The following are pieces of unfinished writing that I don't plan on finishing. If you guys really like any of my scraps, tell me, and I might be inspired to finish them. Until then, enjoy these random bits of writing. Thanks.

Unscriptables:
An interview with the newsies.

"Okay," I began as I entered the room. "I'm here to interview you boys about your opinions towards fanfictions." I sat down and clipped a microphone to the collar of my shirt, eyeing the boys nervously. It was my first interview with characters that weren't actually real; my first time talking to kids from a movie. How I was physically able to be in the same room with them, I didn't know. All I knew was that some force from above with a typewriter or keyboard was controlling the setting and dialogue and…aw, never mind.

"So, Jack Kelly," I said, clearing my throat. "Many of the newsies fanfictions involve plots about you hooking up with Spot or David. How do you feel about this?"

"Uh…no comment," Jack coughed awkwardly. David and Spot whispered something to each other, but I didn't hear them.

"But Jack, don't you want to be in the papers? You can't be the papers if you don't cooperate during the interview."

"Sure, but no pictures."

"Um…alright. Well?"

"I find it kinda…distoibin' that-"

"You find it what?"

"Distoibin'"

"Disturbing?"

"Yeah, same thing."

"And why do you find it disturbing?"

"Because everyone knows that-"

"His lips brushed against mine first!" David shouted abruptly.

"Liar! They brushed against mine before they brushed against yours!" Spot growled.

"No they didn't!"

"You're just jealous because I have shocking blue eyes!"

"Hey!" I interjected. "Quit it! Save your bickering for later! Besides, Jack isn't gay, right?"

"Sure," he answered.

"Sure? Is that a yes or a no?"

"Have ya ever seen Velvet Goldmine?"

"What?"

"I was gay in that."

"No, the guy who played you was gay in that movie. You weren't, Christian was."

"What?"

"Oh geez."

I sighed, because that freaker with the keyboard was mixing movies.

"Let's try this again…Okay, Jack, do you mind being gay in the fanfictions?"

Jack shifted in his chair and glanced at Spot and David.

"Not really. And I don't mind bein' with both of them, either. That just means that there'll be a hardcore threesome-"

"Jack!" Sarah hissed. I jumped in my seat. What the hell was she doing here? Why did the force from above suddenly make her appear?

Jack smiled sheepishly.

"How 'bout you join and then we can have four…Like uh….what do you call 'em…"

"Ambassadors?" David suggested.

"A gang bang?" I hinted.

"Yeah, that's it!"

"You pervert!" Sarah yelled.

"Seriously, you all need to stop fighting!" I ordered. "I'm going to give you four some time to cool down. When I get back, I expect you to all be calm…" I raised an eyebrow at Jack. "I'm trusting that you'll keep your pants on until I get back."

Spirit Of The City:
A Touching Spirit Bear and Newsies crossover.

Cole was reliving the nightmare.

The bear stood in front of him, its black lips curled into a malicious smile. Its teeth looked pale yellow compared to its brilliantly white fur, but even without their sanitary sparkle they still injected Cole with fear. Before he could move away, the bear's claws raked across his chest, flaying his flesh and cracking his ribs.

"Stop it!" he cried as the bear grasped his hip in its jaws. Its fangs sunk into his pelvis, lodging deep into the bone's marrow.

CRACK.

Cole woke up, startled and drenched in cold sweat. His chest ached and his head buzzed with dizziness.

"Peter?" he called into the darkness. He sniffed the air, confused by the aroma. Why didn't it smell like the musky odor of his cabin?

"Garvey? Edwin?"

Cole kicked at his covers until they untangled with his legs. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and fell to the floor. A bunk bed? Why wasn't he on his thin mattress? Where was his sleeping bag?

"Peter?" he shouted louder. This time someone responded with a muffled groan. Cole blinked and stood up, his arms searching for any hint of his location. Instead of touching the splintery wood of his cabin walls, his hands brushed against something stubbly and tender. Somebody's face, specifically their cheek. Cole leapt backwards and only succeeded in falling to the floor again. He sat there for a moment, realizing that this floor was wooden, not dirt.

"Kloppman, it's too early to get up…" a voice complained.

Cole squinted into the darkness. Garvey, Edwin, and Peter didn't have a New York accent.

"Hello?" Cole stuttered cautiously. Instantly he scolded himself for exposing his fear through his tone. Then he remembered that it didn't matter anymore. He was a new and improved Cole Matthews. He didn't have to prove anything to anyone; it was okay to show he was frightened.

"Urrghn…"

"What?"

Cole stood up again and squinted until his eyes began to hurt. This must still be part of the dream. Yeah, that was it, perhaps he had a fever or something, and his sleeping mind was wandering aimlessly. Despite his bewilderment, the exhaustion from the reminiscence of his mauling allowed Cole to doze off.

When he awoke the second time, beams of sunlight provided some answers to his questions. As Cole glanced around, he discovered he was not in Alaska, but in some sort of boarding school bedroom. And, from the room's appearance, a pretty cheap one. All of the bunks bents were filled with boys, some sleeping in pairs. Cole shuddered at the thought of sharing his bed with anyone, especially another boy.

"Who the hell are you?" a boy asked as he jumped down from his bunk.

"I..uh…where am I?" Cole asked.

The shook his head to even out loose strands of his golden hair and chuckled.

"Newsies Lodging House, Manhattan, wide eyes."

Cole didn't like how the boy was looking at him. He seemed arrogant and his expression teased Cole. He thinks I'm stupid, Cole thought. He'd show him. Suddenly, he recalled his words to Garvey from several months ago: I'm finished being angry. Cole wouldn't let this cocky kid convert him back to his old ways. Although he was aggravated, he refused to get mad.

"Who are you?" Cole inquired.

"Ya never heard of me, kid?"

"No…I'm not from here…" Cole growled.

"The name's Jack Kelly," he said.

"AKA: Cowboy!" someone chimed in. Jack grinned and rolled his eyes, like the nickname was just another factor of being popular.

"No, no, AKA: Sarah Straddler!" another boy called.

"Hey!" Jack shouted as he turned around, shoving a blonde eye-patched kid in the chest. Cole took a step away from the two. There was obviously some inside joke being shared, but he wasn't finding it funny.

"Sorry 'bout that. Blink just gets jealous because he hasn't had his 'Saturday night with the mayor's daughter' yet." Jack said with a smile.

"Shut up!" the pirate-kid yelled.

I'm still dreaming, thought Cole. I'm bound to wake up right...

"Now, as I was sayin, I'm Jack Kelly. Ya got a name?"

"Cole. Cole Matthews…"

"Cole? Like the rock?"

"No, not like the rock. Cole like Cole." Cole glared at Jack. Was he trying to be funny? And why wasn't Cole waking up?

"Well,uh, ya musta had alotta drinks last night, Rocky. How'd ya end up here?"

"I…I don't know!"

"No need to scream, Rocky."

Cole clenched his teeth in frustration. After spending two minutes with this 'Jack Kelly', he could already feel his rage returning. Even if this was just a dream, it sure was irritating.

Cole didn't wake up. He waited several more minutes to leave his dream world, but realized it was reality. The whole transition from his Alaskan island to New York made no sense at all. Perhaps it was some wacky sacred journey, a side effect of touching spirit bear. Or maybe Cole was dead. He considered this possibility, but this option didn't clear things up. If he was dead, how was he able to converse with the boys around him? How was he able to think? And he was certainly feeling pain: his bad arm was twisted slightly from his fall of his bed.

"What's wrong with ya arm?" a boy asked him. He was tall and scrawny with a screechy voice that bothered Cole. He leaned on a solid wooden crutch while waiting for a response.

"My arm? Oh, I uh…I kinda hurt it this morning but uh…" Cole paused. "I was sorta…almost killed by this bear a few months ago and I can't really use it anyways.

"A bear?" The boy's eyes widened in disbelief. "They ain't no bears in New York."

"I know that. I was in Alaska."

"Alaska? Where's that?"

Cole's jaw dropped. Even stupid people at least knew what Alaska was.

"It's part of America. It's connected to Canada."

"Canada? Serious?"

"Yeah…"

"Well uh…It's nice havin' another cripple around…"

The boy walked away, tapping the pirate-kid's shoulder and sharing Cole's information. Cole watched as the pirate-boy's face changed to skeptical expression. Although Cole didn't want to talk to him, the pirate boy came up and began talking.

"Look, there ain't no place called Alaska. I think we woulda heard of it. I mean, we're newsies, this woulda been in the papes."

"You're what now?"

"Newsies. Paperboys…"

"Uhh…Don't most people buy newspapers from vendors or subscribe or something?"

"What?"

Cole sighed. There was obviously more than a location change going on.

"What year is it?" Cole asked abruptly.

"Huh?"

"What year is it?"

"1899. Why?"

Cole gaped at pirate-boy. Time travel? No, this wasn't right. It couldn't be. Cole felt a desperate urge to soak in his gelid pond to calm himself. But, of course, there wasn't room for tranquility in Manhattan. And there wasn't room for 15 year old, baby-faced, Cole Matthews. Unless he made room.

"So are ya gonna sell with us today?" asked Jack as he smeared shaving cream on his face.

"Sell what? Newspapers?"

"No, smart-ass, fruit and buttons…"

Cole narrowed his eyes at Jack. There it was again, that disgusting sourness in his voice. It made Cole cringe; it was just too…cocky.

"Excuse me. I didn't know, Mr. Nonchalant…" Cole grumbled, emphasizing his new nickname for Jack. To his disappoint, Jack didn't know the meaning of the word, so the sarcasm was wasted.

"Non-what?"

"Never mind. How are we going to sell them?"

Jack pressed a razor against his cheek and let it glide to his chin. He swore as the rusty blade nicked him. Cole smiled. Ha, that's what you get, you popular punk, he thought as he beamed.

"What are ya so happy about?"

"Your face…" Cole said, throwing in some modern cliché humor. Jack looked puzzled.

"Uh…Queer!" Jack coughed to disguise the insult, but Cole still heard it. That jerk. He was so full of himself, thinking that every girl and boy wanted him. Cole's upper lip twitched in annoyance.

"Hey Cowboy!" shouted another boy from across the room. Cole eyed him inquisitively. He looked like a mix of all the races he knew: black, Hispanic, white, Asian, and others he couldn't name.

"What Mush?" Jack shouted back.

"Did ya hear about Skittery's date last night?"

"No. Tell me."

Cole felt a rush of relief flood his body as Jack went to go chat with 'Mush'.


Don't Blink, You Might Miss:
The angst of Kid Blink (featuring the lyrics of Coldplay)

When you try your best but you don't succeed.

"I tried, David…I tried to save him…"

Blink stared at the ground while inhaling smoke from his cigarette, then shifted his gaze to look at David. Both of their eyes were accumulating with tears. Blink lifted his eye patch and swiped at his irritated eye with the back of his hand.

"Dammit…" he whispered.

"It's not your fault…" David reassured him.

"Did anyone tell ya that you're a liar, Davey?"

When you get what you want, but not what you need.

"Blink, it wasn't your fault!"

"Yes it was! I was off foolin' 'round when he needed me! I wasn't payin' attention!" Blink argued.

"What do you want, Kid? Do you want me to agree with you and declare that you're a bad person! Is that what you want!" David retorted.

Blink sighed. "I don't want that, no. I need that…"

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep.

"Would ya stop movin' 'round so much? You're abusin' your mattress!" Mush hissed as Blink.

"I can't sleep!" murmured Blink.

"Stayin' awake won't solve anything, Blink. Just go to sleep!"

Stuck in reverse…

The scene was replaying in Blink's mind while he slept, furtively haunting him:

"Jack!"

"Get outta here, Blink!" Jack shouted as the riot stick smashed onto his arm. The impact forced Jack down onto the pavement of the street.

"JACK!"

"GET OUTTA HERE!"

The riot continued, and the police were furiously attacking every newsboy in sight. They malevolently encouraged their horses to trample the bodies below them, and beat every newsie who dared to look at them.

"But…"

"LEAVE, BLINK, GET-"

Jack's words were never finished. Another riot stick struck his skull, ending his sentence…As well as his life.

"JAAAACK!"

When the tears come streaming down your face.

"Ya ain't gonna be able to breathe if ya don't stop cryin'" Racetrack said.

Blink didn't respond, he devoted all his energy to sobbing. He tried to inhale some air, but his trembling chin and aching lungs prevented him from doing so. Racetrack stared at Blink awkwardly, then placed his hand on his back. He uncomfortably kept it there, hoping it would sooth Blink.

"I-I-I jus-ju-just c-can't fo-forg-forgive my-myself..." he stuttered.

"Jack would forgive ya…"

When you lose something you can't replace.

"You don't get it, Les, he's dead!" Blink shouted. Les gaped at him, his eyes sparkling in disbelief.

"But he can't-"

"It ain't like before when he started workin' again! He ain't coming back this time!"

"He'll be back; he's probably at the refuge or something!" Les tried to convince him.

"He ain't!"

"How do you know?"

"I WATCHED HIM DIE!"

When you love someone, but it goes to waste.

"I miss 'im, Boots…" Blink sulked.

"So do I…"

"I loved him…"

"What? Ya mean like-?"

"No…I loved him like a soldier loves his leader. Like a brother loves his brother…"

"Oh…I did too…" Boots said softly.

"Love don't save nobody though, Boots…" Blink mumbled.

Could it be worse?

"Somebody oughta kill ya, ya idiot…" Blink scolded himself. "Ya should be dead"

Lights will guide you home.

Kid Blink shuffled his way around New York, cutting through alleys and jumping fences. The lights of the lodging house shone brightly, illuminating the night's spiteful darkness. Blink exhaled heavily as he accepted the fact that running away wouldn't fix anything.

And ignite your bones.

He felt ashamed when the warmth of the lodging house greeted him. Blink considered walking back outside and freezing to death, simply because he felt as if he deserved it.

And I will try to fix you.

"Jack wouldn't want ya mopin' like this…" Crutchy said.

"Well Jack can't do nothing 'bout it, now can he?"

"He'd want to fix ya…"

"I doubt he'd want to pick up all the shards and glue them back together…"

And high up above or down below.

Blink's hand caressed over the ground, collecting dirt and dry blood. Jack's blood. He was still somewhat skeptical about the whole violent ordeal, still believed it was a dream. Blink looked up at the sky, his eye warily blinking at the stars.

"I can't find ya, no matter where I looks, Jack. Where are ya?"

When you're too in love to let it go.

"We're all still grieving, Blink, but ya gotta relax soon…This ain't good for ya…"

"Ya think I really care, Skittery?"

"I don't care if ya don't care. Just don't end up dyin', ya got it?"

But if you never try you'll never know.

"That's it! Ya have to snap outta this! Ya ain't even tryin'!" Bumlets yelled.

"Just go away!"

"I won't 'til ya at least try to be happy!"

Just what you're worth.

"Ya ain't worthless…You're just mixed up…" Specs comforted.

"Ha, sure thing, Specs…You're just like the rest of 'em."

"We ain't makin' up the stuff we tells ya…"

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Tears stream down on your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down on your face

And I

Tears stream down on face

I promise you I will learn from my mistakes

Tears stream down your face

And I

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Incognito:
The story behind Grip's glove.

Grip wore his scars like trophies; making sure they were exposed to the public. He didn't have much else to show off, except his fake personality. He was a fraud, a boy hiding much more than a frown. Grip hid his past with anything he could: especially his scars. They made it able for him to exaggerate stories of how'd he'd earned them. The remnants of his wounds provided plenty of lies for Grip, which he spat from his lips casually and frequently.

He never told anyone about his glove though. The ragged leather glove was always tight around his hand, concealing the only scar he didn't boast about. Grip claimed that he wore the glove to protect his hand, saying that because he was constantly throwing punches, he need something to prevent his knuckles from becoming raw and bloody.

It surprised Grip that people believed this. Even he considered it to sound completely phony, but his friends bought it. Perhaps it was because they were too afraid to challenge him, scared that he would beat them until they learned how to respect their leader. Of course, the tales he had told them about beating people senseless were lies, too. Everything he said was a lie.

The truth was, he wore the glove to cover his hand for a totally different reason. A tattoo stretched from his wrist, curling around his fingers and swiveling onto his palm. This tattoo, however, was not etched into his skin with a needle and ink.

The SoHo Hierarchy:
The tale of a leader's pride.

"Mallard, you shouldn't go into SoHo."

Foxtrot chewed on his lip, gnawing away the chapped skin. He ran his tongue over the pink flesh, tasting the metallic flavor of blood as it reached his bottom lip. He brought his sleeve up to his mouth and let the fabric staunch the red liquid. He glanced up at the sky, which was growing darker as a swarm of storm clouds fought with the sun for the rich blue kingdom. The air was thick and humid, and a light drizzle was falling from the clouds, the droplets resembling small grenades from the battle above. Thunder was approaching stealthily, like a leopard tracking its prey and growling in anticipation.

"I know what I'm doin' Foxtrot."

Mallard looked at Foxtrot, tossing him mocking smirk for the tension that he expressed on his face. Foxtrot's twitching eyes were trying to avoid Mallard's; his hands were jittery and his movements were clumsy. The creases in his palms had lint in them, thanks to the adhesiveness of his sweat.

"You don't know what ya doin'. If you go there, you're gonna start a war."

"Do you doubt my leadership skills, Trot?"

Foxtrot hesitated, considering the words he should say.

"Yes," he said, choosing his opinion over what his leader wanted to hear. Mallard frowned and let his hand drift into his pocket. His fingers brushed against a rusted dagger, almost being sliced on the jagged edge of the weapon.

"You shouldn't, I'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about you, Mallard. I'm worrying about the caste of New York," Foxtrot said bitterly.

"There is no caste."

"Yes there is, you just haven't been payin' attention to it. You ain't at the top, yet. You can't be takin' chances like this. You don't have enough power to face the Lev's."

"And who has the power? Cowboy? Conlon?" Mallard spat the names from his mouth irritably.

"No, Mallard. No one has enough power to overthrow the Lev's right now, so drop it."

"I ain't gonna drop it, Fox!"

"They haven't done anything to us! You're just lookin' for trouble so you can a martyr. So you can prove yourself to the other Bronx boys."

"Look, I'm just makin' sure that we're never gonna have conflict in the future by challenging them now. Besides, how tough can these boys be? They call themselves the Lev's."

"Yeah, it's short for the Malevolents. See, you've paid no attention at all to what's goin' on."

"Just because I don't know their history doesn't mean nothing."

"Yes it does."

"Nuh-uh."

Foxtrot sighed at Mallard's stubbornness. His idea of leadership and power was ridiculous and frustrating. Foxtrot felt his anxiety growing as the electricity in the air accumulated. The rumbling of thunder was beginning to get louder, and a flash of lightning erupted in the sky, like cerulean fireworks. The light temporarily blinded Foxtrot, and after a brief moment of blinking, he saw that Mallard was walking away from him.

"Mallard, stop!"

"Don't tell me what to do; you have a lower rank than me!"

"How come you understand that but not what I'm trying to tell you? We have exactly the same opinion, why won't you listen?"

Mallard kept walking.

"You're going to destroy the SoHo hierarchy, Mallard!"

Foxtrot ran after Mallard and stood in front of him. Mallard stepped aside and continued walking.

"Don't do this!" he shouted.

"Oh shut up, Trot. Just shut the fuck up and let me do what leaders do!"

"Leaders don't get themselves and their followers killed because of some friggin' competition. Stop the whole bravado act! You're a wimp and everyone knows it. An immature wimp tryin' to play with the big kids. And you know what, Mallard? They ain't gonna treat you like a little ducky."

Mallard looked at Foxtrot in bewilderment.

"Who do you think ya are?"

"I think I'm a jerk who knows what's best for the safety of all the newsies. That's who I am, and compared to what you are, I'm better."

"You ain't better than me."

"Jack is. Spot is. They've both got more of a brain than ya, Mallard. They're smart enough to know not to disturb the way New York is run!"

"Don't ever compare me to them. Ever. I ain't like those bastards; they don't know what it's like to be me!"

"And what have you been through? Huh? Oh, yeah, you're an orphan and you're poor. Why don't you look around, Mr. Oblivious? Everyone is exactly the same as you are, you ain't better than them! We're all sufferin' through the shit that you are!"