Literary Metaphor Game

Since some of the other word games have recently been closed, I propose a new one I've been thing about creating.

This game will be a running string of metaphors. For example imagine this one from Charles M. Schulz being posted last:

"Life is like a ten-speed bicycle.
Most of us have gears we never use."

If you want to play. You would need to start your analogy with part of the last part of the one above yours. E.G. The gears grated like...Or... The sound from the ungreased gears screamed like...




I only used Schulz's as an example, the one you would be playing from would be from another member.

I'll throw out an original from me:

The moon was reflected in her eyes like a ping pong ball floating in a calm lake.

Just to be clear;the next metaphor would need to start with either ping pong balls or lakes.

 

Note: These are similes, not metaphors.

The lake was cold, dark and silent, like Death patiently grinning.

 

My bad, college was a long long time ago.

Death didn't play with peoples lives like the Gods did.

 

As I fell from the bridge, I imagined God as my mother, waiting for me at the gates of Heaven.

 

Her grin contained all the warmth of a Siberian glacier.

 

From the glacier surface the sun shone on me, a mothers hand against her baby's cheek.

 

His hands sculpted the plan in the air before him as he spoke.

 

The high mountain air was as clear as the man's conscious.

 

His conscience was uneasy, like a soldier who had received conflicting orders.

 

Orders slither from a man's tongue; either a plea for respect or a safety warning waiting to be ignored.

 

His plea for respect was pathetic, like the cry of a beggar who nobody cares about.

 

The beggar was shivering madly, like a fish out of water.

 

The fish was resting on the plate like John the Baptist's head.

 

John the Baptist dunked Jesus into the water, cleansing his head as he might wash a valuable pearl.

 

The pearls fell from her neck like a waterfall of shooting stars.

 

Star-struck, i stood there like a brickie who had just done his back in.

 

(I had to google that one, never heard of a "brickie," apparently that's slang for a bricklayer?)

The brickie worked mindlessly, laying the bricks and the mortar, dumbstruck like a person whose creativity was lost with the closing of his favorite thread.

 

Moderators prowl along the rows of looms and spindles; no single thread is immune to their zealous shears.

 

A single thread wrapped around his pinkie, was like a heavy chain constricting his every breath, as he was held captive by his own monstrous imagination.

 

Her imagination seemed like a rodent, hyperactive at times and nearly immobile at others

 

I am immobile, and I wonder how I got here, just like a rusted car in an overgrown field.

 

The woman with her snakish smile and wolfish walk.

A silent siren watching the moonlight reflect off her boyfriend.

 

The moonlight gleamed through my window and shone on my boyfriend and me, like a spotlight shining on an unrehearsed performance.

 

A performance which drew full houses, much like a car wreck drew curious onlookers.

 

The wrecked car screamed like a tin banshee.