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The Contradictite

The Collected Writings of Jacob P. Silvia.

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email: jacob.silvia@gmail.com

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Ten Minutes

[Author's Note: I wrote this poem in ten minutes as part of my college Creative Writing class, and tried to make it as confusing as possible.] As a needle throws steeds to stead or seeds to the wind (or wind) of the clock, A voice drolls from the closet, a robed ward with a voice. Freely a plague upon the teeth (avoid such a mishap) surely Will put you in need of deconstructive registry. ‘Tis better to have lathered, rinsed and repeated and then to get Dirty and stained, swimming amongst blackberry bushes, Than to have never washed at all. Mother tells me stuff and she sells me tough, For cannibals don’t enjoy skin & bones (bins and stones), Aside from to lick the marrow, and use the remainder as a spoonerism.

Birdseed

["We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand." - Cecil Day-Lewis] How do you explain death to a kid? I mean, it’s one thing to swat a fly or squash a spider, and it’s completely another to explain why the goldfish stopped swimming around and now just bobs at the top of the bowl. Why did kitty fall asleep, and when will she wake up? When will grandma get back from heaven? But to explain death, as in, you’re going to die. You have less than three months. The doctor’s don’t know how to fix it. This is it. You’ll find out where all those flies and spiders and fish and kitties and grandmas went. But how do you explain that to somebody who doesn’t even understand life? Eating, sleeping, playing, Ninja Turtles . How do you go from that to hospital beds and drip bags and monitors and doctors and nurses and needles and charts? My wife and I talked, off hand, before any of this was a reality. What would we do if he was diagnosed with some terminal illnes...

The Dog

[Author's Note: This is a tripartite triolet based on the painting Peasant Wedding by Peter Bruegel the Elder. It's about the dog on the right side of the painting.] At the wedding, the dog sits under the tables, Hungry and excited and looking for attention It is the member of a popular fable: “At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Always ready, always able, Awaiting a bit of crust’s descension. At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Hungry and excited and looking for attention.” There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. Like a dog, it’s constantly pining, There it sits, growling, whining, Beady dog eyes always shining, Up until it’s dead. There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. That it likes people, to lick their hands, To sniff them, to know them Shows that from many, it demands That it likes people, to lick their hands, Or lay about in the floor’s sands, To haw or to hem That it likes people, ...

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Dandelion Junction

[Author's Note: This was my submission for the Geauga Park District's 26th Annual Nature Writing Contest . It received Honorable Mention.] The strangest place I’ve ever seen a dandelion grow is out from between two bricks in a wall. At one time, a mud wasp must have built a nest in the groove, and a dandelion seed must have landed there, taken up root, and started to grow. And there it was when I found it, yellow face to the sun, ready to take on the world as if to say: “I’m in a weird place right now, but I really want to live!” We call them “dandelions,” a word which we get from the French, which means “lion’s tooth,” named after the fact that the leaves have coarse teeth, much like its namesake. Other common names include blowball , priest’s-crown , doon-head-clock , witch’s gowan , and cankerwort . Scientists refer to the entire genus as Taraxacum , a word we get from Arabic, meaning “bitter herb.” If you’re at all familiar with Passover, there is a practice during which yo...

Ten Minutes

[Author's Note: I wrote this poem in ten minutes as part of my college Creative Writing class, and tried to make it as confusing as possible.] As a needle throws steeds to stead or seeds to the wind (or wind) of the clock, A voice drolls from the closet, a robed ward with a voice. Freely a plague upon the teeth (avoid such a mishap) surely Will put you in need of deconstructive registry. ‘Tis better to have lathered, rinsed and repeated and then to get Dirty and stained, swimming amongst blackberry bushes, Than to have never washed at all. Mother tells me stuff and she sells me tough, For cannibals don’t enjoy skin & bones (bins and stones), Aside from to lick the marrow, and use the remainder as a spoonerism.

Conversing With Myself

[Authors Note: This is one of my earliest published pieces. It was originally published in August of 2000 in Between The Lines Literary Magazine , an online publication dedicated to literature and art written by high school students.] One day, while wasting a weekend doing pretty much nothing, I was looking for something simple to occupy myself with. I walked past the mirror, but I didn't walk past the mirror on the other side. I was just standing there, looking at myself walking by. I was laughing. I looked like an idiot too. I asked myself, "What are you laughing at?" I replied, "You! Look at you! You have all this time that could be used doing things! You could be drawing, working, writing, playing, talking to people, or any other moderately useful thing, and here you are, just wandering around aimlessly, trying to waste time!" I looked at myself oddly. "What are you talking about? Why is that funny?" I responded, looking myself straight i...

The Dog

[Author's Note: This is a tripartite triolet based on the painting Peasant Wedding by Peter Bruegel the Elder. It's about the dog on the right side of the painting.] At the wedding, the dog sits under the tables, Hungry and excited and looking for attention It is the member of a popular fable: “At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Always ready, always able, Awaiting a bit of crust’s descension. At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Hungry and excited and looking for attention.” There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. Like a dog, it’s constantly pining, There it sits, growling, whining, Beady dog eyes always shining, Up until it’s dead. There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. That it likes people, to lick their hands, To sniff them, to know them Shows that from many, it demands That it likes people, to lick their hands, Or lay about in the floor’s sands, To haw or to hem That it likes people, ...

The Life Bird

[Author's Note: This story was written for the Geauga Park District's 23rd Annual Nature Writing Contest. It received second place.] Melody drove. Jack sat beside her, polishing the lenses of his antique binoculars. He squinted while he did so, feeling for the lens caps after he had finished each lens. The binoculars smelled like dust and oiled leather. “Dad,” she said after an uncomfortable silence. “I’m worried about you. I think it’s time you moved in with Doug and I.” He said nothing. “I just want what’s best for you,” she said. After a moment, he said, “I can take care of myself.” She sighed. “I know you can, Dad,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to. We have the space. You can have your own bachelor pad.” She nudged him on the shoulder with her fist. He looked down at his binoculars. He wiggled his wedding band with his thumb. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Fine,” she said. They were making progress. “What are you hoping to see today?” Jack took a ...

Angry Goose

[Author's Note: I wrote this for the second week of /r/Fantasy's NaNoWriMo short story contest. Once again, I did not win. The theme was a knight battles an angry goose.] The king sat upon his throne, his face a mask of worry. His eyes brightened a sliver when he saw me enter. I kneeled to him. “Rise, Sir Galloway,” he said. “I have a pressing matter that requires your unique faculties.” “Anything, your grace.” He twirled his beard with his hand. “A drake, Sir Galloway, has taken Princess Ranunculus. He holds her hostage, and demands half my treasury for her ransom.” I considered this predicament. “A vicious drake?” “An *angry* drake,” he said. “Please, Sir Knight, rescue my daughter and I shall give you her hand in marriage.” “I pleasant notion, your grace,” I said. “Consider it done. By your leave.” I left with a bow. I made my way to the stables to regain my horse. I checked the edge of my sword before riding off at full tilt. I searched the grasslands for ...

Cabbages and Kings

[Author's Note: This story has been released to the Public Domain under the CC0 license. The full version may be read here .] "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." Lewis Carroll, "The Walrus and the Carpenter" Gladwell once wrote: Cabbages and Kings To G.G. Thanks for helping me write this. But: Things were not right with the universe. Chapters Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Welcome

Welcome to the Contradictite. This blog is dedicated to sharing my writings. What follows is a collection of the stories (and some poems) I have written. Enjoy! All works are available under the CC-BY-SA license.

Cephalostate, Chapter 1

Phoenix From the Ashes In the depths of space, a giant alien thrashed her legs. Pouring into the cold vacuum, her blood formed tiny spheres as it rushed from her wound. She had been injured. This much was true. Placing a claw to her wound, trying to stop the flow, she realized it was futile for her. She would have to find a safe locale. She would have to find a safe harbor to lay her egg. Her life was over, but a new life still had a chance. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a blue/green planet. It was inviting, and not too far away. She would be able to make it if she tried. Moving her array of limbs, she flew closer to the planet. Soon she felt the pull of the world surround her. She eased back on her accelerating, allowing gravity to do the work. Looking at the largely proportioned moon associated with this planet, she saw a large glob of her blood eclipse this satellite. This was her last bit of blood. She was going to die soon. Her dying regret was that the egg ha...

Alias Becky

Jordan Stiles sat in the chair, overlooking the central chamber of the space station Mastock. He made a few remarks with his pen upon his notebook. Setting down the pen, he spoke into a nearby recorder. “I am speaking with the creatures known as BEK-102, alias Becky. Today, we are going to discuss the creature’s past.” He flipped on the intercom leading into the central chamber. “Good morning, Becky. How are you this fine day?” A voice, sounding like many voices, ranging from male to female, young to old, connected to detached, human to animal: “I am doing well, Doctor Stiles. And yourself?” Jordan looked at the giant eye staring back at him through the glass. “I am doing well. Nothing to speak of.” “It is good that you are doing well.” Jordan made a few notes. “Becky, in our last conversation, you mentioned that you were a Demon. Would you please elaborate on this?” “In my world, Doctor Stiles, there are creatures slanted towards good and creatures slanted towards evil. Th...