[Forgotten]

Synopsis: A tea shop girl and her dealings with a wizard suitor and others. . . ?



His name was Stephen.

I'll be the first to admit Stephen is an odd name for a wizard. When I heard of wizards living near this part, I had thought of names like Pendragon, Inkheart, and possibly even Potter. My imagination had run away with me, and I presumed they were those dark lords of magic in classic, gothic robes or perhaps even one of those bright, richly clad magicians with something like a wand in hand. I suppose I've thought of much sillier things before. But his name was Stephen, or at least it was the name he gave me without my asking during our first encounter.

The first time the gentleman waltzed into the shop I could tell he fancied he owned the place. He must have been very much aware of the effect his countenance had upon females, for his whole attitude confirmed it. He was one of those charming young chaps who was usually raised up on the knowledge that they are better than everyone else, and thus their characters are formed. His appearance did nothing to help the matter.

He had silk threads of golden hair rivaled in majesty only by his glass, turquoise eyes. His face had a creamy complexion and perfectly flawless, almost seeming to be soft to the touch if only one were to reach out. To suitably complement these stunning features, he garbed himself in only the richest and most elegant of aristocratic clothes, like that of a man of the most pure, noble lineage, perhaps even enough to rival an earl. He walked with something of a careless stride, fluid and clearly arrogant. His eyes glimmered upon his entrance like the early morning glitter on the sea's surface right after a storm.

I have not the slightest shadow of a doubt that he was very much aware his was a mien that was quite dashing and handsome. In all honesty, few could ever hope to rival his grace and charm. My associates, and other maidens present, swooned merely at the sight. I, on the other hand, knew better. I could also see past all his pretenses, his thickly coated glamour, his illusion, and spot his one foible. There was something fake about his personage, something of a falsehood in his countenance.

As his soft, marble gaze landed upon me, he smiled genially and I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I switched subjects with great ease, finding my attention on watching a kettle boil more fascinating than the hue of his glassy eyes, and twirling tea bags through my fingers more amusing than any of his charms. I am not vain, and do not mean to sound such when I state he took a fancy towards myself. I must confess I could hardly imagine why. I won't lie and say I am hideous, but neither would I dare claim of being of a ravishing sort. On my best days, I could be called pretty; on my worst, pretty decent. Yet I found no shortage of beauty in the tea house, nor lack of young maids whose figures were more appealing in attraction than my own. I can not hope to explain why his eyes lingered upon me. They just did.

He approached with somewhat of a cocky air, his smile easily readable. A smirk so arrogant that it was as if it knew it could make any woman blush. And his eyes shone equally as vibrant, somehow just as conscious that they were every lady's wet dream. I can admit he was . . . and yet for me, he wasn't. I can’t easily explain it. It wasn’t that I found him in no way attractive, but the falsehood I saw was hindering any progress for my attentions. His voice was soft and dulcet, a tone probably employed to enamor all young ladies.

"Elope with me?"

I should've been shocked. I should have glanced up with a stunned and bewildered expression. I should have reacted to this more naturally, but unfortunately it wasn't entirely unexpected. He seemed of a spoiled sort, always granted his silliest whims and his tone was that of authority, well accustomed to being obeyed. He’d say jump, they’d ask how high. He’d send someone to the end of the world solely for his amusement. I knew it must have been just another of his silly whims to find a pretty tea house girl, or anyone of the lower working class, and ask her to elope. I continued my work without a hint of disturbance, barely glancing up. "Are not you first supposed to ask my name?"

He shrugged his shoulders as if it were no more than details that he couldn't be trifled with and he spoke like one just going through the motions towards the inevitable. "All right. May I have your name?"

I couldn't care less who knew my name. Stranger or friend; earl or wizard. Without hesitation or shifting attention from my work, I replied simply "Jules."

"Will you elope with me, Jules?"

"No." I went on with my work, completely unperturbed.

"I could put a spell on you," he went on in a nonchalant, yet still charming voice. "I know your name so I could easily cast a spell on you. I can bewitch you into falling madly in love with me. I am a wizard. I could make you do anything I say."

This seemed to explain the tone of authority. And again, I should have been at least a tad bit frightened at this. You don’t just go around snubbing wizards after they threaten to cast a spell on you. And yet, I couldn't give a flying fig for all he was concerned. I simply placed some tea powder into a kettle of boiled water and hit the bell that signaled for someone to get it off the counter, remarking, "If you ever were planning on doing so, you would have asked me my name first."

"There are some lesser spells in which you don't require a name to enchant them. You didn't know mine was Stephen, and here you've bewitched me body and soul."

"I am no enchantress."

He cocked his head a little, smiling silly like. "Please?"

"I will not elope with you, sir, and I am sure you see I am very busy."

"Why?"

I blew out my cheeks and let out a puff of hot air, already across the point of ill-temperament. Something about him and his whole manner struck my last nerve, and I wanted him to do no more than to leave me in peace. And I would do anything to help that objective along. Without a thought to what I was saying, I simply blurted out an answer sharply, "You are not my type."

I suppose it's not something you would say to a wizard.

And yet he shut up at that comment and his whole demeanor dropped unexpectedly. His crystal eyes almost looked pitiful and more like a pool of tears than marbles and the whole of his creamy texture went a little pale. He had begun to sulk, still rather attractively. And with that last statement still hanging in the air, he parted the tea shop with the audacity not to purchase anything after my putting up with him and his nonsense so long. His last look might have broken my heart if his attitude hadn't left me completely furious.


It was a few days later that a completely different sort of gentleman entered into our little shop. While he wasn’t like the former, whose very presence could make every girl swoon, he was in no way unattractive. He had rich, jet black locks, a little unkempt, that strongly contrasted his emerald green eyes. His skin was pretty pale, reminding me of the bisque porcelain on a doll. He was tall and thin, draped in dark articles with unique accessories. He seemed some sort of Victorian goth and was quite spruce in his own way.

But he was fake, too.

He wasn't pompous or arrogant, so I wasn't appalled by his entrance in any way. Honestly, I might not have noticed another customer had entered if it weren’t for the shop’s bell hanging on the door. When I had looked up and spotted him, he appeared pleasant enough, though he did nothing to inspire any ardent affections in me of any kind. I treated him no more or less than any other paying customer, greeting him with a warming smile to neither encourage nor excourage him. So after ordering a mint tea, leaning against the counter, and striking up a conversation, I was in no way disinclined to engage.

"Have you worked here long?" he inquired, sipping leisurely at his tea and glancing up at me from beneath his lashes.

I continued to smile as was protocol, responding I had been employed here for several months. He seemed quite intrigued about my line of work. Well, at least as far as one can be so inclined to admire the tea industry. He seemed genteel enough, but I suppose it was that hint of a fake that kept any admiration to proceed from our discourse. Our conversation went on for a bit, him always nodding and commenting in just the right places. When he had finally finished his tea, he did something unexpected.

He slightly touched my hand, stopping me mid-work. His voice lowered to a whisper. "I know this is a little fast, but I’m sure I want nothing more than to be with you. I know you’re too kind to trifle with me. Honestly, am I your type?"

Apologetically, I shook my head. He smiled, a painful smile, and he departed civilly and graciously. He also left me a generous tip for my trouble and disappeared almost into a wisp of smoke, never to return again very much like the odd wizard before him. I have to admit it hurt to watch him go thus.

I could never fully disapprove of him.

It had been a good many months since, and no gentlemen during the period took any noticeable interest in me, which wasn’t in the least surprising. I was still a pretty to pretty decent employee of a quaint little tea shop of no particular acclaim. I was nothing of true interest to anybody. During this short span of time, I went on with my work as usual, and life was pretty average without any specific scenes to be recalled that held any importance. It seemed my role as a subject of romantic consequence was over and candidly I didn’t miss it much. I had had two peculiar suitors pursue me, and that, to me, could well last a lifetime. But the third young man who entered the establishment and took a particular liking to me was in no way an extraordinary character like the former gentlemen. He was an average, very decent looking lad. His was a well trimmed and kept brown hair that matched the exact shade and hue of his eyes to the letter. He was neither tall nor short, and his clothing was not of the wealthy or the destitute. His was exactly what you’d expect to find as any third person walking about town and more likely to be fond of you in turn.

He too, though in a lesser quantity than the others, seemed fake.

I suppose I liked him as a person a great deal more than the two who preceded his coming. He revealed himself in no way disagreeable, and possessed such a lively manner of speaking which caught the listener's ear that I must confess myself intrigued. He was extremely pleasant and everything a true gentleman ought to be and, therefore, I might have encouraged him a bit, but not directly flirtatious. Under different circumstances, I wholly believed we might've been great, even best, friends.

We spoke to each other for some time, in and out of my servitude towards the other thirsty customers. Luckily, there had been a lack of custom of late, and I didn’t have to sidetrack long before returning to our discourse. Our tête-à-tête was stimulating and most welcome. He asked me about books, politics, and any vague subject that could have struck a cord with me. He was very intelligent, had much to say about everything and nothing in particular, and, to top it all off, the dialogue was further embellished by the charms and compliment of him being a great orator. We went on thus for who knows how long as if we had known each other an eternity of time and were very much great friends. That seemed a slight bit odd to me, since this was our first meeting as indifferent acquaintances, but I pushed it to the back of my mind.

For a moment, I remained leaning over the counter, favoring him with a friendly smile. I don’t quite recall what we were speaking of, but I knew it was diverting and left me warm from inner laughter. His brown eyes seemed soft to me and very much like that of a relative or a childhood friend. The smile seemed to stir something in him that I hadn't anticipated. He leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was short and innocent, making it all the more bewildering. He pulled away slowly, whispering in an oddly pleading tone, "Am I your type, now?"

Strangely enough, it had never once occurred to me that they were all the same person, but at that moment it made perfect sense. He was a wizard after all. What little trouble it must have been to conjure up a spell to change his identity, for any and every occasion. Stephen could be whoever and whatever he wished to be. But to change character so completely, now that was a talent and a performance stage-worthy. And always, at the very end, he brought up my very own shut down that I used on our first acquaintance. Somehow it took my reeling mind a bit of time to catch up with me, for I noticed then that there were a lot of other clues and times of intuition that tried to warn me long before. It broke my heart that this young man was the very same wizard I had so heartily disdained. It wasn't because he had deceived me or because I had grown to love him, but that now I did not believe we could ever be friends as I had thought we could have.

"I'm sorry."

And he gave up. No other suitors, or rather, guises came for me. He forfeited the game all together. It had been almost two weeks since Stephen last came and I confess I had not entirely foreseen that. My first impression of the young wizard was determined and guileful, arrogant and persistent. And yet he no longer pursued me. I suppose he finally realized and accepted that the game was up, knowing he was no more than a poor player, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. . .'



It was a cold night, and I had to wrap a shawl about my shoulders. It didn't bother me I was wandering home at so late an hour unescorted. Others in my work place were too fearful to work the later shifts, who were mostly women, because of the wizards running about with their black arts and it being the witching hour and all. I was not afraid. My silly ideas about magicians had died with Stephen, never to be resurrected again. So I just wrapped my scarf around my neck and clung to my shawl as I stepped out into the streets. I suppose it’s never proper for a young lady to go wandering about the back streets and through alleyways at such an hour unattended, but it was the quickest way home. The main roads were just circles and mazes that made it more and more complicated to navigate. I'd rather risk the alleys than a maze.

I'd seen many homeless people that way before, for I took it almost every night, but none ever so sad. Sure, they'd tug at my skirts and ask for change. If I had anything on me, I'd cross their palm with silver and spare whatever I had. I was not afraid of what they would do with it. I had a talent for spotting fakes. I could all my life, but this poor thing was in no way fake. He was fragile as glass, cold as ice, and so pitiful I wanted to cry the moment I saw him. He had a rare disease, at least I think it's a disease, commonly referred to as albinism. He had no colour whatsoever, his skin as transparent as any phantom, his eyes as red as any ghost. It was not his only defect, however. He had a scar over his left eye and his arms seemed to be badly burned. He wore normal clothes, though far too short for this weather. As I saw him so pathetically sitting in the cold, shivering, and leaning against an alley, I hushed my urge to cry.

I must have made some distinguishing sound for he quickly caught hold of me. His red eyes widened in complete terror and absolute horror as if I were something very frightful. He pulled himself to his feet faster than a fox hunted by a hound and darted behind the corner as if the devil were at his heels. My heart called out to him and my voice echoed it, "Please wait!"

I forgot my cloak and the cold night altogether as I lifted my skirts and raced after him, trying to run down the same alley. He must have been very fast or I was much slower than I had otherwise believed myself, for I only caught a glimpse of his ghostly silhouette taking another corner before he altogether vanished again. I repeated my entreaty for him to wait, pushing aside that it was all in vain and that I couldn't possibly catch the poor creature at the rate I was getting on. Still, I kept going. I barely made the corner when I ran into a body. Richly clad in an elegant suit stood my very own golden haired, blue eyed wizard. I wasn't too surprised to see him, as he had always found a way of mysteriously turning up at the wrong moments, but he looked shocked to see me. I peeked my head around his body and attempted to pass.

He caught hold of my wrist and stopped me, but I still vainly struggled to get free. My heart was still crying out: Poor thing! The poor thing! But the magician was reluctant to relinquish his sturdy grasp on me. His voice sounded concerned but also indignant, scolding severely, "What are you doing here? Don’t you know rogues prowl the street at night? You could be hurt!" His glassy eyes caught hold of my frantic ones and followed their path. "Don't tell me you're chasing after that thing! You must be a silly girl. Foolishness! Don't you know what they say? That animal is cursed and all who are near him are too!"

I twirled at him, snarling, "Despicable creature! How could you ever say such a thing! He may be different, but that is more incentive to help him. Now let me through, you beast, and never see or dare speak to me again!"

His glassy eyes widened and his whole countenance read of shock. I couldn't care less for any heartless thing. How could he have seen that same poor soul that I did and say such horrid things? More than a fake, he was a liar. He could not have ever loved me for he had no heart. No wonder the young man looked at me in horror when there were pitiless people like this about. I shoved my way past him at last in his lapse of concentration and again raced after the phantom that had seemed to have vanished like specters normally do. I never did find him and it was all Stephen's fault!

I can fully confess it astonished me the next day when I saw him come in. Not Stephen or any of his new or old guises, but him. The ghost I had spent hours searching for the previous night. That apparition so phantasmal, he seemed to have turned to vapor or even burst like a bubble at the surface of reality. At the ringing of the bell to indicate a new customer had entered, I gave an indifferent side glance at the door and there he was. He stayed low, cowering from everyone and everything. His pathetic red eyes appeared to shift involuntarily from one side to the next, as if something horrid was about to over take him or very like a wild animal checking to be sure the coast is clear before bowing down before a water trough. I hadn’t expected the poor creature to wander in to my workplace so I wasn’t quite sure what I was to do. Strangely, it struck me with full force that I had never thought of that last night after spending several hours searching for him. What a silly girl I was! So I just stood behind the counter, a kettle whistling and boiling over somewhere behind me, and just watched him with blind fascination. When his eyes caught light of mine, he seemed as if he second guessed himself and began to make a retreat towards the doors. In spite of the knowledge that I didn’t know what I wanted from him or why I was so enthralled by his personage, I could not have that. I just couldn't lose him again.

"Oh, please wait!"

I held out my hand as if to reach out for him, and it felt so much of magic. Without a moment’s hesitation, he suddenly stopped right in his tracks, shyly staring up at me as he obeyed almost against his nature or instinct. He looked like a poor, troubled little thing, though he had to be a little older than myself. I’m not quite sure how I knew. It was just something about his eyes that seemed to tell me he had lived for lifetimes without being a day over twenty. What he must have suffered to be so scared of people as he was! I quickly called back to the manager that I was going to take my break and slid under the counter with natural grace, leaving the tea to boil and someone else to fetch it. If he looked unsure before, now he seemed utterly unsettled at my approach, wondering if it was a good or bad thing. I made sure I was slow and cautious. The last thing on my mind was frightening the poor dear more than he already was.

"Come here; I won't hurt you," I called out gently, as if trying to approach a stray cat or a badly abused dog. I held out my hand as friendly as possible, crouching a bit so as to match his own stance. He glanced at my hand, hesitant, then slowly approached. I can't tell you if the tea room was all watching this odd drama unfolding, for all I cared about at that moment was him. What went on around us didn't matter. It was his shy, fragile hand in mine that possessed my thoughts. They shook slightly, and I had a strange thought. God made these hands to hold.

"That's a dear. Now will you come sit with me and have some tea? You look chilled to the bone!"

I can't tell you how long it took me to get him to sit down at an empty table with me, or even begin with how he timidly would sip his tea without a word. I just smiled as brightly and engagingly as I could, my eyes never leaving his quiet, pathetic red ones. It took a very long break for him to start to talk to me, and I neglected a lot of shifts to spend my time urging him out of his shell. Hours had passed before he looked even the slightest bit comfortable. And even though he didn't even the slightest resemble a fake, he looked completely uncertain of himself. His voice was diffident and troubled when it finally, without any prodding on my part, asked me a question of his own initiative. Strangely enough, it surprised me. "Don't I repulse you?"

I sat there a moment, watching him as he in turn seemed to be measuring my expression. I was confounded and afraid I didn’t quite hear him right. I blinked, then suddenly the memory of Stephen raced across my mind and I realized what he meant. I clenched my hand over my heart.

"Oh, you poor dear! Quite the contrary, I love your company more than any other's for the very longest time. It's a pleasure to be able to speak with you at all."

And then, in shy but extraordinarily familiar accents, he enquired, "Then I'm your type?"

My head whirled. The bewilderment of the former question was completely overshadowed by the disorientation that this one now threw at me. Something seemed to rush violently to my head like strong wine and I began to feel drunk with my own thoughts. Impossible! It couldn’t possibly be. . . ? How could this shy, pitiful little mouse be that same arrogant, commanding wizard? It just didn’t seem to fit in at all! And yet, I could find no falsehood in him. Instead of shaking my head, blurting out the first words that popped into my head, or apologizing, I asked instead, "Is this really you?"

He bowed his head low, his white hair falling in front of his transparent face. He wasn't a fake. He was real. He was flesh and blood. He was, right now, as God had made him, how the Lord intended him. I saw immediately why he felt like he had to use spells to make him handsome, to fit in. I didn’t blame him at all but pitied him. And then all the memories and scenes from early meetings flooded my mind, only now under a completely new light. All feelings of disgust, revulsion, and annoyances simply vanished and were replaced by new, stronger emotions. I smiled. I couldn't help but smile. It wasn't meant to be mean or in any form condescending. Even if I could have suppressed the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, pressing my lips into a hard line, I could never hide the beam glowing in my eyes. I, for the first time in a very long time, felt truly and indisputably happy. Everything inside me defied logic and I seemed to have no control, which I liked very much. I suppose he fulfilled his threat of casting a spell on me. My heart flew. I leaned over the table and landed a soft kiss on his forehead, whispering, "Yes, you're just my type."

And I fell in love, and it felt so much like magic. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Edit: Someone, probably one of the well meaning admins or mods, edited my post when this came up here and it bothered me somewhat.

Well meaning perhaps, they changed "custom" to "customers" thinking most likely I had erred and made some sort of typo

Custom can mean the regular patronage to a shop or reffer in general to the customers and patrons. Its not commonly used in America, I'll admit, (though somewhat common in England or Europe) but niether is the speech or style of the rest of the work. All I did was put it back the way I meant to have it

I just felt like adding this...?

[Vorcla]

This is charming. I love the language and the dialogue you use in here. Very nicely done.

[Razor]

Good job. The writing is sound. The reason you probably aren't getting a lot of comments... the length of this piece discourages readers. With a piece this long, I would strongly suggest breaking it into two parts. The catch being you need to leave it in a spot where the reader is on the edge of his/her seat and really wants to know what is going to happen next.

This is a quaint piece. I like it from start to finish. I might suggest seeing if you can cinch up some of the narration. This is just a suggestion, but it could read something like this:

I'll be the first to admit Stephen is an odd name for a wizard. When I heard of wizards living near this part, I had thought of names like Pendragon, Inkheart, and possibly even Potter. My imagination had run away with me, and I presumed they were those dark lords of magic in classic, gothic robes or perhaps even one of those bright, richly clad magicians with something like a wand in hand. I suppose I've thought of much sillier things before. But his name was Stephen, or at least it was the name he gave me without my asking during our first encounter.

Stephen is an odd name for a wizard, or at least I think so. When I think of a wizardly name Gandolf and Merlin come to mind. Then again, I presumed wizards to be Titans of arcane arts, stirring the cosmos with their fingers, while dressed in flowing robes with a wand always within reach; however, his name was simply Stephen.

If you can weed out a sentence or two, and keep the style of delivery and voice you have put in this story I think it will improve your story.

This piece has a meandering, easy going, "in no hurry" feel to it. Which is fine, but there is a balance... a moderation to this, at least in my opinion. If the story takes too long, and we are stuck for paragraphs at a time, time after time, listening to the inner thoughts of the narrator... readers will probably tune out. I found my own mind wondering from time to time.

One little thing. I realized when the narrator spoke it was lumped in with her thoughts, but I would separate thought from spoken into different paragraphs.

Like I said, well written, a little long. If possible I would advise cinching up paragraphs and working to make sure inner dialog doesn't go for too long. Good Job with this.

[Jimbalaya]

Well written! It is sort of a somber piece, the see saw of the voice is sort of hypnotic. The language, for me, took some getting used to but I had no problems getting through it.

I noticed that the narrator said "I can't explain..." or something similar several times. This sort of thing really draws my attention for some reason and I just end up wondering why they can't explain something. It's just a personal preferance I suppose, but in writing I just can't see anything not being explained. You obviously have not problem with descriptions and I realize that, given the particular situations in which this was used, it sort of fits. I could see maybe using the phrase once, but didn't really expect it three or four times.

For such a long piece I thought it was very, very well done. Not really my favorite genre, but still interesting. Nice work.

[Forgotten]

Originally Posted by Razor

Good job. The writing is sound. The reason you probably aren't getting a lot of comments... the length of this piece discourages readers. With a piece this long, I would strongly suggest breaking it into two parts. The catch being you need to leave it in a spot where the reader is on the edge of his/her seat and really wants to know what is going to happen next.

This is a quaint piece. I like it from start to finish. I might suggest seeing if you can cinch up some of the narration. This is just a suggestion, but it could read something like this:



Stephen is an odd name for a wizard, or at least I think so. When I think of a wizardly name Gandolf and Merlin come to mind. Then again, I presumed wizards to be Titans of arcane arts, stirring the cosmos with their fingers, while dressed in flowing robes with a wand always within reach; however, his name was simply Stephen.

If you can weed out a sentence or two, and keep the style of delivery and voice you have put in this story I think it will improve your story.

This piece has a meandering, easy going, "in no hurry" feel to it. Which is fine, but there is a balance... a moderation to this, at least in my opinion. If the story takes too long, and we are stuck for paragraphs at a time, time after time, listening to the inner thoughts of the narrator... readers will probably tune out. I found my own mind wondering from time to time.

One little thing. I realized when the narrator spoke it was lumped in with her thoughts, but I would separate thought from spoken into different paragraphs.

Like I said, well written, a little long. If possible I would advise cinching up paragraphs and working to make sure inner dialog doesn't go for too long. Good Job with this.

I thank you, most sincerely, on taking time to read and review my little work and am flattered by the compliment of your attentions. I felt the need to state my gratitude before making these small remarks, which I do hope will not be found defensive, nor argumentitive on the points you brought forward to my attention. I am bound to pay respects to your opinions and having you state such kind criticism for my benefit, but also feel it my obligation to explain my reasoning behind not profiting from your advice

The first item brought to my attention as a fault was the length of the piece. I am sorry if it does not meet ones approval for how long a oneshot is to be written, but really considering, I see no reason to change it. If one chooses to to pick up a piece merely because of its size, that is the matter of the reader, and there is no quarrel on either side. They are not the targeted readers for me and I am obviously not a suitable author for them. This, unfortunately grave as it might sound, is one of my shorter works and one of the very few oneshots. I never thought length was an issue, except in the cases of saying too little. Perhaps I have greatly erred.

(In regards to seperating the whole into smaller points, I see no point in it. I do not crave attention and have no need of it unwillingly bestowed upon me if the reader does not wish to go through my work in one sitting. Besides, the story actually is already seperated into two... her perspective and his. The former has been read, the latter not yet posted. Together it is one piece, but in two parts. The length of which I fear may be appalling seeing as the latter also hapens to be the longer of the two.)

As to "cinching" up my paragraphs, I actually find that I can not do such a thing without feeling I have compromised it and having a great mind to shred the work. I thought I wrote delicately, yet simple, and trying to go beyond that which is already written I find I loose the voice of both my character and myself. Niether does it flow nor does it suit my personal taste. I feel I can not go safely against conscious. I apologize if they may seem offensive. I know your point was kindly meant.

I thank you again for your acute observations on my writing's "meandering" which perhaps I may find a remedy for in time. I have found I have trouble seeing my work clearly with all its flaws without putting it away for a good sum of time. So as it so stands, I will try my best in the future and even in the present case to set all to right in this area.

As for the length of the narrators thoughts, I suppose my only defense here can be style. I realize my particular writing style in this can be controversial due in part to the variety of tastes in the readers. I personally enjoy works such as Jane Austen's, for one example, in which it is the character's thoughts that shorten and explain what is happening. As it also happens to be of a First Person Narrative, I can not help her thinking. And if I were to write out more dialogue, I suppose it would wholly go against your first point in me shortening the story. To be so directly contrary to your first advice would be inexcusable and would feel as if I were trying to insult you. I may have not shortened the piece by your efforts, but I would never be so bold as to lengthen it.

Lastly, as for the dialogue being lumped with her thoughts, I am trully sorry for that. I will attempt to go back immediately and rectify these errors which are clearly of my own making and can not be defended. I shall try to please you, at least, in this.

I hope you understand my deep appreciation for your kindness and also that I have not been too bold in speaking these things. In no way did I mean to question your judgement, very likely superior to my limited knowledge and resources due in part to my youth and inexperience, but simply wish to gratify you with a worthy and frank responce.

Again, I thank you and I hope you forgive me any folly in this. I am merely seventeen and hope to mature and develop with time. Until then, I beg your patience and crave indulgences in your humouring me

Seeing the kindness in your review, I know you would graciously bestow it

[Forgotten]

Originally Posted by Jimbalaya

Well written! It is sort of a somber piece, the see saw of the voice is sort of hypnotic. The language, for me, took some getting used to but I had no problems getting through it.

I noticed that the narrator said "I can't explain..." or something similar several times. This sort of thing really draws my attention for some reason and I just end up wondering why they can't explain something. It's just a personal preferance I suppose, but in writing I just can't see anything not being explained. You obviously have not problem with descriptions and I realize that, given the particular situations in which this was used, it sort of fits. I could see maybe using the phrase once, but didn't really expect it three or four times.

For such a long piece I thought it was very, very well done. Not really my favorite genre, but still interesting. Nice work.

I am grateful to your kind advice. I realize the truth of what you are saying and can only feel ashamed. I suppose I do have a bad writers streak and horrid habit in redundancy that MUST be broken. I have been faced with this issue on countless occasions, though I had hoped not to find it in this. I fear I have erred in my belief that I had learned from my former mistakes in previous works, and though I must admit it is not so bad as it had been, it is more than I can tolerate.

To address your, possibly rhetorical, question of why the character would ask such a thing is simple. She really doesn't know. In a few instances, Jules resembles me. As she is my character and creation, it is only plausible that there be some resemblence to one another. Her feelings are often mine, though I tend to be a bit more... I have strange level of low self esteem. It doesn't hinder me in anyway, so my mother simply says it is a healthy dose of humility. I do not find myself pretty, very rarely decent, and must confess a small bewilderment when others do. It bothers some of my acquaintance, but usually it goes unchecked and unnoticed seeing as I do not voice my beliefs upon myself unless directly questioned or I make a joke of it. I am not above laughing at myself, and indeed find many occasions for it. Jules merely reflects this side of me, though more delicately, and actually has a slightly higer opinion of herself. She knows exactly what she is and is not afraid of it, only puzzled when others don't seem to agree.

As for my being able to explain it, it is explained. . . later. As stated in my previous responce to a review, this story was written in two parts.

Her perspective and his.

Stephen's clarifies all unresolved issues and and gives far more details to the events. As an example:

Originally Posted by Stephen POV

Her name was Jules and she was the prettiest thing I had ever beheld in my life. The back streets and alleyways weren't really the most extravagant locations to find a gorgeous girl, but that's where I found her. I always wondered if she was scared walking back alone so late at night with people such as I am tugging at her skirts or living on the streets.
. . .
The first time I saw her, a begger was yanking on her pretty little dress and pleading for some coins. I was sure she was going to scream, yank it back, and run off. No. She smiled, the most graceful feature she possessed, and would check her little purse she kept in her sleeve. This happened every night.
. . .
I know there were prettier girls filling the tea house, but none had so gorgeous a heart. I never saw any of them pitying and smiling to the poor. All I could do was look over across the counter and see my pretty little angel working away with the tea.

Anything not explained by him (or in question) is answered by her, and vice versa. Both see the events through their own eyes and therefore not only the perspective, but the attitude to the events are changed. She sees a gorgeous wizard choose to fancy her over any one else and can not comprehend it. He sees the girl he's watched from the alleyways that has always been kind to his kind and therefore sees her more attractive than the others.

Both question each other, both question themselves. I know of noone who has personal insight to all the logic and reasoning behind others' actions. Niether do my characters. I find it rather human.

Even the Author has still left some mysteries unsolved and loose ends yet to be tired up

[Razor]

Originally Posted by Forgotten

I thank you, most sincerely, on taking time to read and review my little work and am flattered by the compliment of your attentions. I felt the need to state my gratitude before making these small remarks, which I do hope will not be found defensive, nor argumentitive on the points you brought forward to my attention. I am bound to pay respects to your opinions and having you state such kind criticism for my benefit, but also feel it my obligation to explain my reasoning behind not profiting from your advice

The first item brought to my attention as a fault was the length of the piece. I am sorry if it does not meet ones approval for how long a oneshot is to be written, but really considering, I see no reason to change it. If one chooses to to pick up a piece merely because of its size, that is the matter of the reader, and there is no quarrel on either side. They are not the targeted readers for me and I am obviously not a suitable author for them. This, unfortunately grave as it might sound, is one of my shorter works and one of the very few oneshots. I never thought length was an issue, except in the cases of saying too little. Perhaps I have greatly erred.

(In regards to seperating the whole into smaller points, I see no point in it. I do not crave attention and have no need of it unwillingly bestowed upon me if the reader does not wish to go through my work in one sitting. Besides, the story actually is already seperated into two... her perspective and his. The former has been read, the latter not yet posted. Together it is one piece, but in two parts. The length of which I fear may be appalling seeing as the latter also hapens to be the longer of the two.)

As to "cinching" up my paragraphs, I actually find that I can not do such a thing without feeling I have compromised it and having a great mind to shred the work. I thought I wrote delicately, yet simple, and trying to go beyond that which is already written I find I loose the voice of both my character and myself. Niether does it flow nor does it suit my personal taste. I feel I can not go safely against conscious. I apologize if they may seem offensive. I know your point was kindly meant.

I thank you again for your acute observations on my writing's "meandering" which perhaps I may find a remedy for in time. I have found I have trouble seeing my work clearly with all its flaws without putting it away for a good sum of time. So as it so stands, I will try my best in the future and even in the present case to set all to right in this area.

As for the length of the narrators thoughts, I suppose my only defense here can be style. I realize my particular writing style in this can be controversial due in part to the variety of tastes in the readers. I personally enjoy works such as Jane Austen's, for one example, in which it is the character's thoughts that shorten and explain what is happening. As it also happens to be of a First Person Narrative, I can not help her thinking. And if I were to write out more dialogue, I suppose it would wholly go against your first point in me shortening the story. To be so directly contrary to your first advice would be inexcusable and would feel as if I were trying to insult you. I may have not shortened the piece by your efforts, but I would never be so bold as to lengthen it.

Lastly, as for the dialogue being lumped with her thoughts, I am trully sorry for that. I will attempt to go back immediately and rectify these errors which are clearly of my own making and can not be defended. I shall try to please you, at least, in this.

I hope you understand my deep appreciation for your kindness and also that I have not been too bold in speaking these things. In no way did I mean to question your judgement, very likely superior to my limited knowledge and resources due in part to my youth and inexperience, but simply wish to gratify you with a worthy and frank responce.

Again, I thank you and I hope you forgive me any folly in this. I am merely seventeen and hope to mature and develop with time. Until then, I beg your patience and crave indulgences in your humouring me

Seeing the kindness in your review, I know you would graciously bestow it

Please, I take no offense to any of it. It is after all just my own personal opinion. I find your dedication to your work inspiring. The reason I offer it is, many are disheartened when they don't get very many comments on their work, which is a shame. The lack of comments is usually not due to a lack of writing skills, but to the length, as people on a computer don't like to scroll. (Studies on web design show that people only want to scroll a few screen-lengths on average) So my advice was to get you more comments, but it is obvious you are quite happy as is. So be it. As I said it is well written. Good luck with other works.

[Forgotten]

Originally Posted by Razor

Please, I take no offense to any of it. It is after all just my own personal opinion. I find your dedication to your work inspiring. The reason I offer it is, many are disheartened when they don't get very many comments on their work, which is a shame. The lack of comments is usually not due to a lack of writing skills, but to the length, as people on a computer don't like to scroll. (Studies on web design show that people only want to scroll a few screen-lengths on average) So my advice was to get you more comments, but it is obvious you are quite happy as is. So be it. As I said it is well written. Good luck with other works.

I realize this and am very, trully grateful for all you have done. It was an honour and a pleasure to read your criticism. I believe, frankly, I might have followed such kind instructions if it were not for this work being well recieved in general and has been reviewed and criticised on many other forums and writing sites. Otherwise, it may have been that I would become slightly disheartened at the lack of responce and can honestly see your point on that matter.

But when I have the pleasure of such kind reviewers as yourself, who can care about quantity (as least at the moment) when blessed with all the compliments of quality? I trully am flattered by all you have done for me in reviewing, not once, but twice on my account!

As an aspiring writer, I can have no greater pleasure but to recieve all and any critiques rebukes you may have on any of my works

I fear I have lost some humility, in this, and that all your kindness has given me a growing ego that can not even fit in my now big head.

And I am sure, in the future, you will kindly assist me by putting back in my place every time and again

Thank you. The priviledge you have bestowed upon myself has been felt and has greatly affected me.

Till we meet again, perhaps, in another of my works or one of yours, which I must believe superb and highly valued compared to mine, or even by chance the second part of this whenever I have time to fully and finally revise it. There can be no greater bliss than hearing your thoughts on that.

With much love and sincerely psychotic,

Forgotten

[jason]

I enjoyed some of the paragraphs very much and your description of Stephen was well developped without going overboard on similies or metaphors. A couple of suggestions - in the second paragraph "who was raised up on the knowledge" could just be "he was raised on the knowledge" and in the fifth paragraph it's difficult to guess the meaning of the word "mien" in the context of the sentence.

[Forgotten]

Originally Posted by jason

I enjoyed some of the paragraphs very much and your description of Stephen was well developped without going overboard on similies or metaphors. A couple of suggestions - in the second paragraph "who was raised up on the knowledge" could just be "he was raised on the knowledge" and in the fifth paragraph it's difficult to guess the meaning of the word "mien" in the context of the sentence.

Thank you very much and I am very well pleased that you haved enjoyed it and have such nice things to say.

As for your critiques, I believe that is an excelent idea and I believe should even follow it.

As for the context of the word mien, I was not aware that that was a word people would not comprehend the meaning of. I thought it rather commonplace and its meaning generally circulated and well known. Forgive me if I have been mistaken. I'm not sure what I should do in this awkward situation.

Perhaps I will be allowed some time to think, and come back on it?

[Ferris]

Hey there! Nice piece you have here... I have not read the other comments so far,from what I've seen I think they have already gone through it with a fine tooth pick!

This bit did get me though,

He wore normal clothes, though far too short for this weather...

Im not certain 'short' is the right word to use here, 'thin' yes, but 'short'? I thought you may have used 'short' because 'thin' had already been used, why not try 'waif' or something similar?

Overall, an interesting read. I did kinda see that end coming though (not a problem like!)



Ferris

[Forgotten]

Originally Posted by Ferris

Hey there! Nice piece you have here... I have not read the other comments so far,from what I've seen I think they have already gone through it with a fine tooth pick!

This bit did get me though,

He wore normal clothes, though far too short for this weather...

Im not certain 'short' is the right word to use here, 'thin' yes, but 'short'? I thought you may have used 'short' because 'thin' had already been used, why not try 'waif' or something similar?

Overall, an interesting read. I did kinda see that end coming though (not a problem like!)