J o n
23-05-2005, 14:25
These are metaphors from actual GCSE essays....
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a tumble dryer.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind
her, like a dog at a lamppost.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with
vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them
in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York
at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19 p.m.
at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a
Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also
never met.
The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of
metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that
had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview
portion of Family Fortunes.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just
might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a
while.
Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her chest heaving like a student on
99p-a-pint night.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real
duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or
something.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter
from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first
several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of
the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the
suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of
his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly
surcharge-free cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan
set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with
their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she
were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature
British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal
paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the
wall.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a tumble dryer.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind
her, like a dog at a lamppost.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with
vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them
in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York
at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19 p.m.
at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a
Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also
never met.
The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of
metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that
had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview
portion of Family Fortunes.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just
might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a
while.
Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her chest heaving like a student on
99p-a-pint night.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real
duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or
something.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter
from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first
several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of
the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the
suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of
his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly
surcharge-free cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan
set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with
their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she
were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature
British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal
paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the
wall.