Children of the Program Read online

  It all sounds rather grandiose when you think about it — and it was.

  My exasperated mother gasped and made a final Herculean push, before delivering my tiny torso into mankind's unsuspecting arms. There were no Magi clamoring for my arrival, just the rumblings from a passing storm; I had arrived, whether a faithless world wanted me or not. Heavy rain pounded upon the thick industrial strength steel-wired window panes, but was deafened by sighs of relief, bringing closure to my mother's exhaustive labor. Begrudgingly, I was cleaned and snipped from her womb, presented to my father and rested upon her chest. My first cry was joyous, yet terrified.

  “Who were these people?” I wondered.

  My feeble brain was an unaffected slate of firing synapses and saturated with wonderment. I was digesting and dissecting the tiniest of life's riddles. To suggest, 'I was born in a crossfire hurricane,' as postulated by Jagger, would be a lyrical understatement; though, it would prove to be a fitting metaphor for the pending collision of worlds.

  The first day passed. No one was the wiser.

  Under the shroud of a blanketing new day's sun, we were escorted through the bustling lobby in a wobbly wheelchair and brought to the automatic hospital door exit. The magnificence of the burning star's radiation ignited feelings of something I was not prepared to remember. These moments of deja vu have immeasurable value, but are not always as interpretable as hunger, in the genesis stages; I'm told, I was starving. I didn't only crave formula, but also my virgin life and a connection with my unsuspecting parents.

  The Moody Blues strummed their eloquent sorrow, as I was rushed from my father's old red Ford pickup truck into a quaint nearby suburban home. Without pause, I was introduced to the rest of my new family, which included two mammoth-sized dogs and a sister. The lava lamps and wood paneling suggested it was the 70s. The psychedelic wallpaper wreaked havoc upon my limited concentration. Beneath my immersed toes rested a brown shag carpet. My reach was limited, but my new dogs accommodated my vertical limitation and lassoed me with tongues.

  These are the moments when the stars align and the world seems to be in perfect harmony.

  As a quiet young lad, I quickly acclimated to the new found freedoms of physical life, while days passed and memories accumulated. The clouds were the canvas of my imagination, while Bull-Bull, my German Sheppard, and Pandora, my collie, protected my tireless days in the yard from the potential thieves of my creation. This was my Shangri-La; a sanctuary, in which I spent many afternoons lost, content to play alone. As if by reflex, I would stare upon the sun for guidance, despite warnings. I couldn't resist the feeling I received from staring into the sky's brightest light.

  +++

  I wasn't alone. The Council of the Lords had littered the other 11 chosen souls across the planet.

  Though we were destined to meet again, only a few of us had chosen to be conceived in North America. Some saw The Program as an opportunity to become cultured and inspired, while others chose to revisit the familiar places of their affected past. In the most spiritual sense, our souls were on a permanent vacation, until otherwise notified.

  Rand was raised in Germany. Simon was resurrected in Israel. Juno took refuge in Rome. Icarus was conceived in Greece. Benjamin was born in London, neighboring Zane in Ireland. Dez lived in New Mexico. Grayson tackled New York. Ash was raised in Scotland. Elisa was born in California and Magnus invaded Illinois.

  Time was our conductor.

  Before traversing the pre-egoic ocean of my childhood hysteria and actualizing, my absentee mother left to explore a tidal wave of premature midlife crisis feelings. My chameleon-like sister and I instinctively became amicable and strategic in dealing with our rather absurd situation. Her dependency on my guilt-ridden father was understandable, as they were both left picking up the shattered pieces of a split family, in the midst of trying to console a confused innocent. My steadfast dad worked tirelessly to provide a life for us.

  Father Time, on the other hand, was never on his side.

  To bridge the quickly parting seas of familial madness, my resilient sister defaulted to a survivalist role and was instantly drawn to the maternal sense of purpose it gave her. Short of painting my face, as the sister she always wanted, she remained insistent on blanketing me from the horrors a strange new world had delivered to our doorstep.

  As the blurring seasons passed, music became the glue holding my lonely father and me together. He would strum and finger pick his favorite melodies on an old Yamaha acoustic guitar and softly sing to his eager audience of one; he aspired to someday perform before thousands in Central Park, just as his rock n' roll heroes Simon and Garfunkel had done. Melodic mornings provided me with a much needed connection, before he was forced back onto the haunted streets to investigate and interrogate the oppositions of humanity.

  His dream of a more harmonious existence seemed attainable, as he plucked away his free time and tried capturing his canticles on distressed studio equipment. This obsessive desire would foreshadow my coming days and guide my unsuspecting mind through the devil's playground. By night, my inspiration came from the toy inspired posters and glow in the dark galaxies littering my chamber walls. The bed was fully stocked with stuffed feline protectors. These were the guardians of the unknown and the defenders of tomorrow!

  Protected or not, I still slid into my robot-inspired sheets and swiftly pulled my red comforter over my suspicious mind to hide my shifty eyes from the inhabitants of the dark. When you truly focus, you can hear the Beelzebub's shadowy footsteps and sense the presence of 1,000 unwanted ghosts. My childhood anxieties of the night were nothing compared to what I'd witness in my dreamscapes.

  +++

  In twilight, the embers from human remains cascaded upon me, while the unmistakable taste of brimstone arrogantly danced upon my chapped lips. My face melted, as the weight of hot air scalded my calloused lungs with each futile gasp. My mangled torso was overgrown and my features were exaggerated by dehydration. I could feel every muscle tearing through my skin, while my soul eagerly tried to escape the hell scorned body surrounding me.

  Just as I was able to communicate with my future guardians through dreams, The Council would disseminate these types of riddles to me. I was often shown these deplorable landscapes and forced to taste the cancerous pang of life after life, forever reminded of the gift I'd been given. The pressure of my new life made it feel like a curse. I didn't understand the visions. I only recognized my fear.

  If only I could awake!

  My eyes gazed upon a holocaust, while countless bodies fueled an eternally hungry fire. Often, I was in a fight for my life with another individual. I didn't recognize the entity, but knew we were connected and these visions were meant to be a warning. We'd exchange blows, tear flesh and gouge each other’s eyes out. The wails of our battle were intensified by the jeers of the undead. It was a collision of forces, one fallen and one pulled under.

  These dreams were guideposts; none of my father's musings, nor army of plush kittens could stop them. Every time I awoke, it was like a resurrection. These nocturnal terrors were the bridge between life and death. No matter how many times I won the battle for consciousness, I knew it would never be over.

  I was reborn into forever.

  chapter 3

  Exposition

  Grade school was an afterthought. I had a natural attraction to education, but my preoccupation was to create. The latter won the Cold War over my torn focus. With starry eyes, I'd gaze through ghostly windows and remain aloof. My SOS to the world dribbled off my tender lips, as imagination became a reflex. Security was a freckled thought, but a cherished illusion. I wasn't in danger of being torn from anyone or anything, which I couldn't easily recreate.

  The world I'd known was a cruel mistress. My nights were a restless current and my days, a lingering tide. Socializing was a cumbersome nonevent, a mere formality of being forced into civility. Trust was an uneven crutch, relied upon by the dependent masses, while genuine connections left m
e feeling like a roulette ball, dancing upon the hopes of a gambler's future regret. For me, loss, separation and pain lived in love's charming arms. The voices in my head kept me company in my elementary years. That's not to say I didn't make friends, but I was an introvert by circumstance. Creationism was godliness. I was more than willing to be led down the Yellow Brick Road, if it meant someday shaming the man behind the emerald and gold curtain.

  My appetite for displacement brought violent storms to my academic doorstep. It wasn't that I didn't comprehend the general teachings and principles, I just ceased to find grandeur in societal posturing. Without a social reason to adjust my temperament, I was content to doze off and dream about crushing the wicked witch who'd caused my resentment. Tomorrow was a better time. It was a place I believed in.

  It took years, but I eventually snapped out of it. The beauty in day-tripping rested in knowing that a head in the clouds was a comfortable perspective traced with grounded fingers. Crash landings were scarce. As my father continued to pick-up the shattered pieces and trudge through his expanding black hole of doubt, our family awakened to the flickering lights of normalcy and Alice was yanked from the rabbit hole. Life wasn't perfect, but it was stable. We welcomed anew.

  +++

  Of the 12 chosen to participate in The Program, Simon Peter had a similar upbringing. His father was a god in the community. He was often forgotten and forced to live in the shadows of crowded streets. He sometimes felt like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders; and, at times, he did. The streets were dusty and the air was dry, but his thirst for the arts was an overflowing inkwell of unquenchable mystery.

  He grew up in a small Israeli town, near the West Bank. His home was always a source of unresolved conflict and televised anarchy. Though respected, his family didn't have a lot to spare, so he too sought the wiles of his imagination and was fascinated by magic. It was an affordable means of entertaining himself and the vagrants, while exploring the boundaries of reality. It provided an escape and a way for him to communicate his longing for an otherworldly connection. He longed for a place where the rules of possibility could bend.

  He was a muse, like me.

  +++

  I dipped my tepid toes into the street puddles of adolescence. Melodies rained down, giving me a reason to dance in the cool spring rains of a blooming new hope. Instinct guided me toward the thunderous vibrations of an electric guitar. I let the wind guide my virgin sails to the songwriting dens it dared me to lie down in. Hours were spent listening, dissecting and trying to crack the codes of my favorite minstrels. The harsh noises my instrument created weren't always a welcome interference, but tolerated. These were the screams of art therapy, and seen as a healthy wave to surf to the shore. My father was supportive and understood the power music had over adversity, and its ability to heal.

  He taught me to play.

  My fingers cramped, curled and resisted. Tenacious, he'd arch and position my begrudging appendages like hardened clay. I was convinced my awkward fingers would fail the presumed measurement requirements, but we'd always press on. The cool steel beneath my concerned mitts burned like hot wires cutting soft flesh. My enthusiasm waxed and waned, but never was eclipsed by the omnipresent fear of failure. It wasn't an option in the space we called home.

  An aspiring star was burning.

  Even my modest efforts were encouraged and willingly rewarded with infinite recording time, in the incomplete studio space carved out of our concrete-bedded basement jungle. The tiny room, adorned in nostalgic wooden paneling, provided my father an escape from the otherwise mundane existence of suburban domestication. Modern adaptations were a never ending work in progress, but a Fostex A80 8-track reel-to-reel, a brand-matching mixing board, microphones and an army of acoustic ornaments were permanent fixtures. It was a man cave.

  The societal conventions separating me from the wanderlust of fame, fortune and heroic autonomy were rock n' roll blasphemy. I'd toil my craft, skip school and fast, in hopes of someday dancing in the promised lands, whilst drinking from forbidden grails of temptation. Perhaps, then, my father could vicariously live through my songs and success. I could show him the universe through my kaleidoscope eyes, and bring the world's distressed heart to a fever pitch.

  I would someday write my own prescription.

  +++

  From stable roots, Ash McKenzie grew up in Aberdeen, Scotland. From budding hands, her brush strokes were guided by The Lords, never ceasing to bear fruit. The seed planted in her musing heart sought to gather the earthly materials needed to create the inspirations of her divine spirit. This genesis would lay the foundation for her creative revelations. Even as a terrible two, her messy, spaghetti-inspired works would trump the best-laid efforts of the most aspiring neighboring artists. She embodied the official animal of her country; she was a unicorn, one in a billion and her palate, a rainbow.

  Her paintings had the power to heal the broken and resurrect lost innocence. Born with a gold spoon in her mouth, and accustomed to the finest of easels, her poetic canvas demanded the adoration of the elite. Her home was a gallery and her parents never wavered in hosting their support. She was educated and dreamed of attending the University of Edinburgh, where she'd graduate, fall in love and spend the rest of her days painting a financial future for generations to come. She was the epitome of grace, style and class.

  The curse of having it all was never knowing what it might be like to want. Ash struggled with genuine connections and in understanding the limitations of her endeavoring peers. She couldn't help but perceive them as lazy, misguided or beneath her elitist standards, which made developing meaningful relationships a cross.

  Who will I identify with?

  Who can I respect?

  What can I gain from these people?

  These questions plagued her innocent mind. This curiosity left her in a watershed, stuck between brilliance and bliss. She knew the other half existed, but was unable to traverse the channels. In a blink, her troubles were forgotten; her eyes, distracted by the beauty in her art, the magnificence of her mansion and the sea of surrounding possibilities. A curtain wall stood guard, making sure the lower class didn't penetrate her ignorance.

  +++

  All of The Program’s chosen ones had an obstacle. Only a heightened purpose could clear the debris and undo the unconscious bias of our upbringings. For now, we were young. During puberty, I would notice my iris turning a subtle violet color, while performing. This was a signal, meant to guide my adolescent pursuits.

  This physical manifestation of synchronicity inspired our art, encouraged our practice and sought to ignite the sacred gifts buried within. There was a certain level of narcissism required in identifying with this spectral shift, but an otherworldly justification in doing so. It was important for the participants of The Program to find and develop skill-sets and recognize their innate calling, as to attract and connect with the outside world, but more importantly to lure compatible love interests.

  We incubated.

  I treated the world like a stage and relentlessly reinforced the voyeuristic instincts of its inhabitants. It was this cinematic state of mind, which allowed me to observe the brilliance of inspired creation. School nights were spent scribing carnal riddles upon loose leaf paper, in hopes of someday purging my animalism upon unsuspecting theater patrons. Gazing through the lens of an alter-ego provided enough detachment to explore the depths of an expanding soul. The awaiting underground music scene was alive and breathing, and I, transfixed.

  With each bedroom performance, my hunger grew and the radiant purplish hue in my eyes enhanced. I explored and pined over the intention of each word, manipulated the positioning and timing of every lyric and began penning a musical diary of my experience. A certain level of megalomania took hold, but I couldn't shake the sense of predestination. When future reels of tape were set into motion, I longed for my songs to pierce the hearts and minds of even the most pedestrian of onlookers.


  Fulfillment was impossible and growth a constant. It was the perfect breeding ground for eternal torment. Closing in on my chosen skill-set meant I was edging closer to understanding self-love, a natural graduation of consciousness.

  +++

  No stranger to commencement, school came easy for one Programmer. Rand Backer’s life was stern, sterile and built upon the bricks of a harder time. The Bible took center stage and read like a childhood novel. It was forcefully served, swallowed and digested in his adolescence. His parents expected the highest level of respect, written therein. Given his father's orders, he would readily challenge the devil to a duel. His greatest attention was focused on the details of God's tragedy, called 'Life.' Pressed shirts and astute rhetoric set the stage for his silent soliloquy. To Rand, knowledge was greater than capital, because it could barter for wealth. It was a conscious stream of income.

  His home was erected near the Fulda River in the town of Kassel after WWII. Plenty of neighboring parks and palaces consumed his view. These structures provided hope and refuge from the rituals of his deflated youth. Freedom was earned and hours were structured, mechanical and socially void. The daily pittance of porridge he consumed was a bland reminder of his uninspired surroundings. The walls were coated in flat and his heart a barren sheath. His parents were well-intended, but paving a highway to hell.

  The exterior was inspired by the old cobblestone streets destroyed by the war. The furniture was a rickety cliché. All lavishes were earth born and kept far from the interiors of their grayscale sanctuary. Seated comfortably in the doorway, the tricolour flag was a subtle reminder that Germany reigned the domicile and its perimeter.