Valerian

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For a minute Rudolph McMurdo had been wor­ried. He was hardly old. At the age of eighty-two he was still a year short of another media mag­nate, and his own news empire sup­plied him with the best health care money could buy. Yet he had been warned by med­ics that he had car­diac prob­lems and the crush­ing pain in his chest had felt like the end. It wasn’t entirely com­fort­ing to real­ise it was. At least he had the sat­is­fac­tion of know­ing his demise proved he wasn’t has heart­less as the smug bas­tards in the lib­eral media claimed. Nevertheless, it was cruel that death had finally come on his hon­ey­moon night with his fourth and pre­sum­ably final wife.

It was a sense of injustice over this that gave him an anchor in this new place. It was hard to tell exactly where he was. It was black, but well lit — though from no vis­ible source. It cer­tainly wasn’t dark. He could see him­self well enough, a curs­ory exam­in­a­tion of the back of his hand revealed the usual mottled. That was another thing someone would have to sort out. If he was dead then there was no need for him to be old.

The noise from behind was quiet, but was the only sound in the oth­er­wise silent place. Rudolph spun round in sur­prise. Some dis­tance away an old man in what may have been a robe, or pos­sibly a toga, was sham­bling towards him. His gait was hindered by the need to avoid his over­grown beard that could have slipped beneath his feet as he walked. His head was stooped, like the most fas­cin­at­ing things in the world were his toe­nails. The image was everything Rudolph asso­ci­ated with reli­gious nut­ters. Christ! You can’t even escape the bleed­ers in the after­life. The man seemed to be mut­ter­ing to him­self. As the fig­ure got closer it wasn’t what Rudolph had expected.

…and then someone says ‘let’s have some religiously-inspired gen­o­cide.’ It would be nice if, just once, they thought of the poor sods who have to pro­cess every­one after­wards. I told him ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and ‘Turn the other cheek’ were too ambigu­ous, but would he listen? Ooof!”

The final syl­lable punc­tu­ated the man’s col­li­sion with a fas­cin­ated Rudolph. The man looked up and into Rudolph’s face with benign incom­pre­hen­sion. Rudolph waved his hand in front of the man. “Hello? D’yer work here?” Rudolph asked.
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The uncommonly decent politics of reburial

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To add a little con­text to the pre­vi­ous post: I’ve taken a course in short story writ­ing, and Silencing the Echo might have been an entry for a short story com­pet­i­tion in Wales — but I decided against enter­ing it.

The inspir­a­tion comes from a druid who cam­paigned for reburial of pre­his­toric remains in the UK. Avebury, I think. Reburial was, he said, a mat­ter of “com­mon decency”. As phrases go, it’s a good one. It taps into the British sense of decency and reas­on­able­ness. Or at least it does at first.

When it keeps com­ing up again and again it loses the feel­ing of a sin­cere spon­tan­eous state­ment and starts look­ing like a sound­bite. Looked at closely, it gives away the intol­er­ant nature of some of the campaigners.

Imagine we’re on oppos­ite sides, and I’m cam­paign­ing for com­mon decency. What does this make you? I sup­pose it could make you uncom­monly decent, but the insinu­ation is a moral fail­ing rather than simply a mat­ter of dis­agree­ment, and when the same tag is used over and over then it looks less like an accident.

An unques­tioned assump­tion is that reburial is what the per­son bur­ied would wish for. This is not cer­tain.
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Silencing the Echo

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The black clouds unleashed their rain, pelt­ing Adlais’s face. The drops melted into her tears. Now, in the centre of the circle, the priests grip­ping her, she under­stood what happened to her friend Branwen.

Once again the crops had failed. The gods were angry. Someone in the tribe must be anger­ing them and the tribe would have to be cleansed. Adlais had been called to the priests, who had asked if she would sing at the cleans­ing. She had never liked cleans­ings, but it was import­ant it was done right, so she had will­ingly agreed and drank from the horn to sig­nify her sub­mis­sion to the gods. Now, barely an hour later, her head felt like it was split­ting, her ears rang with sound of her own heart­beat and her limbs jerked of their own voli­tion as the priest lis­ted her crimes.

Witnesses came into the circle to testify to see­ing events that had never happened, to spy­ing acts that had never been com­mit­ted. They briefly recited their words, as they had for Branwen last year. Then they scur­ried back bey­ond the safety of the ditch that sep­ar­ated the world from this cursed space. As always, the accused was chal­lenged to deny her crimes, but Adlais’s blood felt thick and pois­on­ous. The words would not come to her tongue. She had been on the other side too many times to hope that people would see her dis­tress. Her silence would con­demn her. Her spasms would be vis­ible evid­ence of the guilt tor­tur­ing her.

The judge­ment came. Adlais filled with fear. Not for her­self, her future was as obvi­ous as the grave in front of her, but for her fam­ily and her friends watch­ing from bey­ond the ditch. They were des­per­ate, hop­ing this cleans­ing would finally rid the land of the blight. But what gods would be appeased by falsehoods?

It was almost a relief when the last act came. The blow to the back of her skull sur­prised her, as she dis­covered the pain in her head could indeed get worse. She stumbled, then fell into the pit dug for her, to the cheers and relief of the watch­ers. Still awake, she lay in her final bed as the priests began to cover her. Adlais cried. Not for her­self but for the friend she had aban­doned a year ago.
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Ken Ham slams religion

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For a man who claims to be reli­gious, Ken Ham cer­tainly has a neg­at­ive view of reli­gion. io9 reports that he has denounced the Smithsonian for pro­mot­ing nat­ur­al­ism. So when he wanted to den­ig­rate nat­ur­al­ism why did he use the word reli­gion?

It’s rare that any­one poin­tedly say­ing sci­ence is a reli­gion, is using the term reli­gion in a pos­it­ive sense.

So to cel­eb­rate, I’ve added Religion as a new Creationism Card.

Religion as a creationism card

Creationism Cards, col­lect the set!

In pos­sibly related news, I’ve had an uptick in end-times email in my inbox.

My first Geocache find

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I star­ted with Geocaching at the week­end. It’s some­thing like hide ‘n’ seek for people with a GPS or smartphone.

So how does it work in prac­tice? I looked for geocaches near me, and one that caught my eye was Welcome to the Withybeds. I’ve joined Radnorshire Wildlife Trust, but I hadn’t been to Withybeds yet. I made it the first cache on my list of things to find, and found it pretty much where I expected.

The river Lugg at the Withybeds.

The river Lugg at the Withybeds.

The Withybeds reserve is small but pleas­ant, on the north side of Presteigne. I’m not sure how much longer it would have taken me to find the time to visit, if it hadn’t been for the geocache.
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I’m giving up writing at Medium

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I’ve been ser­i­ously think­ing about mov­ing to Ghost or Medium for writ­ing. Ghost uses Markdown, which I like is handy for when I write in StackEdit​.io. Medium has a very simple inter­face. It’s not cus­tom­is­able, but the flip side of that is that you don’t waste time try­ing to cus­tom­ise it.

I gave Medium a go with two short stor­ies I’d writ­ten. I was going to post some ser­i­ous and researched sci­ence art­icles, but I chose to put up the short stor­ies as I’d not be bothered if got no views. Here are the res­ults.
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