TwoCents and the House of Meaning

<h3>When Things Get Dramatic</h3> __________ Everyone laughed. “You?” asked Irony. “Yes, me!” Hyperbole shouted. “I have the biggest imagination in this entire compound. I can make one ordinary thing sound like the greatest event in human history.” He raised his hands. “I have told people, ‘I have told you a million times!’” “You have never told anyone a million times,” said Simile. “Details!” “I have also said, ‘I am so hungry I could eat a horse!’” Personification looked worried. “Are you actually planning to eat a horse?” “No!” “Then you are exaggerating.” Hyperbole smiled. “Exactly! I make things dramatic.” He pointed at TwoCents. “TwoCents once said, ‘This deadline nearly killed me.’” TwoCents looked embarrassed. “I was under pressure.” “You were not dead,” Hyperbole said. “I know.” “Then I was involved.” Hyperbole spread his arms. “I turn a small problem into Mount Everest. I turn a long queue into ‘the longest queue in the history of mankind.’ I turn one heartbreak into ‘my heart has been shattered into a thousand pieces.’” Irony whispered: “Some people's hearts actually behave like that.” “Please don't complicate my exaggeration,” Hyperbole replied. Then Irony stepped forward. “Everybody is making noise. Let the greatest speak.” The room became quiet. Irony looked around. “Of course, nobody here understands greatness.” Metaphor folded his arms. “Are you insulting us?” Irony smiled. “Not at all.” Everybody stared at him. That was the problem with Irony. You could never tell when he was joking. He continued. “I say one thing but mean another. Sometimes, the meaning is the complete opposite of what I say.” He pointed at a man who had just entered the room dripping wet. Irony said: “What beautiful weather.” Everybody looked outside. Rain was falling heavily. The man was soaked. Irony continued: “Very beautiful.” The man stared at him. “That is irony,” Irony said proudly. Hyperbole clapped. “Very confusing.” “Thank you.” “That wasn't a compliment.” “I know.” Metaphor shook his head. “This man is dangerous.” Irony smiled. “I once watched a fire station burn down.” Everyone gasped. “That,” he said, “is irony.” Just then, Onomatopoeia jumped up. “BOOM!” Everyone screamed. “What was that for?” Personification asked. “Demonstration.” “Of what?” “Sound.” Onomatopoeia cleared his throat. “I am the greatest because I sound exactly like the things I describe.” He began: “Buzz!” The bees outside buzzed. “Meow!” A cat answered from somewhere. “Bang!” Someone in the next room shouted: “Who is knocking?” “Crash!” A plate fell in the kitchen. “Splash!” TwoCents stepped into a puddle. “Why am I always involved in this story?” he asked. Nobody answered. Onomatopoeia smiled. “Words like buzz, hiss, bang, splash, boom, tick-tock, clang and pop allow readers to hear what is happening.” He raised his chest. “Without me, action would be silent.” “Your problem,” said Alliteration, “is that you are too noisy.” Alliteration had been waiting for his moment. He stood. “Allow me to introduce myself.” Everyone sighed. “I am Alliteration. I repeat the same consonant sound at the beginning of nearby words.” He cleared his throat. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” Hyperbole whispered: “Why does this man sound like a primary school textbook?” Alliteration ignored him. “Big boys bring beautiful brilliance.” “Who asked you to say that?” Irony asked. “Nobody. That is the beauty of my art.” He continued. “Silly snakes slither silently.” Simile nodded. “That actually sounds nice.” “Exactly,” Alliteration said. “I create rhythm. I make phrases memorable. I give language music.” Metaphor looked at him. “Your entire talent is repeating letters?” “Sounds,” Alliteration corrected. “Still.” “Don't underestimate repetition.” The debate was now getting out of hand. 》》》》》Part 3

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