Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

Here's a little hint, guys: IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH TRANSFORMERS. There's more to the riddle than meets the eye. (Oh, dear, a bad pun.) Honestly, though, you guys are overthinking it. Especially you, Tekulo. Wow. The answer isn't a punchline; the cars were literally disco dancing, and I'm asking you how this can be. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I think fictional locations are entirely prohibited. Although, you could easily enough pick a planet other than Earth and give to it whatever name you want, because logically the inhabitants wouldn't refer to it by the name of a Greek myth. Unless you were thinking along the lines of an alternate dimension or using a Star Wars world, that could probably serve the same purpose for you.And whatever you do, note that I wasn't serious when I said you could wait until the last minute. ;P From the desk of Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Today, all the cars on the road were disco dancing. How . . . and why? Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Chapter Two Saved "Never give up without a fight." - From the inscription on General Iroh's souvenir dagger I was ready to wake up from my dream. But apparently gunshots didn't work as effectively as pinches.Jenny turned her face away from the gun to look down at me. She stared at me in shock and horror. "Jacob--I'm so sorry." And she closed her eyes."Good-bye, Avatar," hissed the man with the mustache. "It ends here."Jenny's eyes snapped open. They burned with an intense blue glow. She sprang away from me, and where she landed a pillar of fire erupted, lifting her far above our heads.The mustached man tutted and uplifted the gun toward her. "I was hoping it would be a little more challenging than this," he sighed.But before he could pull the trigger a second time, there was a screech, and a small brown-and-black shape collided with his extended arm. He cried out, dropping the gun as the shape hissed and wriggled, clinging to his sleeve. Finally he dislodged the shape and threw it off his arm.Above, Jenny still hovered, eyes glowing. Now she thrust forth her hands, and fire streamed from her fingertips. The jet struck the mustached man head-on. He went flying. I heard splintering wood, an abrupt rip, and a splash. Vaguely I saw the brown-and-black shape streak across the lawn in pursuit.The pillar of flame lowered downward, to dissipate entirely as Jenny's feet touched the ground and her eyes lost their unearthly glow. She fell onto her hands and knees in the grass with a gasp."What--what just happened?" she moaned."Well," I wheezed, "you showed me your magic, we were chased by an unfriendly hockey team, I was shot, you turned into a dragon, the guy with the mustache got attacked by a--""Shot!" Jenny repeated, as if she had forgotten and suddenly remembered. She scrambled to my side, putting a hand gingerly over my wound. "No--no! This is all my fault! You shouldn't have--That bullet was meant for me!"I forced a smile in spite of the pain that throbbed in my chest with every beat of my heart. "Finders keepers."A heard a high, thin voice, choked with the gravel of age. "He's gone. Vanished. Again."Jenny and I looked up. An old man minced rapidly across the yard toward us. With no hair atop his head and his wrinkled face shrouded by a long white beard, he looked like a monk. But in a large trench coat, he looked more like detective Monk."Oh--please!" Jenny pleaded. "Help him! He's been shot! Call 911!"The old man stood over me. Gazing sadly down at me, he shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do. It's too late.""No!" cried Jenny. "It can't be!""But you can save him, Avatar.""What? Me?" Jenny looked up into the man's face. "How? Please--I'll do whatever I can! Tell me how!""You know how. You have done it many times.""What are you talking about? Done what?""Bend the water from your canteen into your hands. Then press it to the wound.""How will water help?""Just do it."Jenny obeyed. She opened the canteen and conjured the water from it. "Now what?""Heal him.""But how?""Calm your mind. You must relieve yourself of tension. Do not rush yourself.""Yeah, no hurry, Jenny. Take your time. It's not like I'm dying, or anything.""Be silent, if you wish to live," the man growled. To Jenny, he continued, "Look inside, and you will remember."Jenny closed her eyes and slowly inhaled, and exhaled. Then she pressed her hands to my chest. I winced as the water touched my wound. For an instant, it stung; then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another glow, and my wound began to numb. The pain ebbed away. It felt as if a hole in my body was being filled--which was probably exactly what was happening. When, moments later, she helped me to sit up, there was nothing left but a round tear in my shirt. The blood had been washed away, and the skin was unbroken and smooth. Even my acne had been cleared."You're all right!" Jenny exulted, pulling me into a tight hug."Thanks to you.""I thought that you were--""Not me. Luckily, my heart was still in my throat, so the bullet missed."Jenny looked up at the second mysterious man in dire need of a shave we had seen that day. "Thank you so much!""I did nothing. It was you who healed him.""Well," I proposed, "now that we're all happy and healed and out of imminent life-threatening peril, how about an explanation? For starters, who for the love of Mike are you?"The man stroked his beard and said slowly, "My name is Wuqing.""Bless you.""But the Avatar knows me better by a different name."Jenny groaned. "But I've never met you before in my life! Why do random people keep saying they know me?""My name, as you are familiar with it, is Thomas.""I don't know any--"Her words were cut off by a sharp gasp as the man before us faded into thin air, as if he had been only a mirage. In his place stood a cat, a tabby of brown and black pelt, whom I recognized as none other than Jenny's own pet. At last I was convinced it was all just a dream."Tommy?" Jenny stared in disbelief. "But--how--?"In my dreams, it has never surprised me when animals start talking or calling me Kevin. I just shrugged my shoulders as the cat emitted a long, high mew; somewhere between its throat and our ears, the sound transfigured into English. "I was sent to you and your family to watch over, guide and protect the Avatar. We knew that, after your return, it was only a matter of time before you were hunted down.""By the mustache-guy," I surmised.The cat nodded. "Precisely.""But who sent you?" asked Jenny. "What are you?""I was sent here from the Spirit World."I said, "Oh, so you're a ghost, to boot.""Indeed.""But that doesn't explain who that man with the mustache was, or why he wants to kill me, or what it means that I'm the Avatar!"The cat beckoned with his tail. "There is much I must tell you. But this is not the place. Come with me." He turned and bounded away across the yard, pausing with raised paw for us to follow.Jenny stood up. She began to follow, then turned to look at me. "So--are you coming with us?" She added, "You don't have to. I mean--obviously, there's someone out to--to kill me. This will be dangerous."I climbed to my feet after her. "You trusted me enough to show me your secret. I won't let you down. After all, you'll need me to keep you out of trouble." I shrugged. "And if I get shot again, you can always splash more water on me."She smiled and ran to catch up to Wuqing. I followed, though with less enthusiasm."Great!" I murmured to myself. "To recapitulate: I found out that my friend is a witch; we got chased by an angry hockey team and a crazy guy with a mustache and a gun who shot me; Jenny went pyromaniac; and finally, we were saved by a werecat ghost who taught her to heal me. And now he's taking us to his secret catcave, or maybe the Spirit World, or maybe a retirement home. " I sighed. "My life was far less complicated an hour ago." Review Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I use archaicisms chiefly for comical effect and therefore was not trying to implement proper grammar. Moreover, uplift has a physical as well as a spiritual sense, though I admit it's a moderately unconventional way to use the word. Besides that, this is my web log. ;D Only I and other similarly annoying green people are allowed to sass me. Seriously though, I appreciate the offer. However, I think that with five writers to watch out for mistakes, we'll get along fine. Thanks anyway. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I PARRY THINE GRAPHITE WITHEST MY GIRAFFE! . . . That can't be right. Okay, you're in. But I'll have to carefully analyze your style and skill level and insure that you're of a worthy level. Glad to have you! Don't make me regret it. Welcome to the team! >:K Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

When I want a haircut, I just plug the toilet drain, switch on a waterproof razor, drop it in the toilet, flush, and stick my head in. I then wash (very) thoroughly in the shower, and done. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

For the past few weeks, cradled gently in the center of a modest web, an arachnid has hung in my writing window. I have watched him, day after day, week after week, setting upon the prey that flies unwittingly into his net, or rocking in the breeze. I have seen the dew drops hang from each glistening strand in the growing sunlight. I have watched the great care with which he tends his home, strengthening and expanding it diurnally with fresh threads of silk, or carefully cutting loose fallen leaves that drifted to his front door. But I have also witnessed the hardships which he endures for his precious homestead. I have seen it torn apart by wind, only to be reconstructed and reinforced. I have seen him repairing the damages made by globules of rain. Perhaps most impressive was the rainstorm that hit us last night. The rain was torrential, and when I went to bed there was neither sign of silk nor spider, and I was afraid the poor fellow had finally given up the ghost. I did not expect to see him again. But when I looked late night morn, there he was, nestled with great pride at the center of his largest, strongest and most ornate web yet, each strand glimmering majestically in the sunlight. I think there's a lot to be said for this little crawly who might not, after all, be quite so creepy. And I think he says it all himself through his valor and perseverence. Though difficult his task be; yet he does it anyway. Though it will all have to be done again; yet he does it anyway. Though delicate his dwelling be, though perilous his life be; yet he never desponds and he never gives up. He just keeps on working with great personal esteem for what he does. And after each job well done, he revels in the simple glories of the sunrise and sunset, the simple joys of each meal when the wait for it is over. To him his web is not a bane, but a pleasure; a source of great happiness. It may be the life allotted to him, it may be the only life he knows; but does that not mean, consequentially, that it is the only life he loves and enjoys? I think from the conduct of this small creature there is a great lesson to be learned in many ways. And I think that, when next we roll up that newspaper or brandish that fly swatter, we might all do well to pause and reconsider the action we are about to take. How much more magnanimous it would be to fetch a glass and slip of paper, and to carefully relocate the creature to the outdoors, where he will be out of our hair, and we out of its. After all: if we cannot be kind in the small things . . . how can we be in the big? Postscript. The most ironic twist of fate has just been played on me to further ingrain in me this lesson. After writing this whole entry, with a few mistaken clicks I deleted in its entirety, along with quite a bit more work that I had done. At first I was very frustrated, but as soon as I realized the hypocrite I was being, I could not help but laugh at myself. And you know what? It was my pleasure to write it all the first time, and it was to do so again. That--that is the wisdom of the humble spider. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

In answer to Aderia: Two, three, four, five as a limit, I think. In response to both Legolover and Velox: I can entirely understand that. Thanks for the good fortune! In response to AZ: Great. Glad to have you aboard. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

A while back in a dazzling epiphany I got this idea for an epic, but alas I doubt very highly if I should have the time to write it. I'm busy with other, more important literary projects. However, if I find enough interested parties, I'm sure I could find the time to take it in shifts with them to write this. In other words, I'm asking you, my adoring fans harsh critics gullible followers dear friends, if you would like to partake with me in telling a new tale. Now, I admit it's not the most original idea, and stories akin to it have probably been done before. But I think it will be fun to write, and I think I have some pretty good twists up my sleeve. It's all about the peripeteia. Hundreds of thousands of years have passed since Teridax's defeat, and the peoples of Spherus Magna have constructed a massive, sprawling city where all live in peace, harmony, and prosperity. The Council of Four leads the city wisely, and the Atero Eight with their forces guard the city from outside dangers and maintain order within. But times have changed. Mata-Nui has not been seen since his disappearance, and the Great Beings have abandoned them. The Toa are a dying breed. The eight Toa guardians and the Turaga council are the only remnants of the species. Even then, the Council is under the thumb of the Atero Eight; the ruthless, arbitrary dictators of the city. Beneath the peace, harmony and prosperity, the people live in constant fear of their oppressors. Spherus Magna's past has been long forgotten. The old legends are faded memories in the minds of only Atero's eldest, and even they question the validity of their remembrances. But when the time comes to stand up to the greatest challenge they have ever faced, from which not even the Atero Eight can protect them, they will need to look to old legends and rediscover ancient principles. And what one Matoran finds may just make him the greatest hero the universe has ever known. . . . And there's your nutshell. I think there's potential. But potential "is all the same. It merely matters how you use it." So if you might like to get in on this, if you would like to uplift your pencil alongside my own in battle, comment here or PM me. Once we have enough writers we can start discussing a few details and then getting writing pretty soon, I think. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I will begin, I think, with style. Let me offer my wholehearted commendations there. You have a flavorful, zesty control over words, but sometimes it's overly spiced. I honestly think the metaphors and similes with which you drown your prose are too many and too much. It's all very poetic, and I admire that, but it takes on a melodramatic tone with such profusion. Now the story. I have no complaints here. It was a brilliant way you applied the theme of the contest, it was a brilliant way you integrated the founders of BZPower as characters in the BIONICLE universe, it was on the whole brilliant. My only objection is to Teridax. I understand why you made the characters Makuta, but Teridax was a character so entirely different from the way you portrayed him, and thus such an absolute incongruity that I fail to see why you included him. One thing that disappointed me was that there was no worthwhile action, just a little senseless violence and cruor--the latter of which, by the way, does not exist within the BIONICLE universe. Of course, neither does BZ-Koro or its founders and suchlike. So it's something of a moot point in this case. Speaking of violence, you did just frame Black Six for the murder of four staffers and the desensitization of a Makuta, you realize that, don't you? I know that's sort of your thing, but I thought the idea of the contest was to write about the founding of BZ-Koro, not to kill its founders and build a city above their bodies. Well, to each their own. All that aside, there were a few grammatical errors I'll point out here to be helpful: I'm having difficulty discerning whether this was an error or not. Was it meant to function as he said? I'll presume that it wasn't and that you realize if it was, the period and subsequent capitalized letter would be ungrammatical. This one requires a little explaining. When an ellipsis is at the end of a sentence, the sentence need still be punctuated. Thus three dots become four: a period followed by an ellipsis. So all in all, you frighten me and disturb me, which was your intention and therefore I offer you my congratulations. But moreover I thought it was a good plot written in a very engaging style, and offer you consequentially higher congratulations. I wish you the best of luck against the insurmountable opposition you face in the competition. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

As soon as I read the description of the emerging undead Skakdi, I knew who it was. Vezon returning from the grave as a zombie? That was when I said to myself, "Oh . . . this is going to be good." And then Roodaka appeared. "Oh, fun, fun, fun!" Cadaverous courtship. How eerie, and yet, hysterical. And as if that wasn't amusing enough, what couple could be more humorously ill-suited than Vezon and Roodaka? Brilliant, brilliant! I enjoy your style. Your detail and description is great. Some might say it's too much, but I don't. I do think you could have balanced it a little better with more dialogue, but I certainly don't think it would have been as good with any less description. An aside on the initial paragraph. You did a good job with the short, terse sentence to increase tensity and suspense. The cinematic equivalent is a series of small, quick screeches of the violin for that eerie feeling, and this cannot be much better emulated in prose than you did here. However, it can be a bit jarring, and it was here, so just keep in mind that his device must be operated with care. My final complaint pertains to the bones, the flesh, the bloodshot eyes, and the eyelashes. These are biomechanical beings, after all, and while there's a little organic matter involved in their bodies, most of it is mechanical. Nothing in BIONICLE fan fiction vexes me more than when the fundamental rules are ignored. These are biomechanical chronicles, and I would have liked to see gears and pistons and whatnot layered among the bones and rotting flesh in your descriptions. Excellent job grammatically, my nitpicks are few: The beginning of a quotation should always be capitalized--unless it is the continuation of an interrupted quote, as this was. Same mistake as above, and a slight typo, has in place of had. You say the first so matter-of-factly, so simply. That was hilarious. I broke up laughing right there. Oh, and you misspelled climb. Once again you impress me, and slightly disturb me, with your sepulchral humor and romance. This was creepy, sweet, and funny all at once. An skilfully executed conglomeration. Again you leave me murmuring to myself, "That was good. That was good!" And it was. It truly was.Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I'm up against you, Cederak and Legolover; and Smoke Monster's not to be trifled with, either. I asked for a competition and I've got it now. This should be an exciting contest even if it gets no bigger. You better watch your back and your front; look up, look down, look side to side. ;D En garde. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

In response to the swimmer formerly known as Kraggh: Yes we do, and thank goodness for that, for otherwise the whole literary world would be the same and all the people would be; hence there could be no unique characters and no unique events, and the world would all be one book that was written eons ago. A horrific thought. And I'll add that, really, this was none of the old fellow's business. He was a nosy busybody who could have made matters far worse by trying to help. But as fate (or the fingers on my keyboard) would have it, his efforts succeeded and we have a happy ending. In response to Portalfig: First off, I know it, I like it that way. ;P Second, yes, he did. "The right words. Two doorsteps." He gave a letter to each as if from the other. That would have been made clear by the half-sentence I left unfinished near the end. Probably I was distracted by something shiny and forgot about it. In response to Aderia: Nope, sorry. D: If that were to happen, you'd know it. I'd paste it in a new entry on its lonesome with big, bold letters. ;D And now to fix that errant half-sentence. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I admit, now I'm having my first misgivings regarding whether I'll actually win the competition or not. . . . But I'm still going to beat you all. Good luck anyway, though. Maybe you can get second, RM! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I don't plan on entering . . . because I already did, in both branches. I'm glad to see you're back and writing again, RM. Although clearly you've been back far longer than I'd noticed. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile: Lunatic WordsmithLove and Legend From the desk of Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

The discovery of this ancient document has led certain renowned scientists to further sound the depths of its history. Countless experts have put their wits together in efforts to translate the text to find meaning. Conspiracy theorists insist that it's a cipher of some kind, and that hidden beneath the surface lay clues, a hidden map, maybe. But in trying to look up through the surface they forget they are above it to begin with. If they only looked down, they would see the truth.They entirely ignore the true context of the document. I can but hope that my humble efforts to preserve this meaning have succeeded.Love is a strange thing. It reduces the sanest of men to blundering fools. Somehow when that inexplicable feeling comes over us we lose hold of our senses. What else, indeed, but madness could induce a man to behead a weed, strangle it with twine, and give it to a woman as a show of affection? Where can we find the rationality in comparing a woman to the blinding light and sweating heat of the sun, or to the wild, mindless beasts that live among us?And where, I have asked but to receive no answer, is the sense in giving a woman a mass of land and comparing her to it? How in any way can this "sentiment" even be called by such a name?It all began when she started thinking about legends. It's dangerous enough when a woman starts to think at all, but to be thinking of legends! Legends are strange in their own right. If love make a man do delusive things, legend make him see delusive things. And to fall in love with a legend is to set a course for illimitable trouble. Yet that's what she did.They say the island exists somewhere in the seas to the west. They call it a Paradise. Those who go searching for it either find it and stay there, or die in the endeavor, which leaves me to wonder who brings the stories back, but she didn't care about that. She had already fallen in love, and there was no stopping her now.Love makes a woman take actions as strange as a man. And if you had heard her repeat the tales of this legendary island where there was peace and prosperity, where there was no death and no danger, where the seasons were easy and the soil fertile, where predator and prey lived in harmony; where the sun always shone but never too hot, the wind always blew but never too cold, the waves wept the shore but never too loud, the rain fell when necessary but never too hard; where the days were long and the nights even longer, and strife and sorrow were inexistent; if you had heard with your ears, as had I with mine, the wistful, passionate way she had spoken of these things; and if you too had been captivated by her engaging loveliness, by the ebon ribbons of velvety hair, by the violet sheen of her soft lips, by the scintillation in her eyes, as any man living well would have been; then you would not scorn me for what I did.And I promised her things. Mad things, absurd things. I promised I would find that island for her, and take her there to it, and build a city there, and that we would live out our lives in this Paradise. I promised I would name it all after her. I promised that I would love her until the end of my days.And she kissed me then. I kissed her very warmly in return, for the first and last time. But I have since found myself meditating upon a thought I prefer not to entertain, as difficult as ignoring its urgent exhortation be. I wonder if it was truly me she kissed then . . . or my promise. And then I scold myself for even allowing the doubt to enter my mind.And whether I intended to keep my vows or not I do not know. But I did. And so it was that before very much time had passed we commissioned our vessel and set sail.I am a man given to misgivings. And the longer we sailed and the longer we searched, the greater a new misgiving became. What if we did find the island? What if it did exist? A Paradise such as this would not last for ever. If we found it, others would as well. Others with swords and spears and arrows and slings. The powers of the world would snatch at this new territory until it had been torn to shreds in the skirmish.When I voiced my doubts to her, she answered simply, "Then we'll hide it." And when I asked How, she said, "We'll find a way." This was her answer to everything. How would we locate the island? "We would find a way." I think she laid too much stock in my abilities to achieve the impossible.An example of this came later, when we had been searching for years to no avail. She became ill, and I insisted we make port until she recovered, but she refused to allow it. She would hear of nothing but our continued, uninterrupted questing. I asked her how she proposed to convalesce on the sea. Her answer, "I'll find a way."And when she didn't, when her prevalent solution proved fallacious; and she lay on her deathbed, and I kneeled at her side; and I asked her how I would go on without her; can you guess what she said to me then?"You'll find a way."My love, rest peacefully. I swear, if this fabled island exists, I will find it, as I promised you. I will build there the city which I promised you. And I will hide it away from the cruel world that, should its callous hands seize the land, would so certainly defile it. I will find our Paradise. Though I failed to protect you, I will always protect our new home. On your memory I swear it, my sweet Atlantis. . . .The authorities on such matters say that this could be a historical find. They say that centuries of legend and mystery may soon be cleared up.But I say they are entirely missing the point. This was never meant to be a treasure map. It was never meant to clear up some mystery of a mystical land. It was merely meant to explore something even more mysterious and mystical as it existed within the author's heart. It was meant only to be what it is, for what else can it be? It is nothing more now than it ever was: a love letter. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I'm a writer, after all, and a writer writes. This title is no misnomer. And I figure this will be safer here than in the black hole of Completely Off Topic. So I present, without further ado . . . Guardian Angel I see a sun-bathed field strewn with children, laughing, screaming, running. I see one tag another and backpedal. The new It takes off like a shot. As I watch, two of them give up the game. While the others continue, they sequester themselves in the embrace of a watchful oak tree. The taller one, his cheeks as round and protuberant as his belly, waits gallantly while the small raven-haired girl practically leaps into the branches, before he struggles upward himself. And there they sit, talking, for hours. What about, I can't say. It's not my business. The next day, there they are. Days pass and there they are again. Day after day, week after week. And when they're not in the tree, they're in the playground, with friends and siblings, entertaining themselves in all the creative ways children will. But before long, they're back up in the tree, swinging side by side, lying in the grass to admire the clouds or stars. I lose track of how many days go by like this. I forget how many hours they spend together in blissful companionship. I can't say how many years pass before the tree becomes empty, and the swings creak only by the force of a passing breeze. She still comes. But he doesn't. Where did he go? I suppose that's not my concern. The tree sighs in the wind and weeps with the rain. It seems lonely without the two children nestled in its branches, as bare as it would be stripped of its leaves. I notice her step beneath its canopy. I pause to watch. She caresses its bark. I wish I could see what thoughts pass through her mind, that I could comfort her and assure her. She wipes away the tears and turns her back on the tree. Most of all I wish that I could find him and bring him back. A year passes. Two. And then, at last, he returns. Yet so much has changed in those two years. He has changed. She, when they lay eyes on one another again--she, too, has changed. It pains me to watch the pair, who had once interacted so closely, all but ignore one another. However, as I watch I can tell--yes, I can see it; he missed her. Maybe he didn't even realize until now, but he misses the old times. In his set jaw, his slackened smile, his heavy footsteps--it shows all too clearly. Poor boy. It's too late now. It's too late. Those days are over. But still, as I watch over the ensuing months I see them talking. I see them still playing tag and all the other little games a youthful mind can concoct with the children. Maybe they've only changed in size and shape. I see them swinging side by side again. They are walking together, their hands nearly brushing. Oh, but she stops in her tracks. He turns and speaks earnestly. It seems--yes, as it seems to me, he is trying to recover the propinquity they used to share. But words will never do for something like that. He's trying--oh, dear, he's trying far too soon, and far too hard. . . . I can't hear them; it's no business of mine what they have to say to one another. But it's all too clear. She avoids his gaze. He continues to speak. She gives only short, simple responses, the curt words that females are so skilled in uttering. It hurts him. She's hurt, too. They're not angry, rather trying not to show any emotion at all. Then she walks away, leaving him standing alone, watching her go. With a sigh I turn down another street, keep walking. It's no business of mine. Days pass. He still comes, she still comes. They won't speak, they won't even look at each other unless the other's back is turned. But then, yes, then the doleful, yearning eyes look up. And then they look away. It's none of my business. None of my business at all. But does that mean there's nothing I can do? Two sheets of paper. An ordinary pencil. Such are the ingredients that comprise an old wizard's magic potion. The right words. Two doorsteps. Does it take anything more than that? The remaining requirements will come naturally to them. If it ever even happens that one realizes it was not the other's doing, they will never know whose it was. If they're sensible, they'll be content with the results and ignore the unknown cause. I see them walking together. I see them talking. I can't hear what they say, but it's all too clear. The embrace they share speaks louder than any words. They're coming along the sidewalk toward the bench where I sit. Even as they pass behind me I don't bother to listen to what they have to say. It's no business of mine. ~ * ~ In other news, my entry for the COT Short Story LSO contest is posted. The Twilight Game, my Library submission, is already up against a second- and third-placer. And no, I'm not complacent. I'm the humblest man alive! . . . Okay, maybe I'm a little complacent. Until next time, Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Conquering even just one opponent constitutes a victory, if but a small one. I entered the BIONICLE portion, but I've just now finished my CoT submission. So have at thee, Legolover-361, have at thee! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

"What happened? Is there some terrible war in the future?" Ponyville: The Aponycalypse. Looking forward to seeing what's going on here. From the desk of Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

(The title is longer than the entry.) For those who aren't aware of it, Hahli Husky is currently hosting the second BZPower Library Summer Olympics. The short story competitions, with a branch each in COT and the Library, are now open for entry, lasting until the 24th of August. I strongly encourage you--yes, you, right there, and don't you think that I don't know who you are--to enter, because sadly this contest has been pretty quiet, nothing like the last. And after all, I can't win without competitors to trounce. So what are you waiting for? Put on that thinking cap, pick up a pencil or a keyboard, bear in mind the rules, start thinking, maybe get a cup of coffee, stare into space as long as necessary in spite of what those around you might think, procrastinate until the last minute if that's your style, and get writing! The topics for the individual portions of the contest are here (BIONICLE) and here (Completely Off Topic). (I just made a slight edit after asking myself: why in all a fictitious world existing in the bowels of a massive android shouldn't I capitalize the O in COT? I've been doing that for a long time, and find myself at a loss to explain why. . . .) Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Inanities aside, let's get on to things that really matter, huh? . . . Books! Reviews for three I have recently read. The Film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve Let me just say . . . yelch. Though it was a well-plotted mystery, the revelation and the solution itself were awful. And there's certainly nothing in his writing style, in its own right a bit hard to swallow at times, to make a bad mystery worth suffering. That's the first, and last, that I'll read of his novels. So I won't waste any more time talking further about the book. I'm glad it was free on Kindle. Oh--my--pencil. I loved this novel! Nothing beats a good study in human nature, and this was, the good and the bad. It was a fascinating, intricately woven world, that little Maycomb, which shows that people are people in big city or small town. It reminds me of Miss Marple's St. Mary Mead. One thing I enjoyed in particular was that it had no corporeal plot, and yet, it did. For one thing, we had one passing comment on the first page that drew us from the first to the last with an invisible string. And no matter what else went on throughout the story, the titular mockingbird was the centerpiece of the book. There we find a truly, truly fascinating character. I can't say too much without giving anything away, but I will say that that character is now one of my favorite fictional characters of all time. And the whole ending itself was wonderfully executed. The whole novel was worth reading, and yet those final two or three chapters were what made it impossibly beyond worthwhile. I am the type of person who likes a tangibility in his stories, a structural integrity into which I can bite; this so wonderfully had a very powerful structure, yet none at all, which makes it an amazing magic-trick of penmanship. My one complaint was her profusion of information dumps. Especially toward the beginning, Harper Lee left us intermittent mires of detail for us to wallow in. But the engaging way in which she laid down all this information provided a steppingstone path through the bog, which again leaves me wondering at her uncanny ability to make good into great, bad into good, and great into greater. When I finished, I closed the book, sat down, stroked the cover, and murmured, "Wow. That was spectacular." Fully sated, I just relaxed there for maybe thirty minutes, savoring the flavor. Definitely one of the better books I have ever read. And you're telling me this amazing woman only ever wrote one novel? If there's one author who deserves to succeed To Kill a Mockingbird, it's the illustrious Agatha Christie. It's hard to say which of her works are her best, because they all are. Hence, this was one of her best. Maybe better than that. As is typical of her mysteries, and maybe most mysteries, it started out a little slow and I had trouble getting interested. But then the investigation starts and begins to pick up. Maybe that's what I like about mysteries; they start you out on ground level and then carry you to the top floor, and in Agatha Christie's case, through the roof on a lift akin to Willy Wonka's glass elevator. Of course I can't say anything about the solution without spoiling an intricately woven imbroglio, but I can say that as usual my suspicions were entirely elsewhere when Agatha moved her finger toward the real criminal, and left me saying: "Of course! Of course! I should have seen it!" That's the most important quality of any mystery. It should seem obvious, it should seem you came close to solving it yourself, without anything of the kind being remotely true. I can comment, of course, on characters. Agatha Christie always fills her mansions or, as in this case, villages with a colorful panoply of characters, from the hated, to the loved, to the hilarious. The Vicar was a pleasant character and he had a very sweet wife. Agatha's elderly women are always hilariously vexing, and Miss Marple's saving grace is that she's drop-dead ingenious. While I highly recommend it, I caution you to find an edition from a different publisher. At least in this case, the errata were a few too many for my tastes. Now I've started 100%: The Story of a Patriot, by Upton Sinclair. Not enthralling me thus far. I'll probably be putting it aside, now that I've gotten word back from most of my alpha readers, to read over my novel and begin revision. But when I get back to 100% and finish it, I'll let you know. Until next time, Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I'm a writer, Tekulo. Inciting emotion is part of what I do. Yeah, that sounds a bit off, GSR, but I reckon it holds true. And thanks. Thanks to you also, Aderia. Writing's the long and the short of my identity, so I thought it was more fitting than anything else. And lastly, bibliotheca is English, derived from the Latin word . . . wait for it . . . bibliotheca. Sometimes the creativity of the English language is stunning. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

My second entry and I'm already logging inanities? But this caught my eye, and I just had to share it. Looks rather familiar, does it not? Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith