Figurative Language In The Outsiders Novels & Stories

I swipe it open and read the message. I’d be a real lifesaver? The girl who just complimented me bumps into my shoulder and mutters, “Sorry.” I stopped in the middle of the stairs. I have to keep going. Abruptly, goosebumps coat my skin. I’d be a real lifesaver. Just like I was for Dummy-nic. The sentence is awkward, stilted like he was trying to fit the idea in. It barely even makes sense with the rest of the message. Unless he saw me in there.

—Third Person POV — "Fuck me. Fuck me, please." Those were the desperate words he never expected to spill from his own mouth. He caught the malicious smirk creeping across the twins' faces at his side. In that excruciating second, he wanted nothing more than the floor to swallow him whole from the sheer humiliation of his own words. Drowned in the maddening heat of his rut, he simply couldn't stop those filthy, degrading words from tearing out of his throat.

The topic is supposed to be about literary confinement and psychological imprisonment. Funny. I stare at the empty page for a long time before finally typing. Words come easier than breathing sometimes. That’s the problem with me. I can write emotions I’ll never say aloud. Sentence after sentence fills the screen. Analysis. Themes. Metaphors. Academic language sharp enough to hide inside. But my mind keeps drifting. Backward. Always backward. My father’s voice. My mother crying quietly behind closed doors. The sound of glass shattering. The suffocating feeling of being trapped inside a house where love only existed when you were useful.

And that is my dream. Fuck! I'm such an idiot. Who would like to take and keep a shoe? I can't believe myself, that I was so dumbbbbbb that time! I did not expect that phrase will affect my life! my WHOLE FUCKING LIFE! I did not know it was the Fucking Figurative Language! Do you know? Metaphor? I was blind by innocence! Poor me... Poor this handsome me. Didn't know what lies behind that phrase long ago. So when did I?

I don’t like dumb girls. I don’t like dumb girls. I don’t like dumb girls. His words echoed through my mind, a relentless, piercing torment that felt like knives stabbing my heart. I had expected the sky to weep today, as the weather forecast had promised rain, but instead, it would be my own eyes shedding tears—an unrelenting storm of emotion that no forecast could predict.

Allowing my man to pull my chair out for me, I sent him a grateful smile that conveyed my gratitude and he winked in that audacious manner that got me blushing again. ‘Hey wait! Hollup! Hollup right there Babes. Did you just say your man or did I not hear correctly?’ A voice whispered slowly and I rolled my eyes inwardly, frustrated with this voice of reasoning that keep asserting itself in my business. ‘It was just a figurative speech, girl. How else was I supposed to describe him?’ I questioned petulantly, not happy that I’m answerable to the voice that’s my conscience. ‘The same way you have been describing him before now? By his name.’ My conscience nagged and I shut it up.

Olivia's eyes narrowed, the metallic taste of anger mingling with the remnants of breakfast on her tongue. "Is this man trying to remind me he's married?" The thought clawed at her, a beast desperate for escape. She envisioned the tines of the fork as weapons, sharp and gleaming—just like the edge of Cathleen's reputed tongue. Oh, how she yearned to wield such verbal blades, to cut through the facade and expose the raw, ugly truth beneath.

A man's voice, dripping with disdain, muttered words that barely registered in my mind, "What's her problem?" Suddenly, a surge of awareness jolted me back to reality. I quickly scanned my surroundings, my senses sharpening. My gaze landed on a stranger who stood before me, wearing a leering expression. His words came out in a crude manner, using slang that was usually reserved for the lower depths of society. "Hey there, cupcake, let's go dance," he said, his audacity sparking a flicker of defiance within me.

I stood, my body trembling, a sapling in a hurricane, but I stood. The walk to the door was a marathon, a journey of a thousand painful steps, each one a victory, each one a defiance. I leaned against the doorframe, breathing hard, my vision spotted with effort. The hallway stretched before me, an impossible mile. I pushed off the wall, a soldier on a forced march. My footsteps were slow, shuffling things, an old man’s gait. The sounds from outside grew louder, the scuff of feet, the clear ring of her voice.

“Metaphor.” “Yes. Metaphor. You know ” I gestured vaguely, searching for a safe example. My gaze snagged on him again. Bad idea. Terrible idea. “When something stands in for something else. Like… like how your hoodie is armor. You wear it like it’ll keep people out. Like if the hood’s up and the sleeves are long enough, no one can get close enough to see anything you don’t want them to see.” The silence that followed was sudden and thick.