Online Education as a Business Model
(by spawn_of_beachgoat, 10/31/06)

by Brian Heiar, 3 April 2004

Declamation

Most of the ideas in this tale were first thought up while Scott and I had lunch one day in February when spring was first peeking out from winter’s shadow. Things were not going well for me at that time, but thankfully there was a brighter than usual glimmer of hope that day. So thank you Scott.
To use a cliché, it’s probably my most personal work to date, so I hope you like it. Upon first reflection, it struck me as an innocent mix of C.S. Lewis and Kafka, or at least as innocent as such a mix can be.

I hope everyone enjoys this tale, and doesn’t think too much about it, for I’m not really sure what it says about me but it was fun writing it!

And finally, thanks to my technical advisor, Kiki, who really knows about hookers.

Waking Up From the Dream of the Fox

Once again, the crimson fox was running through my dreams. Through a fog-enshrouded forest, she ran from me, red tail waving wildly as she became lost in the mist. Beguiling laughter trailed from her tongue, and I thought I heard, “You’re no longer my mane man…leave me be,” as she disappeared.

Pacing nervously in the clearing, I caught the scents of moss, trees, fungus, and not much else. The encircling fog grew thicker and darker, and gradually a familiar decaying stench mixed with the smells of the forest announced the arrival of another member of my dream theater. Baring my teeth, I prepared myself for their assault. The demons were on their way.

Like a thousand out of tune trumpets blaring an annoying symphony, the alarm clock threatened to screech me into consciousness…at least until I pawed at the snooze button. Half-conscious but fully prepared to lazily sleep the day away until hunger made me hungry enough to rise and hunt, I ignored the unsettling dream and the lateness of the hour. More troubled dreams would surely have followed had I not snarled and turned over, head faced toward the door of my humble abode, and the open windows of the living room.

Wafting in from outside, the scent of a rose tickled and danced in my nostrils.

“A rose?” I groggily asked myself. “How can this be?” The aphids had already done their insidious work to my latest attempt at rose gardening. Still, if by chance a bloom had survived, I didn’t want to miss it.

Putting thoughts of the crimson fox and resultant demons from my mind, I pounced out of bed, padding my way softly towards the door. Trotting past the bathroom, I glanced quickly at the mirror, yawned, opening my mouth into a full mock-roar, and shook myself from head to tail after seeing how disheveled my golden mane was. I turned and grabbed a brush, gave my golden locks the once-over, and crept up to the door, stopping only to lap some water from my bowl next to the couch.

Now, you may feel like asking why is a lion living in a house, and how does he expect to open a door, but I promise you as king of beasts I know much more about this than you, though we may permit an audience afterwards to attend to some of your concerns.

So, I opened the door and in my exuberance nearly crushed something wonderful with my front left paw. There was a rose carefully placed on my welcome mat.

Rose with Ribbon Outside the Door

Turning my head quizzically, I sat back on my haunches to consider this thing of beauty. Not just any rose, it had a vibrant perfection to it, from petals to leaves to stem to thorns, the deepest reds and greens all most glorious to look at, and the rosiest rosy smell I ever did encounter.

Topping it all off, a royal blue ribbon had been carefully tied into a bow toward the middle of the stem. Whiskers brushing the ground, I gently picked it up with my mouth and walked cautiously into the front yard.

Looking Around and Beginning to Waondr

Not seeing any Tango partners immediately in evidence, or even any suspect who might have left such a precious gift, I began to wonder why this had happened. Might it not have fallen from some florist’s cart and been blown by the wind to my doorstep? Was it for me? Was it arrogance to think that some well-meaning subjects had decided to share a token of their esteem, or, dare I think it, love?

I’m not the sort of regal cat who regularly demands tribute, and certainly not in flowers, being more of the fresh meat, hearty ale and rousing entertainment type, but still this single small flower had me completely bewildered. If it really was intended for me, who was it from? What message was being conveyed? And why?

Someone around my house had to have the answer or at least a clue. And something like this had to be shared, if only to reassure myself that I was not still dreaming.

Ask the Mouse

Just then, my friend Mouse scurried out from around the corner, rubbing his eyes at the sunlight and twitching his nose at the sight of the rose. A trusted friend of mine ever since that incident with the thorn in my paw, he was usually into some mischief. Lately he had also been of great assistance to me in recovering from the disappointing end of my time with the crimson fox. Due to the non-monogamous and highly frequent nature of mouse relationships, he had shared a wealth of wisdom gained from an excess of experience. More than likely he would know something about this matter.

“Your majesty, what is this?” he squeaked.

“I know not. Have you happened upon anyone who might have left this wonderful flower this morning? I am concerned that it may be a joke at my expense.”

“Sorry, excellency, but I have seen no one. Just getting around now myself, having slept in and all. Sweet night foraging, last night was, yes! Have you asked the Mantis?” Mouse replied, and with a quick bow he dashed back around the corner.

Following his advice, I turned toward the cherry tree, now thick with blossoms. Or at least, it had been thick with blossoms. Some commotion in the branches was shaking the tree entirely, and many of the blossoms had been knocked loose, floating gracefully down to blanket the surrounding ground. The drunken Monkey and the praying Mantis were at it again!

Ask the Praying Mantis

A flurry of fists, mandibles, tail and legs were engaged in faux combat in the midst of my favorite tree. The monkey fought in a seemingly haphazard way, slouching and appearing to almost lose his balance at nearly every turn, while clutching a vile bottle of rotgut and swigging from it between every exchange of blows. The unblinking mantis, in contrast, was the epitome of precision, checking the monkey’s seemingly wild swings, grabbing his furry foe and striking with a front claw while watching for other attacks of opportunity, which the monkey would always somehow evade or wriggle out of. Fighting from branch to branch as they were, the two could continue this barrage of blows until my tree was bare of blooms, and then for a good few hours more.

“ENOUGH!” I roared, shocking both combatants. “Do you not see what you are doing to the best tree in my garden?!”

The monkey, scared and scolded, hunched over, clutched his bottle even more tightly. Turning away, he surreptitiously sipped the noxious brew every few seconds in a half-hearted attempt to soothe himself.

Rearing up into a reflexive defensive posture, the mantis coolly surveyed the scene before relaxing and bowing in my direction. Unblinking, he began to apologize while nervously preening his front legs.

“Pray please forgive us, sir, you know how it is once we challenge each other,” he pleaded, thrusting both front legs together, upraised for emphasis. Then he paused, jerking his head slightly sideways to gauge my reaction.

“Out of the tree, my friends, I have a question for you,” I said with a low growl, and the mantis quickly and daintily climbed down, examining the cherry blossom-covered ground and seeming to blush slightly. The monkey, for his part, laid back in the branches and pretended to snore, drooling into his cup while keeping one half-opened eye fixed on our conversation.

“Did you see how this glorious flower came to be laid at my doorstep this morning, before this latest round of fisticuffs?” I asked.

“No sir, this morning I was practicing my striking techniques on those delicious pill bugs in your garden. If you catch them just right, they flip over and expose that soft, savory underbelly…”

“Enough of that. Let me know if later on you recall anything unusual about this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Mantis replied, bowing and then scuttling off in search of more prey. It seemed I would never solve the riddle of the rose.

The Monkey Interjects

Just then, sensing his moment to finally outdo his six-legged foe, the Monkey jumped up from the branches as if suddenly startled awake, and screamed “Ooh, ooh, ooh, ah, ah, I know, I know, your majesty!” Unfortunately, in trying to keep from spilling his liquor, he lost hold of the branches and fell, landing in a jumbled heap of fur and blossoms. Without spilling a drop.

Taking off his bright red bandana, he staggered into an unstable bow and slurred in a very over-the-top fashion “Yurrrr mazheshty, it wuzzh the sheeeep! I shaw…four…of ‘em run’by’yer’fron’door…thizh morning. Went that way,” he pointed over his shoulder. Then, reconsidering, he crinkled up his face, scratched himself, smelled his finger and pointed over the other shoulder “No, thattaway!” Then he stumbled and fell down face first, again keeping all of the precious brew in his bottle.

Shaking my head in consternation, I deeply inhaled of the rose and headed off in the direction he had indicated.

The Birds and the Bees

It was a bright day, sun shining brightly in the deep blue sky. Bees were buzzing about on the gentle breeze, searching flower after flower and hurrying back to the hive with their regurgitated findings. Running up to one that was thoroughly inspecting a dandelion, I gently purred “Friend bee, can you indicate which way the sheep went?”

The bee quickly came to attention, flurried its wings in a show of respect, and took to the air, darting eastward several times. “Thank you,” I demurred, treading softly away so as not to disturb any of his fellow drones.

There were no sheep in sight or smell, but through the trees I did spy several doe and spotted fawns. The doe nodded, snorted, and the largest of them led the nervous offspring to some ripe berry patches.

Still not encountering any sheep, I once again began questioning the morning’s events. Was this some sort of trick the Woodland Council was playing on me, like the time during my cub-hood when they used spider’s web to entice me into crashing through the forest chasing after a ball of yarn? Or was the fragile state of my heart making me miss the obvious? If a sheep was involved, maybe it was the cute Sheep with the silver bell and long eyelashes, trying a novel way to entice me into the amorous hunt. I had thought she was only into goats, but maybe she was now bold enough to broaden her horizons.

Maybe there was a new lioness in town, with green eyes, velvety fur, and an adventurous spirit. What a pride we would make. Ah, but maybe, I thought, I just have an overactive imagination.

My heart had not been in the chase since the crimson fox had forsaken the humble and honest life in my kingdom for the chaotic unknowns of the wilderness. Mouse had counseled me against pursuing another again so soon. Taking him too literally, I teased that there would be no more mercurial foxes in my future. He joked about pheromones and how he’d never yet been able to steel himself against them.

But the real truth was that my on-the-mend heart just was not into the thrill of the chase. Even my appetite for fresh meat had dropped off dramatically, as evidenced by the fact that the deer were merely casually avoiding me instead of warily readying themselves for flight whenever I approached. Just as I was considering some fresh venison, a lucky distraction caught my eye.

Hundreds of birds were circling in the sky over our stadium, and I could hear their excited chatter and the clamor of some large conflict. Spotting me, a large jet-black raven dove sped towards me, and ended up circling just beyond a pounce’s reach above me.

“Your majesty,” he cawed excitedly, fixing me with the yellow gaze of his right eye. “Today’s game has become a brawl! They’re tearing up the green and the flock can’t wait to see what worms are churned up! Got to chew ‘em up and feed our young, you know…unless the worms are all muddy and squished, that is!”

Lowering his beak in respect, the raven darted back to rejoin the wheeling cluster of birds. Muttering about my luck with peace-keeping duties, I charged toward the stadium.

Every so often another bird would break from the flock and flutter down to relay some tidbit of information about the fight.

“The unicorns were trying to teach the trolls how to play rugby,” a bluejay told me.

“One troll was offended when a unicorn kept piercing the ball and running around with it on his horn, and another became enraged when the ‘corns told him he’d be playing the hooker, and a third troll didn’t want to be the hooker’s prop. He wanted to be the lock instead” a cardinal shrilled.

“The Sheep’s had no luck at all trying to referee,” piped in a lemon-yellow canary. Hearing the mention of a sheep in amongst the calamity, I quickened my pace, leaving the birds to trail behind.

Unicorns vs. the Trolls in Battle Royale

Arriving on the field, it was just as my winged brethren had described. An all-out brawl, unicorns versus trolls, with a strong-willed Sheep trying to restore order. She was blowing on her referee’s whistle, and wagging her woolly tale, rushing in among the combatants in an attempt to separate them. The unicorns, flailing hooves wildly and poking noses with their horns, were trying to intimidate the trolls, who were for the most part too angry to be cowed.

Bemoaning the futility of a progressive fantastocracy, I leaped, roaring, into the fray, and narrowly missed being skewered by a wildly thrashing unicorn. I managed to duck out of the way, just in time to pounce on a large pea-green troll who was attempting to pick up and throw one of the horned equines into the stands.

Another Break-Up

Fearing for the lives of my subjects, I knocked the troll down and growled loudly “BREAK IT UP! BREAK IT UP!” The Sheep continued her efforts, dodging out of the way and losing her baseball cap as a unicorn kicked the ball with all its might, smacking a troll square on the forehead. The troll fell, and I pulled the dappled orange-and-black unicorn to the side, showing the barest hint of claws.

“Help the Sheep and I break up this fight,” I rumbled.

“The trolls instigated this, my liege. Why we deign to play with those dense ruffians I’ve never quite understood…” he began to argue, stamping the ground impatiently.

“What we will do is simple: we will break up the fight, let everyone cool off for a bit, then discuss to everyone’s understanding soon enough,” I chided him.

“Yes, my liege, we will acquiesce to your judgment” he stated in a low voice, apparently thinking better of escalating this particular argument.

The Sheep, meanwhile, had managed to corral one of the brighter-than-average trolls, and was berating him in a most admirable fashion. Nodding his head, he stood up, lumbered over to some of his compatriots and slapped them on the back until they lost interest in the unicorn fight and began pummeling each other. This had the effect of drawing the other trolls’ attention, and they were soon dogpiled on their erstwhile leader, the offended former hooker.

For his part, the orange-and-black unicorn ran amongst his herd-mates, clashing horns with them as a signal to cease their hostilities. Between the four of us, we soon had the erstwhile foes separated and even somewhat calm. By that time, some elephants had arrived. As perfect character witnesses to past events, they admonished the unicorns for their arrogance and the trolls for their quick temper, and offered to coach both teams so that good sportsmanship would prevail. The unicorns and trolls came to an agreement: that the discussions would continue after dinner.

The Lion and the Lamb

It was then that I remembered the rose. Horrified that I’d somehow damaged it during the fight, I sat down and gently laid the glorious ribboned flower onto my front paws. It was defiantly undamaged, as remarkable and sweet-smelling as the moment I’d discovered it that morning. A slight breeze gently ruffled its petals, making them all the more wondrous.

“My, what a gorgeous flower,” the Ewe exclaimed, batting her long eyelashes. Like a thunderbolt, the realization finally struck that she was the Sheep I had been seeking most of the day! Here was the answer to the mystery of the rose! The lion would lie with the lamb!

“Can I have a nibble your majesty?”

Or maybe not.

“Just a little nibble, promise I won’t damage it much,” she cooed.

“Well, it’s the only one I have and I’m going mad trying to find out who gave it to me,” I sighed, recognizing that it was not a gift from this lovely young Sheep. Gently I plucked off a petal and offered it to her with upraised paw.

“Yum…never seen or tasted one like this before. Too bad you don’t know where it’s from or who gave it to you. But I’m sure you’ll find out some day. Best to just keep on living until then, right? Where have you been lately? We’ve missed you at the coffee shop. A nice tall mocha would be the perfect thing to wash that down with…care to join me?” she asked.

“Well, I do have my duties to get to…you know, king and all,” I stammered.

“What, after spending all day chasing a floral delivery, you won’t take a few minutes out to chat over a cup of coffee? A girl might feel slighted!” she teased, giving me a woolly poke in the ribs.

So, off I went, slightly embarrassed but with a lighter heart, an unsolved mystery, and a new friend.

Channeled from Isaac Asimov to the future by me, Rushe Statser, Spring 2006

The future of humanity is missing. The future is gone. I am locked in this room this room trying to warn them but no one will listen. We do not have time. The end is near. I know the exact day it will happen. I can not say the hour but I am within 12 hours accurate. And on that day not only will humanity’s future be lost but my mind will also be lost.

How do I know this terrible date? I have been there. My mind will be lost however in 4 years 7 months 3 days 5 hours 15 minutes and 23 seconds. I have seen the lack of a future. I have not found the reason but I have found the result. Not the cause but the effect. The reason for my lost mind is I have found the future.

Time machines are possible. Theoretically possible if you can rend the space time contiuum. Nothing says you can not go forward. Everything says you can’t go back. The trick is to leave the door open to the past, t make a loop. Quantum physics and the unified theory to the rescue. All manner of things finally made possible by its completion. I was in a race to be first.

My math was good, my mechanical skills were excellent, my materials adequate. My time machine was built with little trouble and was so ready to send me forward, I didn’t want to travel too far so I only jumped one loop. I prepared the room so that nothing would interfere with the forming worm hole. I made a depression in the floor so that no furniture would be placed in the way. I wrote notes instructing the future occupants, if I didn’t remain the sole occupant of the building, not to interfere with the room on a particular date. I did this before to avoid any “temporal paradoxes” caused by my knowledge of the future.

But hold it you say. The earth is always moving and will never be in the same spot twice. What keeps you from going into the vacuum of space or the fiery depths of a star or the crushing grip of a black hole? I discovered that worm holes can be directed to follow the gravitational field of where they are created. In this manner I was able to direct my path forward in relative safety.

So I set off. Into the future I went. The room was empty. It made sense. No one to get in the way of my arrival. The building was empty, a bit odd. Outside, no one. Everything looked normal except for the lack of people. Cars were nicely parked, or not, depending on the state stamped on the license plate. Everything seemed in order. I went exploring, trying to find a living soul. I looked in windows, Shops were ready for customers, doors unlocked during business hours. It was a while before I realized that it was incredibly quiet. There were no birds in the air, their songs not present. I did not see any insect life; no mosquitoes, flies or ants. No stray dogs or cats. No animals at all. I started looking to see how long this condition had existed. I found a grocery store. No sign of rotten produce, the power was still on, the milk fresh, no mold on the bread. The donuts were a tad stale. The date on the paper was from yesterday. I try to call someone on the phone. First someone from the city, no answer. The next county over. No answer. Another state, still no answer. My contact at the capital. Nothing. My associate in Europe, nothing. A random number, nothing. Another random number, still nothing. I look for bodies. No bodies anywhere. No dead birds, no dead cats or mice, not even a squished bug. All animal life gone. Plants were still present. Trees still being trees. Grass still growing. I had to find out what happened, but with a lack of evidence there was no way to find out. I check the newspapers. All the common things that happen in the world were still happening. No mention of any extraordinary events occurring the next day. I find the library, I check back weeks. Nothing to help. There is no reason I can find. By the end of the day I am on the edge of reason. The power starts to fail. The absence of people finally dawns on technology and it decides to shut down. I had to race back to the lab. I had to warn the past present. We have to find out what will happen. We have to find out. I make it back; there is still power in the building. I check the emergency generator. It’s missing. I check my office. It’s not my office. The lab is still intact. It may only be because it’s in a secret place. Something has happened to me in the future that has passed. No time to wonder, lights are flickering. I activate the circuits, the worm hole appears. I see the lab through the hole as I left it. I see my assistant. I walk through.

I try to warn him. Everyone is gone I say. I find myself repeating the words, everyone is gone, everyone is gone. I must have passed out. The room I wake up in is padded. I seems I didn’t pass out, they stuck me here. For the past six months all I could communicate was everyone is gone. No one could break through. Now the doctors come and ask me questions. They don’t believe me. I say ask my assistant. It seems he has disappeared. Maybe he understands, maybe he went forward. If he did he’s trapped there. I have heard my lease is up and office cleaned out. My government funding has dried up. No use in funding an insanity machine. That is the opinoin of the doctors. My machine causes one to lose their mind. Only I know what loses minds and it will happen in 4 years 7 months 3 days 10 minutes and 45 seconds.

by Spawn of Beachgoat, 4/3/2004

It was a hundred-degree-plus summer afternoon in Fresno when she walked into my office. As usual, the landlord refused to allow the air conditioner to kick in and relieve the weather. Upon entry, she looked hot.

“Are you Mr. Guyra Wells?” she impolitely blurted out in a non-dairy queen blizzard of sweat and inquisition.

“The one and only,” I told her. It was my specific hope that this one could pay the bills I’d generate.

“I’ve got a problem. With my husband, I think,” she hurriedly blubbered next.

“Tell me his name,” I proposed. “Within two weeks I can tell you whether or not you’ve really got a problem.”

“I sure hope you can, Mr. Wells. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”

“Sold!” I exclaimed. As far as I was concerned, at that hourly rate, her problema es mi problema, right?

She agreed to come back the next day with her checkbook. I agreed to wake up earlier than usual and be there to meet her.

—————————

The next day, several things were apparent. For one thing, she was a nice-looking redhead. Another thing was that she spelled trouble. Without technical accuracy.

“Mr.Wells. I had been hoping that you could help me find out why my happy and content marriage has failed to include me lately.”

“I’m afraid that will require my daily rate plus expenses plus phantom fees plus taxes,” I told her.

“Sounds fair enough,” she said.

As of that moment, I was on the case.

—————————

Over the next two weeks, the task of following her husband through the hot streets of Fresno during the summer was both un-fun and un-productive. After watching his behavior for a few days, I was nearly convinced the guy could end up canonized.

That was, until the Tuesday of the second week of surveillance.

The carnal acts I captured on film that day were certainly wrong. I felt a hole burning in the swatch of film as the photo snapped, and I felt a corresponding singe in my soul for having witnessed those acts. Even if she hadn’t been an oversensitive woman, I would have felt terrible for my client.

—————————

The day after the best surveillance, I felt there was plenty of evidence to go ahead and call her into my office to show the photos.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am; it seems that your suspicions about your husband and the sordid love triangle were correct after all.”

It was just then that I noticed the hand gun she carried. Blam blam ouch.

by Rufel Ramos, 5/13/2006

When the woman woke up, her cry for the joy of being alive lasted only a second. The knifeblade-thrusts of pain shooting throughout her body cut short her cry for joy. The smell of rotting flesh, mingling with the numbing damp of endless mud, cut short her cry. The fear that THEY were still around cut short her cry.

And, in truth, her cry for joy lasted only a second as she remembered what she had lost. Home. Community. Family. Her children….

Her mind clamped down on that last thought. No. No no no.

But her children –

Godammit, NO!

They were alive, they were alive, they were alive. The words came to her like a mentra, like a litany. She lay broken on a battlefield of churned up mud and corpses so that they would be alive. And so, they were alive. That was not the miracle.

The miracle ws that SHE was alive.

How the hell could that be?

Nothing in her training prepared her for that possibility. In protecting the children, in ensuring their safe transport during the seige and battle, her training prepared her for honorable martyrdom, for death in the present. No time for grief, no time for mourning, no time for regrets over the past and hopes for the future. The enemy was inhuman, merciless; the enemy killed everything it touched. The enemy touched her, and she should be dead, blissfully dead, numb to the outrageous fortunes of being alive, of being a mother, separeted from her children, aware that she had lost.

Godammit, stop it!

She was bit and bleeding, but she was still herself. Why she wasn’t infected was a question she had no time to waste wondering about. She had to get out of that field, or all those corpses around her would infect her the old-fashioned way. But that wasn’t as important as this: Her children were out there, and she must find them. She rolled onto her side and unfurled like a delicate shoot, buried alive and struggling towards the sun. She was not destined to be one with the strengthless dead. Sitting up, she saw the battlefield in its entirety, empty of the enemy, littered with the still bodies of the fallen. Safe — for the moment, she was safe. And the cry she gagged back into her throat burst forth in ragged song.

In joy, she was alive.

In grief, her fellow mothers and fathers at arms were dead.

In joy, no children were there.

In grief, her adult family was there.

In joy, she found herself agan. And in joy, determined joy, she would find her children again.

They were alive.

The woman rose from the mud, a lone warrior. Limping, she made her way through the silent battlefield, the wind as her sole companion.

by Terra Lewis Windham, 10/21/2001

Lucretia knew a lot of dead people. Not very well, of course, they never spoke to her, but she knew their names and when they died and what they looked like. She had read the inscriptions on their columellae. There were busts of them in the atrium and tablinium at home at home. Most of these imagines were very accurate: the sculptures even wore the same grin or whistful expressions as the dead. Lucretia always recognized them right away. She saw most of them during the Feralia, the nine day festival of the dead. Her whole living family would go down to the necropolis along the Nucerian road and have dinner in the tomb. It was a fine tomb with an actual dining room built into it. At first it would just be her own living family and their servants in the tomb; her mother and father and grandfather began to tell stories of times past, the small room would fill with shades, each appearing as their name was mentioned. The shades never spoke and, though the adults talked about them, they never addressed any of the dead directly. It had never occurred to Lucretia to wonder why, for it was the way of things had always been. She was twelve years old and the same thing happened every time her family visited the tomb. Many of the shades were very familiar to her now. Her stately grandmother was always there, reclining next to grandfather; her aunt Iulia cradeling an unnamed baby in her arms. Lucretia had vague memories of when Iulia had been alive. She remembered seeing her aunt on the funeral litter heaped with flowers, clutching her baby in her arms just as she did still. The baby had only lived two hours before it followed its mother to the Underworld. Their ashes were contained in a cherub encrusted urn which stood in one of the niches cut into the wall of the sepulchre.

The baby was always the only child amongst the shades until Lucretia discovered the secret to inviting them. One day Lucretia had been sitting on the couch between Secunda and her great uncle Gaius when she began to think about a story she had once heard the slaves whispering about. It concerned a great aunt who had died the day of her betrothal under mysterious circumstances. As Lucretia sat wondering about this she had seen something out of the corner of her eye. She turned slightly and saw standing behind her a faint shade of a girl. She was very pretty and small. A little, jeweled dagger protruded from her chest. That was how Lucretia discovered that memory called the dead. It was best if you could say their name aloud, but thinking about them was enough. After that every time Lucretia’s family visited the tomb she made a point of reading a different inscription and “inviting” that person to supper.

This year Lucretia found an inscription that said, “Hic iacat pulchre dulcisque filia Publii Lucretii. Vix XII annos vixerat. Amata omnibus, illa capta est morte invidioso, nos orbatos miserosque relinquens. Magnos animos habuit et multam sapientiam. Vale aeternum, carissima filia. Sit tibi terra levis.” (Here lies the beautiful daughter of Publius Lucretius. She had lived scarcely twelve years. Beloved by all, she was taken by envious death, leaving us bereaved and wretched. She had great courage and much wisdom. Farewell forever, dear daughter. May the earth be light upon you.) Lucretia read the words aloud and immediately the girl’s shade stood before her, silent and still, staring blankly at nothing in particular. Lucretia suddenly felt very lonely. She wondered, as she never had before, what this really was standing before her. Was it really that other girl named Lucretia, whose ashes wre buried under this column? Was she truly there? Or was this shade just an image, like a statue or painting or relief? Slowly Lucretia reached out her hand to touch the girl’s shadowy garments, but just as she came close the shade flickered and reappeared a few feet away. “What are you?” Lucretia whispered. Her words echoed in the stony sepulchre, but there came no reply. She said it again louder.

“Who are you talking to?” Lucretia spun around and saw her brother leaning against the wall.

“She’s the daughter of Publius Lucretius,” she explained.

“Who is?” Lucretia pointed and her brother looked, not at the shadowy girl, but just beyond her to the columnella. He read the inscription. “So you’re talking to the dead are you, little sister? This stupid traditions made made you superstitious I’m afraid. Don’t let father know that I told you this, but I don’t believe that anything survives after death. I’ve decided to be an epicurean. You shouldn’t worry about all those old stories. They are nonsense.”

Lucretia was confused. “But what about when our ancestors join us at these dinner?”

Marcus laughed, “You don’t mean you think the dead are literally there? It’s symbolic, a show of respect. Don’t be an idiot,”

The world seemed to be turning upside down, A cold wave of realization and terror plunged Lucretia into darkness. She awoke outside in the sunshine with her brother leaning over her.

“You spent too long in that stale air,” he said. “Maybe father will let me take you home,” he added hopefully.

“Yes, please,” Lucretia whispered desperately, “I want to get away from here.”

Lucretia spent that evening at home in the garden. She wanted more than anything to be amongst living things. For a while her fear receded among the green, growing things in the sunshine, but it threatened to wash over her again as evening came, bringing a chill and creeping shadows. She fled into the tablinum where her brother sat reading a Greek scroll.

She stood next to him for a while waiting to be noticed. Finally he said, “What do you want” He didn’t look at her, and his voice was sharp with irritation.

“I want you to tell me more things,” she said. “So, just as you and your friends stand around Apollodorus in the palaestra waiting for him to speak, so I stand here waiting for you to tell me more.”

Marcus looked up at her amused. “You would make a good politician if you were a man,” he said. “You know how to flatter. So, since I am your rhetor, what do you want to learn from me?”

“If no one sees the shades of the dead then why are there so many stories about them? Homer tells about people meeting shades, doesn’t he?”

“And as Plato points out to us, Homer is full of lies,” said Marcus.

“What about Furies, who comes to father’s dinner parties. He often tells stories about meeting the dead.”

“Furies is nothing but a parasite, who tells amusing stories so he can fill his belly with other people’s food. The only people who see shades are either crazy or drunk,”

Lucretia considered this a moment. “How much wine does it take to get drunk?” she asked.

Marcus grinned, “Now what makes you think I’d know about that?”

“No,” thought Lucretia. “I didn’t have any wine this morning before I saw that girl. I must be crazy, then,” she concluded. “Or maybe Marcus just doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” This was her worst realization yet. If Marcus was wrong, then Apollodorus, a Greek, must be wrong, too. She had lived all her life with the comfortable assumption that her father knew everything about this world, and the Greeks knew everything about the other one. That seemed to be the way it worked. But now it appeared she knew something that they didn’t. And she didn’t understand anything!

“No one knows anything,” she thought. It was stunning and terrifying.

She heard Marcus speaking to her, from somewhere far away it seemed — from that far away place where the world makes sense.

“Are you all right, Lucretia? You aren’t going to faint again are you?” He led her to a couch and called to a slave to bring her some water.

“I’m okay. Just stay here with me please, and talk to me some more. Read some Greek to me — the part in Homer when Odysseus goes to the Underworld.” She kept her voice just weak enough to keep him feeling sorry for her. It worked. He brough the scroll and began reading to her in Greek just the way she liked. Reading the beautiful Greek words first, and then translating into Latin for her. He didn’t know that she had learned quite a bit of Greek this way, and understood some of what he said without a translation.

She listened closely as her read and thought to herself, “I must be somehow more clever that Odysseus, for he had to travel far to see the dead, while I only go to the necropolis just outside the city walls.” She was beginning to recover from the initial shock and to think of her unusual sight as a singular talent. Like the other Lucretia she had seen in the morning, she too had magnos animos, high spirits, great courage, an open heart. She listened closely to what Homer said about the dead, She was beginning to think that the poets were more trustworthy than the philosophers.

[Marcus reads aloud in Greek, about Odysseus using animal blood to entice the shades of the dead to appear.]

Lucretia sat up suddenly, “Blood,” she exclaimed. “They can talk to you if you give them blood!” Marcus was confused and somewhat startled. Lucretia thought fast. “I understood that,” she explained. “I think I’m beginning to understand some Greek.”

“Well, that is something to be excited about,” said Marcus. “What a clever sister I have.”

“I have had a great teacher,” said Lucretia. “Thank you, brother. I think I will go to bed now. I have had an eventful day.”

********

Lucretia lay awake turning over her plan in her mind. She had decided to look for some answers herself. “I may be able to find out things that few other people can,” she thought. “I ought to try.” But where to get the blood? Odysseus used sheep’s blood. Lucretia didn’t feel up to slaughtering a sheep. They were big and made a lot of noise. She wondered if dormice would do. There was a wicker cage full of them down in the kitchen where they were being fattened in preparation for her father’s next dinner party. She waited until the house was quiet, then she crept through the atrium and along the peristylium to the kitchen, where the cook was snoring on a table. Dormice are not actually mice but nocturnal squirrels, so Lucretia heard them stirring restlessly in their cage. The one she pulled out resisted only slightly, having thoroughly glutted itself. She found a bowl and knife, then carried her victim out to the garden to perform the sacrifice. She hesitated for a moment held back by a pang of guilt. Surely ony of the slave boys would be beaten when the dormouse turned up missing. Besides, it was a cute little thing. Lucretia had eaten many of the creatures before — stuffed dormouse was one of her favorite dishes — but she had never had to kill one herself. Her mind sought some way to steel her resolve. It had already unwittingly traversed much of the history of philosophy that day, and it finally made its way to Nietzsche.

“I;m not like the other people,” Lucretia thought. “I am special. I have to do certain things that other people shouldn’t.” In the following momentary rush of uplift Lucretia lifted her knife and plunged it into the warm squirming body of the dormouse. She caught as much blood as she could in the bowl and washed her hands in the garden fountain. She immediately started feeling guilty again about the likely fate of the kitchen boys. “I’ll put the body next to one of the cats,” she decided. “That’s the best I can do.” She reflected that a sense of purpose does little to keep the Furies at bay. “Like Orestes,” she thought. “Apollo himself told Orestes to avenge his father by killing his mother Clytemnestra, but he still felt guilty about it and took responsibility for what he had done.” Having moved on to Sartre, Lucretia proceeded to frame the cats, and start off on her mission. She had never left her home after dark before. She ought to have been terrified, but there is something about going off to meet with ghosts that makes cutthroats and bandits seem somewhat ho-hum. This is strange, really. Cutthroats are really more likely to kill you. But what Lucretia was facing was greater than the specific fear of a violent death. She was going to encounter Fear itself, pure and stark. Carefully holding the bowl of blood and an unlit lantern beneath her cloak, Lucretia made her way along the Via Nuceria, avoiding criminals and watchmen alike, out of the city to the Necropolis. Homeless people dwelt amongst and sometimes in the tombs that lined the road. Lucretia knew that they were often insane and would usually cut your throat for a denarius. She kept to the shadows avoiding any sound or flicker of a campfire. Finally she made it to the family sepulchre of the Lucretii. She heard noises in the dining room on the side, but the crypt itself was unoccupied. Lucretia set the bowl of blood on the ground and lit the lantern illuminating the columellae, urns and sarcophagi that surrounded her. She recalled what Odysseus had said when surrounded by the dead, “green fear seized me.” Lucretia knew exactly how he felt. “But he didn’t run away,” she reminded herself. She decided to speak to the other Lucretia again. It seemed less scary to talk to another young girl. She read the epitaph again, and again the smoky image of a girl appeared. This time she did not stare blankly at the wall, however. She made straight for the blood. As soo as she had drained the bowl she looked straight at Lucretia.

“Um,” said Lucretia. The standard greeting of “be well” seemed inappropriate for someone who was dead. She decided to try “pax sit tecum” (peace be with you) instead. The shade girl looked like someone who is waking up in a strange bed after a night of odd dreams. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lucretia, too. I am your brother’s great granddaughter, I think.”

“My brother is married?”

“Well, yes, He was, I mean.” Lucretia glanced over at the image of her great grandfather engraved on the shield which marked where his ashes lay. The shade girl followed her gaze.

“Oh,” she said. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Lucretia bit her bottom lip calling up all her courage. “What is it like to be dead?” she blurted out.

“I didn’t know what it was like when I was, but now that I can think about it I know that it is cold and lonely and dark.”

“Is that all?”

“So far. It seems like there will be something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about being dead. Please don’t do this to me again.” The shade began to fade and finally disappeared.

“I certainly won’t,” thought Lucretia. “She was entirely unhelpful. She has no idea what’s coming and doesn’t want to think about it — no better than a living person really.”

Lucretia looked around, wondering who could tell her something. “I wonder where the stabbed girl is?” Lucretia wondered. Immediately the faint shade appeared before her. It moved towards the back of the tomb to where a fine sarcophagus stood. It almost obscured a niche behind it where Lucretia could just see the top of something. With great effort she moved the sarcophagus far enough to reach in and pull out the object, which turned out to be a small urn. “Your cinerary urn,” Lucretia whispered to the ghost. The urn was plain bearing only the inscription: “Filiae Gaii Lucretii.” Inside were ashes, a golden ring, and the solid counterpart of the phantom dagger in the shades chest. “She might be able to tell me something,” Lucretia thought. “If only I had more blood…” Her eyes fell on the dagger. She acted before she had time to fear, making a small vut in her wrist. Immediately she felt icy fingers grip her arm. She began to feel weak and tore herself away, falling against the opposite wall of the tomb. The ghost began to move towards her gazing at her wound with hungry eyes. Lucretia quickly tore off the hem of her garment and bound her wrist. The ghost stopped. “We have something in common,” it said. “We are not afraid to harm ourselves if we feel it is necessary, like our great ancestress who killed herself to conquer shame.”

“Why did you do it?”

The shade looked over at the dagger laying now on the ground, stained with Lucretia’s blood. “I don’t think I wanted to die, so much as to make them all sorry. I wanted my father to have spent all that money on the stupid wedding for nothing. I wanted to put them out, to cause a stir, to have some control for once.”

“Are you glad you did it?”

“No. I want to be alive.” The ghost looked greedily at the red staining linen around Lucretia’s wrist. It began to move towards her again. Lucretia ran; she stumbled over a drunk sleeping on the road and ran right past two city guards, but she never looked back. She didn’t stop until she was home in her own bed. “Never again,” was her only thought. She wanted no more dealings with the dead. Life seldom heeds our wishes, though. This first time would not be the last.

“Much is expected of those to whom much is given,” they say, and this is true, even if you are given something you don’t want.

by Russell Mitchell, 5/13/2006

Bob didn’t mind his job. There wasn’t a whole lot you could get as a category 2 revivificant, after three hundred years of cryo, anyway, so the fact that this was a real job, however menial, provided him the satisfaction of knowing that at least he wasn’t in semi-punitive “welfare” like those poor cat-3 bastards.

The fact that the work as non-technical was a given. A 21st-century engineer equated to a particularly dim 24th-century general-purpose AI, afterall. But, he could help people, and that was good for something.

“Hi, I’m Phil. I’ve had a great life, lots of kids, and lived in a lunar cis-hab, so you know that outside of some aluminum silicates, there ain’t nothing in me that wasn’t meant to be. My poetry is just inside the collagen bundles, and although I’ve chosen to be configured as a lampshade, extensive hours with jojoba oil leave me plenty capable of assuming other forms. I am an excellent babysitter for children in need of backpacks.”

“Hey there, I’m Nina. I’m a hot little piece of scapula looking for a long-term partner. I’m cute, I wear well, and I’m pre-sculpted for buttons and lanyards. Let me help you tie one on, okay, sweetie?”

And on days like today, his job just became a no-brainer anyway. Being by nature old-fashioned, he glanced around the shop. As luck would have it, there was a nice little girl who’d had her full-body sentience checkup before mostly being eaten by the products of her little brother’s malfunctioning “monster creation kit.”

“Hi, this is Patrice. I like ponies and rocket shows, and my favorite endorphocreme flavor is nannybooboo.”

Yep, seventeen inches of Patrice would do the trick just fine. Good spin’s work, and his bosses would be able to put them on the “family friendly” rack, too,

Bob popped a retro-coffee spray, and stepped out to grab some breakfast across the station at the Spinside Slam. He had a whole cart full of bougainvilleas he wasn’t sure what to do with, but for now, lost lives and lost loves would have to wait — nothing helped Bob do a good day’s work like a hearty breakfast before kicking butt and taking names at New You, Franchise, seventeen billion served daily.