There are some practical benefits for people to behave well both individually and as a society. Who wants to share life with someone trying to kill or exploit you? If folks are "good" we can get along, if not, evil runs the show and everyone is out for his or her self.

And leaders--familial, tribal, community, national, religious etc.--find threats of force, death, and hell useful for managing people's behavior. Direct violence loses some of its effectiveness the further people get away from it, but if the threat is supernatural we have the basis for influence flexible enough for a civilization. Especially, if we have a priesthood and religious practices to foster unity.

So, social cohesion and the restraint of evil are utilitarian (material) benefits of belief in heaven and hell. But if an after-life judgement is entirely a human creation then compliance is irrational because. We would have the "benefit" of better relations, but it would all be based on a fabrication. If we get real with our atheism then we remove any lasting benefit to being "good." Whether we are good or evil makes no real difference. Psychopaths live that way and if a significant number of people embraced such a material mindset we would have the culture of a prison without the guards.

There might be another reason that people in all cultures from the earliest of times have believed in God and a day of judgement for deeds done in the flesh besides the utilitarian benefits. We might believe it because it's true.

I'd say your brain is simply part of your body. Now your mind? That's something altogether different. I think of our bodies as the equipment, but there are some safety features already wired in--you don't have to chose to blink and we probably wouldn't ever live to reproduce if our brains didn't automatically signal the heart to beat. Literally, every single beat. But it's not a one way signal. The heart speaks too.

So, what is the dialogue between your brain and mind? In a panic attack your mind starts running some subconscious programing (based on prior experiences) and your body starts playing along. A little blood pressure hear, a little blood sugar there. Then your mind notices the shortness of breath, the sweaty hands, the narrowing of focus. Now with your conscious mind on the train your body says, "Oh, crap! This is serious!" and escalates it's end. Everybody is playing so nice! "Drive her over the edge!" Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Until the world caves in.

But to your question. Yeah, we are more than the brain. If your body didn't have the sensitivities, anomalies, preferences, and limitations it does, your brain would operate differently. But it's a dance and you can't always tell who is in the lead!

We didn't arrive here together, and we won’t leave together. I just have to accept it. We've had some great times and three great kids. Two major moves. A string of unlucky cats we named after something in Las Vegas. There was Jackpot. He started it all. Good cat. He did his own thing, and then got run over by the UPS driver. But that was before the kids. Sam never was a very sensitive child, but she was too young to even say kitty.

Carly, our second--child that is--acted tough when Casino was put to sleep. Leukemia, who the hell even figured out that cats get leukemia? Casino's death spawned a conflict between my wife and me that we never could resolve. Arguing over whether to put Casino to sleep or let him live out his days revealed a deep and irreconcilable difference between us.

Aces High, or Aces usually, lived the longest. She had a black smudge on her chest that we all pretended looked like a spade so we could justify the name. The kids were in high school when Aces just didn't return home. Tapping into that deep division, my wife and I had a huge argument over that.

"You know, we could just keep the damn cats inside the house!" she shouted on our way out of the Sams Club parking lot. We'd been nibbling around it as we picked up paper towels, vitamins and a garden hose.

"Cats gotta be free!" I offered.

Her eyes widened and lips narrowed, "You always got to joke things away don't you? If I'd known you were an expert at avoiding difficult things, then I would have never married you."

The green arrow came on, and I turned slowly toward our house, "No doubt that's true."

She glared out the window the rest of the way home. She didn't mention my episodic unemployment, Sam's addiction, or how much we should help her widowed mother...I didn't know what to say.

I hate that the kids have to be here today. I almost adopted a cat, but only Jason is still at home, three more semesters of college left. Besides the only names I could think of at the shelter were Stage IV, Malignant, Metastatic.

Sam's shitty boyfriend is here wearing black khakis and a white shirt he bought last night at Wal-Mart. Carly, I can't even look at her. She has no ability to protect herself from pain. Sam's head is swiveling around as if he's expecting someone to come pick him up.

I'm leaving my wife today, and I want to out of here before they start filling in her grave.

While passing

by a river

I saw blood draining from my chest

darkly

deep

and red

Grayness closes in 'round the edges

and I ponder why he turned on me

money

lust

or vengence

Acrid smoke fades

and I'm left with the scent of green water

fishy

foriegn

and tainted

Warmth slips away

leaving cool

stiff

heft

The world grows impossibly small

leaving only the rippling of the water

whose rythym carries me away

[I hope there are no hard rules on the punctuation!]

I’ve been playing hills since I got my driver’s license. Just seems like the thing to do. Makes driving more interesting-- a nice contrast to the rest of my life. Today, I had to take my mom to her job at Waffle House. That’s kinda funny since it’s my dad who waffles. I don’t play hills with mom in the car. She’d probably sleep through it anyway.

I smell frying hamburger when mom gets out at the front door. The building looks like an aquarium except with people stuck on stools instead of fish floating around. Grego is in the back, head down, steam in his face and growling. Mom doesn’t know how he messed with me. She’s got her own reasons to hate him.

“Good night, honey,” my mom says even though it’s just three thirty. She’s bending down with just her face in the car. Her gold and white uniform is washed but will always have those grease spots. Soon enough coffee, ketchup and syrup will draw the eye and the scattered gray shadow smudges will fade from view. There are just some stains that you can’t wash away.

“Good night, mom.”

“Be careful driving to work. I’ll get Carolyn to bring me home. I’ll be there about twelve thirty. Go on to bed. There’s some spaghetti in the fridge for you and your sister.”

“Ok, mom.”

“And don’t stay up too late. And don’t forget to make Jen do her homework and you do yours, if you have any.”

“Ok, mom.”

“You’re a good kid. I love you.”

“Don’t you need to get inside, mom?”

“Yeah. Ok.” Her face smiles bright enough to turn the puffy areas under her eyes to happy creases. I see it, but it doesn’t move me.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to say ‘I love you’ too.”

“It might.”

Really, it just might. I haven’t felt anything in a long time.

Mom smooches the air and closes the door. The car creaks when I pull back onto the main road. I’ve got my own fast food shift to work today, except I don’t start until four and I get off at eight.

I first noticed the numbness in eighth grade. Maybe that’s not right. I hadn't noticed the numbness, and might never have, if Miss Kratz hadn’t asked me if I was ok. She was one of those hyper organized teachers whose lessons, hair and clothes never seem to move.

She had pulled me aside at the end of class to ask, “Jessica, have you been feeling ok?”

“What do you mean?” I held my heavy backpack to my chest.

“It just seems like you are weighed down. Like something is always on your mind…” Hell yeah, something is always on my mind, I thought. The kids in the hallway swooshed by the opening in a noisy stream. I felt a great pull to silently slip into its obscurity.

“Jessica?” Miss Kratz asked. She tilted her head, but none of her hair fell out of place.

My face warmed at the recognition she just saw me doing the very thing she was asking about, “Yes, ma’am?”

“If you are feeling bad. If you feel disconnected, or sad a lot then you can always talk with me or Mrs. Summerfield in guidance.”

“Um. Ok, thanks.” A lot of things fell into place with the word “disconnected.” Honestly, being numb feels worse than feeling hurt or angry. At least those rise and fall-- it may get intense but it fades. Numbness sets in on you like the smell of someone else’s cigarettes. It doesn’t go away.

The first time I cut I was so scared, but the pain made dormant nerves crackle to life and the little bubbles of blood brought relief. My mom would die, but there’s nothing she can do. I cut off and on for years. Eventually it quit working.

To find the release again, a part of me deep down knew I would need someone else to do the hurting. There was Darian and then a couple of other skankboys. I rode the highs as high as I could, and the lows I grimly welcomed. Even the gossip channel title of slut I embraced.

Just a few months back though, Grego took it to another level. He would hit on me when he came by to take my mom to and from work. Not gonna lie, I liked the attention. He’s not some skinny, broke high schooler. It totally shocked me the day he suddenly pinned me against the closet door and groped me. I could feel his fingernails through my bra.

From the bathroom my mom called out, “I’m almost ready. Be right there.” Jen was on the couch with the TV, tablet and her phone all turned on.

I realize now Grego savored the fear on my face. He pressed his mouth over mine and forced his tongue between my teeth. Short whiskers scratched my face. I can’t forget that taste of beer and cigarettes. I twisted away as my mom walked into the front room. Greg stood there like he’d been standing there for hours.

She never knew. Mom never knew. I’m never going to tell her either. What I’m I going to say, “Hey, mom I had sex with your boyfriend-boss? Hey, mom I thought he got me pregnant? Hey, mom he told me that he really wanted me more than you?”

And that shit might have continued except for one more thing I noticed that I hadn’t noticed before. A couple of weeks ago mom had walked passed him out the front door and he leaned in the opening as he pulled it closed. His eyes were probably looking for me, our usual little wink, except he saw Jen bending over the back of the couch while aiming the remote at the TV. I saw the lust on his face. Then he caught sight of me standing in the kitchen. One side of his mouth turned up in a grin. When I heard his Camaro pull away from the house, I threw up.

I also decided that was the end of that. It’s not been that hard to avoid him. He still looks and winks behind my mom’s back—Mom! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!

The restaurant where I work at is on the edge of town, out toward the interstate. There’s a hill between here and there.

The schools are out this way too. At work I’ll be catching some of my classmates coming in for big sweet teas and French fries. The customers are not my friends. The coworkers are I guess. There’s a big difference between those here with money to spend and those here needing to make money. It was all too evident yesterday.

“Hello, welcome to McDonald’s may I take your order?” I asked the girl in front of me. She had impossibly pretty teeth.

“Um, yeah. I’ll take a medium Coke and large fries.” Don’t you see me? Do you know we have American History together? “Oh, and lots of ketchup, please.”

I think about my mom. She’d feel bad if I lose the game of hills. Lots of traffic today which I guess goes with the time of day. I tried to play at night one time, but it’s too obvious because you can see the approaching headlights. Daytime is ideal. Going fast, very, very fast is ideal. My foot pushes the clunky accelerator pedal down just a little more. Around sixty eight the bucket of bolts starts to rattle. My mom’s got insurance, right?

The road curves to the right and the hill rises in front of me with a bright sky behind it. I take it as a sign of good fortune that the oncoming lane this side of the hill is free of cars. I ease over to the left side and pretend like I’m in Britain or Australia. They drive on the left don’t they? The car needs more gas to not lose speed up the rise.

I actually feel a little excitement. Could this be the day?

My sister will be ok. She’ll have mom to herself. Of course she’ll have to do dad visits alone. And nobody will be there when she gets home from school. The yellow line to my right changes from a simple dash to a dash and a solid.

Mom doesn’t have to know about Grego. She’s done with him anyway, even if he still gives her rides to work. He uses my mom’s needs to stay around.

I’m pointed up at the sky. It’s just over that last bit of asphalt.

What if Grego offers to be at home when Jen gets off the bus?

Bus. Bus!

The yellow and black cap rises quickly above the hill and I know, I know as if I had always known, that it’s a school bus. First I think, “Perfect!” Then I think, “Perfectly unacceptable” even as my hands turn the wheel sharply to the right. Tires scream and the car is trying to pull us into the right lane. I hear the blaring of the horn and close my eyes for the impact on my back fender. Nothing comes. My car lurches as if it were struck anyway and the bus’s horn fades away.

I top the hill and the car settles into normal. The only sign of the trouble is a faint smell of burnt rubber. There is a calm newborn awareness about what truly matters, and it’s not my job or reputation! I’ve seen another something with indisputable clarity -- that was my sister’s bus.

END

Constructive critical feedback is always welcome and appreciated.

I wish my wife would shut the hell up. And the therapist, “Doctor Bob” sits there nodding like one of those plastic birds that have an ass full of water. He’s got to be sick of it. People coming into his office, a stream of unhappy crybabies, and droning on and on about first world problems, slights and injustices. In my mind’s eye, I see him choking on the verbal hash, he grunts and his eyes open wide, he pulls on his button up collar trying to force the crap down. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he struggles not to spew the maggots of long dead wounds all over his clients and ruin the illusion that he cares.

I don’t know if I admire him or loathe him.

Hannah keeps talking, “I’m trying my best to do like you said and be more direct....” She is still pretty. Her upper lip is just slightly bigger than the lower, and I find that sexy as hell. We’ve been together eleven years, got two kids, both in middle school. I guess I’m here for them—nope! Honestly, I’m here to get her off my back. She wants to talk all the time, and I’ve noticed that when she comes here she talks less.

Not that I’m completely against talking, but good Lord, there needs to be a purpose. Communication is about the exchange of information, but my lovely wife Hannah just talks around and around like a plane that never lands. Perhaps the passengers and pilot all died in flight, and they are doomed to circle the earth forever.

Doctor Bob indulges her appetite to ramble, “And how did you feel when she reacted that way?”

Hannah eats it up, and I hear the seven thousandth version of why her coworkers are all douche bags. I wonder if I will have time to go by the plumbing supply store when we are done. I need a sacrificial anode rod. It’s a solid bar of metal, aluminum or magnesium usually, installed in hot water heaters to keep the tank walls from corroding. The oxygen in the water reacts to the anode and slowly dissolves it. Our tank is overdue for a replacement.

I catch the tail end of what Bob is saying, evidently to me, ”...things are going from your point of view, Frank?” Oh, shit. My eyes widen and move around without turning my head.

“I was asking, how do you think things have been going between you and Hannah lately, Frank?” Dr. Bob is a perceptive quack--gotta give him that.

“Things have been fine,” I say.

“Yes? Have you seen any positive changes?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’d say we haven’t been arguing as much lately.”

“Oh, so you feel like you’ve been getting along better?”

I can sense Hannah watching me like housecats watch squirrels in the yard. “Yeah, things are better,” I say.

She can’t help it, “What is better, Frank? What’s better?” I start to reply. She continues, ”What is better?”

Doctor Bob interrupts to soften the question, “Frank, what changes are you seeing that you like?”

“We had sex twice last week.” I’m half serious, I like the sex, but I’m hoping she will take the subject and run with it.

Doctor Bob doesn’t give her the chance, “So, it means a lot to you when you are more sexually connected.”

It’s not a question, but I say, “Sure.”

“Do you see any positive changes in the relationship, Hannah?”

She bites off her breath with those fantastic lips, “Yeah, I guess so. He’s seemed more open. He doesn’t cut me off like before when I try to talk about my day.”

“That’s important to you isn’t it, Hannah? And Frank, is that something you are intentionally trying to do?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you intentionally trying to listen and talk with her more?”

“I guess so.”

The bitten breath escapes Hannah’s mouth, and I know I’ll be hearing about it on the way home. How about I send Hannah over to Doctor Bob’s for the talking, and she can come home for sex? I almost suggest it, but instead we schedule to meet again in two weeks.

I look at my watch and realize there won’t be time to get to the hardware store.

END

Loss

Move on

Heart circles back

Grief's razor cuts raggedly

Until I reach the "then"

I won't know

and neither will you

For yourself or me

Meanwhile, we take our stroll

Sundry steps

an uneven course onward

Hope, fate and folly

The wise catch the wink

Live right here

attuned to the now

whate'er things be

Beyond our finite view

Time's arc spurs

and carries us on

To the finally

____________________________________________________________________

Ugh. Poetry is like trying to kiss an oily walrus. Not that I would know from experience exactly, but I bet it's hard! Feedback is always appreciated.

Makayla has been my friend for a long time, and I don’t know if I should tell her what I know. She and I met fresh out of college when we started working at the same place. We have a great deal in common in regard to tastes, priorities and fashion. Nosy and opinionated southern mothers-- who have no reservations telling you your skirt is too short or that the pork loin is overdone-- gave us something to bond over.

She married Rome before I met my husband Keane, but the guys hit it off as soon as they first met. They don’t do a lot just them, but they don’t object to getting together. Their three kids and our two are all in the same middle school. We do birthdays, patriotic holidays and regular cookouts together. We are not just friends. Our families are friends.

Rumor, more than rumor, has gotten back to me that her husband is having an affair. I know her well enough to know she won’t think of it as “an affair.” It will be seen as betrayal. She will be angry first. Her first reaction to pain is almost always anger like that time her neighbor ran over her cat. I went with her to answer the knock on the front door where Mrs. Spence stood there tearfully pointing at the lifeless Mr. Tuttles in the street next to her white Impala. Makayla let loose with a stream of profanity like water from a fire hydrant. Poor Mrs. Spence just stood there mouth open like she was trying to do her part to swallow it.

I helped Makayla bury the poor thing; and she was still angry. Two days later she called me at work. She had not gone in, “I’m stuck in bed. I can’t stop crying.” I went over to fix her and the kids something for supper because Rome was out of town.

Rome is such a great father, but he’s complained a long time about her preoccupation with everything but him. If she’d been paying attention, she probably could have seen it coming, but then she’s not been able to hear his complaints. Last September I tried one last time to help her hear.

She sat with her feet up on the couch looking through the window behind it into the back yard. The men and kids were playing cornhole. The two youngest had somehow turned it into a running game. The grill puffed white burger smoke that we could smell even inside.

“You know he loves you,” I began.

“Mmm.”

“I love Keane, but I’m not always happy with him. It’s the same with Rome. He keeps telling you he’s not happy.”

“I know. Dammit I know. What I don’t know is what to do about it.” She looked at me over the cup she clutched close to her chest. Her hair was tussled like the fringes on her denim shorts. At first glance you might thing she was just hanging out at a beachhouse, but her eyes were troubled and she looked weary.

“What does he say?”

“He says, I put him down. He says we don’t have sex enough. He says I pay more attention to the kids than to him….” She continued to talk until the subject wandered away from his complaints to hers. She didn’t feel loved. She didn’t feel like a priority. She just needed more time, “That’s what I told him; I need him to just be patient with me.”

“But he’s asking you to do something for him.”

“And I can’t alright? I can’t. Keane doesn’t complain about you. He’s not putting you down.”

I didn’t want to let her change the subject, but what I said next made it impossible to for us to talk about it anymore, “Rome needs you to do something for him.”

Her anger turned toward me, “And what do you know about what he needs?”

Outside the bean bags clumped onto the plywood boards and children squealed.

In a big city two people might be able to get around the public eye, but in a small town folks like our mothers mean secrets are seldom safe. When I first heard the rumor that Rome was seen with someone else, I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I defended him. But now multiple people are talking, and it won’t be long until she hears. So, that’s my dilemma. Do I tell Makala now? And more importantly, do I tell her it’s me?

END

Comment, suggestions and critical feedback are always welcome and appreciated (and returned if at all possible). You can read more of my writing here at Prose.com or at my website https://htroygreen.com/

"Would you rather die a peaceful death now or an excruciatingly painful death in three to six months?" Mister, or was it doctor, Monroe asked me.

"Are there no other choices?" Beyond the ever respectful beeping of my monitors, I heard the nurses swooshing down the hall way.

"Not for me. I'm the only Licensed Euthanizer in the area. I could maybe come back later, but it will cost you more."

"Oh," I mumbled. Monroe couldn't quite obscure his impatience with me. "How much is it now?" I asked.

"Today, since I'm already here, it would be six hundred dollars."

"And what would it be if I try to fight this out?" It was a question I hadn't even discussed with my brother.

"Well, that depends on my schedule. If it’s really inconvenient the fee goes up to seven thousand dollars." I could feel the blood in my skin be replaced by cold sweat. Monroe seemed to notice, "That's why you really want to decide today."

My mind reeled through the last few days of terrible pain, tests, hospital staff, and doctors, then the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, terminal, and far advanced. Then earlier today, my doctor, Dr. Truitt had said, "I know this is a lot on you, but I've got someone I want you to talk to. It's Dr. Monroe (oh, doctor), and he can talk with you about your options." Evidently, treatment was not a Medicaid option, and Dr. Monroe's options were: now or later.

Dr. Monroe drew in a breath and cleared his throat.

I looked up at him, my body already thinned from the last few weeks, as if the cancer had saved up all its power for one big push, "You know I'm only seventeen."

"Oh. That won't be a problem. The State recognizes the right of individuals of sound mind to make EOL decisions beginning at the age of twelve."

No future. I halfheartedly kicked myself for not doing more, taking more chances. I didn't know...I didn't know. And really I can't say if knowing would have made any difference.

Dr. Monroe, with his trim salt and pepper goatee suggested, "Maybe you want to talk to your brother? Could you call him now? I'll be leaving in an hour or so."

"My brother doesn't have any money," I said. I didn't bother to explain that after our parents died that we had little else besides each other.

"So, is it settled?"

"I guess so."

"Good enough."

After the procedure Dr. Monroe jetted off to the next hospital on his route. Six weeks later, Dr. Monroe and Dr. Truitt received a small stipend; but it was a fraction of what the hospital collected for “Excellence in Cost Containment” for the second quarter.

END