i need the rush to pulse through my veins (the outsiders)
down to the valley where the sunset don't reach | sodapop/ponyboy | pg | 183 words
they’re all dirty, broken, black and blue from the start.
beginning to build there armor when the war has already come for them.
sodapop sweats as the day draws to a close. black oil smeared over his arms and grit underneath his nails. he smells like the shop and ponyboy can tell.
(orange and pink and yellow and heavy blues sit on the horizon. sunsets that fall away in minutes. seconds. milliseconds. and it’s a sad thought actually. something that holds all people up instead of falling from grace lasts so short.)
“you didn’t always smell like that, ya know, soda?”
“well, ‘course. i didn’t always have to work, now did i?”
“it’s different.” ponyboy swears to it.
“yeah, kid. i don’t like smelling like oil and gas and metal either.”
“we’re just two in a million, aren’t we?”
“it’s gotta feel like it sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“yeah.”
and everything feels like a landside heading down, down, down.
(valley far down below and they’ll all get caught between the rocks and the river in the end. so it’s set.) but the thing is, they’re all dirty, broken, black and blue from the start. beginning to build their armor when the war has already come for them.
wonder | dally/ponyboy | pg | 273 words
“heroes.” he scoffs, “that ain’t done no one any good if you die.”
dally hates it when it gets this cold, and it never should in the goddamn midwest. but the chill is here nevertheless; rubbing up against his skin so it feels for the cracks and burrows its way deep. reaches for his bones and will never let go. wraps his leather jacket closer to his body like it’ll do any good, nicotine stains on his hands and smoke in his lungs, too. but none of it does him any good.
(nothing seems to phase him anymore. not the rioting at the rodeo or the smashed pop bottle at his throat, guns ringing in the distance, hunting him down from miles away.) dally doesn’t cry and admits he never does.
and his head is falling with every drink, alcohol running down his throat like the flames that had taken johnny.
“like a flame.”
“what’s like a flame, dally? you ain’t makin’ any sense.”
“wonder if this how it felt for johnny.”
“johnny?”
“god, it must’ve hurt.”
“now you’re just getting delirious, dally.” ponyboy can’t help but stare at him.
“heroes.” he scoffs, “that ain’t done no one any good if you die.”
die, die, die, die, die; it never did an good. (where’s the justice in that? because I don’t see it.) it’s an empty room, moonshine out in the corner, maybe there are a few people left. but the room seems so empty and ponyboy can feel it to.
“man, do i hate when it gets cold.” tremors play like a few guitar strums through his body, and it’s the same feeling he felt when johhny goes out. lightening and gunfire, bright and fleeting.
they’re all dirty, broken, black and blue from the start.
beginning to build there armor when the war has already come for them.
sodapop sweats as the day draws to a close. black oil smeared over his arms and grit underneath his nails. he smells like the shop and ponyboy can tell.
(orange and pink and yellow and heavy blues sit on the horizon. sunsets that fall away in minutes. seconds. milliseconds. and it’s a sad thought actually. something that holds all people up instead of falling from grace lasts so short.)
“you didn’t always smell like that, ya know, soda?”
“well, ‘course. i didn’t always have to work, now did i?”
“it’s different.” ponyboy swears to it.
“yeah, kid. i don’t like smelling like oil and gas and metal either.”
“we’re just two in a million, aren’t we?”
“it’s gotta feel like it sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“yeah.”
and everything feels like a landside heading down, down, down.
(valley far down below and they’ll all get caught between the rocks and the river in the end. so it’s set.) but the thing is, they’re all dirty, broken, black and blue from the start. beginning to build their armor when the war has already come for them.
wonder | dally/ponyboy | pg | 273 words
“heroes.” he scoffs, “that ain’t done no one any good if you die.”
dally hates it when it gets this cold, and it never should in the goddamn midwest. but the chill is here nevertheless; rubbing up against his skin so it feels for the cracks and burrows its way deep. reaches for his bones and will never let go. wraps his leather jacket closer to his body like it’ll do any good, nicotine stains on his hands and smoke in his lungs, too. but none of it does him any good.
(nothing seems to phase him anymore. not the rioting at the rodeo or the smashed pop bottle at his throat, guns ringing in the distance, hunting him down from miles away.) dally doesn’t cry and admits he never does.
and his head is falling with every drink, alcohol running down his throat like the flames that had taken johnny.
“like a flame.”
“what’s like a flame, dally? you ain’t makin’ any sense.”
“wonder if this how it felt for johnny.”
“johnny?”
“god, it must’ve hurt.”
“now you’re just getting delirious, dally.” ponyboy can’t help but stare at him.
“heroes.” he scoffs, “that ain’t done no one any good if you die.”
die, die, die, die, die; it never did an good. (where’s the justice in that? because I don’t see it.) it’s an empty room, moonshine out in the corner, maybe there are a few people left. but the room seems so empty and ponyboy can feel it to.
“man, do i hate when it gets cold.” tremors play like a few guitar strums through his body, and it’s the same feeling he felt when johhny goes out. lightening and gunfire, bright and fleeting.