A/N - I dedicate this to my Grandmother who passed away December
26th, 2000. I miss you Grams. One shot, this is it for this.
"May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
May the rains fall soft upon your fields,
And, until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand."*
I do not own the Newsies, or any of their characters. I DO however own Sheeps Flannigan, Jester Callahan, and any of the other characters I happen to come up with in this story. I try not to use names that other people have used for their characters so if I have, let me know. It's just coincidence if I do.
He turned the collar of his worn coat up and swore faintly as a soft, misting rain began to fall. It was unnaturally warm for December; he was shocked at the fact that he had barely needed his coat in the first place. Stepping outside of the lodging house that morning all he could smell was the river at low tide. It turned his stomach and made his nostrils curl.
Lighting a cigarette, he had tossed the smoking match away and aimed a well-placed kick at a sleeping newsie lying outside next to a barrel. Snorting with laughter as the kid rolled over moaning, still asleep, he had shook his head and leaned against the doorjamb.
Sheeps Flannigan was a drunk and nothing was ever going to change that. The best he could do was to leave a blanket tucked next to the barrel outside of the door in the hopes that Sheeps would find it and not freeze to death. Barney Rogers, the manager of the lodging house always locked the door at ten o'clock at night on the dot. He had learned to keep another home away from 'home' in that exact case but Sheeps didn't have the money to do that.
His day had started out shitty and hadn't gotten any better. He had gotten into a fistfight with his best pal in the whole world, Jester Callahan over something as simple as Jester stomping his foot into a puddle as he walked by him. The boy snorted mirthlessly and shook his head, the fine rain collecting into a web of moisture that was just starting to seep into his hair and clothing.
A bloody nose and blackened eye later, the two had parted, panting furiously. Jester's gray eyes had held no emotion in them, and the boy had remembered feeling guilty almost immediately for letting himself snap.
Jester had simply spat into one grimy hand and had stuck it out towards him. The boy had clasped it into his own after issuing forth a wad of his own spittle. They had shook hands solemnly before Jester slung an arm around the boy's narrow, yet widening shoulders. The 'boy' couldn't really be called as such anymore. He was fast approaching manhood. Soon he would have to seek other means of employment, an idea that made him shiver and feel sick to his stomach.
"I'm sorry I splashed water onto you. I forgot that today is.." Here Jester had paused and the boy had felt his fists clenching uncontrollably. Sudden grief welled up in his throat making him choke and feel a sharp pain stab his chest. Jester had been the first to bring it up to his face that today was the day that he had lost the only person who had ever cared about him in the world.
Shoving Jester away, muttering underneath his breath that it was 'okay', he had disappeared into the throngs of people on the crowded street almost instantly. That had been something he was always good at. Running away when he didn't need to, and picking fights when he likewise, didn't need to. Anything to escape what he was feeling. Like most of the boys, he drank a great deal. He had his fun with girls; he didn't feel the need to keep any around him in particular. If one struck his fancy, he would try to make it last but it almost inevitably never did.
To make matters worse, after fighting with Jester, he had slipped and fallen, soaking most of his papers in a large puddle. There had gone almost a day's worth of wages right there, to carelessness. He had sold the remainders and huddled in the warmth of a seedy tavern for the rest of the day. After running out of coins, he had stumbled out into that fine, misting rain to find it late afternoon.
His breath reeked of cheap ale, and he lit a cigarette after turning his collar up. Almost unwillingly his legs brought him to the rusted metal gate of a small cemetery next to a stone church. A metal placard outside proclaimed it to be 'St. Frances''. He tried to stop himself, but he found his hand grasping the latch to the gate and pushing it open. His cigarette tucked safely between his teeth, he stuck his hands deep into his pockets feeling the secure firmness of his wooden slingshot in one of them.
Numb legs brought him down the rows of stone markers, most cracked and washed with age. Some sites only had simple wooden crosses adorned with limp flowers and candles that sputtered in the rain. He hadn't brought any flowers this time. It had been a long time since he could afford to find flowers in the winter. Once or twice he had swiped flowers from someone else's gravesite only to furiously wipe them away, instantly feeling the shame she would have felt from such an action.
She. A sharp lump formed in his throat and it burned as he swallowed it away with difficulty. He stopped finally, in a corner of the graveyard, in front of a small wooden cross. Someone had crudely written 'M.L.C. 1812 - 1890'. Most of the snow had washed away with last night's rain and today's mist. He didn't care that the ground was muddy as he sank to his knees in front of her marker.
Mary Louisa Conlon, his grandmother. Putting a hand out he rested it on the cross and vowed to get her a real stone grave as soon as he had the money. The woman was owed that much. It was strange; most of the boys he ran with had no families or had never had anyone show them an ounce of kindness in their lives. But he, the toughest of them all had been graced with an angel.
His grandmother, his savior, his protector. She had shown him love when it seemed his parents were incapable of doing so. She had showered him with hugs and little pecks on the cheeks, rocking him to sleep in her plump lap, letting him lick the batter off of wooden spoons when she made cookies for him.
He smiled fondly remembering the night when his father had stayed out late, gallivanting around with women soon after leaving his mother in the lurch and drinking. He had woken up full of terror that his father had died, because his father's bed had been cold, the sheets untouched. His grandmother had lit into his father with a fury that no one knew the short, white-haired woman with the small spectacles had possessed.
His smile faltered as the images of the small, elderly lady he had loved faded away to be replaced by newer, painful ones. He had been all of eight years old, so naïve still. He had already started selling papers, and his parents had long since taken off leaving him with his grandmother. Secretly, he was glad and he knew that she was as well. His grandmother had been complaining of pains in her legs but refused to see the doctor. They really didn't have the money anyway.
One afternoon he had come home and he couldn't find her anywhere. There had been a few policemen sitting in his grandmother's small kitchen, drinking tea. Their faces had been impassive, but one of the men had knelt down and used a tone that wasn't altogether unkind as he informed the small boy that his grandmother had passed away.
"Passed on to the other side, lad," had been his exact words. The boy wiped blindly at his eyes and realized with a start that his face was covered with tears. Actual tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried in this manner. Another lie, in fact he could. It had been that day when they hauled him off kicking and screaming to an orphanage. His heart had broken that day he believed.
The only item he had managed to grab when the cops weren't looking was the key to his grandmother's apartment. A key that he still wore to this day, around his neck on a black string.
"Passed on," he croaked hoarsely, flipping his cigarette away from him. 'Passed on', more like 'abandoned'. He grew almost instantly enraged with himself for thinking bad of the deceased woman. But he couldn't help it honestly. He had felt for years like she had left him alone in the cold and the dark and on the streets, doing things he wished he hadn't been doing all because she had been ill and hadn't wanted to be a bother. He oftentimes wondered what it would be like if she had gone to see a doctor.
"Why did you have to leave me?" his voice broke and he wept into his hands for a few moments before he suddenly felt a sense of peace come over him. Raising his head he realized that the rain had stopped. Wiping his face off with his gray cap, he stood, not minding that his pants were now seeped at the knees with mud and water.
Casting a glance out towards the sky, he stopped in awe as he saw that the clouds had parted and the sun was setting, illuminating the patch of sky in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. A ray of light descended from the clouds, looking like an opening to Heaven. He smirked, fondness lighting his usually cold blue eyes. His grandmother had always referred to them as 'God patches', and said that it was God poking a finger through the clouds to help keep an eye on His people. Shaking a head at his Irish Catholic grandmother's foolishness he lit another cigarette and keeping his eyes on the 'God Patch', started to make his way back to the lodging house.
Like every year, the pain came, and then was almost instantly buried. Almost. But like every year somehow it was made clear to him that although his grandmother's body was gone, her love, and her spirit were still close beside him forever. Twirling his cane, he continued on his way back to reality, back to the lodging house.
Tomorrow was just another day.
A/N - Okay I know this was horribly sappy and sad, but please lemme know what you thought if you read it. Thanks!
"May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
May the rains fall soft upon your fields,
And, until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand."*
I do not own the Newsies, or any of their characters. I DO however own Sheeps Flannigan, Jester Callahan, and any of the other characters I happen to come up with in this story. I try not to use names that other people have used for their characters so if I have, let me know. It's just coincidence if I do.
He turned the collar of his worn coat up and swore faintly as a soft, misting rain began to fall. It was unnaturally warm for December; he was shocked at the fact that he had barely needed his coat in the first place. Stepping outside of the lodging house that morning all he could smell was the river at low tide. It turned his stomach and made his nostrils curl.
Lighting a cigarette, he had tossed the smoking match away and aimed a well-placed kick at a sleeping newsie lying outside next to a barrel. Snorting with laughter as the kid rolled over moaning, still asleep, he had shook his head and leaned against the doorjamb.
Sheeps Flannigan was a drunk and nothing was ever going to change that. The best he could do was to leave a blanket tucked next to the barrel outside of the door in the hopes that Sheeps would find it and not freeze to death. Barney Rogers, the manager of the lodging house always locked the door at ten o'clock at night on the dot. He had learned to keep another home away from 'home' in that exact case but Sheeps didn't have the money to do that.
His day had started out shitty and hadn't gotten any better. He had gotten into a fistfight with his best pal in the whole world, Jester Callahan over something as simple as Jester stomping his foot into a puddle as he walked by him. The boy snorted mirthlessly and shook his head, the fine rain collecting into a web of moisture that was just starting to seep into his hair and clothing.
A bloody nose and blackened eye later, the two had parted, panting furiously. Jester's gray eyes had held no emotion in them, and the boy had remembered feeling guilty almost immediately for letting himself snap.
Jester had simply spat into one grimy hand and had stuck it out towards him. The boy had clasped it into his own after issuing forth a wad of his own spittle. They had shook hands solemnly before Jester slung an arm around the boy's narrow, yet widening shoulders. The 'boy' couldn't really be called as such anymore. He was fast approaching manhood. Soon he would have to seek other means of employment, an idea that made him shiver and feel sick to his stomach.
"I'm sorry I splashed water onto you. I forgot that today is.." Here Jester had paused and the boy had felt his fists clenching uncontrollably. Sudden grief welled up in his throat making him choke and feel a sharp pain stab his chest. Jester had been the first to bring it up to his face that today was the day that he had lost the only person who had ever cared about him in the world.
Shoving Jester away, muttering underneath his breath that it was 'okay', he had disappeared into the throngs of people on the crowded street almost instantly. That had been something he was always good at. Running away when he didn't need to, and picking fights when he likewise, didn't need to. Anything to escape what he was feeling. Like most of the boys, he drank a great deal. He had his fun with girls; he didn't feel the need to keep any around him in particular. If one struck his fancy, he would try to make it last but it almost inevitably never did.
To make matters worse, after fighting with Jester, he had slipped and fallen, soaking most of his papers in a large puddle. There had gone almost a day's worth of wages right there, to carelessness. He had sold the remainders and huddled in the warmth of a seedy tavern for the rest of the day. After running out of coins, he had stumbled out into that fine, misting rain to find it late afternoon.
His breath reeked of cheap ale, and he lit a cigarette after turning his collar up. Almost unwillingly his legs brought him to the rusted metal gate of a small cemetery next to a stone church. A metal placard outside proclaimed it to be 'St. Frances''. He tried to stop himself, but he found his hand grasping the latch to the gate and pushing it open. His cigarette tucked safely between his teeth, he stuck his hands deep into his pockets feeling the secure firmness of his wooden slingshot in one of them.
Numb legs brought him down the rows of stone markers, most cracked and washed with age. Some sites only had simple wooden crosses adorned with limp flowers and candles that sputtered in the rain. He hadn't brought any flowers this time. It had been a long time since he could afford to find flowers in the winter. Once or twice he had swiped flowers from someone else's gravesite only to furiously wipe them away, instantly feeling the shame she would have felt from such an action.
She. A sharp lump formed in his throat and it burned as he swallowed it away with difficulty. He stopped finally, in a corner of the graveyard, in front of a small wooden cross. Someone had crudely written 'M.L.C. 1812 - 1890'. Most of the snow had washed away with last night's rain and today's mist. He didn't care that the ground was muddy as he sank to his knees in front of her marker.
Mary Louisa Conlon, his grandmother. Putting a hand out he rested it on the cross and vowed to get her a real stone grave as soon as he had the money. The woman was owed that much. It was strange; most of the boys he ran with had no families or had never had anyone show them an ounce of kindness in their lives. But he, the toughest of them all had been graced with an angel.
His grandmother, his savior, his protector. She had shown him love when it seemed his parents were incapable of doing so. She had showered him with hugs and little pecks on the cheeks, rocking him to sleep in her plump lap, letting him lick the batter off of wooden spoons when she made cookies for him.
He smiled fondly remembering the night when his father had stayed out late, gallivanting around with women soon after leaving his mother in the lurch and drinking. He had woken up full of terror that his father had died, because his father's bed had been cold, the sheets untouched. His grandmother had lit into his father with a fury that no one knew the short, white-haired woman with the small spectacles had possessed.
His smile faltered as the images of the small, elderly lady he had loved faded away to be replaced by newer, painful ones. He had been all of eight years old, so naïve still. He had already started selling papers, and his parents had long since taken off leaving him with his grandmother. Secretly, he was glad and he knew that she was as well. His grandmother had been complaining of pains in her legs but refused to see the doctor. They really didn't have the money anyway.
One afternoon he had come home and he couldn't find her anywhere. There had been a few policemen sitting in his grandmother's small kitchen, drinking tea. Their faces had been impassive, but one of the men had knelt down and used a tone that wasn't altogether unkind as he informed the small boy that his grandmother had passed away.
"Passed on to the other side, lad," had been his exact words. The boy wiped blindly at his eyes and realized with a start that his face was covered with tears. Actual tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried in this manner. Another lie, in fact he could. It had been that day when they hauled him off kicking and screaming to an orphanage. His heart had broken that day he believed.
The only item he had managed to grab when the cops weren't looking was the key to his grandmother's apartment. A key that he still wore to this day, around his neck on a black string.
"Passed on," he croaked hoarsely, flipping his cigarette away from him. 'Passed on', more like 'abandoned'. He grew almost instantly enraged with himself for thinking bad of the deceased woman. But he couldn't help it honestly. He had felt for years like she had left him alone in the cold and the dark and on the streets, doing things he wished he hadn't been doing all because she had been ill and hadn't wanted to be a bother. He oftentimes wondered what it would be like if she had gone to see a doctor.
"Why did you have to leave me?" his voice broke and he wept into his hands for a few moments before he suddenly felt a sense of peace come over him. Raising his head he realized that the rain had stopped. Wiping his face off with his gray cap, he stood, not minding that his pants were now seeped at the knees with mud and water.
Casting a glance out towards the sky, he stopped in awe as he saw that the clouds had parted and the sun was setting, illuminating the patch of sky in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. A ray of light descended from the clouds, looking like an opening to Heaven. He smirked, fondness lighting his usually cold blue eyes. His grandmother had always referred to them as 'God patches', and said that it was God poking a finger through the clouds to help keep an eye on His people. Shaking a head at his Irish Catholic grandmother's foolishness he lit another cigarette and keeping his eyes on the 'God Patch', started to make his way back to the lodging house.
Like every year, the pain came, and then was almost instantly buried. Almost. But like every year somehow it was made clear to him that although his grandmother's body was gone, her love, and her spirit were still close beside him forever. Twirling his cane, he continued on his way back to reality, back to the lodging house.
Tomorrow was just another day.
A/N - Okay I know this was horribly sappy and sad, but please lemme know what you thought if you read it. Thanks!