by Brad Cox
“It was 'desert!'”
He pushed Crystal from the loose stool beneath her and cautiously scrolled down the unveiling screen. She was content to leave his side and catch a drag. He remained dumbfounded by the simplicity. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes danced. Taking a moment to gaze, he gasped with elation. The password was left accessible enough for the chosen ones to decode. It was a simple deterrent, meant to keep the outside world from bothering to care. The site provided their full names, telephone numbers and addresses. It also contained a small news-centered bulletin board. Some of the profiles included pictures, bios and email addresses. He was relieved to see the 12th member-area was left as, “Coming soon!” Hastily jotting down the sites information, he bookmarked the page and shutdown the computer.
“What is it, Dez?” Crystal called, pacing outside the trailer.
“It's a website dedicated to people like me. It's a list of people who know about The Program and can possibly help us spread our mission-worldwide! There's one fellow, in particular. He claims to be a magician. He lives in Israel. The Middle East is the home of a gamut of religions and belief structures. With funny paper, we can open minds, but with magic we can suspend the imagination. We can show the world that sometimes the unexplainable is a mere hat trick. This is how you expose a corrupt government! I've got to find this man.”
“I'll help you turn over every stone, in the morning,” Crystal offered.
“Simon, Simon, Simon,” he breathed.
+++
Though it lacked prudence to openly discuss The Program, for once, Simon welcomed transparency. He struggled with his identity and new sense of obligation, longing to share his experience with the unwitting. Most dismissed Simon’s tales, assuming his stories were the preface to another magic trick or a heretical illusion aimed at garnering their attention. Some passersby did believe his words and drew closer to his unveiling. They had nothing else.
Simon didn't want to know the answers to life's mystery. He wanted to practice magic in the shadow and mystique of creation. As word spread of his audacious claims and obsessions, his relationships with family and friends became strained. His gimmicky street performances began drawing more ridicule than adoration. He felt shunned and scrutinized by the world he was sent to save, only adding to his mounting inner conflict. His twilight was cursed. He could still hear the hecklers scream, “He's crazy!” and “He's a fraud,” while trying to find a few fleeting moments of tranquility. With each day, he became more isolated. His tricks had lost their audience and his money was growing scarce. He had buried his future in Israel. Damned by his revelations, he knew there was no turning back. The same crux that drew his words was the same that would draw his unraveling. People didn't want to know the truth — they just wanted to live.
“Perhaps it's time for me to disappear,” he thought.
His phone cried with synchronicity.
“Is this Simon?” asked a gravelly tone.
“Yes, may I ask who is calling?” asked Simon.
“It's Dez, from the desert. I'm sorry I tore out of there, without saying goodbye, but I was rattled by the news of our mission. There were so many terrible memories lurking, beyond the cobwebs of my consciousness. I'd have been happier to forget it all. Can you believe how many people we've known?
“I know,” returned Simon.
“It's crazy! I don't know how you feel about everything, but I am overwhelmed,” said Dez.
“I'll admit, it's not sitting well with me,” offered Simon. “My entire life is centered on suspense and mystery. I didn't want to go behind the curtain and I'm certainly not programmed to allow others to peak. Besides, who would want to know? It voids the authenticity of our existence, and siphons any true meaning from our experiences. We're sent to struggle, feel pain and engage in temporary relationships.”
“This is true.”
“Yes, but now, success is being asked to forget everything and everyone and to become one with nothingness. I believe the lucky ones got it right before having to choose or ever having to know.”
“Wow, you've given this a lot of thought,” returned Dez. “Look, I'm in a similar boat and was thinking we might be able to help each other. I'm trying to build a support group, aimed at generating awareness. If you're interested, I'd love to fly you out. We'd love for you to join us. If I'm being candid, I don't believe in The Program. I think it's downright wrong. It was wrong to unveil this to us, leaving us no option but to return from failed attempts at love, or to find love and be forced to say goodbye. I've been to the underworld. This might be worse!”
“I have, too!” laughed Simon. “Look, say no more. 'I'm leaving, on a jet plane,'” he added, crooning a joke. “I'm not exactly doing too well over here and could use the company and a healthy debate on the subject. Where are you?”
“New Mexico!”
“That's right. How did you find me?”
“Magic!”
“Respect.”
Simon began packing his camouflaged bags, determined to unearth a little sanity or old fashioned American distraction. His tense mind uncoiled. He knew it was only a matter of time before Israel forced him into exile. As luck would serve, hope was reignited by an unexpected flame. It was as if the universe had called him to a new mission. Though Dez's bravado had intimidated the chosen ones, his demeanor on the phone seemed fair, well-intended and above all else, timely. Hasty for solidarity, Simon never considered his motive.
“Grayson, if you get this message, I'm heading to New Mexico to see the infamous Dez.”
Click.
chapter 16
visions of the white bird (ath)
With zero trepidation, Simon boarded his flight. The distance to New Mexico smothered his patience and murdered his enthusiasm. Getting comfortable is rarely an option when wedged between two equally as uncompromising pieces of fleshy discontent, locked in a 110 degree angle. The mere thought of another bag of off-brand peanuts or complimentary cup of lukewarm soda was enough to make him pant for a stronger drink. Leaning back, he let the sweet taste of inebriation drown his unhinged mind. In moments, he drifted into the void of a well-needed rest.
Gazing into the eye of his dreaming mind, he saw the cold New York City streets standing apocalyptically still. The only stir of life came from the lazy humming neon. From a rusty yellow park bench, Simon watched debris and ash raining down upon a fallen world. Occasionally, a patronizing song, caught between two crumbling buildings, tickled his frostbit ear, sending shivers up his bowed spine. He was the lone witness, far from humanity's reach or care.
Those who survived the endless war were hunkered down in fallout shelters in neighboring towns, far beneath the Earth's crust. The New York City buildings were covered in red spray paint. It was the abandoned graffiti of man's final cry. The cryptic messages were intended as an obituary to anyone who might stumble from the wreckage and find the city's lost bloodlines.
“You cannot make the world disappear,” read the towering Empire State Building. “Our illusions are your reality,” read the marked Rockefeller Plaza. They stood like tombstones.
Simon knew the messages were meant for his gaze. Adjusting his view, he saw the white bird, Ath, resting on the tablet in Statue of Liberty's left hand. The date had been changed.
“Freedom bathes in the ongoing fight for truth,” said Ath, setting the torch afire. “Our hope rested in a single child, yet your sleight of hand has manipulated the world; a reality, forever tainted by the illusions you cast. We will continue to light a way and rise from these tired ashes, but you will remain enslaved by your guilt, forevermore.
“How can I be responsible for such destruction? What have I done?” asked Simon.
“It's what you didn't do,” said Ath.
Than, the gray bird, then appeared. It flew into a towering skyscraper and burst into flames. The building trembled, before quaking to its knees. From the corner of his eye, Simon saw another gray bird approaching a second colossal twin bu
ilding. He reached toward the sky to thwart its advance. It was too late, and far from Simon's reach. It crashed, smoldered and asphyxiated his view with blankets of dense smoke.
Encased in the steel ivory beast, Simon was startled by aggressive turbulence. He awoke. The shake of the plane stirred his palate and forced him to the tiny airplane restroom floor. His sensitivity to vodka consumed him with waves of nausea, but his vision swallowed his heart. He anguished. His aversion to The Program waned.
+++
Juno's never wavered.
Drifting toward the merriment of a peaceful night's rest, she ogled the mystery lurking just beyond her bedroom window. She was infatuated with life and the sea of possibilities resting in the future's hands. Startled, a white owl appeared and enticed her curious eyes into a staring competition. It would vanish in the darkness and reappear with the blue flashes of a passing hailstorm. Intensifying, her aged glass shattered, allowing the insistent bird to enter. It perched upon her sturdy bedpost. “Who will dance for me?” punned the White Bird.
Juno sprung to attention, flung off her fluffy comforter and without pause, struck a pose. As she danced about her room, her movements became effortless and exaggerated. The bedroom floor slowly faded into a brilliant starlit sky. To Juno, this was more of a fantasy than a nightmare. The bird showed her how to use her soul to cross the universe and overcome the boundaries of science and reason. Her art seemed limitless, in the presence of boundless faith.
“Your heart bears the fruit of love's seed. And such, your branches are uncontainable,” said the bird.
She was then hung like a marionette. The owl bound her limbs with freshly cut metal twine.
“Will you dance for me?”
She was unable to move. Like a puppeteer, the bird then began forcing her into motion. The more she fought its cruel movements, the deeper the jagged ties cut into her virgin skin. Naturally, she panicked. Like a fountain, blood dripped from her overwrought wrists and ankles, as her tender flesh tore. Her tired muscles drained. She then realized her dependency on control outweighed the faith that allowed her to express her heart and mind to the broken world. She was still a creature, tempted by physicality, blessed by the comforts of privilege.
“Your joy comes from the limitlessness of free will. It's the greatest of all gifts and relies on man’s convictions. It cannot be interfered with by The Council. If you never lose faith, you'll never stop dancing!”
The final sentence repeated in Juno's open mind. The words empowered her to challenge obstacles and lobby against doubt.
+++
Rand was also lead by the repetition of his calling and soothed by Ath's wisdom. The white bird filled his soul with poetry and paved the doldrums of his riddled mind with philosophy. These sentiments were his guidepost. He struggled with a world and an identity he barely understood. Drifting, he heard the familiar words of his childhood.
“You are one thought in a collective mind,” chirped Ath. Rand squirmed trying to awake from a horrific dream about World War II. In his vision, the white bird reminded him of the reflective nature of consciousness and the danger of unwarranted hate. “You observe creation, while it observes you.”
It showed him a mechanical German army and the beautiful people of his old country being prepared for the slaughter. He was then turned and sat before a vast mirror. The reflecting people turned into a sea of doppelgangers, manufactured in his likeness. He was instructed to massacre his identity and give himself over to death's sting. Fear of losing one's self, he learned, was the catalyst of all subhuman intent and guided by fragile egos. Though man could justify his actions with rank and divinity, he could never truly affect man's essence.
“Do you see the limits of physicality?” asked Ath. Rand watched billions of memories from millions of people set free from physical bondage and rejoining an omnisoul. The white bird then showed him the pit of the underworld and told him to jump into it. The fire didn't consume his soul, it recycled his energy and burned forevermore. “Understanding comes from an eternal energy. It cannot die or be lost in the fire. It can't be murdered by man's hands.”
“What we do to one, we've done to all?”
“Love is love reflecting. You are the future we long to see, a mere thought The Council chose to have. You must not forget our interconnectedness or your responsibility to The Program, even if it seems impossible or inconsequential to today. Love is the union of two or more minds acting as one conscious.”
The bird began morphing from white into a beautiful rainbow of colors.
Rand awoke, panicked and confused by the colorful symbolism. He shuffled to find a light, knocking a half-empty glass of water off of an old oak table. Glass shattered onto his wooden floor and awoke his parents. When they entered his room, Rand was gone, but the mess remained. He had been sneaking into his old bedroom to catch winks and would occasionally tour the house for clues to his family’s on-goings.
“Call Neco, National and Kapodistrian University in Athens,” read an old crumbled up piece of receipt tape resting on the barren kitchen table. On the back of the paper was a scribbled phone number with a strange exchange. The note's existence gave Rand hope that his mother and father hadn't completely divorced the idea of seeing him again. He knew his old desert friends were probably trying to hop over the Berlin Wall of his father's creation; he was elated by his find, and lost in the night. His parents were never the wiser.
His father had no idea how important this message was to the world!
chapter 17
Revelations
Benjamin and Juno arrived, in promise. They met at Silk's Restaurant, located at the Enclosure Bar in Dublin, Ireland. The ceiling, walls and floor were covered in a musty oak corkwood. Horse racing memorabilia painted an elegant scene of class and riches, neither of which Ben and Zane were accustomed. They chose to sit a healthy distance from the bar, to make their clean-living ginger feel comfortable.
“Before we get started, I have an important announcement,” said Juno.
“You are...” started Zane.
“I'm getting married.”
“Juno, that's fantastic! How long has this been in the works?” asked Zane, longing for hope.
“We just decided. I figure, if I'm going to start trying to have this 'out of this world' baby, I should probably avoid the awkward out-of-wedlock scenario with my conservative family. Besides, we're beyond in love. I'm thinking, beach,” she added.
“We're happy for you,” said Ben, assuming he could speak on behalf of his ex-lover.
Zane wasn't entirely prepared to deliver the crushing news to Ben, but his rhetoric drew her strike.
“Ben, I want to try The Program. We've been together for countless lifetimes. If we don't at least try, we'll just continue on this way forever! I do love you and I cherish what we had, but I really want to try and get this right,” Zane said. Her revelation evoked an understandably uncomfortable silence from her lifer friend.
“I agree! I think you should try,” Juno added. “If you can't find a dreamy or special someone, then maybe you're meant to carry-on together for another lifetime, but there's no rush in assuming anything! You have your lives ahead of you. Go run, like these horses.” Juno pointed toward the paintings in the bar.
Ben's youth hadn't prepared him for her crushing sentiment. His mother ensured he'd never come to terms with abandonment. Zane was all he had to look forward to and remained his only connection to the past. In a burst of uncontrollable rage, he slammed his clinched fists on the sturdy wooden table and huffed from the bar. An ocean of tears begged his release.
“He'll be alright,” offered Juno. “He just needs to cool down. You have to do what's in your heart. We're here for a greater purpose. If you're able to find love and bring a light into this crummy world, than you're justified, right? You may finally fulfill The Program and do what you've been called to do. That, my dear, is exciting! Ben is the least of your worries.” Juno stroked her hair and empathized. She underst
ood Zane's emotional struggle, due to her complex history with Ben, but couldn't hold back.
“I did meet a bartender before we were called to the desert. We hit it off in a, 'Hi, I'm not really old enough to drink, but I manipulated you' kind of way,” said Zane.
“Go for it! Call him. That sounds rather exciting,” prodded Juno.
“We could always just walk down and see him. It's only a few blocks away.”
They exited the restaurant. Ben was knelt down crying. He faced north with one arm propped against an uncaring brick wall, and another curled under his prodding chin. He resembled The Thinker; had he produced an actual thought, he might have been spared the embarrassment of their find and moved on. It didn't matter, he was too consumed with self-loathing to be concerned with his unsavory appearance or how it might be interpreted by the passersby. If anything, he was prepared to welcome the attention that came with scorn or to bathe in their pity. He didn't know where to go or what to do. Zane had the power to show him what it was like to be put first and to change his skewed perceptions of love, but she'd chosen not to.
“First my family, and now her,” he thought, shattering.
The girls tried to console him, but could tell he was content to remain unresponsive and transfixed by the day’s events and dirty dank streets. Awaiting him to gather his sordid thoughts wasn't something they were prepared to entertain, especially not on a girls' night out — they had boys to paw. They continued down the gravel road. Zane was conscious to redirect her bartender-crazed conversation until Ben was far from ear shot. It wasn't long before he was swept off of the M8/N8 Cork-Dublin road, by a surly and impatient bar-back.
+++
Ben returned to his nearby room, seeking solace. His hostel was in disarray, but it was all he could afford, after the impromptu trip to Ireland. His dimming mind was still reeling over the money he'd spent on the inconsolable dilemma fostered by his trip to Arizona. He hoped a flicker of light might rest in another Programmer.