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Notwithstanding Octave's signature line (from On Writing, which is an excellent book on writing) http://books.google.ca/books?id=bO1WAAA ... r_versions

This is the link I was trying to find when you logged off. Also:

In places, you commit the error named here:
http://www.bartleby.com/141/strunk5.html#14 (read number 14)

Hope this helps.
pen

I’m so sick. Telling, not showing.

Creed leaned Tilted? his head back and exposed his face to the lights of his room. All he could feel upon his face was the fire of a raging fever. He pleaded within himself to be freed of the sickness. He prayed the fever would end soon.

He closed his heavy eyes, plunging himself into darkness. Mmmkay. So you have a good grip on flow, but I'm not exactly sure where this is headed. They felt slick under his eyelids. Ewwww. >.O" All Creed could see was bloodshed and destruction of war. The memories of his former life as a soldier were stitched to his pupils. Double eewwwwww. He wanted to escape from it, but the ghosts of his past were unavoidable.

Creed let out a struggled breath through broken lips. Broken? How so? Do you mean cracked/chapped? He sat on the edge of his bed as the frigidness of the tiled floors "Frigidness of the tiled floors" sounds contrived and awkward. Revise. bled into his feet. He curled his toes, taking in the delicious cold with longing. He groaned with rapture. His mouth twitched, perhaps with the purpose of a grin. ...This is feeling sort of voyeuristic, to be honest.

Sweet relief.

His memories lingered within his strong joints, weighty muscles, and quick nerves. He could not evade the agony thatwar had left in him. The pain of the battles lived on like a haunting dream in his body.

Creed lowered his face into his hands. He rubbed his slick Word repetition. It's not too near, but I noticed it anyway. oo" palms across his face, hoping to wipe away the fever with his sweat. The stubble on his jaw prickled his fingers. He could feel cold sweat Word repetition. drip down his back beneath his light hospital gown.

Creed was desperate for medicine. His fever was twisting his head. All of his dreams were sickening hallucinations. The dark regions within his skull whirled with nauseating delusions of war. He clenched his teeth as visions of mangled corpses and rivers of blood filled his thoughts. At this point I am getting incredibly bored. Yes, I know you can write, but where is the plot?

He pleaded within his heavy heart: Free me of this. God, free me! He could feel madness creeping into his mind, fueled by the venomous fire of his infection. At this point I'm beginning to suspect there is more telling in here, but I haven't noticed because of the flowery language. oo"

Creed lowered his hands and opened his eyes to his room. It was identical to every other confinement in the mental health institution. The fluorescent lights bathed the white tiled floors, colorless walls, and the porcelain sink and toilet in a sickly, insipid light.

Beyond the white drywall of his room, Creed could hear the faint howls of other patients within the asylum. It fed a monstrous fear in him. He trembled as everlasting suffering sang to him from the walls.

Water, he thought. His dry throat constricted with thirst. Creed thought some water would calm him.

He forced himself to stand, his thighs quivering beneath his gown. Creed swayed on his feet and the room became a blur. He groaned and clutched his head in his hands.

Before he could topple, Creed stumbled across the room to the sink and braced himself against it. His flexing forearms quaked so much, he thought they would shatter. His fingers trembled against the cool porcelain.

In the asylum, there were no glass mirrors, but polished metal took its place. It was not as clear, but it sufficed. Creed’s pale blue eyes were bloodshot. His face was repulsively pale. Beads of sweat speckled his shaved head and brow. His slender nose, sharp cheekbones, and a chiseled chin made him appear skeletal.

Creed fumbled with the faucet. Still gazing into the mirror, he dipped his fingers in the frigid stream of water and splashed his face and neck. He sighed in relief as his fever was temporarily smothered.

His eyes flickered down at the sink, but pouring from the spout in a steady stream was a dark, endless torrent of blood.

Horror became his reality. A senseless shout rushed from his lips. Creed pulled his hands away from it and stumbled backward. He tripped and went sprawling across the floor.

Blood! Blood!

Creed’s heart thundered in his chest. He gazed up at the sink and watched the blood spill over the side of it. It became a crimson pool upon the white floor.

He crawled away from the approaching flood. Creed frantically pulled himself across the floor, trying to reach the door. He forced himself to his feet and he threw his weight against the door, trying to unbolt it with his sturdy shoulder.

Blood! Blood! I like this repetition. Really, I do. oo It's not often I like repetition, so good job.

It was pooling around his feet now. He cringed as it touched him. The blood was like ice. It warped his mind, pushing him to the edge of insanity.

“Help!” He screamed through the door with every bit of breath his lungs could gather. He beat the doorway with his shoulder. “Help me!” I feel as if the exclamation points cheapen your words, so maybe you could replace them with a period or something? I strongly believe exclamation points should be used sparingly, and you have quite a few already.

Suddenly, the hinges on the door buckled oo That easily? It's a mental institution. I think it'd be harder. and Creed went toppling into the hallway of the asylum. His back smacked the tile floor. He whimpered as he clambered away on his hands and feet. The blood was spilling into the hallway.

Like a black fan, the blood rushed out across the white tiles with incredible speed. The frigid flood washed across his feet and legs. It spilled into his gown and slithered past his thighs and buttocks. It poured between his fingers.

So much blood!

Creed began to tremble and cry. He lifted his bloodied fingers and they crawled across his shaved head [cranium sounds contrived]. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Mr. Leary. A voice echoed in his ears like an angel’s. Creed, wake up!

Creed awakened.

He was no longer in the hallway. Creed was in his room, in his bed.

“Creed.” He opened his eyes to the young nurse, Bella Reach. She held a glass of water in one hand and cradled Creed’s head in the other. Her wide eyes gazed at him. Her long blond hair framed her beautiful, heart-shaped face. Her lips formed a lovely smile. Creed was comforted to see her.

He breathed excitedly. Perspiration made his skin slick, making his gown and bed sheets stick to him. He panted, “So… much… blood.”

“Calm down, Mr. Leary.” Bella’s delicate fingers brushed his skin tenderly. “Sweetheart, it was just another dream. You’re very sick.”

Creed was sick in so many ways. I think a snappier last sentence is in order.

Oh my. . . .

Well, I've made my first post less than twenty minutes ago, got the notification of your reply six minutes ago, so let's see. . . it took you all of 2 minutes to have my mind utterly riveted upon your story.

Before I begin the official review, this is a first for me, so I'm sorry if I seem presumptuous or arrogant, or if i just flat out do it wrong. . . .

I'm not going to lie. This was sick. It was gut-wrenching. It was horrifying. I DID NOT WANT TO READ THIS! For this, sir, I give you a standing ovation. You told your message in an intense, graphic way that is going to be unpleasant to many because of the cushioned lifestyle they live.However, you stayed true to that message. I especially applaud you on telling this in such a way that it shows that the true traumas an armed soldier faces are fought off the battlefield, in the mind, rather than with a gun in a foreign country.

Your word selection and vocabulary was varied and impressive. This is going to sound very stupid, but using 'rapture' especially made me realize that you had a large arsenal of adjectives at your disposal.

Your imagery was gruesome, icy spikes into my veins. Perfect. You showed the terror of being trapped in a 'reality' that is only real to you, and the utter horror at events that could occur within this reality-that's-not-reality.

I only have one critique--
"All Creed could see was bloodshed and destruction of war." Personally, I would either make it "THE bloodshed and destruction of war", or "was bloodshed and THE destruction". Personally, I'm more partial to the former, but it's up to you.

Well, that concludes it, i guess. I hope that you find this at least a little helpful.

Yours truly,
Pyro

Hey,
You're theme was challenging, and you were very true to it.
I liked your character though he's insane and out of it. Your portrayal of a disturbed soldier's way of thinking is realistic, bothered with the gore yet focused on it. I wrote a story on a soldier recently, and the way he thinks isn't very believable.

Um... This story had no plot to me. It didn't really go anywhere. I mean, the language is great, as always. You have wonderful description, but nothing happened. He woke up from a dream which kind of feels like you're taking the easy
way out.

My only nitpick is the name of the nurse. It's unnecessary and makes the sentence kinda clunky. That's my opinion though, so ignore it if you disagree.
This is a crappy review, but I've been out of reviewing for a while now, so your piece was a step back into it after exams.
Good luck in the contest,
Megsug

Hi! I'm here to repay the favour! I have to say that I liked this very much. I can tell that it's been very well thought out...you've worked really hard on this and your effort has clearly paid off. I loved the last sentence: ooh, chilling...I have only one nitpick

HaydenSmith wrote:Her lips were a lovely smile