"Welcome to the Shady Hills Funeral Home," said the scarecrow of a man. "I am Jonathan, and I will be your mortalist for the event." "Isn't the word 'mortician?'" I asked. He turned to me with hollow eyes. I leaned away.

"Morticians? Fuh! Hod carriers and backdrop painters at best. I am an artist with death. Come this way." He led me through to the display room. "Here is where your bereaved will experience my art."

I looked around. "Isn't there usually a coffin, or an altar for one? And chairs for a service?"

The mortalist wheeled around on me. "Did you often gaze upon the canvas while he slept?" I shrank back and shook my head. "Then why would you choose to remember him so?"

"Well, it's kind of... canvas?"

"The tableau will remember him to you as he was. A father, a thinker, a lover, not as some dead piece of meat."

"He is dead."

"Only for a short while." He turned to survey his workspace. "Here," he exclaimed, "he shall be reborn as art! And my art shall live forever!"

I snuck out while his back was turned. He can keep the deposit, I don't care.