n'est pas

Misguided Suspense Metaphors

The situation had become topsy-turvy- like Christmas in the summer, if you're in Australia.

The information imbedded on the stolen computer chip was like an explosive so explosive it could explode, creating a massive explosion.

The killer was a misplaced comma in the jaunty, happy sentence that made up the party crowd.

His face looked like an ice sculpture. Not one of those pretty ones in the middle of a cruise ship buffet, but the kind they do in a contest with a chainsaw- and it had been out in the heat too long.

Like any family, this house had its secrets, secrets it grimly refused to reveal, and would continue to refuse to reveal even if it could speak, which unlike a family, or at least most members of most families, it couldn't.

The sudden darkness made the Countess tense, like Bobby Jerome that time with the bicycle in 7th grade, remember?

There was something funny about the kidnapping crime scene that Special Agent Frievald couldn't quite place, and the thought stuck with him throughout the rest of the day, like those tiny little bits of the circumferent skin from the bologna slices on a foot-long Subway Cold Cut Trio that get stuck in between the last two molars on the upper left, on the tongue side where you can't possibly reach them with a toothpick, your fingernails, or even a systematically straightened paper clip, they just sit there and make everything you eat at your next meal taste vaguely like vinegar and mayonnaise, and then somehow -- quietly but miraculously -- they disappear by themselves in the middle of the night while you're asleep, just like the visiting Countess appeared to have done.

(as stolen from Top Five Dot Com.)