It was raining on the day the world ended.
It started as a quiet unassuming drizzle that left the ground slightly slippery, and a sticky haze in the air. It was just enough to drive the masses of people out of the street and under cover, enough to leave the newsies to huddle under doorways, glummly attempting to peddle a paper to whatever moist civillian was unlucky enough to be out in the weather. It was a day much like any other day, and not one on which you would expect great things to happen. But a great thing did, and while many stories have been written about this event, none of them ever told the whole truth.
And, probably none ever will. But this is as close as will ever be written.
0 0 0
"Extree, extree read all about it! Cat wit' five legs born in Brooklyn!" A newsboy waves a paper at a young couple coming out a general store a few feet away. The man stops and buys two, pressing a nickle into the boys hands. The pair lift the papers over their heads and make a mad dash across the street, ducking into a restaurant a moment later.
The boy looks dubiously at the coin in his hand, and bites it breifly between his teeth before shoving it into his pocket. He looks down at the few papers he has left, and then up at the rapidly darkening sky. The nickle, and a few other extra tips would cover the loss of papers, but he brings them with him on his treck home anyway, as there was still a tiny chance of a sale.
He curls up the thin sheets and tucks them under his arm and withdraws into a twisting allyway. He hurries through the shadows with an ease of step and quiet that can only be attributed to months of moving along the same path in situations much worse than these. He swerves suddenly and flings an arm above his head. His hand grips a metal bar suspened in the air, and with very little effort he pulls himself up onto flat metal platform. He looks up at the staircase infront of him, and with a devilish smile creeping onto his face he begins to climb it with all the stealth he can muster.
0 0 0
Was it the shadow against his window, or the quiet noises heard through the glass that first roused David from his light slumber? He turned his head slowly, the heavy tendrils of sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes and his mind still sluggish. But at the first sight of the face peering at him his eyes snapped open, and a surge of adrenalin shot through his veins. He tumbled out of bed with a silent curse, and hit the floor at a crouch. Knees stinging, he swung around, jerked open his window, and squinted into the darkness. The only proof of anyones presence was the gentel shaking of the fire-escape. As if someone in a great hurry had jumped off the side and dissapeared down the alley.
He stood silently for a moment longer, before lowering the glass, latching the window soundly, and climbing back into bed.