Michæl W. Bard is dead.
   I wish I were joking (for one thing, Bard’s sense of humor was twisted enough that he probably would have enjoyed that kind of gag), but I’m serious. Dead serious, even. And I’m trying to think of some words—any words—which aren’t Yet Another Profound and Serious Expostulation of the sort which has been written a million times before, about a million other freshly-deceased humans… and I’m coming up blank. Hell, even the fact that this sort of thing already has been rehashed a milli0n times, has been rehashed a million times.
   There is nothing new under the sun…
   We only met in the flesh once, Bard and I. The occasion was a road trip I made in order to take custody of a library I’d purchased from a fellow fan… who lived in Cleveland. Me, I’m a California boy, so I don’t spend a whole lot of time in the Eastern parts of the US; while planning said trip, it occured to me that since I was already going to Cleveland, Toronto (the city Bard called home) wasn’t that much further away… so, why not? I didn’t manage to spend more than a day or so there, and a busy day it was. Among other things: Since this was after I picked up the books, Bard spent a bit of time sorting through them all to see if there were any he might like to keep…
   Anyway, I always wanted to see Bard again, but never actually put any effort into making it happen. Apart from the practical difficulties imposed by my unenviable financial status, I figured there was no hurry. I mean, Bard was four years younger than me, so it’s not like he was going to drop dead any time soon, right?
   Yeah. Right. One of those rehashed-to-oblivion-and-back observations: If you care about someone, do not wait to let them know, damnit! Don’t put it off until tomorrow, because tomorrow is now.
   Anyway: As things turned out, our first encounter (which was shorter than either of us would have preferred) was also our last. Beyond that, the two of us interacted strictly via text; mostly emails, and a decent chunk of internet chatting. Typical furry, really. And it was through the medium of text that Bard invited me to join him in assuming editorial control of the transformation-focused netzine TSAT after its founders decided to move on to other things. It’s worth noting that this happened back in 2001, when I was a wet-behind-the-ears newbie in the TF community of interest. I wasn’t more than vaguely aware of TSAT at that time, and absent Bard’s involvement, it’s not likely that I’d have even considered taking over where the zine’s original crew left off.
  That’s right: Me being an editor was originally Bard’s idea, not mine. Now you know who to blame.
   After we took over TSAT, Bard and I spent the next five years as co-editors producing its bimonthly issues. We worked well together, and we both agreed on the big things—like, a transformation story can and should be more than just The Big TF Scene with or without some vestigial elements of ‘story’ on the side.
   Which is not to say that we agreed on everything, of course. One time I asked Keith Morrison if he could write a review column for TSAT, basically taking up where his late, lamented Slaughterhouse website left off; he agreed, and before long, he’d finished the first of these columns. Both Bard and I thought it was a damn good review… but Bard had noted what he considered a serious problem: It seemed that the item Morrison was reviewing was on the internet, but stuck behind a paywall, not freely accessible to all and sundry. Now, if you’re saying to yourself, “What difference could that possibly make?”, you’ve summed up my position; I was all for going ahead and running Morrison’s review, (lack of) free access be damned. I mean, how many reviews have you read where you could read/watch/hear/whatever the subject of said review for free, you know? However, for reasons mysterious to me, Bard felt that the paywall thing made a very big difference indeed, and on that basis argued that we should not run Morrison’s review. Neither of us ever changed our minds on this point… so we never ran that review, and TSAT never had a Keith Morrison review column.
   One thing we both agreed on, when the time came, was the decision to cease publishing TSAT. The ’zine had always been a respected institution in the TF community, its status being why Bard wanted it to continue when the original crew moved on. Unfortunately, the ’zine’s relationship with its readers was very much a one-way deal. For instance, it was a rare month when we received so much as one email of comment from readers. So in the fullness of Time, both of us found TSAT to be less and less rewarding in any sense of the word. I think it was around TSAT #44 when I asked Bard what he thought about ending the ’zine; significantly, his response focused on the question of, not whether to end it, but when and how.
   TSAT’s final issue was #48.
   Bard was always more inclined towards writing than editing. While Anthro started with both of us sharing co-editor duties, he bowed out of his position about the time Anthro’s second year started, on the not-unreasonable grounds that he just hadn’t been doing all that much in the way of editing for the ’zine. Which is not to say that Bard was underemployed thereafter, mind you… The Bard-written editorial named Through the Looking-Glass was replaced by a new regular feature, a Bard-written column named Through the Looking-Glass; and of course he kept writing stories, both contributing to pre-existing settings (perhaps most prominently Mark Van Sciver’s Tails of the Blind Pig shared world, which Bard established the most complete online library of) and creating his own wholly original works.
   At this point, it would be appropriate—if not downright expected—for me to talk about Bard’s strengths as an author. And sure, I could do that; I could go on and on about his interesting plots, his deadpan sense of quirky humor, his ability to use mere words to conjure up exotic realms and times as if Tens Of Millenia In The Future was here and now… but I’d rather let Bard’s own words speak for him. It is, after all, those same words which are a big part of the reason we even care about his untimely demise.
   Editorial and column alike, Bard’s Through the Looking-Glass appeared in 25 of Anthro’s first 26 issues: The View From Afar; Furry Fiction: A Personal Preference; Cute Fuzzy Fursuit Clones; On Fear and Furries; The Brush is Mightier than the Pen; This Thing Called Furry; An Initial Exposure to Furrydom; The Loneliest Time of the Year; In Search of My True Face; Furries and Personal Space; Horse Runs Free! Film at 11; Fursuiting Arrives!; This Means War; A Furry’s First Con; Meeting the Furry Kindred; Criticism, Confidence, and Maturity; A Newbie at Anthrocon; Furries Under Siege; Doing Your Homework; Newbie at the Con; Furry Tales and Fursuit Tales; Con Report from the Great White North; On Becoming a Graymuzzle; What’s Wrong With This Picture?; Of Furs and Meat. In addition, Bard reviewed C.J. Cherryh’s The Pride of Chanur, and James Kahn’s World Enough, and Time.
   Of Anthro’s eight (and counting!) serials, Bard penned two: Fork in the Road (part 1; part 2; part 3) and Mythic Journeys (prologue; part 1; part 2; part 3; part 4; part 5; part 6; part 7; part 8; epilogue).
    Anthro was fortunate enough to have published ten of Bard’s stories: Homecoming, Wings of Healing, and Zoo’m’in Along in the TBP setting; Like the Unfolding Petals of a Dream (Xanadu); Fighting the Change (WoC); and Becoming a Patrolsentient, Down the Rabbit Hole, The Survivor, Redemption, and Murderer Most Foul.
   And Anthro was definitely not the only outlet for Bard’s literary talents! In addition to his corner of Metamor Keep, Bard’s work can also be found in TSAT, the Shifti.org wiki and his own personal archive.
   Quite a literary legacy for one man to be remembered by. And if early indications can be trusted, Bard will be remembered. But there seems to be a curious lacuna in all the public reminiscences; one aspect of Bard’s life which has thus far gone largely (if not entirely) unremarked.
   Bard was an atheist.
   He didn’t believe in any god (let alone God), nor in this ‘soul’ thingie, nor in any flavor of afterlife, nor in supernatural stuff in general. But if you look at the outpouring of messages of sympathy and hope which occurred in his last few days of life, you’ll notice that a nontrivial percentage of said messages include some flavor of god-talk—rest in peace and he’s in a better place and may flights of angels guide him and so forth.
   This, even though all such sentiments blatantly contradict the beliefs of the person who inspired them.
   Maybe it’s just me, but somehow, I can’t help but think that all those well-meaning, god-soaked words about a dead atheist are just as disrespectful to said atheist’s memory as would be, oh, saying “Now he’s in the arms of Jesus” about a dead Jew—and for anyone who might be wondering what could possibly be disrespectful about that, I got four words: Messiah ist nicht gekommen. ’Nuff said? To be sure, I am confident that Bard would have overlooked the offensive content of such messages and accepted them in the spirit in which they were given… but I am equally confident that he’d have preferred it not be necessary for him to overlook their offensive content.
   And given the fact that the bulk of this god-talk came from Christians of varying degrees of faith, I think it’s worth noting that most flavors of Christianity are very clear that all unbelievers—a group that definitely includes Bard—will burn in Hell forever… a circumstance which would seem to be somewhat less than conducive to requiescat-ing in pace. So we have the interesting phenomenon of Christians expressing pleasant wishes for someone’s post mortem fate, and in doing so, managing to simultaneously spit on both the intended recipient’s memory, and on their own belief system!
   Bard would have appreciated the irony, I suspect.
   As for me, this whole thing has got me thinking about my own death. I don’t expect it to happen any time soon, mind you, but then Bard probably wasn’t expecting to die any time soon, either. And just on the off chance that anybody might feel like making a public statement about how wonderful I was or how they miss me, I have one request:
   Lose the god-talk.
   Like Bard was, I am an atheist. And while I may or may or may not have known Bard well enough to be correct in thinking he would have been offended by god-talk directed at his dead body, I most assuredly know myself well enough to authoritatively state that I would find that sort of thing offensive.
   When I die, I won’t be in a ‘better place’.
   When I die, I won’t be in a ‘worse place’.
   When I die, I won’t be sitting around any apres-vie anteroom waiting for my friends to show up.
   When I die, I simply won’t be.
   So please: After I’m dead, don’t go making any noise related to what god—any flavor of God or Goddess or Spirit or whatever other Capitalized Entity—may have in store for me. I would hope that anybody who respects me enough that they’d want to say some words about me after I die, would respect me enough that they can resist the urge to compose a testimonial on my behalf that doubles as an advertisement for their Invisible Friend. And if you’re the kind of Believer who honestly doesn’t see anything wrong with saying that a dead Jew is safe in the arms of Jesus—sorry, I meant “saying that a dead atheist is in Heaven”—well, if you happen to be that sort of person, I’d just as soon not have you posting any posthumous messages about me, thanks all the same.
   Look, folks: We humans are finite beings. Our time on this planet is strictly limited. Once we die, we’re gone, and that’s it. No respawn; no second chances. Death. Is. Final. Which is exactly why death is cause for mourning. But if we are eternal beings, as Christianity (among other religions) is wont to have it, mourning for a dead person is a pointless exercise which makes no more sense than mourning for someone who happens to have emigrated to a different country, because hey, they’re still around, just in a different neighborhood, you know?
   Yes, acknowledging the permanence and finality of death—acknowledging that Bard is just plain gone, for no sensible reason and without benefit of any Higher Purpose—is difficult and depressing. Yes, Belief in a shiny happy Afterlife is so very comforting. But that Belief is a delusion… and I prefer truth, however unpleasant, to delusion, however comforting.
   Here’s one of those truths I prefer: The people you love and care for will not be around forever. Cherish them here and now, because there is no ‘later’.