Nick Silverpen

Oh you'll get so stuck along the way you'll want to burn the thing. But definitely keep some updates, I look forward to whatever you're producing and wish you luck along the way!

Hopefully this isn't too short... poem.... Name: Nick Silverpen Theme: Rebirth Word Count: 144 Link: Island Boy

Island boy you are, running and digging in the sand nothing to check your spirit but the bashing swells of the waves; Each summer you’re growing Just as the heat warms the land. Island boy you are, the same face each season, Despite the costume changes, dishwasher to cook to ride attendant and more with your many labor ranges. Island boy you are, running into that sunset photograph, chasing a view of a sunset in the distance, Sleeping in a chair on the beach after, hand clutching a map. Island boy free, gazing into the sky, Incompetent in here or there but that’s alright, Right now you are living the dream, and watching the tide. Island boy you are, in that final race through the sand, One last sweeping gaze through the island Now moved into the city One step closer to a man. **** Little poem I had to write for a class, thought it fit in with FFFC 6: "Rebirth"

This is pretty good man. Hey, how about bringing "Top Ten Hot Topics" Panel on the left side back? We haven't had that in YEARS.

Gonna take a stab.... Member Name: Nick Silverpen Theme: Rebirth Word Count: 426 Link: New Sheets

It’s late, and there would be nothing sweeter than the back of my eyelids, but the bed feels dirty when it’s this comfortable. It’s as though skin and sheets are weaving themselves together, and while I sleep comfortable, waking up feels shameful, each day acknowledging these poor habits of living. It’s been a few weeks, and a change is in order. With a tug, the covers are strewn all over the floor, a jumbled mess of spreads and feet tangled together. I kick myself free, winding the sheets into a ball, and pry the elastic band of the bedspread from the underside of the corners. It snaps back, but after a willful tug, it snaps free, flying into my hand. The comforter is still where the sheets have covered, and though I’ve seen it countless times, in the moment it is unfamiliar. A shudder is given when realized exactly how long those spreads have been on there. Routine keeps the sight sound, but my laziness as of late has made me forgotten the bareness of that lone mattress. Countless pen and drool marks stain where my head has passed out, I note as I wrap it all up into a ball. There’s probably other filth in there as well, remembering some sweaty clothing that went missing a few days ago; I regard the pile cautiously as I carry it to the hamper down the hallway, clapping my hands clean as I ditch it in the basket. Crisp, new sheets are under my arm as I walk back to my room, my bare arm feeling the cold of the closet they’ve sat in. With a toss, I watch them fall slowly onto the bed, a rejuvenated look to the bed as I tuck them into the mattress. A car passes the bedroom window, sounding for a second in the darkness, and I wait for a second, as the next sheet is unfolded. Soon enough the white covers replace the blue checkered pattern, and it looks almost tasteful above the cluttered floor. I pull the cover back and climb in, as tiredness over comes me. The sheets are cold, but I can already feel my body heat warming them up, and I feel better, a smile on my face as my eyes fade to the darkness. *** I wake up the next morning, a new dawn shining into my window. My arms rub against the warmth in the bed, and I relax one minute longer before beginning the start of my day. Maybe I’ll even make the bed. ********** The only thing I could come up with. It was a good idea in my head, it just sounds realllllllly cliche here. Any thoughts?

I always thought Time Trap would've made a great movie; it was a wonderful solo Toa adventure, and the whole thing with Makuta "being made into the villain that he is today" would've kept old and new fans on the edge. Plus the whole significance of the vahi would be shown- it was just dropped in LOMN, and while the Matoran of the city were just as important, it would've been a fantastic animation. 2006 would've been a great cast as well, and there was dialogue that wasn't the greatest, but it wasn't the cheesiest either.

The Water Stays the Same Something captivates me about how the river flows, never being in the same place at once. It’s frustrating, almost, watching it pour from one place to another, and this bank is merely somewhere in the between. I keep watching the water pass, wondering how many times I have to see the same rolling current, as my eyes ache to follow the stream around the bend; but I am stuck on this shore, unable to continue with it to the easy ending as the river meets its end, relaxing into some sunlit horizon on the ocean. My mind wants to follow toward that peace, but my body cannot bring itself to swim with those currents. Picking my head out of my hands, I skip a rock across the water and watch it sink, unable to follow the flow. In an attempt to move my thoughts along, the idea boomerangs back, as if the water is a restraining net even my talons cannot cut through, not the auspicious flowing liquid that I am peering at. Slouching further into the sand, I sigh. The desire to surrender is great, but if I fall asleep, the debacle will still be there when I awake. I could be out here forever, contemplating how to move on with my life. Everyone else has moved on from the past, but why can’t I? Though I look at it from different directions, the face of it never changes; those adventures were exactly what I was looking for in my daily life, and after finally amounting to something more than the pleasurable small moments, it just felt over. I thought in the beginning that being a Toa meant making journeys only to return to my home, but after that home was moved, I feel simply misplaced. They say that one day you’ll wake up in a better place, a better time, but I wished to simply relive the happy days of this past millennia. Maybe it is so I can relive this scene again, and know the answers, just like Gali and the others did. It was all memorable, but I need to make new memories. I wonder if I could pick myself up out of the sand and be the old Hahli; that sea maiden who believed in the virtues that incorporated themselves into daily life, not mottos that have to be forced. It could be that they are an umbrella, and they’ll reveal themselves again in time, but what if I am straining to see something that simply isn’t there? This Faxon makes me ashamed. It is a constant reminder now of unity, whereas in the good old days it was within me... I miss my old Mask of Detection sometimes- it helped me lead into what I am now, perhaps it could lead me back to what I was, and help me find what I have forgotten. I remember Jaller after the Bohrok invasion ceased, so eager to report to Vakama, but he stayed. Our unity was implied in those days, and not emphasized, not something that hindered us from beating the bad guy. Is this mask a sick joke then, that our unity is not what it was? The visor is clear, but I keep seeing all of these memories of our time on Mata Nui. To be able to put these memories away would be such sustenance. I simply want to leave this bulky, troubled figure that is myself to float away on the current, and stand tall as that Ga-Matoran once more. How long I have been here, I do not know- not even the sun marks the passage of time on this part of the River Dormus. The water does not change, and maybe it is somehow the same water that sat in Ga-Wahi, that I swam through in the Pit. Nothing about it has changed, and it was the same face underneath different masks that swam through it each time, so why should I differ? I suppose, thinking to identify a little more with those molecules. Or maybe I’ve been a Toa forever and nothing existed before this river, memories of being a Matoran existing only in my imagination. If they are though, and all that exists is now, then maybe I can be whoever I want to be. Glancing around, I see I sit in the shade of a tree, even though the deep shadow on the ground could just as easily be my own. I didn’t sit in nostalgia and shadows on Mata Nui- I became myself by doing, not pondering. These self restraints are nothing but an illusion then; shaking my hands of the imaginary ropes, feeling a breeze roll across them, I smile, almost like I did in the before time. Standing, anxiousness flutters in my chest as my legs familiarize myself with the weight of the rest of myself, as if for the first time. I shake off the fuzzy feeling of sleeping limbs, and walk along a bit. My eyes follow the river as before, but though they strain to follow the flow, my feet respond, slowly walking around the bend, with the same curiosity of the eyes of a Matoran.

In an episode of Even Stevens, there is a pile of Toa in Louis's room or somewhere in the house

"In the Name of Science", reviewed.

Nick Silverpen here with an ECC Charity Review: The concept of this story is pretty interesting. The title ties in pretty well, a good basis, stating and reinforcing what you intend to write about. It sticks to the bare concept pretty rigidly, with your description and the narrator’s intentions. The structure you’ve been writing as well... It’s not traditional, and while I’ve been against that in the past, my creative writing class has taught me to look at this in a new way. And because of that, I like it. Being untraditional leaves a reader looking at text walls, whereas you break it up here differently, and it’s cool to look at. Journal entries are good way to capture a character’s thoughts, and while they do leave out many external influences to show why characters think the way they do, Enough about format =D. Onto your story: Your character seems to be all about progress in basic scientific discovery. A little basic, but it helps in the fact that he’s all about what’s happening around him, and not himself, so the story is more external and progressive. What made Mata Nui so fascinating was the knowledge of the land and the Rahi that the Matoran had, and a character persuing a fleshing out of Spherus Magna seems kind of nostalgic. Vastus, it would be good to see him as more than an escort and informer. The two seem like they would make a good pair, since they are very outdoors-y, and all for not being cooped up in the society. “You give a groping in the dark” feel for Jafu, which makes the story sweet and fun to read, because he’s always finding stuff. You describe alot about this world. You do connect it, just keep pursuing it. Write more on what you have. The descriptions of these Rahi are interesting, just make sure it is just more than a description- like in entry 3; you find an external situation to apply a description to. Keep developing these “entries” like this. I’m looking for a snag in this story- you clearly have something more planned for this story than mere exploration, with Jafu being stuck in the cave. Keep going into that cave, develop this plot further. I want to see this snag develop, and see the story through the end. Good job in hooking a reader! NS

My take on it was Makuta did have the power of illusion, so he could've easily conjured up illusionary dark Toa- he's seen enough Toa in his time to know the stereotypes, and know what a corrupted Toa would be like, so creating an illusionary one would be easy enough.

It's honestly going to be a whole different experience reading printed BZP works instead of on the computer

I like how the story is progressive, and I kind of focused on how Spherus Magna society was playing into this. The notation of Mata Nui and all of the Matoran universe starting to be forgotten... interesting. An odd form of memorial, I must say, though it's different, and it sticks out. Like Levorahk said, it's a little sad, but there's a note of moving past all of that, and that makes it a satisfying story. The writing... it is very character focused, and that contributes to the plot a lot, as these five are pretty much in sync. It wraps around the plot nicely, and the way you word things... your style refreshes this so often visited concept. Funny, how Matoro was killed off six years ago, yet he's still being paid tribute to. Nice job on moving the story forward.

The sun pours down from the sky, white light spilling into our vision as we row north. Those who have sunglasses are fortunate; those who don’t are simply unlucky for the day. As we reach forward, eyes are trained on the man in front of us, intent on mimicking his shoulder blades, his movements matching our own. The sun bathes us in its light, our white skin even paler in the spring glow than what the winter turned it. With a glance downwards, the boat can be seen sliding over what seems to be black glass, jumping away from the swirling puddles as the dark waters rush along the gunwales. The sight is magnificent, astounding, and in this moment, one of the most beautiful sights that could ever be remembered. The piece ends and restarts on coach’s command; we leave the straightaway behind as he tells us to row on, traveling past the edge of all things familiar. Following the black water, the marsh grasses retreat, and the buildings only ever seen from a distance at last are before our gaze. We’ve never done lightweight before, and maybe that’s the key. “Through the mirror, then, and your chance to shatter it,” someone once told me, and I remember these words as our oars break the water’s dark mirror. Perhaps this is what they meant, and this is our chance. With all of our quirks and oddities, maybe we were never meant for the popular title, and after years of victory being just out of our grasp, this is our opportunity to shatter that empty handed reflection that has been staring back at us. Past the shadow of the traffic clogged bridge, we cruise towards the inlet, our fatigued bodies lightly stroking the water as we turn the boat; with the grant of a moment of rest, we see the docks run down the island toward Longport bridge, which despite its proximity, still hangs in a distant haze. The inlet flows out toward the ocean beyond, the sound of the surf crashing on the shores reaching our ears. We may not know what winning feels like, but the content of listening to that soothing rhythm puts us at peace nevertheless. A shiver of excitement runs down the boat as we protest to coach to row further, regardless of the danger. With the shake of a head, however, we turn around, ready to head home. The sun is low when we reach home, and as coach’s launch stalls out, we sit patiently, together watching the sky shift from a golden yellow to the black and silver night, as the lights along the roads that cross the marshes shine brightly in the spring evening. I haven’t seen a sunset like that in years, and I am glad to have viewed it with you guys. It was an honor rowing in that lightweight 8; there is nothing like seeing something out through the very end, and with what we did win, it proved we shattered the mirror. An old African proverb states "If you want to go fast, travel alone. If you want to go far, travel together." Like the black water, our minds stilled as we pulled the boat out of the bay, but that is what settled under the surface as we left. It takes a boat to pull a boat- and despite all of our differences and the setbacks that occurred, those mirror fragments came together to form a satisfying image, as we-at last- proved ourselves. Champions.

Hunger Games has been reviewed.

Nick Silverpen here with your ECC Charity Review: Interesting concept, first off, of “Bionicle-izing” Suzanne Collin’s series. Metru Nui seems to be a peculiar setting for this though. It’ll be interesting to see how it plays out, how your character compares to Catniss. Morbuzahk, an interesting name for a Matoran- it must be set sometime far in the future, where the legends have become very faint. I hope this name plot becomes significant to the overall story, because it would make it an even better spin off of the series. Axxon- does he represent the President? You present a varied array of characters here, that could have some rich interaction, influenced by a Makuta legacy. Your narration seems a bit trivial, loaded with little bits. Instead of going into the fluff, such as your statistic for brains falling out, go into description more of what the headache feels like. Also, elaborate more on the relationship between Morbuzahk and his brother. One last thing: the ages of the Matoran vary, and while this is fanfiction, you could elaborate the extended lifespans of Matoran; that could play into the agony and tension of having the named picked more for the reader. This chapter seems a bit bare, and I encourage you to write more. You have potential with this story, from the interesting cast the strings that encourage the reader. Also, simply writing helps develop skill. Incorporate more Bionicle as well, as the former reviewers have said.The more you write, the better you become. Best of luck with continuing this story!

AT LAST this is finally finished. First off, I’m thrilled to see the polished version of this: looking at what you have here and the draft you sent me, this’ll be a fun comparison. Like Ced said, a great continuation of where the official story left off, and you do Greg justice. After procrastinating on this review, here we go: I like the way the story is divided, for the prologue. It built up an excitement aspect, similar to the opener of Nolan’s “Batman Begins”. I love the interaction between this assortment of characters, and the references Hahli has to being brash, like she was with Hydraxon in the Pit. You cut out some excess I see, and Hahli’s opener from draft one has cleaned up nicely. Part One: Hahli’s character is written with a great craft. Her grief is portrayed well, and her thoughts on Teridax are laid out precisely. It’s not just blind hate that you describe- there’s clear cut reasons, a really sorrowful description of how the Teridax of this universe left his impression upon the Toa of Water. She’s a pretty furious character, and seems to stay the same as of her adventures in 07. You portray her character reasonably, with all of the little quirks in your narration; through her fury of working with Teridax it seems reasonable to have some excess words here and there, a bit a of a sarcastic part of Hahli’s mind. The dialogue between Hahli and Jaller seems very appropriate; Long memories- they sure have come a long way since the Tohunga days, and you give the Mahri a very adult, veteran like feel. They are written very humanistically, and it helps the story. With a very sophisticated narration comes very identifiable conversation. Teridax is beautiful, I must say; the way you state his reputation gives him a mythical feel, just like 2001 presented the Toa. The mystery that surrounds him is very enticing, and I am drawn into him with his fairness, yet him being on a whole other level than Hahli. His dialogue is the exact opposite of the Jaller and Hahli convo; very very deep, despite the subject he seeks to talk about being basic. Their talk is fascinating, because of the way he’s being shown to look “through the mirror”. One nitpick I found: their friend the big shiny Skakdi fusion ...their Skakdi fusion friend. You were right in breaking this up into parts, because it keeps the tension up, whereas a single story would be a little long. Tension is a big part of this, as Hahli seems to be against everyone here. I’m a big fan of it, and it’s keeping me reading. (I'll be back with Part two in a few hours)

Your gaze- it scares me. I’m not even sure if you’re looking at me, or somewhere beyond my shoulder. But as those twin brown spectacles come my way, your delighted voice growing still as your lips come together...you have the barest of smiles, almost a smirk, when I speculate it is that instant when our eyes meet. And it makes me afraid. Like a dam, it feels like there’s so much left unsaid between us... like a potential that should be used, but isn’t. Are we masking what we want to say, as our lips remain in the faintest of smiles? And as I avert my eyes elsewhere, I know I should not be looking at you in this way. If only the current predicament wasn’t what it was, and I would know the truth if you really were looking at me or not! My face may be stoic, like a statue, but I so desperately want it to just slip out of the cracks; I may show apathy, but I feel you can see right through me. It’s the fear that makes the urgency so strong, the worry that somewhere along the main line I slipped up.That gaze is so enveloping, as though this front is transparent, and you know the truth that is on the tip of my brain, no matter how much it needs to be buried. There’s such a great fear that you must see it. But if it went beyond the both of us, fear would turn to anger, anger of an overwhelming mistake made. What’s so captivating is that you’re artlessly happy and humble. Your eyes glitter with content of where you are, and you’re unworried about what burdens you may have. There seems to be no dark corners of your mind, making you a what you see is what you get-from my perspective, it is a fair deal. I’m flooded with a nympholepsy of wanting you when I look at you. Most of all, the eyes I see are patient, like a woman waiting for her captain upon the widow’s walk; that is the worst part of it, that you may be patient. If our understanding of the silence is mutual, I’m terrified that you might be waiting for me. I shiver with fear when you look at me, a fear that you know the truth of the wrong choice that was made. Or even if there’s knowledge that there was a choice. It’s painful to know that you ended up on the wrong side of the coin- even that it was a game, in the beginning. I maimed myself in doing that. Though that was unjust, you were spared the pain, at least, of picturing all the thorough possible fantasies that ever ran through my head, of a whole, sated existence with you. Finding happiness with someone is a seeking of more than the norm, beyond what the next person is line is...and you do that, you are that. Your name is to your nature, and I realized that a little too late. I am paralyzed, to know that I set my sights short, and settled for less, thinking you were just like the next one. I never realized how different that the fork in the rhode would lead to such different places. In the end, I made the unpopular choice.

Nice job Nuile! Or whatever your REAL name is Now, will the book be exclusively kindle, or will there be a paperback sold? (Kindle just broke :/)

I love the humanity you've put into this. An interesting "what if", it portrays pretty well how justified a villain can be. Characterwise, you put Dume in a relatable light, through the pressure he feels and the language you used helped Dume still be himself.The plot moved pretty well, not dragging out at all, and it looked at the Turaga's actions in ways I'd never thought about before... I'm not sure how I feel about you making him relate his Matoran-hood to those of Ta-Metru, but its alright to use it to relate to his troubles. I really dig how you incorporated "When wisdom and valor fail..." Dume's observations of the former Toa were brilliant, and were touching on the grounds of how people change throughout life. The conclusion you came to with them "proving themselves as far less than heroes" was beautiful. Great little short here, Kak, and my hat to you again for the human aspect being done so well.

The sun shines through the four paneled window, its pale winter light bright on the bleak walls. A white fan hangs from the ceiling, blending in as it is unmoving above. Below the white trim, a dark pinkish rug runs under the rocking chair that is as lively as the fan. A hand crafted wooden dresser rests against the wall next to the door, while across the room lies an infant sleeping in its crib. All is noiseless as the child’s rest is preserved, the world outside the window and door seemingly disconnected from this room. The child itself lies under a white and blue stitched blanket, its wool enough to keep the child warm in the temperature-less room. Its fingers grasp tightly around the blanket, clutching it close; one thumb is firmly being sucked on while it curls up, retreating into itself. Under a head of thin hair, while its flushed face crinkles, its eyelids remain closed, its mind dreaming while the body adjusts to life outside the womb. Eyes still closed, it dreams on, until a yowl comes from somewhere deep in its young throat. Mouth opening in a half yawn, it emits a short, almost frightening cry. Awake now, the infant scoots itself over until it can grab the bars of the crib, and utters the sound again. Something is desired, and by doing this, the child knew it would be nurtured. It reached out with its voice now, seeking that sustenance. There it sat, mouth and eyes opening and closing, almost hopeful to see something in that painful bright blur that reached its pupils. But the cry was not being answered. As the child’s lament for its mother drawled on, it grew to where a gurgling sob echoed through the room. The babe eventually realized its mother was not coming, and it intensified its plea, as it wanted her, and no longer the nurture; simply her presence would be enough. What had it done, in its innocence, to deserve her ignorance? Grasping the bars tightly, it screamed through the crib, pleading for her arrival. The effort was in vain, however, as its fragile little form felt the despair. The cry carried on, a sad tune playing in the lonely room, looping on and on; all the babe wanted was some understanding, some comfort. As a hot tear escaped its eye, it did not question why the mother would not attend to it, as if it were excessively due to a fault in the child. It cried out of need, out of desperation. The cries echoing back into the infants ears finally overwhelmed it, and a powerful weary began to consume the child. Little fingers grew limp in the bars, the child crumpling upon its blanket, now only sniveling. And its snivels grew quiet, ignored just like its cries, as the newborn slipped into the darkness of the dreams it had awoken from.

I agree with what everyone has said about a good transition flickering from past to present; you do it quite well. I feel like the visual is like ><, as though you hit a good seesaw point with the last line to get to past and present. I felt like it was very... quiet. There was a monotone to Jacob's present day views. Maybe more depressed note- robotically being inserted repeatedly was what gave that feel. The description gave the appearance as if he were sitting in a silent kitchen, with everything else zoned out. The mood seemed tense, and his character seemed to speak for himself- more of what he had been than what he was. The tie-ing in came out well though. For some reason I had my nostrils flared the entire time, as if the smell of war was caught in the reader. Aderia- yes! This would be a great sequel to AQOTWF

I'm still all for Bionicle; whereas many people have moved on writing-wise, I am still writing in that genre. Hero Factory's got a good storyline, yeah, but I've not had the will to fully invest in it- it wasn't captivating, like the early years were.

At last, Nuile's Avatar has been reviewed. Sorry for my disappearance, but I am back on board.