"Fascination Through Articles"

By: Sirius

          Jess stepped into the Newspaper workroom and took in his surroundings. There were two rows of tables where students were jotting down ideas on spare loose-leaf paper. A single row of computers where other kids were typing away furiously with their backs turned to him. A group of people huddled in the corner, obviously discussing dates over a calendar. The paper seemed to be a student-based council, an administrator only needed upon request.

As he looked around, he didn't see a single face he recognized. However, he'd only been there a day, so it was hard to know too many people. Just as he was about to turn and leave, no harm done, he noticed her. He'd seen her in a few of his classes but hadn't talked to her. He didn't even know her name.

She looked up, a look of deep thought gracing her soft features, and her gaze landed on him. Silently, he closed the door and stepped fully into the room. They continued to look at each other and her lips slowly turned up into a smile. He self-consciously smiled back and looked away, pretending to be looking for something. Finding nothing familiar to pretend to notice, he sighed and walked over to where she was sitting. There was an empty seat next to her and he sunk down into it, slouching.

"Hey." She said brightly.

"Hey." He mumbled, looking at the paper she had been writing on. Her handwriting was of the girlish nature, halfway between manuscript and cursive.

"You're new right?" He returned his gaze up to her questioning eyes

"To the school? Or to the paper?"

"Both."

"Yeah, I am."

She smiled warmly to him and said, "I'm Rory."

"Jess." He replied.

"Where'd you move from?"

"New York."

"Oh awesome. I went once, but it didn't turn out to be all we'd hoped. It must have been cool to grow up there."

"We?"

"Huh?" She confusedly asked.

"You said that New York didn't turn out to be all we'd hoped. Who'd you go with?"

"Oh, me and my mom. We went a couple of years ago, tried to go to a Bangles concert."

"Oh, cool. Did your dad not wanna go?"

"My dad doesn't live with me." She didn't look away from him and she didn't look uncomfortable, and that surprised Jess. Most of the time, if parents don't live together, it's a sore topic for the kid. Rory showed no concern.

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't be. So what brings you here?"

"To the school? Or to the paper?"

"Both."

Jess smiled and answered the first question.

"I'm here in Connecticut because my mom shipped me off to live with my uncle. I got in yesterday afternoon and he immediately signed me up for school."

"That's a drag. School your first day here. Who's your uncle?"

"Guy named Luke."

"Luke? As in Luke's Diner Luke? As in Luke Danes?"

"Yeah, Luke."

"Wow! That's so cool. Luke has fed me since I was five. He's a great guy. You'll like living with him." She spoke quickly and animatedly with adoration.

"I don't know him too well yet. All I know is he snores."

"Oh, didn't need to know that."

"Didn't mean to ruin the illusion."

"No harm done. So what brings you to the paper?"

"Didn't wanna go back to the apartment; didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Good enough. You wanna write anything?"

"Not today, I'm just breezing through."

"I thought you said you didn't have anywhere else to go."

"I don't."

"So where you breezing to?"

"You want me to write something that bad?"

"No, I was just gonna warn you that if you stay here, you need to write something or else Sam will get mad."

"Who's Sam?"

Rory turned around and pointed across the room to a boy with curly brown hair, furiously ripping up papers that were printed incorrectly.

"That's Sam."

"Not a guy I wanna cross huh?"

Rory shook her head with mock concern. "It's not recommended."

"Hmm. Okay, can I borrow a piece of paper?"

"Sure." She reached into her binder and opened the tabs so she could hand him one. He took it with a smile and pulled a pencil out of his back pocket. Hunching over the paper so she couldn't see what he was writing, he began to quickly scrawl out words. She looked at him with amusement for a second before returning to her own paper and thoughts.

Ten minutes later, Jess had successfully covered the entire paper, front and back. He grinned with accomplishment and ceremoniously handed the paper back to her. Her eyes skimmed over it and widened with every line she read. Beaming, she looked up at him and he laughed.

"You read?"

"I've read that."

He put his pencil back in his pocket and slung his backpack onto his right shoulder.

"Best be off." He said with a hint of success. "See ya around."

"Yeah, see ya Dodger." He paused in the doorway, looked over his shoulder with a sly smile, and winked at her before leaving. She folded up the paper and stuck it in her binder for safekeeping.

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born: on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events: the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.


For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.


Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,-a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

(A/N: Hey. Apparently Study Hall isn't as big of a waste of time as I thought it was. If you look at the people you're stuck with, they'll give you ideas for stories. :) I went to my first Newspaper meeting today after school, so I thought I'd write something about it. I know this isn't very original, but it was fun to write total fluff. Thanks for reading. ~Amanda)