The cat stalked my toes, waiting for the right moment to strike.

They verbally jousted on a daily basis and spent their time parsing out the words each chose to use, even in the most mundane of conversations.

The flowers were dead and the balloons had lost their air.

"You're good looking, you don't think too much and you're a gun owner," commented Trapman, champing on his cigar, "please tell me you're going into politics."

She slipped out of her dress like a snake shedding its skin.

The abandoned rag doll lay on the road like all the lost hopes of youth.

The storm was approaching and the sky, looking like a three-day-old bruise, throbbed with anticipatory energy.