AN:This one-shot is being posted as part of "Good Fic Day," an effort to raise the quality of writing here. We hope to encourage more writers to improve the quality of their own fan fiction - spell check, grammar check, keep the gang in character, outline, plot and don't use Mary Sues. Good fan fiction requires effort, and we would like to encourage other writers to rise to the challenge of producing better fan fiction, not only for our readers, but for S.E. Hinton, who created the wonderful book we are trying to honour. If you'd like help with your writing, or just want to chat about the Outsiders, visit the 731 North St. Louis board, a great place to harbor your writing skills.

If you've ever been in a forest that has been ravaged and burnt out by fire, you can relate to how omniscient it is to witness new growth sprouting up through the blackened ground. Tiny saplings just don't belong in the dead landscape; they look like trespassers, forcing themselves up through the gaunt and burned underbrush. They don't belong; they are out of place and generally unwanted.

So as I watched the city officials and important people of Tulsa milling around before the service, I saw them as the bright, young saplings amongst a forest of blackened and dead trees – ones who would never be the same.

Their bright clothing and glaring, blatantly fake, plastered-on smiles interrupted our somber nature. They shouldn't be here, but that's not even what I despised about them the most. The fact that they felt good because they were honoring a fallen hero, taken down by the evil of his own wounds, sickened me. They failed to realize that they didn't know the true hero in Johnny.

I had seen Johnny take a beating that would probably kill me, without even uttering a whimper. They hadn't seen how, in Johnny's way of thinking, he was merely making up for the life he destroyed by rescuing the lives of those kids.

I suppose that's why I rejected the sentiments of the city politicians; they didn't know what Johnny had actually done, and how his way of being really made him someone to look up to.

How many kids is there that could make the toughest and hardest hoods yearn to take care of them and protect them from the storm? How many people is there that could single-handedly hold an entire gang together, despite the entire world threatening to crash down around them?

So when it was my turn to go up and say my bit, I tried in earnest to instill in them some feeling of remorse for making a social event out of a funeral.

At Dally's funeral a week later, I felt a lot better about it. The people there were ones that wouldn't back down from a chance to get into it with Dallas, but they knew who Dally really was; a hood, a greaser, a juvenile delinquent, and someone who would throw a punch in your face in the morning and have your back in a rumble that afternoon.

They didn't miss the plain, pine coffin or the lack of a minister and chairs, and neither did I. But I also noticed that no one was dressed beyond their leather jackets and jeans, switch-blade stuffed into a back pocket. Hard, grim expression present on every greasers face. They had known that Dallas would laugh in their face if they ever wore a tie to a hoods funeral, whether it was his burial or not. Put together, we created the satiated forest, devastated by flames.

And so when I spoke at Dally's funeral, I didn't have hatred buried in the pit of my stomach. I didn't need to make the onlookers feel bad that they made a JD into something he never wanted to be.

As we turned to leave Dally's side for the last time, seven turned to five, I turned around and looked back at the graves, the two upturned rectangular patches of fresh dirt, and I again saw the burnt out, blackened forest, the new growth forced away by sheer will of nature.

Darry came up behind me, clapped a hand on my shoulder, and waked with me to the car. I might have imagined it, but I swear I could still smell the smoke.

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