Whiteheart
04-23-2007, 08:34 AM
Metaphors Found in NSW Year 12 English essays
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently
compressed by a Thigh Master.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy
who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at
high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one
of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature prime English beef.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
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 ATM.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled
with vegetable soup.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie,
surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Sex in
the City comes on at 7:00 p.m.instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leapt from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry
them in hot oil.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met.
Even in his last years, Grandad had a mind like a steel trap, only one
that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law 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.
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.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if
she were a garbage truck backing up.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently
compressed by a Thigh Master.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy
who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at
high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one
of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature prime English beef.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
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 ATM.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled
with vegetable soup.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie,
surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Sex in
the City comes on at 7:00 p.m.instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leapt from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry
them in hot oil.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met.
Even in his last years, Grandad had a mind like a steel trap, only one
that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law 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.
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.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if
she were a garbage truck backing up.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall.