DISLCAIMER: I don't own Spot Conlon, or any of the other blessed newsboys herein mentioned. But I do stake claim to the wonderful Runner Conlon, who has seen me through many a story. Oh, and the Brooklyn Daily Eagle belongs to the people who ran it from 1841-1902. nods

Author's Note: So, here's another story from the maniacal musings of the Dew, the same lyrical lass who brought you Eternal Avenger and Hearts Awakened. But here's a tale of a different sort, with a different heart, and a different morale. A single story in which I hope to revamp my 30 other stories that are in dire need of revision (each chapter concerns a theme my other stories conveyed). One request from this dame is all I bring. Do offer me constructive criticism if you're so inclined: challenge me, prod my mind, shed light on possibilities. They say a mind expanded to new limits never returns to its original dimensions. smiles That's quite the oasis for me…and now without further ado…


Ever the Sinner


The Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Vol. 61. No. 17. Three Cents

Monday, January 21, 1901

Queen Victoria Barely Alive

Two Night Sticks Broken Over A Prisoner's Head

Congress Will Be Asked to End West Point Hazing

Carriage House Wrecked by Boiler Explosion


Amidst the gentle resonating din arising from the God-forsaken city of Brooklyn, through the unrelenting downpour of a feather-light yet all the same frigid rain, upon the forbidding, bleak, and austere edifice wherein dwelled the newsboys of Brooklyn sat a lone figure, grave and immobile. Like a century-old sentinel of stone riveted to the structure's dilapidated roof, the seeming specter and bearer of grim propositions appeared spellbound. Bright eyes usually rich with tomfoolery were bled dry of life, a strident nature in its place whetted until it had exceeded sheer apathy. These same irises scanned the docks alongside the East River without fail, noting the seagulls upon an occasional pier, the fireflies streaking across the midnight backdrop of sky like artists plotting prematurely the tails of forthcoming comets, and the steady hum of fish boat bells clanging as if with a deep yearning to return to the ocean.

Likewise, he who lurked in the shadows of the night entertained a similar yearning, though his was the desire to return elsewhere, to a time when he'd known purity untouched. But no sooner had he fostered the musings, they dissipated like morning dew turned to mist by works of the rising sun. He couldn't afford to mull over trifles this night, nor could he afford to bewail a time long gone and not so easily retrievable. Such were the cycles of life: one lived, one laughed, one lamented. Time wasn't man's to alter, nor would it ever be, but to live a life of regret was to not live at all. What good was it to pray unceasingly for a second chance when all about could be found new opportunities, new paths down which one might meander to become something of a different breed? Glory wasn't objective; it was up to the individual to determine how he'd elevate himself to staggering heights, how he'd make his own namesake a legacy.

For the first time in what had seemed an eternity, he abandoned his crouching position and allowed a single knee to be at ease, gripping the ledge of the roof with a steady hand as the one he sought at last came into view. Snack Dowery. Brooklyn's resident glutton, a corpulent landmass of greed and flea-infested filth currently feasting to his heart's content upon a salted pretzel and swaggering onward almost drunkenly while a nightmare-inducing prospect was about to befall him, with no witnesses to hear his scream. The raven-black apparition stalked cat-like across the roof, padding athwart the construction soundlessly, eyes never leaving its prey.

"Forgive me, Father, for I shall sin." The seven words escaped his lips in a heaven-aimed entreaty rich with a feverish repentant disposition, yet this too faded once the figure cloaked himself once more with that listless facade and with that, he drew forth a dagger, silver blade glistening in the moonshine ominously, and leapt from his perch.

The kill was swift and flawless. Snack, of course, hadn't suspected a thing. The blade pierced the fat of his side cleanly, plunging deep until its handle prohibited it from further butchery. When drawn from the flesh of its victim, a haunting pattern of crimson streaks blemished its beauty, but no more precious as the sight of the Brooklyn newsboy clutching the wound between suffocating coughs and staggering a short distance before ultimately collapsing to his unfortunate demise. With but a few breaths, he turned onto his back and tried to glimpse he who had robbed him of life. The figure was thin and of tall height; the outline of his frame virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. But the wraith with a nefarious smirk bid his victim a single dose of clemency, and lighting a match, brought the tiny orange flame to his face, allowing Snack to espy the one responsible for this murderous frenzy.

Snack Dowery choked on his own blood-based mucus at the unveiling. But before he could speak the name of the criminal, his strength gave out and left him unconscious, his eyes never to open again.


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