The Contradictite

Ivor Messing stood over the map of the world. His workers, minions, milled about in the back, moving this piece of equipment here, or that gizmo there. Ivor studied the map, a real-time geographical map depicting notable points of interest on the globe, a long-stemmed cigarette holder clutched in his mouth. Something glowed in the arctic. He squinted his eyes and wondered if that was where Yelena's ice palace was hidden. Based on the color of the dot, it was quite interesting indeed. Interesting to an evil genius who dabbled in global domination, someone quite a bit like Ivor. He smiled, puffing smoke from the nostrils of his pointed nose. "Sir?" someone said, derailing his mental maniacal machinations. He looked over. It was Manny "Southpaw" Sousa, his most loyal henchman. His glare of irritation went to a kinder look of friendly annoyance. "Yes?" he said. Manny held a manilla envelope in his left hand. Bits of snow still clung to its outside. He hand...

[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 was written for the fourth and final week of the /r/Fantasy NaNoWriMo Short Fiction Writing Contest in 2017. This one won, but I blame that on the fact that week four was underplayed. The theme was buildings that are alive.] The tower slept. It pulsated in the moonlight, snoring and swaying in the darkness. I grabbed onto the lowest jutting brick and began my ascent. The wind blew, and I clutched to my hold as I climbed. I dared not use a spike for fear of waking the tower. I climbed and clung for hours. My hands were ragged and raw, my arms burned and ached. Halfway up the side, a flock of pigeons flew by. I lost my grip on corner, and only by grabbing the window ledge was I spared from one last leap. I took a few breaths before bringing my other hand up. After a short break dangling there, I resumed my climb. At the top, I pulled myself over the ledge. I did my best to clean the grit and stone from my bloody hands, wiping them with a stinging alcohol cl...

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.