The Contradictite

[Note: This was written for the 31st Annual Geauga Park District Nature Writing Contest. It did not win. I happened to like it, but I'm partial. What do you think?] Just an ordinary traveler leading an ordinary horse by an ordinary rein, walking down an ordinary path through an ordinary forest to see an ordinary statue in the heart of an ordinary wood. The statue was called Our Lady of the Forest , because nobody knew what else to call it, for it was a copper statue of a lady, flowers in her hair, her hand outstretched, her foot stepping back, as if she was bidding some beau adieu before his potentially fatal battle with a dragon or a war between his king and someone else's. There was no inscription, no apparent signature, and over the years, the elements became as much of a contributor to the sculpture as the original sculptor had. In her hand was a nest, her fingers curled enough to keep the bundle of sticks and straw from blowing in the gentle breezes of the woods. At her fe...

Aurora found Zephyrillium hiding in a tree. She flew over to him and sat next to him on the branch. At first he didn’t notice her as he peered between the gaps in the maple leaves, but when he saw her leaning over and looking, he only pressed his finger to his lips. “What are you watching?” she whispered to him after an uncomfortable silence. He glared at her and shushed her again, but after yet another uncomfortable silence, once he realized that she wasn’t going to leave, he whispered back, “Humans.” He pushed aside some leaves and with a narrow finger pointed down at a pair of humans walking along the path below the tree. “I’m observing them.” Aurora watched the two humans go. One carried a large stick, and the other one looked at a map. “How could anybody get by without wings?” she wondered aloud. Zephyrillium readied to shush her again, but stopped. Aurora’s attention was now entirely on the humans. He cleared his throat. “I think they’re used to it,” he said. “I’ve been observing...

Audrey stepped up over the hill, Roger limping behind her. “There’s a stump over there,” she said. “Sit down for a while.” He hobbled over to the stump and took a seat. “I guess I just missed that last step,” he said. He held his foot and rotated it, feeling for where it hurt. “I don’t think anything’s broken.” Audrey looked out over the hill. It overlooked the woods, the trails disappearing under their protective branches. “Take your time,” she said. “The view is wonderful.” Roger looked up from his foot. “Yeah.” Audrey looked all the way around, but stopped short in the middle of her rotation. “What do you suppose that is?” she said, pointing to a bunch of sticks piled up against one another. They formed a sort of pyramid, with the tops of each stick nestled among the others.  Roger craned his neck to see. “Oh?” he said. “It looks like a wickiup. That, or maybe someone got bored stacking sticks.” He rubbed his ankle. “Could you see if any of those would make a good walking stick?...

[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...

[Author's Note: This was written for the 25th Annual Geauga Parks District Nature Writing Contest. It did not place. I'm sharing it here anyway, because I happen to like it.] “This here is a century tree,” said the chipmunk, patting the trunk next to him. “And boy has it withstood the passages of time. They don’t plant them like this anymore, I tell you.” Hazel looked up the tree. She held her bushy tail in her left paw and Walter’s paw in her other. “I don’t know,” she said. “You said the previous owners were owls?” The chipmunk chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “But they’re long gone. Left one great hollow, I tell you. And when you look out the hole, it’s like you’re looking at your own private park.” Hazel looked over to Walter. He took a moment before realizing that she was looking at him. “What?” he said. “Don’t you think,” she said, “that owls having lived here might be a concern?” Walter watched the leaves blowing in the breeze. “They don’t live here anymore, do they...

[Author's Note: This was my entry for the Geauga Park District's 25th Annual Nature Writing Contest. It did not place at all. Still, I liked it, so here it is.] It comes clear, with no cut for perfection The introduction of a companion cut by selection: Cousin to Yggdrasil, or the rainforest in Brazil Cut half empty, and I’m left half full Of the shame for sharing the blame Of taking the same and making it plane: Lumber for houses and structures is the name of the game. Sure, we need shelter, else we’re helter skelter Without a roof over our heads, no walls. Then we’re dead. But when we replace a space of trees with inedible grass Our iconoclast finds its way to the head of its indelible class. Our world tree is whirled free, and no longer is my hurled plea Heard, not a word, and no branches are left to encircle me. So, put down the axe, and relax your backs, For I’m not cutting back, I’m cutting no slack, I’m coming to you here like Seuss’ Lorax. “I speak for...

[Author's Note: This story was written for the Geauga Park District's 24th Annual Nature Writing Contest. It received first place.] Jim carried Violet on his shoulders as they walked toward the forest. She was getting bigger, and soon  the fairytales would be nothing more than stories. Soon, the magic of nature would be revealed merely as sleight of hand. "What do you hope to see today?" he asked her. "I want to see squirrels," she said. "We have squirrels in our backyard," he said. "I like these squirrels better," she said. "What about you?" "I like the pond," he said. "Sometimes you see a turtle." "Do you think we'll see a fairy?" she asked. Jim shrugged. "They're hard to see. They might not even be in this forest." "Oh," she said. "We'll still see a squirrel, right?" "We'll try," he said. They went deeper into the woods...

[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 ...

[Author's Note: This story was written for the Geauga Park District's 22nd Annual Nature Writing Contest. For one reason or another, it did not win. Perhaps it was a bit too dark?] Barry had decided to treat himself to a challenge. His hiking boots were now broken in, so when he picked his route through the woods, he picked one he had never done before. It promised lots of up- and down-hill steps, narrow paths, and the best thing of all: complete solitude. As he walked down the trail, he took in the fresh smells of spring. The earth was loamy with a recent rain. That, mixed with the scent of maple and pine energized him on his trek. He took a deep breath, enjoying it. When he reached the top of a hill, he rested beside a gulch and took a moment to appreciate the engulfing nature. He closed his eyes and listened. He listened to the wind rustling the leaves, the birds calling in the distance, and the panicked meows of a cat. That didn’t seem right. He listened again. Sure...