Reviewers-Thanks for all your reviews and sticking with the story! You guys are awesome!!
Sparks-I've been throwing around some ideas for a new one…I've been very bored lately lol. I'll let you know once I get started on one!!
The bitter, cold late September wind nipped at the frozen cheeks of those mourning the death of Steven Conlon, better know as Spot, at the cemetery in the early afternoon. Gray and emotionless clouds settled and rested above Brooklyn and its occupants. A mass of black attire and tears consumed the small section of solid ground where two caskets sank lower into the earth. The priest completed the final prayer of the ceremony and, with a heavy heart and frozen hands, closed the Bible and made the sign of the cross. The large crowd, consisting of mostly orphans and runaways, imitated the pastor in the almost foreign act. The cleric softly spoke words that were unknown to the gathering and bowed his head in silence.
As the interment came to a close, people made their way to the grave plot to give their final respects to the two Brooklyn-born newsboys that passed away together: Patrick Johns and Steven Conlon. They had seen each other through the beginning as well as the end.
Still standing motionless as the gathering began to retreat was a petite brunette, no older than sixteen. The lack of emotion and sentiment had long since passed from her face and dripped down to her entire body. Her once charming eyes were fixed upon the headstone of her late love. Wind-blown and lethargic brown hair swooped over her shoulders that were a vision of dead black--much like the rest of her being. Inside her pale, numb hand was a coiled up piece of jewelry, meaningless to the unknowing eye. A boy of the same age and of the same emotional state stepped toward her and stood beside her. The injuries that overtook his body were a reflection of his internal feelings. He inhaled the sharp air and swallowed the lump that had been forming repeatedly in his throat. Without the necessity of words, he wrapped his left arm around the girl's shoulder comfortingly. Still with her eyes upon the grave, she leaned onto the boy's side.
"Did you know him?" she asked about Patrick in a solemn tone.
"Only as Pierce."
She closed her eyes and, for the first time all day and thinking there were no more left, shed a lone tear down her reddened cold cheek. There were no sobs or trembling lips. The boy leaned her closer to him.
"He's gone," the girl stated in an empty voice, void of any feeling.
"This place will never be the same."
The girl released from his hold and slowly walked to Spot's headstone. She crouched next to it and read it:
Steven Patrick Conlon
1884-1901
The necklace had created small red marks in her palm. She uncoiled it and prepared to bury it just below the surface of the soil next to the headstone. She paused and stood up. With worn-out, red puffy orbs, she eyed the boy standing at the foot of the grave. Lacerations scraped his face, making it difficult to see if he was actually crying or not. His upper right arm was bundled up with bandages under his black shirt, covering a bullet wound. Another cold tear rolled down the girl's cheek as she got back up again and approached him.
She took hold of his left hand and placed the key inside, closing it back up again. "I believe you're in charge now."
The boy bowed his head, concealing the fact that boys of his type don't cry. "I can't keep this. It's not right."
"He would have wanted you to have it; I know this."
Exhausted eyes peered into the girl's. He closed his hand, accepting the key. Giving in, he brought his hand up and rubbed his eyes painfully as if trying to etch out what he was seeing. The girl pressed her body against his as the two held each other in the slicing frigid air.
A few moments passed, and the two parted. They made their way from the burial sight and to the first days of the rest of their lives. A blonde joined with the brunette girl as they walked back to their home. A small and recovering ten-year-old boy waited for the new leader of his territory by the gate.
Hours turned into days, days into weeks. The memory of the two friends never left a soul in Brooklyn. But mostly, it was the brave leader that never left them. He was a vision of respect and courage. Mistakes were made during his life, but it was the only human aspect of his existence. He left behind a trail that many would follow, and a completely new respect for those that reside in Brooklyn.
The end!! I hope you all enjoyed it!!