Hello to whoever's reading this. Apparently people need to hear the truth, whatever that means. As if what I say about something I experienced will have any impact on someone. I'm only writing this because I have to. Grace says it's good for me to at least pretend to talk to people (I think the real reason she wants me to do this is so I can set the record straight about George's fantasies a few years back), and Rico is all stuck up now and thinks this can help other Talented as a sort-of guide book/inspiration for others who are out on their own. Whatever the reason, I'm writing this memoir. You Digests stay out. I know who you are. I know what you want. I don't have much, but what I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you disappear now, that will be the end of it - I will not look for you, I will not pursue you... but if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you... and I will kill you.
Man, I've always wanted to say that. It's true though. My name is Paul McGregor, and this is my story.
CHAPTER 1
Sirrus Clemens, a fox news reporter, was just reviewing his newest announcement. (Ok, no this isn't how it first started and I didn't find out about this until years after it happened, but I figured this might make a neat little intro.) Clemens smiled, Nemo had done it again. He read his script in front of the rolling camera. "Yet another spectacular photograph has been produced from the most famous anonymous photographer, Nemo. 'picture of fly on an airborne piece of cotton, appears on top right.' This world renowned photographer has produced hundreds of photographs to various collections around the globe yet he is still the best kept secret in ages. With his latest photo everyone is wondering how he does it," As he read his script, Sirrus Clemens too wondered at the microscopic detail of the photo and how Nemo had truly done it.
Halfway across the country in Nunn, Colorado, I was in the post office. I had just delivered my latest picture to a photography museum in New York City. I was sure this one would make the news. They almost always did. My pictures were the talk of the upper class of the world. Every millionare in the country wanted my photos. If I wanted, I could make a fortune off of the hundreds of eye-popping photographs I had taken. I was Nemo. I thought the name appropriate. Nemo means No one. (So who was Merlin really looking for in Finding Nemo?) I am no one from nowhere doing nothing, yet I dictate the latest artistic trends among the rich and famous. I took my small camera out of my pocket and looked at it. It was a piece of junk. Neon yellow, two settings, barely digital, and not even a fraction as waterproof as the box it came in claimed. I desperately wanted a new one; not a camera that had been used by every other person in my family. Although everyone in my family had used this camera, only I had taken any good photos with it and the few people I knew wondered how too. I had only shown my father a few of the photos I had taken, and the ones I showed them were my throwaway pictures that were not good enough for the museums. I was sixteen. Had dark hair that was just slightly past barber time, and was tall, almost 6'6. People said it was because when I was little I was picked up by an eagle and father grabbed me right before I was out of reach. They both pulled on me so much that I was stretched out two extra feet and weighed too much for the eagle who let go of me. I knew it was bogus, but it was a funny story. John, my older brother was not a fan of me being taller than him even though he was stronger. I rode my four wheeler down main street on the way home. Nunn was a tiny town; less than five hundred people. No school, no police department, a fire department, and two hundred farms packed into twenty square miles. That was about it. There were a few tiny stores but nothing to buy groceries from. Everyone had to go out of town to get anything other than gas or tractor parts. The fire department's single truck went by me, sirens ablazing. Some farmer probably let his field fire get out of control.
It was that time of year. I hated spring. Sure there are the budding leaves, the animals coming out of hibernation, the sun after six months of snow, but I hated it. For two reasons: the mud and the smoke. Nunn is a very dry place with only two or three rains a year. Except in the spring. There were close to fifteen spring rains in a month and every dirt road, gravel road, side road, and back trail was no longer usable. And Nunn had a lot of those. There were no paved roads except along main street. Everyone and everything was covered in mud from late March to April every year. If I wanted to do anything outside I had to cover myself in at least one other layer and boots that went up to my knees.
