Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa

It happens that I have recently reviewed Kraggh's Pathfinder, though I know that on this the 19th day of February the review has not yet been approved by the blogger. Requesting a review for Ether. 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

Ancient promises . . . oaths that bind the future . . . a destiny at long last fulfilled. . . . In other words, sorry I took so long, but better late than never. Now, on the whole, I was very much confused with some of the story detail. I don't like being dropped in amidst information that, without explanation, makes no sense. There's obviously a deeper story behind this one, but as a reader it doesn't make me happy that you're keeping it a secret from me. Immediately you plunge me into an inexplicable tangle of long-distance communication and glow-in-the-dark swords and laser-flashlights and demons. It only gets worse later on with Aardses and Craytus and some nubilous nuance about Nuada or something such. And the "everybody with a brain should know what an Aardse is" air with which you introduce all this fictional information is highly irritating. I think this could be smoothed over in the opening by, for one thing, cutting out the first seven paragraphs and going straight to the action scene. That scene was pretty straightforward--until the part about the laser-flashlight, which of course demands further illumination already. Problem is, at least the initial paragraphs introduced the flashlight, whereas without them it would really come into the story out of nowhere. A guy named Monosmith has a sword named Thomas. I chuckled. "I am the mighty warrior Tjakifridelr! Fear the wrath of my mighty blade, Bob!" But that's a ridiculous exaggeration and I honestly don't see anything wrong with the sword's name. I only find it mildly amusing. Okay, so I read the story through and I still don't know what an Aardse is. I cannot understand why Soul Struggle was not described. It bewilders me that it was revealed with such abrupt suddenness that Monosmith is one. And I wonder why Monosmith hasn't any wings, because Soul Struggle, fellow Aardse, does. The development of the relationship between Monosmith and Soul Struggle was unnaturally hasty. Soul Struggle has some vaguely adumbrated power to inspire comfort in her companions, all right, that's an excuse; but it's a small and obscure one, not to mention a cheap one even if the point was elaborated further. Monosmith warmed up to her too quickly. He has, it seems, a propensity for doing that. And yet, he never smiles, suggesting a character far less warm than he seems to possess. I love Monosmith--he's intriguingly mysterious, with a stolid, husky charisma. But his capriciously amorous ways are stereotypical, and moreover seem incongruent with his personality. As for Buzzy and Soul Struggle, they didn't seem to have much personality at all. Buzzy struck me as the jovial, effervescent type; I'm not quite sure what gave me that impression, but I got it, and was disappointed that he never acted in accordance with that impression. He himself said he was a friendly type--but his conduct was not as friendly as it should have been. Soul Struggle was, I thought, meant to be impersonal; she was something of a phantom, intended to be vague and ethereal in character. But against all this she displays an amount of emotion that, without personality, makes her all the emptier. The attack on their campsite was abrupt. Why did the creatures attack so suddenly? And why did it occur to him that they would just in time to turn around and see them coming? If his Aardse sense was tingling I would have liked to know. One moment the IDTD was stolen by the creatures, and the next Soul Struggle had it. That, too, was confusing and abrupt. The description of the giant nuadine beast was probably the most disappointing part of the entire story. This was a moment to inject the reader with the very fear the characters felt, but it was so fraught with poor word choice and general inelegance that the creature came across as nothing more than grotesque. Soul Struggle's death was sudden, abrupt, and anticlimactic. It was only natural for Monosmith to shed no tears; he had no reason to care that much about her. But I was surprised that his reaction to her death was as passioante as it was. And what was this about her turning around in the end? What, after all, did she really do that was so heroic? So she didn't selfishly save herself; even that was left vague. If you had emphasized the potential of her betrayal it would have been better, but as it was she died by mere happenstance after doing precious little worthy of any recognition. What did I like about the story? I loved the concept. I loved the characters and I wanted more out of them, and to see more of them. I wanted to know what an Aardse was and what they did. I wanted to know where the characters were and what these semi-invisible native demons were. I wanted to know more about Craytus and nuadines and I wanted to know where that random beast at the end came from. In general I wanted what this story severely lacked. But this is just the sort science fantasy I like, a mingling of classic sci-fi with mythology and spiritualism, filled with wisdom, big-picture profundity, and allegorical significance. My overall thoughts: I want to read more; unless it means I have to suffer your mercilessly lax grammar, vacuous word choice, uninformative descriptions, undeveloped characterization, vagueness, and precipitation. These are, I must say, problems I did not come across in your other works, problems I did not at all expect from you. I've seen stories like this, but I never thought I'd see one from you. To its credit it had, at least, its redeeming qualities: the concept behind it, chiefly, but others as well, such as well-written action scenes and a profound causerie, both of which are things I very much adore. I was mainly disappointed because I know you can do so much better. On an impertinent note, I have to say, this was the best line in the story: By the way, I've heard you're not a fan of circumlocution. I was okay with most of it until you came to "smiting this fiend." That outright murdered the sentence. And in the middle of a battle this is way too much eloquence. 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: It's. Led. Inject an a. That's exhilarating, and that should still be was. Though the words are plural, the exhilarating quality is singular. That word just doesn't work in that capacity. 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. Meaninglessness, inanity, emptiness; or add a noun: existence, void. 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." Move and to place it before hauling, preferably; otherwise, replace hauling with hauled. Scratched. Really? Only ten? I thought it was higher than that.Sorry; I had to. Lying. That comma is unnecessary. Delirious. Gush, perhaps, but not usher, which means to escort or, intransitively as you have it here, to serve as an escort. No--no--no. Please--never. Indignation. Committed. Incredible. 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: Here it is all one sentence, and thus hopefully should not be capitalized. 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. 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. 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. This is all one sentence, and so only the initial letter and proper nouns should be capitalized. Thus: 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

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

So somebody's been gossiping behind my back, saying I should write something like this. =P Well, I'm not much of a poet, but as far as I could tell there was no rhyme nor reason to that, nor any metrical structure. I'm probably wrong, but I know precious little of poetry anyway, and so I will leave it up to you to tell me whether this is a poem or not. Fifteen minutes of trying something like the previously mentioned poem, and this was the result: Pain and sorrow let loose to kill, Joy and bliss left free to roam; Dark and night, light and day, Value, justice, apathy. To tell the truth or tell a lie? To believe or to deceive, To see false for false or real for real, Madness, waste, insanity. The strength to endure the harshest blow, The weakness to fall. The vigor to rise, the dread to turn back, Panache, terror, equipoise. Cry to the night, weep to the stars, Lament your losses and your gains. Feel the poignance to exist, To love, to lose, to fight and win. The flower's bloom, the sun's warm glow, The happiness of emptiness, Inane joys rotting in our souls; Comfort, peace, banality. Logic and rationality, Sound reason to do, to live, to die. Euphoria in just purpose, despair in cogent cause. Wherefore, why, validity. Emotions, feelings, vagaries, Justice, madness, equipoise, Love and loss, joy and ease, farce, reason, tragedy; Where lay the world's true alchemy? Somehow I feel like there should be more to poetry. 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: 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. Tongue. *delude ;)That was also a joke. Sight. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Early review, late report. Better than an early report and a late review. =P EDIT: And The Golden Mask, reviewed. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile reporting with an SSCC charity review. I'm struggling to find some sort of point, some sort of meaning, behind this story. But I'm having no success. All I can find is a moral: "And remember, ladies and gentlemen: lock your doors."I found myself slightly curious as to why this man was out in the rain, but it really didn't have anything to do with the story. That's the sort of curiosity that doesn't need to be satisfied.What I really wonder is what brand of deranged lunatic this guy must be. "He was an axe-murderer for sure. For sure." I can understand stepping inside to dry off, though I know I wouldn't; but I can't really forgive him for exploring the whole house. Then again, soaked to the bone after walking through the rain for four hours, I can't expect him to be clear-headed. By now his brain's waterlogged, leaving him only half-conscious, and in this state he succumbs to natural inquisitveness and explores the house. Okay, so I've figured out the logic. But I'm me, and even at that it took some doing. Most readers wouldn't bother to reason that out.I still can't find much point, though. In my opinion, there should always be a point, even if it's vague or allegorical. But I can't even recognize any allegorical significance.Wait--wait, I've got it! We're living in a nation that succumbs to the slightest weight of hardship, and in our mad dash to get out of the rain morals no longer hold us back. We are too waterlogged to differentiate between right and wrong. We escape the rain into a world dry and warm, a world of luxury and ease, where the media caters to our natural curiosity by probing into the privacy of others. Like your soaked protagonist venturing into the depths of that house where he should not have been, the rain has washed away any respect for privacy and the media doesn't know when to turn back before they go too far.Your protagonist should have been shot, though; it would have emphasized the statement.As far as style goes I thought it really suited the story. Quick, punchy sentences, colloquially flavored. Very suitable.A few cavils: That first comma could be omitted. There's no need to hyphenate that. That had no grammatical place in this sentence. I get that you don't want to put an adjective before the first breathing; the breathing fast is for emphasis. But it's ungrammatical. Replace it, perhaps, with "his fast breathing," although I would replace fast with something such as erratic, unstable, abrupt. This sentence had absolutely no part in the quotations around it. Similarly the second quotation had no connection to the first. And yet you connected it all in one sentence, which is quite improper. Let me show you a more grammatical way to arrange it: Same story here, followed by a correction: On the whole, however, there were few mistakes that I could point out. Well done.This was an entertaining little piece, somewhat perturbing, one that will remind me always to lock my doors at night. A little pointless, maybe--unless the reader is creative in digging up allegory--but satisfyingly entertaining. I enjoyed it very much; good work! Keep writing, Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Gee, thanks, guys. And especially Aderia. I love the way you put it; very funny and poetic at the same time. XD As for the Calvin and Hobbes banner--well, that goes in my signature now. Apropos, nicely done, Legolover. XP You guys are the best. Gratitude and thanks! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Beautiful; and very eloquently put. This is very much how I feel about literature. It is a magic indefeasibly real. Is fiction as fictional as the word suggests? I think not. It may be intangible--yet, in some ways, it is now. It is the world that exists beneath ours, the mirror that reflects the truth of our lives. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Souvenirs has taken its place among the stories reviewed by the SSCC--twice. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Nuile reporting with a charity review, courtesy of the SSCC. . . . You broke my heart. This was beautiful. Their emotions were so real--I could feel everything right alongside the characters. I expected what the end would bring, but that didn't make it any less heartending, tragic, and dramatic.You're making my job really difficult, here. I have nothing to praise, and there's so little I can criticize. The description at the beginning was great; it set the scene, and your choice of detail was immaculate. But there was just a little something missing. You omitted the tone. The happy Christmas scene leaves us unprepared for the sudden sorrow. Now, there's nothing wrong with juxtaposing the two; contrast is good. But the change was a little jarring. An adumbration of tone would have done well. For instance: Here you could have sneaked in a little hint of her pain. A nostalgic, yearning, or perhaps bitter warmth would set the tone. The scenes in the military camp were beautiful. Colson admiring his wife's picture, his dialogue, the tree; all beautiful. Ah, the ending! What a potent moment! But alas! this: It was unnecessary, and its effect was something like uttering a taboo; it very powerfully killed the moment. A few other nitpicks here and there: This whole paragraph was endlessly choppy. It starts out fine; then suddenly transitions to abrupt descriptions; then switches to internal dialogue; and then we're back to descriptions that really shouldn't be minced into separate sentences like that. This; yes, this. I know this very well; it is so true. And it just enhanced the emotions that much more for me. Well, that one wasn't a nitpick. I would separate those by commas rather than combining them, personally. That should be capitalized. Now, I wonder . . . was it Colson who received a bullet to the heart? or his wife? . . . Or was it your reader? Excellent work. Keep writing, Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

The magic of a good book is in the words--but some of it is in the binding, too. I agree with you there, Tekulo. Alas, I couldn't resist having hundreds of thousands of free classics at my fingertips. =P That's the main reason I got my Kindle. Automaton, there's no rush, but I'm glad you got your hands on the free copy. =) Enjoy! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Last time I'll plug this, I promise. The Second Death, Kindle eBook, is free now through January 30th. Get your hands on it now and it's yours to keep forever, yours to read any time your Kindle is handy, and yours to review if you happen to feel munificent and eloquent. ;D Just be sure to let me know so I can give you proper thanks. All right, I'll say no more on the subject. At least not any time soon. Thanks again! Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

To get the former out of the way first, The Second Death will be yours free forever if you download it between January 26th (two days to go!) and January 30th. Now then, I would like to discuss the issue of whether 'tis nobler to say something, or to utter it, or perhaps to state it. Is it better to ask or to inquire? Bring adverbs into the equation, and the field becomes open to even greater argument. The simple fact is that every writer and every reader, too, has their own opinion about it. This is mine. Examining a novel as if it were a cadaver, we'll say the plot is the core skeletal structure; the prose can be the flesh that covers it all; but dialogue becomes the muscles that hold it all together. Everything else is vital, but it's the dialogue that does the real work. It's the life and vigor of the story, the human element that most enraptures readers. It's one of my rules in writing that dialogue should always be able to stand on its own; it doesn't always need to, and there are times when it just plain can't, but if at all possible dialogue should literally speak for itself. It is my opinion, however, that sometimes say is the right choice and sometimes it is not. Sometimes another verb should be used--or sometimes, none at all! One example of a use for a verb other than say is merely to emphasize the tone of the dialogue. Even if the words sounds like a shout, s/he shouted serves as an underline. But the verb should be carefully selected. In this case, shout implies a different tone than cry, exclaim, or bellow might. I usually prefer a powerful verb to an adverb in such cases, but again, it's a matter of discretion. Sometimes the one is more prudent, sometimes the other. And here's another instance in whic they can both be very useful. Every now and then a quotation arises where the words are too few or too simple or otherwise inexpressive; where a human voice would add a meaning the words do not contain. A human inflects their speech in a way that is difficult, though not impossible, to suggest in written dialogue; sometimes a telling verb or an adverb is the best way to add that inflection. And then there's another method that is often used to avoid the s/he said entirely. But I have often seen this abused. If the movement is not significant in some way, if it serves no other purpose than to tell us who is speaking, it is rendered entirely meaningless and makes the writer look lazy. If the character strokes his mustache or twirls a finger in her hair, it indicates the speaker with the extra purpose of physical expression. But when a character removes their shoe to get at an itch during the conversation--sure, it's a natural action, but it's nothing more than a trivial, bothersome distraction. Some actions tell enough alone, some could use an adjective or some other form of additional description, and some should just be avoided. Again, it's all dictated by discretion. On the whole, when I only have two characters speaking, I prefer to drop anything outside the dialogue, unless where emphasis or definition is prudent, or when a character makes an expressive movement. When you get three or more characters talking together, of course, it takes a degree of dexterity to juggle them all clearly and effectively. The last point I would like to make becomes a part of that aforementioned rule, that dialogue should always be able to stand on its own. Not only does this mean that dialogue should speak with its own tone, but with the tone of the character. His or her "voice" should be audible when they speak. It can never be solely relied upon to identify a character, but the character should nonetheless be identifiable by the words they say. 　 And sometimes, I think, the very purpose of verbs or adverbs is artistic embellishment. Far too often modern authors concentrate too much on the functions of words, and not enough on their beauty. We forget that writing is an art. There is a science behind every art, but we must remember that the science is the supplement, not the focus. The gears in the mechanism of writing do not turn for their own sake, but for the sake of the art I can think of no better way to phrase it than in the very words of Dolores Douglas, of The Second Death. Perhaps you observed my verb choice. I used it for embellishment but also to lend a subtle inflection to the tone of her words. Didn't that sound a little different? 　 One thing that, when it comes to dialogue, I shall never forgive is this: The mental image evoked compels me to smile myself. With the primary exceptions being door-to-door salespeople, used car dealers, and politicians, few people talk through a smile. Even if your character is a ventriloquist, just don't go there. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

Dancer, reviewed. When it comes to description, it's one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever read. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

That was amazing. Your descriptions were amazingly vivid. I could clearly see every move that she made, and the stage with all its lights was apparent in my mind. If I had known the song I probably would have heard the music; maybe I'll read it again just so I can listen to the song at the same time. The lyrics were very pretty, and added a level of story to what was otherwise an evocative description of a dance.At one point I began to think, "this is getting quite long"; but it was only for a moment, and it died away as the dance continued. I was as entranced as anyone would have been by this beautiful dancing.One thing I couldn't see was the dancer herself. I would have liked to know a little bit about her appearance. Her outfit was captured, but she herself was not, and I would have liked an image of the titular character.I will admit that there were a few times your descriptions became difficult to follow--such as the "fan kick"--when I had to read the sentence over again to understand. But that was a rarity, and that's quite an accomplishment. I've rarely seen descriptions so fine. Sometimes I admit my mind will try to rush descriptions and absorb them rather than enjoy them; but yours entranced me, and coaxed me to read them slowly, to savor them.I only have a few nitpicks, mostly on the grounds of grammar, spelling and style. There's a space before the hyphen. That comma is unnecessary. That hyphen was very out of place. As an adjective I could understand ripped-looking, but ripped is the adjective, look the noun it's describing, and there was no call for a hyphen. I feel like there should be something to either fix the flow of this sentence--an and after the comma, for instance--or otherwise separate it into two. I commend the use of knee to avoid a repetition of leg here. But there's something missing between up and performed--an and. Lastly, that comma belongs inside the apostrophes, which should actually be quotation marks. Hands, I think. Shin would be cleaner. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith