Jack Kelly Stories

Improvin' the truth since 1882.

[jackkellystories]

Mod ask:

idk if you still check your asks for this blog, but here goes nothing!

I love your writing and the universe you have created, and so much of what is on Jack Kelly Stories has inspired my own headcanons and writing ideas. I was wondering if you would mind it if I wrote some fanfic of my own using the characters and plot points you have fleshed out? Obviously credit would be given!

Thank you so much for your message - I really appreciate the kind words and knowing the stories here are inspiring your own work!

Please do feel free to build on anything I’ve written that inspires you - and (of course) I didn’t originate the characters or base story, so did the same myself while writing!

No need to give credit, especially as I’m sure you’ll take whatever inspiration you find here and make it totally your own. Happy writing!

[icouldwritebooks]

Coming back from NYC. I ended up seeing Hadestown, because I was sort of wandering around and popped into the theatre to ask if they had rush or standing room, which they did! Partial view standing room. Tom Hewitt was in it! I did not know that. He was Dracula in Dracula the musical, so that was exciting.

One of the ushers at Little Shop of Horrors gave me a free pin because he liked my dress.

@jackkellystories joined me for about 95% of the trip.

[absinthe-terminus]

[superdogkrypto]

5&6 and 35?

Ask Game!

5. Do you listen to music when writing? 

Sometimes, yeah. I like to have music on when I do a lot of stuff. It can't be a song I like too much though, or I won't be able to write.

6. If you listen to music when writing, what were you listening to when writing [Fanfic Name]?

@jackkellystories one time told me that my fic So That's What They Call a Family made them think of this song, so now I like to have it playing when I have writers block. (Which is... a lot lately.)

35. Where's your favorite place to write?

Usually in my bed, or on my front porch. Sometimes if it's slow at work, I'll write there as well. Honestly I write anywhere and everywhere I can, to boost my chances of actually writing rather than just looking at the word document and doing nothing :')

[jackkellystories]

I love reading about people’s writing habits (and writing habitats) and am really happy to hear that the “Garden You Planted” song has made it into your rotation, @maggs-is-a-muppet ! So That’s What They Call a Family is such a good story, and that song kept coming to mind while reading.

[what-goesaround-comesaround]

List of newsies resources masterpost:

Hi! So I made out a list of general resources and information I usually use while researching newsies that I thought I would share. If anyone would like to send me any more videos, essays or information of importance to add to this list, do!! Please note, this list is constantly updating.

Newsies scripts

Newsies 1992 script

Newsies stage script & sheet music

Newsies jr. edition script

Newsies 1991 revised script

The original "Hard Promises" script (the original when newsies wasn't going to be a musical. A LOT was changed in the rewrites)

Newsies books, merch and info

Newsies production handbook

Newsies 1992 novelization by Jonathan Fast

Newsies promotional paper (1992) collected and posted by @queenofbrooklyn

The original North American VHS cover of Newsies

Newsies press kit booklet collected and posted by @queenofbrooklyn

2011 Papermill Playhouse Program by @letter-from-the-refuge

2011 Papermill Playhouse audience guide by @letter-from-the-refuge

The Big Bad Book of Newsies by the Bryan Denton Worshipers

A UK version of one of the Newsies theatrical posters, where it was originally released as “The Newsboys” posted by @queenofbrooklyn

Listing of characters

List of Newsies characters (both movie and stage) by @newsiepedia

A list of "who's whosies" from the film made by @letter-from-the-refuge

A guide to the stage characters

A guide to the film characters

Trading cards photos and their bios

Newsies historical research

"Kids on strike!" novel by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

Some things we know about the real Kid Blink, part one by @newsieshistory

"Mapping out newsies" essay made by @letter-from-the-refuge

Notes on the Refuge made by @newsiesquare

Newsboys information Google drive made by @newsboys-of-1899

How the Newsboy’s Strike of 1899 Was Reported on in Cities Other Than New York by @musicalhistory

The women of the newsboy strike by @newsboys-of-1899 and The Girlsies by @pioneergirlsie

Jewish Immigration and the Jacobs Family in Turn of the Century New York by @newsiesquare

Names/list of real life newsies found on @newsieshistory blog

"Kid Blink beats The World" picture book by Don Brown

Information about Jack's dime novel by @letter-from-the-refuge

Some great blogs to look at if you want a historical point of view! @newsboys-of-1899 @newsieshistory @newsiesquare @newsiesandhistory-blog

This is just a list of historical essays I find important however if anyone would like me to add anything, please add it/link it!

Interviews with the casts

Masterpost of newsies videos, particularly of the stage cast and tour interviews made by @lizzy88musicalsblog

Newsies Minute (Podcast) Interview with Michael Goorjan (Skittery) which focuses on the behind the scenes spoof horror movie they made, BDHONS

Newsies Minute (Podcast) Interview with Kevin Smets (Ten Pin)

Newsies, The Ultimate Broadway Fan Film on YouTube.

Newsies 1992 interview with Aaron Lohr (Mush), Max Casella (Racetrack), and David Moscow (David Jacobs)

D23's from the vaults: Newsies at Walt Disney studio

Max Casella - "Betting on Racetrack"

Deleted scenes and songs

List of deleted scenes (1992)

Cut songs from Newsies Paper Mill Playhouse production (2011)

"The Truth About The Moon" a cut song for Sarah sang by Dan DeLuca & Joey Barreiro

Carrying the banner deleted scene

Bloopers and observations 1992 Part 1, Part 2 & Part 3

Jack's cut rope trick (1992)

Newsies gag reel

Newsies gag reel (without the age restriction) PT. 1. from @lousy-old-shrimp

David being kicked while selling - deleted scene

Behind the scenes videos

Blood Drips Heavily on Newsies Square on YouTube Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 which is a spoof horror movie made behind the scenes by the cast of newsies 1992

Newsies The Ultimate Broadway Fan Film again, I really recommend this!!

Behind the scenes (1992) videos here and here

Newsies backstage Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 on Kevin Stea's Youtube Channel (Swifty the Rake)

Other newsies videos

Newsies Drug PSA VHS Tape

Second released Newsies Trailer

Newsies Broadway Reunion charity stream

92sies vs livesies comparison video

Santa Fe vs Bet On It choreo comparison

"Finding the appeal of Newsies" video essay on YouTube.

"Newsies | Based on a true story" on YouTubube

Newsies websites

My masterpost on newsies fan websites

Link to the infamous newsiesfreak.com (updated as the original URL was changed) and another link just in case things get changed or lost again.

The brief history of newsiesfreak.com by @queenofbrooklyn

Newsies fanlore

Explanation to why people call Spot and Race "Anthony" and "Seán" in fics, art, fanon ect by @letter-from-the-refuge

Screencaps of every frame of the film

How Boots got his name

Understanding "Juck" by @undercover-vampire

The story with Jack's brother by @letter-from-the-refuge

Newsies findings & essays

A transcript of The Banner by @lousy-old-shrimp

Irish Newsies essay made by me (hi!)

Jack Kelly as the canonical My Little Pony character, "Fine Print"

All of my newsies playlists

An article quoting that David and Les' surname is "Baum" in the Papermill Playhouse production

Newsies accounts you should look at!

@ask-newsies

@jackkellystories

@newsiesstocking

@newsiesgiftexchange

[jackkellystories]

This list is amazingly comprehensive! Everything is on it. Thanks for the shout out in the latest update!

[mosiee]

A family doesn’t have to be a mom and a dad and kids

A family can be a bunch of dirty news boys whose names are nouns, verbs, and adjectives

[jackkellystories]

Jack: Or a noun, a verb, and an adjective.

Spot: (¬_¬)

Jack: Also the name of a fun game.

Spot: (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥

[jackkellystories]

Snowball

Written for @newsiegirlscout as part of the @newsiesgiftexchange, for the prompt: "So I really like Crutchy/ie, Jack and Crutchy/ie as a brotp, any newsies as a brotp really,, snowball fights, fluff, incredibly historically accurate fluff, fantasy, and more fluff"

Fluff for sure! I hope you enjoy it.

The sky was a flat, heavy gray, with no sign of sun behind the cover of clouds. Darkness came long before nightfall. A few lonely snowflakes traced their way toward earth, and Jack almost fell sorry for them until thousands of their snowflake friends followed swiftly in their wake. Workers rushed home early, few pausing to buy papers.

“Hey, Jack, is that you?” There was no mistaking the voice, but Jack was in a contrary mood. He didn’t want Crutchy to know that he’d wandered this way on purpose, knowing Crutchy would be among the last newsies to call it a day.

“Who’s asking?”

“You know it’s me,” Crutchy said. “The mayor hisself. Or else the governor. Just call me your favorite elected official.”

“So, you’re the one I complain to about this?” Jack gestured at the sky. “You promised only sunny days when you were campaigning. So I voted for you. And now this?”

“It ain’t my fault you believe whatever you hear,” said Crutchy, primly. “Anyway, if we didn’t have snow, what would happen to the poor snowflakes then, huh?” He kicked at the rind of dirty snow lining the sidewalk slush. “They’d be all out of jobs. As useless as … as useless as a couple of newsboys in a blizzard. Ain’t that right, Jack?”

“Listen, at least we can stay alive even if the weather changes.” Jack collected a handful of snow and shaped it into a ball. He took aim, glancing over his shoulder at Crutchy before launching the icy missile. “Hear that, snowflakes? Forget you. Go die.”

Screaming into a blizzard didn’t do any good. There wasn’t even an echo in reply. Unfortunately, Jack’s snowball turned out to be less useless. It landed with a solid smack on the side of a slow-moving ice delivery carriage, startling the horses and jolting the driver out of his doze. He stood up, waving a fist in Jack and Crutchy’s direction. “What was that? You kids think you’re funny or something?”

“This is my brother!” Crutchy yelled. “He has problems. I’ll watch out for him better next time!”

“You do that!” the iceman yelled.

Jack gave Crutchy a reproachful look. “You’re calling me the one with problems?” he asked. “And that dumbass is out delivering ice in a snowstorm?”

Crutchy shook his head in amazement. “It’s a marvel, ain’t it? And geniuses like us brag we got the perfect career. Selling papers on the street!”

Jack responded with a mirthless laugh. It sounded like this. Ha. He couldn’t work up any more sincerity than that. It was a sad, useless world. Ice deliveries in snow storms. Jack knew a bridge in Brooklyn that was for sale. He wondered if he’d find a buyer in weather like this.

Meanwhile, Crutchy’s thoughts had turned to a more appetizing concern: dinner. “What do you think the old man’s serving tonight, Jack? Say, maybe that soup with the macaronis in it. Do you think?”

“Irish apricots,” Jack suggested, without excitement. He meant potatoes. “Irish lemons.” He meant potatoes.

Crutchy considered this, then shook his head. “No, Jack, I think it’ll be the soup with the macaronis in it. Or maybe the soup with the beans in it. Or maybe the soup with the beans and the macaronis in it. And toast on the side. That’s what I think. It ain’t the season for anything other than that.”

“What season is it?” Jack exhaled slowly, watching his breath collect in a cloud and then fade. The sight made him wish he had a cigarette, but his fingers were too cold to light a match right now. “Dead of summer, right?”

“Jack, it’s December. You know that.” Crutchy hoped Jack was kidding, but with Jack you could never be sure. “Dead of winter, the cold folks call it.”

“Dead of winter.” Jack straightened up and smiled at Crutchy. “I know that ain’t the truth, because I wouldn’t be selling papers on the street in the middle of December. A sensible fellow like me? I spend the winter months tucked inside, not to be seen from the first frost to the last daffodil. A champion hibernator, is what I’m known as. Ask anyone.”

“Looks like I’ll have to wait my turn.” Crutchy scanned the empty street. “Not a soul in sight. All the other philosophers seized the customers first, is what I’m thinking.”

Jack frowned at Crutchy, who was noticeably shivering. Despite the woolen jacket he’d pulled from a lodging house donation bin, the wind ripped right through his flimsy scarf and right past the hat that didn’t cover his ears. It wasn’t right for a crippled kid to spend his winters outside, let alone underdressed for the weather. Jack knew better than to say that. Crutchy would only point to Jack’s own tattered jacket, lack of a scarf, lack of a hat. “What I’m thinking is we find a place to warm up before our next favorite summer activity, swimming.”

“Swimming,” Crutchy repeated, allowing Jack to pull him into a standing position. “Now, that’s a good idea. Perfect day for it.”

“Perfect day to swim later,”Jack corrected. “The sun is too hot right now. You’ll be boiled red as a lobster before you did a backstroke. Right now, we seek shelter from the elements.”

“Shelter,” turned out to be a place called Knight’s Pharmacy, half a block away and illuminated with an electric yellow glow that shown invitingly through the gray mist of the rapidly darkening afternoon. A sign in the window advertised the pharmacy’s offerings. “Hot chocolate,” Jack read to Crutchy, even though Crutchy was perfectly capable of reading the words himself. “Hot orangeade. Hot clam broth. Something for everybody. Let’s try this place. My treat.”

Crutchy gave Jack an uncertain look, so Jack repeated himself with emphasis. “My treat. Your birthday’s coming. Ain’t it?”

“In April,” Crutchy said, and Jack nodded as if that settled it. “A springtime birthday,” he said. “Perfect to celebrate on a day like today. Mottled tops, or however you say it.”

“Mazel tov,” Crutchy corrected, as Jack pulled the door open and ushered him into the pharmacy. The air inside was warm after the freezing blast on the streets, and the smells of coffee and chocolate hung in the air. It felt like a palace. Crutchy reached for Jack’s arm, pulling Jack alongside of him. “Where do we sit?”

“At the counter, I guess.” Jack, like Crutchy, had rarely patronized a pharmacy for anything other than cough drops, penny candy, and tooth powder. The world of soda fountain drinks was a new one. Some sounded better than others. “I’d go for the cocoa over the clam broth if I was you, Crutch. Just a gut feeling that one might be better than the other.”

“Naw, I don’t believe that.” Crutchy shook his head. “Hot clam broth? Sounds like a drink for the gods. But I’ll go with hot chocolate.”

[passelofopossums]

“Illustration of a story (i would love this so much!)” for @jackkellystories

It originally started off as a piece based on this story (by jackkellystories) but it ended up looking more like a modern au, so I apologize for that 😞 I’m also not good at backgrounds so I tried to go out of my comfort zone with this one!! I hope you still enjoy it!!

Also I know it’s not January 1st yet but every time I look at this I notice a mistake or something that could look better so I really just want to get this out of my drafts before I end up getting upset

[jackkellystories]

Thank you so much, this is such a beautiful illustration and I love the visual of Sarah and Jack watching the sun set from the rooftop - a really nice bookend to the scene in the movie where they begin the day on the roof. I am so touched! Thank you!

[jackkellystories]

Written for @passelofopossums as part of the @newsiesgiftexchange. The request was: Specs (1992) content of any kind. I hope you enjoy it!

In which our heroes narrowly escape death by spontaneous combustion, only to have their good names unjustly besmirched by their heartless landlord and incorrigible associates

The Lodging House Touring Society met in the downstairs common room on Tuesday evenings at 8pm. They’d been forced to abandon their previous meeting space, the broom closet, when a lit cigarette met an open can of floor varnish. Though Skittery smothered the flames with the quick and clever application of a full box of Gold Dust washing powder, Kloppman didn’t praise his young lodger’s heroism and ingenuity. Instead, he threatened to evict the singed, coughing members of Touring Society for starting a fire in the first place. “What do you want, what do you want, what do you want? You want to burn the place down?”

“If I wanted to - burn the place down - I would have let it go up!” Skittery forced the words out, still wheezing from the burning floor varnish fumes. Nevertheless, he managed to sound annoyed. The four Lodging House Touring Society members had narrowly escaped with their lives, yet Kloppman felt it was time for a lecture. “I’m the one that saved us!”

“It’s true, Mr. Kloppman.” Dutchy put his hand on Skittery’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging nod. “He’s a hero. A true hero. My hero.”

“Hero?” Kloppman took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses, squinting at Skittery as he did it. “You, boy?”

“The hero of the day,” Racetrack interjected. “Or the one that started the fire. Place your bets.”

“You’re not even a member of the Society,” Specs admonished him. As co-president of the Lodging House Touring Society, it was Specs’s job to uphold the good name of the organization. No organization could maintain its good name with Racetrack in its ranks or on its immediate outskirts. “Don’t meddle in our affairs.”

“Do you see how this arsonist talks to me, Mr. K?” Racetrack clucked his tongue. “Shame on him. Right?”

“Arsonist?” Specs narrowed his eyes at Racetrack. “Show some respect. I’m a fire artist.”

This declaration prompted cheers from the three other members of the Touring Society. Racetrack blew a raspberry at them. Kloppman didn’t raise a smile.

“A strike,” he said. “A strike against each of you. Each one, a strike against your names. Two more strikes, and you’re out.”

“These cafones nearly burn us to the ground, and all you do is make an X against each one?” Racetrack shook his head. “That’s what I call soft. Soft in the heart, and soft in the head.”

Kloppman didn’t react to this. He shuffled to the counter to collect the lodging house log book/disciplinary record. “Brains full of eggs and specks,” he muttered to himself. “All of them. Jokers.”

Dutchy turned to Racetrack with a bright smile. “Saluteme a’ sorota, cretino.” Dutchy loved learning new languages.

Racetrack turned to Specs. “You’re the president of the Lodging House Welcome Society,” he said. “You’re going to let him talk to me like that? He ain’t even Italian.”

“He offered you a saltine,” said Skittery. “That’s what I heard.”

Specs raised an eyebrow at Racetrack. “You don’t like saltines? The most welcoming of all crackers?”

“Kick them out.” Racetrack waved a dismissive hand at Specs and turned his attention to Kloppman. “Kick them all out. Out on their ears. Forget giving ‘em a warning.”

“Three strikes and you’re out,” Kloppman said, ignoring Racetrack. He flipped the dusty lodger house ledger book to a page marked “Lodgers: Disciplinary Record,” and pulled a stubby pencil from his pocket. “Starting fires should be two strikes each. One each. This time. Two more strikes, and you’re out.”

The three Lodging House Touring Society members hung their heads, the picture of sorrow. Unobserved by Kloppman, Racetrack slid his finger across his neck and flopped his head to one side, rolling his eyes and letting his tongue loll out. He recognized false contrition when he saw it.

“Skittery, you first,” Kloppman said, offering the ledger to Specs and tapping at an empty line. “Write your name here. Make an X next to it. Then add the date.”

Specs began with the letter S, then gave a questioning look at Skittery. Skittery frowned at him. “Don’t even try it,” he mouthed.

Specs shrugged and wrote down his own name in his best cursive. He added a comma behind it, and then his title. “Co-President, Lodging House Touring Society.” He handed the book and pencil to Dutchy, who whispered the letters of his name to himself before recording them in the book. Instead of recreating the title, Dutchy used quotation marks to indicate that he held the same club rank as Specs. Skittery, who signed third, wrote “same as above” in quick, jagged handwriting behind his name.

Kloppman squinted at the list of his three disgraced lodgers and their titles. “You’re all presidents?”

“Co-presidents,” said Specs.

“Every man in charge, and no one to count the money,” Kloppman muttered to himself. He pressed the pencil firmly into the paper, marking a forbidding X behind each lodger’s entry. “Two more, and you’re out. Remember that. Now, be on your way. And mind your manners from now on.”

The three Lodging House Touring Society members stood to leave, but Mush stopped them. He stepped up to the table, the Touring Society on one side, Mr. Kloppman and the ledger on the other.

“Hey Mr. K, I don’t mean to be rude,” Mush addressed his words to the old man, then gave a conciliatory smile to the three disgraced lodgers. “Fellas, I don’t want to mess up your club or anything, neither. But maybe it ain’t just manners, you know, that needs to be minded. Maybe, you know, we should think about safety, too. Like, not meeting in closets that fires start in? For safety reasons, you know?”

“Safety?” Kloppman raised a bushy eyebrow at Mush. “Safety, you say?”

“Well, it ain’t that safe to be meeting in a closet,” Mush said. “Not enough space, you know, with everybody all crammed in. And also, as we saw today, a fire can happen in a closet even when it’s a safe closet. And the people inside are being careful as they can. Nobody wants to go up in flames, you know?”

“It’s called spontaneous combustion,” added Crutchy, joining Mush at the table. “A real problem. One that could happen to anyone.”

“Combustion?” Kloppman gave Dutchy, Specs and Skittery a curious look, and they responded with expressions of strained innocence. The Touring Society members knew what Crutchy and Mush were doing. They were trying to kick the club out of its headquarters. “Spontaneous?”

“That means no one started the fire,” Crutchy added, to be helpful. “It just lit by itself. What a mystery, right?”

“This is a very dangerous lodging house,” said Specs, who preferred this version of events to the one involving a lit cigarette, an uncapped container of floor polish, and a careless co-president of the Touring Society. “Anything can happen here.”

“And that’s why it’s better for clubs to meet in the open, not in closets,” Mush concluded. “No harm done, fellas, I’m sure your club will be just as good if you ain’t crammed in like sardines. And you won’t get burned like sardines, neither. And you won’t burn up the rest of us.”

“These dimber-dambers has it right,” said Kloppman, referring to Mush and Crutchy. No one knew what the ancient slang term meant, but the old man’s approving tone suggested it was complementary. “No clubs in closets. No clubs in the donation chest. No clubs in the shower stall. Clubs in the common room. That’s where you’ll have your clubs.”

Tumbler and another small newsie, Buttons, popped their heads out of the donation chest. “We can’t meet in here, Mr. Kloppman?”

“The Secret Sharing Society needs to meet in the showers because we need to run the water during our meetings,” Snoddy piped up. “Otherwise, everyone will hear all our secrets.”

“Your secrets is stupid!” Snipeshooter had a general grudge against clubs. No one would let him join theirs. “And those babies pretending to be dead in that box, they’re stupid, too.”

“We’re pretending that we’re shoes,” Tumbler corrected. “Riding on a train.”

“And we’re not babies,” Buttons added.

“We’re shoes,” Tumbler affirmed.

“Your club don’t even do anything.” Snipeshooter jabbed a stubby finger in Specs’s chest. “Touring Society. I can guess what that means.”

“It’s for us to know, and the likes of you to never find out,” said Specs grandly.

“You know, you could start your own club instead of just insulting people,” Dutchy suggested. He felt bad to think of Snipeshooter all sad because he’d been left out, but not bad enough to let him join the club.

“What do you think Touring Society means?” Skittery asked, genuinely inquisitive.

Snipeshooter jutted out his lower lip. “It’s too bad to say.”

Skittery nodded. “Right answer.”

“You can come as guest speakers to the Secret Sharing Society,” Snoddy proposed. “You can tell us all about it. Your secret’s safe with us.”

Specs smiled brightly. “Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.”

“Nevermind,” Snoddy said. “You’re not invited.”

The Touring Society met in the lodging house common room after that, at least for the next few weeks. As usual, Kloppman eventually grew lazy about enforcing the rules.

[jackkellystories]

Mending Lace

Something I wrote when I was trying to write something else! Have some Sarah and Jack on the Jacobs' roof after the fight with the Delanceys in the alley. Also posted on Archive of Our Own here.

“Come up to the roof, Jack,” Sarah said, and there was no room for argument. The gentleness wasn’t entirely gone from her voice, but there was an edge now too. The past few days couldn’t have been easy for her, and Jack wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she wanted to kill him. Maybe he would let her.

“We need to talk.” Sarah set her muddy basket on the tarpaper floor and began lifting pieces of lace out of it. She frowned at the mud caked into the delicate piecework as she lay each piece flat on the laundry table, using the palm of her hand to flatten out the wrinkles and her fingers to straighten twisted bits. “You can help. Get me some water from the pump, and that bucket with a washboard in it.”

Jack obeyed in silence. He had no idea what Sarah wanted to talk to him about, or whether he knew what he wanted to say to her. If he had the right to say anything to her. Whether he could say anything that would come out the way he wanted it to. Whether he could say something that explained anything. Let alone everything. He didn’t want to abandon everybody, he didn’t want to die, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen to him now, he wasn’t sure he could handle one more person yelling at him or being mad or disappointed or sarcastic or resigned.

The rooftop cistern held water warmed by the sun. Jack filled the enamel wash bowl for Sarah and lugged it to the table, the ridged washboard tucked under his arm. He set up a washing station, the bowl next to the board. Sarah drew a bar of soap from her pocket and set about cleaning the lace, sudsing the delicate pieces and rubbing them carefully but firmly against the metal washboard face. She didn’t smile. Her expression was somewhere between annoyance and pain. “Jack,” she said. “Explain.”

“Can you fix that?” Jack asked, not because he was trying to get out of answering but because he hadn’t heard what Sarah had said. He pointed at the mudstained corner of a lace panel. “How bad is it?”

“We’ll see when the washing’s done,” said Sarah, grimly going back to her scrubbing. “The sun will fade the stains as much as the soap.”

Uneasily, Jack turned away from Sarah, toward the ladder leading down off the roof. Perhaps he was free to leave, now that his job was done. He didn’t say anything, but Sarah noticed his eyes on the exit.

“Jack,” she said, in a tone that insisted he stay, “what happened?”

“What do you mean what happened. Didn’t they offer me a deal, and I took it.” These could have been questions, but when Jack said them they weren’t. Nothing was a question. Betrayal was betrayal. Jack didn’t want Sarah to think he was making excuses for himself.

Sarah paused before she spoke. “Why? And don’t say money, only. What else.”

“It was money,” Jack sank to the ground, letting out a sigh as he did it. If Sarah wouldn’t let him leave, he was going to pretend that he wanted to be here. “Only. Nothing else.”

Sarah delicately unfurled the petals of a lace flower and smoothed them flat, using the heel of her hand to press them into shape. “Four years in jail,” she said. “That didn’t count?”

“Yeah, like that ain’t something I faced before and got out of.” Jack found himself jealous of Sarah, of the lace in front of her, stained and tattered as it was. Tangible evidence of her work, her time, her talent. The words Jack put out into the world were the opposite of lace, they were balloons that provided a few hours of amusement at most, then floated into the sky and popped. His stomach hurt, like someone was pulling laces inside of him. “It was money, Sarah. A way out.”

“So, you got paid now that you saved us?” Sarah arched an eyebrow at Jack, then ducked her head back toward her lace. “You were thinking about money when you slammed Murray Delanskey with your head?”

“Well, you giving him a split lip didn’t exactly stop him for that long, did it?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Sarah slammed the heel of her hand particularly hard against the lace spread on the tabletop. She winced, her hand and wrist still sore with the impact of the brick wall she’d accidentally hit after purposefully making impact with Morton Delano’s face.

“Well, you got his name wrong,” Jack said. “The one you hit is Shithead. The little one is Dipshit. It’s important not to offend, you know?

Sarah let out an involuntary giggle, then bit her lower lip. She slid her eyes toward Jack, trying to look forbidding, but her resilience failed. He was smiling at her. She smiled back.

“Their mother worked really hard to choose good names for them,” Jack lay back against the sun-warmed tarpaper roof and draped his forearm over his eyes. “It wasn’t easy for her. You shouldn’t laugh, Sarah.”

“Offending ogres is the least of my worries.” Sarah rolled her eyes, carefully spreading lace over the clothing line so that it would dry without losing its shape. “Not only is Mr. Pulitzer depriving my family of my brothers’ wages, his hired goons destroyed weeks of my own work. The Dooloopies deserve none of my respect, and they’ll receive none of it.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack said. “Fair’s fair.”

Sarah didn’t say anything. The sight of her piecework drying on the line brought heat to her face. Her eyes pricked with tears. To redo weeks of work was no laughing matter, and she would lose her reputation as a reliable seamstress who delivered good product on time. For what? Two assholes acting on behalf of Pulitzer, a man who didn’t care if they lived or died. Why fight those no better off than yourself, when your suffering came from on high? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Fair’s fair – who was Jack kidding? He didn’t even believe that himself.

“In the end we’re all dust,” Jack said. “We’ll get swept up in the same bin. My ashes with Mooley Delousy’s. Pulitzer will be in there, too. You’ll probably outlive us. That’s justice, right?”

“This isn’t over.” Sarah heard herself say the words. She didn’t choose to say them. “Pulitzer’s going to pay for this.”

“Yeah, well, find somebody that wants to hear that and can do something about it.” Jack’s voice was flat. “Anybody. I’ll wait.”

Sarah reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the folded, grease-stained copy of Denton’s article about the rally. “Read this,” she said. “Then tell me no one’s listening.”

Jack sighed and accepted the piece of paper from Sarah. He rolled onto his stomach and spread the piece of paper out on the roof in front of him, just as Sarah had smoothed out the lace. He shaded his eyes with his hand to read the words, then gave Sarah a quizzical look. “What is this, Denton’s article?”

“Just read it, Jack.” Sarah stretched her arms out behind her and tilted her face toward the sun.

Jack rubbed his finger over one of the grease stains. “Were you wrapping up salami in it?”

“You’ll have to talk to Les about that,” Sarah said. “Read the article first.”

“Buncha lies,” Jack muttered.

Sarah set her jaw. “If it was lies, the papers would have printed it, right?”

Jack muttered something so quietly Sarah couldn’t quite catch all of it. “Smartass” was the one word that stood out.

She swatted at Jack’s shoulder. “Shut up and read.”

He frowned. “I’m reading.” And he read.

[jackkellystories]

Someone recently sent me the kindest message anonymously, and I just wanted to say thank you so much! I am really glad you’ve enjoyed this blog (hey, that goes for everybody reading this!) and am very familiar with the rabbit hole of finding an old fic or headcanon posted by a blog that was since deactivated. (In fact, I may have tried to chase the same “letssoakemforcrutchie” post at one point, with no success!)

I’d love the chance to reply and say thank you, if you’d like to message me your tumblr name, but no pressure at all! It was so nice of you to reach out and really brightened my day.

[movienewsies]

I ship jackkellystories and david-jacobs-would

[nothingnothingnothingnothinghere]

Remember when this post happened like two years ago? I’m currently sitting on her couch.

[jackkellystories]

And I am also on the same couch!!!

[bunnaccino]

tfw your otp becomes canon

[jackkellystories]

“Hey, why don’t you sleep on my couch tonight?”

“No, I got a couch of my own.”

[nothingnothingnothingnothinghere]

You don’t even have a fire escape a fire escape. Unless that thing outside your window is one, but I’m pretty sure it’s a railing.

[jackkellystories]

It is a fire escape, but there’s not enough room to stand on it, which is why we are sitting on the couch.

[nothingnothingnothingnothinghere]

She’s expressed worry that people will think this is some kind of strange RP and I’m not actually on her couch. I’m actually on her couch and we will see Les Mis tomorrow. Also. I apologize for doubting her fire escape. It exists.

[jackkellystories]

All of these things are true. And the fire escape is super tiny, so no apologies are needed.

[jackkellystories]

We have fulfilled the prophecy and can go to bed now

[absinthe-terminus]

Remember three years ago, when @david-jacobs-would and I fulfilled the prophecy? GUESS WHAT???

[nothingnothingnothingnothinghere]

WE ARE FULFILLING IT AGAIN.

Realtalk, though, if I got anything good about the days of intense Newsies headcanoning and actively running this blog, my friendship with @jackkellystories aka @absinthe-terminus was the best.

[icouldwritebooks]

This isn’t an active blog any more, but let it be known that @jackkellystories and I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge together last night.

[jackkellystories]

And what a night it was! Always a pleasure fulfilling the prophecy with you, @icouldwritebooks / @former-main-blog-ignore

ALSO, some prophecy background: we lived in the same town at the same time a few years before we met (and we met online, while living on opposite ends of the world). Was it written in the stars that we would meet? ;)

[jackkellystories]

Ao3 Updates

A quick roundup of links to Jack Kelly Stories-related entries on Ao3. (Asterisk denotes new content.) I need to bring over more Jack/David, but good lord, where to start ...

The Best Witnesses* - Racetrack on Spot

Whenever anybody asks me about Spot, two thoughts go through my head. The first one is what I might tell you. There are plenty of stories about that kid, and some of them are even true. And then I ask myself what I’m allowed to say.

Inside the Lodging House: Hard Truths and Annoying Sounds - Lodging House Residents

How do all of you guys at the lodging house get along so well? I have just one roommate and she drives me crazy.

Inside the Lodging House: Kloppman, the Hero We Deserve - Kloppman, Lodging House Residents

If Kloppman hadn’t checked the spelling, I can’t imagine what those signs would have said.

Inside the Lodging House: The Polar Bear Joke - Skittery, Lodging House Residents

Okay, fine. FINE. So there’s a baby polar bear, okay?

The Little Stranger - Jack, Jacobs Family

Sarah Jacobs is taking classes at a settlement house, and needs a baby to complete her course in infant care. Jack helps her borrow one.

Measures of Force - Spot & Alice Roosevelt

I know you’re reading this, Alice, and I don’t care if you’re mad.

The Way the World Goes*

David shook his head. “No, we try again to negotiate with Pulitzer. With all these kids here, he might want to meet with us.”

When a Bear Shows Up in Brooklyn - Spot

You can’t let a little kid face a bear alone. Anybody knows that.

[jackkellystories]

Heatwave: Part 1, The Pier

Note: This will probably be posted in three parts over the coming days. I wanted to post while it is still June 13 for some of you! :) It's also here, on Ao3. Happy reading!

Jack

Nothing important has ever happened on June 13, especially not in 1884, which is why I’m commemorating this non-occasion with a special appearance. You might even call it a guest appearance, even though my name’s above the door, and it seems that I still own the place.

As for where I spend my time when I’m not here, just assume it’s heaven. Or work. The rent for this cloud I live on don’t pay for itself, and I bought my heavenly harp on an installment plan. There was no other choice. Solid gold don’t come cheap.

But sometimes someone asks you a question, and you think about it for years, long after you answered it. And you realize that there’s no time like the present to say a little bit more about the 1896 heat wave, which felt like a good time to visit Brooklyn. Spot, then age twelve, didn’t lose a newsie to the heat. He was prepared for hot days. The Brooklyn Order for the Protection of Newspaper Sellers (what, you think they didn’t have a name?) had a heat protocol, which meant nobody sold between 10am and 4pm, unless they were in the shade. They organized water delivery for kids who didn’t sell near pumps. They ramped up delivery service for people who didn’t want to go outside to buy a paper. They partnered with ice men, so that newspaper customers could sign up for ice delivery if they wanted it.

In the meantime, let me remind you, the official response left something to be desired, until Roosevelt stepped in. So I was in the presence of a folk hero, over in Brooklyn. Also, death was everywhere on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. If I crossed the river, there was less of a chance that I’d know the people who were dying.

But Spot never has just one iron on the fire at a time. In addition to saving his troops from the heatwave, and doing his best to keep his customers alive (there was no self interest in either of those actions, I’m sure) he had another goal in mind. That’s probably why he told me to meet him on the pier at sunset. Somehow, in a city full of people trying to cool off, there was no one else around.

I probably shouldn’t have been scared, but I wasn’t, particularly when Spot showed up on time. He had the afternoon edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in one hand, his slingshot in the other. He didn’t look happy. “Lasker took it,” Spot said. “Pillsbury tied for third.

“Third ain’t nothing, right?” What I don’t know about chess tournaments would fill a whole book, but I do know Lasker is world champion. Coming in third behind the world champion is no reason to trip over your lower lip, even if the guy who came in third, Pillsbury, was sponsored at the tournament by the Brooklyn Chess Club.

Here’s the thing to know about Spot. You think you’ve pinned down his location, and then there’s a quick blur of motion and he’s somewhere else. So in one motion, he’s sitting on the pier next to me, arms folded across his chest like he’s always been staring angrily across the river.

“He had second place clinched,” Spot says. “He played Walbrodt and he choked. Walbrodt’s seventh. That ain’t anything.”

“I get the idea,” I say, because when Spot starts whining about chess or baseball or why the Fulton Street Station should be fully under his control, it’s like listening to one of those mosquitos that loves biting me so much. I am a delicious feast for mosquitoes. It’s probably why I was put on this earth.

“And the Grooms lost,” said Spot. Just because he stopped whining doesn’t mean he’s jumped track to another topic. “To the Giants.”

“That’s got to be really hard on their marriages,” I say. One thing I do like about baseball is that Spot’s favorite team has such a stupid name. They’re called the Bridegrooms, because a couple of years ago, a bunch of them got married in the same year. “Next year you’ll be rooting for the Brooklyn Divorcees.”

“That’s not funny, Jack.” Spot sighs, like that’s not the best joke he’s ever heard in his whole short life. “I wouldn’t be so mad if the Giants hadn’t traded Oyster, but they did trade him, and now he’s living it up in Newark, which is the minor leagues, which means the stadium only appears once every hundred years and it’s full of dragons and the dragons are always breathing fire and half the spectators die and there’s so much screaming, and -”

Okay, so I stopped listening after the part about Newark being the minor leagues, and have not the slightest clue what baseball-related shit Spot is blaring about. “Let me see the paper.”

Spot hands it over and reaches for his slingshot. He tests the band on it, frowns, and pulls two rubber bands from the stack he’s wearing on his wrist like so many grimy bracelets. “And the princess is always in another castle and the magical realm is full of plumbers trying to be heroes and -”

I’m still not listening to him. I’m reading about the Quinn/O’Brien fight, a mess if I ever heard of one. Dick O’Brien came to Brooklyn to fight Scaldy Bill Quinn, and the two were head-to-head at the Athletic Club when the electricity went out and no one could rouse a lazy Brooklyn electrician. They went forth under the gas lamps, and with O’Brien doing his all to best Scaldy Bill, and Scaldy carrying on like a battering ram. Then the cops showed up, in plain clothes, no less, and broke the fight up. “I don’t propose to have any fighting here,” said Sergeant Kenny. A bit of a late announcement, but that’s the bulls for you.

“You’re right, Spot,” I said. “Brooklyn sports is depressing.”

He makes a grunting noise that might be agreement, or might be irritation at an outsider such as myself besmirching the holy name of Brooklyn. He’s braiding the rubber bands together, since a rope is stronger than a single band by itself.

So I decide to go back to what was bothering me before. While I’m sure Spot’s menagerie of Brooklyn Beasts ain’t more thant a shout away, we’re on our lonesome. “Is anybody else coming?” I ask, “or is it just us, all cozy in the heat?”

Spot don’t look at me. “I need to do a thing,” he says, not answering my question, “and I really don’t want to do it. And I thought if you were here, maybe I could.”

That’s an actual quote from Spot, not some blank I filled in while he was moving his mouth and making noises about baseball or chess. I immediately know what it means. All the pieces fall in place and everything makes sense. “You brought me out here to murder me,” I say, putting the paper down and scanning around for my best exit.

I can’t blame Spot. If a human sacrifice is what the sun god demands, of course Spot wants to sacrifice someone who isn’t from his home turf. It’s only fair. Anybody would be doing the same thing. But I’m not waiting around for him to hit me over the head with a club. But I’m not that good at swimming - not good enough to make it from here to Manhattan, anyway. Spot’s a fast runner, but he burns out sooner than I do on account of being a featherweight. Less than a featherweight. So maybe it’s better if I take my chances on a land escape, even though I’ll be running through Spot’s territory.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says, winding the old rubber band from the sling shot and threading to new one in. “Race is on his way.”

“Race is going to kill me?” Unless Race has picked up a magical sword and set or armor somewhere, I feel better about my chances than his.

Spot shakes his head. “No.” And no slingshot requires the amount of maintenance he’s giving his. I’m still expecting this to end with death. “You’re going to kill Race?”

Spot shakes his head again. “No.”

“Is anybody getting killed, or is this thing you’re scared to do something that don’t involve murder?”

“I ain’t scared, all right?”

“Then what is it?”

He looks at me, hard, like he isn’t sure he’s going to say anything. And then he does. And there’s only one thing I can say.

“That sounds pretty brave.”

He’s frowning harder. “Not if I don’t do it.”

Postscript: The paper they discuss is the August 9 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Page 5. This was midway through the 10-day heatwave, which lasted from August 3 - August 13

[jackkellystories]

The Way the World Goes

“Dear me! What have we here?” Racetrack slapped Jack’s arm to get his attention, and pointed to a man with mutton-chop sideburns and a dark suit who’d appeared on the steps of the World building. “Ain’t that Pulitzer’s friend? Old Burnsides?”

I have been meaning to post more JKS entries on Archive of Our Own, but ended up writing something new. It takes place in between this ...

And this.

[jackkellystories]

Mod Note: AO3

Hi everyone - a quick note that I’ve joined Archive of our Own (invited and encouraged by the lovely @icouldwritebooks!) and will be posting some of the stories from this blog there. My profile is: AbsintheTerminus.

If there is any entry on this blog you would like me to add to AO3, please let me know. I started with one of my favorites, in which Sarah borrows a baby for a class at a settlement house. A (very slightly) edited version is on AO3 - The Little Stranger.

[jackkellystories]

I've heard you're good at improving the truth, but what about Crutchy? Or Spot? And in a battle of wits and creativity just between those two, who do you think would win?

Spot: Okay so first of all, the truth has already been improved by the time it hits the papes. It ain’t like a reporter puts their hand on a Bible and swears an oath of honesty before writing up an article for publication. They write what their editors want them to write about, which is what the newspaper publishers want to sell. Publishers want to sell advertising - the higher your circulation, the more people will see the ads for underpants or umbrellas or carpet sweepers. The bigger your audience, the more likely it is that some of your readers will go out and buy the stuff they saw in ads. Crunchy, take it from here.

Crutchy: It’s Crutchy. And thanks.

Spot: I still can’t believe they call you that. Pure cruelty, if you ask me.

Crutchy: I came up with the name myself.

Spot: Take your turn while I think about that. 

Crutchy: By popular demand, here’s my list of the Top Health Products Doctors Don’t Want You to Know About, found only in the New York World. 

David: Why won’t doctors tell you about these products? Do they work?

Spot: Why are you popping up during Crutchy’s turn? Did I miss where you were invited?

David: I’m sure Crutchy doesn’t want to spread misinformation. Were these products tested on anyone?

Crutchy: Doctors don’t want you to know about them, Dave. It’s an honest guarantee.

David: That’s a flimsy guarantee.

Crutchy: A guarantee is a guarantee, Dave. A flimsy one is as good as a strong one. And without further fanfare, here is the list. 

This one is for flavored soap. It cleans you outside and in. If your storekeep don’t have it, you send his name to the monks and they’ll mail you back a free sample for four cents. 

David: They expect you to eat soap?

Spot: It’s flavored, Dave, what do you think?

Crutchy: I think it’s a miracle when soap tastes as good as it smells. I hope they have soap that tastes like peppermint candy. Add it to your shopping list.

For my next product, something for breakfast. 

David: Wait, don’t tell me. It’s soap, right?

Crutchy: Even better. It’s Wheatlet! If your grocer don’t carry it, send his name to the company to be sure you are supplied. 

David: Is there a reason we should trust the head of the food manufacturers association to give an unbiased recommendation?

Spot: He feeds it to his own children. You think he’d try to poison them?

David: His last name is Hazard. I assume he’s no stranger to risk.

Crutchy: Wheatlet. It’s what’s for breakfast. Next up, a way to free yourself of the hideous spectacle of spectacles. I know a guy named Specs who could use this.

David: Is the lass on the left truly disfigured by hideous glasses? How inconvenient to carry little binoculars around. Her hand will get tired, and her eyes will get strained, and she’ll be worse off than she was in the first place.

Crutchy: The illustrated treatise explains the process. Order it for free, Dave. Next up is a painter who can cure your deafness by electrocuting your head.

David: The inventor of this miracle cure could afford only eight typeset letters, and had to handwrite the rest himself.

Spot: Yeah, well, he didn’t have a lot of time. He says so in the ad.

Crutchy: Here’s another guaranteed product. Beef tea from the Liebig company.

David: Lie Big?

Crutchy: Guaranteed to help the weak and ailing, Dave. That’s no lie. That’s a big truth. Just like this footwear company! If you want your toes to be just as happy as these ones, you’ll cover your feet with their products.

David: That’s not terrifying at all.

Spot: Would you rather they were crying?

Crutchy: That’s the way to look at it Spot. And looking at things in the dark is easier with this handheld torch. It’s called an electric flashlight.

Spot: That’s a thing of beauty. I’m adding it to my shopping list right now.

David: How is that a medical product doctors don’t want you to know about?

Crutchy: I get commission for every flashlight sold. It’s good for my health. 

[icouldwritebooks]

I’m watching “The Bonding”, a season three episode of Star Trek the Next Generation, and this familiar face popped up:

I checked on IMDB to verify, and yep. It’s Spot Conlon in space.

[jackkellystories]

What, you were surprised Spot spent time in space? Ever spaceship needs a three-foot tall, twelve-year-old mascot who spends his days screaming about Brooklyn. It’s the people who don’t have a Spot Conlon of their own that miss out. 

And here’s another thing I got to tell you. If you’re lost in outer space - outer space being anywhere outside of Manhattan, including the Refuge - Spot Conlon’s one guy you won’t regret having on your side. Notice how the strike picked up steam after he and the Brooklyn boys joined up. That wasn’t an accident. That was the combined sweat and grit of the Brooklyn newsies, who came to join with us despite luxuries of their own, like the slate gray surface of the East River they love to swim in so much. 

Spot has yet to introduce me to an alien, but my impression of Spot is that he likes to keep the various spheres of his life separate: Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Refuge, a Galaxy far, far away. I’m holding out hope that I get the chance to learn Klingon some day.

Until then, let’s dwell for a moment on a version of Spot who can mentally manufacture anything he wants - and settles on an oversized, pampered cat. That, dear readers who are somehow still following me despite a long absence, is a clear indication that you share Mr. Conlon’s personality, which follows no rational rules. You, too, follow no rational rules, as you would otherwise have unfollowed however many months ago when I stopped updating regularly. The answer is clear: your inventive minds cannot be bound by logic. Perhaps you are all cats.

I would love it if you were all cats, or dogs, or elephants, or frogs, or perhaps a vast menagerie comprised of every imaginable or unimaginable creature. I myself am a cowboy who finds myself inexplicably fond of a space alien from Brooklyn. Just call us Woody and Buzz.

[nothingnothingnothingnothinghere]

“However many months ago”?

Jack, it’s been years.

[jackkellystories]

And every day without me feels like a decade, right Dave?