Inksters of the Week - Year 7 Extended Meataphors

Thursday 16th May 2024

Some of our talented writers in Year 7 have been turning their hands to creating extended metaphors. Here is a selection of their work!


 By Hudson Gagnon.

Volcano I am dormant, a sleeping beast. Then James and his crew disturb my sleep. Even though I'm a shield volcano, the insult boils my already searing magma. I'm active now, the petty insult striking home in my fractures. Fissures crackle and pop, bubbling like the argument between us. It continues, and my molten mind runs out of snappy comebacks very soon. I'm enraged, and noxious gas leaks out of cracks in my obsidian structure. That hurt them. But they ignore it and continue to mine my prismatic shards of glass. Meanwhile, more spectators arrive on the cruise ship ROOM 5. Then James delivers a final lashing of wind and I explode. A single rock saunters from my crater with a whoosh, impaling James in the eye of his hurricane. Then sadness washes over the edges of my island in waves stirred up by his wind, and I retreat, regret filling my empty chambers. I am extinct.


By Rory Thomson, 7DBE.

My brother blazed into my room, with a smouldering look in his eyes. He picked up my basketball and started dribbling, igniting my embers. I told him to stop, but he kept playing, dodging me whenever I tried to grab the ball. I could feel the blaze building up inside of me. Then he put the ball down and started touching whatever else he could get his hands on. Violent fireballs shot out of my mouth, but my brother just laughed and continued provoking me. He pushed and prodded me; I was heating up fast. Then he picked up my basketball again and I went out of control. My burning hands lashed out and singed my brother’s face. He cried out in pain and shot me a nasty look. Then he ran out of my room and into the lounge. With my brother gone, my fire started to fizzle out. Eventually, it became a smouldering pile of ash, and I was back to normal. 


By Samuel Riley, 7DBE

I watch, stagnant as still water, as the same boy slices through our defence repeatedly, scoring goal after goal. I'm a surging tide, impassioned and enraged. The boy has netted 4 goals; I’m a whirlpool of emotions. The sideline roars; I step up for defense. The boy is an earthquake, a force pushing against me. I'm tactless, thoughtless, and I have a torrent of anger aimed at him. His dribbling is smooth yet predictable. I splash down on him, my right foot an uncontrollable tempest, breaking his momentum. Time seems to stretch, the boy is a surfer destined by fate, spinning round vigorously. He drops like a stone. Gasps flood through the audience. The waves of silence crash around the pitch. The ripples of my actions are gravitational. The regret, monstrous and suffocating, pulls me down and drowns me in rue.


By Hugh Walker 7DBE

I had enough, jumped on the bed, broken belongings, searing hot comments that heat me up; that is what my brothers do. But today was different, the water had slowly seeped in, and I was ready to erupt. Mischievously, Lee and Xaviour gush into my room, set to irk me. A column of steam rises from my boiled blood as I apprise them to get out. Vexation and rage pulse turbulently towards the surface. I warn the two with pique a second time. They jump on my bed and laugh. The surface breaks and I burst. I fume as I thwack my now crying brothers. They rush out of my room bawling, and the ejected water falls back down. I face ignominious telling-offs as the water drips back into the pipe of my emotions.