Figurative Language In The Outsiders Novels & Stories

You need to oversaturate yourself so as not to be dangerous to people. Spent all night hunting. Varieties abound in the London woods. He ate until he was disgusted. Washed in the river. Seeing his reflection in the water, he was satisfied. Doesn't look like a carriage creature. I look more alive, eyes without redness, only unnatural pallor. Gathering up courage, he headed towards the house. I understand that there is no way back, but I really want to go back. It was raining heavily and I was soaked through. The cold of the drops is not comparable to mine. Against its background, the rain seems warm and pleasant.

I felt the slice in my heart, as if countless of needles pierce through the deepest of it. “No way he will choose to remember... But atleast he will live,” my thought to lessen the pain brought by the countless needles. I'm sure he's alive! That's the very reason I'm here... I face the highly as ever figure, and turns, this figure felt as if face back the pitiful existence such myself, as if caught just now that I face the door with a strength I never have done for it. The way the eyes lingered on me feels like it tells me I'm such a foolish, only look at the door but never thought of it as my chance for escape.

They relished in my suffering, feeding off my despair like vultures circling their prey. The storm raged around me, thunder rumbling through the darkened skies, and rain pelting my bruised skin. My clothes clung to me like a second skin, weighing me down with their sodden weight. Tear-streaked, my face was a mask of agony as I was forced to kneel on the cold, unforgiving ground. It felt as if the heavens themselves were weeping for my plight.

-o0o- As I step out of the imposing skyscraper, my weary legs carry me forward with leaden weight. Fatigue gnaws at my body, my back throbbing in protest. My once-delicate palms now threaten to become coarse and calloused, like the rugged hide of a crocodile. My heart bleeds, shattered by the cruel twists of fate.

I feel his words penetrate my heart like an arrow – it pierces and stays stuck , making the pain a continuous feeling. The voice…I should of listened to the voice. Maybe it is not to late – I turn to run away , but trip over the heaviness of my feet. When I inspect my left leg , I see that it is shackled to the leg of David. Nevertheless , I try to move but it is as if my legs do not want to move – I felt this way before so I get the symbolisms. “ Some one who has been raped – so filthy and disgusting….” I watch him make a fake vomiting sound.

Guess that was true, we always understand the value of people only when we lose them. I strutted out of the black car, my chin up to show some courage although everything around me seemed gloomy. The trees and the grass looked dry, even though it was spring time. The murky sky looked like it was going to be thunderous and would cry buckets of water. The environment looked disastrous and screamed loneliness just like my heart.

“Useless.” The third slap was brutal—open palm, full force. My vision sparked white for a second, ears ringing. The pain was bright, immediate, grounding. It almost drowned out the deeper ache. Almost. My cheek throbbed, skin swelling under the assault, nails leaving faint crescent marks that would bruise by morning. Good. Let it bruise. Let it scar. Let the outside finally match the inside—the rotten, feeding thing I’d always been. “I’m poison,” I whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “I’ve always been poison. Vuk was right. Everyone’s always been right.”

Night has a thousand small ways to insult the living. Tonight it chose a man on a humming toy. She left her door with a tote on her shoulder and the set of a woman pretending to be ordinary. I watched the hallway light die behind her and took the roofline the way a cat takes a fence—lazy on the outside, ready inside. The street was wet only where it decided to be, the kind of damp that waits until you’re not looking to slick a step. The city’s iron beasts muttered. Somewhere, a box preached numbers at a man who had stopped being persuaded.

At least then I wouldn’t have to feel this kind of humiliation, this constant gnawing hunger and the sting of piss-filled alleys and mocking laughter. I leaned back against the dumpster and looked to the gray sky above the rooftops. Maybe if I didn’t move, they wouldn’t come back. Maybe if I sat still long enough, I’d disappear. But of course, they came back. The same three kids. Taunting, snickering. One had a stick. Another had a plastic bottle filled with dirt and god-knows-what. “Crazy man,” the boldest one sang. “Got no pack! Got no name!”

She drawled out, snapping the lid of the black marker shut. "Who can explain one of the types of figure of speech with examples?" Mrs Smith asked, squinting her eyes as she looked around the class, she removed her eye glasses and fixed it back before pointing at Ella. A tall girl with a model figure who likes wearing anything short. "Simile, example as poor as a church mouth." She said softly, kissing her teeth. I couldn't help but wonder what went on with her and Kelvin the other day. "More like as poor as Olivia, girl! that denim jacket must have really suffered, tell me if I'm wrong. You have been wearing that jacket since middle school." Imogen said out causing a loud laughter to erupt