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Of Saints and Martyrs

By Athena

            A frozen mist hung in the air like the laundry strung from one tenement building to the next. Match hugged his last few papers closer to his body, hoping for whatever warmth they might provide and considering himself to be the most unlucky boy in Harlem that evening. The streets were uncommonly desolate. It seemed that everyone from the penniless orphans to the elderly gentlemen of fortune had rushed to whatever haven they could find. From his position on the edge of a street corner, the young newsboy strained to hear the faintest sounds of life emitted from the surrounding buildings.

            Jus' my luck, he told himself grimly. My foist time sellin' widout a partnah and I gets stuck heah 'till Christmas. Stupid Tribune writahs. Maybe if dey actually wrote a good article deah'd be somet'ing woith sellin'. He spat into the gutter as though to emphasize his thoughts.

            He rolled his eyes and sunk to the curb, tapping his ancient, grim-encased shoes against the ground in a slow, steady tattoo. Maybe I could light a fire wid one of 'em, use it ta keep me warm while I'se sellin' da oddahs. Or maybe I could make a liddle tent outta dem and fall asleep heah. Of coise, gettin' waked up by da moinin' crowd ain't exactly beddah den Mulligan's usual yellin'.

            "Ah, dis ain't doin' me no good," he remarked decidedly and rose to his feet. With a small shrug of defeat he began to march back in the direction of his lodging house, hoping to find a throng of people desperate for a newspaper on his way there.

            As he walked, he sang a wistful tune, one that had helped him fall asleep as a child. It comforted him on the trek back, as the chilly air bit at his neck and as shadows loomed from nearby alleys.

            It was because of this additional noise, however, that Match didn't hear the faint, unintelligible sounds approaching until it was too late.

            Halfway through the second verse, Match stopped in his tracks, a quizzical expression on his face. He turned on his heel, wondering if somehow his wish had been granted and a potential customer was somewhere nearby. "Hello?" he called to the seemingly empty distance. "Anybody deah?"

            The streets were silent. Match shrugged, assuming that he was prematurely losing his hearing due to the loud nightly poker games, and continued on his way. He began the song again, this time in a quieter tone.

            When the sounds again interrupted his singing, he clutched his papers as though they were a shield. This time he didn't cry out to anyone possibly within earshot; instead, he stood very still and tried to identify what he had heard.

            Gravel, whispahs, rusty hinges and…an anchor? A violent shiver raced up and down his spine, but he immediately willed it away. Come on, Match, get it tagadah. Deah's probably people out jus' like you'se, maybe a hoise and carriage somewheahs. Anybody'd t'ink ya nevah been on da streets befoah wid da way you'se actin'. He scoffed at himself and then marched silently and swiftly onward.

            The sounds were growing louder now. Blood began to pound in the boy's ears as his legs automatically increased their pace. The lodging house was just around the corner, he reminded himself in hopes of calming his madly beating heart. He was simply overexcited at the thought of selling alone for the first time. Inventin' monstahs in da dark jus' 'cause ya ain't used ta-

            His thoughts were disrupted by a high-pitched wail from several feet behind him. An unmanly scream stuck in his throat and he turned on slow, unwilling heels to face his stalker.

            Relief, disgust, humor and shame rushed through him like a warm cup of coffee. A mangy black cat, its fur sparse and its eyes hopeful, studied the newsboy from its seat on the sidewalk. It yowled again, bearing its pointed teeth like grimy knives.

            Match shook his head and chuckled embarrassedly. "Maybe it's a good t'ing nobody was sellin' wid me tahday," he remarked, not certain whether he was addressing himself or the feline. "I'd nevah live dis down."

            He stepped over to the cat and, crouching down, reached out his hand in a gesture of friendship. The cat eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed his hand, most likely smelling the potent aromas of ink, dirt, and the ham sandwich Match had devoured at lunch. Then, either deciding that the newsboy meant no harm or hoping for whatever might have remained of that sandwich, the cat rubbed its head against the boy's palm.

            "Too bad ya ain't interested in da latest high society gossip," he said laughingly. "Maybe ya could use da papah as scratchin' practice, ta keep you'se claws-"

            Match's remarks, and then his screams, were stifled by a gag that suddenly enveloped his mouth. He was about to extract the faithful knife from deep inside his pocket when something struck him over the head, sending him into a peaceful, vulnerable darkness.

To be continued. Please review!