|Photo Credit: Morguefile by gojo23|
I write in red, blue, green, and orange. And I write in one, two, three and four. I do not write in "one." The beat is like a death march.
Clap. The. Sound.
Dull as thuds that knock in a shot vent. No stairs of words for the ear to climb. "Cut the fat," Beth says and I can see her smile. I scowl. For years, folks have tried to throw my parts of speech in the trash like gross meat stuck to a brown bone.
"Use Strong Nouns and Verbs."
The parts of speech that make clear a noun or verb, you should kill. Twain should know his stuff. A noun can stand on its own, if it is a hale sort of noun. Say "elm" and then shut up.
I would miss blue if this rule were to be broad. I would miss the age of a child. I might like to know that a thing was done in a quick way or a cruel way. I'm odd that way.
I think I can live in one count for the length of a blog post, if I keep things short, but I would not like to go to the zoo. Here is a thing, I'd say, a live thing that is not a plant. It bears live young and wears some hair. It gives some milk to its calf. Its skin is in folds like bark—grey as a dull steel. The nose of the thing is a tube like a snake that moves with the spell of a song. The thing has a sad look and teeth that need a trim—long swords of white that are no help to it here. Its ears flap like flags.
Say it so and you feel grim. So much more the ease to just say its name.
Ell if Ent.