Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Let's write some labored metaphors!

The wine swirled in her glass like a dark purple dog circling to lie down in a transparent glass bed.

The clouds were like gigantic couch cushions that someone had ripped open and pulled all the stuffing out of for some reason.

He recoiled from her touch like a mouse who was just about to eat some cheese only to realize the cheese was bait in a mouse trap.

Her skin was like chocolate pudding, although firmer and not as sticky, and a different color.

His laugh was like rock concert if the band was a comedy band and they were working the crowd pretty well.

That summer in Seattle was like the Detroit Race Riots, except instead of looters we had uncomfortably hot people and instead of racial tensions we had 85 degree heat that we weren't used to.

Her eyes were like two sailboats if the boats were round and painted light blue.

He gasped for air like a football quarterback who just got chased for twenty blocks by drug dealers after things went bad in a drug deal that happened during the off-season.

He had a face like a sawmill if a sawmill could somehow be like a face.


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