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Home / Stories / Thriller/Suspense / My Children Will Survive
By Matthew Emma
My Children Will Survive
Johnsontown, Guyana 1978. Aggie has to get her children out before Dad incites the comrades to mass murder.
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Story Details
Title : My Children Will Survive
Author : Matthew Emma
Word-Count : 9064
Genre : Thriller/Suspense, Historical, Relationships/Family
Matthew H Emma is an on-hiatus journalist currently pursuing his dream of becoming a full-time creative writer. He's written numerous short stories, several novelettes and has just completed his first screenplay. Fifteen of his works have been published in such online literary magazines as Alfie Dog Limited, Linguistic Erosion, The Vehicle, Agave, Gadfly, Down In The Dirt, Winamop, Section 8 Magazine, eFiction and Snapping Twig. He lives in Valley Cottage, New York, likes sports, women, history, creative writing and the pool in his condo complex.
My name: Agatha Johnson. The date: November 10, 1978. The place: The People's Church Agricultural Project in Guyana, also known as Johnsontown. The realization: Our cult was in its waning days. My Mission: To ensure my children survived any mass murder/suicide plot initiated by Dad. The revelation: Comrade Scott had the perfect mix of toughness, confidence and balls necessary to become my accomplice.
"Alert, alert," Dad said, as the blaring sirens beckoned us to the pavilion. "Hurry, my children. There're traitors among us."
Seventeen-year-old Scott and fifteen-year-old Comrade Benny were paraded before the community.
"Where'd you assholes think you were going?" Dad spoke, accentuating syllables, as the toxic mix of booze, barbiturates and benzepam flowed through his polluted bloodstream.
Scott leered into Dad's glazed peepers. Benny's hands quavered like leaves in a hurricane.
"Kaituma," Scott replied, in a normal, conversational tone. "We'd hop a flight and deadhead our way to Georgetown, then hoof it to the Embassy."
Dad entered into one of his high-pitched, ingratiating laughing spells that landed him on the floor. Johnsontown's faithful heckled the failed escapees.
"Shameful, disloyal creeps," screamed Sister Erica, Benny's own birth mother. "Throw them against the wall. I'll shoot them myself."
Despite the escalating tension, Scott didn't flinch or utter a sound. He only glared at Dad.
"Throw them in the box," various people shouted.
Dad's legs jittered, as he arose and belched, farted, urinated and vomited behind his throne chair. As he slithered towards the boys, Brothers and Sisters offered nervous laughter.
"No, my children," he said. "It's always been my desire to keep my flock's feet planted on the ground."
Dad placed the microphone beneath Benny's mouth.
"Look at the ground," I instructed my daughter Sarah, who placed a pair of trembling mitts atop her elbow-length brown hair and wept. "Look at the ground."
Brother Louie, Dad's top enforcer, pounced on stage brandishing an electric drill. He displayed it before the audience and cranked it full blast. My adopted brothers Stan and John soon joined Louie, held Benny down and disposed a thick piece of grey duct tape across his mouth. Seconds later, a grinding sound permeated the pavilion, as the drill bit penetrated Benny's flesh and bones, producing two large holes into which John inserted six inch long, shining nails. He hammered a leg iron into a patch of skin beneath Benny's left ankle. Stan unsealed the tape from his lips at a measured speed.
Benny's screams were loud enough to be heard in neighboring Venezuela.
Benny glanced downward and fainted after realizing he was wading in a pool of his own blood. Seated next to me was Sister Sylvia, who toppled from her chair and puked.
It was now Scott's turn. Two full minutes passed. Although subjected to the same screwing and banging, he remained silent and scowled at Dad like a boxer might his opponent during the referee's pre-bout instructions. Dad's face grew more magenta than borscht, as he tossed the microphone in Scott's face. He hadn't yet come close to breaking the spirit of a kid he'd humiliated through numerous bare ass floggings at People's Rallies and catharsis meetings, and his frustration was evident.
"Have you anything to say?" Dad asked.
Scott refused to speak or move, but eyed Dad like a ravished cat might a fat mouse. Dad loped off the stage and stormed out of sight.
As further punishment, Scott and Benny were sentenced to a multi-day stint on the dreaded learning crew, of which members were subjected to long hours clearing jungle forestation with cutlasses under equatorial sunlight, running throughout the complex at gunpoint, total isolation from their Comrades and being forbidden to speak, even to one another.
Scott still managed to smile after completing the first several torturous days of his two-week sentence, despite a foot infection that caused a pronounced limp. I, as the encampment's Head Nurse, treated him.
"This'll hurt," I said, as I lanced the purple, puffy, pus-filled wound and rubbed it with alcohol.
"Didn't feel a thing," he joked, as he winced, bit down hard and jolted his head back. "Could you tell Sarah baseball practice's tonight at six. With me out, she's at second."
When Scott spoke of her, his face would flush. He cracked his knuckles.
"Sure," I said. "It's okay. I know you like Sarah."
"Do not," he snapped back fast, trying to live up to the tough, ultra-macho role he enjoyed playing.
As Scott moved the afflicted foot, he grimaced.
"I want the two of you to hang out more," I said.
"Really?" he asked, in a surprised tone.
The five foot ten inch, olive-skinned Latino with a knife scar under his left eye glimpsed upward and ran the fingers of both his hands through an afro thicker than the surrounding jungle.
"I want her to trust you," I answered.
"Why?" he asked, in a much more panicked and inquisitive manner. "What for?"
I placed gauze over the incision site. Several communards entered. He leaned forward.
"Not now," I whispered. "Soon. Okay?"
The atmosphere of paranoia was such that you feared for your life if someone eyed you for more than a few seconds. To complain or voice your feelings was forbidden. This tenuous environment aside, I believed Scott was an exception. He'd demonstrated his desire to escape and had neither any love for nor loyalty towards Dad. Now, it was on to the next step: formulating an escape plan.
After listening to Dad espouse his paranoia over the perceived rise of fascist movements in South America until well past one o'clock in the morning, I awoke late, donned my lone pair of jeans and the least tattered of a mere three shirts in the drawer, prior to a three-minute gallop from Dorm A-1 to Educational Tent Two. It was twenty-seven minutes passed eight, three minutes before class started.
"Sorry, Sister Martha," I stammered, out of breath, while retaining the teacher's assistant desk in the far left corner.
Sarah, Scott and the other students looked my way.
"Why're you late Sister Agatha?" the pouting head instructor asked.
The grey-haired, wrinkled sixty-seven-year-old, whom Sarah said resembled a gargoyle, stared at me with sea green eyes that seemed so out of place on her.
"Overslept," I said, while my knees buckled. "Please accept my apologies."
"This time," she said. "You know Dad likes us to be at least ten minutes early."
I knew she'd inform Dad anyway. Though the adopted, lone daughter of the Reverend Jerry Johnson's "Rainbow Family," I obtained no special dispensations. By this point, everyone from the smallest child to the senile elderly could report you for something as trivial as desiring a second cup of water at mealtime. Martha, a follower of Dad's since the Church first opened its doors in Indianapolis, sauntered to the front of the tent.
"Pop quiz," she announced.
The kids groaned.
"Hope this week's results are better," she said. "Dad's not happy with our progress."
Scott went to work, but not on the quiz.
"Comrade Sarah," Scott whispered.
She glimpsed back and smiled.
"What?" she mouthed.
"How 'bout them Yanks?" he asked.
We didn't get much "actual" news from the States, but because Dad was a baseball fan, we learned the results of the World Series.
"They rule, baby," Scott, the proud, native of the South Bronx, gloated.
Scott gyrated in his chair like a dancer on Soul Train. Sarah, a die-hard Oakland A's supporter, displayed both her middle fingers.
"Suck it," she said, as her eyes widened and face brightened. "They needed Reggie and Catfish. A's rejects."
Scott eyed me. I offered the thumbs up sign. The playful exchange elicited laughter from everyone present, except for Martha, who whipped the top of her desk with a ruler.
"Young Comrades," she said, as she squinted her eyes. "Socialism, not sports please."
When class ended, I stopped Scott by the door.
"Drop by tomorrow morning," I muttered, like a ventriloquist. "I want to check that ankle."
That evening marked the fourth time over a two week stretch that Dad tested our loyalty.
"White night, white night," Dad's shrillness reverberated over the loud speakers at two hours past midnight.
I stumbled outside in my bathrobe and waited for Sarah and my two sons, Joey and Mark. Within three minutes, they'd all staggered to our usual gathering spot near the main radio room. With our eyes still ninety-nine percent shut, we ambled to the pavilion and occupied seats at a table in front of the stage, close to Dad's perch. Mother adjusted the rag covering a head of hair that had transformed from blonde to grey in less than a year and handed him a microphone, which he dropped.
"Woo that's strong brandy," he babbled, as he picked it up. "I'm drunk."
Our self-proclaimed God returned to his Heaven.
"A devil and some of his informants will visit us next week," he said, as he removed a pair of dark sunglasses and ran his right hand through a slicked back head of raven hair.
Sister Marla, Dad's number one mistress, pranced on stage carrying a tray filled with small cups.
"My children," he said, as his tone grew more voluminous. His face was a ruby hue.
Dad pounced up and made wild hand movements.
"I'd rather die than watch an informant for the CIA invade our home, break up our families and destroy this movement," he bellowed.
The assembled crowd leaped up in unison and roared. As soon as the cheers waned, Marla and Dad cavorted off the stage and dispensed the suspect potion at random. I exhaled hard when the last of the Dixie containers were doled out and I wasn't holding one.
"Drink," he ordered.
Unlike previous occasions, no one aired the slightest protest. Those with cups all downed the juice as if they were obedient freshmen drinking shots during fraternity rush week. We then sat in silence and waited. A few people sniffled.
"You've all got one hour to live," Dad informed those unfortunate enough to have consumed the lime Flavor Aid.
"Oh my God," Sister Kay screamed. "Oh my God."
Sister Kay grabbed her two children and the trio zipped around the pavilion until caught, subdued and sedated.
"No poison tonight, my children," he declared, after the hour had elapsed. "But that day draws nearer."
I determined to become a hell of a lot more proactive. After returning home, I immediately authored a note to Scott entailing my plans. Scott entered the clinic at six past seven. Several patients were present.
"Go into examination area four," I instructed.
He hobbled in that direction, separated the curtain and crawled on the table.
"How's the ankle?" I asked, as I handed him a piece of paper. "I've given you written instructions on how to care for it. Take a few minutes to read them and I'll be back to answer any questions. Understand?"
He lowered his head and scanned.
"Yeah," he said, after a few a second or two.
He peeked up and viewed me. I nodded my head, moseyed off and conducted a quick inventory of the supply closet. A quarter-hour later, I returned and closed the curtain.
"Well?" I asked, in a whisper.
The street-genius, former member of The Reapers gang pretended to write with his left hand. I heeded the prompt, retrieved pencil and a marble top notebook off the countertop, scurried over and doled it out to him. He scribbled on a piece of paper and, a short time afterwards, detached a sheet, planted it in my right hand and pointed downward.
It said: "You'll know when it'll be for real and you want me to escape with Sarah, Joey and Mark."
"Yep," I spoke fast, while depositing a small pill holder filled with antibiotics into his left palm. "That's for you only."
Scott pocketed the penicillin. I ripped open the curtain's partition.
"I'm serious," I said, trying to keep up the ruse by pointing to the bottle. "It's very dangerous to share this with anyone else. Use it carefully and you won't get in any trouble."
Every roll had come up sevens thus far. Less than twenty-four hours later, however, I was rattled by a loud thud that echoed through the clinic, followed by shouting.
"Relax, Sister Mary," I said, as she jerked forward and shivered.
I gripped her hand, despite the fact mine jiggled like jello.
"Stay here," I said.
As I rushed into the entranceway, Louie hurled Scott to the floor and spat in his face.
"Here ya go, motherfucker," he yowled.
"What'd he do?" I asked, as Scott positioned a bruised right wrist over his blackened left eye.
Louie kicked Scott in the stomach.
"This vile filth was all over your daughter," Louie said, as he swung his leg back and attempted to strike him again. "Making out in the playground."
I stomped Scott in front of Louie.
"I'll handle this," I screeched.
Louie hovered over Scott and glared.
"Go ahead," Louie said, as he tromped out.
I helped Scott up.
"Ouch," he said, when I lifted his shirt.
"Sorry," I uttered. "It was the only way to get rid of him."
Welts were strewn across his neck and back.
"Couldn't stay out of trouble," I said, in another whisper, but with strong anger.
"Dad won't let me go near Sarah," he said, as I leaned back. "If I do, I'll end up in the SCU. Supposed to go there for re-education when I'm done here."
Terrible news on all fronts.
"Fuck," I muttered. "This was gonna be hard enough. You just made it near impossible. Damn it."
"Didn't mean to," he whimpered, while he lowered his head and yelped, as I applied alcohol to his numerous wounds.
The Special Care Unit was on the other side of the infirmary. I'd worked there for several months, but vowed never to return once I begged for and was granted a transfer out.
"I'll take you," I said.
A feeling of intense nausea set in the moment I mentioned those words.
"Don't have to," he said. "Dad didn't say so."
I clutched his right hand.
"Please," I said, as my voice cracked. "Trust me."
The entrance was guarded and black blinds adorned the facility's few windows.
"Why're you here?" asked Brother Paul, another of Dad's security officers, who glowered as we approached.
"Dad told me to bring Scott," I answered, as I felt a bit of stomach acid rise through my throat.
As we stepped inside, I had extreme chest pains and difficulty breathing. While pressing deeper into the dim-lit space, I grew so lightheaded that I needed to grip a countertop to prevent myself from toppling over. The facility contained three examination tables and four open cubicles with beds covered by persons slumbering on their stomachs. Two of the tables were taken by men, who sat up, drooled and goggled the floor.
Sister Carol, the SCU's Supervising Nurse and another of Dad's mistresses, strutted in, prepared a syringe and sauntered towards the table nearest the door, which eighty-seven-year-old Sister Rae, or "Grannie R," as she was affectionately referred by our commune's children, occupied. While the six-foot, large bosomed, brunette closed in, Rae rocked back and forth, causing the table's legs to teeter.
"What're you doing?" Scott asked.
Carol glared.
"Shut up," she yelled. "Get your ass over here and help me hold her down."
Scott hesitated and observed me.
"Now," Carol screamed.
Scott bolted over. His hands shuddered, marking the first time I'd seen him display any type of nervous reaction.
"Put your hands on her shoulders," Carol instructed.
Rae flailed her arms and swung her legs. The two men on the other tables didn't flinch.
"Sorry," Scott whispered to Rae, as a single tear skied down his left cheek.
When Scott cried, I shed a couple tears as well.
"Please," Rae begged. "Don't. Please."
"This'll help you become less hostile," Carol said, as she plunged the sedative into Rae's right forearm.
Rae was slumped over before Carol launched the needle into a trash receptacle. Scott fixated on Rae's limp body. I excused myself, trotted outside and dry heaved.
"Lay her down," Carol demanded of Scott, as I re-entered.
While I tilted Rae's head backwards, Scott raised her legs. Carol sneered at me and then smirked at Scott.
"Want to be up here next time?" Carol asked Scott.
"No, Comrade Carol," he said, as his pupils expanded.
"Get out," she roared.
As Scott jetted out, he created a breeze and came close to bowling me over. I feared Carol's display had scared Scott into submission and eighty-sixed all hope, but had little time to contemplate, much less formulate any Plan B. Seconds after reassuming my post in the medical clinic, Sister Tonya, wife of Les, the third of my adopted brothers, barged in. Her light brown hair sopped and her skin dripped in perspiration.
"Les needs to see you right now," she said, as she panted.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "He sick?"
"Didn't say," she answered, still wheezing between words. "Just go quick."
I scampered out and veered right towards the cottages. Upon reaching Number Twenty-Seven, I noticed the door was closed. I knocked. Not more than a second later, Les answered, dragged me inside by my right arm and idled down on a bottom bunk. He had color and wasn't sweating, in spite of plus ninety degree temperatures and one hundred percent humidity.
"Anyone in here?" he asked, as he perused the living space.
Silence followed. He brushed a patch of his black hair off his right eye.
"Great," he said. "Let's chat."
The six foot two inch, chiseled bodybuilder hoisted a rifle, swerved his head both ways and positioned the weapon he employed as Vice-Captain of our feared Red Brigade Defense Force, by the door. After chugging water from a canteen, he slammed the partition shut.
"That's how I get privacy around here," he chuckled.
Without hesitation, I set my rear on a wobbling, wooden desk chair. He advanced and rubbed my right shoulder with his left hand. I attempted to slink away, but was unsuccessful.
"Oh sis," he said.
He smacked his lips together. Feeling my legs twitch, I snaked my frame upward. Just as I stood erect, he gestured downward and, within a second, my south end again settled onto a seat that was harder than the mattresses in my dorm. Les wagged his left pinky back and forth.
"You've been mischievous," he announced.
"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling my arterial pulses bound from scalp to the soles of my worn Nikes.
He strolled to a desk and picked up a photo of his daughter, Cherokee.
"Getting cozy with hostiles," he said. "Hearing bad reports."
At that moment, I feared I'd soon be deader than any potential plan to flee.
"I teach and treat him," I said, as I grasped the chair's arms and anchored my feet behind its legs to conceal my quivering extremities. "That's it."
He charged forward, snared a step stool and deposited his rear. I shifted several inches to the left.
"Try again," he said, as he rocketed up again. "Dad doesn't know. Yet anyway."
Though relieved to hear the latter half of his statement, Les did his job.
"Okay," I responded, in a blubbering state. "I want him to get my kids out. It's coming. You know that."
"That's all I needed to know," he declared.
Water accumulated in his eyes. Out of nowhere, Les embraced me.
"Can you add "Little C" to any plans?" he asked.
I leered for several seconds.
"Yeah right," I exclaimed. "Bullshit. You're just playing Dad's little spy."
I gripped his shoulders and thrust him back. In the weeks leading up to our confrontation, Dad had dispatched random people to ask residents questions like, 'Are you happy here?' and 'Do you wish to return to the States?' Those who fell for the deception were beaten and ostracized. A few were sent to the SCU.
"I mean it," he responded. "On my life."
I glared, but didn't move.
"May very well be if you're fucking with me," I snapped.
I went from shaking and crying to standing erect with both a clenched jaw and fists. A few seconds later, someone banged on the hatch. We dispersed fast.
The next day was Wednesday, two days prior to the arrival of California Congressman Luke Raymond. Scott and I bumped into each other as we entered the classroom. He glimpsed up and, when our eyes met, flew towards his desk. During class, the oft chatty and boisterous young man once voted Class Clown by his junior high school mates, sat in back with his head down and stayed silent.
"Wonderful," I thought to myself. "Now I'm truly fucked."
That afternoon, I received a note which read, 'Meeting with Dad in office at six.' I envisioned the agenda for this meeting would be my "sentencing." I trembled to such extremes, I had to crawl the last several yards to the small wooden structure a few hundred yards from the pavilion. For sure, I'd end up drugged in the SCU or be placed in the dark, stifling isolation box housed several feet below the earth. Best case scenario would be a public berating and beating in front of our entire thousand person community. I arrived at a quarter to. Dad, Mother, John, Louie, Stan and Les were already there.
"N.. N.. now that ev.. everyone's here," stammered Dad. "Let's begin."
I sat on a folding chair near the back wall and laid my quaking hands beneath my buttocks.
"Sss.. some of you know the plan," Dad slurred on.
The stench of liquor on Dad's breath could have floored a charging leopard. As he leaned in and leered at me, he popped another capsule of God only knew what at that point.
"But for those who don't," he continued. "Remember, everyone's to be watched and any act of treason is to be severely punished."
It became apparent Les hadn't yet reported me. Had he, I wouldn't have made it out intact. The clock struck seven-thirty before Dad stopped railing on capitalism, the United States and his Secretary, Sister Anna for failing to provide him with a cold can of Pepsi. As I left, Les watched me and smirked.
Upon returning to my bunk, I found another written message pinned to the bedpost explaining Martha was ill and I'd been instructed to take over her class. This was one more clog in the drain. Between this new assignment and my regular duties in the clinic, I wondered when I'd find the time to formulate a reasonable exit strategy.
Not having a spare moment to throw together any lessons, I decided to test students on the world news, as interpreted by Dad during a People's Rally held later that evening. On Thursday morning, students filed in as eight-thirty drew nearer and studied me, while I lumbered to the middle of the tent.
"Comrade Martha's sick," I announced. "I'll be teaching her class for a bit. Quiz on last night's news. You've ten minutes to review your notes."
"Bullshit," said a girl, in a dull tone.
I spun around.
"Who said that?" I asked.
Sarah rose. I needed to wipe my eyes several times.
"Sit down," I shouted.
"Sorry Mom," she said. "Or is it Sister or Comrade Agatha now?"
"Be quiet and take your seat," my voice now boomed.
Sarah stomped towards me and pointed.
"I won't be quiet," she shrieked. "Hate this creepy place. Want to go home."
I locked my jaw, hissed like butter sizzling in a frying pan and launched a piece of chalk across the room.
"Damn it," I yelled. "Shut up right now."
Sarah stormed towards her desk, jacked her books, casted a chair backwards and blitzkrieged out of sight. Her classmates remained mum and fixated on their desktops. I sunk down, but could exhale and no longer had the urge to tremble.
"Good girl," I whispered to myself. "Knew you were bright."
Some of Sarah's peers were the most devoted and militant members of our cult. Until that moment, I had no idea where Sarah stood.
After a minute, I staggered up and slogged inside. The students hadn't moved a centimeter and refused to offer the slightest peek upward. I transcribed the questions onto a chipped, green chalkboard.
"Half hour," I said, as my fading Indiana-accent broke up. "Begin."
The clock's large hand crept slower than an arthritic tortoise during those thirty minutes. Once again, I had to press my hands together to hide the tremors. A brown-haired girl strode by the big top's half-open entrance. I propelled myself forward and staggered out.
"Sarah," I yelled.
It wasn't her. Sudden shouting could be heard in the distance. I stumbled in again.
"You okay?" asked sixteen-year-old Comrade Truman.
The light-skinned, African-American observed the scene.
"Nope," I said, while squinting at the clock.
Both my head and legs made violent, involuntary twitching motions, as if I was experiencing a Grand Mal seizure. The next time I glimpsed up, the hour-hand had sojourned to the nine.
"Pencils down," I said. "Bring me your tests. Class's then dismissed."
The expressionless pupils formed a single-file line, positioned their exams on the desk's right corner, whirled around and left. The last to complete the ritual was Scott, who stood by the door and pointed downward. I shrugged my shoulders and threw my hands out, hoping to convey I had no idea what he attempted to suggest.
"My paper," he murmured.
I reached into my case and sifted through the quizzes until locating his. In its lower left margin, a brief note read:
"Still plan to do it? If so, I'm in."
I gaped at him and motioned my head up and down. He smiled and burst out.
At ten after six the next morn, I hit the food tent and thought the scrambled eggs, bacon strips and home fries, instead of the standard rice and gravy slop we'd forced down our throats for the past eight months, was a hunger hallucination. Then I remembered the date was Friday, November 17, 1978 and Raymond would be, after months of speculation, visiting the wannabe Promised Land.
Laborers were given time off, dorms shined with new coats of fresh paint, latrines were spotless, the box was empty, SCU patients were returned to their bunks, I didn't hear any screaming coming from the cottages or witness anyone on their hands and knees sobbing, "The Johnsontown Express" was rehearsing well-known Top 40 songs I'd often hear when listening to a radio wasn't punishable with thirty-nine strikes from the Cat-O-Nine-Tails. For a brief while, our agricultural project felt like the tropical Utopia Dad advertised it to be.
A short time after arriving at work, I noticed Scott was absent.
"Can you take over for a few?" I asked Sister Jenn, the new Teaching Assistant. "Need to take care of something."
After rambling across the encampment for almost forty-five minutes, I spotted Les in the pavilion. When our eyes met, he vaulted off a bench and bolted.
"Stop," I ordered, as my hands and voice quivered. "Where'd they put him? What've you done?"
Les ignored my questions and amped his pace. Channeling my inner Bruce Jenner, I tracked him down near the playground and lunged for his neck. Several Brothers and Sisters pored over us. Les tugged on my left arm.
"Follow me," he snipped, as he scowled and pointed to his right.
We traversed several hundred yards to a more secluded area between a generator and well.
"He's in confinement," Les said.
After I kicked a patch of earth, a cloud of dirt flew into his face.
"Why?" I asked, while I tugged on my hair with enough strength to pluck out several strands. "Where?"
I walloped his left shoulder.
"Special lock boxes behind East House," he winced. "Dad decided to keep hostiles out of sight. It's only til Raymond goes."
"That may be too late," I cried out. "Or did you forget? I knew you were fucking with me."
I stomped to my left.
"Where're you going?" he shouted.
"To get him," I said.
"Calm down and don't be stupid," he snarled. "Want to get killed? You'll just have to trust me."
"You?" I asked. "Kidding, right?"
He clutched my shoulders and rocked me back and forth several times.
"If I was, you'd be drowning in Thorazine right about now," he responded.
I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, leaving bloody marks.
"Tell me," I said, as I thrust him backwards a number of feet. "What's the plan for those who want to leave?"
Les offered his left middle finger and clumped off.
Raymond, a bevy of American journalists and a few ex-communards, who were part of an organization known as "The Concerned Families," descended upon us at dusk. This group was comprised of many who had defected from the Church and accompanied the elected official to Guyana in an attempt to convince their relatives to return to America with them.
Late that night, I spotted Sister Carla, a close friend and yet one more of Dad's mistresses, sitting on one of the playground's swings with her head drooped over like a dying rose. When I drew nearer, I noticed her eyes were red.
"What's wrong?" I asked, as I dropped my butt into the swing next to her.
She inched her head leftward. Her tears morphed into sobs.
"Rumor's about twenty people are going with him," she bawled. "This's it, Aggie. It's done. At this time tomorrow, we'll be gone."
After eleven the following morning, Raymond's entourage returned. Sisters and Brothers found refuge wherever possible, even in latrines, to avoid contact with the persistent corps of journalists who exposed Dad as the fraud he was and our commune for a sham. The biggest shock came about one o'clock. My children and I were in the playground.
"Comrade Martha," Sarah hollered, as she hopped down from a seesaw and chased her. "Comrade Martha," she repeated, while Mark, Joey and I trailed.
Martha halted. Her clothes were soaked in sweat and she had bloody scratches on her arms and face.
"My God," I shouted. "What happened?"
"I was given a painful send off," she answered.
Martha lowered her head.
"Where're you going?" Sarah asked.
Martha's ashen face lost what little coloring it had.
"With the Congressman, dear," she sniffled. "We're leaving soon."
Sarah's eyes welled up. So did mine. Martha was among fifteen signature members of the People's Church desiring to leave with Raymond. There was no longer any doubt that Carla was correct. The People's Church was now in its final hours.
"Why?" Sarah asked.
Martha gazed at Sarah. I pushed the kids back and embraced Martha, who yanked my neck down towards her.
"Aggie," she whispered. "Please try and get yourselves out of here."
She pecked my right cheek and scampered off.
"Let's go to the garden," I said.
Sarah stomped her foot and positioned her hands on her hips.
"Why's everybody leaving?" she asked, as her voice fractured.
Sarah fixated on the pavilion. I neither answered nor argued. Sarah was too smart and I didn't have the strength to figure out how to pretend anymore. By now, hundreds wandered in and out of the open air facility. Those with luggage were being escorted to our transportation truck accompanied by jeers and hisses. I considered sending Sarah, Joey and Mark with Raymond, but held back, fearing the severe reprisals I knew Dad would order upon learning one his children betrayed him.
"Traitors," communards shouted in unison, as they spat upon and chucked animal feces at those who had the audacity to want to escape tyranny and return to their families.
Eardrum shattering wails then emanated from an area of the pavilion blocked from our sight.
"Kids," I hollered. "We're going to the clinic."
"But," Sarah interjected.
"Now," I yelled, as I snared their hands and ferried them away.
The building was unlocked, but empty. This move ensured their safety and bought me precious time.
"Each of you get into an examination area," I ordered.
They did as instructed.
"Close the curtain," I shouted, in my most tremulous state yet. "Have to go out for a little while. None of you move until I get back and don't make a sound. Understood?"
"Yes," answered Sarah.
"Okay," said Joey.
"Mark," I yelled.
"Yeah," he said, after a few seconds.
I went outside and scoured the entire compound for more than an hour. Since I didn't trust Les, freeing Scott gave the kids the best chance. It was my intention to slip past the commotion, sneak out towards East House and liberate him. However, a shade past three, the loud speakers screamed.
"Come to the pavilion, my children," Dad ordered. 'Let's meet for one final moment together."
I hastened back to the clinic. When thinking the kids might have listened to Dad, I wanted to vomit.
"Please," I mumbled, as I surrendered to my knees and into prayer position.
"Guys," I screamed.
"We're all still here," Sarah hollered.
I pounced up and exhaled with such force, I knocked a paper cup off the countertop.
"Don't listen to Dad," I instructed. "It's another loyalty test. Be back soon."
After staggering back out, I bumped into Truman.
"Seen Scott or Les?" I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
"Well?" he asked, as he threw out his arms. "Think it's for real this time?"
I corralled and hugged him. We then cried for a full two minutes. During our embrace, I witnessed Les waddling in the distance glancing up, down, backwards and forwards. Cherokee was in his arms.
"He didn't lie," I exulted, as I gaped at him. "Thank you, God."
More than nine-hundred communards moped towards the pavilion in under eight minutes. The Red Brigade sealed off the perimeter armed with assault rifles and crossbows. Les spotted me. I waved with both hands, stumbled to my feet and tiptoed towards the clinic. He reached the door and handed me Cherokee.
"Off to get your boy," he said. "Get in and stay there. If they see you, there's nothing I can do."
"If we can't live in peace, then let's die in peace," Dad's voice boomed over the loud speakers.
Sarah popped her head out.
"Is it over yet?" she asked.
"Not quite," I answered, as my body again quaked to almost seizure stage. "It will be soon. Back inside. Go on."
Fifteen minutes elapsed. I scuttled to the front and watched Les push Scott with his rifle. Though Scott had two swollen eyes and bruises covering his arms, I was relieved to see his limp had dissipated.
"Get moving, hostile," he shouted, as they stepped inside.
He drove Scott to the grime-laden, cold, black tiling.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
He lifted his weapon and aimed it at me.
"Shut up," he ordered.
I glared. Cherokee screamed.
"You bastard," I shouted.
"Shut up," Les instructed, as the rifle came within inches of my face.
Les lurched over and bulldozed me to the floor. Sarah tried to calm Cherokee by gently rocking her back and forth, but her wailing only increased. Joey and Mark cowered by my legs. Les pranced to the door.
"Everybody up," he said. "Be back in a minute and then we head to the pavilion."
My body trembled to the point I needed the assistance of all three of my kids and Scott to stand. My mind raced faster than my pulse. I needed a plan and quick. Scott gave me a gentle push away from Sarah the boys.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
My heart slowed a bit, but I was thankful my brain didn't.
"As he's leading us out, fake an injury," I said, as I thrust open a drawer and yanked out a small bottle of Thorazine. "Pretend your ankle's giving out or something."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked, as he threw out his hands.
"Just do what I said," I snapped back.
I rummaged through another drawer and let out a huge burst of air upon locating a syringe. Clomping footsteps could be heard and were growing louder.
"He's coming back," Sarah warned, as she rushed over and tugged on my arm.
I loaded eight hundred milligrams of the sedative into the needle and set it down on a countertop. Les barged through the door.
"The best testimony we can make is to leave this God damn world," Dad proclaimed, to more thunderous applause from the brainwashed zombies in the pavilion.
"Let's go," Les ordered.
I eyed Scott. Les snatched Scott's right arm and hurled him towards the door. Scott fell to one knee. Sarah and the boys bumped into Scott and everyone came to a halt.
"Ouch," Scott shouted. "Shit."
"Get up," Les screamed.
"Can't," he said. "My ankle gave out or something."
Despite the seriousness of the moment, I giggled. Scott bobbed his head and shot me 'a stop fucking around and take care of business' glare.
"You'll have to help me up," Scott told Les.
"Okay," Les responded, as he yanked Scott to his feet.
Without any further hesitation, I snared the syringe, darted towards Les and plunged the drug into his back. Mark's entire body shuddered and a sudden wetness accumulated in the midsection of Joey's pants. Les tumbled to the ground in seconds. Cherokee's cries amplified to a glass shattering pitch. We all studied each other for several seconds. I snapped my finger and gestured at Scott.
"Help me put him in the storage closet," I said.
Scott grabbed Les's legs. I seized his arms. We lifted him up and lugged his almost two-hundred pound frame into the sideboard that contained bed linens and a host of drugs. I shut and locked the door. Cherokee's yowls wouldn't cease.
"We've got to quiet her down," Scott said.
He was right. I hated to, but knew it was necessary.
"Sarah," I said. "Bring her to me."
I slid the syringe out of my pocket and administered my niece the little that remained of the calming agent.
"It's not gonna kill her, is it?" Sarah wondered.
"No," I replied. "Just put her to sleep."
Soon, Cherokee was quiet. Sarah took Cherokee and retired to a corner of the clinic near the door and stroked the infant's brown hair. The boys joined Sarah. A brief moment of silence was interrupted by Dad.
"Gather in, folks," he instructed. "It's easy. It's easy."
Scott and I observed each other, both of us knowing Dad's grand plan had commenced. Minutes later, children's cries could be heard. I plodded to a window. Many Comrades volunteered the lives of their children, but some struggled. One woman fought off five people, led by Mother, as they attempted to pry her baby away from her.
"Mother, Mother, please don't do this," Dad babbled on, as Marla forced a cup of what I'd later learn was grape flavored Kool-Aid laced with cyanide down both the woman's and her child's throat. "Don't do this."
I was so zoned in, I failed to notice Sarah had snuck up beside me.
"Back up," I said.
She retreated a few steps and stared.
"This's no loyalty test," she declared. "Is it?"
I lowered and shook my head. I'd lied to her for years about who and what our "Church" was and knew Sarah had figured out the horrible truth for herself. I embraced her with what little strength I had left. Scott jerked his frame away from the window.
"Got trouble," he said.
I hurried towards the window. Paul, the SCU security guard, stormed towards the clinic's steps.
"Now what?" Scott asked, as he threw out his arms.
"Uh, uh…," I stumbled. "Everyone to the closet."
We all raced in that direction. I fumbled with the key and opened the door just as Paul made his way in. I positioned my finger over my mouth and gestured to my left. Scott led Sarah, who held a slumbering Cherokee, the boys and finally me into what was now an area so cramped we couldn't avoid bumping into one another.
"Les," Paul shouted. "You in here?"
I pulled Mark close, but could not control his shivering. Mark broke my clutches and knocked a bottle off a shelf, which shattered upon impact with the ground.
"What the fuck's that?" Paul screamed. "Who's in there?"
He slammed on the closet's door. None of us uttered a sound. All our eyes fixated on the knob as it slowly rotated. About five seconds hence, Paul stood before us pointing his rifle in our direction. We minced into the clinic's main area. Paul leaned over, poked and prodded Les, who remained motionless.
"Forget about it," I told Paul. "I gave him enough Thorazine to put a tiger to bed."
Paul pounced up and glowered. For sure, we were cooked. I had no idea how to wiggle out of this mess.
"Cowards," he said, as he motioned us out. "I should shoot all of you myself.'
I clutched the hands of Joey and Mark. Out of nowhere, Scott attacked Paul and placed him in a headlock. Paul fought to free himself. Sarah and the boys rubbernecked like they were viewing a ten car pileup on the Golden Gate Freeway. Paul gained momentum. I didn't have time to hunt for any more tranquilizers, so I grabbed a brick off the floor, raced towards them and clocked Paul on the head, which rendered him unconscious. Scott and I deposited Paul into the closet, locked the door and dumped the key into a trash receptacle. Scott reminded me the victory was short lived.
"Can't hide in here forever," he said. "Gotta move."
The screams from the pavilion had ebbed. I shuffled to the window. Person after person dropped to the ground, almost as if they were being gunned down by an expert sniper perched in a nearby palm tree. Sarah tugged on her hair.
"They're all dying," Sarah said, crying hysterically.
Scott caressed her shoulders. As awful as it was to think, the fewer people left, the greater our chance for success. It was time.
"We're leaving now," I said, in an authoritative tone, as I stomped to the center of the clinic.
Scott lifted Sarah up. The boys shuddered behind Scott.
"How we doing this?" Scott asked.
"We just go," I replied.
Scott nodded. I inched open the clinic's door and glanced to my left and right several times, like I was stopped at a tricky intersection. When I deemed it clear and safe, I stepped out. Scott and the children trailed. As we proceeded past the pavilion, hundreds of bodies laid before us. Many were dead. Those that weren't writhed in agony, as they foamed at the mouth and convulsed. The putrid aroma of burnt almonds permeated the air.
"Okay," I said. "Try not to look. Just run."
I pulled Joey and Mark forward. They bolted off. Sarah followed with Cherokee, who was still asleep and completely unaware she was on the verge of escaping the sight of what would go down as the worst deliberate loss of American lives until the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. Scott shielded the children as he bolted away. I never thought I'd survive long enough to include myself in any escape attempt, but couldn't stop to think about it. I glimpsed back and dashed towards the jungle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sister Marla, who spotted me and alerted Brother Stewart, another member of the Red Brigade. Scott and the kids neared the brush. I glanced over my shoulder again and witnessed Stewart in pursuit with a rifle. I amped my pace.
"Stop," I heard his voice bellow.
Two gunshots followed. The next thing I knew, my legs went numb. My back felt warm and moist.
"Mom," Sarah screamed.
My trembling hands were covered in blood. I tried to stand, but couldn't.
"Go," was all I could say.
The last images I remembered were Sarah crying, followed by Scott lifting her up over his shoulders to continue their sojourn to freedom. I was thrilled Joey and Mark hadn't stopped and didn't see what I thought would be their mother's last moments on earth. As they disappeared, a brief moment of serenity overcame me. However, seconds later, Stewart closed in. I rolled around the ground like I was on fire and edged towards the jungle. Though growing weaker and weaker, I forced myself to move until I slid down an embankment. If I was to die, I'd rather be sacrificed to a hungry leopard or puma.
"Thanks, God," I whispered to myself, knowing the kids had escaped.
I shut my eyes, expecting never to open them again.
"Thank you, God," I whispered.
The mission was still a success. At least my children would survive.
"You alive?" shouted a man with a bass, but elegant English accent. "You alive?"
An object was jammed into my right side. I inched open my eyes. It was lights out. The blur cleared. Three black soldiers hovered over me with automatic weapons drawn. When I attempted to stand, an excruciating pain in my back brought about an intense bout of nausea.
"Can you move?" one of the soldiers asked.
"Not really," I whimpered.
The soldier snapped his finger. Within seconds, a team of medics appeared and loaded me onto a stretcher. I faded out again. When I awoke, it was in a hospital room. I was dying of thirst. Though still weak and sore, I was just able to reach a pitcher of water on an adjacent table. I downed a full glass in one huge gulp. Several minutes later, a young, white man with a stethoscope around his neck entered.
"Good morning, Agatha," he said. "Feeling better today? Sure are looking better."
My heart raced. Queasiness set in. A cold sweat accumulated on my forehead.
"How'd you know my name?" I asked, with a strong hint of fear and wonderment.
"Relax, I'm Dr. Stephens. I put you back together. You've been in here for three days now."
I propped myself up as far as I could.
"Back together?" I inquired.
Stephens glanced at a chart and placed it a few feet from the water pitcher.
"Yep," he replied. "Had a nasty bullet wound in your lower back. Lucky though. Missed your spine and all major blood vessels. Did lose a fair amount of blood and have been out since your operation. Nice to finally meet."
"How do you do, doctor," I said, with a bit of sarcasm. "Thanks for your efforts. Still haven't answered my question though. How do you know my name?"
"A very brave boy named Scott told us." The once quiet, steady beat being tracked by the heart monitor became fast and jumpy upon hearing Scott's name mentioned.
"Is he okay?" I stammered. "How 'bout my children and Cherokee? They make it?"
My breathing grew labored.
"Settle down," Stephens instructed. "They're all fine. As a matter of fact, they're all here, healthy and dying to see you. I wanted to wait 'til you got your strength back."
I leaned out of bed, ripped the line out of my left arm and placed a foot on the floor.
"I've got to see them," I yelled. "Right now."
Stephens stepped forward and gently nudged me back into bed.
"Calm down," he said. "I'll bring them to you."
When he disappeared, I bawled.
"I love you, God," I said. "You're the real God."
"Mom," I could hear Sarah bellow, from down the hall. "Mom."
Sarah flew through the door. Mark and Joey trailed her. All three threw their arms around me and we shared a suffocating embrace. None of us spoke. However, words weren't necessary. When the kids jumped down, I glanced up and saw Scott standing in the doorway. He eyed me. I placed my hands out and inched them forward like a crossing guard directing a bus. Sarah, Mark and Joey backed away, as if they understood that Scott and I needed to share this special moment. Soon, Scott was in my arms. I gripped him tighter than I did my children.
"Thank you," I cried. "There're no words. Thanks so much."
The next time we faced other, a single tear streaked down his face.
"No problem," he said, still macho as ever.
Stephens appeared again.
"Okay everyone," he said. "Mom needs rest."
Scott led Sarah, Mark and Joey out. Despite my elation, I wanted to know the full truth.
"What else happened, doc?" I inquired.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"You know what I'm asking," I replied, with a bit of curtness.
Stephens leaned over, placed his hand on my head and exhaled with force.
"A lot," he answered. "Sure you want to hear all this now?"
I nodded. "The people I most care about made it," I said.
Stephens pulled up a chair and plopped down. "Where do I start?" he asked. He again sighed and removed a pair of glasses.
"With everything you know," I said.
"Okay," he began. "More than nine hundred are dead."
I began to weep.
"Hundreds were children," he continued. Stephens pounced up. His face turned red. "How could he do that?" he asked. "Why couldn't the rest of those parents been like you? I just don't understand how they could follow this shit." He returned to his seat, dropped his face in his hands and sobbed. "I'm sorry," he said.
I had a feeling I'd be subject to this response from people for the rest of my life. The truth was, I wish I had an answer to his question and could quell his rage, but I couldn't. Stephens arose and shuffled towards the door.
"Doc," I said.
He halted and veered around. "Yeah?" he said.
My heart thwacked again.
"Do I need to be worried about anything other than my health?" I asked, half-fearing the answer, but needing and wanting to know.
"Absolutely not," he responded. "Scott explained everything to both the Guyanese and American authorities."
The beeping of the heart monitor lessened. Stephens stepped back into the room.
"However," Stephens continued.
"Oh God," I muttered.
"Sooner or later, you're gonna have to speak with a Major Harris," Stephens rattled on. "He's the lead American investigator."
I sat up.
"Could you give me another glass of water?" I asked.
Stephens complied. I belted half the contents down.
"Among the few survivors were a Les and Paul found out cold in the clinic after the suicides," he said.
I clenched my jaw and made fists with both hands. The heart monitor got busy again. I'd saved their rotten skins.
"Every single survivor said they were part of it," Stephens said. "However, those two claimed to know you well and, after finding out you survived, said you'd be able to clear things up. Whatever that meant."
"Did they?" I said, with disgust and anger. "I'll speak with Harris."
"I suggest you wait a few more days," Stephens pleaded. "By then, you should be strong enough to venture out for a while."
"Good," I said, as I yawned and shut my eyes.
The next few days were spent getting my wounds cleaned, bandages changed and spending time with Scott and the kids. By Friday, I could stand for more than a few minutes and could do without a wheelchair. I threw on a pair of tattered dungarees and flannel shirt around noon. Stephens entered the room.
"You sure?" he asked.
"It's time," I answered.
Stephens led me to the hospital's entrance where I was met by two young men in fatigues.
"Hello, Ms. Johnson," said a solider with the name Marks emblazoned on his jacket pocket. "It'll be a short ride. Let us know if you need anything."
I nodded. Marks and his cohort named Davis escorted me into the back of a military jeep. In less than ten minutes, we disembarked at a command post the United States Army had set up a mile or two from the crime scene. As I was led into a tent, a truck pulled up. One of the soldiers opened the vehicle's back door and, when I saw countless wooden caskets inside, I cried.
"Ms. Johnson," someone shouted.
I whirled around and watched a tall man, with brown-grey hair and a mustache approach. He placed his hand out.
"Major Edward Harris," he said, as I took it.
Harris brought me into a makeshift office with curtains acting as doors. Hundreds of papers were strewn across his desk. He yanked out a flask and took a healthy sip of whatever was inside it.
"I apologize for my unprofessional behavior," he said. "As you can imagine, it's been a long week."
"For some more than others," I said.
He occupied a wooden chair behind the desk.
"Of course," he replied. "Please forgive me."
"Just want to let you know Ms. Johnson," he began. "You've been cleared of any involvement."
"So I've been told," I responded.
After being in a comfortable, air-conditioned hospital, the Guyanese heat set in again. Harris cracked up an electric fan, but that did little to cool me. I didn't need any reminders of Johnsontown, but the heat couldn't be quelled. Harris rose. His underarms were soaked in perspiration.
"Tell me about Les Johnson and Paul Anderson," he said. "Those whom we've spoken to say they helped perpetrate Dad's grand plan. They deny it, of course. I know this's tough, but unfortunately, being a relative of both Jerry and Les Johnson, you're the link. What can you tell us?"
"Everything," I replied.
I had no feelings about Paul and lost what smattering of affinity for Les when he lied, betrayed and volunteered his daughter, sister, niece, nephews and Scott to Dad's sadistic endeavor. I'd hoped the more honest I was, the more they'd suffer.
"As you can imagine," Harris rattled on. "The outcry in the States is off the charts about this. The people want the heads of any surviving perpetrators."
So did I.
"Not to mention," Harris continued. "The government has given us full authority to act swiftly and harshly, if you get my meaning."
I sure did and applauded them for it.
"They were two of Dad's most loyal sidekicks," I said. "Anything Dad wanted, they did. Torture, beating, you name it. Les was a double-crossing bastard who prepared to kill all of us, even his own infant daughter. Do with them what you must. No punishment's too stiff in my opinion."
"Okay," Harris said. "Just so you know, you're incriminating your brother."
"Yes," I said. "And I've got no problems doing so."
Harris ascended.
"We'd like you to ID them first," he said. "Just to be sure."
"I understand," I said. "Let's get it over with."
I trailed Harris out. He led me to another tent where Les and Paul were detained.
"Do you need a minute?" Harris asked.
"No," I replied. "But, I would like to face them."
Harris retreated and stood by the entrance. I glared at Les and, as I neared his cell, he stood up and smiled. Paul sat on the edge of a cot with his head down.
"Aggie," Les said. "So good to see you."
"Fuck you," I retorted. "The only comfort I want you to take's in knowing I'll care for Cherokee."
I turned around and lumbered towards the exit. Les dropped to his knees.
"Aggie, please," he begged. "Aggie, we've got to talk. You can't do this to me. Dad made me. Dad made me. You know that. Aggie please. Aggie."
I veered around after rejoining Harris.
"I'd love to shoot you myself," I said. "But, I don't have the time. Enjoy the minute or two you've got left, you backstabbing asshole."
I ventured outside the tent. Harris stopped, turned towards the soldiers guarding Les and Paul and nodded.
"Aggie," Les continued to bellow. "Aggie"
The next sound was a gunshot.
"Have a nice trip south," I muttered. "And give Dad the finger for me."
Matthew Emma asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Q: Any possible way to avoid order by desc to select top 500 latest records. Since sorting causes so many performance issue, I have a table with two columns c1 and c2 both are integer.
I have to select top 500 latest records with out order by desc.
Table has more than 50 million records.

*

*c1 is clustered index with "order by asc".

*Cannot remove the clustered index done for c1 since it has too many
 dependencies.

*I need to sort the table in descending order of c2.

*So when I write a select query with out "order by desc" it should sort in descending order of c2..

Any possible way to achieve this.

A: There is no way to achieve this with certainty, as a SQL table is an unordered collection of rows. Any ordering without mentioning an ORDER BY clause is incidental and can change arbitrarily.
For reference, from SELECT - ORDER BY Clause (Transact-SQL):

The order in which rows are returned in a result set are not guaranteed unless an ORDER BY clause is specified.

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Common nouns | A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z | 123..
Proper nouns A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z| HOME DICCAN
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Ryoji Ikeda at Paris Centre Pompidou
Jun. 15 - Aug. 27 . 2018. Paris More info.
Composer and plastician, the artist immerges us in a double space of images and musix.
Datamatics
On June 15 and 16, Ikeda offers Datamatics concert. "Using pure data as a source for sound and visuals, this piece combines abstract and mimetic presentations of matter, time and space. datamatics is the second audiovisual concert in the datamatics series. Projecting dynamic computer-generated imagery in pared down black and white with striking colour accents, the intense yet minimal graphic renderings of data progress through multiple dimensions. From 2D sequences of patterns derived from hard drive errors and studies of software code, the imagery transforms into dramatic rotating views of the universe in 3D, whilst in the final scenes four-dimensional mathematical processing opens up spectacular and seemingly infinite vistas. A powerful and hypnotic soundtrack reflects the imagery through a meticulous layering of sonic components to produce immense and apparently boundless acoustic spaces.
"It is the full–length version of this audiovisual concert. With a commissioned second part added, datamatics [ver.2.0] is significantly developed from the earlier version of this piece which premiered in March 2006. Driven by the primary principles of datamatics, but objectively deconstructing its original elements – sound, visuals and even source codes – this work creates a kind of meta–datamatics. Real–time program computations and data scanning are employed to create an extended new sequence that is a further abstraction of the original work. The technical dynamics of the piece, such as its extremely fast frame rates and variable bit depths, continue to challenge and explore the thresholds of our perceptions."

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The person living next to me smokes inside of their apartment and it goes through the vents into my apartment. It is very unpleasant. Other than that I do not have any complaints.
Hey Elise, I think I took care of that problem for you on Friday. You can always call in a work order so we can see if it is something fixable or a solution we can find. Like I said, I went ahead and took care of it Friday so come by or call the office to let me know if you are still having any issues.
It's quick to downtown and UT. The interior is up to date, and quite big for my one bedroom apartment. I wish I had washer and dryer connections.
Not allowing family members to swim without renter being present is a little strange. Had my dad and niece and nephew visit and I work during the day and they weren't allowed to swim. Just kind of...feels like a dictatorship. Also had a roach problem as soon as I moved in.
Thank you for taking the time to give us a review. Unfortunately, as mentioned at move in and with all the signs posted at the pool, residents must accompany all guests at ALL times unless you are on the lease. It is a liability issue but the plus side of things are that we do not enforce the guest limit so if you are there, you could have your own pool party, grill out and make a day of it. The roach issue we had no idea since there were a few but we immediately had Orkin in that day, continued to follow up and had them service it again the next week as a precaution and luckily they were gone. We apologize and hopefully our quick response made things a bit better. We hope you are enjoying your stay here and always value our residents feedback.
The apartments are nice but they aren't as quite as they say. Dogs barking day in and day old can get old. Outside of th noise, it's a pretty good place to live.
Hi Jessica, thank you for the review. The apartments are brick and concrete so there is sound barrier that is greater than if you were in new construction. Imagine if it was not concrete and brick and the noise a barking dog would cause. Unfortunately, that is the downside of apartment living and not being in a single house. The great news is that all the residents in your area were called and the resident that had a dog barking just moved from out of State and his little guy was scared and still not used to his new surroundings but now the resident is aware and took measures to help with that and so far so good. Let us know if it is still a issue so we can address it and try and get you some relief. So far the other residents hearing the dog have mentioned that all is well again so I hope the same for you.
The only problem we have is that our children's chalk art isn't allowed to stay on our patio floor, we're told to wash it off because it is unsightly.
Hi Ashley, thank you so much for the review. We value you and your family as part of our family going on 2 years now. We think the chalk art is beautiful and colorful but the outside appearance has to stay "clean" so if you use it, we just ask that it be washed down so that the property stays neat and clean. What was mentioned as unsightly was all the soda cans and trash sitting out on your patio that just needed to be taken to the trash dumpsters that are provided and paid for by the property. The letter mentioned that it also causes unwanted "pest guests" and wildlife such as raccoons and possums that can be attracted to those sweet smells etc. We hope that clarifies things and again, we love having you here with us and always appreciate any feed back.
I enjoy living at this apartment complex for the most part. It's a good location for me to commute to the local university. I love having the dog park and other amenities.
Thanks for the review Kelley! We actually have had a few community events in the last few months but you weren't here! We know it is hard for everyone to attend due to work schedules etc. Maybe you will be able to attend our cookout at the pool in June. Dates will be decided soon and in the newsletter that goes out this month for June. Hope to see you there!!!
I'm new to the area and it has been a great experience so far. The staff seem friendly and they provide tokens of appreciation every so often to the residents.
Thank you Alicia for the review and welcome to Knoxville. You should check out Market Square sometime!
Thank you so much for the great review! Staff is pretty awesome! HAHAHA, Let us know if you need anything.
Friendly staff and maintenance! 10 minutes away from anything I would need. Clean, friendly, modern place to live. Quiet community. I have been here for 2 years and I just signed my lease for another year.
We miss you but hope your are doing well!!!
The one bedroom at the canyon has been perfect for me. It is spacious while also being cozy. I love that it feels like a house, not like an apartment. My neighbors are friendly, and my pup loves the dog park! Maintence is always friendly and on top of all issues, and office staff are always willing to lend a hand. Best place I've ever lived!
Thank you so much for the awesome review!!! That's what a lot of current and former residents always said is that it feels more like a house or condo then an apartment. We have the best maintenance team hands down and the office staff ROCKS as well :) HA! Thanks again and we love having you as one of our sweet residents!
Thank you for the review! That was not a good day but thankfully it was found. You were just the unlucky one. We are so glad that you are still with us and enjoying the bark park! It is super cool!!!!
I have lived here for 2yrs and I have just resigned my lease for another year. I have a renovated one bedroom apartment and I have been pleased, overall. The bathroom is quite tiny (and has no cabinets or shelves) but all the other rooms are spacious. The kitchen is really nice and the balcony is HUGE. Although I wasn't initially thrilled with the location, I have grown to like this area of Knoxville. The Canyons is a great place for the price.
Thank you so much for the review! Honestly, I have grown to this area as well and find myself on this side of town for EVERYTHING.
Wonderful staff, beautiful landscape, pet friendly! Some apartments are on the small side. The price is great for college kids or starting out on your own.
Everything has been great! My neighbors are awesome, the ladies in the office are super nice, and the apartment is so cute. It's also very peaceful.
We love being able to have our dogs here and the facilities are well kept. We love that they take time to appreciate our veterans as well with military discounts! Our staff is pleasant to work with and the new improvements to the bark park have made having a pet here more exciting as well as expanding learning opportunities for the dogs when others aren't out in the park.
I like that it is quiet. Community is clean and well maintained. Maintenance are always quick to fix any issues. Friendly neighbors and community staff.
Our maintenance staff is the best. They are quick to get your issues resolved. Thank you for noticing that our lawn care company maintains the grounds and always keeps the flowers looking beautiful. This is your home and we take pride it keeping is clean. Thank you for the suggestion. As lower rent is always nice. We are improving on how the community looks. We are in the process of finishing up our (or may I say your) new Dog Wash. You do have access to the 24/7 fitness center, salt water pool (during spring and summer season), Dog Park, Volleyball Court and Tennis Court. We are always open to suggestions for a new amenity or how to make your home better. Nate and Bethany we are happy that you chose Canyon Knox as your apartment home!
Quiet neighborhood with lots of amenities and clean apartments. Good place for pets, well accepted. During the summer months, large clean pool available as well!
Madison, thank you for the review. We are very pet friendly. We are in the process of building a Dog Wash. This way it is easier to wash your pet instead of kneeling over the bathtub. We do have one of the largest/deepest pools in the apartment community area. I hope you will enjoy this season; it will be here before we know it! Thank you again for the review!
They're incredibly nice and speedy with maintenance requests! When I moved in they gave me a welcome package and patiently answered my million questions!
Great staff, location, and service. However, it's incredibly noisy... On top of the expected upstairs neighbor noise, the constant yard work and construction is an understandable, but very frustrating issue.
I am sorry that you are having a noise issue. If you have an issue with neighbors being noisy please let us know that way we can address the issue. Our landscapers are here every Tuesday unless weather is not good, then they come on another day. The landscapers make the community look clean and beautiful. They have to blow the leaves and any debris to clear off sidewalks for your safety. We have been replacing some siding and windows for the past 2 years due to some weathering. Some underground pipes had to be repaired that was out of our control. We are also installing a new dog wash across from your building for residents to give their pets a bath in the dog wash tubs instead of their personal bathtubs. Our service is top notch. Our maintenance team is on top of every maintenance issue quickly. I appreciate the review. I am glad that you have made Canyon Knox Landing your home! Please call me with any noise issues that you are having.
My boyfriend and I love our apartment! The complex is always very clean and neat, management is lovely, and overall our experience has been good.
Thank you Sarah for the review. We love having you both here! Hopefully we can keep you for awhile!!!!!


text:
Massive semi-truck fire closes I-49 in Kansas City
by: Tribune Media
Posted: Sep 27, 2019 / 05:14 PM CDT / Updated: Sep 27, 2019 / 05:23 PM CDT
KANSAS CITY, Mo. — A semi-truck carrying a load of fuel caught fire during rush hour traffic Friday afternoon.
The fire was reported in the northbound lanes of I-49 and Blue Ridge Boulevard around 3:45 p.m. Before the fire, the semi was involved in a crash with two other cars.
A man in one of the cars was taken to the hospital for trauma-related injuries. He's said to be in stable condition. Nobody was injured as a result of the fire.
I-49 northbound and southbound lanes are closed and traffic is being routed on to Red Bridge Road. The closure will last for "some time" according to KCFD Chief Jimmy Walker.
Fire crews were able to bring the fire under control after 4 p.m.
The semi was reportedly carrying over 8,000 pounds of gasoline.
Photo courtesy Ben Stallings


My concern is that people are being misled into thinking that an emotional experience is the same as being touched by God. I fear that on the basis of an emotional experience, people will think they have received something from God that they in fact did not receive, and that when reality sets in, they will become discouraged with Christianity and reject their one and only Savior!
And so the purpose of this article is to search for the truth concerning the unusual manifestations of pentecostalism/revival movements and attributed to the Holy Spirit, examining them in the light of the word of God. Jesus said in John 8:31-32, "If you abide in my word, then you are truly disciples of mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Psalm 119:160a says, "The sum of thy word is truth". Therefore, to walk in the word is to walk in truth. To go beyond the word is to walk in error. We cannot go wrong by staying with the Word. Anything that agrees with the word of God is the spirit of truth. Anything that goes beyond the word, we must assume on the basis of the Word, is the spirit of error.
So what's going on? Are these unusual manifestations of God or not? To know the truth, we must look at them in the light of the word of God. God's word is truth! God has given us His word as a guideline so that we don't have to wonder what is of God and what is not. Refusing to test all things by the standard of the Word opens us up to spiritual deception. Someone might ask, "Can't the Spirit do things beyond the Word?", to which we must answer yes, He can, He's God! But a better question is "would He?", and I believe the answer is no, because I believe the Spirit will stay within the guidelines of scripture so that we won't have to wonder if something is of Him or not. God is not a God of confusion, but of peace (1 Cor. 14:33). We'll compare the manifestations some people have claimed to experience in church meetings with what happened in the Bible, using the scriptures they offer as proof texts to support their belief that these manifestations are produced by the Holy Spirit. We will find that these proof text scriptures typically require assumption, stretching, or misinterpretation in order to make then appear to be describing the manifestations people are claiming to have had. We will first define the manifestation, then consider the scriptures.
This is being overcome by the Spirit and laughing uncontrollably. (It should be pointed out that the fruit of the Spirit is self control. It should also be pointed out that just calling something holy does not make it holy!) The first two passages we'll consider are Gen. 17:15-17 and Gen. 18:11-15. These two passages describe Abraham and Sarah's reaction to being told they would have a son late in life. Doubting, they both laughed at what they considered ridiculous. But their laughter was the result of their circumstances, not the result of being overcome by the Holy Spirit.
The next passage is Gen. 21:1-6, when Isaac is born. This is certainly a time of great joy, and they said others would laugh with them, but there is nothing here to imply uncontrollable laughter. Neither is there anything here to indicate they were overcome by the Spirit. Their laughter seems to simply be the result of their joy in child bearing.
In Job 8:20-21, Job's friends encourage him that God would turn his trials into triumph, and in Psalm 126:1- 3, the children of Israel were filled with joy at release from captivity. But again, the cause of the laughter is not the result of being overcome by or even having an encounter with the Holy Spirit. It was clearly the result of their circumstances. Nor is there the implication their laughter was uncontrollable.
Many other scriptures speak of laughter metaphorically or as mockery, including 2 Chron. 30:10, Psalm 2:1-4, 37:13, 52:1-7, 59:8, Prov. 1:26, Ezekiel 23:32, Mat. 9:24, Mark 9:24, and Luke 8:53.
A New Testament passage sometimes used as a proof text is Acts 2:1-21. But what was it that got the attention of the multitude in this situation? "Holy laughter"? It's possible the multitude heard the wind (V.6). But most definitely they heard the believers speaking in their languages! The context shows that "tongues" is the issue in this particular situation. Though they are certainly filled with joy, there is no evidence implicit or explicit of laughter, uncontrollable or otherwise!
Therefore, we find no scriptural evidence for the phenomena of "holy laughter".
In an August 1994 Charisma magazine article entitled, "Praise the Lord and Pass the New Wine", Rodney Howard-Browne claims the Spirit of God came on people in one meeting and caused them to laugh while he was preaching on hell. "The more I told people what hell was like, the more they laughed." Does the Holy Spirit consider hell a laughing matter?
Notice, there are no examples of "holy laughter" in the ministry of Jesus, Paul, any other Apostles, or anywhere else in the New Testament, which is where the Holy Spirit is poured out on all flesh. Thus, we use the phrase "extra-biblical" to describe this as well as the other unusual manifestations.
The second manifestation we want to consider is staggering as though drunk. Certain ministers encourage believers to get "drunk on the Spirit", using Eph. 5:18 as a proof text to justify the invitation. The proof one is drunk is that he staggers as though intoxicated. But is that what Paul was admonishing us to do, or was he admonishing us to be under the control of/under the influence of the Holy Spirit so that we would walk in a manner pleasing to the Lord? I would suggest that he was admonishing us to walk in love, not in a drunken stupor!
The Acts 2 passage mentioned above is also used as a proof text for drunken staggering, but that requires a stretching of the meaning of the passage. Clearly, the accusation of drunkenness was the result of the babbling in other tongues heard by the multitude. Tongues is clearly the issue when the context of the passage is understood. Staggering is nowhere mentioned or implied in the passage.
Staggering and drunkenness are spoken of metaphorically in Jer. 23:9 and Rev. 17:2.
Notice, again, there is no evidence in the life or ministry of Jesus, Peter, John, Paul, or any other apostles anywhere else in the New Testament of people staggering around as though drunk. There were no services conducted for the purpose of getting drunk on the Spirit! Do I believe the Holy Spirit can fall so mightily on a person that they cannot stand upright? Yes, of course. He is God! But there is no biblical evidence that it ever happened to believers before, therefore it is not something we should expect God to do to us today!
At a meeting we attended in 1997, the speaker never spoke the Word, but spent the evening staggering around, "dispensing" the Holy Spirit (by laying on hands, pointing, blowing, or "scooping") on others so they could get drunk too. But is that the purpose of the presence or anointing of the Holy Spirit? In the Word, the signs and wonders of the Holy Spirit were to either confirm the Word that was preached or to prepare hearts to receive the Word, but the Word and the Spirit are always seen together in the New Testament, for the purpose of bringing salvation. The Holy Spirit does not act independently for entertainment purposes! I cannot imagine Jesus acting in such a manner. There is no biblical evidence that either Peter, John, or Paul ever scooped the Holy Spirit on anyone in order to see them, dance, stagger, or fall. The Holy Spirit is not a commodity to be "scooped", He is a Person, He is God! We do not control Him, He controls us!
This is being overcome by the Holy Spirit so powerfully that you fall down. (it should be noted that the term is not found in scripture). Also called resting in the spirit, this is the most common of what are believed by some to be manifestations/demonstrations of the power of the Holy Spirit. Question: Did God ever knock down anyone who came to Him for ministry in the Bible? We continue to use the proof text scriptures used by the preachers who practice these manifestations.
In Gen. 2:21 and 15:12-21, God causes Adam and Abraham to go into a deep sleep (Heb. - tardemah); with Adam, to take a rib with which to fashion Eve; with Abraham, to establish His covenant with him. Yet those who are "slain" in today's revival meetings don't go into deep sleep. In fact, they testify of being well aware of what's going on. What was experienced by Adam and Abraham were special, unique circumstances and should not be thought of as normative for believers, as "slain in the Spirit" is.
In Gen. 17:1-3, Abraham falls on his face, not "under the anointing" but of his own free will in awe, reverence, and worship, before holy God.
Num. 24:1-4, & 16 speak of Balaam "falling down" (NASB), but the meaning here is unclear as the various translations demonstrate (NIV - falls prostrate, KJV - falls into a trance). Other translations imply the spiritual state of the man, falling away from God. Regardless, Balaam is referred to in the New Testament as false teacher, not an example for believers.
1 Sam. 19:20-24 speaks of Saul, in rebellion against God, seeking to murder David. Under the influence of the Spirit, he prophesies and falls down stripped naked. But Saul is not coming to the altar of God for ministry in this passage. He is actually in total rebellion against God. Therefore, this story cannot be an example of the modern phenomena of being "slain" claimed by believers today.
1 Kings 8:11 and 2 Chron. 5:1-14 tell us when Solomon's temple was complete, the glory cloud of God came and filled the temple so that the priests could not stand to minister in the temple. Does this mean they were knocked down or stuck to the ground, unable to get up? That's not what the text says. More likely it means they could not take their positions to minister in the temple as they normally would have because God's presence prevented them from doing so. Compare with 2 Chron. 7:1-2 and Ex. 40:34-35.
Isa. 28:13 is clearly spoken to/about a people in rebellion. Therefore, as with Saul above, this story cannot be an example of the modern phenomena of being "slain" claimed by believers today.
In Ezekiel 1:28, 3:23, 43:1-5, 44:4, it is more likely that the Prophet "falls on his face" of his own free will in awe of Holy God, for that is what the phrase means, not that he was "slain". In his case, the Spirit is not said to have knocked him down but rather to have stood him up!
In Dan. 10:7-11, it appears that Daniel was overcome by the vision he saw and fainted (v.8)! Alas, all his "catchers" ran away!
In Mat. 17:1-8, Peter, James, and John fall down on their own free will, not under "the anointing", but in fear and trembling - in awe of God. Likewise, in Mat. 28:1-4, the guards at Jesus' tomb did not fall under the anointing but fainted out of fear!
John 18:6 gives us a clear demonstration of the power and authority of Jesus Christ. When the Roman soldiers came to arrest Jesus, He drove them to the ground with His word! But again, these were not seeking a touch from the Lord, they were seeking to arrest Him! Thus there is no comparison between this situation and the experience testified about among believers today.
Acts 9:1-5 and 26:14-15 tell us about Paul's Damascus Road experience. Clearly this is the Lord's doing. Yet Paul is not looking for an encounter with Jesus, but rather seeking to persecute the church. As with the above, not a type of a seeker being "slain".
There are three proof texts offered to us in the Revelation. The first is in chapter 1:10-17 where John, in the Spirit, sees the Lord in all His, glory, splendor, and majesty, and falls at His feet as a dead man. Clearly He is overcome with awe at what he sees and passes out. He is not "under the anointing". The last two are similar, in chapter 7:11-12 and 11:16, and speak of willful falling down prostrate in worship, not "slain in the Spirit".
The Bible tells us Jesus had the Spirit without measure. No man has walked under the type of anointing that Jesus possessed, and yet not one person who came seeking an encounter with Jesus experienced the phenomena of being "slain", with the possible exception of those who were demonized! Neither did it happen under the ministry of Peter, John, Paul, or any of the apostles. Notice that there's not a single example of someone being slain through the laying on of hands. Jesus never lined people up in a prayer line to knock them all down. Neither did he "slay" them by twirling his cloak at them, or winding up like a baseball pitcher and hurling the Holy Spirit/anointing on them as one televangelist has done.
Why then, do so many fall? I believe there are several reasons. Please do not misunderstand this part of this paper. We are not accusing anyone of doing these things deliberately. For the most part, leaders no doubt don't even realize they are doing these things, possibly because they don't understand how these things work. Never-the-less, they do happen.
Most leaders don't understand the pressure they put on those they minister to manifest something that will validate their ministry. Neither do they understand how simple it is to deceive and control another person's mind and psychologically manipulate them without even trying! In a church in Toronto, Canada, they've been known to call those who don't manifest something "hard to receive". I.e., if you don't manifest something, you didn't get anything from God. The implication - you are spiritually inferior. But this only serves to encourage people to fake a manifestation. Some ministers spend hours telling stories and hearing testimonies of people being "slain in the spirit", thus conditioning attendees with the power of suggestion. In the prayer line you are told exactly what to do in order to "receive". We fail to understand how powerful the "power of suggestion" really is!
Everyone else is doing it. If you don't, you won't appear as spiritual as the rest. When you are in a room filled with people who are expecting something to happen to you, the peer pressure is almost impossible to resist. Unfortunately, sometimes people who are insecure (which is just about all of us to some degree!) and don't want to be left out or thought of as unspiritual will often imitate what they see happening in others. They do it for acceptance. People would be less likely to yield to this pressure if there were no catchers present! Do people really think God would knock them down and hurt them? Some justify catchers by saying they are there to keep people from getting hurt in order to avoid lawsuits, but they ultimately serve to encourage people to fall. I wonder how many would be "slain" if they knew no one was behind them to catch them?
Because most Christians believe whatever they are told without ever checking things out in the Word for themselves, they are easily led to expect to experience what others claim to have experienced. So when they are told what might happen to them, they expect it to and simply "go for it". People are fascinated by, hungry for, and chase after, the supernatural. They always have. They always will!
It is possible to want so much for something to be "of God" that you convince yourself that it is God and become a willing participant.
Some people are just phony and like to participate in all the latest religious fads. To them it's a game they play, saying, "look at me. See how spiritual I am." Catchers only serve to encourage this attitude. Or a person may have a religious spirit that causes them to do unusual things.
Some people are overcome with emotion and respond in unusual ways. This has been the case in some pentecostal churches for years.
Because of these reasons, the psychological pressure to fall is so strong it is almost impossible not to fall if you go to one of these services.
Toronto Airport Christian Fellowship Pastor John Arnott, in The Father's Blessing, (Creation House, 1995, p.58) testifies to not being sure why he fell the first time he was "slain", as does Francis McNutt, author of Overcome By the Spirit (Chosen Books, 1990, pp. 19-20). In his book Daughter of Destiny, (Logos, 1976, p.281) Jamie Buckingham reports faking a fall for miracle healer Katherine Kuhlman so as not to make her look bad, saying he felt sorry for her.
Becky and I made the decision we would not play the game for anyone and have offended several preachers because we would not voluntarily fall down when hands were laid on us. If this were truly the Lord, we would not be able to resist! When God did knock people down (King Saul, Saul of Tarsus, the Roman soldiers) He did it without their consent or cooperation. They were driven to the ground!
Some people shake as though having a seizure or twitch like someone with Tourette's syndrome. This looks more like those Jesus delivered from demons than anything else in the Bible. Proponents of these manifestations point to verses such as Psalm 99:1, 114:7, Jeremiah 5:22, and 33:9 as proof that these manifestations are caused by the Spirit, but each of them speaks of trembling in holy fear and awe in the presence of the Lord - a response to His presence, not something He is doing to them. Similarly, the dread that came on Daniel's companions in Daniel 10:7, is a response to the Presence, not something the Spirit did to them.
Acts 4:31 is an obvious display of the Lord's power, as He shakes the house in response to the disciple's prayers. And James 2:19 speaks of how demons shudder at the very thought of God, but neither of these scriptures speak of spasmodic, seizure like shaking among people.
Other unusual manifestations include barking like a dog, roaring like a lion, crawling on all fours, and rolling around on the floor as though in labor (supposedly birthing something in intercessory prayer) which clearly look to be more demonic than anything else.
We do not believe it is appropriate to add to or take away from the Word of God. The Word says test all things, and we believe the Word alone is the standard for the test. Certainly God moves in supernatural ways. Jesus Christ really is the same yesterday, today, and forever. What He did in the days of the Bible He can and does do today. Jesus is our example and our model for living and ministering. Everything the Spirit did through Him we should expect the Spirit to do through the church, nothing less, and nothing more. The signs and wonders He and the church in the book of Acts displayed were healings, deliverance from demonic spirits, raising the dead, and various miracles and the gifts of the Spirit. However, there is not a single mention of holy laughter, slain in the spirit, drunken staggering, spasmodic jerking, or any other of the unusual manifestations of today's revival mentioned in the ministry of Jesus, the Apostles, or anywhere else in scripture.
The truth in this matter is not hard to discern. Jesus is the truth! He is the exact representation of God, the Word that became flesh, the will of God revealed, the fullness of the godhead bodily. He is the standard for truth. He is our example, the pattern Son. Our lives and ministries should be modeled after His life and ministry. We are to do the same works He did, and greater, but not different! The same Spirit that worked in Jesus is who works in us too, to produce the will of God and glorify the Son of God. Everything that happened in Jesus' ministry should happen in ours as well, and if it didn't happen in His ministry, it should not happen in our ministry either! We would do well to heed the instructions of the Apostle Paul and not go beyond what is written (1 Cor. 4:6).


In the week before Christmas last year the Abbott government announced the largest ever cuts to Australia's aid program.
These cuts, on top of successive cuts in previous years by the Rudd and Gillard governments, will take Australian aid to its lowest ever recorded levels as a proportion of Australia's national income.
One week after that announcement, the first phase of the Micah Challenge campaign came to a close and I finished my role as National Director. For 10 years we have mobilised the church to call on our political leaders to increase Australia's aid. I faced the hard reality that in that announcement the government was cutting our aid program to levels lower than when I started. This was not the way I dreamed of finishing!
At a time when Australia's economy is growing, when our debt is sixth lowest among all developed countries and when we are wealthier than we have ever been, we are also less generous than we have ever been.
We currently spend just over 1% of our federal government budget on aid. When you compare aid to our total national income, the percentages are even more striking. These cuts will plunge our contribution to aid and development to about 21 cents in every $100 of national income or 0.21%.
I need to acknowledge that managing a national budget is a difficult thing to do. Nonetheless, I am shocked at the lack of moral vision and leadership these decisions represent. I am appalled that our leaders can't find the money to balance our books from new sources of revenue or from the 99% of our budget that we spend on ourselves – instead opting to rip money out of the 1% that we currently spend overseas to help some of the world's most promising people forge better lives for themselves and their families.
Decisions like this are not just about finances. Decisions like this require us to ask deeper questions about our national identity. We claim to be (and aspire to be) a nation of the "fair go", people who stand by those who are struggling. However there is a disconnect between who we say we are as Australians and what these decisions say about our priorities.
We aspire to be generous and selfless, but our actions demonstrate an underlying selfishness.
The political argument to justify cuts like this is that we must look after our own interests first before we can afford to help others, but I'm concerned for what effect that message will have if it continues to be part of our national narrative. I'm concerned that when we need to tighten our purse strings, our first thought is to take from those who need it most.
I humbly suggest that if we don't want that for our own communities and nation, then we shouldn't act that way toward the poorest and most vulnerable people in our world.
Of course, this is not true of all Australians. Through my time at Micah Challenge, I've been privileged at times to see Australia and Australians at our best. I've seen mums offering to go without increases to maternity pay if it meant we could maintain our promises to the poor. I've seen people on low incomes offering to go without benefits, or to pay more taxes, if it meant we could support individuals in other nations get basic healthcare and education.
Despite the anger I feel about these aid cuts, I've had the opportunity in recent months to reflect more broadly on the Micah Challenge campaign. And as I look at the broader picture, I leave confident and hopeful for the future.
The source of this hope ultimately lies in the reality that we follow a God who has promised that all things will be made new. I see this hope reflected on the ground in the many amazing individuals who are committed to pursuing justice, mercy and humility, both outside the political arena and within it.
In particular, I'm filled with hope because of the way the church in this country has switched on to advocacy. I'm humbled that Micah Challenge has been able to be part of that movement of God's Spirit.
How do we evaluate the success of Micah Challenge's campaigning over the last 10 years? It's difficult to measure success in campaigning at the best of times. There are so many things you can't control.
In Australia, despite the cuts from both major parties, there has been approximately $11 billion extra directed to aid from our federal budget over the last decade than what would have happened if the status quo was maintained. And yet, Micah Challenge has always tried to help its supporters see that while policy is important, it's just the surface. Real change happens in the deeper places like social structures and in the hearts and minds of people.
Once you scratch the surface and look a little deeper, it becomes evident that the landscape has changed in a number of ways.
At a global level, the last decade has seen the most significant progress in the fight against poverty. Compared with 20 years ago, the proportion of people living below the absolute poverty line of $1.25 a day has halved, the number of children dying before their fifth birthday from preventable diseases has halved and the number of women dying in pregnancy or childbirth has almost halved. While there are regional discrepancies, the global picture is overwhelmingly positive. At the same time, the capacity among communities and churches in the developing world to raise their own voices for change in their contexts has grown.
In the political arena, Micah Challenge has been blessed with significant opportunities to speak to political leadership, and to influence party policies and the public conversation without compromising our Christian identity. A key vehicle for this has been Micah Challenge's national lobbying event, Voices for Justice, which is now widely recognised as one of the premier advocacy events in the country.
In the churches we have seen a shift in the church in Australia to embrace justice as an integral expression of discipleship. And Micah Challenge has enjoyed phenomenal buy-in from across the denominational spectrum, thereby creating a space where Christians can come together and speak together with a collective voice.
I'm thankful to God for these achievements and I leave Micah Challenge with great hope for the future. Policies and parties are constantly changing, and yet Christians must continue to be an unchanging voice for the poor and marginalised in these changing times. The proper response to setbacks is not disillusionment, but rather perseverance and courage. As followers of Jesus, we commit our lives to seeking justice. Regardless of the results, we seek to be faithful.
ver these past 10 years. I hope that we have pointed you to Jesus. I hope that in following Jesus' call to serve and stand alongside the poorest in our world, your own life and faith has been enriched.
For a decade, Micah Challenge has helped Christians and churches hold governments around the world to account for their promises to halve world poverty by 2015. In Australia, Micah Challenge has empowered Christians to advocate for a generous and effective aid program, as well as call for stronger action on climate change and multinational tax dodging which have greatest impact on the world's poorest and more vulnerable communities.