Block World: Chapter 1

An Ongoing Serialization of My Philosophical Science Fiction Novel

Author’s note: I’m writing a science fiction novel. I also have a ton of other projects vying for my attention. I plan to pitch my novel to traditional publishers when its done, but I’m getting to know myself more and I’m afraid if I don’t publish chapters of the novel as I go, I’ll never find the time to actually work on it. So this is my way of forcing myself to complete my novel. I’ll share a bit of chapter 1 for free here but hide all the juiciest parts behind the paywall. I’m sure the final novel will be different from this serialization. If you want to join me on this journey and read the initial version of Block World, then upgrade to a paid subscriber and enjoy the ride with me. The more paid subs, the more eustress will accumulate and the more time I’ll be able to justify allocating to writing it. But no matter what, I am going to write this freakin’ novel—this is just another step towards that end.

Cover art by Volodymry Yanovski

Block World

By Parker Settecase

There’s a paradox in embarking on dramatically new, and utterly transformative experiences. Wisdom would compel us to proceed as rationally as possible, with much consideration to one’s past self, and ever more regard for one’s future self. “What will the person ‘who has been’ be like on the other side of this chasm? Will ‘I’ still remain?” But in the case of transformative experiences—grand, life-altering journeys—one is able to acquire the essential knowledge needed for reasoning well only after embracing the transformation. And yet, to refrain from making the choice is still a choice in and of itself. And so it is, that most of the grand adventures in which our latent and true potential is realized are unwanted and unexpected journeys, violently opposed by our stagnant and comfortable selves.

-Kindred Powderdry, The Space Sage Handbook

Finally, some time to think, Fredric Block reassured himself as he sat at a wobbly wooden coffee shop table with an inversely wobbly wooden chair. Staring out the window, he watched the Purple Line pass by overhead and across the street, heading south into the city. Block allowed himself a deep, melodramatic sigh. He was weary from months of crafting his philosophy PhD. dissertation, defending said dissertation, and graduating from the program which had occupied the majority of his life for the past six years.

During this latest season of Block’s life, his days were filled with mixed bouts of self-loathing and regret, punctuated by brief periods of almost manic enthusiasm. These bouts were followed immediately by stints of redoubtable impostor syndrome and black despair. For Fredric Block was applying for a professorship somewhere—anywhere—in the ever-dwindling US philosophy job market and he couldn’t kick himself hard enough for choosing this career path.

But today was different. He had done all that a rational agent could be expected to do. He had padded his curriculum vitae more than his sense of propriety had initially allowed. He had applied to every university with an open position—and several others just for good measure. He had boned up on his predicate logic in hopes of selling himself as a logician or ontology engineer to some a guileless, philosopher-friendly tech company. He had shaken down every lead he could conjure up and here at the end of his rope he was finally able to enjoy some well-earned dissociative apatheia by way of a seldom cleaned coffee shop window and the CTA’s elevated train.

Block took a sip of his black coffee, powered off his cell phone, and allowed his mind to wander with the passing of the Purple Line.

Purple line. What is ‘purple’ after all? Did I ever land the plane on that one? I still wonder if my purple could look like highlighter yellow to everyone else. How would I even know? We could all have systematically inverted color spectra and we’d never be able to tell each other. I point to purple and Jones says “why yes, of course that’s purple—duh!” but he’s really seeing my neon yellow in his own qualitative experience. Trapped. We’re all trapped in our own subjective perspective—at least concerning colors…

Block took another sip as the next train pulled into the Noyes station.

Would I jump in front of a runaway L train to save some rail workers? How many workers would it take? Do I even have enough mass to stop a commuter train? What if I launched myself at a big stupid bodybuilder and we both landed on the tracks? That’d probably be enough to save the workers. Would they call me a hero? Or would I be seen as some wretched murdering psycho? A misguided hero? An anti-hero, maybe. Yuck.

I wonder if despair is getting to me, consuming my mind. Yeah, I’m definitely losing my mind. My sight grows dim as my mind forgets its internal light. I guess I’m losing my sight and losing my mind... I wish somebody would tell me I’m fine!

Just then Block let his eyes unfocus off the train and he refocused them on the reflection of the coffee shop all around him, transmogrifying the window into a mirror. As he attended to his surroundings, he became aware of a woman standing just behind him. But she was no ordinary woman. She was awesome in appearance—now Block’s forefathers would have described her as ‘awful’, but by Block’s cultural moment, to inspire ‘some’ awe connoted majesty and magnificence, whereas to ‘fully’ inspire awe connoted dread or disgust. It’s tragic how words devolve. Though it is true that the woman inspired a sense of dread along with the awe she incited in Fredric Block, for try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and steal an unmediated glance. He couldn’t do anything but stare at her reflection.

As they locked eyes through the window-turned-mirror,