The rain poured down the windows. I stared out at the muddy yard. It had been raining for two weeks straight. The flowers were wilted and the tree branches droop.

I sighed, and murmured, "Oh, John! I miss you so much! When will you come back to me?"

A single tear ran down my cheek, and I brushed it away with the back of my hand.

"The world," I whispered, "Is hopeless! If this goes on, I may cast myself off of a cliff, to perish."

Drawing my shawl closer around my shoulders, I placed my palms against the cool, wet glass of the window.

"John? Will you ever return to me?" I exclaimed softly, "I love you, John! I was wrong! I shouldn't have said those wicked, wicked things!"

A few more tears coursed down my cheeks. My lip quivered as my unseeing eyes stared out at the rain. Suddenly, desperation set in:

"JOHN!!!" I screamed wildly, "COME BACK!"

The door behind me opened slowly, and a girl's young face appeared.

"Anna? Why are you yelling? Mom wants you to wash the dishes after you finish your homework."

I flung of the shawl in a hurry and complained with a frown, "Tracy! You interrupted me!"

"Yeah? Whatever. Who's John?"

"He's my lover, and he has left me."

Tracy's eyebrows shot up as she stared at me.

"Okay...anyway, Mom wants you to do the dishes."

As Tracy closed the door she finished with, "Maybe you shouldn't read so many romance novels..."

"Ugh," I said grumpily, as I dropped onto my bed, "What else is there to do with all this rain, anyway?"

Thou art more dear, more pleasant than the summer day

Your beauty, fairness, and calmness always most consistent

Despite the throngs of maddening circles that stay

To surround and lure you in disarming persistence.

You are the loveliest of all the flowers that bloom

And sweet as the songs the birds do sing high in the trees,

And within my breast each day and night therein looms

The purest love and thoughts of thee deep within me.

I love thee as no other I have ever known or loved

My heart beckons you with an immeasurable appeal

Be mine forever, let me know you only as my beloved

So that you might see this depth of love for you is real.

Thou art more dear than all the days of the long nights of summers,

Draw nigh and hear my heart tell thee thus with love filled murmurs.

Straight, Lesbian, Gay, Pan

Black, White, Asian, Native American,

Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Christian,

Woman, Man, Trans

Why must we use all of this labels?

Why must I title who I am?

Why can't I just be me?

Why must I use labels?

Labels are for objects on shelves.

Every person is different.

We shouldn't have to label ourselves.

So why do we?

Why be a Straight, White, Christian Woman?

When I can be

Fun loving, writer, introverted, friendly, happy, and sometimes scared me?

None of that is listed in the labels

Straight

White

Christian

Woman

Once upon a time there was a little cottage that had a garden. The garden was large and beautiful. Flowers waved gently in the breeze all spring and summer long. Tulips, lilacs, daisies, sunflowers, bleeding hearts, crocuses, buttercups, violets and many more grew there. Cobblestone paths wound about the garden, with benches under shady trees. A pond with goldfish swimming in it sparkled in the sunlight.

The owner of the cottage was a gardener; he was old and gray-haired but his shaky hands were gentle when they touched the satiny petals of the flowers. The flowers all adored him greatly and were rivals for the most attention. The kind gardener distributed his praise evenly between them all.

In the early morning hours you could hear his voice saying, “Ah, daisies dear, how much you have grown! And how fresh you look, violets…” as he went down the paths and greeted them all by name.

The flowers all knew each other well. The violets were quiet and unassuming; The daisies were cheerful and happy; The lilacs were somewhat more sophisticated and tended to stay apart; The crocuses were happiest in colder weather and complained of the heat on warm days; The buttercups spent their time in the sunlight laughing and singing; The bleeding hearts whispered sadly together; The tulips gossiped all day long; The sunflowers were bold and somewhat impolite. But they all knew what the characters of the others were, so they lived in contentment together.

On a usual day all the flowers were awake and over the garden was a hum of voices. They were always talking, unless the gardener was in the far corner of the garden, for there, beneath a little white gravestone, lay the gardener’s little girl, Rosalynn, who had just changed from a gentle child to a delicate young lady when she fell ill.

All events in the followed the same pattern year after year. Or they did until the day the gardener came in with a scraggly little plant. He carried it over to the corner and, using a trowel, carefully planted it. He watered it and tended it attentively. The other flowers grew envious; for the new plant was receiving more attention than any of them. They watched her grow day by day, and mocked her ugliness.

“Look at her!” scoffed one of the tulips, “See her thorns on her stem?”

“She never says a word!” declared one of the daisies “Is she too ‘distinguished’ to have anything to do with us?”

“Maybe she thinks that she is a princess.” a buttercup said scornfully.

“Perhaps she is shy, and that is why she is so quiet.” suggested a gentle violet.

The others laughed and said that was ridiculous. They spent their days taunting the poor little unattractive plant. She never said a word, but sat there silently and cringed slightly when their laughter grew loud enough to reach her.

The poor little plant was shy and dared not say anything in her own defense. She treasured the moments when she received gentle words from the gardener. But she wondered why she was so hideous. It was true that the little plant had thorns, but she did not choose to have those! The plant fought back tears as she whiled away her time alone in the corner. Slowly she crept closer to the little white gravestone next to her. She was very lonely, and there seemed a kind of companionship in the little gravestone. She felt, somewhere deep down in her roots, a connection with it. The little plant tried her best to shade the gravestone from the burning sun, and sheltered it from the pounding rain. She protected it carefully, and began to feel that perhaps it wasn't too lonely in the corner of the garden.

Days went by and the little, brave plant slowly struggled and grew. She began to grow over the gravestone and she got bigger and stronger. Yes, she had the thorns still, but no longer was she scraggly and weak. Buds began to form on her. They were at first a soft pink and then they began to darken to a lovely crimson. The other flowers still mocked her though. They were not close enough to see the buds. Though perhaps even if they were they would not have seen them, for they had blinded themselves to any beauty in the unwanted plant. They could not see a use her since she did not compare in loveliness with them.

All continued until one dawn, when in the early morning light, the buds unfolded. Deep crimson flowers lay bright against the white gravestone and contrasted against the green grass. The little plant gazed down at herself in amazement! The gardener stepped down the path, and leaned over. His gnarly fingers gently brushed the petals of the flowers. And his eyes filled with tears.

Softly he whispered, “Ah, now my little Rosalynn has roses to keep her company. You know,” addressing the little plant, “You have a very important job: keeping my little girl company. She was your namesake, so you are very fit for the job.”

The little plant raised her head high and thought proudly, “I am not just an ugly thorny bush! I am a rosebush!”

Thereafter, the little rosebush was very happy. The other flowers apologized for their rudeness, and of course, being the sweet little plant that she was, the rosebush forgave them. They all grew to be great friends, and everyone confided their deepest secrets to the lovely, sweet and caring plant. And on soft summer days, she leaned close to the little white gravestone. So captivated and absorbed did she look, one would swear that wonderful secrets were being whispered to her. And who knows; maybe they were!

By Calvin Henninger

They say your first hour in the tank is the worst.

It’s imperative, they tell me, that I watch the patients closely during their first hour in the tank. Sometimes people wake up - swim through the layers of drug-molasses covering their brains. And when they realize they’re underwater, the panic sets in, and then they tend to claw and tear at anything on their bodies. The mask comes off, the IV goes flying, the frame bends and shakes as they throw themselves all around the tank. It’s a real mess if you’re not there to do something about it.

It’s pretty easy to drain a tank - just push a button and the water flows out the bottom, down a short channel and into the main reservoir, where it’s treated and chlorinated. There’s usually a fifteen-minute waiting period between draining and refilling a tank, as the reservoir churns all the fluid inside, adjusting chlorine, oxygen, lotion levels. But we’ve only got six tanks, so it’s not too much of a hassle. When someone comes out like that, they don’t want to go back in right away.

It’s a very organized system at Pyketech. The body gets hooked up - nodes on the head, IV in the arm, oxygen mask on the face -, the body goes in, the water rises, I watch the body for the first hour or so, then check in a couple times an hour after that. After eight hours, Chris comes in to relieve me. I’ve never had any issues after the first hour.

Two of the tanks have been filled since I started, and the only sign that the two men - Casey and Wong - are still alive is the readout on my screen and the lightest fluttering of their eyelids, if you look closely enough. Every day or two I drain the tanks for them, and they crumple to the floor, naked and asleep. Then I wait for an hour or so, and then I refill the tanks. Early on, Chris said something about the inside of the tanks being climate-controlled, so no breeze or anything wakes them up once the tank drains. He said they even keep the air a little warmer in there, so the water on their skin doesn’t cool off.

I think I almost saw Casey come out of it one time - his eyes slid open underneath his mop of gray hair for a second and then his mouth twitched, like he was almost about to speak. But then he was out again, and I refilled the tanks an hour later.

Inside the tank, their body is suspended from a central frame - it looks a little like a stretcher, but turned vertically. Unlike a stretcher, though, the bodies aren’t strapped in and restrained. There are arm, leg and neck cups which fit snugly around the limbs, but they’re designed for support, not imprisonment. So if someone does start thrashing, it's pretty easy to pull yourself loose. When the tank drains, the central frame gently releases the body and folds up and out of the tank automatically, allowing the body to settle on the tank floor. It’s more comfortable that way, rather than hanging in the air once gravity takes hold.

The other four tanks have a cycling crew of folks who come and go. There are a couple regulars - Anthony Guiseppe, Thomas (I forget his first name), and Trevor Jonas.

I wonder what they think about, these guys in the tank. And why they’re paying so much. I haven’t seen it myself, but Chris says he talked to one of the founders a year or two before I got here. They only had two tanks at that point, with the patent pending on them; the whole thing was set up like an interrogation, just to make sure Chris wouldn’t sell them out before they secured it.

A couple months later they got their patent, and Chris hasn’t seen them since. They didn’t even come in to interview me when I first applied for the job: everything went through Chris and Bobbie Franklin, so I don’t honestly know if they even exist.

I’ve read in books about these opium dens, how people lay in bed and smoke the stuff until they piss their pants, grow beards, get bedsores. But we’ve got that covered with the tanks: we’ve got catheters, waterproof solid waste bags strapped to their asses. Every couple of weeks I’ll do a shave on them when they come out of the tanks - probably my least favorite part of the whole gig, but it’s worth it for the paycheck. I’m making more than low-level accountants, no college degree or anything.

So when I come in and the readout is dead on Wong’s tank, and Bobbie Franklin is nowhere to be seen, I realize how quickly it can all fall apart.

I try calling her phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. I go to check the tank: Wong’s still in the frame, but his eyes have cracked open. And they’re not moving underneath. I punch some buttons on the display. Nothing. I try to see if anything’s moving through the IV, but it’s hard to tell underwater. His mask is still on, but there’s something missing.

The oxygen, I realize. There’s no hum coming from the oxygen tank. Just like that, all the power leaves my legs, and I crumple to the floor for a second. Maybe I will meet the higher-ups after all. I sit like that for a few minutes, thinking empty thoughts, staring at the inside of my fingers. Then I stand up slowly and call Chris.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Hey, can you come down for a second?”

“You good? I’m about to turn in for the night.”

“Nah, just come down for a second, okay?”

“Alright, sure.” he pauses for a second, until I almost think he’s hung up, “What’s going on?”

“Fuck, man.” I say, because it’s really the best description of the situation. “Fuck. Dude, Wong’s gone.”

This time the pause lasts forever. “What do you mean?”

“The tank shut off, and Bobbie’s not here. She must have split when it happened.”

“Well…” he says, “Fuck, man. What am I gonna do?”

“You’re my supervisor. I dunno, supervise me?”

“This is way above my head, buddy.”

“There’s no one you can call?”

He sighs, “Yeah, I guess there’s one number. Let me try and dig it out. You gotta make the call, though. I’m not touching this shit with a ten-foot stick.”

“Can you come down, at least?”

“Sure, whatever. Are all the other tanks good?”

I almost drop the phone. “Fuck!”

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll be there in a sec.” Then he hangs up.

I go around to all the other tanks, and I guess it’s not as bad as it could have been. Two other tanks are dead - along with the men inside. Both of the others are on the same side of the room as Wong, so maybe the power runs on two separate sources. Maybe some kind of power surge or a blackout? I wonder how it went for those three, whether they even realized they were drowning, or if it all just became part of that long, intoxicating dream. Their eyes were open, so maybe they woke up at the end.

I wonder if I should drain the tanks, or if it’s better to leave them this way. They look like specimens in a lab, and maybe that’s the way they should stay. It’s not so different whether they’re alive or dead, I guess: the catheter and the solid waste bags will catch all the residuals, and they’ll hang there just like before.

Chris gets here fast.

“Hey man.”

“Where are they?”

“It’s three of them, all over on that side of the room.”

“Three? I thought it was just Wong.”

“I saw him first. Hadn’t checked on the others yet.”

Chris strides across the room, taps on the glass like he’s provoking a shark at the aquarium. Then he comes back. “Yeah, it looks like the breaker blew on this side of the room. They were like this when you got here?”

“Yeah, where’s the breaker at?”

“It’s hard-wired into the bank, so this shouldn’t have happened. And if it did, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“And I wasn’t here.” I say.

“Right. No sign of Bobbie?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll find her.” he says, “It’s good that you stuck around. Seriously, it’s gonna be alright for you.”

“You got a number for me?”

“Yeah,” Chris reaches into his pocket, “Here.”

I punch the number into my phone. Stare at it for a second.

“What’re you waiting for?” Chris says, “Go for it.”

“Who am I calling, exactly?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Chris explodes, “They said ‘if something gets fucked up, call this number’. Something got fucked up, wouldn’t you say? Something got majorly fucked up, so now you’re calling the number. And I’m here holding your goddamn hand, so maybe assume that I would have told you who you’re calling if I had any goddamn clue myself.”

I start the call on speaker, but Chris shakes his head. Then he walks over to the other end of the room and starts hitting keys on the main computer bank.

On the line, a recording kicks on.

Hello, administrator. Please enter a facility code.

“Code?” I call to Chris. He shrugs.

Hello, administrator. Please ent-

I hit “0”. The line goes dead for a second, and then it starts to ring.

“Fusioncorp technical support. How may I help you?”

“We’ve got three bodies in tanks. I guess the power shut off, and-”

“Transferring your call. Please hold.”

They start playing one of those terrible songs, cut through with static here and there so it sounds like it’s getting broadcasted from somewhere under the ocean.

Shaka shaka shaka *crackle crackle* shaka shaka shaka

Bwou shaka bwou shaka *crackle* shaka bwou…

...Your clients are safe with us. Please stay on the line while we connect you with one of our customer service representatives.

Shaka shaka shaka *crackle crackle* shaka shaka shaka

Bwou shaka bwou shaka *crackle* shaka bwou…

...Please stay on the line while we connect-

The phone starts to ring again and I jump. This time a woman’s voice answers,

“Fusioncorp retrieval and disposal, what’s your facility number?”

I mouth “number?” at Chris, but he’s turned away, looking at the computer again.

“I’m not sure - uh, we’re the San Luis-Obispo, Pyketech facility…”

“Let me check the register… San Luis, you said? Alright, here we go - Pyketech. Facility Soma 321.” She pauses and I can hear the gentle clatter of her keyboard through the headset. “What is your name?”

“Jasper French.”

“That’s Jasper - J-A-S-P-E-R?”

“Yes, ma’am, and then ‘French’ like the language.”

“Got it. And what’s the nature of your call today, sir?”

My head feels hot. “Three bodies in the tanks. Uh, some sort of power shortage last night, and they’re all gone.”

“Were you on-duty during the shortage?”

“No, that was Bobbie Franklin.”

“And is Mr. Franklin-”

“Miss.”

“Pardon. Miss Franklin. Is she there at the moment?”

“She left before I got in. We can’t reach her.”

More keystrokes. “Okay. Is this your first time in one of these situations?”

I almost laugh. “Yes ma’am.”

“Okay, then. Here’s how it works. Your employer - Pyketech, was it? They’ve contracted us for body disposal purposes. So we’ll worry about that end of things. We’re going to send our Los Angeles cleaning team over to your facility, so let them in and show them the bodies you need removed. They’ll take the names and the case numbers, then you’re all set on your end. We’ll handle the rest.”

“What about their relatives?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Across the room I see that Chris is also on the phone, speaking slowly and quietly into the receiver. “Unfortunately, our contracts are very clear. The bodies will be treated with the utmost respect and disposed of in an environmentally-conscious fashion. Do you have any questions?”

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with the facility owners. Do you have their contact information?”

“Unfortunately, sir, we can’t provide that information to you. That would violate our client-contractor agreement.”

“I’m an employee!” A dull ache has begun to creep from my ear up towards my temple.

“I understand, sir. But we take our client’s privacy and security very seriously. If they chose to not give you their number, then it’s not our place to do so. Do you have any other questions?”

“No ma’am.”

“Our team will be there in a couple of hours. Have a good day, sir.”

Across the room, Chris nods, says something, and then hangs up and drops his phone back in his pocket.

“Who was that?”

“Facility owners. Found the number listed in the handbook.”

“We have a handbook?”

“It’s all in the computer, so I guess it’s more for me than for you.” He gestures towards the bodies. “What’d they say?”

“Team’s gonna be here in a couple hours. We’ll just need to drain the tanks once they’re here, then they’ll handle the rest.”

“Okay. Owners are local; they’re fighting traffic to get here right now.”

“Are they pissed?”

“Hard to say. Couldn’t cut through the accent.”

“Chris.” I lock eyes with him. “Seriously, man. How fucked am I?”

He waves me off. “You're fine, man. If anyone’s fucked, it’s Bobbie. You stuck around, made the calls. Cleaned up her goddamn mess. Yeah, she’s dead-fucked once they get ahold of her.”

He heads back to the computer to poke around some more, and I sit back on the floor, tuck my knees up under my chin. Across the room I can see Wong, still hanging in the tank. If it wasn’t for the dead readout, I couldn’t tell the difference. Maybe that’s what happened with Bobbie - she was sitting across the room, got up to check on them and noticed that the readout was dead. Noticed that there were three dead bodies where three living bodies should have been.

Across the room the door slams open and two Indian dudes walk through. They’re talking rapidly to one another in Hindi.

As they get into the room, the taller, skinnier guy makes a beeline for the computers. Chris steps out of the way. The other guy - maybe forty, forty-five and heavyset, acne scars dotting his cheek and his thick black hair close-cropped and short - comes over to me. I stand up and he reaches out his hand.

“Isaac Pratesh - you are Christopher?”

“No, that's-” I gesture towards Chris and Isaac nods. “I’m Jasper.”

“Okay, Jasper. So what happened? Why do I have three dead bodies now?”

“I’m not sure how much Chris told you, but it was like this when I came in.” I check myself, start from the beginning and try to be as thorough as I can. He nods as I speak, and his eyes narrow when I mention Bobbie.

“This Bobbie, where is he?”

“She. I don’t know. Won’t pick up the phone or anything.”

“Yo, Parth!” he calls across the room, and then spits a string of Hindi to the guy at the computer. The guy shrugs, punches a few more keys. Bobbie’s face fills the screen and he leans in close to get a look at her information underneath. Isaac turns back to me. “I’m sorry, please continue.”

I go through the rest of the story, and he watches me the entire time, his eyes cool and clear. When I finally finish he nods three times quickly. “Thank you, my friend. Now I’m gonna make some calls, so please, stay here until I’m done.”

He gets back on the phone and Parth keeps working on the computer. Chris walks over after a few minutes and we head across the room.

“What you think?”

He looks at me, “I dunno, dude. Guys are pretty intense. I think Bobbie is fucked.”

“You’re not kidding.” I sigh, “They told me to stick around, so that’s not a good sign.”

“It’s probably fine.” Chris gazes at the bodies in the tanks. “Kinda wish you were one of them right now, huh?”

He trails off, and then we’re both looking at the bodies again. Casey hangs suspended in the tank, his light mop of hair the only thing moving. And even that’s not moving much.

I say “How long was Wong in there for?”

“Since before I started. He and Casey must’ve gotten some sort of discount. I think they were the first clients - probably helped fund the company.”

“Any idea who they are?”

“Nope. Maybe they’re aliases or something. Tried looking them up before, but I couldn’t find anything.”

Across the room, Parth calls out to Isaac. Isaac speaks rapidly into the phone, then hangs up and makes another call. This time he’s speaking in English.

“How long?”

“Yesterday, I need her yesterday… Okay, three hours is fine. Can you make it two? I got cleaners coming in three - eh, two, I guess. Three is fine, but it’s tight, my friend. Two and a half? Okay, that’s better. Parth sent over the contract - you got it? Okay, okay, this is perfect. Thank you, sir.”

He hangs up and rubs the stubble on his chin, staring absently in our direction. Then he nods decisively and walks over to us. “Okay, lads. We have two hours before anything else, so maybe you have some questions and maybe I have some answers. So let’s talk. Ask anything, and I’ll try to answer.” He looks at us, and the silence stretches. Chris clears his throat. “Okay, I see maybe you don’t know where to begin, so I’ll start telling you, and then you can ask as we go.

“Me and Parth, in our religion we have Vishnu, the endless dreamer. Vishnu breathes in and the universe ceases to exist. Vishnu breathes out and the universe is reborn. All is possible through the dream - creation, destruction, and things in-between. You understand? In a dream you can do anything. This universe, it lives in the interval of Vishnu’s dreaming breath - it is created, kept and destroyed-” he snaps his fingers “-just like that. It is nothing to Vishnu. It is as unconscious as is breathing while he sleeps. To the dreamer, it is nothing.

“But this is an old religion - one of the world’s oldest. And there is a new religion setting my country on fire, Jasper. Do you know what it is?”

I shake my head.

“I think you do, and you’ve felt its strength. Money, Jasper, is the religion of India. It is the religion of America and Europe, too. America and Europe brought it to India, and we’ve taken to it, yes? This capitalist fever dream. The beggars in Mumbai worship it; the businessmen of the high-rises in New Delhi pray for it every day. Cities are built on it, politics is written with it.

“Through money everything is possible. And unlike those religions of old, it is a predictable power, a fountain that never runs dry, a deity that never judges or punishes. A man with no money can be reborn, if only he can get ahold of some. The only thing separating you and me, Jasper, is the money in my bank. Isn’t that beautiful? You win the lottery tomorrow, you’re a bigger man than me. No praying, no fasting, no studying the sacred texts. With enough money, you can get everything you need.

“We used to build temples - towers stretching above the gutters and streets, tall, tall towers that could almost touch the heavens. We built them so we could stand above the beggars and merchants, above the peasants and the rickshaw pullers. So we could feel heaven, stand just beneath the gods of old.

“But then the beggars sneak inside and piss in some marble corner. The tourists come with their polaroids, and then their disposable cameras, and then their digital cameras, and then their mobile phones. Chattering with their mouths open, their devices flashing. The commoners want to be let inside, and so they were let in. The barbarians smashed the gates and spread their bloody footprints across the floors. And the powerful, the godly, they watched all of this, they felt the peasant’s sour breath on the nape of their neck.

“That’s the funny thing: everyone wants it. Everyone wants to stand above someone else - do you see the problem, Chris? When a city tries to stand above a city? Your top-floor view looks less pretty when the fishmonger next door has one as well.

“We saw this, me and Parth. And we married the ideas. What’s something exclusive, some luxury the poor man can taste, but never realize? What’s the transcendence we can give these new holy men? These gurus of the dollar? A place away from the rest - a glimmering palace. What’s something that blows up the imagination, makes the poor man yearn to be rich, makes the rich man happy to be himself? These men have knelt and prayed to the temple of the dollar every hour of every day for decades; now they want to see their faith validated. So we validated it.

“So that’s the tank. A tank where a man becomes Vishnu himself, lost in dreams, creating and destroying universes with a breath. Away, away from the rest of this hard, ugly existence. Away from prying eyes and prying fingers. And all it takes is money. A good deal of it, but what do these men care? Jonny Wong has millions in his bank, hundreds of millions more in stocks and properties scattered across the globe. We take a small part of that every month and he stays in the tank. He has paid for an eternal dream, and we will give him that.

“Which brings us to now, today. Mr. Wong is dead. And ordinarily, that would be the end of the line. He’d be gone on to whatever is next. Perhaps his soul will return as a waxworm. Wouldn’t that be an insult, after putting so much time into the pursuit of a dollar. All men are mortal after all.

“But no, Jasper. We have a contract! And at Pychetech we honor our contracts. We hold them as holy, you understand? And our contract for Mr. Wong says we owe him another twelve years of slumber. How can we do this?’ you ask - ‘Mr. Wong is dead,’ Dead, yes, killed by a technical malfunction and the incompetence of Miss Franklin. The water has shredded his lungs, he’s completely beyond repair. His body will be ground up and fed to the earth - to the waxworms, you might say!

“But what about the contract? Mr. Wong is dead, but his lawyers are not. And a man’s power rests in the hands of his lawyers. What are we to do with all this?

“As usual, it all starts with money. Everything is possible through the power of the dollar, Jasper. Everything, you understand?” he looks at me.

“If we had known that Mr. Wong was dying, this would have been easier. With the right funding, you can build a body. Hell, we had that in Mr. Wong’s contract as well. But this process, it takes a couple months at least - usually five or six - and we don’t have the time. His brain won’t last that long without a house.

“Believe me when I say this has been a headache for us since the beginning. We’re building a contingency (by we I mean Parth) for this sort of thing. Every day we scan Mr. Wong’s brain, we read his brain waves, we download his dream state. We search for patterns, we start to build a hard copy of it all, or so we hope. Parth is working on a computer program, you see, something that will create new dreams for you. You sit down and plug it into your head and you won’t be able to tell the difference from the real thing.

“This program, though, it’s no replacement for the real thing, and we can’t use it for Wong. No, our contract specifies that he needs real, true sleep. The premo stuff. The lawyers would go to town on that one, you understand? If we use the program, he’ll hit a wall. After hours and hours, the program’s creativity will fade and his mind will explore some possibility the program hasn’t run and he’ll feel the boundary of the technology for the first time. And then he will get very bored. And then, what is he even paying for? An infinite lifetime of boredom? To be god of a sandbox?

“So what we have is a healthy brain - this was not damaged by the drowning, thank God! And we have a body that is compromised completely. Maybe we could keep it alive for another two or three months, but never twelve more years. We could try to make another body in the meantime, but with the shipping delays from Panama... So what I need…” he pauses and looks at us, “Is another body.”

Chris and I look at each other. And then we start laughing. After a couple seconds we start to trail off, and then Chris stops completely.

“You’re not laughing,” he says to Isaac.

“You Americans never read the contracts, do you?” Isaac smiles sadly. “We could put a clause in there that says you give your paycheck back to us every week. You would sign away your firstborn without knowing.”

My heart starts pounding. “He’s joking, right?” I look at Chris. But Chris isn’t laughing anymore.

“Yeah, buddy. A real joker. You serious, Isaac?”

Isaac shrugs, “I’m serious enough. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but what can we do? Our hands are tied, as they say. We’ve signed a contract as well, and that brain needs a house. We can keep it alive for a little while, but not twelve years, you know? Probably not even long enough to make a new body.” he pauses, “Wong’s team had us over the barrel for the funding. You don’t want to know what happens to us if we fuck up our contract.”

Chris looks at Isaac. “Better find somebody, then.”

“Well, as you know, we’re looking for Bobbie Franklin. And we’ve found her and she should be over here soon enough. But, eh,” he clears his throat. “Maybe I should have been a little more clear. These old men, they’re chauvinists, you know? Their wives come direct from a Russian school. You know what I’m saying?”

“No.” Chris and I say together.

“Well, suppose Wong wakes up someday. Some time during that twelve years, or maybe he’s still alive at the end of it. He wakes up and he’s got a pair of tits and no dick. Not very happy.”

“So go get a cadaver.” Chris says, “Go get a homeless guy off the street.”

Isaac waves him off, “Cadavers? No, we can’t do that. We’re not Frankenstein here. They’re working on that sort of thing down in Brazil, but that’s still five or six years out. They lost a lot of funding when Tsarnikov died last year.”

“Jesus.” I say.

“You said it! We’re not Jesus, you know? We can’t come back from the dead. Not yet, anyway.” Isaac glances at me and then at Chris. “So cadavers are out. Now, maybe we could find a homeless guy out there on the street. But this is California, man! Maybe it’s a homeless man, maybe it’s the CEO of some tech startup, about to be the next Amazon. Maybe it’s an actor trying to mingle without getting noticed, or some trust fund activist trying to see how the other half lives. Too many chances out here. Besides, we got you on contract already.”

The last words take a minute to sink in. “So what, it's just us?”

“Nope.” says Chris, “Maybe it’s you. Sure as hell ain’t me.”

“Chris,” Isaac pleads, “Be reasonable.”

“I’ll have my lawyer reach out.”

“Jasper,” Isaac turns to me, “Jasper, now, Chris is a little upset, but let me tell you exactly how it works, at least. See, you stuck around, right? You hung around when you could have just run off like Bobbie. And Bobbie’s under contract too, and there’s some really nasty stuff that happens if you leave your post without telling anyone. I’d not like to be her in this situation! We’re not just going to kill you and harvest your body, not a loyal employee like you.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I say. There’s a fly crawling on the white wall. I can just barely see it whenever it moves. It stays still, and it seems to disappear into that infinite whiteness for a moment. And then it moves again, and I can just barely see it. I can’t afford a lawyer “Oh no.”

“Here’s what I can do for you, Jasper.” I can see Chris across the room, hand in his hair phone pressed into his ear. “Your body, it's just a rental, right? It takes four, five months to have a new one made and shipped up here. Five, maybe six months, tops! Then you get yours back again. In the meantime, we give you a rental body - Bobbie Franklin’s, specifically -, and Wong rents yours, and then we get one made for Wong, and then you get yours back. Get it?”

“This is...” I say. The fly is gone, I see. I realize that it’s probably time for Casey’s tank to be drained. “You’re crazy.”

“No, no. The science is actually quite sound on this. Billions of dollars went into testing, and it’s quite airtight. Otherwise we wouldn’t have put it on the contract.” Isaac shrugs. “Now, Chris has lawyered down, so if that’s the route you want to go, I suggest you make that call soon. Otherwise, we’re going to proceed with your contractual obligations.” He smiles at me, “Oh, and you won’t go away empty-handed, either. How much do you want for this rental? How much is your body worth - let’s say on a month-to-month basis, just to make it easier for both of us?”

I snap out of it. “Six million.”

Isaac chuckles. “Come on, now. I‘m Indian. We tip 10% when we like the service. You think I’m gonna shell out six million for this?” he pokes me in the shoulder. “How about… six thousand per month, plus your regular paycheck?”

“Ten thousand.” I say. But now it sounds like I’ve already agreed to it.

“Meet in the middle at seven?”

“That’s not the middle.”

“Fine, fine! You’ve got me over a barrel, here. Eight thousand, but that’s final. We’ve got two vacant tanks, too, so we can stick you in one of them if you want. It’ll probably take us at least six months to find new clients, so it’s yours until we do. You’ll probably be out until you get your body back.” he sticks out his hand. “Chris doesn’t know what he’s missing!”

We shake hands, and across the room the doors bang open. Two paramedics roll a screaming Bobbie Franklin inside, strapped to a gurney.

“Just in time - your new body!” Isaac says, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The next couple of hours are a blur. The Los Angeles team arrives, and I drain the tank for them, get Mr. Wong’s body out. The paramedics injected Bobbie with something a couple minutes before that, and then she stopped screaming. They’ve even untied her and propped her up against Casey’s tank. She just sits there, her mouth open and her blank eyes slowly scanning the room.

Once we drain the tank, they pick up Wong and get him in the gurney. For the first time I notice that there’s a thick cord, running from the back of his head to a small gray box on the inside of the tank. I remember the box being there, but never the cord. It must be auxiliary power, some sort of failsafe in case there’s a malfunction. Enough electricity to keep Wong’s brain alive.

They wheel the gurney out the front door and into the ambulance. They don’t drive away, but I catch a glimpse inside before they shut the doors, and I see an open room, with an operating table, silver trays, IVs clipped to the walls.

It’s my turn next, and there’s a little smear of blood where my head is resting on the gurney.

“You know they can keep you conscious for the operation.” Isaac says as they wheel me away. “They’ll give you enough anesthetic that you won’t feel a thing.”

“Put me out.” I say.

“As he says.” Isaac calls to the paramedics, and they stick me with a needle and then I’m gone.

I come and I go for what seems like an eternity. Something happens to me partway through - I don’t know if that’s the moment I’m moved to Bobbie Franklin’s body, but it’s cold and it’s open and for a moment I feel very vulnerable. The first hour is the worst: I get that now. The first hour is the first year is the first lifetime. One moment blends into the next, stretching and contracting. And that moment of vulnerability seems to last for days.

I wake up for a dizzying moment after the operation. I think I’m still inside the mobile operating room, but the lights are turned low and I can just barely see. There’s a dim glow coming through a window in the back. Something’s fucked up with my eyes: there’s all sorts of colors that weren’t there before. I can see the different shades of red in the blood on the table - blackish-red crusted globs of it sticking to the side of my face, fresh smears of crimson on my collar - Bobbie Franklin’s collar. And when I scream my voice comes out as a husky contralto. They stick me with something else and I’m out again.

I drift through the sleep, and in my dream they’ve cut off my arm and put on someone else’s. The doctor - it looks like Chris, but with white hair - examines the work. He walks around me to where I’m sitting on the bed, looking at my new arm. “Skin tone’s a little off,” he says, “Guess we better do the other one.” And they haul me back into the room, and then I blink and it’s over, and now it’s Isaac holding up my other arm, turning it over with a clinical eye. “They did a good job with you,” he says, “Plenty of good parts out there if you know where to look.”

“Are they done?” I can hear the fear in my own voice, clouding it, lightening my tones until it doesn’t even sound like me.

Isaac smiles, “It’s your dream,” he says, “You tell me.”

I wake up in a wheelchair. Across the room I can see Parth, whacking away at the keyboard still. My eyes are better - there’s a hundred gray tones and shifted whites across the walls, and everything looks a little sharper. But my body feels like someone’s tied an anchor around my neck and I can barely move my head to take it all in. I feel bloated and light, like I’m going to drift up and bounce against the ceiling. I feel the smoothness of the skin on my throat; the light, light stubble where Bobbie’s razor missed on her - my - face.

“You’re awake!” Isaac says next to me, and I guess I would be surprised if I wasn’t so stoned.

“Uh huh.” I say. My voice, it’s off again. It doesn’t sound like Bobbie’s either, like my brain is trying to compensate, trying to lower the tones so I can recognize it.

“Good. Now, we have one more paper for you to sign. I can go over it with you, if you’d like.”

“Uh.” I say. It’s really all I can say. I look past him - were there really so many shades to this wall earlier? It’s so sharp, so bright.

“Okay.” his voice fades for a moment, “Here it is. Errr, yes - Jasper French. Perfect.” He’s back beside me once more. “So this is your contract. We probably should have had you sign before the operation. No harm no foul, as they say. You did great, by the way - best patient they’ve ever had.

“Payment is seven thousand per month for the duration of your stay; complementary tank usage throughout the duration, or until a new tenant is found. Your regular pay will be deposited monthly, alongside the seven thousand. This new body is your property, as forfeited by Bobbie Franklin through the terms of her contract. It is a gift from us to you, so no taxes necessary and you take complete ownership. By signing this contract, you are agreeing that your old body (Body 2) is now our property up to and exceeding, if necessary, the creation of a new body (Body 3) for Mr. Wong. Upon the creation of a new and compatible body for Mr. Wong, Body 2 will be released from our ownership and returned to you as another charitable gift. By signing this contract you will be releasing us from liability, should any unforeseen circumstances damage Body 2. We will need to hire a replacement while you are gone; however, their contract will expire within six months, and will be extended until you are fit to return for work, whereupon you may return to your former employment. I think that about covers it. Any questions?

“Pen?” I ask.

“Here you are.” he pushes a pen into my fingers, then holds out a clipboard for me to sign.

“Tank.” I say.

“Thank you, Jasper.” he motions to the paramedics and they wheel me over to the tank. They get me undressed and feed my arms and legs into the frame. I start for a moment when I see my own nakedness, and I feel a slow and creeping flush of embarrassment. It all comes through a thick haze, and by the time the embarrassment hits, they’ve already stuck the IV in my arm and a different warm wave rolls across my mind. I sink back into the frame.

So this is what it’s like, I watch the ground move away from me, it’s all so new. The oxygen pumps into my mouth. And then I’m inside the tank, the frame keeping me upright. I don’t have to stand, I don’t have to breathe, and I guess I don’t have to think. But what’s the harm?

It’s all so new. The water begins to flow from the reservoir, cresting my ankles. It’s all so new. I look at my body, at the water flowing up over it. Up to my knees. How many people have a chance like this? Up to my thighs. Those days in the field with Katie; we weren’t so different. The water hovers at my navel. Out in the field, turning over the rocks. Seeing what we could find. Looking at the world turned over, our legs hooked around the branch, the blood pounding in our temples. There’s pressure in my temples now. I open my mouth and it goes away. The water laps at my breasts. What is this; what have I found here? Up to my neck. The oxygen flows through my nose; every breath is a deep one. This is something new. I think, I hope I wake up early.

Then the water is over my head, and everything turns a murky green. I can see Isaac and Parth in conversation through the glass, Parth’s slender form leaned against the computer bank. With the flip of a switch they could turn off my oxygen. Isaac looks at me and waves. Then he shrugs and punches Parth in the shoulder and they walk out. A few minutes later Chris walks over and he watches me through the glass for a second. He bends down and checks the readout, Then he and the paramedics walk over with a wheelchair.

It’s my body in the chair, strapped in and already naked, my head lolling from side to side. The paramedics grab me - Wong, I guess - under the armpits and they strap him into the frame. And then he’s in the tank, too. Right next to me. I watch the water cover him.

Then the soma drugs kick in and I sink deeper. I wake up a couple of times as the dosage adjusts, start for a moment when I feel the water all around me. But then I’m back out and drifting again. And it won’t be bad from here - an hour has passed and nothing bad ever happens after the first hour. I dive down through the folded layers of sleep; I dive down with my new body, strong and sleek. My brain flickers like an airplane light through the fog of the opiates. I hope I wake up early.

Then I breathe in and the universe is destroyed. I breathe out and a new one is born.

I can't help but cringe when I see writing prompts that ask the writer to "keep it clean." Other than certain rules around basic grammar, punctuation and spelling that help ensure ideas can be conveyed clearly across audiences (and even here, there is arguably some flexibility), writing should be untethered. Good writing exists at the place where creativity and risk intersect - if there isn't some sort of fear or discomfort at play while you contemplate sharing your writing, you're doing it wrong. It's hard to be honest with yourself, let alone the world, but that authenticity is what makes writing sing - the best songs evoke strong emotion, connect people and move us to action.

This is not to say that good writing has to be full of "fucks" - obscenity, sexuality, violence and the like all have their place insofar as they further the story or characterization and help the author to build a world or setting that feels true. Many a work has been criticized for unnecessary rape, for instance, that does little to advance the plot or characters and is used more so for shock value, often offering insight into the writer's social/political views on women more than anything else. But to box someone in from the start - to tell them to keep it clean in a world that is very much the opposite - seems like a recipe for the production of writing that is superficial and half-hearted. Give me the grime and the pain any day, to remind me I am real.

A window fills the entire wall,

up to the library's ceiling.

The world outside is for all,

Will a glance provoke a feeling?

How could it, with the lack of light?

The window merely does reflect.

The word is damp. Dark as night.

At this hour, what did I expect?

But peering closer, I may see

A car or a long powerline;

Leafless branches of a tree;

Buildings and their rough, vague outlines.

The world is there for those who look,

Beautiful and strong and gleaming.

Can't be taken by a crook.

It's for loving, being, dreaming.

Home. Such a sweet, invading word that fills one’s being

With a multitude of connotations and subliminal meanings

Whilst like a root, it spreads to form a deep-seated comfort within

The soul as it twists and turns like a wheel that perpetually spins.

Life teaches us to decree wherever we may choose to land as our home

Through storm and sunshine, through friend and foe, it’s always known

Our home is our utmost refuge in all times beyond any lingering doubt

For home is where the heart, love, and kinship abide, day in and day out.

Thus, choose with wisdom what paths you may tread, but your steps do not pause

As the all-knowing universe spins with the resounding sound of effect and cause

In life’s precious, winding path, take care lest’ you lose a second if you hesitate

For fate dictates all that will ensue as a result of those things you designate.

I've been on Prose for about six years now. I've created a number of challenges during my time.

Do I get many entries? Sometimes.

Have I created a challenge where no one enters. Definitely.

Does it suck? Sure.

Am I disappointed? Sometimes.

However, there is an easy solution to this. Are you ready? Here it goes: move forward and keep doing what you like to do. For every challenge that doesn't get any entries there are two or three more that do.

At the very least, I'm getting people to write what they want to write. And that's gotta count for something.

When I was in 5th grade, I began having really bad headaches that eventually progressed to full blown migraines a few years later. I suffered with them from the tender age of ten until I hit about fifty-five years of age. The pain they created was always concentrated in my right temple and could linger anywhere from an hour to three excruciatingly long days. Few were manageable while most were crippling and incapacitating in every conceivable way. Migraines are an illness that no one can visibly see, so during many of my attacks, especially in the earlier years - before more migraine awareness and treatment became more accessible - I would suffer the stares and judgments from others who were skeptical because there was no physical ailment that could be seen with the naked eye.

I vividly recall once when I was away from home and visiting a friend during my college years. I awoke very early in the morning with a severe migraine. I lay there in my bed and willed the penetrating pain in my right temple to subside but it was unrelenting, and instead became increasingly stronger and unbearable. As I tossed and turned in an effort to tame the pain in any possible way, a distinct image flashed through my mind: I was absolutely sure someone somewhere had a voodoo doll of me and was forcing a long needle in its right temple. My pain ridden body and mind insisted that there could be no explanation for the pain I was being forced to endure.

Needless to say, this imagery was something that followed me in subsequent years each time I had a migraine attack. I know it sounds silly, and I'm fairly certain that there was no one actually manipulating a voodoo doll of me, but still, when you're in the throes of so much pain, your mind often runs rampant with memories and visions of things you do not normally consider.

I am very thankful that I no longer suffer such horrific attacks now that I am much older. I am sure that anyone who suffers from a type of chronic pain can easily relate to the use of vivid imagery. Either way, the truth is that voodoo doll or no voodoo doll, migraines are an incredible evil all on their own.