Mark peels himself from the ground with a series of disgusting, squishy noises and then takes his shirt off; he is unable to stand the feeling of thick wetness clinging against his skin. The breeze is chilling even though the late afternoon sun is still warm, but goosebumps are preferable to the slimy garment.

There is no sign of boy, dog or slug-headed giant but Mark sees a trail of glistening slime matting the grass in a wide swathe nearby. It curves around a clump of shrubs and disappears from ight. The slime is the problem, Mark thinks to himself. If it weren’t for the slime he could write the whole experience off as some kind of delirium: the trail and snot-like scabs adhering to his skin and clothes make that impossible.

Mark is still taking stock of his situation when he hears a rustling low in the undergrowth in the same direction as the slime trail. He only has a moment to worry what it might be because seconds later the puppy emerges, tail between its legs, and scurries over to him.

The slime on his trousers crackles and flakes of it fall off as Mark stoops to reassure the puppy. It whines pitifully and then turns and takes a couple of steps towards the slime trail. It stops and looks back over its shoulder, then when it sees that Mark hasn’t moved it whines again and returns to him. Mark has seen enough episodes of Lassie to know when a dog is asking to be followed. It isn’t lack of comprehension that holds him back, but rather lack of courage.

The pup darts in and bites the hem of Mark’s jeans. It growls and tries to tug the man along with it, its paws digging into the soft turf as it struggles. Mark could easily swat the dog away but he doesn’t try: the pup’s persistence is endearing. Looking down at the frustrated puppy his fear recedes and instead he finds the moment laden with a sense of import. His life is at a balance point and the choice to follow or to flee will tip the scales and set him on a new path, forever.

He steps forwards and the puppy releases his jeans with a yip and a hop back. One step follows another and Mark finds himself following the slime trail and the puppy into a new and uncertain future.

The trail leads Mark uphill and down through more wild grassland than he was aware existed attached to the city park. In the wake of recent events he can muster little more than mild confusion in reaction to this unexpected geography. The sounds of people enjoying themselves in the sunshine have faded long before Mark reaches the end of the trail and the air has become heavy and close. Thunderbugs swarm around him as he walks, landing on his bare arms and tickling the hairs there until he brushes them away. Mark feels sweaty and uncomfortable as the slime still on his skin deliquesces to trickle along his neck and chest.

At the slime-trail’s end is a grassy embankment in which is set a two-metre wide circular grating, the edges of which are clabbered with gelatinous grey slime. Behind the grate is a tunnel that is straight for about a metre before turning downwards at a steep angle. Just inside the grate sits a thick pool of slime, presumably wrung from the giant as it squished its way through the tunnel’s mouth.

Mark inspects the grate with a degree of trepidation as the puppy barks excitedly and repeatedly jumps up to try and get inside. Its barking echoes from the tunnel’s maw with a deep, hollow quality as Mark puts his fingers through the grating and pulls. Lubricated with slime the grate moves easily, surprising Mark so that he staggers back when it squelches free of the tunnel’s mouth. The puppy yelps and skitters to the side to avoid being trodden on and Mark quickly hurls the heavy grating to one side, his fingers and arms stinging from the strain of supporting its weight.

He pauses to catch his breath as the puppy moves to the tunnel’s threshold and sniffs about, growling softly now rather than barking. At last he stands straight and gingerly steps into the tunnel mouth, cautious of the slime underfoot.

Not cautious enough.

Mark’s foot slips on the ooze and he windmills his arms to try and maintain balance as he starts to fall over backwards. Too late! His foot hits the downturn in the tunnel and he falls full-length on his back. His head ringing from its collision with the tunnel floor, Mark slides out of the light and down, down into the dank blackness of the tunnel’s depths.

Although Mark is rather proud of that metaphor he prefers to avoid thinking about his life at all. Not only is such contemplation a rich source of depression, but second-guessing the series of decisions that led to his current circumstances drives him half-crazy.

As a child Mark couldn’t decide what he wanted to be when he grew up. There were too many amazing careers out there for him to settle on just one! He wanted to be a ventriloquist, a palaeontologist, a doctor!

Does any boy dream of being an insurance broker when he grows up?

Mark wouldn’t mind the job as much if it didn’t leave him feeling so drained at the end of the day; if he didn’t find it so impossible to write now. He’s always loved writing and used to have a head full of ideas. When he wrote the words flowed easily, thousands of them a night, and he often felt like a conduit rather than a creator.

Now, a few years into the job, Mark can barely string a hundred words together in an evening before his mind goes blank and he starts to fall asleep at his computer. Ideas are few and far between and have to be coaxed from his mind like splinters embedded deep under the skin.

It’s Saturday today and Mark went to bed early last night, determined to get a fresh start today on the novel that’s been sitting on his hard drive for about two years. So far he’s been averaging a finished chapter a year.

Mark woke feeling tired and fusty-headed despite the long sleep, and spent the first few hours of his morning having breakfast and checking his social networking sites. Now it’s past noon and he finally opens his word processor. He reads back to the beginning of the chapter to remind himself where he left off and winces at the clunky sentence construction in a few places; he begins editing.

It’s two in the afternoon and Mark is finally satisfied with his editing. He is determined to add at least a thousand words to his story before the end of the day. He starts to write but the sun pours bright warmth through his window and the heat is making him feel sleepy.

The second time Mark catches himself nodding off at his computer (“The moon was full and bright, a shiny silver coooooooooooooooooooooooo” is the last thing he wrote) he sighs and gets up to make a cup of coffee. He drinks it sweet, black and too fast and then returns to his labour with a burnt tongue.

It’s four in the afternoon and Mark has managed to write about 500 words of new content today. He is hungry and spaced out and feels a headache coming on. He needs to eat but he doesn’t feel like cooking, as usual. He dithers for a while between getting takeaway and going out to eat; ultimately he decides he should leave the house for at least a little while today and get some fresh air.

He changes from his slumming-about-the-house clothes into something more presentable, grabs his wallet and keys and heads into town. It’s a nice day, still bright, so he decides to go the long way through his local park. It’s idyllic at this time of year; verdant and bright with summer flowers in bloom. Mark slows his pace and lingers in the park, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells. Quite a few people are also out enjoying the weather; they snuggle together on blankets, lounge shirtless and sunburned, play with footballs and Frisbees. There is something timeless and perfect about the place and Mark imagines the park as a piece of endless summer; contained during the winter by walls and locked gates.

Halfway through the park Mark hears a less pleasant sound than the twitter of birdsong and laughter. To the east of the park is an ugly fence that leads into an area of weed-strewn scrub about a quarter the size of the park itself. It’s supposed to be shut away but the gate hangs open. From somewhere back there Mark can hear the yelping of a dog and cruel, childish laughter. His arms prickle with goosebumps and he stops in his tracks, looks around to see if anyone else has noticed the animal’s distress. They haven’t, or at least nobody is moving to do anything.

The dog screams and Mark clenches his fists, revulsion and anger unsticking his feet and sending him charging towards the noise. A few seconds later he rounds an overgrown shrub and sees a huddle of three boys. They are shoulder to shoulder and taking it in turns to kick a yelping bundle of fur between them. A fourth boy, smaller than the others, kneels off to one side clutching his nose; the grass beneath him is splashed with crimson.

Mark shouts as he runs; he’s breathless so it’s short and to the point. “YOU FUCKERS!”

The boys look up from their feet and see Mark bearing down on them, his arms pumping and his face red and pouring with sweat. One of them shouts in alarm, his voice cracking. and the three of them scatter before Mark gets close. As he skids to a halt the fourth boy is looking up at him and smiling nervously, his chin and upper lip wet with blood.

Mark nods to the boy and then crouches down next to the bundle of fur the boys were kicking. It’s a Labrador puppy of no more than a year or so old and it’s unconscious but breathing. There’s no blood and Mark hopes he got here in time to prevent too much damage. “Are you okay?” he asks, turning to the boy with the bloody noise.

“I think so,” he replies in a muffled, nasal voice. “I thought they was goin’ to kill my dog!” He cuffs his nose and spreads blood across his lips and cheek; it makes him looks like a vampire with no table manners. Compared to the blood his unruly mop of red hair seems faded, his face as white as milk.

The boy goes to his dog and kneels to gently stroke its head. Traces of blood stain its fur strawberry blond. “Who were those boys?” Mark asks, feeling shaky and a bit sick.

“Just boys. I dunno ‘em.” The boy shrugs and looks up at Mark, squinting into the sun as his hand absently continues to pet the dog. “They was already here when we arrived.”

Mark crouches next to boy and dog, his thighs aching from the running. “We should get him to a vet.”

The boy shakes his head. “Nah mister, I ain’t got any money. I reckon he’ll be okay though, right boy? You’re a tough one, ain’tcha?” The dog whimpers and opens its eyelids a little, only crescents of white showing under the long eyelashes.

“Look, it’s okay,” Mark says. “I’ll pay if that’s what it takes. I’d feel awful if I left the two of you on you own and your dog…” he catches himself and finishes lamely, “…if something happened.”

The boy looks back up at Mark and begins to speak, but then his mouth falls open with a gasp and his eyes widen in comical surprise. Mark turns to see what’s up even as a broad shadow lengthens to fall over all three of them, his own mouth unhinging as his brain tries to assimilate what he’s seeing. Above the screen of trees and shrubs between them and the park proper a staggeringly tall and muscular man is unfolding to his feet.

Mark cranes his head to look up into the giant’s face even as his thighs come into view, part of his mind repeating “This isn’t real!” over and over again. With the sun behind it Mark can’t make out any details but the giant’s head is no wider than its neck, and a pair of ball and stick… antennae… project from its top at a slight angle from each other. Where the sun laps around the giant’s sides its flesh appears grey-white and glistening.

The giant has now risen to its full height, around fourteen feet, and it steps deliberately over the greenery between it and Mark. Its foot is grey-brown, corrugated and lacks toes. Strands of thick, snot-like fluid dangle from the sole and droop thickly over the leaves beneath; when its foot settles on the ground there is a prolonged squelch.

As the giant strides towards him Mark finds himself frozen to the spot, fear and confusion combining to paralyse him utterly. His thoughts spin like a gyroscope trying to right itself as he tries to reconcile the existence of this slimy behemoth with everything he knows about the world. The boy is panicking and tugging on Mark’s arm as he yells to get his attention but it seems to be happening far away.

The giant leans forwards and pushes back with one foot; there’s a sticky noise and it commences a deceptively fast glide, skating on a thick layer of slime towards Mark and the boy. As the thing draws near Mark gets a better look at its face but wishes he had not.

He sees the face of a slug writ large; sensory tentacles writhe beside its rasp-filled maw; eye-stalks twitch and lead the charge. Massive hands with thick, slime-slicked fingers reach out as it approaches and grasp towards Mark on elongated arms.

Mark’s paralysis breaks and he turns to run but the giant is deceptively fast and it’s too little, too late. For a brief moment Mark entertains the fantasy that he might escape but then its hand closes around his head and his world fills with slime.

It’s almost a mercy when everything goes black.

Item #: SCP-557

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures:

Due to the intangible nature of SCP-557 containment is currently only possible via phenomenological methods. It is currently contained at facility 087B with an average annual efficiency of 76%.

On the 8th day of each month the permanent containment crew at the facility is to receive:

• 500 panes of standard window glass (cut to size as specified in document SCP-557-PO1)
• 94 MREs
• 12 D-class subjects
• Goods and equipment as requisitioned by the containment crew to restore accommodations to the required standard

On the day following delivery any necessary refurbishments are carried out to the accommodations and all windows are re-glazed as necessary.

The D-class subjects are then divided into two groups of six.

Group 1 is housed in comfort and provided with TV and other privileges while Group 2 is provided substandard accommodation. Additional standard PSYOPS techniques are used as necessary to promote and sustain heightened resentment and aggression between the two groups.

At sunset on the ninth day of each month a confrontation is arranged between at least one member of each group. A minimum of one pane of glass MUST be broken during this initial confrontation.

It is imperative that no writing materials are provided to the D-class subjects. Any attempts by a subject to use dust, blood or other substances to communicate with other subjects must be terminated immediately.

By day the Task Force may visit the site as necessary to deal with emerging concerns. After nightfall all monitoring must be via on-site closed-circuit television and any issues dealt with via remote operated drone.

Description:

SCP-557 is a phenomenon composed of anomalous meteorological and psychological events. So far observations consistent with a manifestation of SCP-557 have been recorded at ███ incidents of inter-group violence.

The following data are consistently observed with every manifestation irrespective of the date or latitude:

• The sun sets at 16:24hrs
• The minimum temperature is 1 degree Celsius
• Mean humidity is at 91%
• Mean wind speed is 26.5 Km/h
• There is no precipitation but fog is present

The primary psychological effect of this manifestation is to exacerbate existing tensions between rival groups, resulting in extreme violence and widespread property damage (in 94% of known cases).

In the month following known instances of this phenomenon suicide rates in the affected area have been seen to increase by as much as 18%.

A sample of Known or Suspected Manifestations of SCP-557:

9th November 1938, Berlin, Germany – Better known as Kristallnacht, widespread violence saw 91 Jewish people killed and 30,000 Jewish men rounded up to be taken to concentration camps. The first datum for investigation of SCP-557, Kristallnacht is thought to be the originating cause of this phenomenon due to consistency of meteorological observations for the period 8th to 10th November (see study SCP-557-BF9). The weather phenomena observed during instances of SCP-557 are identical to those recorded on 9th November 1938 in Berlin.

16th May 19███, ██████████████, USA – Tensions between supporters of the death penalty and those of convicted murderer ████████████, who claimed to be innocent, devolved into violence on a scale unprecedented in the town’s history. Reports of the night’s events describe that the afternoon was cold and dark with heavy cloud cover bringing a false dusk at just after 16:00 hours.

27th November 19███, ██████████████████, USA – A notorious Black Friday shopping riot erupted during the evening sales when shoppers who had managed to buy Furby toys became the target of violence from those who had been unable to obtain a Furby before stocks were depleted. The event led to 19 deaths and over 50 serious injuries.

20th June 20███, ██████████████, USA (containment breach) – SCP-557 breached containment on this date to manifest amidst escalating tensions between rival student fraternities at the ██████████ campus of the University of ██████████████████. It is hypothesised that the phenomenon was drawn to this conflict despite its small scope due to the proximity of the campus at ████████████████ to the containment site.

Containment Phase 1 Journal Extracts

Welcome to Task Force beta 9. As a result of the non-optimal resolution of Containment Phase 1 the use of journals and other methods of written communication by containment subjects has been permanently discontinued. However, useful information was gained that will help you to do your job; please read the following extracts carefully.

• Day 1

Being here reminds me of that study they did in the sixties, the one where they turned half the people into guards and the other half into prisoners. That was done on a university campus and it was horrific enough… I don’t like that they’ve dragged us out here to the middle of nowhere for whatever this experiment is.

I’m determined not to be a good lab rat. You want me to disdain the others? I’m going to ignore them. I wish he’d stop looking at me like that, though. It makes it hard to write when he’s staring at me.

Jesus. I’m still shaking. The guy with all the tats broke his glass and came at me; he practically shoved it up my nose. I’ve got blood all over me. He said I was laughing at him, but I wasn’t. Is he hallucinating? Making shit up as an excuse? Either way I’d better watch my back; he might not stop at a few scratches tomorrow.

• Day 2

I got off lucky last night. Another guy in my group got beaten really badly, and the guards took him off to the infirmary. Later I was looking out the window and I saw them carrying a body bag out to an unmarked black van. What the hell is going on here?

It was foggy again tonight. There’s something really screwy going on with the weather. It got dark much earlier than I would have expected, and surely it should be too dry here for fog? They made us eat together again; they seem to be doing everything they can to keep us at each other’s throats.

I don’t like the fog. They made us go for a walk outside after we ate, and it was cold and damp. I felt like they were out there in it, watching me. I could hear them conspiring, whispering to themselves and thinking that I wouldn’t hear them. I found a dark corner in a stairwell and sat there all night, shivering.

• Day 4

It was cold and foggy again last night; sounds muffled but I could hear the sound of breaking glass just fine. Three more bodies wheeled out this morning. Why won’t they stop the experiment? Who are they to play God with people’s lives like this? By day everything seems almost sane here, but then they keep us separated during the day.

• Day 5

I tried talking to one of them last night. I wanted to talk some sense into him; we’re being manipulated by the guards of this place, forced to hate each other. We shouldn’t be giving them what they want. As much as I tried, the words just wouldn’t come out right. I could feel my mouth twisting into a sneer and what I said echoed dull and flat in the fog, sarcastic and hateful. I tried to stop talking but I couldn’t, the words just kept pouring out. I had to run for my life. If the guy hadn’t tripped and fallen down two flights of stairs, I don’t think I would have made it.

• Day 8

Foggy again last night, and cold. It’s like it’s the same night, over and over again. Everything is turning to shit and broken glass is everywhere. This is insanity. I had to find a new hiding place, they have started combing the place at night to try and find us, calling out what they’re going to do to us when they get us. If this doesn’t end soon I don’t think I’m going to make it out of here. If only I could get to one of them during the day, I think I could talk some sense into them. But that’s hopeless. There’s no way I can get to the other side, not with the guards in between. Maybe I should just write them a letter, hah.

• Day 9

A letter. I was sitting in my new bolt-hole last night listening to the threats of violence and the breaking glass and the hard, wet noise of fists beating flesh, and… maybe a letter isn’t so crazy after all. It’s got to be worth a shot. I’m starting to think I don’t have anything to lose.

• Day 10

One of them turned and looked at me at dinner last night. I was afraid he was singling me out, but he smiled and gave a single nod. I didn’t like his smile, it had violence hiding behind it. But I liked the nod. Together we turned and looked at the guard handing out our ration packs. I don’t think he noticed. They’ll all notice soon enough, when we bring this sick experiment crashing down around their ears. We’ll see how they like it when they’re the ones being hunted through the fog.

[End of extracts]

I hang -
   Suspended by a slender thread,
   Of dreams not dreamt and tears unshed

   Whilst brightly searing lines of pain
   Cross through the flesh where blade has lain,
   To flay nerves bare and muscle raw,
   To sculpt the beauty that he saw,
   Beneath the tawdry flesh and blood,
   Like David born of sticks and mud.

I hang -
   Suspended by blood-rusted chains,
   While spirit ebbs and darkness stains -
   My vison of his smiling face,
   As razor dips to taste the place,
   Where once his lips had graced my cheek
   His body naked, bloody, sleek,
   He whispers softly through the pain,
   Sharp words of love; a knife's refrain.

I hang -
    Suspended in the growing dark,
    He sculpts my body red and stark;
    He lets the razor careless drop,
    I barely sense the cutting stop -
    Yet feel it when his lips meet mine,
    My blood between our tongues like wine.

   With shuddering breath my body numbs,
   The thread now snaps and darkness comes,
   His lips and tongue and teeth bestow,
   The final touch I'll ever know.

   He is my thread, my chain, my death -
   I love him with my dying breath.

As I read and participate in more of these debates I am coming to realise that there exists a fundamental problem affecting the marshalling of evidence for deployment against the enemy. Partly a consequence of the glut of information available online, I refer to it as the Problem of Uncertainty.

The issue is most starkly observable when the argument is either between two competing scientific models or between science and a well-established pseudoscience such as astrology or homeopathy.

To illustrate the problem I will refer to the debate that occurred in the comments thread of this Independent Online article about homeopathy from August 2010:

http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/government-ignored-our-advice-on-homeopathic-remedies-say-experts-2041678.html

The very first comment begins:

Dr Peter Fisher commenting on apparent success in reducing the incidence of Leptospirosis in large scale trials in areas of known susceptibility in Cuba: “This is a very large study and its results, if confirmed, have huge potential impact. We need more research into the effectiveness of homeopathic preparations in preventing infectious diseases, complications, and the economic viability of a homeopathic approach.”

Reference

1.Bracho G, Varela E, Fernández R, et al. Large-scale application of highly-diluted bacteria for Leptospirosis epidemic control. Homeopathy 2010; 99: 156-166.

That reference to a science journal looks pretty legitimate, doesn’t it? Those of us with a science background might suspect something amiss in the experimental protocol, or wonder how many people have attempted to replicate the results. We might even be dubious of the trustworthiness of the journal “Homeopathy”. We cannot, however, objectively judge the paper itself without having read it.

That may be an easy problem for many of you to redress; if you work in the sciences or otherwise have access to journal archives, you can pretty simply look the article up and analyse it for yourself. For the layperson it’s a bit more difficult. Not having access to the journal online (unless one wishes to pay $31.50 to ScienceDirect – which appears to be the going rate for Homeopathy articles - http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/journal/14754916) means traipsing to a library to look up the paper and read it, which is likely to be too much effort for someone trying to reach an informed view on the subject from the comfort of his or her own home.

This is what I mean by the problem of uncertainty. There is so much material published now, whether in reputable (or semi-reputable) journals or on the Internet, that a supposedly scientific paper title and abstract can be found to support almost any form of pseudoscience.

Compounding the issue are the occasional contributions from apparently authoritative scientists that can give a boost to the credibility of pseudoscientific principles. An example of this is the recent research carried out by Nobel Prize Winner Luc Montagnier, who co-discovered HIV, which purports to have discovered a bizarre DNA teleportation effect in highly dilute bacterial solutions (I think? - http://www.homeopathyeurope.org/nobel-prize-winner-reports-effects-of-homeopathic-dilutions).

This research, combined with Prof. Montagnier’s illustrious prior accomplishments, is being touted as proof by many supporters of homeopathy that the ‘scientific’ principles behind the pseudoscience are actually plausible.

Other debates on homeopathy that I’ve read have referred to papers or books on the alleged ability of water to maintain a ‘crystalline’ structure; the presence of ‘nano-particles’ of metals even in dilutions that exceed Avogadro’s Number (http://www.scribd.com/doc/46507497/Homeopathy-A-Nano-Particulate-Perspective); and that ice crystals grown in water exposed to a particular emotion are affected accordingly (http://www.life-enthusiast.com/twilight/research_emoto.htm).

So how can average people with an interest in science or pseudoscience but without much of a background in the subject be helped to sort the wheat from the chaff and establish which papers are bunk and which aren’t, without relying on calls to authority?

I propose the formation of a website that serves a similar purpose for science as Snopes (http://www.snopes.com) does for urban legends. Or perhaps it would be more like the Metacritic (http://www.metacritic.com) of scientific review. To begin with it would provide the following functionality:

1) Various hard data about a paper could be logged. For example, the type of protocol used (e.g. double-blinded, single blinded, statistical methods), the authors, the abstract, the number of successful replications of the experiment (with links to any papers or articles describing the replication), number of publications, number of peer reviewers.

2) Storage of reviews of each paper highlighting any potential problem areas with scope for rebuttal by the writers of the original paper – a sort of extensive peer-review system. Any reviewer will be logged and can be rated according to his or her own past reviews and past papers.

3) Data about journals, organisations and so forth with clear information about any known biases or links to organisations who might influence the articles published. Rankings would enable an idea to be formed of the reliability of any given journal.

4) An overall soundness ranking for each paper would be calculated based on an analysis of the various factors that make up the paper’s profile on the site.

I’m not saying that this would be a magic bullet that would make it simple for people to make up their minds about which papers to trust and which to shun, but I do think that a service of this kind would be a good start.

I’m sure there are many problems that would need to be ironed out and, of course, the service would have to be run in the most transparent and unimpeachable way if it were not itself to become a misleading authority on scientific papers. The idea is to provide tools to make it easier for people to weigh up a paper’s merits, not to replace the judgement process altogether.

“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.”

In fact as time goes by I find it harder to justify this approach, especially in respect of views that are demonstrably false, harmful or both. It seems to me that in such cases clearly stating the opposing view – and evidence to support it – is the only intellectually honest response.

Some might advocate silence based on the goal of minimising conflict with other people and I admit that this is the path of least resistance and one which I often take when dealing with people face to face.

This failing on my own part means that I cannot help but admire the people like Ben Goldacre of Bad Science or James Randi of the James Randi Educational Foundation who publicly and openly confront views that are harmful and false about science and mysticism respectively.

Then of course there’s Richard Dawkins. Dawkins is one of the so-called “New Atheists” who have courted controversy with their refusal to accommodate religious views or to treat religion as (pardon the pun) a sacred cow that is immune to criticism or logical assessment.

As a result of his arguments against religious belief and its role in secular life (such as the shameful historical revisionism being pushed by the Texas board of education recently, or the drive to teach Creationism and Intelligent Design as “equally valid theories” in science classes) Dawkins is called “strident” by his detractors. There are also those who agree with his fundamental points but disagree with the way in which he makes them on the basis that a more subtle approach that is more understanding towards “moderate” religious expression will ultimately be more effective.

Dawkins’ fellow New Atheists Hitchens, Dennett and Harris are equally reviled by those in opposition to their views and likewise draw flak for their refusal to accommodate moderate religions in their arguments.

It is easy to disparage responses such as these and to see them as the backlash of deluded people trying desperately to maintain their grip on false beliefs by attacking the bearer of contradictory evidence rather than the evidence itself.

Likewise, it is easy to criticise the accommodationists and religious apologists for pandering to such beliefs even if they do essentially “fight the same cause”.

However to do either of these things is to downplay a fundamental facet of the human psyche.

When a person’s beliefs are directly challenged there is a tendency for denial shutters to slam into place. Important beliefs are part of the framework on which a person’s core identity is hung. An attack on a deep-seated belief is felt as an attack on the person.

We all do this. Scientists and other people who aspire to be rational thinkers are not immune. It is important to constantly strive against the insidious desire to put the personal importance of a belief over that belief’s veracity.

Scientists already try to achieve this by the use of null hypotheses to challenge their beliefs and so attempt the avoidance of confirmation bias. They know that this system is fallible, but the institution of science is aware of the issue and tries to rectify the problem as much as possible.

So where am I going with this? I started the essay with the comment that I find it hard to justify accommodationism and now I am expressing an understanding for the people who utilise it as a strategy on the basis that direct attacks on belief cause shields to be raised and ultimately hamper the possibility of a change in understanding.

Perhaps the key then is not to accommodate or to directly attack but to empathise. To understand the hold that beliefs have over a person’s psyche and to try and shape arguments in such a way that they are never quite perceived as an attack. In other words, to help a person to persuade him or herself as to the false nature of held beliefs.

This is, I suppose, somewhat similar to the Socratic method of teaching in which the teacher helps the student to learn by asking questions rather than stating facts.

What do you think?

From the day I die there will be a period of time, stretching forward to the end of time itself, during which I will not exist.

My life is an infinitesimal span of of time sandwiched between aeons of non-existence. The time after I have died should be no more concerning to me than than the time before I was born, but in fact I often find my thoughts turning depressively to the subject of my inevitable demise and the sobering thought that, eventually, I will cease to exist.

I know when I was born and my past holds few secrets. I have lived through the stages of life prior to adulthood and overall I am almost halfway through my life. While it may contain regrets, my past contains nothing to fear.

The future, on the other hand, is unknowable. I can paint broad pictures in my mind of the most likely possible futures, but I can never know what will happen with the certainty I know what has happened.

However, I know that even if things go as well as I could expect, over the next 30 to 40 years I have a slow deterioration of my physical and mental condition to look forward to in the years running up to my death.

And then there is death itself. While I fear the abstract idea of death and non-existence, or rather regret that it will one day occur, I fear the actual circumstances of death more. What must it be like on that final day to feel everything closing down, to know that non-existence waits just around the corner, beckoning?

Since my father died in August last year I have found myself mulling over the concept of mortality more than I ever have in the past. I think there’s something about the death of a parent that really brings the concept of mortality home to roost. Most of all my mind keeps returning to the hour of his death: What did he feel? Was it quick? Did he have a chance to think about his regrets? Did he know it was coming?

I hate the way that my mind keeps drifting back along this trajectory when I’m not occupying myself with something constructive, though in truth it doesn’t happen so often now as it did a few months ago. I know that dwelling on such negative thoughts is only likely to depress me and make the brief NOW I’ve got less enjoyable, but I find it difficult to stop myself from going there.

It’s at times like this I most fully understand the urge to religion, and the reason why I myself was Christian for so many years. It would be so nice to believe the fantasy that I will continue on in another form after my body dies, and that old age and infirmity is a temporary state that ushers in a new era of immortality and vigour.

Undoubtedly the answer is to focus on the here and now and to do everything I can to enjoy life. I should deal with the things that make me miserable and focus on positive pursuits. I should sweep away concerns about the future and mortality by living in the present, whilst still preparing a legacy for myself in the minds of my family and friends that will outlast me when I’m gone.

I understand all of that, but… it’s really difficult. It’s easier to read a book, or play a game, or find something else to keep my mind occupied and positive during the short periods between finishing work and going to bed. It’s easier to apathetically continue in a job that doesn’t satisfy me than to try and shake things up and risk uncertainty; easier to plod slowly through life without really living.

I suppose what I’m saying is that I feel apathetic and unmotivated. I know what I should do, I just can’t make myself actually do it.

That’s how I feel for now. Perhaps my mood will improve when the summer is over and my social calendar is full again.

If you’re still with me, thanks for reading.

I know it’s difficult when the view you hold and believe is right becomes threatened by the prevailing social norms of the society in which you live. What you’re going through now is quite similar to the trauma suffered by the people who believed ‘blacks’ were less human and worthy of rights and respects than ‘whites’.

It’s the same as the feeling had by the men who persuaded by the suffrage movement to give women the vote, despite all of the solid biblical evidence that confirmed their belief that women are supposed to be subordinate to men.

These people undoubtedly felt bullied by the vocal few who supported equality for black people, and for women. But years later, a majority looks upon the changes that were wrought and agrees they were right.

The same is true of homosexuality. People don’t defend homosexuality because they think it’s cool, or because the devil makes them do it, or because they are being pressurised by the homosexual elite. They do it because they think it’s right.

Each and every one of you who uses the bible as a defence for your stance on the state of being homosexual is a hypocrite, picking and choosing from the text of the bible to uphold your prejudice.

The bible declaims homosexuality and it also insists you keep the Old Laws of the jews; but Jesus overrode all of that, right? So you turn to the Epistles of St. Paul to maintain your homophobia, yet St. Paul also believed in the status of women as slaves. Why aren’t you all campaigning on a facebook group for those victimised by women’s groups?

Your worst crime is one of a failure to empathise. Imagine you were born into a world where same-sex couples were the norm. You would grow up feeling strange urges to be with a women that would be abnormal and wrong to your society and you would be made to feel guilt and shame. You would try to make the feelings go away, but you wouldn’t be able to. People would tell you they’d pray for you. They’d tell you that it’s okay to be straight as long as you never act on it. They’d tell you god loves you, but hates the sin of your heterosexuality.

How would you feel?

How would you feel to be denied the hope of a loving relationship with a person you feel an emotional and physical attraction to? Being told that unless you live your life as celibate as a priest you’re a sinner and damned?

No matter what you may have been told, homosexuality is not a choice. Did you choose to be heterosexual?

The concept of being bullied by homosexual groups is in itself ridiculous. By definition a bully must be stronger, more forceful, more powerful than the bullied; that simply is not the case here. The United States is built on a foundation of freedom and tolerance, including freedom OF and FROM religion.

Yet you believe you have the right to dictate other people’s morality according to your own religion. You believe you have the right to control what other people believe and to treat people as second class citizens simply because they have an emotional and physical attraction to members of their own sex.

At the same time you demand protections for your own beliefs. You decry atheist billboards, you try to control the education of not just your children but everybody else’s. You think that what you believe to be true must be protected from any dissent or criticism yet reserve the right to talk as loudly as you like about anybody else’s beliefs.

I am sure a majority of you will disregard this message, even if it isn’t deleted. However if even one of you reads it and finds cause to reflect on your thoughts or beliefs then I’m glad I took the time to write it.