement. His head was crushed like an overripe watermelon. He died right there. The little man disappeared.
POSTSCRIPT
Nobody lived happyily ever after. People die and there’s no bringing them back. For the man, he had a pretty good run—no pun intended—before he died a gruesome death.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu
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