Disclaimer: We do not own The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, nor do we own 'Do No Go Gentle into that Good Night' by Dylan Thomas
The Dying of the Light: Chapter One
I struck a match and watched it flicker. Two seconds ago it was a dull stick of wood with a red tip. Now it gave off a brilliant light against the dark sky as I brought it to my cigarette and inhaled. The smoke burned my throat, but the taste made up for it. I held the match out between my fingers, slightly amused by the way the flame ate up the wood—slow but fast at the same time—and watched as the wind snuffed it out as it got closer to my fingers. It kind of reminded me of life, bright one moment, gone the next, and no one could care less because, hell, it was just a match, right? Except no one ever takes into account how much a match does in its short life—the lighting of a cigarette, the warmth of its flame, and the light that illuminates an inch of the darkness that surrounds it.
I struck up another match, simply to watch it die again. It was fascinating how the light managed to shine so bright in its small surrounding. Beyond the small radius of light, I spotted Pony.
"What're you doin', Johnny?" he asked me, with a perplexed look on his face.
"Have you ever noticed the way a match burns? Slowly yet quickly."
"Are you gonna let that burn down to your fingertips or what?" Pony asked. "You already lit a cigarette."
"Sorry... It's just interesting. I never noticed it before."
He shrugged, and I pushed myself off the wall. We fell into step with each other quietly, walking side by side, me with a cigarette in my mouth and he kicking a lone stone down the street. It was already starting to get darker and cooler, the sure sign that school was starting up again. And it was… tomorrow. I dreaded it, being that I was repeating the same grade as last year.
"So I've been reading…" Pony started suddenly, breaking our silence as we approached one of the side streets.
I took a drag of my cigarette and followed the glowing embers on the end of it as I exhaled. "You're always reading."
"Yeah, but this guy's pretty tuff. There's this one poem of his… It's called 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'."
I took another drag of my cigarette and again followed the glowing embers with my eyes. "What's it about?"
"Basically life and death... I guess," Pony replied. "Want me to recite it for you?"
"Wait... You have it memorized?"
"I've been reading it nonstop ever since I first saw it. You'll see why once you hear it," he assured me, confident in his answer. No wonder he skipped a grade. The kid could remember everything he'd ever read!
"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light," he began off the top of his head. Dying of the light, huh? It reminded me of the match I had lit a moment prior. Rage. Rage seemed out of place though...
"…And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light," he finished.
I took one last drag on my cigarette, and flicked the butt away, following the embers with my eyes as they died on the ground. Dying of the light, I mused, and looked at Ponyboy. He had that dreamy look on his face, the same one he got every time he was thinking over something he'd read.
"Hey, Pony, what'd the guy mean with the 'rage, rage' stuff?"
He shrugged. "We shouldn't give into death, I guess. I'm still figuring Dylan Thomas out. He sure is a tuff writer though."
I kicked stone and shrugged. "I guess," I said, but I didn't really think so. Why fight it? Why fight death? Like the match burning up, it was inevitable.
"So you like it?" Pony asked, earnestly.
"Sure, Pony..." I half-lied. "It's different." I really didn't know what I thought of the poem. The idea seemed pointless though. How does one fight death anyway? It's bound to happen to even the toughest of people. So why try?
"I liked it because it was different too..." Pony remarked, one step ahead of me on the path. "It makes you think." I had to give him that. I may not have agreed with it but it did make me think.
"Yeah."
"We're in the same homeroom this year, you know," Pony said, and I couldn't help but notice the hint of excitement in it.
"Yeah, I know." I wasn't thrilled. It wasn't that I minded being in the same homeroom as him, or that we'd be in some of the same general classes together, it was that I was repeating ninth grade again and the teachers looked at me like I was dumb already. I didn't want to sit through another year of being looked down on.
"What classes you have again?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. The schedule's back in my room, man. What classes do you have?"
"Uh... I'm in all A classes except for history because they don't have one for that."
Way to rub it in, Pony. It wasn't his fault he was smart though.
"You got a weed, Johnny?" he asked. We were by his house now, and it was completely dark out. That meant he'd have to be home soon unless he wanted a lecture from his parents about curfews. I've heard it from Mr. Curtis before; it ain't fun to sit through as fun as he can be.
I tossed my pack at him, and he pulled one out, lighting up. Sodapop was on the opposite side of the street and he ran across to join us. "Hey," he greeted, grinning. "Last night of freedom good for ya'll?"
I shrugged, and Pony pulled a face. "Aw, school ain't that bad, Soda."
Soda chuckled. "Whatever you say, Pony." He jogged up the porch steps and opened the door before turning back. "See ya around, Johnny."
I nodded a good-bye. "Later."
"Well I guess I'll see you in homeroom then? We'll compare schedules," Pony said in an upbeat tone.
"Yeah, Pony. See ya." I walked the last block to my house alone, shuffling my feet as I went. Lord knows I never liked going home.
A/N: Well, how'd we do with Johnny's POV? We'd love some feedback on how we're doing seeing as Johnny's one hard guy to write. And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms. :)
-whatcoloristhesky and shutupandwrite
