Young Writers Society

This story contains some adult language 13 and up I'll say.

First off, I think I should explain a few things to the reader. The world isn't the place you think it is, not completely. I know you've heard that before in a few movies and books, but this ain't The Matrix, and it ain't the X-Files. There's a big change coming in this world and I can feel it. I don't know if you know this or not, but the city has a spirit. From every person who walks the streets to every bird in Central Park to smog that chokes the air. I feel the spirit of the city. Its not like a fuckin' ghost, or kami. Its just the feel of a city, you know? Heh. Anytime you get over a million human minds in a few hundred square miles some very interesting energy. My name is Jules, most people call me a gypsy, or a palm reader, but I prefer street shaman.

Oh, don't give me that all knowing look. First off, you're right. Most of it is bullshit. I tell people what they want to hear about their futures and I make a little money off of it. I try to be vague and ambiguous. Not because I can't read them, but because people don't really want to know their future. They just want to hear that everything is going to be groovy for them and I get to eat that night. It's a fuckin' living, right?

So...a gyspy, eh?
Well, I'm not directly talking about the cursing, but the way she talks sounds more like a mafia...gypsies are more soft and magical. Anyways. if you change that, this is how I think the story should continue on...

I think the gypsy should end up giving out some information which ofcourse is false to someone whom's palms she's read and it ends up getting them into trouble...and eventually ends up getting herself into trouble.
Yes, I know that's terribly lame but all I could think of. *Shrugs* This here us a tricky one...

This story contains some adult language 13 and up I'll say.

First off, I think I should explain a few things to the reader. The world isn't the place you think it is, not completely. I know you've heard that before in a few movies and books, but this ain't The Matrix, and it ain't the X-Files. There's a big change coming in this world and I can feel it. I don't know if you know this or not, but the city has a spirit. From every person who walks the streets to every bird in Central Park to smog that chokes the air. I feel the spirit of the city. Its not like a fuckin' ghost, or kami. Its just the feel of a city, you know? Heh. Anytime you get over a million human minds in a few hundred square miles some very interesting energy. My name is Jules, most people call me a gypsy, or a palm reader, but I prefer street shaman.

Oh, don't give me that all knowing look. First off, you're right. Most of it is bullshit. I tell people what they want to hear about their futures and I make a little money off of it. I try to be vague and ambiguous. Not because I can't read them, but because people don't really want to know their future. They just want to hear that everything is going to be groovy for them and I get to eat that night. It's a fuckin' living, right?

Yeah, it's a fuckin' living all right, and I do alright for myself of it. It doesn't matter every night, when I manage to drag myself back to the shithole, the dump that I've somehow succeeded in christening as my home, that it comes back. It's funny really, in sense I mean. When reality bites in, when they realise the lies I've told them aren't going to change the fate of their ‘poor poor’ dad in hospital. Hah, the looks on their faces... They're too self-centred and naive to realise that their fuckin' sob stories aren't going to help them win a happy sugar coated prize, they're too much of dim-wits and fuck-ups to realise working 'hard' doesn't earn them any dandy shinning golden ticket to this life and the next. Because, you see, if I told them what they were really heading for, what was really lurking in the dark alleyways they dare not to journey through, where all this 'new age' fancy crap was actually heading to, then they'd... Oh but wait, I forgot, I'm just the gypsy and I tell the bastards what they want to hear.
--------------------

Hah, sorry I'm tried. But yarr I like the beginning! Heh I like the tone too, you can really see the character's personality blending through the words. Puuuuuuuurrfect!

Besides, no one cares about the truth anymore. These days the truth itself is a lie. We listen to the 'truth' everyday, spurting like a broken water from a broken hose out of the mouths of politicians and the media. People buy thier shit, they buy it because if they didn't they'd probably be scared out of thier wits. Whatever wits they've got left after sitting in thier apartments on thrift store couches, eating tv-dinners and watching 'Jerry Springer.' They'd be scared because they couldn't handle reality, they couldn't handle the fact that they could die...that they will die. That they alreay are dead.

Sorry, there, seemed to get off topic for a bit, but that shit fucking annoys me.

Changes. Yup. You know, no one wants to hear that the world is going to change because by the time I start telling them how it's going to change (if I even have a clue), they've imagined fifteen-hundred different scenarios that either end in the world going ka-pow or someone saving us all. Usually the person imagining these crazy things is the one that saves the world. I can tell which ones these are by that small twitch to their lips. Going, "Wouldn't that be cool? I'll get my name down forever." You know, I think the only reason why people deal with the shit they deal with is so that one day everyone will know their name. And what else? You're never going to be that person that gets that name down in history forever and ever and ever, no matter how hard they try. The only one that came close to that was that dude Jesus Christ, and only 'cause he was fucking loony. But no one likes to hear that, of course. No one likes to hear the truth. No one likes change. Because change and truth are those fucking red and blue pills, and they both screw you seven ways to Sunday.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wow, I like this guy. He's fun to talk to.

I could say it might be nice to see it thier way for once, to live in thier little dream worlds, going about my buisiness because one day everything was gonna work for me. But it's too late for me there, I've seen my future, and there wasn't nothin in it but more of what I've got now. And in the end? No kabang for me, no recognition, no one to pass on my story besides maybe that fuckin' drunk Mr. Hartwood, who comes to me after every bottle he's downed and passed, asking me if it was gonna change him, if it was gonna kill him even. What do I look like, some sort of fuckin' priest? So I just tell him he's fine and that he can go home to that slut he married and live happily ever after. 'His savior,' he calls me. yeah, some savior. I wonder who'll take my place when he finds out he's got some sort of cancer in his liver. They'll give it a fancy name and tell him there's a cure. Maybe they'll give him a little white bottle and tell him to swollow the shit-worthy little pills inside. But listen to me, getting off topic again...