Prologue

You won't find me in the history books The aging records locked away in archives and libraries don't contain my story. Even in this fancy American musical a company called Disney made, you won't find my history. Not all of it.

My tale is one passed down by word of mouth, through my family's blood, just like the anecdotes of my ancestors. True, there are some photographs, proof of my existence, as well as some documents. Did I mention this account? But the true nuance of my life story exists only in theory, in the memory of those who hear.

An old man once told me if something wasn't in the papers, it never happened. By that logic, I did not exist until my seventeenth year, in the New York of 1899, where the streets echoed with the voices of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst, and other giants of the newspaper world. Poor orphans and runaways; both in my case.

1899 lives forever in my memory. Ever since, there's been a Before and After when it comes to the brink of the twentieth century. The end of an old era, the dawn of a new. The time the newsies, myself included, set the business world on fire. We, who once delivered the papers, now made the headlines!

The newspaper men's responses towards our disturbance in the normal running of things varied: some admired seeing a David take on Goliath, while others recognized the danger we posed to them as well as their competitors. Eventually they came to the unanimous consensus that they retained the vital power to subdue us if our efforts went unnoticed by the papers. That's what a certain old man told me, right? A headline crowns the victor in a war.

I must admit I haven't been in the papers as much as I like, nor has my type, despite our abundance of material. Nevertheless, my life has been defined by paper.

Paper erased my true self then gave it back to me years later. It took me far away from home, changing my name along with those of my ancestors- a grave insult, it seemed to me at the time. And in the year of our Lord 1899, paper was my livelihood. Hawking headlines, drawing my fears and dreams on discarded sheets- paper kept me alive.

And in 1899, three newspapers changed my everything. Three is a lucky number, symbolizing birth (in my case rebirth). One started out as the basis of my world (see the pun?), which I changed for good; the second contained an article written by an extraordinary Snake girl, which illuminated my fight to the rest of New York City; and the third, an old rag secretly (probably illegally) on a cast off printing press brought me to the finish line. A complete triangle.

Where is this article? I can't say for certain. Most were thrown away and disintegrated within time. Some folks even wrapped their fishes in it. But our (yes, this was a group effort conducted by the working boys of New York, mainly the newsies, not to brag) moment of stardom shone, even if it lasted only a minute. Many of us kept a copy, framing it for posterity should we maybe live to raise families. I personally kept an edition framed; where I went it came too.

We're not in the history books. But our article remains, as do the effects of our fights, carried on by later generations. We don't get much credit, but it stopped mattering to me personally. Much of my individual narrative has been lost, blurred, and distorted, but the basis remains. Besides, I don't mind being sanitized to an extent by this musical, although I do find it incomplete due its lack of knowledge about the true me (through no one's fault; history tends to obscure itself while trying to do the exact opposite!).

So may I offer you this account? It's humble. I have no musical talents, no wonderful dancing. I don't resemble the actors portraying me in the least: they are based off the vague insights the papers offered into my personality, but their appearances are closer to those of my comrades. Will you take me as I am: an irritable seventeen year old artist hiding his identity? No parents, no soliloquies, none of the glamour the rose lens of retrospect offer (that I wish had been there in reality)? Am I still your king of New York? I wonder.

But I know for sure one thing I am. Might I divulge? I beg your pardon: I am a paper son.


This is a rewrite of my old one-shot, Paper Son. Please read and review. Thank you.