REMEMBER THIS IS THE SECOND PART OF THE STORY START AT THE FIRST POST ON THIS PAGE AT THE BOTTOM AND MOVE UP TO READ THE STORY PLEASE! I didnt give much credence to the dream, or at least that is what I was telling myself. Sure, it was one of the best and strangest dreams I had dreamt in years and I was certainly intrigued by the whole thing but I wasnt rushing out to buy a book to look up every meaning of every nuance. I was a bit surprised at its clarity and the way it felt in my memory like a real event and not just a bit of over zealous imagination of a tired or ill body and mind. How did Ebenezer Scrooge Put it? An undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. Theres more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are! Yes, that is what it was, just a long night and a pleasantly strange dream and as real as it felt, this is not Dickens and I am not Ebenezer Scrooge and nothing more would come of it except for maybe a bit of new ink. Truth was, whether I gave much credence to the dream or not, that I couldnt get the design of the wings out of my mind. As an artist I have found many ways over the years to pull images, ideas and inspiration out of places that most people wouldnt even bother looking. Little pieces of scrap and tiny trinkets I find in my travels along the way have always been largely my part and parcel. Sometimes a fallen news print scrap will set me off and become the centerpiece for a new painting, or a new pair of sneakers become the inspiration for a groundbreaking new color scheme I hadnt previously exploited. The imagery of the shooting star wings was like that, a trinket I picked up in a dream and I was determined to use the image in some way. What better way than to have them tattooed in black right where the brands had been in my dream? Something about it just seemed right. The timing couldnt have been more perfect I was in my studio sketching out the wings when the phone rang. Turned out it was my old friend Ryan. Talk about a Shaman, Ryan was just about as close to a Shaman as a pasty white, Wonder bread guy from small town New England could be! The guy sucked up wisdom and knowledge like a catfish stuck to the glass. Christ, the guy was a regular electrolux when it came to matters of the mind. He was also a tattoo Artist, probably one of the greatest I have ever known and Trust me, I have known plenty. Ryan had just gotten back and wanted to check in, maybe jam a little and most of all, show off some of the new tattoos he had acquired in his year away. A year to the day buddy. he said into the receiver, you could hear the easy going joy in his voice. A year to the freakin day and now I am back and I am dying to see some of the new paintings youve been working on and give you a glimpse of the new ink, I got twelve new tats this year. Ryan had embarked a year before on what he had called an apprenticeship to the world. The plan was to bumb around the world with his portable tattoo set-up, then meet and spend time with as many tattoo Artists as possible, learning new methods and techniques from the masters along the way. From the sound of things his trip had gone well and I was excited to hear all about his wayward adventures. I wanted to finish the sketch of my wings before I stopped over, so I told him to get his tools ready and I would be over in a couple of hours. By the way, I said before hanging up the phone, Remind me to tell you about the dream I had last night. Couldnt help but giggle a bit at that one,...as if I was gonna forget that one anytime soon, especially if I tattooed the wings on. That was six years ago, and I did get the tattoos. It was a great night with an old and dear friend. We spent the time trading stories of our adventures over the past year while he applied my ink, then spent the majority of the night eating junk food, smoking weed and jamming, just like old times. My tales were of course the typical boring shit that one would get up too in the middle of East Nowhere New Hampshire and paled in comparison to Ryans tales of exotic locals and late nights learning master tat skills from so many varied cultural Artists. I was envious, he had lived the dream and furthered his skills in one of the most exciting ways imaginable and I had hung around Dover trying to make cheesy little films with my friends and painted my heart out. Not that I felt that any of that was wasted time. I had a pretty good life and wasnt complaining, besides, I have never been the kind of guy to begrudge someone of their life experiences. I was envious, yes, but not jealous, Quite proud of him actually. Who could have ever guessed that in just six short years, Ryan would be missing and I will have had several adventures that would have Ryans practically wilting in comparison. Last any one had heard from Ryan, he was on his way to Machu Picchu in search of and ancient text that is supposed to lie hidden in the ruins of this once great royal retreat. It is said that one chamber was dedicated to the work of tattooing the tribesmen and women and that the act of tattooing was considered sacred. This room has never been found, but it is said that in this room was kept a great flash book explaining esoteric and complex tattooing rituals and their significance, as well as images of all the great and ancient images that were sacred to their culture. Images of tattoos that are rumored to have been around at the beginning of our universe and that hold what I could only imagine to be, scary amounts of power. He had been seen by witnesses at a tat-shop in Cusco, Peru the day before he was going to ascend to the ruins. That was the last, after that the trail goes cold. Peruvian officials have been looking for him for three years, and are just as baffled now as they were on day one. I have actually wondered quite a bit lately if Ryans disappearance wasnt somehow wrapped up in all this shit I am embroiled in now. Bringing You Up To Speed I am starting to wonder if Steve was wrong. Starting to think that maybe I dont have what it takes. It is only day four and already I am several thousand words behind. It really doesnt seem that hard at all in the beginning, it is only one thousand six hundred an sixty six words a day, it comes out to less than three pages a day. the consistency is the catch. Even though it seems like such a small amount, it has to be written continually every day for all thirty days. If you get just a couple hundred words behind one day and it could start you down a slippery slope, and if circumstances force you away from it for a day or two, catching up becomes more and more difficult and could ultimately lead to failure. I have failed this challenge in past years, but this year things are different, this year way to much depends what I write, and more importantly, how I end the story. Only problem is, the ending has to be finished before midnight on November thirtieth and although I know how most of this story plays out, I dont know how quickly I will be able to find the words to describe it all just right, and I have no idea how to end this mess and give it all the positive spin it needs to save us all. Steve told me the other day that I should just get bored and blow up the whole town. It is a bit of a private joke between him and me, but considering the situation, I told him I didnt find it very funny. It is so damn difficult, everyone is posturing me to be some kind of savior and everything, but I dont have any power, all I have are these two stupid wing tattoos and a vivid imagination and most days that wont even get you a dime on Main Street. Anyway, I havent failed yet, so I may as well fill you in on all that has been going on and why getting this thing done and getting it right is so important. I gather that by now you have decided that I am just some rambling nut case so I suppose it could only benefit me to give you all the facts and let you decide for yourself. Life got pretty much uneventful after that night with Ryan. Sure, lots of things happened to me over the following couple of years, but not allot I would call out of the ordinary. I spent about three years living in my home town in a small cabin studio and spent most my time throwing about paint with wild abandon. I also had several job jobs throughout the years, dated a little bit from time to time and sat around in coffee shops reading books upon books, upon books! So like I said, things had been pretty mainstream, and definitely not even near as freaky as shit had been getting lately...ever since Steve had come into the picture. Around three years back, my everyday, run of the mill life ended up taking a pleasantly unexpected turn toward a much happier, more stable and less solitudinous way of life. What, you ask was the catalyst for this great and drastic change in my otherwise bohemian existence? Amanda Bacon! Probably one of the most mind-numbingly frustrating people I have ever met. She was an old high school crush of mine who sat behind me in class every year due to alphabetical seating. She was the girl who told me to shut up just about every time I turned around to flirt with her, she was the girl who always did her best to be just leaving every time I showed up somewhere. She was the girl who drove me wild, and either she didnt know it or she didnt care. Turns out, she did care. She cared, and she carried that feeling deep inside her for over twenty years. She later told me that she had thought of me, and where I was, often throughout the years. Come to find out, we had actually lived within just a few blocks from each other several times during those many years. We got together after several conversations about an upcoming high school reunion and our relationship grew from there. I will tell you know, that woman is the best thing that has ever happened to me aside from my own birth, the birth of my Son and the day my step daughters came into my life with her. Two years after getting together we were married and I havent looked back since. If anything, they are the reasons I am doing this,...the main reason I WILL do this..I HAVE to do this....I hope I can find my wings, I hope my dreams prove prophetic. King Country (Where reality is thin) I suppose I would have to say that it was due to Amanda that I wound up in what I like to call King country. Lovell Maine to be exact. Home to the King and a place where strange and unusual things happen all the time. Take for instance the case of Nigel Collins an old farmer Who had gone missing after leaving the house on a warm summer day back in 1964. When his wife, Mildred, was interviewed by the police she had told them it was an ordinary morning in every aspect. Nigel was in very good spirits she had mentioned as she ushered the two officers into chairs at the kitchen table. He was up by first dawn as usual, had a hearty breakfast and was heading out to the barn before I even had the dishes started. Mildred Collins had obviously been beside herself with genuine worry and nervously wrung her hands as they spoke. After that, I dont typically see him much until around lunch time. I mean, I may see a glimpse of him or two from the kitchen window as I am doing my chores. He always catches my eye and gives me a wave. This last statement proved too much and sent Mrs. Collins into tears and sobs...I just dont know what I will do without him! she cried. Nigel was gone, just up and vanished and it would be a very long time before anyone had any clues as to what had happened to him on that fateful day. Even then the explanation given would be both baffling and ludicrous at best. At the time the police had inquired around and looked for him for a couple of weeks, but deep down inside, everyone in town knew he was just a man who got tired of his wife and got tired of farming and took off to find the bright lights of the city just like his children had done before him. Lovell Maine was no place for a man who still had a good portion of his life set on living. It was a long life for Mildred after that, even though her fully grown children would often urge her to find another man to keep her company, she never did. Everyday after breakfast she would do her chores, and everyday while doing her chores, she would keep a special eye out towards the kitchen window. Never to the point of distraction but often enough to be considered determined. Every time she would look, she would hope, she would hope to see her man, and he would catch her eye and he would wave. Every time her wish went unanswered Mildred would break, just a little more. November third, two thousand and four, while Mildred Collins is withering away in nearby SunBridge Nursing Facility, a man appearing to be in his late forties in work cloths from a slightly different time bolts into Rosies Lovell Village Store, picks up a copy of The Portland Press, scans the front for a date and passes out. The very same paper would later report that when the man regained consciousness he claimed to be the long lost Nigel Collins and told everyone who would listen a fantastic tale of a rip he had seen in the fabric of the world one day about forty years before. The man told how he had just gone out to milk and feed the gosh darned cows and maybe check for an egg or two. I hadnt gotten near halfway to the barn when the air went stale. It was like someone sucked all of the life right out of it. Everything got suddenly dry and I was left with a strange coppery taste in my mouth. Nigel then spoke of seeing a rift, almost as if the world were painted onto canvas and someone had slashed a rip into the painting. The article mentions that he had felt a strong pull towards the rip as if he were made of metal and the area were a high powered magnet. Next thing he knew he was through the rift and walking along a lengthy baby blue corridor. there were doors all along on either side of me, but I was not drawn to any one of them. he told the small crowd at Rosies who had stopped to listen. I was only drawn forward and I walked in that direction for what seemed like hours, weeks, maybe even months or years. Time had become a slippery thing and all Nigel Collins could say for sure was that he had spent some time walking, before at last, coming to a door at the other end of the corridor. Nigel had come through on the very spot he had disappeared, only he had come through forty years later. Looking in front of him he saw a structure that was clearly his barn, but in no where near the condition he had left it in. The roof was sagging, the paint job was faded and flaking and the shutters where barely hanging, clearly the building had been neglected for a very long time. Turning around to face the house, Nigel saw that it had succumbed to a similar fate. He quietly put his head in his hands, lowered his knees to the ground. He began to weep and tremble. It was a long walk down Rural Route Five for Nigel Collins, every step he took was full of contrast and contradictions. One one hand, everything was oddly familiar, not much had changed in rural, small town Maine, as far as the land and old houses were concerned, but on the other hand, every step was wrought with something new and unfamiliar. He knew the name Coca Cola of course and instantly recognized its familiar styling, but could not remember it ever being labeled as just Coke and he was sure he had never seen it served in a can like the one he had seen on the side of the road, for that matter, he couldnt recall ever seeing pop in cans, only in bottles and fountains. Just the same, Nigel new about automobiles, was even the proud owner of a beautiful metallic blue Plymouth Valiant, (One hell of a good car.) but had never seen any of the makes or models that passed him. The acting was brilliant and definitely well researched, but of course, Mainers are a hard bunch to pull one over on, so after politely listening to his story, the majority of patrons at Rosies simply dismissed him out of hand. You could see it in their faces as they shuffled their feet and awkwardly pondered ways to politely wander off without seeming unneighborly. The way Steve told it, it wasnt as much the patrons didnt believe Nigel, it was more like they couldnt believe him. Like it might shatter their world. These were simple people who lived simple lives and did simple things. The last thing they needed was some yahoo to come running in and totally destroy their delusions of how things are supposed to be. People dont just disappear in the sixties and reappear forty years later just as young as the day they went missing. So it had to be a scam,...end of story,...right? But it wasnt the end of story, because Steve was there and Steve most definitely was not the kind of guy one would describe as the majority. No,...Steve was definitely a minority, a very rare bird indeed. Lets suffice it to say that Steve is a frequent flyer on Bizzaro Airlines and this kind of stuff crosses his path quite a bit more than once in a blue moon. Not to mention that he is also one hell of a stand up guy who would lend a hand regardless of how he felt about the story as well as a very astute and accurate judge of human behavior. it is all in the eyes he said to me one night, not long after we met. sounds cliche as shit, and as a writer it busts my balls to have to be cliche, but the door to a mans soul is in his eyes. I didnt know Steve back then, but I can picture him looking into Nigels eyes and seeing his soul, and I can see him doing what he could to help. It is just the kind of guy that Steve is. Well, Steve had told me that he other reason he had helped the man was that he knew the story, and he knew it rather well. He had actually interviewed Mildred up at SunBridge a few years prior for a book he planned to write and figured he could put a quick end to the mystery with just a short drive over the border to North Conway. As for the reunion and the answer to the mystery, Mr. King could not have written a better ending himself. Recognition was immediate as Nigel entered Mildreds room. Instantly, and only for a moment, she was in her forties again, Smiling while sweeping the kitchen floor or wiping down the dishes, she imagined herself home once again and she lifted her hand, and she waved. A single tear (of course, isnt it always just one?) ran down Nigels cheek as he stood in the doorway and sheepishly waved back. The next moment she was sitting up in her bed and he was holding her close. I would tell you Ive missed you he whispered into her ear, but I feel as though weve have only been apart a couple of hours. I love you Mildred! Taking his hand, Mrs. Collins gazed up, one last time into her dear husbands hazel eyes and smiled. I waited for you every day. she said, in a quiet but determined voice. I never gave up hope. I never listened to the shit rumors that went around and I always new you would come back to me Nigel Collins....I love you Nigel. Having said her peace, Mildred Ruth Collins shut her eyes, squeezed her loving husbands hand and quietly passed from this world to the next. As for Nigel Collins, He left SunBridge that day, shook Steves hand and thanked him for the ride, then proceeded to disappear, never to be seen again.
Posted on: Wed, 06 Nov 2013 23:55:10 +0000
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