OK, so my apologies to my team and to the readers. This story is crap. It's crap because I researched and wrote this cool story with lots of details and history and everything and then just as I went to post it I realized I had the wrong date. Not like a little off but waaaaay off. So I ripped apart and now there's just this which was due yesterday but I didn't hit publish so yeah me - doing so well. Not!
Anyway, this was written for Newsies Pape Selling Competition: Circulation Three: Origins. Word Count: 1,015
Task: Pick a newsies and write about a time before he was a newsie. How did he end up living on the streets? What happened to his family? How did he become a newsie? Your story should end with your main character joining the newsies (or at least an ending that would strongly imply it).
The dirt feels heavy in his hand but he refuses to let it go. It's cool and damp and he clenches his fist tighter around it, channeling all his hurt and pain into that small clod of dirt. A few pieces fall onto the blanket and he brushes them off quickly. The quilt had been her favorite, a cherished heirloom from the days when things had been better. Now it only serves as another reminder of her and he is torn between tearing it from the bed and holding onto it for dear life.
There is the steady rise and fall of noise in the room as visitors come and go. Some stand with their heads bowed, silent, while others fill the room with laughter and song. He scowls back darkly at those who dare smile at him. There is nothing to smile about. There will never be anything to smile about again.
"Strangest thing I ever seen," one mourner reflects. "I seen her coming aways and I says 'Good morning' and not a word does she say. Just staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but that water. I turns around and she's gone, like she was never there. Spooked me something awful, I tell you."
An urge grows within him to finally let go of that clump of dirt. He thinks briefly of aiming it right at the back of the man's head and watching as it explodes upon impact. The sound would be more satisfying than the dull, echoing thump of mud against wood that he was forced to hear again and again that morning. His father had forced the dirt into his hand, shoving him forward toward the gaping hole in the earth that would be the final resting place of the only person on earth who he loved, and who loved him in return. He had stood at the edge of her grave and stubbornly refused to toss the dirt down onto the coffin. People stepped up around him, tossing their own bits of mud and dirt onto the coffin until he couldn't take it anymore and he ran, the sound of that dirt hitting the wooden coffin lid echoing in his ears.
News travelled quickly through Irishtown and while he thought home might have become a refuge from the unwanted attention and sympathy more people turned up every minute to pay their respects.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
He looks up to see a heavily made-up woman offer a golden penny pinched between her fingers. His own fingers wrap around the dirt more tightly and he shakes his head violently.
"You're her youngest, then? I'd recognize those eyes anywhere," the woman says as she opens a small jeweled coin purse and drops the penny in. For a minute he regrets his decision. That penny could have bought something to eat, a piece of candy at least. He is struck by the memory of when his mother would scrimp and save so that she'd have an extra penny or two for candy. He'd hold her hand as they walked down the street toward the corner candy shop and she'd always let him choose one flavor for her and one for himself.
He nods but his mind is still focused on the penny.
"Did you know her?" His voice doesn't come out as strong as he would like and his cheeks grow flushed.
"Sweetest soul I've ever met," the woman answers. "She used to sew the most beautiful costumes for me when I started over at the Novelty. We had some times there, I can tell you."
"You're from here?"
"Irishtown? Oh, heavens no, doll. I'm from here and there. Actually have my own place now, over in Manhattan," the woman explains. She fishes around in the jeweled purse and pulls out a slip of paper. "There you are, love. Irving Hall. Always knew I was bound for greatness. Your dear mother always said that, too."
It is true and he remembers the way his mother always believed the best for people. His father is the complete opposite, believing that there is no way out of their poor, shanty-town life. But as he listens to this strange woman talk about his mother, the boy feels a spark grow inside.
That night as his father sleeps off the copious amounts of poteen, the boy pushes a kitchen chair over to the high shelf above the stove. The conversation with the woman earlier still rings in his ears. He still doesn't know why his mother gave up hope but he will not. The biscuit tin is dented and he pries the lid off with careful fingers so he doesn't disturb the others. He pockets the few pennies from the bottom and then takes out the dull, tarnished ring. It should be his by right. He loved her best of all. He slips the ring onto a bit of twine and hangs it around his neck. There is nothing about this place that he will miss.
The dirt had been compressed into a neat little clump and he weighs it in his hand as he steps out the door and into the night. It doesn't take long to find the dock and he is somewhat surprised to see that it shows no sign of what happened there. Part of him grows angry that there is no trace of his mother, no indication that it is the last place anyone saw her alive. He tosses the dirt from one hand to the other until he finally reaches back and throws it as hard as he can into the night sky and hears a tiny splash as it hit the water.
It doesn't make things any easier and his resolve is already set. He will not lose anyone else he loves. His eyes scan the dark water and he practically sneers at the sight of Manhattan just across the way. He thinks briefly about leaving Brooklyn but it will mean leaving his mother and he refuses. He is bound for greatness and there is nothing that will stop him.