Copyrighted 2011 Loves Yawne
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This book, with its characters and events, is fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or people is pure coincidence. In addition, this book was sold with the understanding that the author or publisher is not engaged to render any medical, psychological, legal or professional advice or treatment. The author and publisher shall NOT be liable for any physical, psychological, emotional, financial, or commercial damages, including, but not limited to, special, incidental, consequential or other damages. You are responsible for your own choices, actions, and results that come of your choices and actions.
The choice was never easy. The crowd, the citizens, the party members, they all pushed for their way. It was rare for everyone to agree what was the right choice. Yet one person had to make the choice – regardless of what everyone else believed.
Radio and television shows all wanted a piece of the choice to boost their ratings. All others wanted a piece so they could vomit their rhetoric. Ironically no one ever wanted to make the choice and take responsibility for it – no – they wanted someone else to do it, take responsibility and die for their choice.
“Holy shit, did you see the choices?” Michael asked me as he sat crossed leg in a chair across from me.
“I was asleep – had a late night. What were they?” I sipped my coffee as I scanned the morning newspaper.
“He got stuck with an official audit of the military – all branches and departments of defense and lowering the official age of running for president to thirty one.”
“Really – thirty one? I can’t believe that was even a choice.”
“Arthur, that was a great choice. Given that the elections occur next year, it was a smart move for the Statists to get their choice up on the board – though it was pure luck on their part.”
I put my paper down, “I read that he picked the election age.” I scoffed and shook my head.
“Yeah – I was shocked. He didn’t seem much of a Statist to me. The Nationalists were banking on him to pick the tax law overhaul, but that wasn’t even a choice.”
“Well, whatever. I would not have picked any.”
Michael looked at his watch, “I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to assemble some reports before our meetings.”
“Yep. I’ll see you later.” He picked up his briefcase and left. I scanned the newspaper again and saw an article about protestors being arrested at the Choices Ceremony. A group of five men attempted to stop the ceremony with smoke bombs – that will be a twenty year prison sentence.
Anne, my secretary, called from outside the office, “Mister Brenton, the local newspaper would like a comment about the Choices Ceremony.”
“No comment.” The local newspaper was good for badgering me on every political happening in the country.
“They said a Senator should have a comment.” She sounded annoyed.
I picked up the phone in my office. “I got it, Anne.” I left the phone off the hook on my desk. I heard a voice repeating hello until a dial tone. “No comment.”
Five in the evening was quitting time for everyone in my office: me, Anne, Michael, and Larry. On Fridays, we would get a beer – or a fruity drink in Anne’s case. For a Senator, I was a nobody – hence my three person staff (and no money). No one really cared what I did, though I never took advantage of that.
“Would you ever run for president, Art?” Larry asked. He sat his beer down.
“Well, I am old enough now, with that new law… I wouldn’t though. I like what I do.”
“Oh, nothing?” Michael chimed in.
“That’s not true. He did something today. He gave no comment to the local,” Anne defended me, but we both laughed.
“Yeah, see – I did something!” I finished my beer. “Quitting time. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, boss. All the reports are completed,” Michael said. “Come tomorrow, our party will officially recognize you as the ‘Regional Liaison for the Economic Recovery and Growth Committee.” His voice lacked sincerity. A smirk appeared on his face.
“You can think it is funny all you want, but that title frees up some more money for our constituents.” I smacked him with a reminder of our duty to our people. “People who own small businesses in this area will have some recognition and a part in the larger politics at play in our country, especially in matters that concern taxes.” My soapbox stood me tall.
“Geez, Art,” Larry said.
I looked at him innocently, “What?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to be president?”
It was always a big deal when our party met. It was even a bigger deal when it was my turn to host a party meeting. We did not host our meeting in a hotel or conference center – I booked Gilbert Gordon high school’s auditorium. Of course this was a political move on our behalf, but it was also cheaper.
This was the first time I met Dales Holmes, our party’s president: A tall, lean, older gentleman in a very expensive suit. He did not bring as many people with him as I thought he would. I was also disappointed to know that the meeting was only going to have half the expected number of members.
“Mister Brenton, it is great to finally meet you.”
Dale and I shook hands, “Great to meet you, also.” I introduced him to my employees.
“You’ve begun to earn yourself a reputation you know: ‘Broke Brenton.’” Dale chuckled.
“Well, I like to keep within my limits – albeit a small limit.” I smirked. I met other individuals from our party for the first time: Harry Daily, Stephen Franco and a few other headliners. Each one felt the need to bust my balls about the school auditorium.
We found our seats as we all huddled in the same area. Dale stood in the front to start the meeting. “We all know why we’re here.” Dale paused and every one nodded. “Arthur Brenton has shown that through fiscal management and a citizen’s-first attitude, he has achieved great things as a new senator.” The group applauded as Dale paused. “However, and let me preface this.” He cleared his throat, “I know we busted your balls about the school, but it worked to our advantage.”
I was confused. Our advantage? “What do you mean?”
“As you can see, there are only about half the people here who said they would come.”
“Yes…” I still did not understand.
“And we’re in a school – not our typical meeting area.”
“Yes…” I still did not understand.
“Let me be direct – we have, as a party, made a decision. We’re going to put a big ball in your court.” Dale’s voice became hesitant.
I knew becoming a Regional Liaison was a big deal, but I did not think it was going to be that big. “I’m sure I can handle this option our party has chosen.” Larry, Michael and Anne looked at each other bewildered – and shared the same gazes with me.
“Arthur, we want you to run as a candidate for the Choices Ceremony.”
Now I got it – no press inside the school building.
I waited a whole year to be here. It was election year, and I easily won the election to be the Chosen. The other candidates eventually dropped out when their money supply dwindled.
Any person could run to be the Chosen, yet only a very few did. No CEO or former president has run. No celebrity or quasi-important person either. That was okay in the public’s eyes. The citizens did not want those people to run – they feared if they should win, they would lose the person they so adored.
That was why I was chosen.
That was why I won – not because of money.
I was a nobody: the perfect person to make the choice.
“Are you ready?” Anne asked me.
The full weight of the situation had not hit me yet, but I knew what was to come. “I guess.” Larry and Michael sat next to me.
“I’ve always wanted to visit the capital, but not like this,” Larry said as he looked out the window.
“Don’t worry, you can visit again and see the statue of me,” I said.
Michael looked at me, “Oh, we appreciate your travel recommendation.” His sarcasm was bitter.
The car we were in began to move. The sunlight pierced the windows as we moved from the garage. An escort of black vehicles drove with us, and men with automatic weapons perched from the windows. Thousands of people stood along the side of the road waving and cheering. Signs thanked me for my sacrifice or blasted the Choices Ceremony with nasty words.
“What should I pick?” Everyone craned their heads to stare at me.
“Are you seriously asking us?” Larry said. “I refuse to answer – you decide.” He put his head down on his hands and stared at the floor. Anne and Michael were quiet.
“Sorry I asked…” It was my choice; I could pick whatever I wanted. I wouldn’t know the choices until I got on stage. I don’t know why I decided to go through this. That day at the school kept replaying in my head. I felt the pressure to take it – to become a someone – though I would just be a headline in the next day’s newspaper.
The car pulled alongside cement stairs. The throng swelled when we got out, but the police kept them at bay. We hurried through doors into the congress building. Once inside, we were lead into an auditorium, about the size of Gilbert Gordon high school’s auditorium. Television crews lined the perimeter – and the reporters took seat in the back. No one was allowed to talk to me except those directly involved in the Choices Ceremony.
We walked to the back of the stage where coffee and food items were served. A clock on the wall said fifteen minutes until the ceremony began.
“This is one bad way to say bye,” I said. “Coffee and doughnuts.” I chuckled. The others did not find it funny.
We exchanged our goodbyes: handshakes, hugs and a kiss (from Anne). I had no family that was alive, and I said my goodbyes to my friends a while ago – yesterday. I could not fully comprehend what was going to happen. I knew what was going to happen, but I did not want to believe it. The feelings of regret and fear were hard to find.
The timer rang, cameras were on, and I was escorted to the front of the stage. Larry, Michael and Anne joined the crowd – all the way in the back. The auditorium was full, but no one was allowed to stand besides those operating equipment.
The crowd applauded , but died quickly as the Master of Choices began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen, and citizens of this great country,” he looked down at his speech. “I have been master of this ceremony for twenty years, and every year something spectacular happens. True progress is made because of the sacrifice our Chosen citizen makes.” He pointed to me with an open hand. “Bridges and schools have been built. Life-saving scientific research has been funded. Third world countries have been fed. The economy has grown healthily and steady.” He cleared his throat, “But, there is always the chance of evil to be done here,” he paused. In his old age he has become a slow speaker, but he was just as effective as he was when I watched him on TV the years before. “I pray that the Chosen weighs the choices well and that he dare not tempt evil or any other selfish desire. But if he should – it would be at the cost of his life.
He looked at me, “Arthur Brenton, are you prepared to die for your country?”
Though it was no advertised, I could have backed out at that point, but I didn’t. “I am ready.”
He nodded, “Then we shall proceed.” He pressed a button and a screen scrolled from behind. A projector displayed a computer program with the choices. “Mister Brenton, there are five choices the citizens of our country picked. As it has been since the beginning, we will randomly select two of the five choices. From those two, you will make your finally decision. Is this understood?”
I nodded, “It is.” I tried to find Larry, Michael or Anne in the crowd, but I couldn’t. I wish I could have called out for them or ask someone where they were, but I couldn’t. No one could speak to me at this point since it officially started. The Choices Ceremony forbids it in an effort to reduce influence on the choice that would be made.
Like a lottery drawing, numbered balls rolled in a glass case. As they moved they would eventually fall into a hole. The hole would pipe the ball to a display area for everyone to see its number. I ended up with numbers 2 and 5. But I still did not know what they were.
The Master of Choices picked up the two balls and opened them like a plastic Easter egg. “Ah, very good!” He held up the two pieces of paper. “We have our choices!” He looked at me with a devilish grin, “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
“Very well. Choice number one is: End the Choices Ceremony. Choice number two is: end all taxes.” The crowd’s reaction was priceless. They saw a ticket out. Their eyes gleamed with happiness. No more taxes. I knew that is what they wanted me to pick. No one cared if some random person died once a year in an effort to “convert patriotism into democratic action.”
Both have plagued their lives, and this country, for longer than I had been alive. It was my responsibility to choose wisely, but both would benefit those who live, and I would take the fall.
“I choose none.”
Silence. He looked at me flabbergasted. “Wha- what?”
“None.”
“You cannot choose ‘none.’ You must choose!” He pounded his fist on the podium. The crowd started to become noisy. I heard talking and shuffling in the back of the stage. People were nervous. As far as I knew, this had never happened before.
“I should die if I make a choice or not, then what does it matter if I decide not to choose? I die either way.”
“It is the principle that matters – not your life!” He banged his fist again. “You are ruining a tradition, and undermining this patriotic process.” He leaned toward me, “Now pick.”
My patriotism had waned since I decided to go through with this. I knew it was a stupid choice, but I wanted to be someone. This was how I could do it. “You pick,” I said indignantly. The doors to the auditorium were guarded with armed men – no one could enter or leave. The crowd was tense – even the closing of a door rattled their nerves.
He composed himself, straightened his tie and smiled at the camera. He then looked at me, “You are treading on dangerous ground, Mister Brenton.”
I sighed. This exchange persuaded me to choose. “It has become abundantly clear,” I walked toward the Master of Choices, “what I want to choose.” Cameras followed every step I took toward him.
“I see you finally came to your senses,” he smiled, bearing no teeth.
“I choose to end the Choices Ceremony.”
The crowd was happy to know I would die for that choice.
No one knew how they killed the Chosen. Some think they use a firing squad or guillotine. Maybe I assumed too much to think that they would be kind about it and use lethal injection. I was lead to a dimly lit room and a leather chair. The Master of Choices and a guard walked me to my seat.
“Sit,” the Master of Choices said. He pressed down on my shoulder. I fell into the seat. “Now, you are where only I and a few others know what goes on. If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” he laughed. “Oh – and I can!”
The guard handcuffed me to the seat and bound my ankles with straps. “Can you make this quick, please? This past year flew by, and I don’t want it to slow down now.”
“Mmhm – a little sarcastic, are we not?. A quick death? Should I be that merciful after the stunt you pulled?” He pulled a small pill from his pocket and held it between his fingers. “This will end you.” It looked like an aspirin, but it was purple. “You can swallow it on your own, or I can cut a hole in your throat and slip it through there. Your choice.”
“Tempting, but I’ll swallow it.”
“A true patriot, dying for his country. So brave, too. Or, maybe you’re just naive?”
“No, just accepting of the life I was given.”
“Very well.” He dropped the pill in my mouth and I swallowed. “Give it a minute.” I began to feel woozy. My eyes wanted to close, and my chest hurt. My head fell to my chest as my muscles went limp. My hearing became distorted, also. “Tell them I said ‘hi.’” That was the last thing I heard.
I smelled food. Really good food. I smelled coffee. I heard a television, though I didn’t understand the language. I was alive. My body felt weak, but functional. I opened my eyes. I didn’t know what to expect when I opened them, but it surely wasn’t this view.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” A soft voice spoke to me.
I turned around to face a woman: tall, lean with long brown hair. She wore a white dress of sorts. “Where am – who are – what is going on?” I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start. I looked down and saw I was wearing my suit from the ceremony. A quick glance of the room and I saw the food, coffee and television I picked up with my senses. I walked over to the window and pressed my face against it.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” She came next to me. “You probably have a lot of questions. But before you ask, let me explain a few things.”
I peeled myself from the window. The view of Earth was beautiful. I did not want to stop looking. I took a step away from her – I could not trust her fully. “Fine, explain.”
“I’ll be blunt. I am not as you see me, as this is a costume for your protection.” She pulled up her dress to reveal inhuman skin. It wasn’t gruesome – it wasn’t even shocking. It just wasn’t human: it was smooth, white and without texture.
“Okay…”
“Secondly, as you can tell, you’re not on Earth. You are in a special vehicle used for space travel. What you call a ‘UFO’ is actually our ‘car,’ to use human terms.”
“So you’re an alien?” I took three steps back.
“Do not be alarmed. We are not the aliens you portray in television and movies.” She smiled, her teeth, if they were actual teeth, were perfectly white.
“Are you sure you’re not going to blast me with some laser?”
“Only if you try to be belligerent.” No smile from her. “Anyway, Mister Brenton,” she took a seat at a round, metal table. “We are actually humans – but from another dimension.”
I pinched myself, “Is this real? How do I know this isn’t just some elaborate scheme cooked up as part of the Choices Ceremony.”
“I can show you.” From her pocket she removed a small device and spoke into it with her native tongue. Across the room a door slid open, and men and women walked in.
“Who are they?”
“You are not as perceptive as I hoped. Alas, proving nonetheless.” She walked over to the men and women. “Arthur, these are the Chosen, also.”
I looked for the most recent Chosen, but I could not find him. “Bullshit, I don’t see the one from last year.”
“You are correct. We had to kill him. He did not fit well into our colony.”
“Colony?” This became more confusing every second and frustrating.
“The Chosen live with us after making the ‘ultimate sacrifice.’” She was very good at using English language conventions. “We grew very tired of the way your dimension of humans ran their political systems. Very inefficient, ineffective and costly. Likewise, your human kind became dogmatists. We wanted to change this. Through our use of inter-dimensional travel, we were able to establish a system based on choices. Because we are not barbaric, we decided not to actually kill anyone. Yet, the guise of patriotism and sacrifice truly do move the system along, no? As you see, you humans have resorted to shedding blood to accomplish purely selfish goals. Unfortunately, your kind seems to relish it, adore it and need it.” She shook her head. “That is our fault.”
That was too much to take in. My brain was fried and overwhelmed with this news of extra dimensional beings and faux political systems. I sat down at the nearest seat I could find. “This is way too much. I need a drink.”
“You may drink with the previous Chosens. They can enlighten you about the life they have with us.” She smiled, but behind that smile I felt there was a certain treachery. “But first,” she walked over to me, and whispered into my ear, “smile, your long face isn’t flattering on TV.”
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