Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

One of my favorite quotes from the novel: Writing requires understanding, if not comprehension; to feel if not to know; and that most important faculty of the human mind, born of understanding and comprehension and feeling and knowledge and experience and intuition and much else: great judgment--but better to say, prudence. I don't know if I would say that writing requires genius; granted there are many geniuses in the history of literature, no doubt. The only requirement, however, is cleverness: he who would make people take him for a genius, needs not necessarily be one. Most importantly, writing takes time, for haste makes waste; art should not be rushed. In this modern era of celerity, we suffer a dramatic lack of proper pacing. It is not enough to stop and smell the roses, for from that we gain nothing but fleeting pleasure; but if we stop, and take the time to watch the roses grow . . . then we learn something. It is for readers to smell the roses we writers tend, but it is for us to watch them grow. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Thank goodness I had that extra week; I needed every day of it. A Jaunt in the Woods, and also O Dark Legion, reviewed. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile reporting with an unrequested review courtesy of the SSCC. Now there's no getting away from us. Before I say anything else I am going to admit that I am quite ignorant of the mechanics of poetry. My ken, at best, is basic. You have to rhyme: I get that. Then I read free verse and I'm just confused. But I poetry or prose, we use the same words. I am a writer with an aesthetic eye and a taste for words: I understand their tones and their flow and their beauty, and that is what I see here.I respect people who can arrange words into lines that rhyme. But poetry is more than that. It's the people who can go beyond that and write poetry whom I admire. And this, sir, this is poetry.One of poetry's best qualities is its ability to paint vivid pictures without laying any tangible detail. In prose you describe: in poetry you feel. You feel the Legion and their power and the dread they inspire. You feel the strength and ferocity of the battle. You feel the confidence of the Legion and the bravery of the three noble fighters as they fight against their insuperable foes, including the worst of all, Fear himself.There's color and action and a philosophical note of the pitch that rings long after the poem is over. Temptation is born of lust which comes of greed, a form of selfishness, the root of all evil; the lust for power is a strong one, and corruption--a great evil indeed--is seldom far behind. But that is but one interpretation. Worse comes the thought that, perhaps, there was no corruption and no hearts were changed; but evil is in the eye of the beholder. For no matter what we do and no matter who we serve, we will always, in the eyes of some, be evil. It is impossible to please everyone. It is a heavy thought: Goodness is not a measure of how much good we do, but how little evil . . .You may or may not know this, but I am a fan of your work. This may be only the second story I have read, but once again I have enjoyed it very much. This sounds like something I would write, which is a greater insult than you might think . . . I did not feel that it flowed as much as elsewhere, but it was indeed the only place the flow was disrupted; a lone rock jutting into an otherwise smooth river. It flowed, but it felt a little awkward in that it did not seem to make much sense. It seemed more like a rhmying placeholder than a part of the sentence.I adore stories that incite deep thoughts, and this was one in spades. Poems often are, but not necessarily, and not nearly as often in the past hundred years. Very nicely done; and no surprise. Now go write something more! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile reporting with an unrequested review courtesy of the SSCC. Now there's no getting away from us. It began as an amusing scene about two hikers lost in the rain, regaling us with their banter as they sought to find their way home. And then with an inexplicable twist at the end that hints of some mysterious intimation--but what is that intimation? Where were they that they were not meant to be? You give no hint of what's amiss and only a vague hint that something is amiss at all.Instead of leaving your reader confounded, I say, why have a twist at all? You have right here a lovely piece of life fiction that could, with a little improvement, stand on its own. As it stands all it needs is a little point. All that takes is some additional seasoning: a sprinkling more of humor if that's the flavor you want, a shot of action if you want some zest, a dash of romance for a savory sweetness. Or stir in a some simple, homemade conversation for heartwarmth.There's also a lack in information regarding the characters: Who are they? Where are they? Why are they there? The Where is vaguely explained and, perhaps, needs nothing further; the Why--hiking--is not established early on and could use a little elaboration I think; the Who is a question I actually do not mind going unanswered. Especially in flash fiction these characters did not need any elaboration of stated detail.Dialogue is where it's at with the characters; and the dialogue felt a little stiff to me. I believe that this was due in no small part to the melodramatic profusion of exclamation points. It lost a little vitality through its lack of proper tone. I won't deny that two people lost in the rain are bound to be shouting at one another; but it's not enough to append an exclamation point after the words: the words have to have the shouting tone.Grammatically I just want to point this out: That should not be capitalized. This is a common mistake, one I see all the time. Unless it's a proper noun--which this is not--the word following a quotation should not be capitalized because it is, technically, part of the same sentence. Oddly this rule does not apply in reverse: A quotation should always be capitalized.Otherwise you did well.On the whole, it wasn't a great story, nor was it a bad story; it was all right. Without the abstruse twist it would have been better, with more vitality it could be excellent. Whether you take this and rewrite it or up your game by writing something entirely different, Keep writing, Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

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 . . ."

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

Old green: Warrior of the forest. New green: Minty freshness. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

. . . I am astoundished . . . and astonded . . . and in ignominy . . . because I never realized this. It's so . . . so obvious . . . and yet . . . XD I guess it takes a common mind to observe the obvious, eh? ;D Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

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

I have reviewed Cederak's Little Broken Words. No story of my own demanding review right now so I'll request a review for this neglected short story: Fall of a Toa, by Legolover-361. 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

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