Tuesday, 15 August 2017

The American Quintet 2: Is Thunder a Colour?

An emotion, or an image?
These thoughts go through my head a scrimage
as I debark from the car.
Blazing intensity, near to far past far.
And only one thought rumbles in my head:

Is thunder a colour?

Twisting neon worms tumble upon stormy slates,
their souls long gone and dead
as gnashing teeth, ads, devoured and ate.
Buy, buy, buy; the message, unhidden by no mask,
and yet again I ask:

Is thunder a colour?

This bright Ouroboros tumbles across the sky,
their voices a muffled scream.
Deadening, deafening, a rowdy ream
of silent shouts that alight frenziedly on the eyes.
It is a filthy light, a corruptor;
but yes, I think thunder is a colour.

(credit to the omnipresence of advertisements: indeed. given that this is easily a contender for the worst poem I have ever written, and will not even be credited as such in my tags, it is a most fitting ode to those filthy beasts)

Monday, 31 July 2017

The American Quintet 1: Pitch Bright

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Some time ago I was in the USA for a five days, and took the opportunity to write one poem for every day I was there, each one concerning the most vivid memory I had of that particular day. I hope you enjoy, as always.

In dark of dust murmurs fling through,
the sky wringing sighs of anxious gloom.
Voices excited and light, an audience's might,
not quite Stygian in the virgin twilight.
And then the black broke,
not with shout, not corak,
but rather upon the wings of tunes;
a simple, slow, yet melodious croon.
And the gloom alights with mirth,
audience jazzing, soul rebirth.
And a sonar sun lifts the veil of night
until that shadowy room feels... pitch bright.

(credit to the Apollo Theatre's Amateur Night)

Thursday, 22 June 2017

At the Crux of the Matter

Hey all, sorry for the absence. I was just off finishing high school. Now that it's done I'd like to share with you my first ever script, an abomination I sumitted to some nearby contest back in March. Surprise: I didn't win. That being said it's in the exact style of humour that you guys normally appreciate, so I'd like to think you'll like it.
At the Crux of the Matter; by Jordan Waverman

In other news, starting this Sunday I'm going to institute a series of fake historical accounts of fictitious cults. Each one will include a brief description of the cult, as well as a short story involving it. This will be done mostly for amusement purposes, but please feel free to contact me if you find anything offensive for any reason.
 My email, as always, is muffinwaverman@gmail.com, or you can message me on Facebook at facebook.com/jordanwaverman.

Thursday, 8 June 2017

Review of "History... In Action!"

Hello all,
And now it is that rather special time of year when I review a video. Nevermind that I have never done this before, will not do this again, and indeed would not be doing this now were it not for the fact that I have undertaken a rather grueling school assignment which is forcing me to create a review for said movie, which I'm sure will be uploaded to a blog like this one quite shortly. Exactly like this one, in fact. Eerily like this one... Spooky.
Now, I'm here today to review the short film History... In Action!, a rather exciting little skit about all the amazing new shows on the world's most accurate, well-researched, and useful television channel... the History Channel.
Speaking with illustrious diction written primarily by yours truly, the various expert actors sing their fair tunes up to the heavens, weaving an often illusory web that sometimes seems almost to defy laughter, it is so complex. Or, perchance, defies this laughter because of its often intransigent sense of what should be funny, and what should be best left beneath the dark, dank depths of the megalodon-haunted stormy seas.
The dialogue is frequently scratchy, like some fell, clawed beast trying to drag its way out of the pit and into absurdity, though this aim is frequently denied by random shift changes and poor special effects.
The latter of these two admittedly somewhat floccnaucinihilipificates the entirety of the skit, miring it in a sticky swamp of languorous words that trail limply through the video like rowboats.
Insofar as I am concerned, however, it was writ of wry wit, and its dry humour crackles softly in the paper of its plot. Therefore it must, by all needs be, be given a solid i/4, which all things considered is a fairly good score for a movie of its lacklustre caliber.

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

Occam's Ninja (essay)

Perchance you have heard of Occam’s Razor, perchance you haven’t. Regardless, I find it most key to define it, and so shall do so forthwith: assume the most probable.
    So, if you’re studying the pyramids and notice that the images resemble purported alien life from the Yucatan; then yes there’s a chance that the Anunnaki built the pyramids, but the chances are far and above more likely that they were built by humans, so you should assume that.
    Needless to say, I mislike Occam’s Razor. I mislike it precisely because of its highly presumptive nature: the most probable is the most probable, not the definite.
    For example (since practitioners of Occam’s Razor value evidence and tell us that it increases probability exponentially), say a friend of mine and I chose to go for a walk in a thunderstorm. I went in a tee and slacks and she sat astride a warhorse in full medieval plate with her iron lance raised to the sky.
Now, she is far more likely to get hit by lightning than I am, but this does not mean that it is improbable that I will be hit too. In fact, while lightning probably will not hit the same place twice, the most probable is not definite: we could both be hit at the same place, or at the same time and by the same bolt, or perchance she should live and I should die in flame and thunder. All are possibilities and, while not the most probable, must be considered.
    Another concern I have with Occam's Razor is its dictionary wording (I used  paraphrasing), which pertains to rejecting methods which require the least assumptions. For argument’s sake, let’s state an assumption to be any statement not grounded in fact. In such a case, it is important to remember that we as a species always have a reason for assuming something: this reason being that our assumption correlates with our reality.
    Take Vitalism, for example. Due to our lack of knowledge about disease, it was highly natural for us to assume that diseases and spoiling occured naturally, via spontaneous generation. It was only the challenging of this assumption that let us discover germs. Conversely, our society assumes that the cell is the smallest unit of life because we haven’t found a smaller one. But this is not to say there isn’t; future societies might discover that atoms are, in fact, intelligent.
    I could also point out that while Vitalism made the assumption that there was nothing smaller than the eye could see, it required the assumption that this was wrong for us to disprove it, but I have neither the time nor the space to conduct such debate on the nature of logic so I’ll just let that thought germinate and turn to matters that require less assumptions on my part.
    The last flaw I’d like to point out is Occam’s Razor as it is practiced in real life versus how it is used in science, its primary field of use. The examples I have laid out above are primary ones that apply on a day-to-day basis, and while they are applicable to science there is something else that must be considered.
    Science does not use Occam’s Razor. Sciences believes in falsifiability, which is similar but with a subtle distinction: assumptions are acceptable in science, so long as they are provable assumptions. (eg. atoms not being intelligent life, because there is no evidence for it and a great deal of evidence against - quantum physics.) In this way, science falls behind the principle I am about to endeavour to explain to you.
    This is not to say that Occam’s Razor is wrong, just that it must be accepted only with moderation. To this end, I would like to propose the Ninja Potential Theorem: never discount the exceedingly unlikely.
    This theory’s name acts as a reference to its most extreme example, a spontaneous attack by ninjas. There is always a chance that, one fine day in the warmth of spring one will, while harmlessly wandering the streets in search of tasty coffee, be suddenly set upon by a vicious pack of ninjas and slain on the spot.
    Now, these chances are obscenely small, and so one should never assume it will happen (because that would most likely cross the line between prudence and paranoia), but the chance can be confirmed to exist, if only in the purely theoretical sense (its probably more likely than winning the lottery, but then most things are).
    This brings me to the crux of my argument, which is that one should never countenance the Ninja Potential Theorem either. The chances are just too small: while, if I may bring this back to the Lightning Bolt and the Armour analogy, there is still a chance of my being hit by lightning regardless of whether or not I’m wearing armour, the chances of my being hit are drastically smaller (in slacks) such that it would be considered highly prudent not to wear medieval warplate when strolling in the thundering winds.
    Since the Ninja Potential Theorem shouldn’t be considered necessarily correct as it applies to practicing it in real life, this means that the most probable (but not definite) course of action would be to create a counterargument or, if you will, an Anti-Ninja: never consider the exceedingly unlikely.
    Herein a practitioner of the Razor may disagree with me, on the grounds that in theory Occam’s Razor already does this. If practicing Occam’s Razor successfully, then one should presumably consider bizarre and outlandish first and discount them almost immediately as the bizarre and outlandish theories they are. To this I have two replies;
    i) Firstly, discounting is different from not considering. You never need to consider baseless theories or absurd arguments as fact, but it cannot harm you to remember their existence. After all, all lies are predicated in truth (at least to some extent, however tinily), and so no theory would exist unless someone had some reason to believe in it (however absurd that meaning may seem to you).
    ii) Secondly, it is always important to remember why an argument is outlandish. Sometimes the reasons you cite may not be as effective as they first seem. For example, one of the main arguments against alien life on earth is that it would have been seen in modern times. But, and consider seriously, if you had the choice then would you rather be here or elsewhere? The answer, unless your most important character trait is selflessness or you style yourself a bodhisattva, is probably elsewhere.
    I suppose, therefore, the base of my argument is balance. Occam’s Razor exists as a sort triangle, itself the point, with the Ninja Potential Theorem and the Anti-Ninja the base. When one debates the probability of a given event, one must neither discount nor consider the exceedingly unlikely, but rather be aware of it. Be aware of it in the distance, like one is aware aware of the despair of love, or the righteousness of the dragon over the knight, or to the chaining of the moon.

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Barachois (postmodernist flash fiction)

    Braced in shadows, lost in mist, I wandered lonely. My feet sunk in mud, clattering against the cobbles, and I felt within and without. My stomach heaved, and I stumbled forwards, but all that came out was laughter. I could barely see what was about me, until I set foot within it.
    It was high, those vaulted heavens, their sky a speckled granite. Staring at it, I leaned so far back I fell to the floor beneath me. My head slammed down, my breath caught, and the speckles swum like stony stars. Then a hand held out, and I dragged myself to my feet to shake it. Or perhaps it helped me to my feet: it really is hard to tell in these situations.
    Greetings then, as greetings usually come, and just as useless as greetings usually are. Afterwards the hand, now seemingly familiar to either myself or its supposed owner, tugged gently, leading me like a rabid sheep down halls of liquid stone splashing underfoot. Gargoyles spun down from the heavens, their gaze dragging me down and their claws rending; their gaze rending and their claws dragging me down.
    I could see the ribbed roof of the building heaving far above mel like breaths, or perhaps sobs at their children’s descent. Throughout all this the guiding hand shone like a torch, leading me until… clack. Dry land.
    Hollowed and hallowed, I collapsed to my knees, and the gargoyles that had so bebothered me passed harmlessly o’erhead. I bowed, the floor a slab beneath my body. The hand vanished into darkness, its torch light bobbing into extinguishment. But it was unneeded; the figure in front of me flared like a beacon. As their words washed over me like a siren’s song upon the beach, a lighthouse, I keeled over, and was drawn gently into their lapping bay.
- End -

Sunday, 14 May 2017

World's Shortest Mother's Day Poem

‘Tis now time for the day of Mothers,
When we thank them for our brothers,
And sisters, and cousins too.
For we wouldn’t exist if they didn’t bother.

Saturday, 6 May 2017

Into the Alien Void

I awoke, smothered and confused, and found myself in a place I could only describe as inimitably bizarre and unexplainable, though I forced myself to do my best.

I lay on a field of white sand, great in its size; far larger, in fact, than any grain of sand, or even perhaps boulder, had any right to be. Although, conversely, it was also the softest sand I had ever lain upon (or so I conjectured), a veritable pillow, and warmer than one would expect given the inky blackness which seemed to coat everything; filling me, suffocating me in its tendrils.

I stood up, brushed myself off in an attempt to reduce the cloying sensation I felt crawling up my lungs, but to no avail. I looked up at the dim and shrinking sun, struggling to clamp down on my panic. I set off, through the sands, determined to find my way but opposed at every turn by the shifting and sinking molasses that was the desert.

There was no life, here: not one animal stirred in the mists that seemed to drift off the very ground, nor were there any plants stretching up towards the vanishing unlight, unfurling vague or putrid leaves, or even the barest sign of greenery upon the terrain; twas merely a white, cracked plain, stretching endlessly before me in every which way.

Occasionally, I would see another person through the fog, drifting with lost eyes over the fields in sand-encrusted cloth, loose and floating about them as sails, but it was odd. One would expect us to conglomerate, meet, be drawn to one another to aid in our mutual escape from wherever ‘here’ was, but no. I felt no desire to meet these people, to join them or approach even for a minute, and instead we would merely gaze hollow eyed at the space where the other stood, as if we hadn’t seen each other or just didn’t care.

Then, without a pause or a consideration, they would vanish into the mists as ephemerally as they had arrived. Or, perhaps, it would be me who would depart first. I really didn’t notice.

What I did notice, eventually, were the stones, great clear crystals that poked up and out and about the terrain, though their semitranslucent nature meant that they blended so perfectly with the sands that I did not perceive one till I walked right over it. As I leaned down, grabbing my foot in an agony that had veritably awoken me from my stupor, I heard something.

Rumbling, shaking, as of some gigantic many-legged insect forging its way over the hills. It seemed to be coming towards me from the East, and as I turned to see it, pain forgotten, I realized what it was in all its truly magnificent horror.

It was a giant wave, a wall of water that scooped up, crumpled, and destroyed everything in its path. I began to panic, run, but then stopped as the weight of my own futility came crashing down on me. I knew, then, that I couldn’t escape, and all the energy seemed to drain from me. If I couldn’t escape, couldn’t save myself, then why bother? A foolish response, perhaps, but that was what I did, and that’s my explanation for it. And so I sat and watched the wave shatter rocks, dissolve sand, suck up people, and hummed softly and sadly to myself as it crashed into me.

I was viciously picked up and hurled sky high, surfacing from the rough collision for a mere moment to breath the gritty air under the dying sun before I was sucked back in again. I was tossed, hurled from tumultuous crests to stormy seas and blinding skies till, at last and blessedly, it subsided.

I landed on the ground with a squishy thud, and sunk deeply into it. Only my head and parts of my upper torso remained free, unentangled. The sand had turned into a lethargic and ineffectual sinkhole, and the desert a swampland of mud and filthy puddles. Where once it had been molasses, now it was a morass, and little better nor a difference between.

I must confess, my ordeals had gotten to me, and I found myself incapable of creating an effort to free myself from the muck, and instead didn’t choose, but did, end up sitting there throbbing.

And so it was that I didn’t move when the second great cataclysm struck. Huge tendrils of flesh descended from the sky beyond the darkness, colliding with the earth with a force like thunder and a sound like iron. The ground was picked up and launched like a second wave, and I was thrown with it.

I flew like a pleasantly stunned rag doll across the fields, colliding with a wall of dirt for a only a moment before the tendrils lifted themselves up, and, screeching as with the laughter of ten thousand madmen, slammed back down. I was picked up and tossed out once more, hurled through the fetid air. I passed another person as I went; her arm broken and trailing behind her but her expression strangely serene as she gazed at me with a blank fondness, a slight smile upon her face as she flew by in the opposite direction.

This process of tossings and thuds repeated for a while. Mud and sand, rock and water all collided with me and each other till it was difficult to breath amidst the debris of the stony sky.

At last I; confused, unfeeling, uncomprehending of where I was or what I had done to have some sick entity inflict this psychosis upon me; was absorbed, sucked in if you will, into the sand. I lay under the ground, entombed in a sticky filth, and felt panic overwhelm me. So this was how I would die.

Suffocated in a world incomprehensible to myself. I wondered what I had done to deserve this, for I had no recollection of my prior life, nor even of the near past or how I had ended up in this earth. Merely a vague collection of impressions, warnings and pleasant images. Now, it appeared, I would not be able to have any recollections in the future.

My body felt burned, hot, as if someone had hold of a giant fire underneath the planet, and was feeding it to increase the temperature. Around me I felt the desert beginning to harden, solidify, brown, sealing me underground till death do us part, or till kingdom come, or perchance till the ends of time, whichever of the three came fırst. As I began to run out of air I felt as if I was filled with toxins, poisonous butterflies flapping their nightshade-dusted wings.

Sweat streamed from my tattered body, soaking the earth about me which, before my stupefied and maligned eyes, began to expand and widen. It formed a beauteous air bubble, which I thought might help me breath a little.

As it turned out I was wrong; instead the crushing weight and the heat overwhelmed me, their pressure too much for my tortured frame, and I slowly felt myself succumbing to their insidious wiles. I felt the toxic feeling leave my chest, a little ways before the end, and a deep and tranquil calm came over me. Perhaps, perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad…


The man took the loaf of bread out of the oven and showed it proudly to his son, who stood nearby, watching eagerly yet with that strange anxiousness of fire so often found in children, after they had first been burnt. “Now, see here son, the yeast has produced air bubbles which has caused the bread to rise, so that it can be nice and fluffy.”

His son looked at the bread, interest clear in his eyes. “But daddy, what happens to the yeast?”

“Ah, son, you don’t have to worry about that.”

But worry he did, and rightfully so.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017


Curiosity killed the cat,
Curiosity made it silent,
Curiosity made it fade to black,
A shrieking shadow, loud and strident.

But curiosity overcame,
Brought back in a light of flash,
A sudden, unliving flame;
A ghoul, a wight, a ghast.

For curiosity cannot be slain,
Nor art’s breath overlain
By the steadiness of the ignorant’s bliss.
With solely but one sweet kiss
These fools to near death bring
Literature, that beauteous thing.

And with its final exhale
Glittery forms and jittery figures rise
And fight back with fang and nail
And animae clash before awed eyes.

Curiosity may kill the cat
But ideas will always persist;
Mighty spirits floating through the air
Guarding beauteous realms of mist.

Friday, 28 April 2017

Separation, Replication

Gyrase unwinds tensions,
but after ligase breaks bonds.
DNA is a funny family,
dysfunctional yet bonded.

SSBs hold down the strand
even as primase primes it,
all for polymerase III to come
and double the DNA at the fork.

Polymerase I excises okazaki,
which with fragments it collates
upon the backbone of ligase,
and a lagging strand gone whole does make.

Polymerases check their work for errors,
fixing problems they have never seen,
and the DNA strand is replicated
two from one, clean and separated.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I feel obliged to apologize for these last two terrible entries, I'm studying for a bio exam. They are, without exception, the worst I've ever written.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Going with the Phloe'

Think I'm feeling like one of a clump,
drawn in, active transport, through the protein pump.
Treated like sugar, a mere ration,
drawn up the phloem, translocation.
       Feels like I'm sinking,
       but it's the reverse;
       I'm just drowning.
Going from the source to the sink in psychosis,
being crushed by the torrential waters of osmosis.
And when the waves go off on the march,
I'm broken, converted into starch.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Some Brief Poetic Thoughts on Working This Easter

Twas early Easter morn,
and the coffee shop was dark.
Though the employees all were there,
not a guest had larked.
The workers relax,
in uniforms chill and chat,
till at last they are thrown in surprise back.
For as the Church opens its doors,
so to do the floodgates of the store.
Hordes of people crying; "more, more!"
A crowd as ne'er before seen,
more children than had ever been,
a tidal wave breaching the seas.
In flow the tides!
Out flow the drinks!
And coffee serves its purpose;
        the store's purpose;
              the sound of many clinks.

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

"Rap" Concerning Adolescence (from school, reprinted here for your amusement)

Hark me now back to the time of adolescence,
A period of starstruck effervescence.
When emotions and the known reality collide,
And take your hormones on one wild ride.
For what do you do when you feel alone?
Ruptured by development, growth, hormone.
Like a child with a yo, yo.
You’re gonna bond with tha group,
Take your luny leaps through hoops
Avec la raison du loup, a-hoooo!
Ya need time to find your place,
Unsure, seeking an end to the race
Rolling short term through a long term trace,
In between the child’s and adult’s pace.
Group behaviour, need a saviour,
Gotta go down to the Thought Haven.

Thursday, 6 April 2017

Of Things that Lurk in Dark Bathrooms

It is very rarely that one goes to use a public washroom in the dark: usually, they are well lit, "sterile" places wherein one does one's business, silently, then departs. It is a somber affair. Those using the stalls sit in the quiet, hope they don't catch anything, and depart swiftly. It is even more awkward for those who use the urinals, as they will traditionally pretend that no one else is present in the washroom with them, even if every stall and spot is occupied.
The reason I bring this up is not because I am interested in the sociology of the affair, or even scatological humour, but rather because it has a purpose. You see, when the lights go out one becomes eminently more social, and a certain atmosphere takes hold over the loo. Since they cannot be seen their identity cannot be confirmed, and so oddly this erases many of the taboos against speaking in public washroom; indeed, I have even heard jokes.
One wonders, then, why we put the lights on in the first place, if we have access to this knowledge as we most assuredly do. The more obvious answer, and the one most oblivious government agencies will give you when asked, as that it makes it far easier to do one's business in the light. The other answer, the one the more secretive government agencies are aware of but which no one will dare tell you or the general populace, is that the lightening of the room is not a matter of choice.
Specifically, I speak of auras, the air of damp malice that oozes from out the bathroom walls; they are old, often untended, and so sink into themselves and, in the dark, become something else. A place of evil, like the marshes and abandoned forts of old, where preternatural ghostlights lurk amidst the slimy cracks.

The lights flickered, dying, then went out. The bathroom was unoccupied at the time, fortunately, and so there was no one to gasp or chuckle in embarrassed mirth, or even to bang against the power box angrily. Not, of course, that one would have wanted to touch the walls, for this was an old washroom, located in a park, a standing structure of filthy concrete with rusting pipes and streaks of dirt upon the walls.
And so it remained silent, for a little while, devoid of all noises save for the gentle gurgling of the broken toilet at the far end. It was leaking, a strange thick fluid pouring slowly onto the ground. It was a distinctively dark and nasty liquid, and would most likely have perturbed anyone who saw it had anyone been there to see it. Regrettably the door to the stall was closed, though its lock had long since broken and so shutting it was futile, and so when someone did enter they noticed nothing out of the ordinary save for the pitch darkness.
He shrugged, cursed, and went to do his business. Unusually, he whistled as he did, a cheery noise that somehow denied the place he was in its usual sobriety. As he was buttoning up to leave another man entered. The noise of the toilet was obscured by the usual sounds of a used bathroom and the strength of our desire, and so neither man noticed anything.
The second man cracked a joke, strangely, peering about the darkened room with an amusement that was unlike the bathroom standard, and supplied a mocking curse for context. The other man laughed, gave another joke as a reply. It was exceedingly strange, this interaction, and no doubt it would make anyone not familiar with the happenings of a darkened bathroom quite nervous and worried, wondering as to the reasoning behind these men.
Well, the first man left the bathroom with little concern, and the second went to do his business in the relative privacy of the darkened room. He unzipped himself lent down, and was dragged off with a scream. There was a couple more strangled gasps, and one last drifting gurgle that emanated from the toilet, then wound down and disappeared. Silence.
A little while later, and after a couple more men go missing, and one or two women from the washroom next door, the police got involved. Well, involved may be an over-exaggeration of the word. They tried, but alack they knew not what to do. And so, the problem continued.
The dark had come, and the dark was here to stay.
A man sauntered in, somber, unusually so. Despite the lack of light and the disturbing actions that had occurred, people had kept up their jovial atmosphere, and so the man's demeanor was unusual. He wore a greatcoat and fedora, and his face was of blank countenance. He rested heavily on a carved cane, which he clacked against the ground as he walked to the far stall.
There was a shiver from within, a pooling of inconceivable malice, and a rumbling, but the man seemed unperturbed by this. He opened the stall and stood over the toilet for a coupe of moments, examining it. There was a growl from behind him, as whatever haunted the stall approached, but once more he remained unconcerned.
Detective Murphy Ottern, Canada's second best paranormal investigator, breathed slowly, calmly. He hated the creatures that lurked in dark places most of all, for it seemed as if those beasts that descended from moist crevices were among the worst of their ilk. He groaned, and waited and, as the creature stood immediately behind him, swung his cane up backwards.
It screamed as the carven symbols slammed into it, melting its fetid flesh from our pungent reality. It withered, still shrieking, and sank, and eventually vanished after prolonged contact. Behind it, it left only a small smear of black gunk.
Detective Ottern sighed, tipped his hat in a mockery of respect, and departed. He checked the light box before he went, to make sure it worked, and carved a mystic symbol similar to the ones on his cane so that it would not malfunction again. It was raining when he departed, and its warm droplets felt like the tears of that beast's many victims, the arcane stars twinkling in their agelessness overhead.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

A Crushing Sense of Guilt

The author sat in a booth in the coffee shop, his pen frantically scritching across the page. He was exceedingly anxious, his nerves firing and his heart beating like a set of bagpipes. He turned to regard the pile of unfinished work beside him, and his heart beat all the faster, speeding into the climax of the piece. He had his education, his work, furthering and financing his education, writing, eating (he had to remember to do that on occasion), and an event he'd foolishly volunteered to help plan. All were due, to be set upon him shortly.
Due dates...
Due dates...
Due dates...
He took a sip of coffee, and was about to return to his feverish scrawling when someone sat down opposite him. Their breathing was belaboured, their movements staggered, as they gazed at him with an unmitigated hostility. He looked up, confused, and stared at the beast in surprise. It was shadowy, soaked in mist, yet tangibly pathetic. Its long, droopy eyebrows sagged over a puckered, pockmarked, and wrinkled face. It grinned, exposing rotten teeth. "So, here we are again." It lisped, breath gargling in its throat with a voice like phlegm.
The author was confused. "'We?' I must beg your pardons; I'm afraid I have no recollection of ever having met you."
It laughed, a rattling sound that grated on the surface of the author's soul. and coughed up bile. Its shriveled arms emerged from its tattered cloak to wipe its mouth of spittle, and its peered at the author loathingly with catatonic eyes."Oh? Has it really been that long?"
The author looked at it askance. "Yes, or so it appears."
It regarded him thoughtfully, as it tapped one torn and yellowed nail against its shredded lips. "You really don't know me. Hmmm..."
It stood up and bowed with a mocking flourish, although it floundered a little as it tried to stand, so weak was it. As it did so, it seemed as if it grew larger, bulkier, more powerful, and then loudly proclaimed itself. "I... am the shadow of your guilt."
It sat back down.
"Oh? You look pretty substantial to me." The creature gazed at him silently, until the full extent of what he'd said hit the author like a sack of fried monkeys.
"Ah. I see. What am I doing wrong?"
The sense of guilt lay back in their rolls of fat, chuckled maliciously. "Why, others, of course."
"Yes. Your commitment to volunteering, planning events, joining them, and keeping your short stories up to date. All have faltered in recent days and, in the marsh of your own ignorance, floundered. For, as the not-so-great poet Jordan Waverman will wrote:
          Il est seulement sans amis,
         que l'âme est partie."
At this point the author's guilt, barely held back in the webs of his mind, grew overwhelming, and the bench collapsed under its weight. It didn't notice. "There was no need to be so harsh: a simple reminder would have done." He commented.
The beast merely snarled. "You've let your guilt encompass you, and grow greater than you: now I am free! Do you want to see what happens when you let your emotions control you?"
And without waiting for a reply it turned around, slid off the ruins of the bench, and approached a nearby young woman who was staring at the spectacle in consternation. It grabbed her and, opening it great fanged maw, began sucking at all the air around her like some fanged leech. It drew out her fears, her anxiety, her insecurities, and her emotional pain, and grew drastically larger as it did so. At last the pair of them collapsed back, and the author was surprised to note that she appeared surprisingly rosy and cheerful.
"Wow, I feel really light and airy." She commented.
Then, before she had time to scream, it lept up on the table and devoured her whole. "I am your insecurities; I am a terrible individual; and as long as I exist in the half-life there shall be no happiness!" It screeched, as the restaurant flew into a panic.
By now the author's sense of guilt had grown so large it had shed its human form, and existed as a morass of living and flowing fat replete with a multitude of haphazard claws, maws, and teeth, and some very strange, inconsistent yet innocuous eyes.
It rolled like a tidal wave towards the door, reaching it before the terrified patrons and barring it shut. It then proceeded to do to them as it had to the young woman, devouring distress before devouring em themselves. It took many before glancing out the window, perceiving the large city and, thirsting for more, flattened the door and rolled like pancake batter into the city. The remaining customers cowered behind their tables, all save for the author who, have horrifyingly watched his fears go off on a rampage, knew what he had to do. Steeling himself, he set off in pursuit.

**tune in next week to watch our intrepid authorial hero, as he tackles his own insecurities!**

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

L'Esprit dans le Ciel

J'ai vu, certainement, un fantôme aujourd'hui,
et vous êtes positive que je n'ai pas,
mais c'est à j'ai dit.
Il a apparu dans le ciel, et dispara
lorsque le noir de la nuit échange à lumière.
Quand il a chanté: aussi, mon couer a chanté.
Mais vous ne croyez, et même-si il est derrière
vous, vous ne croyez; nos âme a teinté.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

And When Godot Comes...

This being an extension to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.

    It was late in the evening, dark and cool, when she stumbled upon them. The air felt thick and wet upon her skin as she stared down at them, and screamed. She screamed for a while, and was about to call the police when it suddenly occurred to her that she was technically a detective and so this would be rather nonsensical of her. Instead she called her friend and partner, Detective Murphy Ottern, Canada’s second best paranormal investigator.
    He arrived shortly thereafter, unconcerned and, unusually, whistling merrily. He was not typically given to such displays of emotion, she recalled, but then again they weren’t usually on vacation so she supposed she could make an exception. He flipped his walking stick about and opened it to reveal an umbrella, which surprised her still further. It didn’t look like it could fit such a thing.
    Detective Ottern bent down to examine the corpse, as he usually did, sighing as he went, as he usually didn’t. “Zut alors! Why is it whenever I come to France someone ends up murdered in a mysterious and preternatural way? Always. I remember the last time I came, before I met you, there was that madcap gnome and his murderous french toast. And french toast isn’t even French! I mean, this didn’t happen when we went to Singapore. Oh, wait…”
    His eyes gained the gentle touch that was the mists of remembrance, and Delores coughed to bring him back to reality. He blinked, embarrassed for the first time that she could remember, and resumed his examination of the two mouldering skeletons. They were vibrating faintly, as if communicating with each other, and in opposite directions to that of the winds and blowing trees.
    There was a forest about them, a young one, the bark on the trees anthropomorphically less wrinkled than one might expect from an ancient wood. It was Spring, so the branches were in full bloom, although there was still a thin layer of loam along the ground which coated Murphy’s knees as he examined the rotting and clearly arthritic bones. He nodded, satisfied, as was usual for him, and stood up as he quite often did.
    “So? Do we have a case?” Delores asked, excited with a nervous dread about another case with Detective Murphy Ottern. But he merely shook his head. She was shocked.
    “What? No case?”
“No; I know these men, and of them. I met them years ago, when they were still youth, while on another vacation in France. We were supposed to be picking grapes to press wine, but I got drawn up… in another matter. Suffice it to say, there is a reason I am called L’Apparition here, but it does not include them. No, these two gentlemen are here for another reason.”
Delores’ interest was piqued, although Murphy seemed hesitant to continue. She eventually got him, by means of some cajoling that I shan't bother transcribing, to finish, although he did so reluctantly and with little aplomb or explanation.
“Suffice it to say, to wait for Godot is to wait endlessly, and these two gentlemen are waiting still. But I’ll say no more on the matter; there is a fine French cheese waiting back in the suit that I have literally carved my name into.”

Friday, 17 March 2017

Requiem for the Undead

An aeon passed,
a silent thing with sleep in grasp.
Work, drudgery and joyous, overtook.
And in the lengthy shadows of the night,
light returned, steeped in twilight.

It staggered, weak, like a thing reborn,
as the author returned once more to the stone.
Grinding, grinding, and sharpening his blade.
The pen and the sword the same made.

I was gone for a while,
lost in my mists,
as work dragged me down
into thunderous abyss.

But I am returned,
like a Requiem for the Undead
to a place hallow, the quill a feathered friend.

Tuesday, 7 March 2017

T.S. Eliot; A Romantic Comedy

The streetlamp danced about the pickly pear, the prickly pear,
streaks of silver in his hair.
I, him, am hollow inside, a stuffed man,
having rebuffed a voluptuous' wooing plan.
And so I, the streetlamp, weary of travel
did set out on a journey of travails.
By the breath of pine and fog of moonsong,
Hoo haw! Hoo haw! The veil insubstantial afore long.
And as the guilt of sorrow's sweet light,
the streetlamp's gaze, lifts off into the night,
Oh! If this is the way the world ends,
then by mermaids' melancholy
        and remembrance's lust I must seek dividend.

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Ode to the Ides

Of all the eves of March bewares the ides.
Flee if you can; if you cannot, hide.

Stop not to leave prints in muddy snow;
      it is half dad, a relict from water derived.
Nor should one smell the flowers,
     their sickly sweet scent and death's are without divide.
Go down to the hovels, the holes,
     to black cellars crawl, cover with eaves of ives.
Mask oneself; in covered coats,
     do hide, avoid the spirits deride.
But you shan't listen, I know, for the
     Decline of Empiricism is corrupted pride.

Friday, 24 February 2017

De la Vie, Parlant, et de Plus Choses

De la vie, vous savez, j’ai vu
Que sans prévu, et ne plus élu;
De parler, est être vrai.
Même mensonges, je suis désolé,
Mais peut-être heureux, avec le dit.
C’est certainement interdit,
Mais les vrai ou faux
Parler, pour vie, est très beaux.

Thursday, 23 February 2017

A baby bird, a neon sign, a dark alley, and the creak of an old hinge.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I found this old and silly story from back when I began seriously writing, in the early stages of high school. The title refers to part of four things I was told to incorporate into the story (it was a prompt). So, thoughts on my literary progression? (I died laughing as I read it.)

It was midnight, on a Friday the 13th, and raining. The man was trudging home, his mind on his bed and a warm meal, when he heard cheeping. He turned. There, not two yards away, a baby bird sat on the ground. Its wing was broken. Sighing, the man picked up the bird. If only there was someplace he could...
There! In a dark alley between 14th Avenue and Broad Street sat a store entitled "Bob's Animal Rescue Center." The neon sign flashed open. The man walked gratefully towards the door, but before he could open it the creak of an old hinge sounded and the door opened, revealing a man covered in a black cloak, his face obscured.
"Is Bob in?" The man asked. The cloaked man nodded, then pointed inwards. The man breathed a sigh of relief. The door slammed shut behind him. There were two chairs and a desk in the room. In the corner a woman in her twenties regarded him curiously, but didn't speak.
Continuing, the man walked up to the desk. The other chair was facing away from him, but a sign on teh desk read "Bob" so the man turned the chair towards him. He took one look at the mutilated corpse, screamed, then ran towards the door. He only moved three steps before the cloaked man hit him with a bolt of lightning. As he faded away, he thought he heard the woman laughing.

Concerning Gaunt Happenings

'Twas the shadowed vales of winter when I wandered deep at night,
and my arms I did find shivering in an unexplained fright:
or, perchance, an insidious delight.

I found remembrance, then in the frost's colds arms.
And I thought of those tried to do me harm,
wintry tendrils ringing the same bells of alarm.

This is to say, I thought of you.

I was brought to recollect that eve of savage rife,
when frozen gales and hot blood duly bite
yey, the night you tried to take my life.

The stake you tried to shove into my heart
was not half so bitter as your betrayal's start,
love's sweet lust lost to hatred's part.

The fault must be mine, dear, fie on fie,
for I should've seen pointed barbs behind doe eyes.
Alack, now all is gone to rust and lies.

I cannot tell these, nor cans't I hold a grudge,
not even now, with my body turned to sludge.
And even now 'mongst frost-blackened clouds,
                my spirit would sooner love than judge.

Thursday, 16 February 2017

A short creative piece on sculpting...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I applied to a specific campus some time ago, and one of the supplementary application questions was a photo with the command to write an essay or creative piece as a reaction. If you've ever read this blog before, you'll know what I answered with. Now, ordinarily I would hold this in confidence on their behalf but since I didn't make it in to the university I feel very little guilt with releasing the story for your viewing pleasure, avec photo. Enjoy!

The sculptor stepped back, and surveyed his work with no small amount of pride. His work, five gorgeous sculptures buried at varying heights in the grassy fields, stared back at him. He thought they looked dour, but perhaps it was a tinge baleful. He’d oriented them so they were descending from a rocky outcropping, just like…
Well. Never mind that.
He heard footsteps, then, and turned to see one of his colleagues from the art museum approaching. He tipped his head, tried a melancholic smile. His colleague offered one back, then tipped her head towards the newly completed artwork. “That’s quite nice, you know. It captures their likeness perfectly.”
He wavered, for a moment. “Thank you: I tried.”
If she noted his laboured breathing just then, she made no comment on it. “The expressions are rather grim, but I suppose I can’t fault you that.”
She waited, and finding no response forthcoming, continued. “Tragedy, that. It was such a small mountain, too, but I suppose it was a small plane. And you, the only survivor.”
She noted his agonized expression, stopped. “I’m sorry, I overstepped my bounds.”
He shook his head to the contrary. “No, no, it’s alright… I’m just upset about the state of my relationship with these gentlemen colleagues of mine before our… mishap.”
She nodded, in what she hoped to be a sagely manner. “Yes… It always haunts us when an argument is our last memory of someone… Especially one on the quality of our work, should we be an artist. But you got past it: it truly is a lovely monument to them, perfectly depicting the descent of the airplane as you must have seen it.”
She stopped, looked to see if he was upset, saw that he appeared to be in a more placid and tranquil state, as if accepting something, continued. “And to think, I never knew you were a sculptor… I never thought you anything more than a painting artist, one who incorporated a significant amount of metalwork into his masterpieces.”
Something seemed to occur to her, then, and she look at him unhappily. “But I can see I’m causing you great distress; I should go.”
And she left. There was a small smile, a sad smile, playing about his lips at her departure, though whether this was a result of guilt or joy he did not know. Certainly, she was right about one thing: he was no sculptor, but was merely exceptionally skilled at bronzing…

Monday, 13 February 2017

A Pomegrating Valentines

My love for you is like a yellow pomegranate,
Out of place amidst the gardens of my desire.
And yet it persists, endlessly so.
For we two met on a fair spring day,
When the call of the lark sung faintly through the sky
A cloud of shining stars.
And like the pomegranate it is many-layered,
Facets spring forth like seeds
And from those seeds spring love anew.
All one requires is a little water, a little faith,
And it is refreshed to shoot forth once more.

Thursday, 9 February 2017

A Duck's Dream: The Tragedy of Melodia (or, my attempt at Shakespeare)

But see, the bloody sloth doth lie amidst the twisting circle,
It’s ouroborosian majesty howling about it in
The dark depths of depravity.
And lo, the rustled thicket swingeth in the thunderous circuit.
Its brobdingnagian tides soaking me and mine
In oneiromantic epiphanies, a crazed ecstasy.
For tis done, tis done, and all are slain!
By rotten claw, and mouldy root,
by the hallowed scion of the cuckold’s wing and the bubbled toad,
All, all are slain, and I am slain with them!
Oh woe is me, that I should die here.
And yet, tis oddly fitting, for twas here I first saw myself.
But no more; I ascend now, my transcendence forced upon me.