Saturday, 29 October 2016

Grilled Cheese

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey-O. So, I know I promised no more NOTES, but there's something very important you need to see at the top of my Facebook page (Jordan Waverman). It's only take you two minutes; I have it pinned to the top. So, if you read this blog even semi-regularly, please check. That is all.
Grilled cheese

Grilled Cheese


Crust salty
Crust crispy


Grilled Cheese 

Monday, 17 October 2016

Concerning Delight

The dawn this morn was beautiful,
it rose a pallid grey,
a wan light of fog and tints
settled on the day.

It looked like it must,
by necessity,
have been crafted by design.

I delighted in its feel,
and my pen began to stray.

I should have wrote on bio,
on math and le Fran├žais,
but instead I wrote this poem
on the glory of the day.

I cannot sketch, nor photos take,
and so hoped to capture this sight,
in my web of words and authorial might.

But seagulls caw, and students rumble,
and I must depart;
and all that's left, of this day,
is a mayhap work of art.

Ode to the Fountain pen

I love the way
your lines look, 
so crisp upon the page.

I love the way
your well runs dry,
suddenly and without pain.

I love the way
I top you off,
not a drop of waste.

I love the way
my heart soars,
when I hold you in my grasp.

But most of all
I love you,
my chosen writing path.

Sunday, 16 October 2016

The Interstellar Turkey

It’s a gun-carrying, goggle-wearing, gosh darn Turkey,
Come to our plane from twenty away,
As it zapped through our skies there was fire in its eyes,
For it had come with a plan to put in play.

It had been ridiculed and laughed at for its stance,
And had come for dimensional closure;
It has come to our plane from very far away
To prove to its kith we exist!

It appears in a flash of light and sound,
A being of paradoxes, round and round,
It stands in darkened street, joyous and free,
A silent shadow unknown to you and me.

Oh, tis the Interstellar Turkey,
Come to us from lands unknown,
A delicious desperado
From a faraway home!
Come for pain or come for joy,
What will this foodstuff find on board?

It ignores what would be its home,
If it called our plane such fine things,
And sets out to the one spot where all lore congregates;
The library, a home for all and place of peace,
Where lore and truth, and knowledge meet.

It is spotted by a creature most bizarre;
One of us, from not that far!
A human possessed of insatiable curio,
To explore, to find, to deturkify!

But as she reaches for the being,
Lightning strikes, thunder groans.
And she is sent to places strange,
A land of complexity, insanity and pain.

Oh, tis the Interstellar Turkey,
Come to us from lands unknown,
A delicious desperado
From a faraway home!
Come for pain or come for joy,
What will this foodstuff find on board?

Scared of beings it does not know,
The turkey flees, and flies along the ley
Through the interstellar grey,
It takes the fastest way.

It sneaks in, save for one incident,
Which prudence bars me to admit.
And using it dimensional weaponry,
It cloaks itself, inside a plane.

And when it reaches the technosphere,
It pulls from its pouch a thing most queer;
A storage device of infinite capacity,
To gather all, every piece!
Oh, tis the Interstellar Turkey,
Come to us from lands unknown,
A delicious desperado
From a faraway home!
Come for pain or come for joy,
What will this foodstuff find on board?

It copies all our information,
Including the most unsavoury,
And it prepares to depart in close time,
For an assault of the most wicked kind.

Agents opposed to growth of lore,
Chase the turkey out the door,
Down the streets through existential fury,
As the being zaps in an all encompassing hurry.

It realizes its escape just in time,
Jumping through the realms of space
One step ahead of its pursuer’s pace,
This turkey has gone to a peculiar place!

Oh, tis the Interstellar Turkey,
Come to us from lands unknown,
A delicious desperado
From a faraway home!
Come for pain or come for joy,
What will this foodstuff find ashore?

Friday, 14 October 2016

The Flesh Clockwork

Round and round,
like clockwork,
the biological machine goes.
A construct of flesh,
unfeeling and repetitive,
possessed by gears and cogs.
And such pain it brings,
a fiery burn created
by a lack of it.
The biological machine,
the flesh clockwork,
a manifestation of frustration.

Monday, 10 October 2016

The Dimensioneer (Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!)

In 1921, the theoretical physicist Oskar Klein posited that there was a fifth universe out there, one curled up within our own; a billionth-of-a-trillionth-trillionth centimeter. Later physicists, obsessed with the existence of string-theory, posited that there were at least seven alternate universes, invisible to our eyes or senses. Whether they were right, or how right they were, is of no particular interest to us; though I can tell you that they did not see the whole story, I cannot elaborate. There are beings, beings whom I cannot describe to you nor can you comprehend them, and I shall not try. And these beings, having come and… well… Never you mind. In the long and short of it, there are things within these universes, things which can move between the walls of reality.
In the 23rd Dimension, a being stood over what it would consider a table, crafting a device of its own design. It worked carefully, cautiously, knowing how much would be at stake if it failed to produce the device safely. The sweat trickled slowly down its many brows, and it worked many hours into the night at once.
I will no regale you with the complex steps the creature enacted to produce the various components of its creation, but shall offer some small elucidation on the reasons for them. You see, this being was a professor at the University of Vingtithomisson and, having been challenged on certain interdimensional theories it had posited, desired to prove itself correct through practical evidence. This was a chancy experiment, as dimensionology is a notoriously difficult field to provide practical results for, but the being was determined.
At last it had compiled its device, a vast and complex machine which, due to existing in the 23rd dimension, is indescribable here. It placed it in the centre of its study, near the cyclopean desk but separate from the grasping, all-encompassing wires which wrapped around and through the walls. The being stood itself in front of the device, proud. It stood for a few moments, but then sprang back into action. It had important work to do; it didn’t have time for dilly-dallying.
It entered the portal, traveling through the dimensions. They flew by on either side, shrinking in size and density, and number of sides. It traveled through 20 of them before finding one which looked promising; it had a small number of sides, but was different enough that its validity as a distinct dimension could not be questioned.
It emerged into the third dimension, stepping calmly into the side alley that it had picked to materialize in. It was unconcerned about the physics of the new dimension, as it was a master of 374 varieties of math and so had prepared itself for all the dimensions in advance. It looked up the hill, to wear its house of this dimension existed. It was pleased to see the 3rd dimension owners shared the same sense of eccentricity as the being, but it would not bother them; interdimensional stories were confusing enough with the one character, nevermind multiples of the same.
It checked that its dimensional gun, which would also serve as a fast getaway if need be, was primed, and set off. It was headed towards the library, to see what this plane’s history was like; by its own calculations, spatial disturbances such as the number of lines and angles in a given plane should result in the local populace pursuing radically separate paths of geometric movement.
It had to enter onto a main thoroughfare to reach its target, and as it did so it found itself very surprised by what it found. Instead of the dominant lifeforms of its dimension, there were hundreds of unintelligent slavelings wandering about. It vaguely considered the possibility of a lackadaisical species employing slave to do its business, before an action occurred which made it very much unlikely. A little slaveling, traveling about with its parent, pointed at the being and remarked; “Mommy, why is that turkey wearing goggles and carrying a space laser?”
Now, this would indicate to even the stupidest of beings that you were not common wherever you were, and this particular being (whose nomenclature, it must belatedly be noted, was Theodore Martense) was no fool; it had 374 phDs. Theodore immediately backed into a nearby alley, growing increasingly concerned as the mother commented “I don’t know, let’s ask it.”
Making sure it was well out of sight from the main thoroughfare (slavelings were known to panic when presented with something they didn’t understand, and the ones of these dimensions appeared especially idiotic), Theodore considered its options. This considering was cut short, however, as the pair entered the alley. Noting that the being was cornered, the woman reached down to pick it up, all the while making “shushing” noises and bizarre “gobble gobbles…”?
“Now, what are you doing here?” She asked holding him up to her face. Thinking fast (thank G-D it had taken its 291st phD, Spontaneous Physicarithmetics), it commented; “Greetings madam, my name is Doctor Theodore Martense, phD, Professor of Dimensionology at the University of Vingtithomisson, and I’m here proving my field.”
Startled the woman dropped it, backing up and giving the Professor enough time to prime and fire its dimensional gun; in a flash, the woman and her daughter vanished, transported to somewhere in the 6th dimension. The being felt sad, as it knew that the shock of a new dimension would typically drive the unprepared insane in minutes, but it had to be done; there was no telling what the locals did to turkeys here.
It realized, of course, that it could not take a main street if it wanted to reach the library without vaporizing half the city, and so it switched the gears on its gun to create a wormhole. This saddened it, as it meant it would miss the sights of this reality, but it had no choice. It teleported into the bathroom of the library, surprising a man washing his hands. Theodore took advantage of the spatial feedback created by its weapon to blast and knock out the man; with luck, he would think it was only a bad dream.
It reversed the gears on its weapon, which allowed it to create a mini-pocket dimension about itself (oh, the myriad uses of dimensional technology), then snuck quietly into the library. It didn’t want to take any chances. It approached one of the computers, an unused one.
Theodore reached for the underside of the rifle, and popped off the package placed there. It thanked its best friend, the professor of IT at the university, under its breath. It then attached the ISB (Infinite Serial Bus; similar to a USB but infinite) to the appropriate spot in the third dimensional hard drive, and began downloading. The device copied everything off the interweb in moments (including, horrifically and unbeknownst to the being, all the YouTube comments), and stored it properly.
Giddy with the success of its mission, Theodore removed the ISB and put it back into its proper spot, but then paused. In the dark and quiet of the library, it had heard something. Three people in trench coats approached it, talking amongst themselves. One held a scanner, but Theodore didn’t think it should be nervous. They couldn’t see it, surely?
“The signals are this way, and close. You might want to take your revolvers out.”
Theodore was, as mentioned, a genius, and as such quickly ascertained that what the man held was a crude Dimensional Distortion Monitor similar to, but much worse than, the one in its own lab. Not knowing what “revolvers” were, and not caring to find out, Theodore took off.
“It’s running; get it!” The man shouted. The three withdrew guns (ohh… So that’s what revolvers are!) and chased after Theodore. Switching back into its weapons first form (and consequently appearing in the 3rd dimension), Theodore sighted on the door, blasting it into the 7th dimension.
It raced uncaring down main street, not stopping at the gasps of the locals (both as the noticed it and as those who were in its way got hurled into another dimension), nor even pausing when its noticed signs advertising “Thanksgiving Turkeys” in various shopkeepers’ windows (it had guessed, from the minute it saw the slavelings walking about free, that they had likely revolted against their former overlords some millennia ago, and now barbarically consumed them; likely this had happened so far back that its species had regressed to a basic state, and the knowledge of their former greatness was now lost to both the turkeys and their consumers. In fact, Theodore would even have bet that if any slaveling eventually read its memoir that they would laugh at the notion of turkey superiority, and consider the idea absurd).
One of the woman in the coats overtook her companions, sighting down the length of her small gun and firing off several shots at Theodore. “Wait, we need it alive!” Her companion commanded.
Not caring for what would happen to it if taken alive, Theodore aimed its gun and returned fire (thankful that it had paid attention in its 177th phD on Advanced Interdimensional Propulsions and Trajectories), inverting dimensional space around the woman and causing her to implode violently. The shock of showering guts caused her untrained companions (clearly they didn’t have the centuries long experience Theodore did) to pause, giving it a small lead. As another pair of people in coats materialized a short distance away from the chase and pulled something long, wiry, and not at all safe-looking out from their coats, Theodore realized it needed to get away.   
It aimed its gun forward, changed it to the dimension setting and, not caring where it ended up, fired. It vanished suddenly, leaving the four agents standing about it and very confused. “Captain d’Mon won’t be having a happy thanksgiving,” one commented morosely.

Not far away, two elderly and semi-omniscient police officers who had worked the original disappearance of Theodore Martense over 50 years ago, sat on a park bench feeling vindicated. “And they laughed at us in ‘The Traveler in P’Mar’* when we theorized that it was fowl play at work! They laughed! Well, who's laughing now, you comedic fools?!"
*'The Traveler in P'Mar' can be found in February, 2016

Thursday, 6 October 2016

Where the Grass Grows Dead

FINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just one last reminder, guys, that any future AUTHOR'S NOTES (including the actual one for this story), will be released via my associated Facebook account (Jordan Waverman, or you can use the link in the blog description). So if you really like the context for the story, or want to keep up to date on information, check there. You don't even have to like it. You just have to look at it.Now that I've wasted a ton of your time, please enjoy this small (and bad) poem.

In the north of the city,
near its centre,
there lies a field.

This is not a field of man,
nor machine,
but one of nature.

Which , by chance or fate,
has gone unperturbed by such
destruction as man could inflict.

It is dead, this field,
an ocean of brown grass,
sorrowful in its movements;

it whips about in the winds,
silently keening its song,
a song of movements.

A song of swirling blades,
and shattered dreams,
in the place where the grass grows dead.

Saturday, 1 October 2016

In the Pursuit of Fate

So, I pushed myself and succeeded in an idea I'd been mulching on for a while. It's one of those 'choose your own stories' stories (there's actually a different name for them, but that one is copyrighted). I should mention that I will be shortening these AUTHOR'S NOTES, as I remembered I have a Facebook page (mentioned in the top description) where I can post all those interesting facts that cluttered up the last story. I'll try to get the others out soon, promise.

Please click on the link for the story, and tell me if you like it. This one was just as long as the other ones I've been writing, but much easier to write. If you like this style of story, I could easily* do it again. Note that the length and nature of this one makes it impossible to link it to one of the pages I've been using, but it wouldn't have been linked to something anyways. Future ones might be, though.

*So I say now.