#michael kelly

[nat111love]

When I saw what happened on the news, I knew it was you. That you did what you had to do. I can already see it, what it's given you. The release.

[scottyzoomz]

hello i fear i have not posted anything newsies related in a while but..

what michael drew for jack when they were younger and jack has kept it in his pocket for years

[sinkjustlikeastone]

not me crying at school because I was reading hard promises script at the part where Jack and les are fighting ish and les hits his head on the wagon and Jack just kinda freaks out because he’s seen that before and both times it was his fault.

[newsiesautismfrfr]

Don’t think about Micheal Kelly.

Don’t think about 5 year old Michael Kelly who follows around this big brother Jack wishing he could be a cowboy too.

Don’t think about 5 year old Michael Kelly, nicknamed Mikey, getting a red bandana to match his brothers red bandana.

Don’t think about 5 year old Mikey Kelly, walking with his brother across the street.

It was an accident

It was just an accident

Don’t think about 5 year old Mikey Kelly’s mangled body in the streets after a wagon ran him over without a second thought.

Don’t think about Jack screaming and wailing and holding his brother.

Don’t think about Jack holding Mikey so delicately despite almost all his bones being broken.

Don’t think about Jack begging for Mikey to wake up.

Begging Mikey to look at him.

Begging Mikey to say something.

“Look at me Baby, Baby Look at me it’s okay you’re okay”

“Oh god my baby please god my baby”

“Please please Mikey please wake up wake up”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want I’ll get you whatever you want please look at me”

“Ice cream, a new toy I don’t care it’s yours please baby please”

He’s dead.

[jack-kellys]

just added these tags to the sign up form fyi!

get angsty with it fellas. sign up here!

[garadinervi]

Bloody Sunday, January 30, 1972 / 2025

Patrick Doherty, age 32 / Gerard V. Donaghy, age 17 / John F. Duddy, age 17 / Hugh P. Gilmour, age 17 / Michael G. Kelly, age 17 / Michael M. McDaid, age 20 / Kevin G. McElhinney, age 17 / Bernard McGuigan, age 41 / Gerard McKinney, age 35 / William A. McKinney, age 27 / William N. Nash, age 19 / James J. Wray, age 22 / John P. Young, age 17 / John Johnston, age 59 — «who were murdered by British Paratroopers on Bloody Sunday 30th January 1972»

[lasaraconor]

[carryingthebannershitposts]

I know who you pretend I am...

Some Hard Promises fuel for you people

[camyfilms]

NOW YOU SEE ME 2013

The more you look, the less you see.

[spockvarietyhour]

[nat111love]

I know you're all anxious for me to leave. No one has been shy about that. I'd really hoped that it would be different. But I understand. I don't fit into this family anymore. So, tomorrow, I'm starting a new life. For the first time, I have hope. To new beginnings.

[scottyzoomz]

i like to think that Michael was like, very protective of Jack ykwim like that one mufasa song "brother" and whenever michael hears somebody talk bad about Jack he's like " you are NOT going to talk to my older brotha like that! " and he's very passionate about it and when livesies les does like " LET THE MAN THINK IT OUT!! " thing i like to think that jack just gets flashbacks on how loud and passionate les is, just like michael

[laderniereseancedecedrique]

THE PENGUIN (2024)(Saison 1)

Vu Le : Dimanche 5 Janvier 2025

Durée : Divers Selon Les Épisodes

Nombre D’Épisodes : 8

Version : VF

Titre Original : The Penguin

Interdiction : Interdit Aux Moins De 16 Ans

Ma Note : 08/10

Le Lien :

La Bande-Annonce :

[televisionpromos]

The Penguin 1x08 "Great or Little Thing" Promo (Season Finale) - Check out the promo for The Penguin Season 1 Episode 8 "Great or Little Thing" airing next week on HBO.

[jack-kellys]

painting over mirrors

read here.

David has noticed a pattern, and he can't tell if art is the solution.. or the cause.

a short javid fic about art not being a coping mechanism, and instead a half-cursed way of being.

The roof of the lodge is lined with ghosts, is the first thing David notices.

Young boys and girls made ghastly by charcoal and the night sky are stuck to the railing, to the brick, and all around the hollow, iron rod that juts out oddly as a makeshift chimney for the heater a floor below. Each paper is a tiny bit crumpled, too, as if Jack has torn them down and put them up numerous times. David asks about them carefully, but only receives a shrug in return.

“They’re past kids that’ve come through here an’ left,” Jack says. “It’s my way of, just. Remembering them.”

David catches him watching a particular drawing, older, dirtier than the rest, a little longer. The boy in it has a button-like nose, similar to how Les’s used to look when he was younger, with Jack’s dark springy hair and large black eyes. He isn’t smiling, and neither is Jack when he finds David’s gaze.

“It’s nothing,” Jack retorts, as if David had said something. “Really, Dee. I just wanted to show you around up here is all.”

“And you are,” David agrees, allowing his gaze to become quizzical now that Jack’s gone defensive.

And Jack’s sensed it, his expression already working to undo what David’s spotted. The heat recedes from his eyes, his shoulder releases its tension. He even smiles, a forced shoving of his lips and cheeks.

“That's your nosey look,” Jack accuses David- accurately, but that's besides the bigger picture. “All in good time, m’kay?”

David’s not so sure.

Because Jack spends hours and hours alone at Medda’s, and when David comes by he finds the boy surrounded by scrap pieces of canvas, half finished and ripped, his paint-splattered body bent uncomfortably forward with a brush to the new one he’s stretched out, mumbling. And when he sees David he goes rigid, reddened eyes widened as if David’s caught him drinking too much or something when it at least only looks like painting.

And Jack spends hours and hours alone on the roof with his scrap paper that he folds away with an easy grin when David comes up to check on him, even though David can see that full, rendered sketches are completely scribbled over with dark, pressured marks.

And usually, anything struck through, brashly painted over, or smudged beyond recognition is free of mountains, sun, cacti and clay homes. Santa Fe remains safe, and so do Jack’s ghosts.

“No,” David finds himself saying. “It's been enough time, it's been- too much time of you hiding yourself away and not… being happy, about it.”

Jack looks at him, confused, so David forces more words from himself.

“Usually when you're drawing, or painting, when I'm there at least- you look… passionate. Like it's a simple sort of.. natural love.”

Jack frowns. “Yeah, Dave, ‘cause I- ‘cause it’s what I do.”

“Then why do you…” David bites the inside of his cheek, but continues. “Why do you- also passionately.. destroy it?”

“Passionately destroy it,” Jack echoes with a hum after a moment. He leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “It’s not- it’s just. It’s how I work. If I don’t like somethin’, I try again.”

“Most people rip out a page or set a canvas aside, or- hell, go with it,” David counters. “Jack, you… wreck it, to where you can’t even tell what it is anymore. Doing something you love.”

Jack looks up at him then, eyes narrowed curiously.

“You keep saying I love it,” he says. “Don’t think I ever said that though, Dee.”

David blinks.

Jack spends so much time practicing and perfecting this craft, he sketches friends and places he knows and places he wishes he knew, he sketches young newsies he still misses. He creates art out of the things he loves, David knows it.

“Don’t you?” he asks slowly, setting himself next to the other. Jack scoffs.

“I don’t love cigarettes, but I still smoke, don’t I?” he says, shrugging. Jack’s gaze flicks forward. “I don’t.. really know howta describe it. I see something, you know, in my head, and I just have to get it down. I have to, and if I don’t, I just get this fear that I’ll lose it, somehow.”

David nods, after a few seconds of processing. He tilts his head, hoping Jack will keep going. He doesn’t.

“Lose it, you mean- get angry?” David asks. Jack shakes his head, eyebrows scrunched, trying to figure it out himself.

“Nah, nah, like- lose it. Forget it. Like it’ll disappear,” he clarifies. “Like you’ll- you’ll just disappear. If I don’t do something about it.”

David doesn’t have anything to say to that yet, and thankfully Jack continues.

“I know y’won’t. I know that ain’t really true,” Jack murmurs, arms unfurling and hands setting themselves on the rail behind him. “I dunno why I keep drawing if it ain’t something I really love, like that, like how Kath loves writin’. I just know I have to, I gotta make somethin’ or it won’t be real, you know? With my own hands, makin’ those memories. Makin’ sure things I like can’t be blocked out, since I used- uh, I used to… it used to happen.”

And Santa Fe isn’t a memory, so it always remains. It’s always perfect, this… western desire, the cowboy idealization, it’s Jack’s one true creation. Nothing Jack can create it as can be marred when he doesn’t have anything to line it up against in his mind.

“And the destruction, then,” David inquires softly. “Is it about accuracy to what you remember? Does what you draw have to be exactly what you see..?”

Saying it out loud, David knows it’s not true- Jack’s sketches are often loose and relative, he’s just not sure what else the explanation can be. He doesn’t think like Jack, like an artist. And so Jack shakes his head.

“Ain’t easy to explain,” he says to David. Jack’s nose scrunches slightly, thinking. “Less about exactness and more… what it was to me . Interrup- interpretation. Something in my head just needs to express what the memory is to me, and when my hands ain’t do it right, it’s like misremembering, and I can’t risk that, so I have to get rid of it. There’s memory in your body, right, and there’s memory in my hands. I ain’t wanna accidentally draw or paint somethin’ wrong the same way twice, so I gotta rip it, or write over it, to just- remove it. Cancel it out.”

David bites his lip at that. Jack catches it, though, and his eyebrows raise.

“I mean I guess- I ain’t have to. I don’t need to,” Jack tries. “I think I just- well, I feel.. better when I do. I gotta do what my brain’s saying, that’s all. I can see what it’s gotta be, and I just get this itch, you know?” He scoffs, laughing bitterly. “God, it really is just like smokin’. Shit.”

David smiles with him, though a little bittersweetly. He can’t quite tell if Jack’s… suffering, exactly. There are times when his art looks like it’s killing him, and David knows how much time Jack can take with it and how much it isolates him. Is it really like smoking? Like some kind of addiction to the other, or some compulsion?

“Jackie, if it’s a habit you want to break,” he says, placing his hand over the other’s, “I’m here to help, you know? Anything you need for this, I’m here.”

Jack’s gaze falls to where David’s touching, letting their fingers properly intertwine.

“I probably should be better about it, hm,” Jack smiles softly, sadly. “But it’s- Davey, I dunno. It’s just how I think. It’s how I work and how I see things.”

“Then…” David hums. “Then I’d like to see how you see things, then. I’d like to see how you think. Tell me when you’re going to the theater. Tell me when you’re gonna go sketch something. You don’t have to create these memories by yourself all the time, yeah?”

Jack purses his lips, letting his head fall against David’s shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

David does his best to not let his body reveal his relief. The memorializing Jack does in his head, for those still around him… It’s a little haunting. He doesn’t know why Jack feels that need outside of his artistic inclination, but something tells David it has to do with that boy on the page that looks too much like Jack, set right by where Jack sleeps. Something… happened , something that used to–or still does, for all David knows–cause Jack to lose time, to block out things from his past. David doesn’t want to be one of Jack’s ghosts, not while he’s still around. Not if he can do anything about it.

“You need someone to remind you when to grab supper anyway,” David says, instead of any of the loose puzzle pieces drifting through his brain. Jack merely whines, and presses himself closer against David, decidedly present.

[fromthestacks]

Special Ops: Lioness season 1