A/N Thanks for the Great reviews and OMG! Okay so sorry this took so long.
I hit a slump as to how to develop the relationship without dragging it on,
(which is what I feel I have done with this chapter, drag it on that is.
But it fits the movie historically so blah I don't know.) Okay ahh, I think
I've got it now. Perhaps.
A few months later, I can't recall how many, selling was sluggish. The papers that I did sell were mainly off of cheap shots created by pure improvised genius, which occurred so rarely, I hardly broke even. It wasn't as though I hadn't felt it before, but one never gets accustomed to hunger. The pain never numbs, and the thought never ceases. Jack was worse. He scarcely had the energy to stand, let alone parade around New York all day yelling persuasively the headlines that he had to think off the top of his head.
His hunger was apparent, we all felt it within ourselves but somehow we could all tell that Jack was worse, at least more affected. It wasn't frowned upon when he turned to theft, it wasn't even discussed, it was survival. I looked at his frail limbs, defeated by the malnourishment that ailed him.
It wasn't too long after the headlines started sinking that Jack found dinner available at every street vendor. He brought home his leftovers, which were plentiful for her took a superfluous amount for one person, for the weaker ones, and then he brought some for me. He was intelligent and quick, and he never got caught in his heroic yet dishonest act. Not until the day he asked for my aid.
His artful skill for stealing, which he acquired by means of which I am unsure, sunk in succession each time I witnessed it. I didn't think it was the same Jack Kelly that brought home the abundance of bread and fruit. It couldn't have been, for even I wouldn't have botched the job that badly. His gracefulness was not an element of which one would hear him bragging. For I believe it was his weak point, and at this particular moment, his downfall. His clumsy fingers were caught in the act of theft and brought to justice by the police. Justice. My attention lingered on the word. They brought a starving boy to justice, and of course they left him starving. I recall the struggle he produced when being taken away in their arms. I remember the look of embarrassment, the look of failure on his face when the suppressed his revolt. I remember the pain in his eyes, the pain of losing once again, the pain of another bum card being dealt, the pain of being defeated.
So there goes Mr. Jack be nimble Jack be quick, I kicked the dust from the street with force and anger. A fallen hero, a defeated bum. It wasn't until later that I heard he was taking to the refuge, where he built up his reputation and ultimately his legend. His spirit wasn't broken. They just provoked a new anger in him, a new reason to fight.
A few months later, I can't recall how many, selling was sluggish. The papers that I did sell were mainly off of cheap shots created by pure improvised genius, which occurred so rarely, I hardly broke even. It wasn't as though I hadn't felt it before, but one never gets accustomed to hunger. The pain never numbs, and the thought never ceases. Jack was worse. He scarcely had the energy to stand, let alone parade around New York all day yelling persuasively the headlines that he had to think off the top of his head.
His hunger was apparent, we all felt it within ourselves but somehow we could all tell that Jack was worse, at least more affected. It wasn't frowned upon when he turned to theft, it wasn't even discussed, it was survival. I looked at his frail limbs, defeated by the malnourishment that ailed him.
It wasn't too long after the headlines started sinking that Jack found dinner available at every street vendor. He brought home his leftovers, which were plentiful for her took a superfluous amount for one person, for the weaker ones, and then he brought some for me. He was intelligent and quick, and he never got caught in his heroic yet dishonest act. Not until the day he asked for my aid.
His artful skill for stealing, which he acquired by means of which I am unsure, sunk in succession each time I witnessed it. I didn't think it was the same Jack Kelly that brought home the abundance of bread and fruit. It couldn't have been, for even I wouldn't have botched the job that badly. His gracefulness was not an element of which one would hear him bragging. For I believe it was his weak point, and at this particular moment, his downfall. His clumsy fingers were caught in the act of theft and brought to justice by the police. Justice. My attention lingered on the word. They brought a starving boy to justice, and of course they left him starving. I recall the struggle he produced when being taken away in their arms. I remember the look of embarrassment, the look of failure on his face when the suppressed his revolt. I remember the pain in his eyes, the pain of losing once again, the pain of another bum card being dealt, the pain of being defeated.
So there goes Mr. Jack be nimble Jack be quick, I kicked the dust from the street with force and anger. A fallen hero, a defeated bum. It wasn't until later that I heard he was taking to the refuge, where he built up his reputation and ultimately his legend. His spirit wasn't broken. They just provoked a new anger in him, a new reason to fight.
