Mourning in Testopolis

 

Mourning in Testopolis

Anxiously, the English students joined the exam queue behind an ostentatious Fronted Adverbial, setting the scene. Angry clouds scudded across a melancholy sky.

Sometimes a shaft of Sibilance pierced the gloom. Something sparkly was lurking beside a Colon: showy, shimmering, and seductive. Was it success?

Indeed, the Semantic Field of Testopolis was strewn with Pathetic Fallacies and hot-headed Personifications; it was a Gothic graveyard where dead Metaphors haunted the graves of highly sophisticated and profoundly erudite scholars; they snoozed forever in a bed of sleepy Semi-colons.

Sometimes a bitter sweet Oxymoron leapt out of a coffin and boldly bashed a passing Plosive. Tension was rising as the Pace quickened.

Splatter!

Lady Allegory had lifted the long lance of Hyperbolic Alliteration and skewered the deadliest of Superlative orthographic monsters: the dreaded Onomatopoeia.

What a premature climax!

Clatter!

Or was it buzzing of Rhetorical clutter? Or the limping of a Tricolonic Triplet? Or the sly sniping of a lost Gerund?

In Testopolis, dangling, deathly Participles are often at strife, the Comma Splice has also claimed many a life.

Escape the net of complex sentences and subordinate clauses!

Escape the exclamatory invasion of imperatives and interrogatives?

Escape the triadic tentacles of Anaphora, bearing the magical gift: Epiphany!

 Stop!

Angry clouds scudded across a melancholy sky,

like a sickly Simile of Cyclical Narrative.

“Was it a dream?” she mused querulously and queasily and Adverbially, “will you forgive the stale Anti-climax?”