She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and
would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
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 center.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie, this guy would be buried
in the credits as something like "Second Tall Man."
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other
like two freight trains, one 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 35mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in the dryer
without Cling Free
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree. .
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 color 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 31 P -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.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a
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 flashpoint.
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
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..