Monday, August 29, 2016

#1 - Deep dreams - (In the apartment above the tattoo shop called Mystic Tattoos)

Max’s day started with a jolt.  He sat upright in his bed and looked around.  His dream, for the most part, was pleasant.  He could feel the wind in his hair, eyebrows and ears as he flew down the highway on the Harley. He could feel the vibration of the motorcycle and the coolness of the air.  Then as quickly as the pleasant feeling came, it went.  Somehow the car cut in front of the bike and down it went. The pain was sudden, brutal and then darkness. That’s when he bolted upright in the bed. 

The rain was still droning against the window.  A bit of thunder rolled around in the distance. 

He had inked so many skull and crossbones on customers in the past few years that he couldn’t exactly remember who wore that one.  Well, it didn’t matter, now.  Whoever was the owner of the art, is now deceased. Max was glad that whoever it was didn’t have to suffer much. 

“You have a gift, Maxwell,” his mother always told him. “One day you will discover its power.” Then she would pause, look deeply into his eyes, and say, “I do hope you will use it wisely and for good.”

Max laid back down on his bed and listened to the rain on the roof.  

It was in high school that he discovered what he drew would be a part of him wherever it went.  

He drew happy flowers on his girlfriend’s notebook and from time to time when he would doze off in class, he could hear the teacher in her classroom drone on about math, or bio, or history. Strangely, he never felt strange that he had this ability.  He felt it was a natural as breathing.

As he went through high school he learned that this ability was both a blessing and a curse. He would secretly slip small sketches in various places just to see what would happen.  Sometimes he was amused, other times he was disgusted, and occasionally, he’d wish he’d never left one there.

This particular morning, he felt sad for the guy on the motorcycle.   Death comes so often in his dreams now.  He rolled over and tried to sleep but got up instead.  The window next to the sink was open and he could smell the rain.

As he poured the milk over his cereal, he looked around the airy one room apartment he had slowly and painfully renovated.  Only the rain was his company. 

His father was a straight-up con man and was killed for a long con gone bad. And his mother was seer.  She had a small shop on the first floor.  She would occasionally speak to the dead upon request, sometimes tell someone their future, but mostly she sold herbs, crystals, soaps and salts. She only practiced her “truth arts” as she called them, when they needed extra cash.

As he descended down the stairs to start his day, to patiently wait for his first customer, he wondered what world he would soon join.