Post by Pilot on Jul 20, 2010 9:22:07 GMT -5
Standing in the ashes of what was once a beautiful thing, Pilot was speechless. There was the crunch, crunch of ash and charred wood underneath her feet, and her eyes took a full circle around the room. Little strips of walls remained, and one fell and crumpled on the ground before her eyes. She'd been to Irving Hall before- many times. It was always a fun place to be- a nice place, a happy place. Now...it wasn't even a place. Just a graveyard of ash and wood.
"This is making the headlines", Pilot said with shock and ambition. Hundreds of other Reporters around the city were going to try and cover this- too bad for them. She was determined to get her headline story in the New York World. Adjusting her fedora slightly, she pulled out her steno pad and ballpoint pen.
Quickly, she jotted down what she saw, trying to add as much description as she could. Twisting the story slightly, she re-read her work, putting her pen behind her ear.
Its a Graveyard in the middle of Manhattan. The music is gone, the memories stored away. Charred shards of wood, ash and singed fabric lay on the ground- all in shambles. Fire ate up this once marvelous place, devouring everything in its path- including those who once walked among us. Its Irving Hall.
Biting her lip, she thought, Not dramatic enough. This was the newspaper- people thirsted for information. You had to stretch the truth a bit, making everything seem worse then it was. People pay for a good story. The public's hungry, darling, she thought, Give them a feast. Around the area, cops walked around, kicking around miscellaneous pieces of rubble. They weren't here to write the story- just to protect the evidence. The real detectives of the crime, Pilot knew, were the leaders of the Newsie Burrows.
"This is making the headlines", Pilot said with shock and ambition. Hundreds of other Reporters around the city were going to try and cover this- too bad for them. She was determined to get her headline story in the New York World. Adjusting her fedora slightly, she pulled out her steno pad and ballpoint pen.
Quickly, she jotted down what she saw, trying to add as much description as she could. Twisting the story slightly, she re-read her work, putting her pen behind her ear.
Its a Graveyard in the middle of Manhattan. The music is gone, the memories stored away. Charred shards of wood, ash and singed fabric lay on the ground- all in shambles. Fire ate up this once marvelous place, devouring everything in its path- including those who once walked among us. Its Irving Hall.
Biting her lip, she thought, Not dramatic enough. This was the newspaper- people thirsted for information. You had to stretch the truth a bit, making everything seem worse then it was. People pay for a good story. The public's hungry, darling, she thought, Give them a feast. Around the area, cops walked around, kicking around miscellaneous pieces of rubble. They weren't here to write the story- just to protect the evidence. The real detectives of the crime, Pilot knew, were the leaders of the Newsie Burrows.
