Quotes from Leaving Cert Essays:
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances
like underpants in a tumble dryer
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a
bowling ball wouldn't.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag
filled with vegetable soup.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan
set on medium.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, kinda' like, sorta, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you
fry them in hot grease
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across
the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one
having left Ballina at 6:36 pm travelling at 55 mph, the other from
Claremorris 4:19pm at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the
Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who
had also never met.
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 colour 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 brother 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 bre@$ts heaving like a
student on 50 cent-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 the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" ad.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes
just before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had
ever seen before.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender
leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
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 cashpoint.
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 reversing.
She was as easy as the Independent crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature British beef.
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.
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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