The Religious Atheist

I wouldn't call myself an atheist, personally. Some people would, but I suppose that depends on how you define God. I consider myself an agnostic.

I'm positive that the Abrahamic God (or any other established deities supposedly vested in human affairs) doesn't exist. However, the idea of the universe being created by an abstract intelligent prime mover is something I don't think could ever be fully proven or disproven. Even if such a being did exist, mind you, I doubt an entity with the power to craft galaxies would have much need for the satisfaction of worship.

There is an idea prevalent with quite a few people that, to be non-religious, you must also be anti-religious. Theists aren't the only ones guilty of this ludicrous belief. Quite a large number of atheists out there seem determined to patronize anyone (even agnostics!) whose beliefs fail to fall in line with their own. For added irony, these same people often criticize religion for promoting intolerance! I myself went through a particularly unpleasant bout of this back in high school.

Discovering atheism wasn't hard for me. As a child, I adored books of mythology. I was familiar with Greco-Roman myths, Egyptian myths, and Norse myths. When I read the Bible, it was no great stretch to realize I was reading Hebrew myths. The Bible even shares elements with many of the myths of other cultures. Samson and Hercules both killed a lion with their bare hands, for example.

However, the fact that I bring up mythology is important. I know that the Olympian pantheon does not exist. I know that Zeus, Poseidon, Hermes, and all these other gods are no more than inventions of man. And while some may criticize the Bible as a poor source of morality, I can verify that the tales of the Greek gods are much worse. And yet, in spite of all these facts, I loved these old stories, and I still do today. I've written a whole novel filled with Greco-Roman mythological symbolism, and my next novel will contain even more. Why, then, should I be forbidden to extend this same appreciation towards the stories of less forgotten gods?

Although I am not a Christian in any sense, I must carry at least some respect for it as an artist. A world without Christianity would be a world without the sculptures of Michelangelo, without the cantatas of Bach, without Dante's Divine Comedy and Milton's Paradise Lost, to say nothing of the literary merits of The Bible itself. I'm not sure if I would want to live in a world like that. And while it's true that many people use religion to justify all sorts of unpleasant behavior, that is simply human nature at work. I can promise that in a world without religion, the people in the Westboro Baptist Church would still be assholes. They'd just be assholes in a different way.

As "Per Astra Ad Aspera" nears its release (or at least I hope), my mind is already beginning to look towards my third novel. Although I'm not at liberty to go into too many details regarding it, it will contain religious themes. And as the idea was first formed during my aforementioned high school phase, its original conception was somewhat...biased. I've grown since then, and yet I still want to make this novel. Is it possible to do the idea justice? How do I discuss religion without seeming unfair about it? How do I attack it without being prejudiced? How do I praise it without crossing the line into belief myself? Religion's a tricky subject, there's no questioning that. But I think I managed to be pretty fair writing a blog post on religion, which leaves me a little more confident when it comes to tackling a whole novel on the subject.

But I'm not touching politics with a ten-foot pole.

"Fire"

Night surrounded the local bank, an eerie silence accompanying the darkness. The employees had all gone home hours before, leaving the premises empty, save a single intruder. Kenneth stealthily moved towards the bank with a dead look in his eyes, stubble surrounding his face, a heart pounding like a man running for his life, and a bottle in his hand.

            Ken looked at the Molotov cocktail, his hand trembling nervously. With a single finger, he lightly caressed the cloth that served as the explosive’s fuse. He prayed the liquor would be strong enough. It was of a very high proof, but even still he was uncertain. Perhaps he should have opted for gasoline, he thought. But that would be hard for him to come by. He’s never had much of a reason to buy gasoline…

            “Rejected?” Ken repeated, his voice tinged with anxiety.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Flint,” said the loan officer, looking over her thick spectacles. “But given your current rate of income, it seems unlikely you’d be able to make the repayments. Have you…” she took a deep breath before continuing. “Have you considered maybe…settling for a less expensive car?”

            “I’ve looked everywhere. This is as cheap as it gets. Any car that costs less won’t move. Am I really…am I really not good enough to get this one?” Ken’s grip around his legs tightened.

            “Well, perhaps you could save up for it. If you set up a savings account here, you could…”

            “I’ve been saving!” Ken shouted indignantly. “You know how much other stuff I’ve got to pay for too? I’m 25 years old and I still can’t drive. It’s degrading, you know, needing the bus to go anywhere.”

            “I’m sorry,” replied the clerk, faux sympathy radiating from her voice. “But the fact stands that the bank has declined your loan application.” Slowly, Ken rose from his seat and awkwardly shuffled towards the door. Save for a car, save for a house, save up to go back to college so he can get a bigger job and make more money to save. He couldn’t take thinking about all of this anymore. He needed a smoke. As soon as he was far away from the bank, he reached for one of the cigarettes in his pocket. Ken pulled out his lighter.

            Ken pulled out his lighter. After a few flicks, he managed to summon a flame. The fire was comforting to him. There was something calming about the sight of a bright light juxtaposed against all the darkness that surrounded him. He would be even happier soon. Soon he would create.

            “You won’t get away with this, you know,” Ken thought to himself, just before he could light the fuse. It was true, he quickly realized. The bank’s security system must have been able to detect an intruder on the premises. The police were probably on their way at this very moment. Ken shook his head and lit the fuse. It didn’t matter, he decided. By the time they arrived, the deed would already be done. Besides, what could they do to him? Prison? Ken had no freedom for them to take away. He should be so lucky to have a guaranteed roof over his head, to lose his insecurity, his fear.

            Emma Flint kept her eyes on the road, only occasionally turning to look at her brother in the adjacent seat. The car ride had been long and silent. Though both of them had so much to say, they feared the other’s response too much. Soon, the car pulled over at a large supermarket.

            “Thanks for the ride,” Ken said weakly as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

            “You’re sure this place is good for you?” Emma asked.

            “Well, they did call me over for an interview,” Ken answered. “So I guess that’s a good sign.” He began to open the door only to freeze as his sister spoke again.

            “That’s not what I mean, Ken,” she added. “It’s just…don’t you think you might be a little too old to be bagging groceries at this point?”

            “Look, it’s just a temporary measure, OK? I’ll only be here until people start buying my paintings, and then...” Hearing this, Emma slammed both of her hands against the steering wheel.

            “I thought we went over this,” she said, trying her hardest to stay composed. “I thought you agreed to start looking at an actual career. Look, I didn’t want to be so blunt about this, but now I think I have to. People…” She took a deep breath. “People aren’t going to buy your paintings. That’s just how it is.”

            “But my paintings are good.”

            “I know you think they’re good,” Emma said with exasperation. “But…but people just don’t want to buy them. It’s great that you’ve worked so hard following your dreams, but some dreams just don’t come true. Sometimes everything you think is important just goes up in flames. You could become, I don’t know…an accountant. There’s a lot of money in that.

            “That doesn’t interest me.”

            “Well you’d better get interested in something with a salary soon, because I don’t want to be stuck taking care of you my whole life, and I don’t think you want that either.” Ken looked down at his feet, unwilling to respond.

            “No, wait, hey…I didn’t mean it like that,” Emma said, placing a hand on Ken’s shoulder. “It’s just…try to look at things from my perspective, will you? I do everything for you. I even paid for your art supplies, remember?” Ken nodded quietly. “You don’t know what it’s like, working to support two.” Emma sighed. “I’m getting married. Soon it’ll be three. Eventually even…more than three. I think you deserve better. I think you should be able to support yourself.” Silently, Ken opened the car door and stepped outside.

            “You know I’m not trying to be mean, don’t you?” Emma asked.

            “Yeah, I know,” said Ken, refusing to elaborate any further.

            “Just…really think about what I said, because it is important. Good luck on your interview.” Emma’s car drove away, leaving Ken to walk through the supermarket’s large, windowed entrance.

            Ken wondered if the bottle would break through the window, or simply shatter on impact. It didn’t matter, he supposed. He would get what he wanted either way. The flame gradually began to eat at the fuse, and Ken felt relieved knowing that in mere seconds all would be right with the world. He wished the bank wasn’t empty, though. If only it was daylight. If only he could hurt the machines that had strived so hard to hurt him. He imagined the wicked things screaming as they perished in the flames, and he gave a hefty sigh of relief.

            “Oh, shit,” Ken exclaimed, noticing the Molotov was still in his hands. There wasn’t much time left. Carefully, he pointed the explosive towards the bank’s doors, and threw it. The projectile flew through the air, moving as fast as it possibly could…

            Another passerby walked away, moving as fast as he possibly could. Ken didn’t think he was being too aggressive that time. Maybe there was someone else at the art show he was in a hurry to see instead?

            “Paintings for sale!” Ken shouted once more to the crowd that surrounded him. “Local art! Beautiful landscapes! Low prices! Paintings for sale!” Sitting at his table was a row of landscape paintings. Although they carried the clear lack of refinement that could only be achieved by an amateur, there was a strange elegance to them, or at least Ken liked to believe so.

            “Maybe they don’t like landscapes,” he thought. “Maybe they want pictures of people.” He wished he could capture the beauty of humanity, but try as he might they would never come out as something he could be proud of. He just had to stick to his detached, static landscapes and hope they were good enough for the masses.

            “Excuse me!” Ken called out to another passerby. The stranger nervously turned his head to face the booth.

            “Yes?” the man asked, adjusting his tie as a force of habit.

            “Would you be interested in one of these paintings? I’m especially proud of this one,” Ken said, gesturing at a nearby picture of a forest. “You know those trees on the outskirts of town? I went out there just before the sun rose, and…”

            “That’s very nice,” the passerby interrupted. “But I’m going to be late for work.”

            “You don’t want to buy a painting?” Ken asked quietly. The businessman stared at him for a second, struggling for a civil response.

            “…No,” he eventually answered before running off. Ken’s head sunk, looking at all the pictures surrounding him. His mind wandered to the work he had poured into every single one of them. They were like children to him, each one indescribably precious. He was sure everyone else would love them as much as he did.

            Were they not good enough? He could try again, make a new painting, one that’s even better. That would work. Ken shook his head in frustration. No it wouldn’t, he told himself. Ken rose from his seat and slowly packed up all his paintings, hanging his head in shame the whole time.

            “Maybe everyone was right,” Ken thought as he walked home, carrying a box filled with his artwork in both hands. Maybe the world had no need for another artist. Perhaps it was time to look into a real career, to give up on…

            Slowly, Ken placed his box on the ground, his face grimacing. He was too overcome by his own thoughts to muster the strength to walk another step. It wasn’t right, he told himself. He had worked so hard to become an artist. These paintings were good! He was sure of it! Why should he suffer? Why should he let his dream die? Ken looked at the box on the ground and tears began to form around his eyes.

            It was all for nothing, he told himself. Those paintings might as well burn.

            The bottle shattered, releasing a rampaging wave of flames in all directions. Ken stepped back, watching as the evil things burned. As the inferno danced across his eyes, he laughed to himself. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but it didn’t matter anymore. They would see his art now. It was his best creation. Where there once stood soulless obstruction, there was now natural beauty, cleansing the land as it twisted and turning it into something wonderful. Amidst all the darkness, there was now light.

            Ken looked at the light, and he saw that it was good.

"The Day God Came Back"

“Since last inspection, Star 217,490,725 of the Fifth Arm of Galaxy 486,347,145 has degraded into a red dwarf. An M-class star, to be specific.” The Surveyor dictated to itself. “Its mass is substandard, approximately 246 octillion kilograms. Its radius is…”

            And so The Surveyor continued on the task that was required of it every two billion years: to monitor the current state of the universe and be sure everything was running smoothly. The Surveyor made absolutely sure to never make a personal comment in its lengthy reports. It felt no grief for the stars that had been destroyed since its last inspection, nor joy for the new stars that had been birthed. The Surveyor’s employers asked only one thing of it: to observe and record the status of the universe with complete impartiality.

            Having finished recording every minute detail regarding the latest star in its journey, The Surveyor moved to the next one in scarcely any time at all.

            “Star 217,490,726 of the Fifth Arm of Galaxy 486,347,145 is a G-class star, currently in the process of becoming a main-sequence star…” The Surveyor recorded every detail for this star, a routine it had performed so many times now it could be done from memory. Having finished that, it was time for the duty of observing the star’s satellites.

            “This star possesses four planets, each with a considerable quantity of moons. Closer to the star lies a belt of small pieces of rocky debris. Even closer are four larger pieces of debris, two of which even possess moons of their own.” The Surveyor transported itself to the surface of its next object of study, paying no mind to the unbearable heat. “Debris-1 has a mass of approximately 33 sextillion kilograms, and completes an orbit of its star over a period of…”

            Another segment of its routine fulfilled, The Surveyor near-instantly transported itself to the surface of the second piece of debris, repeated the process, then headed towards the third.

            Off the coast of Australia, a fishing boat full of men continued on a routine of its own, though with much less enthusiasm. One of the fishermen just had his wife leave him. One of them has never had a wife, and has spent each new day worrying further that the rest of his life will be spent on this boat. One of their own died just last week, and his best friend hadn’t been the same since. They swallow down their pain and continue on their work, but no matter how well they hide it, not a single one of the men aboard is happy.

            Directly underneath these men, The Surveyor continued its dictations. A solitary fish swam past. The Surveyor took brief notice of the creature, before paying it no further mind. The fish stopped its course, staying directly next to The Surveyor. A second fish swam towards The Surveyor and stopped, then a third. In a short amount of time, The Surveyor found itself surrounded by a whole swarm of life. It continued its observations as scheduled, almost as if it was unaware of what was around it.

            “Why the hell is this pull so light?” asked one of the fishermen up above, getting his first look at the net the crew was pulling up.

            “Don’t matter. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

            “But our pull never looks like this. It’s pitiful, is what it is.”

            “Quit your whinin’ and help pull it up.”

            Before long, the two crewmen began insulting each other. The rest of the crew quietly groaned to themselves. The last thing their day needed was an argument to listen to, and now every last one of them felt like their day had just been made worse. All of them but one, who was deaf to the chaos around him. His eyelids lowered and a huge grin spread across his face. He let go of the rope and gently fell to the floor.

            “What the hell’s your problem?” screamed one of the crewmen. “Get up here and help us!”

            “Guy looks like he’s tanked, I think.”

            The smiling crewman ignored everything around him. Suddenly, nothing mattered. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t fished enough, or that he wasn’t sure if he could pay the rent, or that Bill died last week. He had an unexplainable presence in his gut, something that told him everything would be OK. The Surveyor rose onto the boat, and the rest of the crew fell to the floor smiling as well. The net fell to the ocean, the scant amount of fish in it swimming away.

            “What are you?” asked one of the crewmen in a relaxed tone, barely mustering the ability to speak to the incorporeal being in front of him.

            “He’s beautiful, is what he is! He’s made everything OK! I bet we’ll be able to fish three times as much as usual from now on!”

            “Screw fishin’! We’re never going to have to work again now!”

            “Atmosphere is approximately 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, trace amounts of other gases…” observed The Surveyor. “Surface is largely composed of aluminum and…” For the first time in its career, The Surveyor paused its report out of uncertainty. It looked out of the boat to see the surrounding ocean, then looked back at the surface it was standing on, paying no attention to the throngs of partially-conscious crewmen around it. Just as quickly as The Surveyor had appeared aboard the boat, it had vanished. The crewmen soon returned to their senses, though a lingering feeling of bliss still remained.

            “Surface is largely composed of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen…” said The Surveyor, having transported itself into the middle of a savannah. It continued going into detail about the soil composition, giving no notice to the sea of vegetation surrounding it. It travelled a short distance further, finding itself amidst a throng of huts. People sat on the streets, riddled with disease. Two children moaned to their parents in hunger. A teenage girl bit down in pain as she underwent her circumcision.

            “What is that?” asked one of the men in the street.

            “What is what?” replied another.

            “That…good feeling in the air. You don’t feel it too?” explained the first man, shortly before collapsing in an uproarious laughter. The second man soon followed suit.

            “I know what you’re talking about!” shrieked a woman, smiling maniacally. “That thing over there! He’s causing it all!” Before long, the entire village claimed to see the being without form. The villagers slowly inched towards The Surveyor, stopping just shy of its presence. The feeling of starvation disappeared. The girl going through her rite of passage let out sighs of pure ecstasy, unaware she was actually experiencing the worst possible pain. The crowd gave a constant stream of thanks to The Surveyor for what it had done, to the point that every word they said just blurred together and became noise. The Surveyor transported itself away, letting the villagers revert to their usual mindset.

            “Surface in this area is largely composed of calcium, silicon, and…” The Surveyor paused once more, then silently reminded itself of its duty: reports with complete impartiality, and without emotion. It just barely managed to contain the embarrassment of being so unsure over its own findings. The Surveyor looked around to see gargantuan buildings all around it, and a well-lit landscape despite being nighttime. In a nearby apartment, a mother tried in vain to protect her children and herself from the drunken episodes of the man of the house. In a back alley, a derelict was begging to his dealer. A prostitute anxiously walked the streets, fearing what was in store for her if she didn’t get any customers that night. The Surveyor roamed the area, preparing the final touches for the newest segment of its report. Bystanders turned their heads toward The Surveyor. For the third time, hushed whispers spread amongst the masses asking what this newcomer was and saying how good they feel. The crowd once more went unnoticed by The Surveyor, who continued travelling. As it moved, the crowd moved with it.

            “Is it God?” murmured a woman in the following mob.

            “I don’t know,” answered a man. “I know I’m done worrying about the stock market from now on, though!” he laughed.

            “It’s all going to be all right, thanks to him,” another follower assured herself. “Whatever he is, he’s kind. He cares about us. He came here to make it all better for us. Forever!” Her eyes flared up in excitement. “Make my mother walk again!” she screamed at The Surveyor.

            “Make me rich!”

            “Make her come back to me!”

            “End all the war!”

            “Bring back my baby!”

            The demands being made of The Surveyor rapidly grew louder and more frequent. As they continued to be in The Surveyor’s vicinity, their elation grew. The wishes they shouted began to sound less and less out of desperation, approaching a near-orgasmic tone. They knew everything they wanted was happening as they spoke, thanks to The Surveyor. It must have been that way. A man dug his fingernails so firmly into his own forehead that blood began to trickle out. He laughed with glee, completely oblivious to the pain. Every other sound in the city was drowned out by the shrieks of pure euphoria coming from the increasingly larger crowd that was following The Surveyor’s every movement.

            The Surveyor stopped to look at a tree planted in a nearby grate. The instant it stopped, the entire crowd stopped with it, waiting with bated breath for their idol’s next action. For a solid two minutes, the loudest area on the planet was dead silent. The Surveyor carefully examined the tree, then disappeared. The crowd stood absentmindedly, unsure about what had happened.

            “Debris-3 has changed little since last inspection,” said The Surveyor once it returned to the empty vastness of space. “Its surface is still mostly liquid, and its atmosphere still contains a considerable quantity of oxygen. Changes include an axial tilt of 23.44 degrees, and an increased development in the parasites noticed during the last inspection.”

            The Surveyor left behind another one of the many objects it had already inspected and continued on its job.

"Killing the Devil"

"And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death." -Matthew 10:21

The sun hangs high over my head. The farther down I go, the hotter it gets. I turn up the air conditioning, panting heavily in the heat like a dog. I gently press a little harder on the gas pedal. I speed up, the world around me blurring and bleeding together until I can't see what's outside. I don't want to see. I've seen enough of the world to know that it's hot and empty and evil and cold. That's why I'm going to Hell. I didn't want it to come to this. I hoped I'd be able to succeed, to walk out of the underworld with my love and never once look back, but that hope was denied with all the rest. There's nothing left for me to do. Nothing left but to kill the devil.

            Kill the devil. So simple. The devil is the father of all that is evil in this world. Kill the devil, and you kill evil. Makes perfect sense. I still remember the day before the journey began. Everyone else, all those fucking Bildads so content with all the suffering, said not to do it. They said I couldn't kill the devil, that I'd simply have to live with all the evil he had wrought. They thought that I was mad. I think the wicked should be punished, and this makes me mad. I refuse to keep carrying the devil's heavy wounds, all of which a single word can cut deeper, and this makes me mad. Sometimes I suspect the whole damn world's with the devil, all of them working together to destroy me. But I'm not mad. I might even be the only person left who hasn't gone mad. My mind is more rational than all the others, and that is why I've taken the initiative to go down to Hell and kill the devil.

            Time passes and the sky grows dark. I stop the car. I'll have to make the rest of the journey on foot. I can't be seen. I reach over and grab my weapons. I pick up the gun. I look carefully at its barrel. I imagine the bullet flying out, piercing the devil's head, ridding the world of its evils, and for the briefest moment I feel relieved. I take the wooden bat. I swing it into the air, seeing the devil wherever the club may land. To simply kill the devil is not enough. I must make him hurt. I must let him feel the smallest fraction of what he had done to me.

            I approach the monstrous castle. It is the devil's lair. I have been here before. I begin to climb over the gate, clenching my teeth. I wasn't prepared for this. I press my foot against the gate, looking carefully to be sure there are no minions to alert the devil of my presence. The climb is difficult, but I dare not fail my quest. Not after everything else. I hide by the foliage, stuck among the trees in Hell. My heart grows excited, knowing justice will come soon. The devil will step out soon enough. Until then I wait. I don't mind. I've waited so many years to punish the devil. What difference is a few hours more?

            My mind wanders back to my past as I wait. I think about the devil, about what he had done to me before. I try to keep the bad thoughts away, but sometimes they still poke through. I see the devil tempting me with sin, performing his false miracles and claiming authority. I see another victim of his manipulation struggling to go on with the pain it carries. Still trying to live in spite of it all. I see people crying in pain as he condemns them to an eternity of punishment, smiling in sadistic pleasure. Punishment, he always called it. All the atrocities, all the pain, all the agonies Hell has to offer justified by calling it punishment. I will feel no qualm when I punish him.

            "Don't do it," a voice whispers to me. "It won't bring you peace. Avenge not yourself, but rather give place unto wrath." I brush the daemon away. I've waited so long, and the devil has yet to suffer. I won't wait anymore. I did not go through a life of struggle only to die without what I was promised. This isn't a sin. I am not murdering the righteous without cause. I am going to kill the devil. God will forgive me.

            The wait grows harder. I remember more of the devil's treachery. He made me into a slave. I don't remember being a free man. I don't remember living without orders, not struggling to please a cruel master. I remember begging for decent treatment from rulers I never see. I remember all the pain I've felt. I remember all the filthy painted whores. I wish I had the time for them. I wish I had the time to take every one of the devil's servants down with him. Every last one of them who conspired against me would scream like the damned they are. Mustn't think like that. I shall not want. I will kill the devil, and that is enough.

            Concentration is slipping. Can't wait much longer. The sun has returned. It'll be hot again soon. Feeling sleepy. Maybe I should...no! I hear a noise. Footprints. I look up just slightly. He appears so harmless, so well-meaning. Before he sinned we thought him the most beautiful of all the angels. But I know who it is. My hands begin shaking. The devil is here. The devil doesn't see me. The time has finally come. I ready my bat.

            I leap from the bushes and strike him in the back of the head! The devil turns around. I strike again, this time in the face. He falls to the ground. I raise my bat high and strike again. The devil writhes on the ground in pain, and I know that for but a brief moment all is good in the world.

            "Please stop!" he pleads. He speaks of his innocence and how I have sinned and I DO NOT LISTEN. I mock his word and I spit on his face. The devil offered me no defense, why should I? He is the father of all liars. It was he who sought to usurp the Creator! It was he who promised we would live in paradise but instead brought the start of all our suffering. The real sin is to let him go unpunished. I kick his stomach. As he moans in agony, pleading for me to stop, the sin of Onan tempts me.

            I slowly reach for the gun, savoring every second. "No," the devil begs me. "No, no, please, no." He fears me. He's lying on the ground, helpless, completely at the mercy of someone who wants nothing but to hurt him more. I wish I could let him live. I wish I could leave him just like this, bleeding and crying and hurting forever. But I have a job to do. I pull the trigger and the angels sing of how I've rid the world of evil. Blood washes over my face, cleansing me of sin. I look at the devil. He cannot hurt me anymore. Nothing remains of him but the body. I've erased him. He's gone. For the first time in years, I smile.

            A woman appears, screaming. The devil's whore. Why does she lament that I have freed her from her captor? She calls upon rogue angels. There are sirens in the distance. It doesn't matter. I close my eyes, place my hand to my forehead, and make peace with the Lord. They can do nothing to me, for I have succeeded where God Himself has failed. I have killed the devil! I have killed the devil, and now Hell is mine!

"Per Astra" One-Year Progress Report

On May 12, 2011, one year ago today, I started work on my hopefully soon to be released second novel, "Per Astra Ad Aspera." It's hard to believe how fast time has gone, but I thought I'd take advantage of the anniversary to give a sort of one-year progress report.

I'm still aiming for a 2012 release (preferably this summer, though I'm not sure if that's a realistic goal at this point). I know I previously announced my plans to self-publish the novel on Kindle, though at the moment the book is under consideration with a publisher. Hopefully they'll accept, but I suppose I can still self-publish if all else fails.

Looking back, it's interesting how quickly I was able to write "Per Astra." I had finished the first draft in only three months (for reference, the first draft of But Whether Men Do, which was also considerably shorter, took six). A year after I started BWMD, I was still in the revision stages, while a year after "Per Astra" I'm already searching for a publisher. You think such a quick schedule would lead to a rushed product, but when I look at Per Astra, I have to say I'm pretty proud. But Whether Men Do was an admirable first effort, I think, but I wrote the majority of it when I was in high school (and going through a pretty bad phase, no less). It's the work of an amateur, and it shows. When I look at "Per Astra Ad Aspera," I see a much more refined work. I really think I've grown as a writer in the time since publishing But Whether Men Do, and I can't wait to show that to the world.

On that note, I know I say this a lot, but at the moment I'm largely dependent on word of mouth to draw attention. If you know anybody who's a big science fiction/fantasy fan that you think would be interested in my writing, please let them know. It's been my dream for a long time to have tons of people enjoying my writing, so every person you tell helps.

One last bit of news to close off this blog post. I'm not sure if any of you are familiar with the SCP Foundation, but it's full of some pretty interesting stuff. Yours truly is now the creator of SCP-1122, and I might write some more for that site in the future, so keep an eye out.

Anyway, hopefully "Per Astra" will be out soon. I really think you'll all be pleased with the result.

"The Daemon"

“They say some people think in dialogues. You know, a little voice in your head thinks one thing, and then a second voice thinks something back.”

“So who’s the other voice, then?”

I don’t remember when I first saw the daemon. He claims he’s always been there, ever since I was just a baby. I wish I could call him a liar, but after all the shit he’s said to me I’m not sure what’s true anymore. I know the earliest time I remember seeing him. It was a little over a year ago, I think. I’d just stepped into the apartment. As far as I cared, it was another day that may as well have never happened at all. No adventure, no romance. That stuff is somewhere out there in the world, but it’s not here. It’s never here. Here there’s just horrible, soul-crushing banality, a place to burn away the days of your life.

            So I stepped into the same empty apartment I always did, swallowed down an anti-depressant, then dropped into my bed, waiting for a new day to come so I could do it all over again.

            “Another one of those days, huh?” I heard a little voice say.

            “Yeah,” I sighed. “I wish things could be different, you know?” That’s the part that really freaks the shit out of me. I heard a voice out of nowhere, and I don’t get surprised. I don’t ask where it’s coming from. I just talk back. Maybe the daemon was right about being there before that day. Maybe he’s right about everything.

            “Different isn’t always a good thing,” the voice replied. “Remember in fifth grade when you wouldn’t shut up about that one cartoon? The one about the dinosaurs?”

            “Hehe, yeah,” I said with a laugh. I thought I’d forgotten all about that show.

            “It’s important to remember things can always be worse.”

            “They can always be better, too,” I told him, jumping out from my bed. “I want it to stop, you know? I’d give anything to never have to go through another day like this.”

            “Anything?” asked the voice.

            “Anything.” He didn’t say anything back then. Not for a while, at least.

            “Why don’t you just get some rest?” asked the voice. “Maybe things will be better in the morning.” So I do what he says, fall back into my bed and take a long sleep. That was the first time I remember him. He was only a voice then. I didn’t actually see him until…I think about two weeks or so afterwards.

           

            I was at work, sitting at my desk, filling out another stupid spreadsheet I didn’t understand the first thing about, when my supervisor comes out. She’s a real cranky bitch. I’ve worked at this godforsaken office for three years and not once have I seen her smile. She was chewing me out over something, just another part of my daily routine. I always wished she could step into my shoes for a day. I spend every day thinking I’m inadequate, that I’m not good enough for people, and the last thing I need is someone trying to make me feel even worse about it.

            Suddenly, I see a tiny old man floating around her head. He’s got a long white beard and a twinkling look in his eyes, almost like Santa Claus. His face was worn and wrinkled, but there was something about its structure that seemed oddly familiar to me. The daemon looked almost like an older version of myself.

            “She sure likes to talk, doesn’t she?” the daemon said with a smile, sitting with his legs crossed on my supervisor’s shoulder. She was still chewing me out, not noticing the little man on her shoulders was there. I’m the only one who can see the daemon. For now, at least.

            I gave a little smile, happy to see a friendly face in this hellhole. Eventually, the bitch walks away, and I go back to typing down shit I don’t understand.

            “You didn’t like that, did you?” asked the daemon, jumping down onto one of the keys on my keyboard. I noticed the pressure of the jump didn’t move the key at all.

            “Of course I didn’t like it,” I whispered. “I don’t like anything about this place.” I stared up at the ceiling. My mind flashed to visions of another place, visions where everyone was happy, where women laughed and danced. Why couldn’t I be there?

            “Why don’t you leave?” asked the daemon, floating up into the air until he was around my head. I was able to see the brilliant white teeth in his smile.

            “Because I don’t get out for another four hours.” The daemon chuckled at my answer.

            “No, no. I mean, why don’t you leave…you know…leave it all?”

            “What, quit the whole job? And how am I going to pay my bills? I’d either end up on the streets or at another place that’s the same as this dump.” The daemon laughed to himself, slowly floating around my head in circles.

            “There’s a solution!” the daemon answered whimsically, an almost musical tone in his voice. “There’s a solution for everything!”

           

            As time passed, I listened to the daemon more, and he grew larger with each new visitation. A few days after I first saw him near my supervisor, he was the size of my head. Eventually he stopped floating altogether and just stood on the ground. When he first started doing that, he went up to my knees. About a week from that, he was the size of an actual human being. There was always something about his presence that made me comfortable. I don’t know, it was just good to think how, in spite of all the bad shit in this world, there was something that existed to make me feel better. At the end of a bad day, he’d by my bed, assuring me “There’s a solution for everything” before I fell asleep.

            I wish I did something about him. I wish just once I questioned him, said “You’re not real, you can’t be talking to me.” I don’t know, I guess I was just too grateful to have someone on my side to even think about stopping him. I don’t know what made him change, if he even changed in the first place. But I’ll remember the day things went wrong for the rest of my life, however long that may be.

            It was another day in my miserable excuse for a routine, exactly like all the ones before it. As soon as I got back from work, I reached for the bottle of anti-depressants, struggled a little to get the cap off, then took a pill as I lay down on the bed.

            “My whole damn life is wrong,” I said aloud. I couldn’t see him, but I knew the daemon was listening. “Not just now, but everything, you know? I was born with the wrong brain, had the wrong father, met all the wrong people…” With a quiet frustration, I rolled over to the other side of my bed. “I just don’t know how things were supposed to turn out for me. Maybe I was just fucked from the start.” All of a sudden, the daemon is standing in front of me. I look up to see his smiling face.

            “You wish things were better, don’t you?” he asked.

            “Of course I wish things were better. I want to go out and do something. I want to be noticed. I want to be loved! I just want to…” I looked around my apartment, as barren as a grave. “I don’t want things to be like this anymore.” The daemon sat down on the bed next to me.

            “You don’t have to,” he whispered to me assuringly. “There’s a solution, you know. There’s a solution for everything.”

            “You always say that,” I replied. “I’m not sure if you even believe it yourself. If you’re so smart, tell me what I need to do to fix all of this, huh? What’s the solution to everything.” For what felt like ages, the daemon stayed silent, staring at me with this serious look in his eyes. Then the smile left his face for the first time, and he finally spoke.

            “You need to kill yourself,” the daemon said to me. I looked at him, my mouth half-open.

            “E…excuse me?” I asked weakly.

            “If you kill yourself, it’ll all be gone,” he said, getting up from the bed and walking towards my kitchen. “No more loneliness. No more bad memories. No more of that bitch at work screaming at you. No more sitting around at night wishing things could be better.”

            “You can’t be serious.”

            “Why can’t I be?” scoffed the daemon, making his way towards my refrigerator. “It’s one of the world’s little miracles, I think. No matter how bad life gets, there’s always a way for you to get out! It’s a solution for everything!” The daemon grabbed the handle of the door of my fridge, and pulled it open. My heart skipped a beat. I’ve never seen him move an object before. I’ve never seen him do anything physical. Anything…real.

            “Why don’t you have yourself a drink?” the daemon asked. He pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge, then hurried over to me, sticking the bottle out in my direction. I slowly stuck out my hand, placing a single finger to the bottle. I felt the smooth, glass surface. This was no hallucination. The bottle was floating in front of me, and it was very real. I was tempted to touch the daemon’s hands, but decided that much I’d rather not know.

            “I, uh…I don’t think you’re supposed to mix alcohol with these,” I said, holding up my bottle of pills.

            “And why should you care?” asked the daemon crossly. “You hate being alive, yet you’re unwilling to embrace the alternative? That’s hypocritical, is what it is.”

            “Yeah, but…I…” I stammered in disbelief. “I mean, I don’t want…that. I just want things to be better.”

            “And they can be better! Just swallow down all those pills, finish it off with a drink, and you can have a long, well-deserved rest. No pain, no wishes, just peace. Peace and contentment.”

            The next day, I threw out my pills and my booze. I got rid of the knives in my kitchen, the pillows on my bed, the rat poison in the cupboard, and anything else that the daemon could use. I even tossed away every pair of shoes I had with shoelaces. I called my supervisor and demanded to work every damn day for as long as they’d allow. I figured things were less likely to happen if I was in public.

            It wasn’t the best plan, but what was I supposed to do?  The daemon was a part of me, that much I knew. I couldn’t run away from him, and I don’t think I could kill him either. So I fought back as best I could. I would do everything in my power to stay alive. After all, the shit the daemon’s saying can’t be right. I don’t think so, at least.

            It’s been a week since the daemon told me I had to die. I haven’t seen him since then. I’d been surviving for a week now. A full week of stressing out over all the shitty work I have to do, of being alone, being told I’m not good enough, then going back to my empty apartment and getting the scarcest amount of sleep before I have to do it all again. It seemed the only way for me to live was to make life worse, but I persevered.

            At the end of the day, I saw him sitting in my apartment as I opened the door. His arms were crossed, and an impatient look was on his face.

            “Are you going to do it yet?” he asked.

            “No,” I answered bluntly. “I’m never going to do it.”

            “You’re only hurting yourself, you know. You’re even more miserable than before. So why are you doing it? Why are you clinging so desperately to life when life has no regard for you?” I opened my mouth, but realized I couldn’t answer.

            “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” I asked nervously.

            “Only you can do that,” the daemon said plainly, standing up from his chair. He seemed slightly taller than me now. “All I can do is guide you along the right path. I’m here to help you. I’m your friend.”

            I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’ll keep fighting back, there’s no doubt about that, but every day I wonder more and more just what’s in it for me if I win. The daemon and I are inseparable now. Every day he gets stronger, whispering to me, planting the seeds of despair. His smile is different now. It’s wicked.

            No matter what else, I’ll be sure the world knows I didn’t give up easy, if anyone cares to hear. But at the same time, I know I’m only delaying the inevitable. All the evil things in the world that created the daemon, that made me hate life, those won’t go away. The only thing that changes is the daemon’s strength. One day, maybe today, maybe next week, maybe twenty years from now, he will overpower me. The will of the daemon will have an inescapable grip over my mind, and I will succumb.

What is "Per Astra Ad Aspera?"

Space fascinates us. For as long as anyone can remember, mankind has fantasized about what lies beyond the stars, and if we could ever go there ourselves. Countless works of science fiction have entertained the idea of what space has in store for us. However, over time the world of fiction has changed the cosmos into something it is not. Part of what always fascinated me about space is the incomprehensible size of it all. Earth and Mars are, at their closest, 56 million kilometers apart from each other. You could travel across the world a hundred times and still only cover the scarcest fraction of that distance. It's difficult for the human mind to imagine anything of such size exists, and yet it does. And this is just the distance between two planets. The distance between two stars, or even two galaxies, is even more astounding. It seems almost disrespectful to the grandeur of the universe to have a character cross such tremendous space instantly.

"Per Astra Ad Aspera" may take place in outer space, but its setting is one of realism. There is no faster-than-light travel, and with that, no aliens. The novel takes place entirely within our own solar system, and all space travel must be done the slow way. Mankind has long since set up colonies throughout the solar system, with a government organization called the League of Interplanetary Relations managing affairs between the colonies and Earth. The problems that come with extraterrestrial colonization plays an important role in the novel, as the concept raises not only many scientific quandaries (What do we do about heat? How do we adjust to the lower gravity?), but political ones as well (How would Earth react to colonial independence? Is Earth responsible for an independent colony's well-being?) The book's plot begins when the colony on Saturn's moon of Enceladus threatens to declare war on Earth. The League sends a ship to carry out negotiations with the Enceladeans...a trip that will take two years to complete.

However, at its core, "Per Astra" is a work of drama as much as it is science fiction. Early works of science fiction often envisioned a utopia where intellect, through science and technology, would cure the evils of the world. Yet no matter how far our technology advances, it seems unlikely that we will ever create a machine that can change human nature.

Caught in the middle of this saga of a war against Earth is Timothy Clear, a new recruit for the League who's dreamt of going into space and becoming a great hero ever since he was a child. Tim begins the novel cheerful and optimistic, so eager to achieve his dreams that he gladly leaves everything he knew on Earth behind for it. However, spending two years trapped in the isolation of the League's ship gradually takes its toll on Tim's mind. Humanity has never ventured farther out into space than the Moon, and even that was just a brief visit. If man were to travel deeper into the void of space, what would it do to his mind? What happens when he feels each of the millions of miles separating him from home? What happens when he stares Jupiter in the face? Among other questions, "Per Astra" attempts to imagine what long-term space travel could do to a person psychologically.

Stuck with a crew of hostile strangers, Tim's sole sources of comfort are his mentor, a bitter, elderly science officer named Arthur Kane, and a shy communications officer named Christine Williamson. Each of them have their own reasons for coming aboard the ship, their own dark stories to tell. If long-term space travel existed, who would agree to do it? What motivation would one have to leave the planet? The League is a group for the world's pariahs, and Tim has unknowingly been destined to be among them. As Tim spends two years being spent through emotional hell, he anxiously awaits when the ship reaches its destination, hoping the long trip will finally pay off by the time they reach Enceladus.

"Per Astra Ad Aspera" will be coming to Kindle later this year. It's a title fans of both science fiction and character-driven drama should be sure not to miss.