Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

Member name: NuileTheme: Branching OutWord Count: 642Climbing the Tree of Life

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

"Let's sit on this one," said Hobbes.

Calvin demurred, "Are you kidding? This is only the first branch! Let's climb higher."

"I don't know. The next one is pretty far up and some of them look dead. They could break."

"What are you, a sissy?" Calvin was already reaching for the next branch. "It's a metaphor for life, Hobbes. It's always about reaching for the next branch. Even when it's too far you have to keep going anyway. Because if you keep trying (gimme a boost, will you?) and never give up (almost there) no matter how hard it seems (just a bit farther)--you'll--make it!" With a puff, he heaved himself on top of the bough.

"See?" he panted. "Just--a matter--of persistence. But there's never any time to rest. Because if you stop moving to pat yourself on the back, you'll fall behind."

"Falling," Hobbes observed wisely, glancing downward, "does come to mind, yes."

"Sometimes it's easy," Calvin went on, stepping lightly up a series of small branches. "Sometimes you have to take--risks." He jumped, landing roughly on the next branch. "You have to make your way carefully, but you can't spend too much time making decisions. Sometimes it's obvious which way to go if you just have the sense to see it." He stepped to a lower branch to better reach a higher one. He pulled himself up with ease.

He paused to eye the next branch. It grew no leaves and the bark was crusty and brittle, crumbling away in segments.

"It looks dead," Hobbes warned. "It might be dangerous."

"Life can be dangerous," said Calvin. "You just have to accept that. Caution is necessary but you can't waste time with it. And even when the risks are there"--he set a foot gingerly upon the decayed limb--"you can't stop. You just have to be brave."

He put his full weight on the branch.

Creak--

"You have to think fast--"

Creeeeaaaak--

"And move faster."

Calvin sprang to a firmer branch higher up.

Crack!

The dead limb snapped and plummeted to earth.

"As long as you know the risks, you can usually avoid them," Calvin went on, gazing down at the fate that had nearly been his. "But the important thing is to move forward with the confidence to face whatever comes your way."

Suddenly there came a sound from somewhere nearby. Something large was moving through the undergrowth of the forest below.

"What is that?" said Calvin.

"Whatever it is," said Hobbes, "it's big."

"Do you think it's a bear?"

A high, shrill voice rang in the air. "Calvin!"

"What a relief!" Hobbes gasped. "It's not a bear, it's just your Mom."

"That's worse," I moaned.

She emerged into the clearing beneath the tree and peered up into the tree. "Calvin! What are you doing? I don't want you up that tree."

"Why not?" Calvin protested.

"Some of the branches are dead and they might break. Come on down."

"I told you," said Hobbes with a prideful raspberry.

His mother marched the pair home, leaving them to find other entertainment. A ladder in the garage suited their inclinations. When they erected it in the yard and perched atop it, however, they were doomed to disappointment.

"Pathetic," Calvin griped. "It's like sitting on a highchair."

"I admit," said Hobbes, "this isn't quite the same, is it?"

Calvin said bitterly, "Some people find confidence in running at the slightest sign of danger."

"At least we won't fall and break our necks."

Calvin wasn't listening as he became absorbed in examining the ladder. "Does this unfold into one long, straight ladder?"

Hobbes looked. "I think so. Why?"

A wide smile came across Calvin's lips. He pointed toward his house and the roof above it. "I think I see new heights waiting for us, Hobbes ol' buddy."

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

[Here's an illustration of how a Review Pass works--please do not use old reviews for this:]

I reviewed Souvenirs, by Velox.

[And this is the end of our illustration.]And now I would like to submit a genuine request for a story to be reviewed:Fall of a Toa, by Legolover-361.Post here to claim it. Go review it in its topic. Edit your post here with a link to your review, a link to a story you want reviewed, and voilà, done. It's as simple as that.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

[Here's an illustration of how a Review Pass works--please do not use old reviews for this:]

I'll begin by posting a story to be reviewed:The Rain, by Nuile.

Thank you in advance, reviewer-to-be.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Theme #5:

Branching Out

Deadline: 11:59 PM PST on Monday, March 11th.

Any interpretation of the theme is valid, but your entry must be a COT story and it must adhere to the rules posted above. Also, if you are an Ambage member, keep in mind the March Writing Prompt (to get more achievements):"A faint glimmer . . ."

So we can use that line, on any story we make. That sounds easy enough, to write a whole story about that.

Well, if you prefer, I can make it a little harder next time. ;P

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Happy birthday Aimee! =D

I hope your day was more cheerful and less humiliating. XD

Happy birthday Alex! =D I found a great Strawberry Shortcake cake with the name Alex on it, but . . . I thought you might prefer this.

I hope your birthday Boh-ROCKED.Yes. I did really just say that.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

February is gone and it is time for a new prompt.

March Writing Prompt

"A faint glimmer . . ."

Use it as a theme for your story, use it as an opening line, use it in the middle, at the end, twist the words--it's up to you. Just incorporate it into your story somehow. Let it inspire you.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

HELLOOOOOOOOOO FELLOW HUMANS!As an official Ambage staff member* I'm here to present a formal writing challenge to both member and non members alike.

(please note the banner which took me like six minutes with Paint and a tiny trackpad)

This challenge will test your limits as a writer! You will be forced to push the boundaries of humour and tragedy in an emotional rollercoaster of a story with this latest and greatest OFFICIAL AMBAGAGE WRITING CHALLENGE for your brain!The challenge is twofold:FIRST, WRITE A STORY ABOUT A FISH.But not just any fish! This must be...A BIONICLE FISH.HALIBUT DO NOT COUNT. SHARKS DO NOT COUNT. CARP IS JUST RIGHT OUT. THIS MUST BE A BIONICLE FISH.Second, and this is imperative! Your story must not be under twelve words long. If it is under this mandatory limit it probably doesn't belong in the library, unless it's an adorable haiku or poem or just a great story anyways. Put it in your signature if you're not sure about it.YOUR DEADLINE IS WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT. IF YOU'RE COMFORTABLE WITH IT POST IT IN THE LIBRARY. IF YOU'RE NOT, PM IT TO ME BECAUSE I WANT TO READ IT ANYWAYS.NO POINTS OR BADGES WILL BE HANDED OUT. THERE ARE NO PRIZES UNLESS YOU BRIBE ME WITH CANDY, IN WHICH CASE YOU'D BE BETTER OFF KEEPING THE CANDY FOR YOURSELF BECAUSE THERE WILL STILL BE NO PRIZES.YOUR MISSION, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT, BEGINS NOW.

(yes this is actually a carp but don't tell the staff)

*the statement way up there is a complete lie. I just said it because it sounds official or whatever. Shut up.

True to my word, I'm entering. I hope I didn't miss that tight deadline. Gosh though, you're demanding. What an excercise it was to write more than twelve words!

I am submitting The Eye of the Storm, by yours truly, the link to which you can find by clicking the smiley in my sign-off.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

"There's another in the sky--lurid-like, ye see, all else is pitch black."

- Herman Melville: Moby Dick

Sky and sea were a deadly calm. Visually they merged together in an impenetrable void of darkness, discernible only by a sense of gravity, by the stillness of the air, by the subtle rocking of the ship. If not for the deck beneath their feet, they might as well have been drifting through space.

Intermittent fulgurations did little to discriminate between sky and sea, illuminating both alike. But it served the alternative purpose--coupled with its companion, the war drums of the sky--of reminding the sailors of the vehement hurricane that raged on every side.

At the helm stood a Matoran, battered and rusted nearly beyond recognition of species. His element was as lost to the sea as his soul. The tip of a wicked hook hand stabbed and loosed itself from the wood of the taffrail, stabbed and loosed, stabbed and loosed; his eyes scanned the gloom in vain.

"Where is she?" he snarled with each stab. "Where is she? Where is she?"

A lone cry brayed from the masthead. "There she blows! There she blows! Off the port bow! There she blows!"

The lone exclamation became a frenzied cry taken up by all the crew as eyes turned toward the massive mound rising out of the ocean. The captain freed his hook and dashed to the port rail, searching with his one good eye until he had seen it. Was that deep resonance thunder or a moan? Yes--yes, it was the beast's moan!

"Quiet!" he bellowed; and in an instant all had become silence. "Helmsman," he hissed, "lean to starboard and we'll cut off her path. All Toa of Air," in a louder voice, "bring us wind to those sails--slow, now, slow and steady, but lose her and it'll be your heads."

It was a tense period of measureless time, when the minutes and hours blur together and all one can think about is the murmur of the gusts overhead and the waves beneath, the tottering of the deck beneath their feet, and how much faster the ship should be moving when it doesn't seem to be moving at all. Ahead, but for its constant shape and steady movement through the water, the dark form might have been another wave or an island--or entirely invisible in the darkness.

Gradually the beast in all its monstrous enormity and the ship in its comparatively insignificant hulk converged. The taffrail's surface had been scored into ribbons by the restless captain's hook. His rapacious eyes watched the distance close, bringing him closer to his quarry. Closer . . . closer . . . closer . . .

Without warning the silhouette disappeared. Cries and maledictions went up from the crew; the captain's own horrendous challenge rang out above the others. His horrendous wail rent the air with more ferocity than any could believe of a Matoran's lungs. The most stalwart Skakdi among his crew cringed.

"Karzahni take the beast! Karzahni take all ye cack-handed Brakas! I'll have heads dangling from the yardarms if we lose her!"

Frantic gazes searched the gloom. The captain's single gleaming eye raked the sea, baneful as a knife tearing through flesh. Suddenly he spotted the beast. "There she is," he murmured. A smile spread across his mask. "To stern! Helmsman, bring us about! She doesn't want to enter the storm any more than we! Give us all the worthless air ye've got in yer empty heads, Le-Toa! I'll not lose her again!"

The ship about-turned. The air overhead strengthened, howling in the throes of elemental manipulation. The beast had breached and was sitting still and unmoving. The captain laid his torments upon the rails as they forged through the placid sanctum at the eye of the storm.

The nearer they drew the more the beast's size was impressed upon its many admirers. There was movement towards its head--something round and large as the Great Temple. Was it blinking? Could it be an eye? What an eye!

A spout erupted from the monster's spiracle. It was as if a whole volcano had exploded and rocketed its contents into the heavens, vanishing in the darkness above.

The next moment the whole awesome form disappeared once more.

"Helmsman," the captain roared, "toward her head! We'll get over her! Bring more wind to those sails!"

"We're givin' her all she's got, captain!"

"Give it more! We'll have that beast or you'll be her supper! We'll have her yet if--" He broke off. The ship was turning the wrong way. The captain rounded on the helmsman. "What in Karzahni are ye--"

"T'ain't me, cap'm! The sea's draggin' us to'rd the center o' the eye!"

The captain drew his blade and relieved the taffrail of a number of its posts. "Karzahni take the beast! Karzahni take the sea and swallow all your wasted skulls! Karzahni take this infernal ship!" The captain paused in the effort of collapsing a whole section of the rail. "The ship!" he said, eyes alight. "Burn the ship! Burn the sails, burn the masts, burn all the world if it will light the night! Toa of Lightning, give the storm what it wants! We'll see what it wants to show us!"

Soon flames began their ravenous feast upon the ship. The fire laughed in derision, the lightning cackled. In the distance thunder rumbled, accompanied by a profound groan and something new: a whoosh, as if all the ocean were inhaling.

Fire and lightning illuminated the night. The galleon, already a majestic sight in magnitude and craftmanship of its great body, became something evocative of awe in its lurid sublimity, a blazing vessel of the netherworld; and yet it was as nothing, a pitiful fishing canoe, to the eye of the storm.

The ceiling of turbulent clouds glowed red, as if an inclement eye were watching them with cruel glee from above; its fangs closed in on every side, dripping with molten venom imbued by a dim flame. Nearby the beast's back glistened bare and ardent, her tremendous eye aflame.

Their tranquil garden of darkness had become the lair of a terrific evil. The sea itself had fallen away at its center. A vortex stretched wide its mouth, eager to consume all existence.

What was their dinghy to this insatiable hunger? What was the great beast to the eye of the storm?

"C-captain?" came a feeble voice from the deck.

The Matoran closed his eyes, gripping what remained of the taffrail even as tongues of flame licked at his hands. When his eyes alit again, the crew watching in awed silence wondered if he were not as ruthless and diabolic as the terata of nature that threatened them on every side.

"Keep straight to course," he shouted. "We'll have that beast if we have to go to the bottom of the sea with it!"

The Toa of Air had long since relented their efforts. The helmsman had released his useless tiller. There was nothing left for the crew but to wait and find peace; the powers at play were too great for them.

The captain moved, a demon gliding across the deck. He seized the tiller and turned for the great beast. Flames laughed, thunder bellowed, the monster moaned, the whirlpool squalled; yet above it all an eerie silence hung in the air, quelling sound.

Ship and beast both were falling toward the void. The beast seemed near to the point of deferring to the better power of the storm; its vain resistance was weakening. The captain gritted his teeth and held his breath, willing the beast to hold on a few moments longer. Any moment the ship would be near enough . . .

It wasn't. And then, without warning, it was. As if time had skipped or the ship had teleported, there was the beast, tantalizingly close to the prow. The captain knew he could make the jump. He sprang down the stairs. His swift footsteps across the deck were the only sound to be heard aboard the ship. Eyes followed his progress, but nobody spoke, nobody moved.

The captain mounted the forecastle and sprang upon the bowsprit. He ran its length and there, on the tip, found himself hesitating. Had he misjudged the distance? No . . . impossible; he could make the jump. He had no other choice. The void seemed near enough to reach out and touch its abysmal depths. It was now or never--and never was not an option.

The captain looked down upon the beast. It looked up. Eye met eye. Gaze locked with gaze. Brows narrowed. In the optic depths of each of these two demons swirled all the intensity of the vortex. In them surged all the ferocity of the eye of the storm.

The beast released a savage groan. Its tail was disappearing into the void that waited to engulf them all. The captain let out a wild cry. No fear touched the heart of mighty beast nor adamant enemy; the sea no longer held their souls, for caustic hatred had consumed them.

The captain's cry died out. He spoke, words that reverberated from the chasms of a soul far deeper than any mere Matoran.

It was a mere whisper. "You are mine now . . ."

He drew his cutlass and launched himself from the bowsprit. The beast gaped its cavernous jaws. Ship, crew, captain and creature hurdled over the precipice of the sea, falling as one into the yawning void.

A stridor of shouts, screams, howls, bellows, hissing flames, rolling thunder; and the ocean closed. The sea recomposed itself to quiet placidity. All was a dead silence. The light of the flames had been swallowed. The eye of the storm had once more sunk into darkness.

An entry for the "write about a BIONICLE fish" Ambage Writing Challenge. Now go enter!

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

We Wanted Those Infidels Dead, reviewed.

Sincerely, Lunatic: Wordsmith Nuile

There was no characterization and precious little story, but it was less about the characters and why they were doing what they were doing as it was about what they were doing. It was something of a tableau, just an enjoyable piece of action with little behind it. Perhaps a little pointless . . . but sometimes writing is worth enough as writing: for the words and what they directly convey, not any implicated meaning behind it. As always I love your style, which has in its own right an archaic ring to it and savors of something you might read in Cervantes, Dumas, or Scott, but with a modern twist of opportune brevity.Because you did so well grammatically I'll just point out the few minor errors that caught my eye:

Hast seen the cross of blood that binds them together?

Now I admit that I am not familiar with archaic grammar, so I am not sure if this was an accident or an error--or if it was proper! It just struck me as odd amidst the have yous.

He traveled at a brisk cantor, and neither man nor horse seemed at ease, despite the arms on man and horse.

Heh . . . I don't think he traveled at a cantor. =P Canter? Recurs once later on as well.

Come, lord brothers, On behalf of God."

Otherwise I guess this will have to be a short review for a short story. I have nothing to complain about. Maybe it wasn't the great American novel, but it was a pleasant piece and I enjoyed it.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

. . . Got to love those happy endings.

People can be devils sometimes, can't they? I might have said women, but then men can be just as diabolical. This sort of sadistic puppetry may be more characteristic of the former, but people will be people and you can't very well discriminate human nature by gender, can you? To judge by individuals and not generalities, Valerie is a devil and you have stirred deep empathy in me for poor Garrett.

I love what you say about letting go; and for the moment I mean in the sense of relaxing one's restraint and giving emotions free rein. There really is something soothing in releasing that pressure and drowning oneself in one's grief. Because something like this isn't grief, not precisely. It's bittersweet but it's not unpleasant. To forget, to feel not at all, is unpleasant. It may ache, but love can't truly hurt.

Garrett's reaction toward Valerie's death makes perfect sense. On the one hand he's finally free of the infrangible emotional bonds that held his heart to Valerie; he has been released and a crushing weight has been lifted off his heart. And on the other hand, grief really isn't nearly as hard to deal with as hope is. Sorrow that sustains hope is the more painful; the irreversible permanence of a hopeless sorrow leaves nothing but simple acceptance, not unfeeling but not very emotional, either.

It's tragic the way Garrett's heart held him captive to a wanton, selfish, sadistic woman like this. He loved her and he wanted to marry her, for all her faithlessness, for all her cruelty; proving that love is not always enough. Perhaps "true love" is, rather than any particularly elevated emotion, a blending of practicality and feeling.

However, these observations relate to the story but do not pertain to it. That is, I suppose, because I don't have much else to say. There was so much depth and emotion to your story that it led me off on these tangents and gave me a lot to think about; and that's what I enjoyed about it.

I have nothing to complain about, because this is simply a wonderful story. The nearest I can come to a complaint is not a complaint at all, because though it might be errant elsewhere it was quite purposeful here. And that "complaint" is the way you captured the emotions. You captured them vividly, but as I say you captured them; so to speak you caged them and chained them. They were there to see but not free to be felt. But in this case I think that's a good thing. It lessened simple experience and strengthened deep meaning. If you had described and evoked his feelings rather than showing them and telling of them, it would have been a moment of entertaining pain but nothing more. That would have been hollow and inane, mere artificial stimulation of emotions. Nobody needs that. As it was, this story was not only an elegantly spun tale, vivid and expressive, but a profound portrayal of emotion, rational and analytical.

The metaphor at the end was beautiful and colorful; maybe a little disparate to a story as pragmatic and solemn as this was, a little contradictory to that very rationality I was referring to before, but perhaps not astray for its juxtapositive poeticism and moment of romantic wisdom. Still, however beautiful as it may be, as much as I love it in reading it a second time, it remains that the first time it was less enjoyable because it was so unexpected and incongruent. Chocolate cake is delicious, but hard to swallow after a meal of bitter flavors and sharp spices. Not that the meal wasn't delicious in its own right, but before the cake can be appreciated in its own merit there must be a more gradual and temperate transition. That, then, can be my sole complaint.

Otherwise, I have nothing but praise. When describing a good romance I usually use words such as beautiful, graceful, bittersweet; but this is different. This is profound, refined, pleasantly bitter but not sweet, elegant but not beautiful. Excellent work, Cederak.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

To Soar has been reviewed.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

"Words couldn’t be enough for this …"

I don't think they will be, not entirely. There's a subtle beauty, an underlying splendor, to this story that is almost unspeakable. It's difficult to describe, and it would almost be spoiled if I tried. It's that feeling you only get with those certain stories that touch you, the stories that makes you say, "Wow. That was beautiful."

I could have read a whole novel about those two children and those two swing sets. That feeling of flying is something I remember very well. It's an ethereal state of existence, separate from this, where life is pragmatically simple, opening our eyes to the less tangible and arguably more important things. You showed that amazingly well, and used it skillfully to the advantage of your story.

I think that almost everyone probably has some fond memory of a swing they swung at some point in their life. I have my memory, and it was very much like this story. She and I would swing and forget life, thinking instead of the deeper things that hide beneath the . We soared; we would talk of airy philosophy and sometimes, even, things pragmatically profound. She was the more mature and pragmatic, I the more callow and airy. That gave it an extra level of personal meaning for me.

Grammatically, the mistakes weren't overwhelming, but there were enough. Initially it bothered me, but as the beauty of the story took hold I no longer cared as much. My biggest complaint was with the character's thoughts; they got confusing without any sort of signification. Italics or quotation marks, whatever you prefer, but it would be easier to read if it was plain what was taking place in the narration and what was taking place in the character's thoughts.

Otherwise, I have nothing but praise for this story. It was beautifully crafted. Well done!

Keep writing,

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Just a question. When will the next writing prompt be out?

March. We have a new one each month; we didn't have a new one for February because we were fond of January's and nobody seemed to use it. We hoped another month would give more people a chance. But as I say, we'll have a new prompt in March.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

With regards to the Anthology I think a lot of good suggestions have been made. My top choice is mystery, but I wouldn't oppose noir in general or science fiction. Well, I wouldn't oppose anything really, I don't think.

Legolover voiced my essential thoughts on the points and ranking system. I think they were a good idea but they haven't worked out. They're a little impractical and really not worth while. At the same time, I can't help but quote the great philosopher Calvin in his justification of applying a number to everything you do: "If your numbers go up, it means you're having more fun." But is it fun? Or is it just work?Right now gathering your achievements is more of a laborious chore. I don't think proof should be required. We should trust to people's honesty and let cheaters be cheaters, though I doubt if we'll meet many if any of those. Legolover also raised another point I agree with; maybe the rank system could be modified to eliminate points. In any case, one way or another something needs to be changed about this system.

I think contests are sound and don't need improvement; except in that we need to be more consistent in awarding prizes.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile here, reporting with one official SSCC review, as requested.

O thou beautiful, prodigious allegory . . .Not only did this turn out to be a compelling adventure piece, but it was, as I said already, a profound allegory. It might be argued that it was even too explicit, but I don't think there's any harm in that. On the contrary, I think the most beautiful moment in the entire story was the unspeakably named protagonist's plunge into despair. It was elegantly written and very meaningful.In fact, I'm almost disappointed that he did find the mask, after all. Not only would it have strengthened the allegory, but it would have saved the Golden Mask of Mim Brano from its absurdly omnipotent existence. There we stumble upon more questions: Why didn't Makuta take better lengths to protect it? Why was there no greed involved in the mask's history? Why were the Matoran content to hide it away? Why didn't they kill each other for it? Not only does it seem unrealistic, but you missed a chance for further allegorical significance.On the other hand, I was relieved that it didn't end on some sublime epiphany about the mask being only a symbol. I was glad that what it symbolizes was allowed to remain only implicitly metaphorical. Besides, the Kanohi's existence allowed for an exciting and suspenseful action scene, so I can forgive it. Well done.

Just a thought: that twenty-thousand pace walk probably wouldn't have been as simple and easy as it was made to sound. Doubtlessly there should have been deep underbrush, rough terrain, rivers, and dangerous Rahi along such a trek. It also would have been difficult to keep his direction--not to mention his count!--in the depths of the Le-Wahi jungle. You wanted to keep the scene simple and I understand that, but I think it was simplified too much.

I would like to commend the way you integrated BIONICLE detail into the story. That's always been one of the most challenging aspects of fanfiction for me, and I admire the seamlessness with which you accomplished it. It faded, however, toward the end. For example, you mentioned a "wolf." Never heard of it. What a silly name for an animal! "Wolf." Ridiculous. Try Kavinika.Now honestly, that name. "Ihndieahnagouhns." Need a cough drop? The character is impossible to forget, his name is impossible to remember. Moreover, bad puns have no place in a character's name. Subtle puns, by all means; blatant yet nearly incomprehensible puns, no. I knew there was some purpose to his name, but I had to read it over at least half a dozen times before I could understand it.

That end. I did not see that end coming. I was worried how you were going to excuse the discovery of this mask and you found the perfect solution--beautifully put, what's more.On that note, I very much enjoyed your style. It had its moments of awkward stiffness, but that comes with practice, and I understand that you're new to the art of creative writing. It's a matter of becoming intimate with your words, and developing any friendship, even of this sort, takes time.Your first person prose, by the way, was very flavorful, perhaps even to an excess. But in a piece of this length that's no problem. It might become wearisome in a longer work, but in a short story it's sapor lasts.

On the whole, your grammar was excellent and your spelling was fine, but your word choice was questionable at times. These mistakes built up over the course of a 5,000 word story, but relatively speaking they were few in number. Well, here we go:

A rather small part I suppose, but I'm convinced that its the most important part of my entire life.

It's.

. . . and I lead the expedition that uncovered the fossils of the Sidirosaurus deep in the Onu-Wahi mines.

Led.

I was decent Kolhii player, too.

Inject an a.

But what was most exhilerating were the words splayed across it, more than clearly visible in the splash of sunshine playing across the stone:

That's exhilarating, and that should still be was. Though the words are plural, the exhilarating quality is singular.

Oh, beautiful, glorious Mask of Mim Brano, would I never be chanced to gaze upon thy splendor?

That word just doesn't work in that capacity.

After glancing over every inch of the stone and gleaning nothing, I searched the immediate area around the stone, scrutinizing with the utmost and detailed of care.

Either remove the, or replace detailed with a superlative, videlicet minutest, strictest. The superlative most could be added to detailed, but would become repetitive with utmost so near.

What was the point of even continuing in the consistent meaningless of life itself, if that be the case?

Meaninglessness, inanity, emptiness; or add a noun: existence, void.

Raw hopelessness gripped me as the sun began to rise, and my cries finally began to take leave of me, bubbling over from my long built-up reserves of utter despondence.

That really makes it sound as if he were shouting rather than weeping. Better sobs, moans. Cervantes was fond of using sighs, as in "sighs exuding from the depths of his very soul."

I found myself running desperately for my ropes, and lassoing them around the rock, hauling myself up to get a better view of the discoloration.

Move and to place it before hauling, preferably; otherwise, replace hauling with hauled.

I examined the area minutely, desperately hoping, praying. After several minutes I grew impatient, and scatched at the surface.

Scratched.

FInally my mirth subsided, and I sat in a daze of satisfaction.

I must have jumped ten feet in the air!

Really? Only ten? I thought it was higher than that.Sorry; I had to.

Straightening my mask and the bag slung over my bare shoulder, I examined carefully the maze of death laying before me.

Lying.

All of that had led me to this moment, the moment when I would behold the tremendous wonder that was, the Mask of Mim Brano.

That comma is unnecessary.

Finally, breathless, ecstatic, half-delerious with pure joy . . .

Delirious.

The howl which ushered forth from my own lungs in that moment was the most horrible sound which had ever wrought itself upon my poor ears.

Gush, perhaps, but not usher, which means to escort or, intransitively as you have it here, to serve as an escort.

What evil horrendous monstrosity of darkness could do such a thing?!

No--no--no. Please--never.

Rage and indignancy.

Indignation.

. . . until the horrendous, sadistic monstrosity that had comitted this utmost pinnacle of crimes . . .

Committed.

As incredulous as it seemed that it could possibly be so, it was more understandable than was the notion that the glorious Mask was in fact broken!

Incredible.

I pressed the Mask to my chest and chin, holding it tightly, as the rest of the world faded from my realm of awareness.

That second comma can be safely removed.

Now, what I take issue most with is your use of ellipses. You used them excessively, which I don't mind terribly. I do mind that you used them superfluously at times, but even then that's not the real problem. The problem is you don't seem to understand how to use them properly. I will admit readily that the rules surrounding ellipses are difficult to master, and confused me for a long time. Allow me to demonstrate the proper use of ellipses, by correcting a few illustrative mistakes:

And this time, Takua would not be getting in my way... Hopefully.

Here it is all one sentence, and thus hopefully should not be capitalized.

There wasn't much to go on from this stone... Just a name.

Preferably I would replace this ellipsis with a period. You might also replace it with a colon, in which case you should not capitalize just.

But try as I might, I could find nothing, no clues at all... Finally I returned to the stone itself.

Here the ellipsis clearly marked the end of a sentence and thus should have been punctuated (resulting in a series of four dots). However, an ellipsis here is superfluous, and would better be replaced with a lone period. If you must indicate a pause here, start a new paragraph.

Pushing forward again, chasing blindly after dreams that... No, I would give this just one more chance.

Here's an important rule to note. If an ellipsis is used to break off an unfinished sentence, as an em dash might, it should not be punctuated. Thus your use here is, in fact, grammatically correct.

Could it be the Mask... The pinnacle of my dreams and hopes as a seeker of artifacts and treasures... Simply did not exist?

This is all one sentence, and so only the initial letter and proper nouns should be capitalized. Thus:

Could it be the Mask . . . the pinnacle of my dreams and hopes as a seeker of artifacts and treasures . . . simply did not exist?

Note, also, the proper way to format an ellipsis: a space on either side, with a space between each dot.

I hope you enjoyed your first SSCC review. We do tend to get long-winded, but it's all for the cause of helping fellow writers to improve. No writer, after all, is perfect, and no writer ever ceases to improve their skills. Each word is a step toward our unattainable end . . . very much like Don Quixote's quest.

I, for my part, very much enjoyed your story. It shows promise. Allegory, action, and even romance in a sense; and all well-executed. Excellent work.

Keep writing,

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I'm up for the next skype writeoff it's saterday I assume?

 

Awesome book by the way.

Saturdays and Sundays, eight or nine EST. But like Kakaru said, there's a write-off any time you're up for one.

I'd like to say I'm serious about this challenge but serious is exactly what we don't need. That said, the challenge is for real for anyone interested. There are no points, no consolation prizes, no deadlines, no requirements.*This is a writing prompt because I felt like this club needs more writing in it. Just flat-out writing for the sake of writing. It's what we've been about and it's what we should still be about. The Ambage should be a fun experience without being tied to rules and regulations designed to encourage activity while actively suppressing it. It's why my log of achievements is 90% fabricated and I don't join critics clubs or anything. I'm barely even a part of this club, I just jump in to pull stunts like this. I don't take my writing seriously, and it's those times when my best work comes out. That's what we should be encouraging.

I'm in favor of that. If your deranged creativity and time-consuming banners and troutful themes inspire writers to write, more power to you. We should all be writing a little more and having a little more fun in doing it.

I'll be taking the opportunity, for one. There aren't a lot of fish in the BIONICE Universe, alas . . . though Mavrah provides promising possibilities.

To be honest I think you're brilliant. This is the sort of thing we've been needing.

EDIT: Question. Can we write about Razor Whales or Lightfish or Venom Eels--aquatic Rahi that are not, technically, fish?

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Holy mackerel, Kakaru. Very nase, you big dhufish. Loach here, you roughy, and make sure you're herring me. I'm not going to put up with any mora this hake. You need to be put in your plaice. In all my born dace ide never seen such a load of carp until now.

But you've done this albacore. You gar and have your fun, I trout you cod get up to too much trouble.

. . . Yeah, I'm saury. I had to do it for the halibut.

Anyway, to be honest, I'm probably going to enter. I don't even care if you're joking.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

It was maddening.

They hurled him upon the floor. He landed prostrate in the filth as the door slammed shut behind him. Like blood from a wound, light poured through a latticed window into the room, stinging the man's wounds with its heat. The light illuminated his gaunt, emaciated form. From head to toe his body was tattooed with bruises and scars. When he looked up he revealed eyes as pale as his wizened skin had become.

With a moan he rose. For all his apparent frailty he was not a weak man. Beneath his deformed flesh powerful muscles rippled with his every movement. He looked like a starved tiger prowling within the confines of its cage. There was an anger in his muscular mien that outside those bars would have inspired awe and fear. In his cell he looked only weary and pathetic; and beyond that, he looked hungry. It was maddening.

He sat down at last at a small, lonely table well-lighted by the sun during the day and by the lanterns at night. It was bare save the single sheet of unsullied white paper that rested upon it. He stared fixedly at its blank surface.

He wanted to tear it up, but he knew it would only be replaced, and that he would be punished. But what punishment could be worse than the maddening wasteland spread before his eyes in white emptiness?

Absently, instinctively, he groped beside the paper for a quill or pen. But there was nothing. Just a pitiless white void, thoughts agitating idly in his mind, and no escape from either.

It was maddening.

With a cry he hurled his forehead down upon the surface of the desk. A sob grew in his chest, dying in his throat before it could entirely escape. Something had paused him. He raised his head and lifted a hand to it. Something warm and wet oozed from a gash between his eyebrows; it felt . . . like ink.

Tentatively he dabbed his finger upon a corner of the paper. Joy broke across his features, delight flew from his lips in a wild cry. It left a mark--like red ink! Dabbing at his forehead again, he put his bloodied finger to the paper. He began writing.

When his forehead dried he began clawing at his bare chest. When the paper was filled he began writing on the desk, the floor, the walls. And when he ran out of blood he tore the flesh off his arms with his bare teeth or struck at his face until he could hardly see for the red ink gushing about his eyes. After hours of laughing, dancing, and singing as he smeared words across the walls, he had found the last corner within his reach. Finally he wrote:

I felt the guard's windpipe collapsing in my grip. There was a loud crack and I threw the body aside. The sounds of reinforcements echoed down the stairwell.

Like a beast I sprang upward, plowing into the midst of a dozen guards. In their confusion I tore through them, ramming skulls against the walls, twisting arms until they went limp, throwing fists that dislocated jaws. One of them tried to butt me with his rifle. Laughing, I pulled it from his hands and bashed in his face with the muzzle.

Upstairs no resistance crossed my path that did not fall beneath bullets or sheer force of muscle. Behind me lay dozens of unconscious or dead soldiers; ahead lay a dozen more. Before long there were but six; soon one; and then there were none.

Relentlessly I forged ahead. Now guards began to flee at my approach, though few escaped. Finally I found the door. I ran the length of the hall and burst out the door, too impatient to open it first.

I stepped out into fresh, open air. The bright, uninterrupted sun in all its naked might beamed from above, filling me to the core with light. I breathed in the fresh scents of verdure blowing from the forest and of the sea beyond. My chest heaved. I felt power beating within me. The sunshine tasted of escape. The wind smelled of freedom. The world lay at my feet. At last . . .

He collapsed. The eyes grew wider, brighter for a moment; the mad, blithe grin became still, an eternal carving etched into his face. His last breath escaped from his lungs. At last he was free.

~ * ~

I was mildly inspired by "Movement" from the recent Ambage Anthology.

Now, I have to say, I hate this story. Not "Movement"; this story here. I hate it. I hated the concept from the beginning, I hate the execution, and I hate the result. It's not at all my style, and it's not a style I like. But I suppose every writer, at one point in his or her life, writes something in this vein. I came in and put my own spin on it, but I hated it and I won't be doing it again. XD

The one attribute this story had that I did like was the premise. Metaphorically speaking, a blank sheet of paper with no writing utensil handy is an infuriating thing. I might have to find a better way to implement that in another story.

I'm not really looking for an formal or in-depth reviews; whether you think it's perfect or terrible, whether you think it could be improved or not, I'll as soon leave it to rot regardless. The only reason I'm posting this is because I know there are probably those who might be amused by it, and better for it to serve some little purpose than none at all.

I hope you enjoyed this more than I did. If not, if you're with me, here's a little soap; go wash your brain and get on with your life, as I'm about to.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

To all the men and women of America who served, serves, or will serve their nation. Heroism defies spatio-temporality.

The somber fingers of night crept into my tent. Outside it was so positively dark that there was no light to enter through the flap, leaving whatever did so devoid of any illumination that it was merely a brighter hue of shadow. But even with so little to see by, I could not sleep. My mind pulsed with memories of what I had left behind and what I might never see again. I saw a frenzy of bloody scenes, images of violence and terror and destruction that made my heart race. When I opened my eyes to distract them there only a void around me.

I tried not to think …

I didn't want to think …

I wanted to be far away …

With a sigh I heaved myself to my feet and emerged into the night air. It was warm, but there was a sobering breeze for balance. As temperate as a summer's day … My thoughts were interrupted by a cry from somewhere within the camp, a prisoner's wail. It started out low like a gurgle, rolling into a level shriek, then shattering into a fitful waver from pitch to pitch until it finally died away.

For as long as it had lasted my mind had become consumed by it. It had dragged me into its abyss of misery as if it were all that existed. Now in the regathering hush I found myself back in Afghanistan. Not that that was much better. I was shivering convulsively. Forcibly I calmed my ruffled mind and turned it to other things: reminiscences, desires, dreams, anything but the reality of the present.

I sat or I fell, it could be put either way. One way or another I came to a cross-legged position in the dirt, and after brushing a sharp stone from underneath my ankle I lifted my eyes to the sky. The stars glowed brighter than I had ever seen them; they were the only light within miles. I searched them for constellations, but I wasn't familiar with the night sky here. It was like someone you had never met but who reminded you of an old friend. Yet they were not; these were not my friends. They were strangers, cold and foreign.

During my life I had become intimate with my stars. They had been nocturnal companions, there with me when I was alone in the darkness to console and advise me. Before my marriage they had belonged to me in the darkness; now they belonged to the both of us. But she was not here, and even when I looked for my stars I could not find them.

I tried to peer behind them, piercing the heavenly veil to see what lay beyond …

"Here more than anywhere," I murmured, "you should be able to hear me. Can you?"

The breeze stirred, becoming stronger. On its currents soared a sound, which at first I could not identify; then it became a voice, like the ringing of distant bells or the singing of birds.

A smile crept upon my lips. I said, "You're right. He always can. But can you?"

Fingers of air brushed along my arm.

I took them in my hand, gingerly wrapping my own fingers around the ether. "I know you can."

I said, "I'm sure I don't have to say this. But I miss you."

…

"What do you mean? You're my wife, why shouldn't I miss you?"

…

"But we're not together. I'm here, and you're back home--"

…

"What's that supposed to mean?"

…

"But I am here, right now. How can I--" I sighed as she interrupted again. "All right, all right. Time and place has nothing to do with this--with us."

…

"Beyond the four dimensions, I like that. This isn't spatio-temporal. We're above that."

…

"Look, just because you're wiser and smarter than I am, you don't have to act like a guru. I know you are."

…

"Don't say that. You are and you know it. We both know it."

…

I laughed. "Don't bother to deny it. I don't believe a word of your modesty. I know you too well. I love you too much."

The air stilled. I sighed, planting an elbow on my knee and resting my chin in my palm. "I must be crazy, sitting alone in the night and talking to someone on the other end of the world."

The wind picked up into a violent gust that nearly blinded me with sand.

"Okay, I'm sorry! It's just hard to feel like I'm not alone. You must know that. You must be feeling the same."

…

"Am I forgiven?"

…

"I love you." Without a pause I added, "The stars are beautiful tonight."

…

"No they're not always. Only when I'm with you."

…

"You're right. They always are, then." I swept a hand across the sky as if to gather all the heavenly lamps into my grasp. I held out my hand to her again, and her fingers brushed up all the moondust.

We didn't say much more. In a state that defies time and space, topics of conversation that pertain to either become null. Besides, such a state is too precious to waste talking too much. Each moment seemed an eternity of quiet ecstasy. I just wanted to savor every one before morning.

When a yawn sundered my lips, sending tremors throughout my body, I knew it was time to turn in.

"You're still there, aren't you?"

…

"Sorry, it was a stupid question. I'm practically asleep, I can't think straight. I should be going back to bed, I guess. Big day tomorrow."

…

"I just want to tell you one more thing before I go."

…

"I think you were right. Or are. Probably doesn't matter which. If our love defies spatio-temporality like you said, it defies tense, too. Were, are, will be, doesn't matter. No, I know you're right. Our love isn't here or there or now and then, but ubiquitous and always. … Oh, I know I sound ridiculous, but you make a poet out of me."

…

"I didn't say a very good poet. You say these things better. I'm trying to think of the right word to put it all in, but I can't think of one. Our love--it's--it's--"

…

"Ethereal. Yes, that's the word."

…

"I love you. And you don't have to say anything more … because I know you love me, too. I'll come back to you, alive, don't worry about that. But not until I've done something to make the world a better place for you to live in."

…

"All right. For us to live in."

Her tone was as smooth as the aery stars, washing over my heart and lifting it up into the Heavens. Warmer than the breeze but as soft, her breath tickled my ear as she whispered,

"Be safe, love. I just want you home. I don't need a hero."

"With your strength behind me, you'll have both."

I brought my hand to my face. My lips met my palm in a yearning kiss, and I let the wind carry it away. It was the best I could do for now. But I would do better.

"Good night, darling."

I'm not sure which of us said it or whether we both did. Saying nothing more I rose and returned to my tent. Sleep took me into its embrace, as welcoming and warm as my wife's waiting arms.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Well, there is a little matter of an entrance fee, an initiation, and a member's test. Nothing complicated; just get us a 50,000 word essay treating on the merit of the hosts by next week.

I'm joking. It really is as it seems. Come in, impose yourself upon us, ravish the refreshment table, and start writing! You'll be received with open arms. =D Welcome!

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I suppose the value in poetry of this sort is that it's like a painting; everyone sees something different. For me this had a very clear meaning, a deep and profound one that touched me. Some might not read as I did, and if they did might have a different interpretation; some might take a superficial view of it and just enjoy the elegance and the vague, poetic style. I suppose in a way it has something for everyone; while, in another, it has nothing for anyone. It has its own distinct value as a sort of mirror. It's a delicate construction, but there's nothing actually in it, allowing the reader to see nothing but themselves and their own thoughts as if they were someone else's. Really very clever and quite beautiful.My only cavil is that there were several grammatical mistakes, which tend to bother me as a pet peeve. Otherwise, well done.

I'm surprised Kraggh didn't apply it to Superman. It could quite aptly fit from the right angle, which was near to the angle from which I viewed it.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

I was a little confused as to the precipitate entrance of these undefined creatures and this unknown being from a place unidentified. I'm all right with the mystery that surrounds them and their presence and their travel, though. That has benefit to the story.As for the ending, where the story was supposed to tie together, it didn't. It was vague and inconclusive. Tom carried out his father's will--why? Because his father was a fiend and he was afraid to be punished again? Is Tom really so puerile? And then you go on to adumbrate "things more important," things he "felt he had to accomplish." What, after all, was so important to him? What did he do?I enjoyed Tom's dialogue with his father. That was dramatic and it gave meaning to the story. There was something worth telling. It might have been the focus of the story, if only it had not been drowned in so much superfluity; it might have been a valuable supplement, if the superfluity had had any point. As it was, it was somewhere in the middle of being focal and auxiliary."I was talking about politics. Aliens attacked. I had a dramatic speech with my father. Daddy spanked me and told me to rule the world so I did. I also did some other stuff but never mind that. The end."Up until the end it was a great story. But then it was left hanging, leaving me confused and wondering wherein the point lay.Grammatically you did as well as usual. Just a few simple errors:

The image, for those who dared look, was that of a pipe organ and alien architextures.

We all have those words we look back upon and say, "How in the world did I mispell that?"Yes, that misspelling was a pun.Architectures.

I conquered the rest of the universe with my silver toungue alone.

Tongue.

Yet, you dilute yourself in the waters of the ocean.

*delude ;)That was also a joke.

And Tom was punished that day. Publicly, in plain site.

Sight.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith