Future Novelists... These are actual analogies and metaphors found in
high school essays:
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Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides
gently compressed by a thigh master.
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His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
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He spoke with 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
about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it.
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She grew on him like E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.
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She had a deep throaty genuine laugh like that sound a dog makes just
before he throws up.
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Her vocabulary was as bad, as, like, whatever.
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He was a tall as a six foot three inch tree.
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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.
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The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't.
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McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a hefty bag filled
with vegetable soup.
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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
Jeopardy comes on at 7 pm instead of 7:30.
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Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
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The hailstones leaped up off the pavement, just like maggots when you
fry them in hot grease.
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Long separated by cruel fate, the star crossed lovers raced across a
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, on having left
Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at
55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
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They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that
resemble Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.
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John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met.
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He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the east
river.
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Even in his last years, grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only
one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
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Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
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The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this
plan just might work.
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Young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a
while.
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"Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a college
freshman on $1-a-beer night.
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She 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.
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The Ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
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It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids with power
tools.
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He was deeply in love when she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if
she were a garbage truck backing up.
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She was as easy as the TV guide crossword.
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Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any
pH cleanser.
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She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
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Her voice had that tense grating quality, like a generation thermal
paper fax machine that needed a band tightening.
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It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall.