Hi guys! Now, I know I haven't written any of these author's notes things
before, but that's because I've just realized HOW to do one. (yes, I know,
I'm very slow.)But that's okay. Anyways, this is a short chapter, cause it
sounded like a good place to stop for the time being. PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!
Yes, go to the little blue button, and review!
CHAPTER 6:
The Brooklyn leader was, as a matter of fact, just fluttering his eyelids. Images swam in front of his eyes as he fought to focus on his surroundings.
"Excuse me, sir? Have you seen this girl? She's my sister, see, and-"
Michael wandered through the crowds, playing on the sympathies of the kind ladies and gentlemen. Someone had to have seen Michaela. She wasn't among the dead found in the factory, like his father.
The memory of his father, eyes wide and white, mouth open, hair singed and burnt, with his entire left arm scorched, would remain in the boy's mind forever. The man he had loved so much, dead.
And the sister he had loved so much…nowhere. Her remains hadn't been found in the buildings, and no one had seen her. His mother and the firemen had told Michael that there was no way Michaela could still be alive. Even if she had survived the fire, an eight year old girl wouldn't have survived for six months in New York. Not even for six days.
His mother. She was sick, and he knew it. She didn't have much longer to live, though she continued a brave front when around him. There were many times at night, however, when he would fall asleep listening to the sounds of her ragged, hacking cough, in replacement of the soft gentle lullabies she used to sing to the twins.
The old doctor was a regular 'visitor' at their house now. He would come at least once a day, slipping her medicine and talking with the boy.
Sometimes Michael would listen at the door of his mother's bedroom when she thought he was outside, and he would hear his low voice speaking. "Mrs. Conlon, you're sick. If you don't leave New York, there is no way you are going to get better. You need fresh air, not the stuffy, dirty streets here."
Her soft reply would answer him, changed only by the grating noise in her voice. "Mr. Davidson, you don't understand. We can't leave. We have nowhere to go, Michael spends all his time looking for Michaela, I spend my time in bed, we have no money. We are only living in this apartment for the time being because of the generosity of the owner."
The argument would continue for weeks, with Mrs. Conlon gradually getting sicker. One day Michael came home, dirty and depressed, to find movers taking things out of their home.
Spot's eyes fully opened and he raised himself up. He looked around confused. There was no one around. Shaking his head to clear it, he vaguely remembered being hit by a carriage. Musta left as soon as dey found no damage ta it, not carin' about a "street rat", he thought bitterly.
Spot stood up, gripping the rail of the bridge to steady himself. Wow, he thought, I musta been hit hard.
"There he is!" Shouts and whistles were heard from the Manhattan side of the bridge, and police officers could be seen running towards Spot.
Huh? What? Spot twisted around, barely having time to look at da Bulls before he was grabbed and knocked unconscious.
***
Michaela walked down the street, whistling. She had managed to fight off her depression, and had coined a piece of fruit from a vendor without arousing any attention. Nothing like a good steal to make up for a bad one, she thought.
Michaela turned the corner of the street and stopped. Two gangs were facing each other, armed with knives and chains and slingshots. The air was thick and tense, and Michaela started to back away not wanting to get involved.
"Spot!" Spinz cried with relief, noting the thin figure in the shadows. It halted and froze.
Oh no. Don't tell me da guy dey got me confused wit' is in dis. Darn it. Michaela slowly turned around and waved shakily to the Brooklyn side. The tallest and meanest-looking boy on the opposite side stepped forward and grinned evilly.
"Hello Spot Conlon. Nice of youse ta join us."
***
Spot woke up suddenly, groaning as he saw the familiar walls of the refuge. Why me? What'd I do dis time?
CHAPTER 6:
The Brooklyn leader was, as a matter of fact, just fluttering his eyelids. Images swam in front of his eyes as he fought to focus on his surroundings.
"Excuse me, sir? Have you seen this girl? She's my sister, see, and-"
Michael wandered through the crowds, playing on the sympathies of the kind ladies and gentlemen. Someone had to have seen Michaela. She wasn't among the dead found in the factory, like his father.
The memory of his father, eyes wide and white, mouth open, hair singed and burnt, with his entire left arm scorched, would remain in the boy's mind forever. The man he had loved so much, dead.
And the sister he had loved so much…nowhere. Her remains hadn't been found in the buildings, and no one had seen her. His mother and the firemen had told Michael that there was no way Michaela could still be alive. Even if she had survived the fire, an eight year old girl wouldn't have survived for six months in New York. Not even for six days.
His mother. She was sick, and he knew it. She didn't have much longer to live, though she continued a brave front when around him. There were many times at night, however, when he would fall asleep listening to the sounds of her ragged, hacking cough, in replacement of the soft gentle lullabies she used to sing to the twins.
The old doctor was a regular 'visitor' at their house now. He would come at least once a day, slipping her medicine and talking with the boy.
Sometimes Michael would listen at the door of his mother's bedroom when she thought he was outside, and he would hear his low voice speaking. "Mrs. Conlon, you're sick. If you don't leave New York, there is no way you are going to get better. You need fresh air, not the stuffy, dirty streets here."
Her soft reply would answer him, changed only by the grating noise in her voice. "Mr. Davidson, you don't understand. We can't leave. We have nowhere to go, Michael spends all his time looking for Michaela, I spend my time in bed, we have no money. We are only living in this apartment for the time being because of the generosity of the owner."
The argument would continue for weeks, with Mrs. Conlon gradually getting sicker. One day Michael came home, dirty and depressed, to find movers taking things out of their home.
Spot's eyes fully opened and he raised himself up. He looked around confused. There was no one around. Shaking his head to clear it, he vaguely remembered being hit by a carriage. Musta left as soon as dey found no damage ta it, not carin' about a "street rat", he thought bitterly.
Spot stood up, gripping the rail of the bridge to steady himself. Wow, he thought, I musta been hit hard.
"There he is!" Shouts and whistles were heard from the Manhattan side of the bridge, and police officers could be seen running towards Spot.
Huh? What? Spot twisted around, barely having time to look at da Bulls before he was grabbed and knocked unconscious.
***
Michaela walked down the street, whistling. She had managed to fight off her depression, and had coined a piece of fruit from a vendor without arousing any attention. Nothing like a good steal to make up for a bad one, she thought.
Michaela turned the corner of the street and stopped. Two gangs were facing each other, armed with knives and chains and slingshots. The air was thick and tense, and Michaela started to back away not wanting to get involved.
"Spot!" Spinz cried with relief, noting the thin figure in the shadows. It halted and froze.
Oh no. Don't tell me da guy dey got me confused wit' is in dis. Darn it. Michaela slowly turned around and waved shakily to the Brooklyn side. The tallest and meanest-looking boy on the opposite side stepped forward and grinned evilly.
"Hello Spot Conlon. Nice of youse ta join us."
***
Spot woke up suddenly, groaning as he saw the familiar walls of the refuge. Why me? What'd I do dis time?
