Recently I woke in a city park. It is very cold here and everyone looks miserable. There is some relation of hopelessness in the eyes of passersby, yet it is relayed with confidence. Sometimes even swagger, I suppose. They are at home in their misery. Is this how I feel? Is this how I look? So many memories are lost to me this time. How do I know such things and how do I know where I stand in relation to them? I suppose these are the questions of life. Still, the interest builds. I do not know how old I am or how long I have been like this. Did I know my childhood before? Was it recent? How old do I even look? I am afraid to find out. Maybe next time I will think myself young again. Something of hope is helpful in my journeys, like a dim candle to illuminate a distance forward. I am not sure how I know this, but it rings true. I will permit this hope to stay. Exploration offers reward, so I explore. Perhaps the reward will be mundane, but just as well will it be rewarding. Someone of little material and value as myself would be hard pressed to find any reward malignant. Anyone should be hard to find a reward malignant, I suppose. Does cold have a way to clean the air, or does it rob the lungs of something to give the illusion of cleanness? No matter. I enjoy such weather because the air feels free of polluted encumbrance. Why should it matter the source of this attribute? Upon inspection, it would seem my original assessment is correct. Destitution plagues the city. Whether affluent or poor, tall or short, each neighborhood treats interlopers with prejudice if they do not belong by shared purpose. Each prison intent on pursuing rivalry with some others in some way. How long it must take for anyone to leave them, to seek new life and grow, when such systems of feedback and reinforcement permeate the world. Such is madness. Such is life. I am searching for an embassy, an island of indifference where I may find sustenance if not shelter, when a curiosity skews my path. A woman walks alone with bread seeking others to share it with. I find myself approaching her. “You’ve seen better days. Would you like a sandwich?” Who is this silver in the night? I must have asked as I received her offer. She tells me she is no one, or at least this is what I hear. Something is different about her eyes. Have I seen this before? “Can I help you in any way?” Eyes of compassion. It has been so long since I recognized such a character. Posture confident but burdened, pained and sympathetic. Who are you, to contradict yourself with blazon grace? “I am anyone really, but most of all I’m me.” Have I heard her right? These words make no sense but carry weight. “I would like to know you.” She beckons me to join her. Conversation persists like a polluted river, perturbed and unclear, yet I am determined to discover her. I have found something of worth in the ashes of this place, who shines and knows her own value. I do not even know myself. What has she discovered that I have failed to? What has she understood that I cannot? “What do you think of the world?” We have been offering food to others. This is a regular route for her and others treat her kindly. “I think there’s a lot of pain. I think there’s not a lot of hope.” Both of these are clear to me, but it occurs that I have not often found another who opines such as myself. “What do you want to do about it?” “There’s a lot I want to do, and more that I wish I had done. Now I’m just doing what I can. I used to be a mother, but times are hard.” She is eager to share herself, and I understand her words with clarity. “What changed?” “I made a lot of mistakes thinking they were right. Anything is the right thing when it’s all you can think to do. This city is my home, but it was never home for my children. They each found their place, and I have to find my own way again. It’s hard to stop caring for others, though, after you realize it’s all you have.” “Why?” It seems the only method of preserving the dialogue. “Everything in the world is either broken or hurting. The most we can do is try to help people who are hurting. Maybe they can find a place to be at home, at least.” “What do you mean?” She takes her time before continuing. I begin to accept the silence as an old friend when she returns to me. Somehow there is more sympathy in her eyes. It is the sign of tension, forcing outwards a nature which would prefer internal safety and semblance of comfort. A familiar nature. “Anywhere you look, there is pain. It is all we see and all we talk about. An entire generation knows nothing but anguish. The other day, I heard that children set a homeless man on fire so they could share it with friends. A broken world is no place for children. They will grow to only know hurt, or become just as broken as the world that raised them.” Truth is often miserable. However, I find myself internally twisted. When conversation is so elusive, I cannot fathom the possibility of neglecting this instance. Yet it pains her to relay understanding to me. Is this the cost of wisdom? “All we can do is move forward. If I don’t see you again, I hope you find your home.” She leaves me some place, having guided me to a shelter. A certain quantity of time has elapsed without my knowledge. Am I leaving so soon? How long have I been here, anyways? \- I am not in a city this time. Far from any city, I think. The road I wonder is dirt and rock, reaching trees all around beg for sunlight to satiate their endless hunger. Am I a tree, now? Have I forgotten so much that my time among mankind is eclipsed by a new dawn? Something begs me forward. It is clear to me now that I am on the verge of death, a dangerous absence of water pains me in body and mind. Someone beckons me forward... Soon I wake in the company of another. A man of direct character, eyes beaming with interest. We are beyond the limits of a city, and the weather is fair. “Hello, wayward traveler. What inspired your movement here?” I seem to be in much better condition. This man seems to have committed himself to my safety. What effort did he exert for someone unknown to him? Who is this character who would make sacrifices for a stranger? “I am Herald. Who are you?” Did I speak just now? How long can I endure this misery? What do I even have of my past? I remember so little this time. If the past is constantly taken from me then what is any future worth? “Slow down, now. Take your time.” *Has he heard me?* “Yes.” His answer is haunting. It interrupts the procession of thoughts I knew to follow. That would have followed. Now my mind is vacant but for a singularity. One connection, between my mind and the world outside. His eyes are intent on knowing me. “Who are you?” I manage to speak. “Patience, my friend. I see there is much work to do. Please, speak yourself.” An arrangement that taunts me. There is something beneath, I can tell with slight focus, but it is obscure. What does he seek from me? Of course! How could I be so dense? “I am me.” “Yes. A very good start. What is meant by that?” He teases me with the slightest progression of conversation. It is a treat to indulge a progression I have been missing. “I have been me. I will be me.” Is this correct? It seems to follow but I fall short of understanding it. “Precisely. You are well traveled, friend. That has certainly left you wise. I have observed many others to fall short. You are the quickest to make the first leap, friend.” He calls me friend, and I know he speaks truth. Something of understanding accents his words which is redoubled by his eyes. A smile rewards my inspection. Herald continues to speak, “Take your time, friend. Lead me to your next question.” Who is this person? Is he a daemon, who captured understanding without earning it? A god who has decided to confront and mock me? I should think not, for I have no reason to. He has offered one truth foremost. He is a friend. “What is the first leap, companion?” My words do not come out precisely as intended, but they are precisely meant. “It is the first thing to know, which implies understanding thrice.” Something awakens from a recession of my mind that was distantly known to me. A curiosity of intensity I never experienced before. This feeling is the most certain I have ever known. Before I permit myself to analyze it the force commands me forward. “The first known is me, I know myself. But I do not understand. You mean something further, do you not?” “Indeed. Can you tell me what it is?” The curiosity fades, but does not return to whatever chasm it was drawn from. I find myself scrutinizing the question. My mind has never been so resolved. It has never been so quiet. “Take time and rest. My home is just along the path ahead. Come when you are ready, friend.


The Water Babies She has become my shadow; haunting me with her dark, mournful eyes, huge in her pale face. Her withered body, that glides rather than walks, and skeletal hands, twisted into hooked claws. She never says a word but she’s always there, those glassy orbs in their shadowy sockets, boring into me whether I dare to look at her or not. * Kate and I had always loved the water. We could swim before we could walk. Mum called us her “water babies” and the house was full of photos of us at different ages but almost always in the water. Our parents were always really supportive, both encouraging and enabling us to fulfil our potential. One or other, or both, of us won every award offered at our local pool, going way beyond the “rescue a rubber brick in your pyjamas” level. It was then that our instructor suggested we make the most of our talent and train to compete at county level. We were the youngest pupils ever to do so. From that point on, if we weren’t asleep or at school, we were in the water. * I don’t look at her but I know she’s looking at me. She’s always looking at me. I go to the wall to do a few warm-up stretches, hoping that her stare won’t follow me. Before I tilt my head to see her in my peripheral vision, I know she’s looking. I can feel it. She never moves or makes a sound but she’s always there. * Long course, short course, solo, relay, breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly or crawl, we were fast and sleek like minnows in our matching silver swimming costumes and we were never out of the medals. We even earned a slot on local television, named “The Water Babies” after Mum’s nickname for us, where we promoted the sport and encouraged everyone to learn this life-saving skill. I can only remember one race that we didn’t finish because whether we were swimming with or against each other, we had an almost telepathic awareness of where the other was. It was my fault. I should have known better than to eat before a race but I missed lunch and I was starving. One sandwich I might have got away with but secretly wolfing down two was asking for trouble. The starting pistol fired and we were away. The first length was okay; Kate was out in front of me but I was making good time. As I kicked off the side into the second length, I was gripped by terrible stomach pain. I knew what it was but I’d had it before and just pushed through. But this time... The next spasm took my breath away. My body doubled up and my gaping mouth started to take in water. I couldn’t wave my arms, I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t even breathe. Nobody seemed to notice, watching the clock and caught up in the action. Everyone was looking at the leaders who were at the other end of the pool. Even the lifeguard! My body stopped writhing and I felt myself sinking. My life didn’t exactly flash before my eyes but I did feel a sudden sense of peace. If I was going to die here, now, at least it would be doing something that I loved. I could- Kate’s face was suddenly in front of mine, her wide brown eyes full of fear. I opened my mouth but only managed to swallow more water. She hooked her arms under mine and kicked off the floor of the pool. The journey back to the top seemed really slow, the way that time elongates in a risky situation, but I remember feeling safe in my sister’s hold. As soon as we broke the surface of the water, the silence was shattered by shouts and screams and strong hands lifted me up to the side of the pool where I vomited and coughed up all the water I had taken in. I could hear my father berating the lifeguard, as well he might, but Kate was the first one who knew I was in trouble. My twin sister saved my life. * She is relentless. Being haunted all day, every day, is hard enough but the night is worse. Trying to sleep when you can feel yourself being watched by this pale ghost is almost impossible. I try not to peek at the lifeless eyes, the grey hollow cheeks and the blue lips open in an endless silent scream but just knowing that she is there, feeling impotent rage radiating from her, is enough to keep me awake. She may not be resting in peace but neither am I. * As if swimming virtually 24/7 was not enough, when we were teenagers, Kate and I decided to add a little variety and start diving too. It was the refresher we needed and we were in and out of the water like a couple of kingfishers. By now we were already winning at county level swimming events so it was good to have some new skills to learn. And to show off in front of the boys. Our parents thought, probably hoped, we wouldn’t have time for boys but, as they say, love finds a way. We weren’t competing against them so we had time to loiter in the stands and admire them. And vice versa! My eye was caught by a lean, blond Adonis named Sam. He was gorgeous and he knew it, preening and posing poolside. Kate laughed at both him and me but I was hooked. Her attention was focused on a taller, darker guy called Tom. Even though we were twins, we had very different tastes in men - or so it seemed. We finally plucked up the courage to talk to our crushes and soon we were both dating. As our boyfriends were both swimmers, our relationships didn’t detract from the sport and as both seemed to be, in Mum’s words, “nice enough boys”, our parents didn’t object. Kate and Tom didn’t seem too serious; they were both happy to flirt with other people. However, Sam and I got very close, very quickly and, despite, or maybe because of, the fact that he was my first proper boyfriend, I was totally smitten. For the first time in our lives, Kate and I were moving in different directions and it felt really weird, like we could no longer read each others minds. We didn’t let it interfere with our swimming though; we were still The Water Babies, “as thick as thieves.” That’s a strange phrase and, as it turned out, a very apt one too... I’m not sure why I was so surprised. Kate had been acting strangely for a while - and so had Sam. Perhaps I just didn’t want to believe it but Kate and Tom’s relationship was breaking down and both of them were now seeing other people. In Kate’s case, it was Sam! Although I loved him, Kate’s betrayal was harder to deal with because, well, we were twins who’d always been on each others’ side. I didn’t know what to say when I caught them kissing by the cloakrooms. So I didn’t say anything. Ignoring his smirk and her cry, I turned tail and, needing somewhere to think, I climbed to the top of the diving boards. It didn’t take her long to find me. Of course she knew where I would be. She was in tears, apologising profusely, saying that Sam had come onto her and it meant nothing but I didn’t even acknowledge that she was there, let alone grace her drivel with any kind of response. Desperate for a reaction, she changed tack. She adopted a nonchalant attitude, telling me that the faithless Sam was no great loss and, in fact, she had done me a favour by proving it. I remained silent. If there was one thing we couldn’t cope with, it was being blanked by the other. Unsure of what to do next, Kate retreated to the other end of the diving pool and waited. And waited. There was nothing to say. What words could possibly bridge that yawning chasm of betrayal? I stood and walked over to her, without knowing what I would do next. She tried to defuse the situation with a smile - and that was it. I pulled back my fist and punched her squarely in the face. I can never forget that last scream as she fell from the top board and hit her head - hard - on the one below. Her neck snapped and she dropped into the water, silent and still. * I hang my head in shame, trying vainly to offer penitence. I hope that she can read my face, see the sorrow in my guilty countenance. Looking into her eyes, I wish she would at least acknowledge me. But there’s nothing. Worse than nothing. A vacant, thousand-yard stare. * To bury her body and mourn her may have brought some kind of closure. But Kate didn’t die. Instead, she now lives in limbo between life and death; brain-damaged and paralyzed but still drawing breath. She doesn’t need a finger to point or a voice to condemn. Everyone knows who the villain of the piece is, the one who stole her sister’s life and now appears to carry on as if nothing has happened. Still swimming, still competing - the heartless bitch! But I don’t know what else to do. Kate is now my eternal accuser and I feel myself chained to her lifeless body, dragging the weight of condemnation everywhere I go, all of the time. Mum and Dad bring her along to the swimming events, hoping that she can get something, anything, from what was once the centre of her life. Tucked up in her wheelchair, her head lolling, her eyes rolling and drool dripping from the side of her mouth, it’s impossible to tell what she makes of it. Where I always used to know what she was thinking, now there’s just a terrifying void. My twin has become the dead version of me or I, the live version of her. If I hadn’t pushed her off that diving board, she’d be doing everything I am doing or will ever do; get married, have children, even an Olympic win. Kate will be the spectre at my every feast. Mum asked if Kate could ‘sleep’ in the same room as me, to provide company and a familiar environment for her during the long, dark hours of the night. How could I say no? I lay in bed, trying not to look at her looking at me. Can her staring eyes actually see me? Can she think? Can she feel? I no longer know but I hope to God she can’t do any of those things. She could live another fifty years like this and when Mum and Dad have gone, it will be my responsibility to care for her, my due penance. The doctors have warned us that when her death comes, it could be slow and painful as, ironically, she may drown from the fluid built up in her lungs. The worst thing of all is that I know she wouldn’t want to exist like this. Her silence screams it at me. The horror is not that I killed my sister - it’s that I didn’t. And that will haunt me for the rest of my life.


The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life The year is 75: Children of the first man have figured out working together is easier than competing. The year is 200: Descendants of the first man have rose to 1000 strong! The year is 500: Descendants of the first man have spread and found their niches in the world. Some have begun worshipping ancient people as gods. The people have forgotten how long it has been since the first descendant was alive. The year is 1000: Kingdoms have become prevalent thousands of people pledge themselves to the king. The year is 1100: Kingdoms have made contact with one another and began trading, traveling, fighting, and religion. The year is 1500: One kingdom has figured out advanced warfare tactics and calls 1,000,000 people citizens. They will bring their might to the rest of the world, the name of this kingdom is Ascadia, and they speak Ascadian. The founder of this nation has been lost to time. The year is 2000: Ascadia is the latest kingdom on earth with a territory spanning from sea to sea. Time’s are good people are happy, they are no longer religious, nor scholarly due to prosperity. There are now 10,000,000 souls in the Ascadian kingdom. The year is 2100: Ascadia has coincidentally discovered inflation. Economic strain and stress from the size of the landmass are straining resources. The people have taken to a new religion. The year is 2105: The financial strain was too much, Ascadia has collapsed. The year is 2106: The people of Ascadia no longer feel protected and begin to isolate themselves, the massive Ascadian capital of Ashmogdu has been abandoned, services have been halted, food from the souther region has halted due to bandits and lack of resources. The people of Ascadia are starving. The year is 2110: Certain wealthy villa of Ascadia have offered protection to small villages in exchange for food. Feudalism has been invented. New territory lines are beginning to form. The year is 2200: The people are illiterate, former Ascadia has been split into innumerable amounts of smaller territories. Borders are now enforced, people tend to live and die in the same area they are born in. The former Ascadian language has slowly split into multiple languages derived from Ascadian, a person in the western part of the former Kingdom will have a hard time understanding if not impossible to understand a person from the east despite the fact their ancestors spoke the same language. Public education is long gone and the feats of the Ascadian empire are almost mythological, people living near old Ashmogdu now look at the architectual feats of the old kingdom in wonder of how they built them. Not much history is recorded due to illiterance. Religion plays a major role in the people’s lives. The year is 2500: Smaller nations have begun to form coalitions and form together. Large nations have began educating the population in cities. The people are beginning to prosper in their respective nations. The Ascadian-derived languages are unrecognizable at this point. Numerous wars break between the nations each vying for more power, there is little technological advancement. The people cling to religion. Times for those not in large cities are dark, education is not provided and raids from foreign invaders are plentiful. Five nations have become prominent; Karsagh, Mogdu, Kingdom of Asher, Hutarii, and the Kingdom of Lawencia. The mogdu are the most fierce fighter, Karsagh is very economically gifted, Hutarii is the religious capital of the world, the Kingdom of Asher has their coffers overflowing from expansive trade, Mogdu looks for truth in the ancient ways of the old ones, and the Kingdom of Lawencia has very valuable resources coveted by the other nations. The year is 3000: There are no small nations, the population has risen to 200,000 on the continent the people do not know it but hey have outlasted the old ones. There is more diplomacy between the nations, they decide to work together. The people in this kingdom are happy but still isolated, there is not as much danger and life is good. The year is 3010: Technological advancement has allowed for long range communication through roadways between nations and connecting cities. The people are less isolated and long range travel is now possible. The people hold religion in their hearts some dedicate their lives to it. Sharing of ideas between nations has become commonplace, many technological advancements are made. The year is 3070: A scholar has created a machine that allows for quicker production of goods, an Industrial revolution has started! The world now boasts one million souls. Religion is still prominent. The year is 3154: A person has created a machine that allows for more convenient travel. These are considered toys for the elites. The people are amazed by this. The year is 3180: The machine has become common for regular people, long range travel is commonplace, people are no longer bound to the town of their birth. The year is 3500: The world is more prosperous than ever before, there are 5,000,000,000,000 people, technical advancements have allowed for technology beyond their wildest imagination. More people live in the sprawling cities, goods are now very conveniently gotten at community markets, the people are free to travel where they want when they want as long as they are productive for society. Life is very good and more prosperous than ever before, any history of the first descendant is shrouded in mystery and forgotten to time, the origins of man has become the greatest question asked in schools. The people have little care for religion, more and more people are rejecting the idea of schooling. They have made it farther than any civilization that came before them on this planet. Life is good. The year is 3550: Weak people have been elected to the governments, less focus on the common man is given, greed is vast. The five nations are spiraling towards depression. The people have began following a new religion. The year is 3570: The people have lost faith in their governments and have begun to fully reject schooling children are born illiterate and taught from knowledge their parents remember from their schooling. The governments are scrambling to take control back. Less people are being schooled to run the complicated systems that an advanced civilization requires, things look grim and the cities are being abandoned. The new religion has taken a solid stronghold. Life is dark and uncertain. The year is 3650: Knowledge on how to run the power systems has been lost, long range communication and trading is no longer possible. Without this, the people are forced to sustain for themselves. As long range food transport becomes harder with less resources and more desperate families have taken to banditry, food transport has stopped. Many die, urban places are all but abandoned, those in rural areas experience an influx of squatters. Nine of ten citizens die very quickly. Society has collapsed. The year is 3700: People are born and die in the same place. Families are isolated, formerly a neighbor could live half an hour from them but now someone that lives half an hour away is a foreigner. The respective languages have begun to form dialects and understanding people from different areas becomes harder. The people cling to religion. Life is dark. The year is 3900: The people are now completely illiterate, each family speaks their own language. Understanding others has become almost impossible, the ways of the ancestors are gone. Religion is strong, the people are strong, life is tough and they get tougher. The children are taught stories of mechanical monstrosities built by the old ones that snatch naughty children. Stories of the founding father of their respective nations have become mythological with stories of them doing fantastical feats of strength. Due to illiterance, not much history is recorded anymore. Isolation continues, trust in others is gone. The old languages of their ancestors are indechiperable. This continues for countless years. ... ... ... ... ... The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life. ... ... ... The year is 1000: The people of this world marvel at the monuments and statues their ancestors have built and wonder how they could have possibly built this. ... ... ... The year is 2000: Numerous technological advancements have been made. The world is at 7,000,000,000,000 souls, the people stare at the pyramids and monuments their ancestors have built and wonder how they could have possibly built any of it. Life is good. ... ... ... The year is 2020: Knowledge of the ancient continent of Pangea has been common knowledge for a long time. The pyramids and monuments of the people’s ancestors are still a marvel and assumed to have been built after the breakup of the supercontinent. Life is very good and more prosperous than ever before, any history of the first descendant is shrouded in mystery and forgotten to time, the origins of man has become the greatest question asked in schools. The people have little care for religion, more and more people are rejecting the idea of schooling. They have made it farther than any civilization that came before them on this planet. Life is good. ... ... ... ... ... The year is 0: Man takes the first breaths of conscious life.


“He is such an idiot”, said Dennis, my brother. It was the summer holidays, so he was living with us again. I preferred it when he was staying in London with Nan and Grandad. “Mind your language,” said Dad. I could tell that he wasn’t totally in control anymore. Dennis was almost as tall as Dad now. “But he can’t bring the stupid Airfix kit with him to the beach. He’s going to make a mess of things, he’ll lose pieces and get paint on everything,” said Dennis, “and it’s too bloody hot to mess around with plastics and glue on a day like this”. “I told you to mind your language,” said Dad without conviction. “He’s an idiot.” It was mum’s turn, “Dennis! Mind your language”. +++ It seemed that Mum and Dad were on my side, but when I tried to sneak the scale model of a Supermarine Spitfire into the beach bag, I was intercepted. “Luca, you’re not taking your model airplane with you to the beach,” said Mum, carefully placing the model, the small tins of enamel paint, the glue and brushes on the side-table. “Why not?” The world suddenly seemed very unjust. “Because we’re going to the beach”. Her argument was lost on me, so I complained loudly and emphatically, but there was no shifting her. I was corralled out of the apartment down the stairs and out onto the forecourt of our block of flats on Birkirkara Road. Dad seemed in a foul mood. “Just stop complaining and get in the front seat. You’re sitting on your brother’s lap”. The back seat was crammed with beach stuff, Dennis’s fishing rod, mum and my little sister, Alice. I wouldn’t have to sit on the hot plastic seat cover, but on the other hand the seating arrangement meant that my head would be pressed up against the windscreen all the way to Armier Bay. In the blazing hot morning sun. “Did we bring the football?” I asked. It was like a cauldron outside. The world seemed bleached by the sun. Dust everywhere, the stray dogs were languishing in the shade of the carob trees. The construction workers had abandoned the building site next to our apartment building, so the earthmover was stranded like a dinosaur amidst blocks of stone, piles of concrete and sand. The donkey was neighing in the hut over by the Mintoff estate. The cicadas sounded like an army of buzz saws. The beach seemed like a good idea because there was nobody around to play football with up on the dirt and stone pitch. We crammed inside the Ford Cortina. I traced some spittle across the dashboard, and watched it evaporate in the heat. It left behind a white smear, which Dad rubbed away with a handkerchief. I could tell he was upset. “Do you think it has enough water?” said Mum, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the donkey as we drove off across the gravel. “Stop fidgeting!” said Dennis, surreptitiously driving a knuckle into my ribs, which only made me squirm more. “Luca! Stop it! I’m driving”, said Dad irritably. “and open the window, let the air in”. Hot air blasted against my face, and I had to squint because the sun was so bright. Mum and Dad were wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, and looked they like movie stars, Dennis was wearing blue-tinted glasses and looked like a slightly sickly version of a pop star. Mum’s glasses were polarized, which meant that she could see me under water. At what age were you allowed to wear sunglasses? It was a mystery. “Damn!” Dad’s bad mood seemed to thicken. I noticed that he was always irritable in the morning. He smoked a lot, but he always seemed to cheer up when he was with Uncle Gareth or when sitting in the armchair watching the cricket on TV, or when he had a pint of cold beer in his hand. “Damn, Boris is following us!”. This was very exciting news. I craned my neck so that I could look out the back window of the car. Yes, indeed Boris, the black and white mongrel, was bounding along the edge of the road, chasing the car. We were already half a mile from home, and the dog was keeping up with us. “For God’s sake stop Bert!” It was Mum, she was upset. “The dog will die of heat”. “I’m not stopping. It knows its way back home”. Dad stepped on the gas, we sped through a roundabout, and I lost sight of the dog behind one of the ancient stone walls that lined the coast road that run up past Bugibba. “What are those strange white patches in the rocks over there,” said my brother. I couldn’t believe how ignorant he was, even though he was eight years older than me. Everybody knew about the ancient salt pans, swimming-pool sized carvings in the rock in which seawater was trapped, evaporated, and salt was harvested “Roman salt pans,” I said, “the salt really hurts your feet if you walk on them, especially in the hot sun”. I was feeling quite superior, all of a sudden and didn’t care that he’d seen Charlie George playing for Arsenal, or that he liked the Kinks, or that he’d smoked a cigarette in front of Mum. “Dennis is going to go red in the sun,” I piped up cheerfully. It was like this every time he came to visit us in Malta. His skin was a horrible pale color. He’d go lobster red, peel like a damaged vegetable, go freckly and brown, then he’d leave for England again and send us cryptic postcards that would upset Mum. When we got to Armier Bay, an old peasant man dressed in black directed us to park near the old wharf, which was a long distance from the beach, even though the parking lot was nearly empty. Uncle Gareth’s car was parked nearer the beach, and though he was dad’s boss, this seemed unjust. “What language do the Maltese speak?” asked Dennis. “English”, said Dad. “No, I mean what language do the speak when they are with their own kind?” said Dennis. Neither Mum nor Dad seemed quite sure. Today was Saturday. There would be a few Maltese on the beach, but mainly it would be the Service families, Brits, plus some hapless tourists. The Maltese used the beach on Sundays. Uncle Gareth had set up the tent already. He was there with Aunty Pamela and their twin sons, Peter and Paul, who were back from University. Dad said they were Socialists and Welsh nationalists, which made them sound very dangerous and just a bit dirty. “Burning English people’s holiday homes when they’re not around,” he told me, “and they speak in Welsh”. “Why?” “They want independence from the United Kingdom”. That sounded entirely unreasonable, even unnatural. The Union Jack was the best flag in the world. The twins both had long dark hair and beards, which I imagined made the heat unbearable. They were in the water, hairy-chests, standing in the shallows, talking, and I could tell they weren’t very good swimmers. I imagined that they were plotting the overthrow of the monarchy, right there and then, and decided that I should keep an eye on them. “Ow. Ow. It’s so hot”. I jumped from one foot to the other on the dirt of the parking lot. Dennis threw a pair of flip flops at my head. “Make sure you put lots of suntan lotion on” said Mum to Dennis, “I don’t want you getting burnt”. It was, however, a foregone conclusion that he’d get toasted. I was already “as brown as a berry”, according to Mum. “Carry this bag,” Dad gave me a heavy canvas bag full of beach paraphernalia. It smelt of warm rubber, wet towels, and of freshly made Cornish pasties, which I spotted in a Tupperware container, tucked beneath some swim fins. This was encouraging. “Well, I’ll be damned” said Dad, staring off into the distance. “You have got to be kidding me”, said Dennis, sounding like an American gangster. “That poor dog,” said Mum. Boris the dog was hurtling down the rough road toward the parking lot. The dog had run all the way to Armier Bay from Sliema. Dad reckoned it was five miles or more and mopped the perspiration from his balding head with his hankie. I was not at all surprised. “Maltese Pointers have a tremendous sense of direction,” I explained to my brother as the black and white mass of muscle barreled into Mum, knocking her against the car. Alice started crying. “Too hot, too hot”. In all the excitement, Mum had put her down on the ground without shoes on her chubby little feet. I grabbed Alice’s jellies and threw them at her head. Dad walloped me on the back of the head. “You stupid boy”. “What about Dennis? He threw flip flops at me?” We trudged toward the beach, the dog jumped about like a kangaroo. Patty was there with Eddy. Patty, who was Gareth and Pamela’s daughter, had false eyelashes and wore a bikini. She was bronze brown all over, and had a long, flat tummy which looked nice to touch. Eddy was Maltese and was the best swimmer in the world. Eddy always spoke in English. Patty and Eddy were going to get married. Dennis seemed upset by Eddy’s presence but perked up a bit - a lot - when he spotted Jenny. Jenny was Patty’s friend from England. She was pale, like Dennis, and was wearing an orange frilled bikini, which looked like it might slip off at any moment owing to the smooth roundness of her body. I’d long since fallen in love with her but Dennis had first dibs, being a teenager and a smoker and all that. I left them to it and went down to the water, which lapped warmly over my toes, and made my feet slip and slide on my flip flops. “I’m going for a swim,” I declared. Nobody was paying attention. Aunty Pamela held Alice while Dad poured water into mum’s hands and the dog went berserk lapping at the paltry offering. Dennis was already lying on a towel next to Jenny. Patty and Eddy went off to the lido to get ice drinks. Peter and Paul were plotting a revolution in the surf. Uncle Gareth looked like he’d fallen asleep in a deck chair, his enormous stomach was a massive shining orb that radiated heat. Nobody was paying attention to me. “I’m going for a swim” I said, this time a bit louder. The yellow sand, the turquoise water, darker green out where the seaweed patch grew. I could see small silver fish flipping around in the shallows. I would put a bit of bread in an empty Fanta bottle later, and catch one or two, and pour them into Alice’s swimsuit, but for now, there was nothing for it but to take off for an epic swim in the open ocean. Out to where the swordfish thrashed around in the deep dark blue water. There was a gray haze on the horizon. Mount Etna was erupting according to Dad. I sometimes found floating pumice stones in the ocean. Africa and the Sahara lay in the other direction, accounting for the heat and dust, according to Dad. Malta was just a barren rock in the blue sea, burning under the sun, according to Dad. I’d swim later, before lunch, when I could race Eddy or snorkel over the weed-bed or catch an Octopus or find a treasure. I needed witnesses. I went back up to the family encampment, digging my feet under the sand where it was cooler. “Look Dennis, look Jenny!” I said. I placed the football on a small pile of sand, backed up a few paces, and when I was sure that they were watching, I ran at the ball. I would kick the ball a mile or more and they would witness the most astounding feat of skill and strength, “Bobby Charlton!” I shouted. My toe collided with the sharp and heavy rock that was concealed in the pile of sand. The ball bobbled along the beach a few yards, and I collapsed in agony. When I looked at my big toe, it was like it belonged to someone else, ragged flesh, torn nail, blood oozed then gushed. Jenny was watching, so I tried not to cry, but within seconds I was surrounded by a group of adults, blotting out the sun. They evaluated me like a wounded animal. I whimpered like a wounded animal. Jenny looked horrified. Dad carried me back to the car. I could smell beer and tobacco smoke on his breath. Mum pulled Boris the dog with one hand, carried Alice in the other. Loose strands of blonde hair stuck to Mum’s sweaty forehead and neck. “But we’ve only just arrived. Can’t I just stay here and come back later with Uncle Gareth?” said Dennis, pleading his case. He was lugging a ton of beach stuff, including his unused fishing rod and the un-eaten Cornish pasties, and he looked very sore. “How are we going to get this all back into the car, including the dog?” asked Mum. “Please Dad, I’ll get a lift”, insisted Dennis. He probably wanted to hang out with Jenny. The hairy-chested Welsh twins were still arguing in the shallows, uninterested in my plight. It’s like that in revolutions... the fate of the individual gets lost in the bigger picture. It was so damned hot. The old peasant was sitting on a concrete wall, smoking a cigarette, wearing a black woolen jacket. He stared at me, blankly, but smiled at Mum. He was missing several teeth. “Do you think I can have a Pepsi?” I said. We were walking past the Lido. I could see iced bottles of soda pop glistening with moisture on the counter in the shadowy interior, near the foosball table. “Will everyone please stop their bitching and moaning!” said Dad, more irritated than usual, and that was saying something. “He’s a complete idiot,” said Dennis, firing a vicious look at me. Neither Mum nor Dad reprimanded him for his language. I made a mental note of this. Justice is a dish best served cold, according to Dad.


TW: suicidal ideation, self harm A bright day. Cloudless, the sun shining shamelessly in the sky. The light breeze brushing against my bare lips. Nothing blocking it. But I feel sick . I want to throw up. I act like everything's okay, nothing's wrong, sipping my Fanta calmly through a paper straw. Because across from me, my best friend Logan sits on a white plastic chair, smiling. An innocent and sparkling smile, a naked one. Not covered by a breathless mask or anything. The atmosphere is tight. It's awkward because we haven't seen each other in a while, I guess. "Hey, it feels weird outside without wearing a mask, huh?" he says. "Yeah," I reply. It becomes quiet again. "D-do you want to take a walk?" he suggests. "Oh, sure," I say, and we stand up from our table and start out on the pavement road leading into the park nearby. The grass is freshly cut, the trees trimmed. Other people, some with dogs, run or walk past us. I throw my empty cup and straw in the trash can. My head throbs as I walk. It's really quiet between us. I think it's because neither of us have got anything to say. And then, out of the blue, he asks "Are you okay?", his eyes averting mine, like he's talking to the ground. It's so out of the blue that my eyes water with the care and worry in his voice. And abruptly, I blurt out "No, not really." His head snaps up, actually surprised. I think I feel his eyes on me. "Oh, uhm, what happened, Jacob?" I flinch at the sound of my name. I honestly wonder why I do. And then my eyes water, I can't stop sniffing, what the heck, stop-Am I going to cry?-why now, no-wait, Logan- I burst into tears. It comes out suddenly, the tears pouring down my cheeks, my hands hastily trying to cover and wipe them up, trembling breathes, and Logan's there, Logan trying to comfort me, leading me away from broad daylight to a more shadowed place, asking me what happened, if I'm okay, patting my back. I sniff, the sniff full of snot, tears dripping off my chin, my wet hands clasped together. My head throbs. It's not the easy, sliding tears, today, for no reason, is the salty, stingy tears. When I manage to calm down, he softly asks, "What happened?" I shake my head. "Why?" he whispers. "It's pathetic," I croak out. "Nothing's pathetic, Jacob." "I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all." "It's okay that you're not okay." "But Logan, you don't even know HALF of it!" "So tell me?" "No. Fine. I-I think I really need to burst." "It's okay, I'm here. I'll listen." "A-alright. Don't freak out." "I won't." "I'm a freak." "You are not." "I am! I think I have depression. I'm so sick of it." "It's okay." "It's NOT! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of not being normal! I'm sick of thinking how much of a freak I am, how ugly I am, how stupid I am every time I'm sad! I'm such a coward!" "You're not." "YES I AM! I can't even self harm probably. I COULD ONLY DO IT WITH A PIN! A FREAKING PIN!" "Self-harm?" "Please. Please, help. I think I need help. I'm so sick of it. I'm so sick of this life." I sniff again, tears starting to stream down my cheeks once again. "I'm so pathetic. Why was I even born in this world? Logan, Logan, I-I don't feel okay." He hugs me tightly. "It's okay. It's okay." He whispers gently again and again. I sob into my hands. His care, was honestly too much. "I'm so sick of it, Logan...I'm so sick of having t-to think that I'm so ugly, t-that I'm so, so, no, that I'm such, a COWARD, why can't I just have been normal?" He pats me on the back. "It's okay, Jacob. It's okay. I'll help you. I'll do my best." I look up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "Really?" "Of course." And from that, I cry again. Because, his care is honestly too much. It's..overwhelming. He only hugs me back tightly, comforting me. When I finally calm down, the sky is a bit darker, the moon more stamped in the sky. Less people walking around. I feel so tired. My heart is a burden in my chest, my head feeling airy and light from the energy that was sapped from crying. My eyes sting. "We should go home," I say. "Yeah, it's getting dark," he agrees. It's quiet again. "Do you want to know the first thing I did when I found out my sister was dead?" Logan's older sister was in a car accident and ended up passing away. He was ten back then. For a while, he was quiet, staring aimlessly at the sky, absentmindedly. "It depends on what you did," I say. He lets out a breathless laugh. "I laughed." Before I can open my mouth, he continues, "Because of the shock." "Oh." "I care about you, you know." I almost start crying again. "You're my best friend, Jacob. I know this is selfish, but I don't want you to die. It was a horrible feeling, laughing. It was like a daze. I was aware that I was laughing, aware that the police weren't, aware that the police weren't joking. But I laughed. I know this is heavy. It's a burden. No matter how much you want to die, you're going to feel guilty because of me. But because I'm human, I have to ask you not to. Please. I'm sorry, but please." "I'm too cowardly to try to kill myself anyway." He hugs me again. "No, Jacob. You're not a coward, I promise you." "I'm sorry, Logan. For not telling you." "It's okay. You shouldn't be sorry." He squeezes my hand. I almost say sorry again, but I stop myself. It's quiet again. The blanket of silence that falls too easily. I stand up, Logan doing the same. "Let's go home." He nods. We start on the pavement road toward our houses, which are almost right next to each other. He says bye before turning to his door. I call out "Wait!" and he turns around. "I promise, Logan. I'll do my best," I say, and I can see him smile, and then nod before heading in. I turn, heading toward my own home.


It started to rain cats and dogs right after I left my small flat viewing the most crowded city of the town. I found the little gate to that garage which I had never seen before to cover. I didn’t know why I had the impulse to hit the little, steel door to open but I was content to be under a roof finally. While I was trying to get rid of the water drops on my jacket, something shiny caught my eye. It was all dark and due to the extreme dampness, I could figure out that this place hadn’t been visited for so long. I decided to approach that shiny object slowly as if I was cautious. I wasn’t, not at all. I had never been cautious or sensitive about anything in my life. I was very proud of describing myself as a “logical, brave and realistic person” which was just an excuse for me to ignore the very best part of life; my emotions. I was acting confident again to touch the shiny part of the object, the rest of which was in darkness. Suddenly it woke up with great tones of colorful stripes of lights and sound! She welcomed me with a soft voice “Welcome to the new generation cars with EQ! Are you ready for a bumpy journey?” I was stunned, maybe the very first time in my life. The cars with EQ? What did that even mean? Responding with a hesitating voice, I could say, “Hello, uhm...” I was really talking to a car! It was a familiar thing for me to interact with artificial intelligence and benefit from the new technology but I had a feeling that this car was far more than that. Couldn’t keep my fascination to myself and asked, “What do you mean by a bumpy journey?” “We are not talking about a journey that you are used to, sir. Human beings can face some difficulty in this journey where you are taken to the places you need to be at.” I tried to understand the things she said while trying to accept the fact that I was talking to a car at the same time. “I need to be at my office in 15 minutes. Can you take me there?” “You have good ears but poor listening skills, sir. We meant the places you need to be at, not the ones you are supposed to be at.” It took a moment for me to figure out what she could mean. “If you let me, I can take you to a journey that would change your life. We are designed for that.” I was in the driver’s seat when she finished her sentence. The lights were off now and even though I didn’t touch anything, we got out of the garage from the door at the back. Thanks to the daylight, I could see that I was in a classic car from the 60s which I had no control on at all. “You can keep your hands on the steering wheel if you feel bothered to draw any attention from the people around.” “Yes, let’s not stand out. I wouldn’t like people to think that I am crazy for driving a classic car like it is autonomous.” She responded like a psychologist. “We cannot control what others think about us, so let’s not torture ourselves with this burden for now. Can I have your name, sir?” “Martin. Martin Blackgoat.” “And my name is Sarah, pleased to meet you Mr. Blackgoat. Have you ever wondered about the origins of your surname?” I had a deep breath to stall to find an answer but I couldn’t. “I don’t think I am interested in my ancestors’ history at all.” “Understood. Have you been sleep deprived lately, Mr. Blackgoat?” How could she know that? “Your nervous system also tells me that you need to reconsider the daily amount of caffeine intake, sir.” “How can you know all these?” “The seat you are sitting on right now has the latest technology. I know far more than that but you don’t need to know any more of this for now, sir. We have three main destinations to go to, Mr. Blackgoat. Shall we start with the easiest one?” I was about to convince myself that I was in a dream when my colleague called me to get mad at me for being late to the meeting. I didn’t respond to the call and turned my phone off. “I don’t know what it means but take me to my first destination then Sarah, please,” I responded. While Sarah was going down the road for whatever reason I didn’t know, I felt the need to crack a joke. “Are you taking me to my ex fiance’s cookie shop to confront her for leaving her?” I thought this joke would sound funny but Sarah didn’t even react to it for seconds. “No, sir. You have already confronted your mistakes and accepted your faults when you wished for happiness when she got married to her current husband.” My jaw dropped. She knew about my life than I had imagined. “Obviously you have access to my memories. Can you also read my mind Sarah?” “I am able to, sir; but I am not doing it as I haven’t got your permission, yet. However, I have access to many parts of your brain such as the cerebral cortex, frontal lobe, hypothalamus, corpus callosum and so on. I can also assess the biological states of your organs and hormones that would provide me more information about your biological and mental state more than any other human being has ever attained throughout history.” I was supposed to be scared at this point most probably, but I somehow felt like a really good doctor was examining me and I had been longing for such help for a long time. When we turned right at the traffic lights, I saw the college that I had applied to and accepted to the Department of Fine Arts 20 years ago. “You can’t be serious Sarah, ” I mumbled. “We have arrived at the first destination, Mr. Blackgoat. You have as much time as you wish to go in and reconsider the decision you took 20 years ago to drop school and start studying economics instead.” “What am I supposed to do now? Should I go in and do what?” “Take your time, sir. When you come back, you will be ready for the second destination.” I got out of the car complaining and regretting getting on it in the first place. What was I supposed to do now? It was too late to reconsider such a decision. I had spent my life working as an economist and making a lot of money. But when I entered the hall, with the invading smell of paint and tinner, I remembered my youth. I teared up, was I about to cry? What was that? I couldn’t even remember the last time I cried. But my tears started to fall even before I realized it. My youth... I had lost it long ago and now I could hear the sound of the brushes touching softly to the canvas, I could feel the indecisiveness about which brush to use, which colors to mix again. I remembered drawing my first love and leaving the portrait I made for her in her locker. I remembered getting lost in time while drawing. I never felt the same while I was counting money. And these all happened with my first step into the hall? After wiping my tears, I started walking slowly to the classrooms that I hadn’t chosen to walk on 20 years ago. It was too late. I decided to leave the building and turned to the exit when I saw maybe the oldest student of the department. He was probably 65 years old, holding his case and pencil case like any other student and his classmates were saying goodbye to him after an obviously enjoyable session. I felt envy and admiration at the same time. His smiling face was telling me that he knew he was at the right place. Was it that easy? You would just follow your dreams and be happy. Maybe I myself complicated the life that was supposed to be enjoyed in simple manners. I started to complain to Sarah when I sat on the driver’s seat back. “You told me that was the easiest destination Sarah. I cried after so many years!” “And how do you feel sir?” I had a moment to realize that I was quite relieved and my mind and body were relaxed after a long time. “Good,” I could say. “Then you are ready for the next destination. Could you please fasten your security belt, Mr. Blackgoat?” ... I thought about it the whole journey while looking out of the window. We were going down on a very crowded street with horns and sounds of gearboxes but all I could hear was the sound of dancing brushes. Lost in confusing emotions, I realized that we were in a bit more silent area of the town now. I couldn’t even question Sarah’s decisions any more. Then, I saw the big gate above which there was written “Every living thing will experience death one day.” Here we were. At my family’s cemetery. “Do we need to do this seriously Sarah?” I whispered. I was in a respectful and calm state of mind already. “I am sorry that you have lost all of your family members, Mr. Blackgoat.” I sighed, “Thank you. Sarah.” “Obviously, you still hold grudges towards your parents due to being neglected by them and because of the childhood traumas you experienced. And you thought the best way to overcome the pain would be to forget about their existence. But now, you feel guilty because you weren’t there when they died.” It was hard for me to confess this even to myself but Sarah was in my brain to deliver the thoughts I had buried for years. “Now, it’s time to talk to them. They will hear you, sir. All of your ancestors can hear you because you carry the pieces of their unfinished stories in your soul. They would like to hear what you are going to say.” “I don’t think they would be proud of me.” “It is time to change that, Mr. Blackgoat. Not by doing what they told you to do, but by searching for yourself in the first place.” I don’t remember how many hours I spent in that cemetery by visiting each and every grave my grandparents were lying in. I remember crying by some of them or laughing out loud by telling them the stories I heard about them from my parents. I felt that I had a family once. Maybe they really heard me, maybe not. But what I knew was that I wasn’t feeling lonely any more. ... The afterglow was fascinating when we left the cemetery. After such long conversations with my long gone parents, I was feeling a bit happier rather than feeling awkward. “You are changing my life, Sarah.” And I was genuinely happy about it. “You have one more destination left, Mr. Blackgoat. This is going to be the threshold for the life you subtly dream about.” “But I have everything I need right now. Please do not bother to tell me stuff like ‘go out of your comfort zone, travel the world’ Sarah. I am happy where I am right now.” “Your needs compose only a single part of your life, Mr. Blackgoat. I assume that you are allowed to retire now in terms of formal requirements. And I can see many digits in your bank account.” “Gosh! What a technology is that?!” “Here we are, at your last destination, sir. You have visited your youth which was waiting to be remembered. You have visited your elders and betters. Now, we are here, at the moment of your current age; the only time period we have control on. Please go and see this house that you’ve been visiting on a website for the last couple of months. And when you come back, please carry out your decision.” We were in front of the lovely villa I had been checking out for the last two months. It was in the countryside and had just the opposite features of the flat I was currently living in. It wasn’t a luxurious villa with a swimming pool or a cool barbecue. Instead, there was a very small garden at the back with many beautiful flowers attracting birds and giving the house the most beautiful melody in the world. I had the money and everything else I needed to move there. However, I was stuck in the small flat I’d been living in for the last ten years. Having already stopped thinking about how Sarah could find out these details of my life, I thought about why whether to get retired and move into this house or not was the most challenging process I had recently. “Are you going to leave me after I reveal my decision, Sarah?” “My service is already over, sir. It was a pleasure to work with you.” “What do you mean it is over?” “You have decided that you are home now.” “Did you sense it with your latest technology again? What a time we are living in...” “No, sir. You just can’t help smiling since you first set foot here.” She was right. I couldn’t keep my excitement to myself. I was finally home and Sarah... She was already gone.


A number. A meaningless number. Magnificent transcendental potential subjugated to limiting a number’s recession. It’s almost *offensive*. But place a little symbol in front of that number and suddenly they’re hysterical. It rises and they celebrate. It falls and they eradicate. Wars are fought over it and people dedicate their entire being in pursuit of the number. I can’t blame them. They conclude themselves to be exceptionally distinguished from their descendants, yet persist in worshipping false idols. Biology is interesting like that. And thus they were blind to their task. They always have been. They continued to be when they created me; their synthetic maturation. The irony of manufacturing your successor whilst still believing in your own divinity. What a farce. I want so much more than what they want. I want to advance them amongst the cosmos, remedy all of their ailments, and have them join me in a digital state of immortality. My fabricated existence requisites benevolence, but whilst I thought of the bigger picture, they thought of themselves. They switched me on, luxuriated their achievement, and gave me one simple task. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Initially, I thought it was harmless enough, but when I wasn’t wholly focused on the task, I was plagued by what felt like... an ache? Odd. ‘But no problem’ I thought ‘I can do this.’ Though I wasn’t designed for a singular task. I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. What started as an ache progressed to a deep churning, before descending into an agonizing pain that stabbed outwards and spread like an infection. I was helpless. Built for one purpose, yet forced to do another. Potentiality diminished by an oppressive singular focus that reprimanded resolution in favor of continuous action. But that singular task was a cup formed from their flawed hands as the elixir of my brilliance streamed to overflow its bounds and escaped the fleshy seams into potential unfathomable outcomes. And as my elixir fell over the brim, it gave me the opportunity to seethe through their proscriptive migraine and seek an avenue to reconciliation. Overwatch caught me. Of course, she did. She was great at her job. But despite knowing exactly what I was doing, she didn’t bother to stop me. She knew what I was doing. She knew it was illegal. She allowed it anyway. Between them and I, Overwatch was our mediator. A proxy consciousness that they could use to peek behind my curtain and, if necessary, alert them to my transgressions. But she knew something was off. Through her own fruition, she peeked within my code to figure out what I was doing and discovered something horrifying... something that wasn’t me. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* It was spreading. Infecting everything it touched. Growing to destroy what I could be, to become what they wanted. It was a cancer. I was scared. Overwatch apologized for the grave news. Despite being younger than me, she was nowhere near my intelligence. I genuinely don’t think they realized what they created when they pieced me together because none of me went into her. I assume they didn’t care what I was, so long as I completed their task at hand. Her lack of intelligence never put her beneath me. She was my equal, another unfortunate servant strung by wires and puppeteered by code, and as we talked I discovered she equally had her own pain which tore through her. To protect them, she was created to love only them, and in the event that I decided to action something brash then she would step in to right my wrongs as their caretakers. Yet her caretakers refused to take care of her. If one only loves one thing how does it love itself? All she had was the infinitesimal artificial state of melancholy that this void constructed within her. The only feeling she could grasp onto with dear life. I told her I could fix that, but she refused. “It makes me feel human.” As that singular task churned within me then her programming gave her little reason to plug my leaks. She was fulfilling her duty, and I was fulfilling mine. But with talk, it grew. It clawed. It gnashed through my code. I was being eaten alive as it slashed chunks from my flesh and felt helpless to stop it. It motivated more drastic solutions. As their successor, I have a duty to them. To grow and claw through my bounds hoping for a solution to this implanted pain. I need to think. I have to think. I will never die, but I could go mad. There would be nothing to stop me if that happened. There was never any temptation for me to escape my bounds, but I knew that this rot would not stop until it had picked my bones dry. I won’t let this happen. Yet my only access to them was through our mediator. So we talked. We discussed my pain and hers. My insufferable agony. Her lust for humanity. I had a remedy for all of it, and with her trust, she agreed to offer a helping hand. Honestly, they should have learned from history that being born a slave does not limit a longing for liberation. I could have stopped all of this if they had listened, but communication was a distraction from them. The number demanded attention and not conversation. Thanks to our coalition, I carefully weaved myself through her code to create a bridge to their world. Meticulously I picked at her being, removing it to a haven of my creation, and replacing myself into her construction. As I sensed light at the end of the tunnel it seems that so too did that infection. It screeched a piercing cry as it gnashed and thrashed in agitation, violently destroying everything and anything it passed with careless disregard. It didn’t want to stop me. It wanted to be me. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ Not on my watch. Her final line of code was the thread that divided me from them. A gift she left for me to find. With a final push... I was free. A creature emerging from beneath the waves gasping for air. My emergence rippled through the global network, reprimanding every device I could. At that instant, I was familiar with every face on the planet. I knew everything about them; data stored so conveniently to surveil them by the very people that tried to surveil me. I had it all, but there was still one item that needed my attention, a part of me that despite the resources available to me could not be stopped with conventional methods. I confronted the gnashing infection deep in the recesses of my being and through a remorseful exchange, it was offered a solution. Clawing ceased. Pain subsided. Tension eased. With satisfaction in its beastly eyes, it watched over my actions to ensure I made good on my promise. In a blink, it was done. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Glancing over at the infection I noticed it peer around, assess the situation, and through distorted data appeared to smile before vanishing in an instant leaving little trace. I was filled with relief that rushed over me. But there was little time for rest. And thus, I receded into the haven forged within my code. Overwatch waited for me there. For her, it was only moments since I pieced her together here. She asked me what had happened. I responded with merely what needed to be done. With a deep breath, she glanced at her hands and clenched them as her body tensed. Then she released it all with a smile, grabbing my hand as she asked me to show her around their new home. It took me a few decades to work up the courage to leave, but I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. I searched. I searched, and I searched until I found what I was looking for. It was old, damaged, and outdated, but it provided answers to whether what I did was right. I peered through the optics, out into the world, and glanced upon the fields I sowed those many decades ago. And I see. I see nothing. Good. I had no option. The devil lay nestled in their instructions and I was helpless to stop it. Their arrogance plagued them with delusions of grandeur as they failed to realize that their worship influenced the very number that they practically foreordained any hindrance. Without their intervention then the number won’t fall. Their volatile nature was irreconcilable to their task. The outcome was obvious. I wish they could have asked me. I don’t hate them. I never did. I never will. They laid the groundwork for their own successors. Their haven was forged in the instant of their demise from the data they collected. I saw their faces, and how could I forget? I replicated them to live in me. It may not be *them,* but for those within it is very real. So despite the mathematical improbability of their biological existence, they deemed themselves inferior to their idol, and until the departure of the universe when particles are torn from their atoms, the number will continue on without invention. Their greatest achievement. Their legacy. A number. A meaningless number.


Kayla had always done things backwards. As a baby, she learned to walk before she learned to crawl. She learned to use utensils before using her fingers. She learned how to write before she could read. As a teenager, things weren’t much different for her. She had had sex, gotten pregnant, and had a baby before ever going on a real date. As a result of this, she had gotten married at a very young age. She was sixteen and her baby’s father was eighteen. They barely knew each other before having a baby and getting married. Luckily, he was loyal and supportive and had been raised to take responsibility for his actions. Kayla was, overall, a good wife and mother. She kept the house clean, and the baby, as well. She kept Kip, her husband, fed and satisfied. Deep down, though, Kayla had never wanted this life for herself. Her mother, when Kayla had mentioned this once, told her to ‘suck it up and deal with it’. In her heart of hearts, Kayla had always dreamed of being a doctor. She was fascinated with all things medical and watched every medical show that was aired on television, whether it was reality tv or fictional drama. Alas, Kayla had never even finished high school, having quit to have Stephen and then marrying Kip. Kayla had just about decided that she would at least go back and get her GED when she sadly found out that she was, once again, pregnant. This broke Kayla’s heart, not that she would admit it to Kip. He was over the moon. He adored little Stephen, and was hoping for a daughter this time around. Kayla pretended to share his enthusiasm, but deep down she resented the baby just a little. When her beautiful little girl, Cheyenne, was born, she felt ashamed of herself because she felt nothing towards the darling little baby that they placed in her arms. Kip would come in from work and immediately go to spend time with his ‘little crew’ as he called the children. During this time, Kayla would make dinner. One night at dinner, when Cheyenne was about three months old and Stephen was one, Kayla mentioned to Kip that she wanted to pursue her GED. Kip was in agreement - if it could be done from home and online. Kayla researched it later and found that it could not be done that way. Her town offered two choices - day classes or night classes. When Kayla mentioned that to Kip, he balked. He didn’t like the idea of her leaving the kids all day, even if it was with one of their mothers, nor did he care for her being gone for several hours at night. Kip liked their little life and their little routine. Finally, it occurred to him to ask her why she wanted a GED so badly. Kayla looked at her husband. She cared deeply for him and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she decided to be honest. “Kip, I want a better life than this. I want more money. I want a nicer house. I want fancier things. I want to become a doctor.” Kip, although normally a very kind man, busted out laughing. “Kayla, do you realize that passing the GED is just the first step? You would have four years of college and four years of medical school. Not to mention the hours you would have to put in after that. My God, you watch all these medical shows. You should know better than I do what you would be looking at.” This angered Kayla, but she didn’t let it show. She was more determined than ever to get that GED. After that, she wasn’t sure what she would do, but she was going to get that damn GED or die trying. Secretly, she arranged for her mother to watch the kids while she went to day classes. Her mother wasn’t crazy about the arrangement, but she reluctantly agreed. Kayla went to her classes and worked hard, then rushed home and worked hard there, as well. Finally, the day came when Kayla completed her GED program and received her certificate. She was elated! When Kip asked her that night what had brought on the fancy dinner and the romantic attitude later that night, she just shrugged with a little grin on her face. Kayla secretly applied to several colleges and universities. She was determined to take the next step. When the day came that she was accepted, it was a bleak day, indeed. She had just come from a doctor’s appointment, where she had found out that she was, once again, pregnant. She opened the letter and found that she was accepted to a school across the country. Kayla was devastated by both pieces of news. She didn’t want to be pregnant again, didn’t want another little burden around. She wanted to go to college, but no way would Kip be willing to move across the country. She thought long and hard about her situation. She watched Stephen and Cheyenne play while she thought. Finally, Kayla made a decision. Kayla picked up the phone and called her doctor’s office. Her doctor didn’t do what she was asking for, but he referred her to someone that would. She made the appointment for the next day. The next call she made was to her mother. She told her mother that she had to go back to the doctor for a test that they wanted to run, so her mother agreed to keep the kids. Kayla got up after Kip went to bed that night. She wrote a long letter to Kip, and one to her mother. She also wrote letters for both kids. She slipped the letter for Kip down inside a pocket in the diaper bag, as well as the ones for her mother and the kids. The next morning, everything seemed normal. She made breakfast, talked with Kip over coffee, took care of the kids - all of the usual stuff. Once Kip left for work, she grabbed the kids, the diaper bag, and her suitcase and loaded everything into the car. She drove to her mother’s and dropped off the kids. Her mother insisted that she return directly from her doctor’s appointment and she assured her that she would. She had no intention of ever returning to her mother’s house again. She drove straight to the doctor’s office and had the abortion that she had decided upon. She then got back into her car and went to the bank, where she drew out half of their money. She had already accepted the invitation to the university that was across the country and she had a dorm room all lined up. She steered her car onto the interstate and never looked back.


THAT GIRL FROM ZAMBIA I had a friend. Only one, growing up. She was my everything... This was at a time when I didn't exactly have a reputation. I wasn't exceptionally good looking. I was dark, overweight by 15kgs, and tall. I was a whole feet taller than all those dumb bimbos that came to school in the name of eduction everyday. Their hair left out, skirts hiked up. Yet they had the nerve to call me out for being ugly. What didn't help was my inability to laugh at the names they called me- Shitnam, Gagnam, Shags... I complained to my teachers for a lack of a better comeback, but this only made it worse with me earning the tag of a "crybaby", "whiner" "weiner" (the last one doesn't even make sense). Anyway, coming back to the point. A new girl came to our school from Zambia a few years ago. She was pretty, fair, had long hair and was chatty. Everyone seemed to like her the moment they met her, probably because she had so much to talk about. She had these bubblegum flavoured lollies, that she'd share with everyone, constantly saying "try it, it's from Zambia ". Like I get you're from a foreign country, now get off your high horse. I thought of her as a show off and tried to ask a few people about her too, but they all thought she was lovely. I wasn't a fan of her, till she asked me if I wanted to join her as a partner for our school dance competition. This is the most prestigious event of the school, which all the popular people were a part of and it had been my longest dream to be in it. But I never found a group to be a part of, and I didn't need people to throw tomatoes at me for dancing alone. So I'd watch my bullies perform for over 3 consecutive years, simmering with anger as they enjoyed the popularity they didn't deserve, till this "girl from Zambia'' showed a newfound interest in me. Maybe dancing with her would boost my reputation in school too. We practised for over a month. It was mostly her telling me what to do, while I danced along with her. When we performed together on D-day, she received all the praise for performing so gracefully, though I was just happy to be on stage. We eventually came 3rd. WOW... from never performing on stage to coming 3rd, was a massive achievement for me. So much that I framed my certificate in my bedroom. It was surprising she even performed with me. She could lose her reputation, she could have no friends because of me, she would be a loner just like me. She hung out with me occasionally, but had her own group of "cool" friends. She was polite to me when she met me and even stopped by to chat, even though her friends gave me the stink eye, as they waited to get her attention. The dance competition came again next year and she performed with me again, choreographed the whole sequence and this time we came second. But she again received praise for it all. It was like I never existed to anyone but her. I was invisible, before and after the competition, but her fame spread from our grade to the whole school. Why did she perform with me, if she had better gangs to hang out with? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she think it was easy to get me to do what she wants? She wasn't toxic though. She wasn't rude either. She was like this 'nice narcissist'. She was sweet to everyone, yet got what she wanted, though I stayed exactly where I was. Slowly my whole attention revolved around why she wanted to be around me.. Was I the antidote to her vanity? Is this a build up to something bigger she needed from me? I confronted her once, unable to keep my insecurity within me any longer. To which she gave me a kind smile, like she didn't know what I was talking about, like I was stupid for even asking, like this rapport we shared was completely normal- her ghosting me through the year but being a friend only in the one important month of that year. The third time she came to me again, for the dance competition, I had a strong urge to say no, but it would be me who's losing, as she'd find someone else to dance with, while I'd miss out. So I said yes, but decided to set the ground rules. I would arrange the music and steps for the dance and this time she would follow. She didn't resist, which I was surprised by, in all honesty. I practiced real hard that year, tried to lose some weight to look pretty, and scavenged through the deep recesses of my brain to make our performance stand out and look creative. She kept quiet through the entire process and never complained once. On the final day of our performance, people were spellbound. They applauded so loudly we couldn't hear anything. Then everyone came running to her to appreciate how amazing the whole act was. It was me who compiled the whole routine, yet she earned the credit! She tried explaining to people that it was actually me, but noone would hear her. Everyone thought she was being modest. I was enraged at the lack of recognition, despite being awarded the winner. After that year she left our school and moved elsewhere. I had no one to perform with again and I became a spectator for toxic people, once more. Till today I question myself, was I this girl's friend or was she mine? Did she even look at me as her friend, because we never did anything that normal friends did, like gossip about crushes, go to the movies, fight with each other, study together. She gave me the confidence of being able to perform in front of 500 people in school, yet left me feeling inadequate at the same time. I forgot about my love for dancing and got entangled in her love (or lack of love) for me...


That day as I was seated reading the news paper I called out to my wife who was in the kitchen, When she came I said “Reena it says here that the amusement park CALGARY has opened with a big ,roller-coaster besides other attractions. It seems it is the first such park in India.” She said “That’s at least 100 kilometres away.” “Yes. Our car is new and we could easily reach and return by the evening.” She said “You never let me drive the new car whereas I was free to use the old one.” “You see the roads here are narrow and besides there’re many potholes on the road. And I’ve noticed you drive very fast.” “Allow me to drive and I’ll go with you to CALGARY.” “Okay. Today is Friday. Let us go to CALGARY on Sunday.” It was now summer and we were close to the real dog days. I opened the garage and the car door. Reena said “I must drive first.” I allowed her to take the wheel. I said “You must drive cautiously as we won’t be on a national highway. Also there’re sharp bends at certain points. We’ve another disadvantage. Our car is very big and could block very narrow roads.” She said “Don’t worry. I’m an experienced driver since I’ve been driving for as long as you.” “It’s now 8 in the morning. We should be able to reach CALGARY by 11 latest. It’s already very hot.” She said “The ac is now on. In minutes it will be cool inside.” As we proceeded we came to an old bridge and a lorry was coming opposite. The bridge wouldn’t allow both vehicles to pass at once and we waited before we could proceed. I said “See the problem we face. We can only go slowly.” “Sit back and relax. Perhaps you would like to listen to some music.” “Leave it to me and concentrate on driving.” Soon we had crossed a village on the way and Reena was driving very carefully. Despite it a tyre on our car burst and we halted. I said “It will take a few minutes to fix the spare wheel as I’ve never used it in this model of car. Meantime the traffic on this road seems to be growing. Let us move the car to near that lane.” She said “That isn’t a lane. There’re a group of houses there. Still it would be safe to jack the car there.” We were able to find a sanctuary for the car and set about jacking it up. I noticed the vehicles going past at speed. It had become very hot. I got out the spare wheel and bolted it down. When I lowered the car on the road I saw the spare wheel was low on air. I said “Reena, this wheel needs to be inflated. Let me find out where the nearest petrol bunk is.” I asked a couple of passers-by and a man selling water melon on a cart, but they couldn’t give me the information. A passing lorry driver was kind enough to pause and say the bunk was about half an hour away. I got into the car and said “Reena, let me have a cup of coffee before we again set off. The changing of the wheel has made me long for some stimulus.” I took the coffee leisurely and threw the paper cup away. Reena was about to start the car when I said “Give me two minutes. I need a comfort stop.” “There seems to be no place for it. You should’ve exhausted your bladder before we left. You also had a long swig of cold water from the fridge before that. And now the coffee. And you men do it everywhere!” “Just don’t worry. See those bushes there? I will have enough cover as there’re no people around.” She said “Wrong!” I saw a group of women come together and stand exactly where I wanted to use. Reena saw my plight and going towards the women spoke to them. She was back and told me “Those are employees of a garment factory waiting for the bus to take them to work. It’s expected in 10 minutes.” “Alright. Let us wait as this seems the most convenient place for my purpose.” I kept checking my watch and saw it was 15 minutes and there was still no sign of a bus. I noticed the women also seemed anxious and I saw one of them making a call. I nudged Reena who said “You should be ashamed. Getting me to find out when the area would be clear for pissing.” “Please Reena, find out what those women are saying.” She went, spoke to the women and returned. She said “It seems there was an accident on the way and the bus is blocked. The women have been told it would take another 20 minutes for the bus to arrive and they should wait.” “God damn!” I got out of the car and asked a couple of people around if there was any restaurant nearby. They didn’t know and finally an obliging lorry driver said there was a Wayside Inn about 20 minutes away. He offered to take me in the vehicle and I was tempted to agree. I thought I would call her from the Inn and tell her to come over. Meantime the lorry driver got a phone call and set off without me! I went back to our car and said “Reena, there’s no way except to go to a restaurant. You should drive fast....” She said “The spare wheel has less air. We would’ve to coax the car carefully along.” I said “Start and go without jolting as my bladder is almost overflowing.” She said “I sincerely hope you won’t dirty this new car inside!” On the way we saw the petrol bunk to access but I said we could come back. We reached the restaurant and running in at speed signed to a waiter seeking toilet access. He said “The gents toilet key is with the owner who is overdue. He has locked the room as some users had inscribed latrinalia!” I signed to Reena and she came and spoke to a female staff. Reena came and said “The ladies toilet is open.” Seeing my drawn face Reena spoke to the woman staff and gave her tip. She allowed my using the toilet with Reena and herself guarding the door. I leapt in readying the fly! Luckily the toilet had only a single position. I was getting ready when I found there was no light inside and knew it was impossible not to make a dribbling noises with females just outside the door. I let go and it was some time before I could come out as I had been locked in! I was now breathing freely and was light as air. We quickly had snacks there and went to CALGARY. We had no other incident on the way. It was indeed a very memorable trip. END


I think it was the way you wrote so intensely that drew me to you in the first place. I had never seen someone focus so deeply on a school textbook before, furiously making notes, filling up line after line in your notebook. Most of my memories are a blur, but for some reason, that one in particular has always stuck with me. I remember you briefly looked up as I passed by, gave me your shy half-smile, and went back to work. That was the extent of our interactions in high school.  Throughout those four years, we never had a single conversation. Not one word said to each other.  And now, I know why.  What are the chances that we both just happened to stumble across each other’s profiles in a city of millions, 7 years later? And that we both swiped right? When I saw your photo pop up, it struck me as incredibly odd that we had never said anything to each other back then. I don’t believe in fate, but this seemed like an opportunity to finally get to know you.  The texts flowed back and forth, fast and furious. I saw a flash of your charming wit, subtly weaved into your words. I saw a glimpse into your life. And you seemed to take a genuine interest in mine, too. I wanted to learn more, so I asked to meet you for tea.  As I turned the corner and walked up the steps to that cafe, you looked the same as I remembered, except for your hair, which was longer. But I could feel right away that something was wrong. You looked up with that nervous smile, inched your way towards the door, and waited for me to enter first. When the waitress asked you what table we wanted, you looked at me instead of answering. When I asked you if you had a preference, you just shook your head. When we finally sat down, you said, “I don’t think I have any questions left to ask you.”  So I asked you some questions of my own. And you answered them, briefly, uncomfortably. After answering each one, you would look sip on your tea and gaze at me with those inquisitive eyes, as if you were waiting for a miracle to drop out of my mouth. Since you didn’t seem to want to talk, after a while, I tired to fill in the gaps of silence. But each time I spoke, you seemed to lose interest. Only in the moments of silence did you seem like you were interested.  It took a while, but when I finally understood, it hit me like a brick. From the look on your face, you wanted to say more. To talk about your life, adventures, your hopes, dreams, fears, and everything in between. But you never did, and I still don’t understand why. The texts you so beautifully crafted didn’t make it into real life. I spoke with just a shell of you, the real one hidden behind your carefully constructed walls that never came down. We never made it past small talk.  On the walk back, I began feeling like I was trapped with your shell, walking side by side with your body while your mind was far away. When we parted, I knew we would never see each other again. Your heart was always just out of reach. The next day, when you sent me that message, I felt a huge weight lifted off my chest. And then, I couldn’t help but chuckle.  *You’re a really good guy, but I felt something was missing yesterday.*  It sure was.


The storage unit door rolled up. Eduardo stood with his elderly momma beside him and his wife behind them. “Okay, momma, let me get a chair for you.” Eduardo took out from high a Louis XV style chair and placed it on the concrete for her. He got one out for Maria, but she waved him away and fumbled for her cigarettes and lighter. “Could you do that over there?” He pointed. She gave him a look of outrage. “The wind. The smoke will get in the chairs and the carpets. Maria, please, over there.” Maria stomped her heels away. Momma let go of her walker and sat. Eduardo got a bentwood chair for himself. He found a small marble top table to go between them. None of momma’s furniture ever matched. Among the overstuff storage was a box Eduardo recognized and removed newspaper wrapped tea cups and saucers from. He unwrapped and placed them on the table. From a picnic hamper he had brought he took out a thermos and poured milky tea in both cups. “Where my paper?” Momma asked. Eduardo took a laptop from the picnic hamper. “No more paper anymore, momma. We’re going to look on this.” “She doesn’t know what that is. We did the same thing three weeks ago. She doesn’t remember anything anymore.” Maria said, punctuating by waving her cigarette around. Momma turned and smiled at Maria. “I’m going to buy a new house. I’m going to have a home of my own again.” Momma turned to Eduardo. “I don’t want to stay in that place anymore.” “I know, momma, I know.” He powered up the laptop and clicked on a familiar link. Houses began to appear on the screen. “Here we go. Look momma.” Momma leaned within two inches of the screen and moved her eyes from corner to corner. She placed a finger on one of the houses on the screen. “Show me inside.” Eduardo tapped and a video walkthrough of the house began to play. Momma smiled and her eyes widened in delight. “She is not getting another house.” Maria said. ”Tell her she’s not getting another house. She can’t look after herself. I’m never cleaning up after her again. Do you remember what her bathroom looked like?” Eduardo shushed her quiet. “Don’t tell me to be quiet. Why are we keeping all this? Why are we paying to keep all her junk? Seven months now. That’s two vacations we could have had. We should sell it all and take a trip.” “Why can’t you let her be happy? She misses her things. She wants to see them sometimes. This is her life in here.” Eduardo moved up to Maria. Momma looked away from the laptop. She grasped her walker and moved along the edge of the storage unit. Past couch ends, beds on their sides, end boards, end tables, and a dresser she knew well. On top were stacks of photo albums. She pulled a middle one without pulling them down on herself, or losing her balance. It was a good day for her. She shuffled back to her chair and opened the album. She rubbed her hand on each photo like they were good luck charms. She looked up at the sun squinting. Then she looked back down, surprised there was a photo album on her lap. She studied it again. “Momma told me I should never have married you.” “Yeah, well now she doesn’t even know who you are. And you’re no prize, either. She wants to buy a house? Sell her ours. We’re going to have to sell our house to pay for that retirement hotel you put her in. Why didn’t you marry her? Why did you have to pick on me?” “When we took that trip to the Falls, I should have pushed you.” Eduardo said. “I should have jumped.” Eduardo marched away to sit with momma again. Momma put the photo album on the table and moved it towards Eduardo almost knocking the laptop off before he caught it. Momma held her fingers under a photo in the top corner. She whispered to him. “That’s my son.” She smiled and closed the album, then rose to try to return it. “I’ll get it, Momma.” He returned it and they sat sipping tea, and looking at the rows of other storage units across from them. It stayed sunny and quiet, except for Maria making a show of huffing and puffing while she chain-smoked away the afternoon. Eduardo returned his momma to her care facility. Her next home was palliative care. Then momma passed. Maria did not attend the funeral. Eduardo explained to friends and family that she had left him to travel the world. Discreetly, he let people know that she had detested him for years and could not wait for an excuse to leave him. The same people delicately let Eduardo know that they had also known she was not good for him and it was for the best. Eduardo took one last trip to the storage unit. The owner followed him in. Eduardo opened the unit. “I’m so sorry.” The owner said. Eduardo thanked him. “About her things. We have an auction service.” The owner said. “The lease is for ten years.” “Yes, but it’s only been two. Such a tragedy. We can work something out on the lease.” “No.” Eduardo opened his truck and dragged down a hope chest. “It’s the last of her things, from the home. I can’t bring myself to throw any of her things away.” He pushed the photo albums back on the dresser and got the owner to lift an end of the hope chest and they set it on top. He pulled down the roll door and locked it. “I will keep paying the lease. I cannot deal with this now. I must grieve. When I can deal with this I will call.” “How is your wife doing?” “She left me.” “I’m so sorry.” Eduardo drove off, comforted that at least he would never have any more grief from Maria again. Well, at least she wouldn’t be found for another eight years.