There are those in life that won’t accept you, but there are many you’ll meet that will happily be by your side.
As some of you may know I’ve been publishing things on Wattpad since yesterday and I’ve already put up three stories.
One is Book 1 of the Prophecy Six Series. The second is the unedited version for Book 2 of the Prophecy Six Series. The third is a book I’ve been hemming and hawing about the last couple months on what to do with it. Since I don’t want to use the real covers for my Wattpad account I’ve made my own from photos I’ve taken over the years. I decided I would share them with you.
If you wish to explore any of these stories further CLICK HERE or on the cover that interests you!
Before I get to the story part of this I just want to explain to you what I’m looking for help wise. I’ve been working on a second series and I’m getting to the point of flushing out the main issues. I’m wanting to get peoples opinions on the idea and since I now have a Wattpad I thought it would be great to share it on My Works page.
With that said, I have no flippin’ idea what to put it under. I’ve been thinking about this and I’m starting to drive myself a little crazy… okay a little more crazy… than usual. I have no idea what to classify this story as.
Jay is about a freelance genie in the modern world. They partner up with a detective to catch a serial-killer focuses on killing Wishers – the main food source for Genie. Jay needs to find this killer and quick before the humans discover that there are more than just Genies going bump in the night.
Would that make it a murder mystery? Would it be fantasy because it has magical creatures in it… or would I put it under Paranormal since it’s about something not natural… you could even say it’s supernatural:
Anywho, I will posted the first chapter below and you can make your suggestions since I’m so lost as to where to put this. XD
I stared into my coffee.
The tar tasting liquid rippled to the same beat my foot tapped against the center leg of the table while my iPod blasted upbeat techno into the cheap dollarstore buds that rested in my ears. After all these years living on this rock nothing compared to the buzz of energy that radiated from hearing a favorite jam shuffle onto my playlist.
Okay, maybe there were two things…
Across from my table at the small cafe on Augusta Ave, right off Queens, a young man sat hunched over tapping away on his cellular contraption. Never had much interest in getting one of those devices – never saw the point. I understood the benefits sure, but I didn’t have enough friends or family to justify the outrageous amount of mullah needed to have one of those things.
It wasn’t his obsessed typing that caught my attention, though.
In a super megatropolis like Toronto, watching the crowds of humans sucked into their 300 dollar mini-computer was a common sight. It was how he was typing. Fingers jabbing in a panicked fray, eyes wide, and mouth open enough to catch the stray fly if he was unlucky. Usually screen junkies typed quick but held the same droned out apathetic expression. His panic, fear, anger, and sadness were flowing out of him like your insides after Chipotle. I could have ignored him. I had done that a million times or more to others in a similar state, but it was what he was typing that intrigued me.
While humans searched for answers in words written on a tiny glass screen I found my answers in their body language. He was too busy to notice the young waitress deliver his latte, not because he had to get to the next level of Candy Crush but for another reason entirely.
The wincing of his brows, the sniffling of his nose… the slight glistening of tears that he held inside as to not make a scene in public were what I saw. The biting of his tongue, the frustrated pulling of his hair and the panicked look around the cafe before forcing himself to take a sip of the latte to try and calm himself – were all I needed to know.
I knew what the kid was going through. I had seen the same painful expression on human faces before. Although the screaming thoughts from inside his head also helped; there was no need to listen to the details.
Mom. Sick. Hospital. Not much time.
Humans thrived on connections. The whole reasons social media exploded the way it did was for humans desire to feel connected to something bigger then themselves. Before that it was religions and before that tribes. They depended on one another and strived to impress each other. That’s something we never cared for. We didn’t need each other… but it fracking sucked how much we needed these meat suits.
Even with the dependency on humans we were still independent beings. Some of us stuck in crappy jobs, while others – like myself – had the luck to go out on their own. A freelancer, some could say.
That’s why I was sitting in this grated garden chair on the uneven patio lined by a looped metal fence. This was why I was drinking this bitter tar that I honestly didn’t need to drink. This boy was my meal ticket and that’s why I listened to him.
He was like a broken recorded with his thoughts, and although I felt a twinge in my empty chest regarding his feelings about his mom, there were some rules a freelancer like myself needed to follow.
Accident. Life support. Oh God!
The big bearded guy in the sky had nothing to do with it. He gave humans freewill. With that freewill gave the big guy some overdue time off. Of course that’s my own assumption. Never met the being humans called God, Allah… whatever. I didn’t follow their mythology… heck I didn’t follow anything really.
What can I do? How can I help her?
“Come on, kid,” I grumbled into my coffee before taking a sip. My electric blue bang fell in front of my face before I combed it back with one hand while the other set the chipped mug onto the table. My black fingernails tapped on the sides of the mug, contrasting against the white porcelain.
He only had to say one word.
One word all humans said constantly like it was some kind of greedy prayer.
I looked through the metal grated table at my rolled down combats. They were practical enough with the amount of walking my job required and with this no-shits-given, free-style appearance I had going with my half shaved head and thick framed ‘hipster’ glasses, no one really paid much attention to me. I liked the glasses ‘cause they reminded me of the pair I busted in the 80s, not ‘cause they were hipster. Whatever the hell a hipster was anyway?
I sat up in my chair, leaning on my elbows along the edge of the unbalanced metal table. From the years of experience the word ‘I’ usually had the word I needed to complete this screen junkie’s request.
Come on! I wanted to scream, grinding my teeth in anticipation.
I wish her to be okay. I want her to be okay…
I stood after hearing the magic word, taking a small glass bottle out of the pocket of my sweatshirt as I approached him. I rested my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t notice me and didn’t see me. I was a shadow standing behind him. With knowing that I leaned down close, moving aside his brunette hair to whisper: “You got your wish.”
He didn’t turn around as I gave him a pat on the shoulder. I glanced to his ear, seeing a pale white smoke begin to leak from the cannel onto his shoulder. Wisher essence. Ten times harder than crack and the staple of my diet.
With a pop of the cork I placed the bottle by his ear, allowing the white liquid to fill the bottle. He didn’t react. He just reached to take another sip of his latte before his phone rang.
Slipping the bottle into my pocket, I went through the opening in the metal fence and into the busy morning rush. There came a clattering noise when his chair flew back hitting the pavement when he stood abruptly after hearing the news. I stopped by a newspaper dispenser to admire my work.
Awake? Pull-through? Live? She’ll live! His thoughts flooded my mind. I smirked, knowing all too well what I had done.