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REAL METAPHORS USED
IN STUDENT ESSAYS
Her face was
a perfect oval, like a circle that had its
two other
sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts
tumbled in his head, making and breaking
alliances
like underpants in a tumble dryer.
The little
boat gently drifted across the pond exactly
the way a
bowling ball wouldn't.
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 4:19p.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.
Shots rang
out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was
simple, like my mate Phil. But unlike Phil,
this plan
just might work.
The young
fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get
from not
eating for while.
"Oh, Jason,
take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving
like a
student on 31p-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
landmine 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.
The
ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one
slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
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.
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