Re: Anyone got some cool similes or metaphors they want to share?

Jack barely had time to celebrate. A terrible but familiar symptom came over him. As if someone else had stolen his body, he convulsed, flailing his arms, and staggering on his legs, even under the effects of possession, remained in place. For a few seconds. Then one leg wobbled, and Jack buried his knee in the ground, his back arching under the weight of the strange entity.

His expression became distorted. His mouth dropped open, eyes glittered cruelly, contracting like small coins. And, as if it were winding up a monster, the expression absorbed all emotion and kept only hostility in it. The body reacted, seized by an animalistic spirit, dug its nails into the ground, stood on all fours to roar like a lion, and did so with the miserable cry of a man imitating an animal.

Personally, I think metaphors become important when they are icing on the cake, not the whole cake. Above is what I wrote and how I would describe a character from one of Stephen King's books, The Shining.

Re: Anyone got some cool similes or metaphors they want to share?


A passage from my series:
Chapter 2.30

Quote:A silence overwhelmed the passage below Tasìa after the last ghost dispersed into blue smoke. Beneath her, the field of grass swayed as if brushed by a vastly expansive hand.
Even so, the squalls of jungle unrest were momentarily no more until they stitched back together with one sound overlapping the other. In the span of a minute, the deep vineland cacophony of noise was rebuilt.
The guerilla was wrong, she thought, there is something about this place that is markedly not real.

Also from 2.3

Quote:Walking along the bike path, Tasìa got lost in the scent of hyacinth.
She hummed to herself.
She recalled the melody her mother sang while caressing the strings of her guitar with long, dagger-sharp nails in brittle strum.
The words of the old Andalusian folk tune came back to her.
- Esa sensación de estar abrumada, las lágrimas se lavaron.
- That feeling of being overwhelmed, the tears washed away.
Tasìa let no concern enter her mind but the scent of flowers, and the call and cah of the crows she had just noticed, though they had been present ever since she merged onto the path.
Tasìa arched her head up for a better view of them. She saw the birds, they were not those of the Old Watcher.
These birds were not so lithe as his, nor were they curious to examine her.
They were wild and feral, unknowing things, not overseers over humankind.

Note, don't be misled by the language, it isn't fantasy, but a biopunk series with a smidgen of Magical Realism.

Tasìa del Alma-Gris
Book One: The Gray Soul
Book Two: The Premie Harvest
Book Three: The Ascendant City
Science Fiction Mystery
A thief in a post-apocalyptic
South America struggles
to survive and thrive.

Quote:Through my reading, I was engrossed
An tale of interest, you may boast
A real page turner, I stayed up late
Hooked, I read several chapters straight


Re: Anyone got some cool similes or metaphors they want to share?

Oh ha ha. I write like this all the time. It's like, I purposefully guide my stories to places where I can write stuff like this. Here, in Chapter Eleven of The Book of CHASTITY - the fifth of seven Light Novels that make up my story called DOTS, our Hero Hank has learned how to Dreamwatch, thanks to his sensai, Crazy Aika.

[This entire scene takes place solely in Hank's mind, with Aika in there as well, as they sit side-by-side in her giant bathtub]

    He swung her along zip-lines, shuddering through solid tubes. Like cannonballs chained together, they flew while their bodies embraced.
    Aika could no longer be heard. Hank felt her words instead.
    Be careful.
    They landed in a building. One with only three floors, like Rio's, instead of twelve, like Aika's. A building divided into large flats instead of small apartments. A woman sat on the floor in a flat, empty and broken-hearted. She missed friends who were not with her and a roommate too far away. She feared most of all deep down in her soul that they might never return. This lonely woman, with a little girl heart, acted brave behind big red glasses. She cuddled a black and white mutt of a dog and sometimes spoke to its face, using the comfort it offered to ease her racing mind.
    Someone inside Hank who sounded like Aika spoke. You can't help like this.
    He realized he wasn't gleaning this woman's thoughts, but was actually inside her, searching as if he were lost. Like a stranger in a foreign land, nothing looked familiar. He sensed what must be her memories, laid out like floors and ceilings, but seeing only one thing, dripping from all sides.
    This woman was so sad, and so so so alone. It hurt like hunting knives.
    Rio? Why are you sad?
    Although he had no voice and Rio couldn't hear him, doors and drawers and windows opened, vomiting their contents. Most of it was dead, or crusted up and rotting. They were things people threw away, but because they were a part of her, they stayed stuck inside.
    In a bathtub in the real world, Hank felt Aika tremble as she floated while clutching his knees. But he remained at ease. He found some things inside Rio that were still alive, swirling in a storm. Fresh thoughts and new ideas, fed by her strong heart and brave soul. But sadness slathered everything, crushing who she was.
    Happiness? Milton and Leanne thought well of her. But stomp! Milton was long gone. Stomp stomp! Leanne was far away. Faith? Stomp stomp stomp! Rio's faith in God had been crushed so many times, she scarcely knew she had it. Always running, always losing, always fearing Death. Where is faith in that? And hope? Oh God, no! Please not hope! Stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp! Rio never prayed for hope, lest sadness use such folly to beat her to a pulp.
    Hope was a vicious memory. It offered no home.
    Aika's voice turned toward Hank. Pull away.
    Rio had strength and courage, yes, but without happiness they were useless, like broken toys in her mind.
    Get out!
    Hank had to abandon the sadness he found rooted in Rio. Platitudes would not bring comfort. There was no room for beauty. He searched for something brighter, things closer to the surface. Not the fibs she told herself, but her honest, heartfelt thoughts. The things she believed.
    They dealt searing pain. You hurt so very much.
    I have much against me.
    Aika forced Hank further away. Get out of here! Right now!
    She placed him on the asphalt surface baked on Rio's mind. Concrete poured on purpose, layer upon layer, to keep out the cruel world. Thoughts raced round in circles here, one chasing the other. They roared by an inch apart, at a thousand klicks an hour. Holding tight to Aika, Hank reached out and grabbed one that looked familiar. Like most thoughts a person thinks constantly, it was to the point.
    Where's Milton?
    Rio screamed this at herself every minute of every day, and sometimes every second. It was a heartless brute, tearing her apart.
    Where is Milton? Where is Milton?
    Aika took that thought away and gave Hank another. It hurt just as much, but was prettier.
    I want Hank! I want Hank!
    Every time Rio screamed this thought at herself, sadness begged forgiveness.
    I'm sorry. Please. I'm scared and alone, and want to be with him.


Re: Anyone got some cool similes or metaphors they want to share?

I'm gonna use this soon, so don't steal it.

Quote:"Perspective is like a recurring number, you know what those are, right? The numbers that continue on forever and ever. An issue, an idea or...basically a problem is like a recurring number. No matter how far you go, there will always be more information, more perspectives and more opinions you have to consider. The difference in people is where they decide to round the number. The dumb ones and the ones who don't care round off maybe...two to three numbers in. The ones who care go quite a few down, maybe even hundreds. But the real smart ones, guess what they do. They never stop to round."