u/Individual_Dream_213

Religion tries to explain suffering and evil. Humanism tries to solve suffering and evil.

That's the fundamental difference that keeps pulling me away from any religious framework and toward secular humanism.

When a child gets cancer, religion offers stories: "It's part of God's plan," "A test of faith," "Consequence of the Fall," "Karma from a past life," or "Suffering brings us closer to enlightenment." These are attempts at *meaning-making*. They can feel comforting in the moment, but they don't reduce the pain by one iota. In many cases, they even discourage action—why fight the divine will or the wheel of samsara?

Humanism skips the explanation and asks: "How do we fix this?" It looks at the same suffering and says: invest in medical research, improve access to healthcare, address environmental factors, support the family, reduce stigma, and learn from the data so fewer kids suffer in the future. No cosmic justification required. Just evidence, empathy, and effort.

The same pattern repeats everywhere:

- Natural disasters: Religion → "Act of God" or "divine punishment." Humanism → better early warning systems, stronger building codes, international aid.

- Poverty and inequality: Religion → "The poor will always be with you" or "Blessed are the meek." Humanism → education, economic policy, social safety nets, and systemic change.

- War and cruelty: Religion often supplies the tribal "us vs. them" justification. Humanism points to our shared humanity and works toward diplomacy, international law, and conflict resolution based on mutual benefit.

Religion has spent millennia refining sophisticated theodicies (justifications for why a good God allows evil). Humanism spends its energy on vaccines, therapy, clean water, human rights, and scientific progress. One produces elegant answers. The other produces measurable reductions in suffering.

I'm not saying every religious person is passive—many do tremendous good *despite* their theology. But the core orientation matters. When your worldview treats suffering as ultimately meaningful or inevitable, you're less likely to attack its root causes with full force. When your worldview treats suffering as a solvable problem rooted in biology, psychology, and society, you roll up your sleeves.

That's why I choose humanism. Not because it has prettier stories, but because it actually moves the needle on making the world less awful.

What do you think? Has religion ever genuinely helped you confront or reduce suffering in a way that secular approaches couldn't? Or has it mostly provided coping mechanisms while the real work happened elsewhere?

Title. Ascend. Genre: Superhero drama. Page count. 86. Short summary.

Logline:

In a women's prison, a hardened inmate and her unlikely band of fellow prisoners discover a glowing alien baby who crash-lands in the yard, and secretly raise him as their own—risking discovery, their freedom, and their futures—only to confront the greater challenge of protecting his growing superpowers and building a fractured family once they finally walk out the gates.

This is a redemptive found-family drama with sci-fi heart, blending raw prison grit, maternal longing, and the wonder (and danger) of an extraordinary child who might just “ascend” beyond the broken world that tried to contain him.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1OGNiqCYCXPKCtDOOy4wR2G_6GQXycZomhBfqUx8GYOs/edit?usp=drivesdk

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(The museum hall was dark except for the moonlight slicing through tall windows and the faint emergency lights glowing on the polished marble floor. Shards of broken glass glittered like diamonds across the ground.

Catwoman crouched gracefully on the edge of a display pedestal, the stolen baseball tucked securely under one arm. She turned the sphere slowly in her gloved fingers, admiring the way the stitching caught the light.

“Mine now,” she purred.

A loud crash echoed from the far end of the hall as the double doors burst open.

“STOP! THIEF!”

The blonde heroine charged in at full speed, her star-spangled skirt fluttering, red boots pounding the floor. Her blue sequined mask sparkled under the emergency lights as she raised her glowing torch-bat high above her head.

“You again,” Catwoman sighed, lips curving into a smirk. “Persistent little patriot, aren’t you?”

The girl skidded to a stop ten feet away, chest heaving, eyes wide with righteous fury. “That baseball belongs in a museum, not in your sticky claws! Hand it over right now, or I’ll make you see stars and stripes!”

Catwoman tilted her head, tail swishing lazily behind her. “Sticky claws? Darling, these are imported leather. And you’re wearing enough red, white, and blue to make the Fourth of July blush. It’s almost painful.”

The heroine didn’t waste time on more words. She lunged forward with surprising speed, swinging the glowing bat in a wide, powerful arc aimed straight at Catwoman’s midsection.

Catwoman flipped backward in a smooth arc, landing lightly on the pedestal behind her. The bat whistled through empty air.

“Oof—hey!” the girl yelped as momentum carried her forward. She spun on her heel, torch-bat still blazing, and charged again. “You’re not getting away this time!”

Another swing. Another effortless leap from Catwoman, who used a marble column to spring higher, perching on a chandelier chain like it was a jungle gym.

“You know,” Catwoman called down, voice dripping with amusement, “most heroes at least try to be subtle. You’re out here sparkling like a parade float. It’s embarrassing for both of us.”

“Subtlety is for criminals!” the girl shouted, hurling the bat upward like a javelin. The glowing weapon spun end over end, crackling with energy.

Catwoman dropped from the chain at the last second, twisted mid-air, and snatched the bat right out of its trajectory. She landed in a perfect three-point crouch, bat now resting across her shoulders.

“Mine for a second,” she teased, twirling the glowing torch once before tossing it back. The girl caught it clumsily against her chest.

“Give me the baseball!” the heroine demanded, stomping forward again, cheeks flushed with frustration and effort.

Catwoman blew her a kiss, already backing toward an open skylight. “Catch me if you can, Miss Liberty. But try wearing something less… loud next time. You’re scaring all the good shadows away.”

With a final wink, Catwoman leapt upward, claws hooking into the frame of the skylight. In one fluid motion she vanished onto the roof, the stolen baseball still safely tucked under her arm.

The blonde heroine stood among the broken glass, torch-bat still glowing in her grip, breathing hard.

“I’ll get you next time!” she yelled into the night. “That’s a promise!”

From somewhere above came a soft, mocking laugh that faded into the darkness.)

And here's one where Selina beats her while dancing to Areito and Bomba.

(The museum’s grand atrium had been hosting a late-night cultural exhibit on Caribbean heritage. Drums pulsed through hidden speakers—rich, hypnotic Areito rhythms, ancient Taíno beats layered with modern percussion, flutes weaving through the low chant of call-and-response voices. The music filled the moonlit space like smoke.

Catwoman moved with it.

She spun gracefully across the marble floor, hips swaying in perfect time with the driving rhythm, claws extended just enough to glint. The stolen baseball remained tucked securely against her side like a dance partner.

“Stop! Thief!”

The blonde heroine burst in again, torch-bat raised high, her star-spangled costume flashing under the emergency lights. She charged straight at Catwoman with patriotic fury.

Selina laughed low in her throat, never breaking rhythm. As the Areito drums hit a heavy downbeat, she sidestepped with feline elegance, letting the swinging bat whistle past her waist. Her tail flicked playfully behind her as she answered the chant-like chorus with a mocking purr of her own.

“Too slow, darling,” she teased, sliding into a fluid spin that brought her boot heel up in a sharp kick. It connected perfectly with the girl’s midsection—*thump*—right on the beat.

“Oof!” The heroine stumbled back, eyes wide, but she recovered fast and lunged again, swinging wildly.

Catwoman dropped low into a sultry crouch, hips rolling with the music, then sprang upward in a twisting leap. Her claws raked lightly across the girl’s shoulder pauldron—more show than damage—sending sequins flying like sparks. She landed behind her opponent in one smooth motion, pressing close for a heartbeat, whispering hot against her ear as the flutes soared.

“You fight like you dress—loud and obvious.”

The heroine spun with a frustrated yell, bat blazing, but Selina was already dancing away. She twirled through a series of elegant steps, matching the accelerating rhythm, using display cases and marble columns as partners. Every dodge, every counterstrike flowed like choreography. A sweeping leg trip on the downbeat sent the girl crashing to one knee. A spinning backfist on the upswing clipped her jaw, making her head snap sideways.

“Had enough yet, Miss Liberty?” Catwoman sang along with the call-and-response, voice velvet and venom. She cartwheeled forward, snatched the glowing torch-bat mid-swing, and used its momentum to vault over the heroine’s head. Landing lightly, she planted a sharp kick between the shoulder blades—perfectly timed with a heavy drum hit.

The patriotic heroine slammed face-first into the floor with a pained grunt, her cape-like skirt splaying out in red, white, and blue disarray.

Selina stood over her, still swaying to the Areito’s hypnotic pulse. She tossed the bat aside with a flourish, then blew a kiss downward.

“Better luck next time, firecracker. Try dancing first. It’s much more fun than charging around like a flag on legs.”

With one final, graceful twirl that made her black suit shimmer, Catwoman leaped toward the open skylight, stolen baseball still safe under her arm. The ancient rhythms followed her into the night as the defeated heroine lay sprawled among the glass, breathing hard and glaring at the ceiling.

The music played on.)

The wind howled through the black pines of Samogitia, carrying the distant clang of steel and the screams of the dying. It was the year of Our Lord 1254, and the Teutonic Knights had come to break the last pagan strongholds.

Sir Konrad von Altenburg lay half-dead beneath an oak when Biruta found him. The woman was no Christian; her gods were the old ones—Perkūnas the thunderer, Žemyna the earth mother. Yet she saw a man bleeding from a Lithuanian arrow in his thigh and a sword-cut across his ribs. She dragged him to her wattle hut at the edge of the rye field, washed the wounds with boiled herbs, packed them with moss and spiderwebs, and sang low pagan charms until the fever broke.

INT. BIRUTA’S HOME

For three days she fed him broth and changed his bandages. Her son, little Rimas—barely six winters old—watched the iron-clad stranger with wide eyes, bringing him water in a wooden cup. Konrad recovered enough to sit up. He spoke little at first, his blue eyes tracing the pagan tattoos on Biruta’s arms, the silver amulet of a sun-wheel at her throat. Gratitude flickered in him, then something darker.

On the fourth night, the fire crackled low. Konrad’s hand closed around her wrist.

“You saved a servant of Christ,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “The Order rewards its friends. Lie with me tonight, woman. Warm a knight’s bed and I will spare this hovel when my brothers ride through.”

Biruta pulled away, eyes flashing like flint. “My husband lies in the barrow you burned last spring. My gods forbid it. Touch me and you touch their curse.”

Konrad’s face hardened beneath the stubble and half-healed scars. “Pagan whore. You heal me with devil’s arts and then deny a crusader his due?”

Rimas stirred in the corner, clutching a small carved horse. The boy whimpered.

Konrad rose, still stiff but iron-strong. He seized the child by the hair, drew his misericorde dagger—the thin blade meant for mercy—and drove it once, clean, under the boy’s ribs. Rimas made no sound beyond a single wet gasp. Blood sprayed across the earthen floor.

Biruta screamed, lunging, but Konrad backhanded her so hard she fell against the wall. He stepped outside into the moonlight, torch already lit from the hearth. With deliberate strokes he thrust the flame into the dry rye. The field caught like tinder; orange serpents raced across the stalks, devouring months of labor. Smoke rolled thick and bitter.

Biruta crawled to her son’s body, cradling the small, still form. Tears cut tracks through the soot on her cheeks.

Konrad returned, armor half-buckled, blood on his gauntlet. He yanked her upright by the silver amulet, snapping the chain.

“You refused a knight of the Teutonic Order,” he said coldly. “Now you belong to it. The field is ash. The whelp is meat for crows. You will serve in the castle at Marienburg—scrub floors, carry water, and learn what it means to obey. If you fight, I will have you branded. If you run, I will have you hunted.”

He bound her wrists with a length of rope from his saddle, threw her across his horse like a sack of grain, and mounted behind her. The burning field lit the night behind them as he rode west toward the crusader road. Biruta’s sobs were swallowed by the wind and the thunder of hooves.

In the distance, the horns of the Order sounded, calling more knights to the next pagan village. Konrad smiled beneath his helm. God’s work was never done.

EXT. TEUTONIC CAMP - NIGHT

The firelight from the Teutonic camp flickered across the clearing like dying stars. They had stopped for the night two days’ ride west of the ashes of Biruta’s field. Konrad had already taken his turn earlier, quick and brutal behind a tree, then shoved her toward the others with a laugh.

“Pass her around, brothers,” he said, wiping his mouth. “She refused a knight of Christ. Let her learn what real respect feels like.”

Biruta’s wrists were still raw from the rope. Her dress hung in tatters. She tried to crawl backward on her knees, but four mailed hands seized her.

The first was a thick-necked sergeant named Otto, beard matted with grease. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her face against his crotch.

“You healed him, pagan bitch,” he growled, unlacing his breeches with one hand. “Now heal this.”

Biruta spat at him. “Perkūnas take your cock and rot it off.”

Otto laughed and slapped her hard enough to split her lip. Then he forced himself into her mouth while two others held her arms. She gagged, tears cutting tracks through the soot on her cheeks, but they only gripped tighter.

When Otto finished with a grunt and a curse, he shoved her onto her back in the dirt. The next knight—younger, freckled, barely twenty—was already hard. He dropped between her legs, shoving her thighs apart with his armored knees.

“God’s mercy on you, whore,” he panted as he thrust into her. “This is how we save your heathen soul.”

Biruta screamed once—raw, animal—then bit it back into a snarl. “Your god is a liar. My son… my Rimas… I will see every one of you burning in the underworld for him.”

The freckled knight only laughed and thrust harder. When he was done, another took his place, then another. They passed her like a wineskin around the fire. One made her ride him while he squeezed her breasts hard enough to bruise. Another bent her over a log and took her from behind while reciting Latin prayers between grunts, as if the words could sanctify what he was doing.

Konrad watched from the side, sharpening his dagger, occasionally calling out encouragement. “See? She’s learning respect now.”

At one point Biruta managed to wrench an arm free and claw a knight’s face, drawing blood. He backhanded her so hard her vision whited out. When she came to, another was already inside her, laughing about how “the pagan whore still has fight in her.”

Hours later, when they were finally sated, they left her curled on the cold ground, semen and blood streaking her thighs, her body shaking with silent sobs. One knight tossed a filthy blanket over her like scraps to a dog.

Biruta clutched the torn remnants of her sun-wheel amulet in her fist until the silver bit into her palm.

Through bloodied lips she whispered in the old tongue, voice cracking but unbroken:

“Žemyna… mother of the earth… take my pain. Take my hate. Let it grow like roots beneath their castles. Let it split their stones. Let it drag every last one of them down to rot.”

She closed her eyes, the fire crackling, the knights snoring contentedly around her.

Her son’s small, still face burned behind her eyelids.

She did not sleep.