Why Do Humans Care What Happens to Their Bodies After Death?

Introduction

Death is defined as the permanent cessation of physical and mental processes in an organism (American Psychological Association, n.d.). Yet despite the finality of death, concern for the human body often persists long after life itself has ended. Throughout history, societies have invested enormous amounts of time, wealth, and emotional energy determining how the dead should be treated. Ancient Egyptians constructed elaborate tombs to preserve the bodies of their rulers (Smithsonian Institution, n.d.). In Western Europe, cemeteries eventually replaced churchyards as burial places, representing a huge cultural shift from the communal housing of the dead to individual commemoration and mourning (Laqueur, T. W., 2015, pp. 211-238). Modern societies spend billions of dollars annually on funerals, cremation services, and memorials (Mitford, 1998). Even in increasingly secular societies, the question of how human remains should be treated remains a subject of serious ethical and legal consideration.

At first glance, this preoccupation appears irrational. Once an individual dies, they no longer possess consciousness and therefore cannot experience pain, humiliation, or comfort. If the dead are incapable of awareness, then why should anyone care whether their body is buried, cremated, preserved, or even destroyed? Philosophers have long grappled with this apparent contradiction. Epicurus famously argued that death should not concern us because when we exist death is absent, and when death arrives we no longer exist (Epicurus, ca. 300 B.C./1925, Letter to Menoeceus). The Cynic Diogenes of Sinope was even more provocative, ordering his friends to allow his dead body to be devoured by animals (Laertius, ca. 3rd Century CE/2018, Book VI, Section 247). By their reasoning, posthumous events should be irrelevant to the deceased.

However, the persistence of funeral rites, memorial traditions, and legal protections surrounding human remains suggests that human beings do not regard the body as mere biological matter. Rather, the body functions as a symbol of dignity, identity, and social meaning. Concern for the body after death reflects broader concerns about how individuals are remembered, respected, and connected to the communities they leave behind. The significance attached to human remains reveals that people view death not solely as a biological event but as a cultural and moral phenomenon.

Humans care what happens to their bodies after death for three primary reasons. First, the body is viewed as an extension of human dignity and therefore deserves respect even after life ends. Second, the body remains deeply connected to personal identity, causing individuals to perceive their remains as symbolic representations of themselves. Finally, our awareness and fear of our own mortality drive a desire to achieve symbolic immortality through caring for our remains. Together, these factors explain why concern for the body after death persists despite the absence of consciousness.

Human Dignity and Respect for the Dead

One of the most compelling explanations for humanity’s concern with the treatment of the dead is the concept of human dignity. Dignity refers to the quality or state of being worthy of honor or respect. Although philosophers disagree about the precise source of dignity, many argue that it persists beyond biological death because it is attached to personhood rather than the physical self alone. Consequently, the treatment of a corpse is often interpreted as a reflection of how society values the individual who once inhabited that body.

In his Formula of Humanity, the philosopher Immanuel Kant states that human beings possess intrinsic worth and should never be treated merely as objects (Kant, 1785/1998, Ak. 4:429). While Kant primarily discussed living persons, his ideas have profoundly influenced modern ethical thinking regarding the dead. Contemporary societies often extend respect for persons beyond death because the body remains symbolically linked to the individual. To mistreat a corpse is therefore perceived not merely as damage to physical remains but as an affront to the dignity of the person who once lived.

Historical examples illustrate the extraordinary lengths to which societies have gone to preserve this dignity. Ancient Egyptians devoted immense resources to mummification because they believed the body maintained spiritual significance after death. Pharaohs were entombed within vast monuments such as the Great Pyramid of Giza, accompanied by treasures, artwork, and carefully designed burial chambers (Smithsonian Institution, n.d.). These practices required enormous economic and human investment, suggesting that the preservation of the dead was considered a matter of profound importance rather than practical necessity. Although Egyptian beliefs differed significantly from modern perspectives, they demonstrate a recurring human tendency to treat the dead with exceptional reverence.

Legal systems likewise reflect the belief that dignity extends beyond death. Many countries impose severe penalties for grave desecration, abuse of a corpse, and the unauthorized disturbance of human remains. These laws are philosophically intriguing because they protect individuals who can no longer experience harm. The rationale behind such protections cannot therefore be based solely on preventing suffering. Instead, they arise from the conviction that human remains deserve respect because they symbolize a once-living person. The widespread existence of such laws indicates that concern for the dead is embedded deeply within moral and social institutions.

The treatment of war dead further demonstrates humanity’s commitment to posthumous dignity. Drew Gilpin Faust’s This Republic of Suffering is a sobering study of how the unprecedented carnage of the United States Civil War forced Americans to transform how to care for their war dead (Faust, D. G., 2008, pp. 61-101). During and after major conflicts, governments frequently devote significant resources to recovering and identifying fallen soldiers. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery serves as a powerful example. The tomb honors service members whose unidentified remains could not be returned to their families (Arlington National Cemetery, n.d.). Despite the impossibility of personal recognition, societies continue to preserve and protect such memorials because they represent a commitment to respecting human sacrifice and dignity. The dead themselves cannot appreciate these gestures, yet the living consider them morally essential.

Ultimately, the concept of dignity helps explain why humans care what happens to their bodies after death. Although biological life may cease, the symbolic value attached to human existence remains. Funeral rites, memorials, legal protections, and cultural traditions all reveal a widespread belief that the dead deserve respect not because they can experience it, but because dignity is viewed as an enduring feature of personhood itself.

Personal Identity and the Symbolism of the Body

While dignity explains why societies feel obligated to respect the dead, it does not fully explain why individuals themselves often care deeply about what happens to their own bodies after death. A second explanation lies in the relationship between the body and personal identity. Throughout life, people experience the world through their physical bodies. Every memory, relationship, achievement, and emotion is mediated through their particular face, voice, and physical form. As a result, the body becomes far more than biological tissue; it becomes a symbol of the self.

Psychologists have long recognized that human beings develop a powerful attachment to objects associated with their identities. Personal possessions, family heirlooms, and childhood homes often acquire emotional significance because they are linked to an individual’s sense of self. The body occupies an even more central role. Unlike external possessions, it accompanies a person throughout every moment of life. Consequently, many people struggle to separate their conception of themselves from their physical remains, even when they intellectually acknowledge that consciousness ends at death.

Along these lines, burial preferences reveal the importance individuals place on maintaining control over their identities after death. Many people create wills specifying instructions for burial, cremation, or the distribution of their remains. Some request burial in family cemeteries, while others choose cremation and scattering in locations that held personal significance during life. These decisions often reflect a desire to shape how they will be remembered. The body becomes a final means of expressing personal values, relationships, and identity.

Thus, concern for the body after death is not simply concern for physical matter. Rather, it reflects humanity’s tendency to view the body as inseparable from the self. Because identity remains symbolically attached to physical remains, individuals often care deeply about how their bodies will be treated, even after they are no longer alive to witness it.

Fear of Mortality and Desire for Symbolic Immortality

A third explanation for humanity’s concern with the body after death is the desire to achieve symbolic immortality. Human beings possess a unique awareness of their own mortality (American Psychological Association, n.d.). This mortality awareness creates profound psychological stress, or death anxiety (American Psychological Association, n.d.). People desire significance and permanence, yet they recognize that their existence is temporary. Concern for the body after death can be understood as part of a broader effort to cope with mortality.

The cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker explores this idea in his influential 1973 work The Denial of Death. Becker argues that much of human behavior is motivated by a desire to transcend death symbolically. Because physical immortality is impossible, individuals seek alternative forms of permanence through procreation and family, creative and professional achievements, and participation in institutions, religion, and cultural memory. In this sense, concern for the body after death reflects a deeper desire to ensure that one’s existence continues to matter.

Modern psychological research builds on Becker’s proposal. The terror management theory, developed by psychologists Jeff Greenberg, Sheldon Solomon, and Tom Pyszczynski, proposes that awareness of death motivates individuals to seek meaning, self-esteem, and cultural significance (American Psychological Association, n.d.). According to the theory, people cope with mortality by participating in systems of belief that promise figurative immortality. Funeral rituals, memorials, and burial traditions help manage existential anxiety by reassuring individuals that they remain connected to something larger than themselves.

The pursuit of symbolic immortality can also be seen in ordinary burial practices. Gravestones often include names, dates, quotations, and personal messages intended to preserve an individual’s story. Families visit cemeteries not necessarily because they believe the deceased can observe them, but because remembrance itself carries meaning. The grave serves as a physical marker affirming that a person’s life mattered and continues to occupy a place within the collective memory of a community.

Consequently, concern for the body after death is deeply connected to humanity’s struggle with mortality. By preserving remains, constructing memorials, and maintaining rituals of remembrance, people create forms of symbolic continuity that challenge the apparent finality of death. The body becomes a vessel through which individuals seek permanence in a world defined by impermanence.

Conclusion

At first glance, humanity’s concern for the body after death appears paradoxical. If the dead are incapable of consciousness, then the treatment of their remains should be irrelevant. Yet the persistence of funerary rituals, memorial traditions, and legal protections across cultures suggests otherwise. Human beings consistently attribute meaning to the body long after biological life has ended.

This essay has argued that such concern arises from three interconnected sources. First, the concept of human dignity leads people to believe that respect for a person should not disappear at death. Second, the body remains symbolically connected to personal identity. Because individuals experience life through their physical forms, their remains continue to represent who they were even after consciousness has ceased. Third, humanity’s concern for the body after death reflects a fierce psychological struggle with mortality itself. Through remembrance, memorialization, and ritual, people seek to preserve their own significance in the face of impermanence. The body becomes more than biological matter; it serves as a symbol of identity, dignity, memory, and human connection. Ultimately, humans care about what happens to their bodies after death not because the dead can experience what follows, but because the living attach profound meaning to what the body represents. In respecting the dead, humanity affirms the value of life itself.

References

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Death. In APA dictionary of psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/death

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Death anxiety. In APA dictionary of psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/death-anxiety

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Mortality salience. In APA dictionary of psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/mortality-salience

American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Terror management theory. In APA dictionary of psychology. https://dictionary.apa.org/terror-management-theory

Arlington National Cemetery. (n.d.). The tomb of the unknown soldier.

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.mil/Explore/Monuments-and-Memorials/Tomb-of-the-Unknown-Soldier

Becker, E. (1973). The denial of death. Free Press.

Epicurus. (1925). Letter to Menoeceus (R. D. Hicks, Trans.). The Internet Classics Archive. (Original work published ca. 300 B.C.E.) https://classics.mit.edu/Epicurus/menoec.html

Faust, D. G. (2008). This republic of suffering: Death and the American Civil War. Alfred A. Knopf.

Kant, I. (1998). Groundwork of the metaphysics of morals (M. Gregor, Trans. & Ed.). Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1785) https://cpb-us-w2.wpmucdn.com/blog.nus.edu.sg/dist/c/1868/files/2012/12/Kant-Groundwork-ng0pby.pdf

Laertius, D. (2018). The lives and opinions of eminent philosophers (C. D. Yonge, Trans.). Project Gutenberg. (Original work compiled 3rd Century CE) https://www.gutenberg.org/files/57342/57342-h/57342-h.htm

Laqueur, T. W. (2015). The work of the dead: A cultural history of mortal remains. Princeton University Press.

Mitford, J. (1998). The American way of death revisited. Vintage Books.

Smithsonian Institution. (n.d.). Egyptian mummies. https://www.si.edu/spotlight/ancient-egypt/mummies 

Smithsonian Institution. (n.d.). The Egyptian pyramid. https://www.si.edu/spotlight/ancient-egypt/pyramid

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This essay was my submission to the 2026 John Locke Institute Global Essay Prize.

The Rusty Hubcap

By Ridley Longsworth

If you find yourself driving down Highway 41 at three in the morning, you will eventually see the flickering green neon sign of The Rusty Hubcap. It is not a beckoning light. It is a warning. This diner does not exist to serve food so much as it exists to endure. It is a monument to the era of wood paneling, linoleum floors that are permanently tacky to the touch, and a philosophy of service that can only be described as aggressive indifference.

The moment you slide into a booth, you are greeted by a vinyl seat that has been patched with duct tape so many times it looks like a silver spiderweb. The air inside smells of two things: ancient fryer oil and a cleaning product that was probably banned in the late eighties. There is no background music. Instead, you get the rhythmic thumping of a walk-in freezer that sounds like a heartbeat and the occasional muffled argument from the kitchen about whose turn it is to “scrape the griddle.”

Our server was a woman named Barb. Barb has a haircut that defies the laws of physics and a voice like she’s been eating gravel for breakfast. She didn’t bring menus. She just stood there with a stained notepad and stared at us until the silence became unbearable. When I asked what was good, she exhaled a cloud of what I’m fairly certain was secondhand smoke and said, “The eggs don’t bounce today.” It was the most honest piece of culinary advice I have ever received.

I ordered the “Trucker’s Glory,” a plate that consisted of two eggs, three strips of bacon that looked like they had been mummified, and a pile of hash browns that were burnt on the outside and strangely liquid on the inside. The coffee was a different story entirely. It was served in a thick ceramic mug with a chip on the rim, and it was strong enough to peel paint off a car door. It didn’t taste like beans. It tasted like any dark, hot liquid that has been brewing since the interstate was paved. It was, in a very specific and terrifying way, exactly what I needed.

My companion ordered the “Famous Chili.” This was a mistake. The chili arrived in a bowl that was uncomfortably hot, while the contents remained lukewarm. It was a dark brown sludge that seemed to move of its own volition. There were beans in there, sure, but there were also unidentified chunks of “meat” that had the texture of a pencil eraser. Barb watched them take the first bite with a look of grim satisfaction, like a scientist observing a lab rat enter a maze.

The strange thing about The Rusty Hubcap is that it isn’t bad in a way that makes you want to leave. It is bad in a way that feels authentic. In a world of polished corporate coffee chains and pre-packaged sandwiches, there is something oddly comforting about a place that refuses to improve. It doesn’t care about your Yelp review. It doesn’t care about your dietary restrictions. It barely cares if you survive the meal.

We left with a lingering case of heartburn and a bill that was written on the back of a napkin. The Rusty Hubcap is a terrible restaurant, but it is a magnificent experience. It is the kind of place you go when you want to feel like a character in a gritty road movie where nothing ends well. Go for the coffee, stay for the existential dread, and definitely bring some Tums. Rating: 2.5/5 Stars

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This work first appeared in Issue 42 of Blue Marble Review on June 8, 2026. It is part of my satirical “Restaurant Review” series. You can also read my reviews of Aperture & Void and The Fern & Fable (both fictional establishments, just like The Rusty Hubcap). Any resemblance to actual restaurants is purely coincidental.

Aperture & Void

By Ridley Longsworth

Aperture & Void, located deep within a reclaimed industrial park, promises an experience of gastronomic friction. It delivers on that promise, but the friction is entirely between the diner’s common sense and the chef’s nihilistic ambition. The visit felt less like a meal and more like a high-end, carefully orchestrated psychological evaluation designed to see how much absurdity one would tolerate before demanding the check.

The ambiance is less "minimalist chic" and more "brutalist purgatory." The walls are poured concrete, painted a noncommittal shade of ash, and the temperature is maintained at a perpetual, slightly too-cool 62 degrees. The only sound is the white noise of a faulty ventilation system, giving the room an air of sterile, expectant dread. Our server, whose uniform resembled a hospital scrub and whose demeanor suggested deep-seated philosophical regret, presented the "menu," a pair of smooth river stones on the zinc table, making it clear that hospitality here is subservient to the chef's performance art.

We began with the appetizer, The Unwritten History of the Cod ($85). This was served on a polished, black granite slab that was freezing to the touch. The dish consisted of three things: a single, glistening flake of perfectly poached cod; a massive, unappetizing chunk of raw, hand-mined sea salt; and a single, tiny, lukewarm parsley leaf. The flake of fish was sublime (tender, oily, oceanic), but its isolation was agonizing. The presentation did not complement the fish; it mocked it. When questioned about the gargantuan salt rock, the server merely whispered, "It is meant to suggest the vastness of possibility."

The centerpiece was the disastrous Quiet Collapse of Structure ($120), a supposed pork cheek course. The presentation was stunning: a single, deeply caramelized cube of meat centered on a bone-white plate. The moment my fork (which was fashioned from a cold, heavy piece of oxidized copper) made contact, the meat, which should have been firm, simply dissolved. Not melted, but instantly collapsed into a dark, rich liquid that soaked immediately into the ceramic. It was technically cooked, yet engineered to defy the physical act of eating, turning the pursuit of flavor into an instant failure. I was left with a forkful of sauce and the dizzying realization that the meal was designed to be beautiful, expensive, and impossible to consume.

After the existential crisis of the pork cheek, we proceeded to what was labeled as the mid-course: The Parable of the Empty Plate ($95). This dish was a culinary exercise in auditory distortion. It featured a teaspoon-sized coil of bright green, extruded kelp "pasta" placed at the very center of a massive, heavily insulated, bell-shaped ceramic bowl. The bowl had been heated to an unnerving temperature, causing it to amplify every scrape of the copper fork and every distant, guttural kitchen noise into a shocking racket. The kelp coil itself tasted profoundly of nothing but saltwater and regret, and the volume of the serving vessel felt specifically designed to humiliate the diner with the sheer disparity between the size of the container and the emptiness of the experience.

For the grand finale, we faced Negative Space and the Taste of Yesterday ($75). A dessert should be a gentle denouement; this was a sharp, bitter conclusion. It arrived as a perfectly square block of frozen, clarified shiitake mushroom consommé, placed on a slab of slate. The block was dusted heavily with ultra-fine, flavorless activated charcoal powder, which resembled soot. The texture was clean and cold, but the flavor was jarringly savory and earthy (a bitter, cold anticlimax that extinguished any lingering warmth or expectation of sweetness). Our server informed us that the dish "challenges the binary of comfort and consumption," which, translated, means "it tastes like frozen dirt."

In summary, Aperture & Void is a culinary critique of dining itself. The dishes are brilliant in their cruelty but fail as food. It is an act of expensive, self-indulgent conceptual art. Unless you are looking to spend your entire paycheck proving the chef's cynical point about modern consumption, avoid the Void. Rating: 0.5/5 Stars (The perfect collapse of the pork cheek was at least a memorable scientific feat.)

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This work first appeared in The Radish on January 5, 2026. It won an American Voices Award, a Scholastic Gold Medal Writing Award, and a Scholastic Gold Key Writing Award. It is part of my satirical “Restaurant Review” series. You can also read my reviews of The Rusty Hubcap and The Fern & Fable (both fictional establishments, just like Aperture & Void). Any resemblance to actual restaurants is purely coincidental.

The Fifth Step

By Ridley Longsworth

The tunnels beneath the city always smelled of dust, metal, and secrets. Lira moved through them like a shadow, her patched coat brushing the damp walls, her boots soundless against the concrete. In her bag, a thin bundle wrapped in oilcloth—a copy of The Old Histories, one of the last known to exist. Worth a fortune to the right buyer. Worth her life if caught.  

She paused at a junction, pressing her hand to the stone. The vibration told her what her ears couldn’t—footsteps above, slow and deliberate. Patrols. The Ministry’s Seekers. 

She waited. Counted the seconds. Mapped their rhythm. 

Five steps ahead, always five. 

Once, long ago, she hadn’t been quick enough. The orphanage walls had closed in like iron jaws—rules, punishments, the Director’s shouts. She’d escaped by crawling through a drain pipe in the dead of winter, lungs burning, heart promising never again. Never trapped. Never caught. 

A soft buzz in her earpiece broke her thoughts. 

“Lira? You there?” 

The voice was cracked, old static—Jett, her contact.

“I’m here.”

“Change of plans. Client’s dead. Ministry raided the docks.”

Lira swore under her breath. “Then why am I still carrying this thing?” 

There was a pause. Then, quieter: “Because I found something else. A name. From the old orphanage records.”

Her breath caught. “Don’t play with me.” 

“It says Mira Pell. Transferred to Facility Nine. Alive.”

For a long moment, all she could hear was her own heartbeat—fast, sharp, disbelieving. Her sister’s name. After all these years.

“Send me the coordinates,” she said finally.

“Lira, that place—”

“Send them.” 

The route to Facility Nine took her beyond the city’s grid, past the neon hum of the towers and into the ruins where silence was law. Along the way, she bartered pages for passage, stories for shelter—each trade a small erosion of the walls she’d built to stay unseen. Every step closer to Mira felt like walking into light, and she hated the hope that came with it. 

When she finally reached the facility, dawn was bleeding through the clouds. The gates were rusted, the walls half-collapsed. But the locks—the locks were new.

Inside, she found rooms full of broken machinery and ash. The ghosts of experiments past. And in the lowest level, a flicker of life—a generator still humming, feeding a single cryo-chamber. 

Through the frost-covered glass, a girl. Pale. Sleeping. 

Her reflection stared back at her—lean frame, messy hair, eyes ringed with exhaustion. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t tell which one was real. 

“...Mira?” she whispered.

A voice behind her answered instead.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

She spun. A Seeker stood in the doorway, gun leveled, his uniform gleaming with the Ministry’s insignia.

“We kept her alive because she’s valuable,” he said. “You can walk away, Lira. Stay invisible. Like you always do.” 

She looked once more at her sister—and then at the book in her bag. The Old Histories. The truth no one wanted known. 

“Not anymore,” she said.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t think five steps ahead. 

She just moved.

When the explosion lit up the morning sky, the city’s alarms screamed awake. And in the ruins outside the city, two figures walked together beneath the breaking dawn. One limping, one weak but alive. Lira didn’t look back. She’d lost everything she’d built to survive.

But for once, that meant she was finally free. 

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The Fern & Fable

By Ridley Longsworth

The Fern & Fable is the kind of café that makes you feel like you accidentally walked into a high-budget commercial for insurance or name-brand dish soap. It is perfectly, relentlessly pleasant. There is not a single scuff on the whitewashed floorboards, and every potted plant looks like it has been coached on how to grow in the most photogenic direction possible. It is a space designed for people who want the idea of a coffee shop without any of the actual mess that comes with human beings existing in a room together.

When you walk in, you are met with a wall of sound that consists entirely of “Lo-Fi Hip Hop Beats To Study/Relax To.” It is played at a volume that is just high enough to prevent you from having a private conversation, but low enough that it feels like a soft wool blanket is being held over your face. It’s undeniably beautiful, and yet, five minutes after sitting down, I found myself desperately wishing someone would drop a tray or yell at a delivery driver just to break the spell.

The menu is a masterpiece of modern font choices. I ordered the “Signature Oat Miel,” which the barista told me was their most popular drink. The barista was perfectly polite, wearing a linen apron that looked like it had never met a coffee stain in its life. He smiled with exactly the right amount of teeth and asked if I wanted my name on the cup. When the drink arrived, the latte art was a flawless rosette. It was almost too symmetrical to drink.

As for the taste, it was…fine. It was the absolute middle of the road. The espresso was mild, the oatmilk was creamy, and the honey was sweet. It tasted exactly like every other thirty-dollar bag of ethically sourced beans I’ve ever had. There was no bitterness, but there was also no character. It was a drink that was impossible to hate and equally impossible to remember. I also tried the avocado toast, because apparently it’s a legal requirement for shops like this to serve it. It came topped with “micro-greens” and a sprinkle of chili flakes that looked like they had been placed there with a pair of tweezers. It was fresh, it was crunchy, and it was entirely devoid of any soul.

The customers at The Fern & Fable are all part of the aesthetic. Everyone is sitting behind a very thin, very silver laptop. No one is talking. The only noise is the light tapping of keys and the occasional hiss of the milk steamer. It’s a great place to go if you need to finish a spreadsheet or if you want to take a photo of your shoes against a nice floor. If you want a place that feels alive, or a place where the coffee tells a story about where it came from, this isn’t it.

The Fern & Fable is a “decent” café in the same way a boutique hotel lobby is a “decent” living room. It provides everything you ask for but gives you nothing you didn’t expect. I left feeling caffeinated and strangely empty, like I had just spent an hour inside a very nice screensaver. It’s the perfect spot for when you want to disappear into the background of your own life for a while. Rating: 3/5 Stars

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This work first appeared in The Radish on May 22, 2026. It is part of my satirical “Restaurant Review” series. You can also read my reviews of Aperture & Void and The Rusty Hubcap (both fictional establishments, just like The Fern & Fable). Any resemblance to actual restaurants is purely coincidental.

Milk Run

“While you're at the market, please pick up some milk, but be careful: Medusa just moved to this town."

The text came from Mom, like it was nothing.

No exclamation marks, no emojis. Just a casual warning wedged between “milk” and “this town.”

At first, I thought it was code. Maybe she meant the HOA president again. But then I saw the sign taped to the grocery store’s glass doors:

CAUTION: REFLECTION HAZARD. DO NOT MAKE DIRECT EYE CONTACT. Town ordinance #247. Thank you for your cooperation.

Inside, the lights were dimmed. Mirrors had been covered with sheets of black cloth. In the freezer aisle, a man’s stone hand poked from between the waffles and the ice cream. Someone had carved the word “help” into his palm.

The milk was near the back, of course. Always near the back. I gripped the cart and pushed it past the quiet statues that used to be people, all of them frozen mid-gesture: a woman sneezing, a kid holding an orange, a cashier half-smiling.

At the dairy section, I caught movement in the chrome reflection of the refrigerator handle. A flash of a woman’s silhouette, hair writhing faintly, like seaweed underwater.

I grabbed the first carton I saw and turned to leave, but her voice slithered softly through the aisle.

“Whole milk?” she asked. “Or 2%?”

Her tone was polite. Almost neighborly.

I didn’t look. “Whichever’s on sale,” I said, my pulse drumming in my ears.

When I got home, I set the carton on the counter. It was still cold, but the expiration date read April 14, 541 B.C.

Mom smiled. “Perfect,” she said, pouring herself a glass. The milk was thick, grey, and gritty, like freshly poured concrete.

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Why I Despise Christmas Trees

By Ridley Longsworth

Every December, like clockwork, they appear. Glittering monstrosities in living rooms, malls, and town squares. Towering green lies wrapped in fake joy and overpriced LED lights.  

I didn’t always hate them. As a kid, I felt the magic. The way the twinkling lights blinked like stars, how the room smelled of pine and cinnamon, and how presents bloomed beneath it while we stared in awe.  

But magic has a short shelf life, especially when it gets packed away in boxes marked “XMAS” every January. 

It was our first Christmas after Dad left. Mom was trying to keep the traditions alive. She bought the biggest tree in the lot, a Douglas fir so wide it barely fit through the front door. We strung it with memories: the handmade ornaments, the one emblazoned with “World’s Best Dad” that we all pretended not to see. 

It fell in the night. Glass across the carpet. The lights still flickering on their sides. Mom sweeping with a dustpan before dawn, silent. Like the tree had finally given up pretending, too. 

We never bought a real tree again. After that, it was a plastic one from the basement that reeked of mildew and disappointment. I watched it lean against the wall year after year, like it couldn’t bear to stand up on its own anymore. It became a symbol of our collective exhaustion, dressed up in blinking lights to hide how broken it really was. 

And let’s not even start on the commercial ones—the trees that are dressed up like department store mannequins, paraded on social media, and used as props in holiday-themed influencer content. They're not about joy anymore. They're about optics. A curated illusion of togetherness. Because nothing says “family” like smiling in front of a tree while barely speaking to each other the rest of the day.

So no, I don’t hate Christmas. I hate what the tree pretends it means. 

This year, I didn’t put one up. No ornaments. No lights. Just a quiet apartment and a candle that smells like pine, because, okay, the scent is nice. 

And maybe that’s enough.

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