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NEWSIES RP!!!!!!!!!!!!
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NEWSIES RP!!!!!!!!!!!!
NEWSIES RP!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hi everyone, my name is Willow. So, I was on Inkwell the other day, and noticed that there didn't seem to be any Newsies RPs. And I, being a total fan of the movie and Broadway play Newsies! (which is one of my favorites) was, well, a little sad.
But let me introduce myself first. I am a fairly new Cber, and only really got into this of January 2016. I am active on the Kyngdom page, and go by the name Kathleen M(organ). Neither of these names (Willow or Kathleen) is my real name, which I keep hidden for the sake of privacy. So, this is Willow's story, and here is HER background info.
Willow is a tough girl newsie, who resides on the streets of Brooklyn. Her parents died when she was about six, so she has been living on the streets of Brooklyn. She is a highly gifted child, with much skill in math, reading, and writing. She is as tough and brave as any boy newsie, and prefers to be called Will, or by her nickname Eagle. She is small and sprightly, and has medium length brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a stare as tough as nails. She is a talented and dedicated newsie, but her real dream, however, is not to hawk the headlines;it's to write them. When The World's newsie prices are jacked up, Will and her friends Spot Conlon, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, Quart, named for the way he always buys fifty newspapers to sell, and Sixes, a small kid with a strong spirit, must help the Manhattan newsies strike, while avoiding both the Refuge, and a gang called The Thirteen Rats.
Okay! Enough ranting, just comment down below if you have ever heard of Newsies, if so, if you enjoy it, if you like my story, and if you wanted to add on to my story.
"Anuder dumb headline," sneered Spot as we gazed at the sign high above all of our heads, "A guy's got enough to worry about widout a stupid headline." He turned to me quickly, almost as if I was behind all of this. "Wadda you think, Will?"
"I think that we don hafta worry. 'Sides, any newsie worth his salt knows dat headlines don sell papes. Newsies sell papes. But, in case ya need 'em, I just thought of 'bout five other ways I could write that headline," I returned. "Look," I whipped out my notebook, and showed Spot the scribbled print on one of the few remaining pages. Instead of "Trolley Strike Enters Third Week," I had written "Corpses Lie in the Aftermath of the Three Week Trolley Strike," "Thousands Watch in Horror, as Trolley Strike leaves Hundreds Dead," "Police Attempt to Refrain Crazed Strikers," "Yet Another Attempted Murder during the Third Week of the Trolley Strike," "Third Week of Trolley Strike Sets Fear into Cops' Hearts."
"Nice goin' Eagle Eyes," says Spot, "but is we planin' on sellin' these papes or what?"
"I ain't needin' none of youse cheek. 'Sides, the gates ain't open yet."
"Oh, sos youse is wantin' to fight me, huh?"
"Yeah!"
And so we started a small, friendly, brawl. Spot and me tossin' each oder around, while the other newsies cheered is on, takin' sides, and maybe even throwin' a few punches themselves. Spot had me pinned, when I darted out from underneath his skinny frame, an' darted along the street. Quick as could be, I climbed the tall gate, leadin' to where we would buy our papes from Brown.
"AY!" yelled one of Brown's cronies, Franz, from down below, "Git youseself offa dat gate, ya little street rat! Com'on, Git down ya measly little shrimp!"
"AY!" yelled all of my friends from below, coz it's a universal newsie code:youse friends is youse broders, an' broders look out for each oder. We don let no one take anyone else down.
But at that moment, the circulation bell began to ring, an wif da cry, "Papers for the newsies!" our perfectly normal day began.
"Hey," said Franz, angrily, pushing me down to the ground as I dropped off the gate and headed to da front of da circulation place, "girls in da back!"
"Yeah," said Al, anoder goon, "dumb girls in da way back!"
"Oh yeah?" I say, "Well where does dumb guys, like youse, go den?"
"I know!" says Quart, and laughs, "Dey goes in da sewer! Coz dats what dey smell like all day!"
All da newsies started laughin' as Crow god out his slingshot, and let a few big uns fly on Al and Franz.
"Man, you got him!" yelled Racket, and the oder newsboys cheered, for defeatin' those goons was like Christmas every day.
"Alright, alright!" called Brown, "Les' go! These papes ain't gonna sell themselves!"
"OK, alright!" called Sixes, "Oy, Spot, lend me two bits."
"Sure,"
"Hey, no cuttin'!"
"One hundred papes."
"One hundred papers for the wise guy!"
"I better find an angle."
"Dare ain't gunna be anythin' but fleas,"
"What?! Baby born wid two heads? I think I saw it'a mudder at de circus once!"
"Come on guys! It's time to start carryin' da banna!!"
To be continued...
submitted by Willow, age 13, New York, 1899
(April 15, 2016 - 12:42 am)
(April 15, 2016 - 12:42 am)
So, Admins, what do you think? I just want some tips on how to improve this story. Yes, I wrote this on a phone, so there are a few typos, but I really want to know what I can do better in part two. Thanks!
It sounds good so far to me. Keep going.
Admin
(April 15, 2016 - 11:22 am)
I am very confused; who are the admins?
Admins are the Cricket people who take turns reviewing comments then posting them as long as they are suitable. It's short for Administrators.
Admin
(July 3, 2016 - 1:33 pm)
My CAPTCHA says orbz. I think that was a kind of fruit drink with little orbs in it from the 1980s.
"Alright, what's it gonna be?" asked Brown, as I strode up to the counter.
"Hold on, lemme see it," I rebutted. "Hey, Spot, anythin' good?"
"There's been anuder murder," said Spot cheerfully.
"Oh," I responded nonchalantly, then placed a quarter down on the table. "The usual," I said. Brown grunted, then shoved my stack of fifty papes across the table. I looked at him slyly, and then, started counting my papes, being sure to take my time.
"Hey, look, missy, youse is holdin' up the line, so get your pile of papes, an les go!"
"Only when you give me the five youse 'forgotten', Mista."
"Is youse accusing me of lyin', ya nasty little squirt?"
"You? Lie? Never. It must be just a simple mistake. Why, Franz here can't count to five if he can't see his hands."
Franz hit the wall angrily, and then spent the next few (five!) seconds wailing in pain. Brown grudgingly pushed my five papes across the counter, and then called, "Next!"
"Gee, Eagle, that wasa fast un' ya pulled on 'em," said Snipe laughin' like a clown had walked by on his hands. Corny laughter.
Spot wacked him and whispered, "Will ya quit?"
"Quit!? Ha-ha! Dat's a good un! Me, qui..."
"Snyder," said Quart, in scared awe, or just plain fear, I couldn't tell.
"Here we go again," murmured Sixes, as Shooter hid behind Spot.
"Do any of you know of a boy named Frances Sullivan?" asked the Spider, as we all looked at those preying eyes, grown grey and small, an almost a window to the greed inside. What did we do? I swear, you coulda heard a newsie yell halfway across the country. Of course we knew Frances Sullivan! Jus about every newsie knew the story of how he had escaped the Refuge by ridin' out on the bottom of a coach...and no less a coach than Teddy Roosevelt's own! We all knew of the second most known newsie, Jack Kelly.
"Nope," Spot said, but as he spoke I could see him fingerin' his slingshot.
"Who is he, some kinda runaway newsie-wanna-be? That hoity-toity name makes it sounds like he's from the Bowery," I laughed, an winked a' the oders.
"Yeah," X said.
To be continued...
(April 15, 2016 - 6:44 pm)
My CAPTCHA says orbz. I think that was a kind of fruit drink with little orbs in it from the 1980s.
"Alright, what's it gonna be?" asked Brown, as I strode up to the counter.
"Hold on, lemme see it," I rebutted. "Hey, Spot, anythin' good?"
"There's been anuder murder," said Spot cheerfully.
"Oh," I responded nonchalantly, then placed a quarter down on the table. "The usual," I said. Brown grunted, then shoved my stack of fifty papes across the table. I looked at him slyly, and then, started counting my papes, being sure to take my time.
"Hey, look, missy, youse is holdin' up the line, so get your pile of papes, an les go!"
"Only when you give me the five youse 'forgotten', Mista,"
"Is youse accusing me of lyin', ya nasty little squirt?"
"You? Lie? Never. It must be just a simple mistake. Why, Franz here can't count to five if he can't see his hands."
Franz hit the wall angrily, and then spent the next few (five!) seconds wailing in pain. Brown grudgingly pushed my five papes across the counter, and then called, "Next!"
"Gee, Eagle, that wasa fast un' ya pulled on 'em," said Snipe laughin' like a clown had walked by on his hands. Corny laughter.
Spot wacked him and whispered, "Will ya quit?"
"Quit!? Ha-ha! Dat's a good un! Me, qui..."
"Snyder," said Quart, in scared awe, or just plain fear, I couldn't tell.
"Here we go again," murmured Sixes, as Shooter hid behind Spot.
"Do any of you know of a boy named Frances Sullivan?" asked the Spider, as we all looked at those preying eyes, grown grey and small, an almost a window to the greed inside. What did we do? I swear, you coulda heard a newsie yell halfway across the country. Of course we knew Frances Sullivan! Jus about every newsie knew the story of how he had escaped the Refuge by ridin' out on the bottom of a coach...and no less a coach than Teddy Roosevelt's own! We all knew of the second most known newsie, Jack Kelly.
"Nope," Spot said, but as he spoke I could see him fingerin' his slingshot.
"Who is he, some kinda runaway newsie-wanna-be? That hoity-toity name makes it sounds like he's from the Bowery," I laughed, an winked a' the oders.
"Yeah," X said.
To be continued...
(April 15, 2016 - 9:24 pm)
"Sos," yelled Spot, standin' up on a wagon to make sure that he was noticed, "youse got your papes?"
"YEAH!" came the followin' cry, as all of us newsies grabbed our stacks.
"Alright den. Now here's what wes gonna do. Quart!"
"Yessir?"
"Youse takes any newsies ya want, and head over to the racetrack. Will!" I snapped to attention. "Yeah, Spot?"
"Youse comes wid me to Coney. Inky!"
"Hiya, Spot!"
"Stop goofin' around. Alright, les go!"
I couldn't stand it any longer. "Carryin' da banner!" I shouted.
"Carryin' da banner!"
"Carryin' da banner!"
"YEAH!"
"Les go!" yelled Spot, and we were out of there, ready to carry da banner 'til kingdom come, if we had to.
Coney Island. The dream sellin' spot of any self-respectin' newsie. Thousands of people: couples with tandems, mothers callin' their kids, ticket and lemonade sellers, kids with sticky fingers and mouths, young actors and old teachers, orphans and rich snobs, cats and dogs, Irish, Welsh, German, Russian, anyone with enough money in their pocket for a day of fun...and perhaps a pape or two.
"Okay, here's da plan," said Spot. "We pair up, one small kid, cripple, sick, blind, deaf, make it up, youse chooses. Then," he yelled, "big, tough, the fighter. Understand?"
"Sure thing, Spot."
"Will. Since youse anuder leader, wese pairin' up. Be real sick, K?"
"K."
"Alright den. Extra, extra, read all about it! Baby born wid tree heads!"
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"
I began walking through the crowds, lookin' for a good sucker, usually a lady, either real young or real old. Then I saw my man, or rather, my lady. I put on my "poor-lost-sick-homeless-adoreable-little-orphan-girl" face.
"Miss," I said weakly, then coughed a little in my hand, "please. Buy a paper. Only-" I coughed again, then made like I was about to faint.
"Oh, you poor dear," says the lady. "And out on the streets all alone! Come now, how old are you?"
"Just ten, miss," I coughed.
"Oh, darling. I'll take a paper. Come now, I'll pay you a dime for that! Poor dear!"
I coughed into my hand again. "Thanks, lady."
"Nice 'un," said Spot. "Whadya get?"
"A dime," I said proud. "She really believed it! Whadya get?"
"Six cents."
"Nice."
"Yeah! At dis rate, we'll sell a thousand papes a week, at least, maybe-"
"Spot," I interrupted, "look. Wese got intruders."
He followed my gaze to where a bunch of newsies stood, their jokes lingerin' on the hot, stiff air.
"Manhattan, judging by the lingo," I says.
"Jacky-boy's newsies, then," said Spot. "Don dey know, dis is OUR territory?"
"Jus' look 'em straight in da eye, an they'll be out of here for good." I says. "Every newsie knows Spot Conlon, and just about every newsie is scared of you to boot."
To be continued...
(April 16, 2016 - 1:02 am)