Writer. Editor. Orange Enthusiast.
The inaugural issue of Mental Papercuts is here! Published on April 1st, my team and I are so proud to finally share what we’ve created. From maybe-equine sports hecklers and lonely mothers to trips to unfamiliar hair salons and naked mole rats, each and every piece is absolutely superb. What’s your favorite story? Let me know! (And don’t forget to submit to our next issue too!)
Read Issue One here!
These past few months, my very-talented friends and I have worked on creating a new literary magazine called Mental Papercuts, and on February 1st–THIS FRIDAY–submissions will close for our inaugural issue. Continue reading “Mental Papercuts – Submissions Closing Soon!”
Introducing Mental Papercuts, a new lit mag committed to showcasing the prickliest flash fiction and nonfiction! Also introducing Flashtober, a month-long writing event to help create and share your work!
Continue reading “Exciting News – Introducing Mental Papercuts & Flashtober!”
LOGLINE: Peaches is an hour-long drama about a grizzled, fifty-something peach farmer in California’s central valley who finds himself the unsuspecting foster parent of four of his workers’ children, and must rediscover the balance between being a parent and being a businessman.
LOGLINE: With great tragedy comes great therapy. Amazingman is a short-form webseries about Blart Cent, a disgraced therapist who must redeem his reputation, overcome his alcoholism, and earn back his license to practice by “superheroing” for court-mandated community service.
Dear Agnes,
I miss you. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the sparkle of your eyes. I miss your hair and the way it cascades down your shoulders, crawling with lice. I miss you.
Remember our first date? We were both in that park, when the night sky was alive with stars and the air around us was cool and fresh and filled with some sort of magic that only we could sense. Our eyes met across the grassy terrain, and I tipped my hat to you. Its feather fluttered out, and as that piece of plumage swept through the air, you caught it.
You handed it to me, saying, “Nutter Butter, this floated away but then I caught it like I caught the flu from Aunt Judy that one time but that time isn’t this time and this time is important because I can feel the passion in the air from your feather so I’m giving it back to you but I wish I could hold onto it forever and ever and ever and ever and ever for all of time and this big, a lot.”
And then remember how we spotted the playground equipment and climbed up that slide the wrong way, even though we weren’t supposed to? We were terrified that someone might catch us! But no one did, so we laughed. We laughed for what seemed like an eternity, just you and I. But it was actually only forty-three minutes. And then we were just sitting up there in that playset’s crow’s nest, gazing at the park around us, and found that wad of gum, remember? It was just stuck there, wasted. So I reached up and peeled it off of the slide’s cracking yellow plastic and bit it in half. I chewed, and then when I’d softened it up enough, I gave it to you, and took the other half for myself. It tasted like spearmint and it was pink, but I didn’t really care about the taste or the color. I only cared about how your face lit up when I gave you the wad, how your missing-tooth smile stretched from ear to ear and how your tomato-red cheeks ripened before my very eyes. I still care.
And, just like when we were together, I still feel sad sometimes, too. But now, I don’t have you there to take me into your arms and whisper in my ear the sweet nothings you’d tell me. You’d always say just the right thing to cheer me up.
I remember one time when I was so distraught over that one scoop of Rum and Raisin ice cream falling out of my cone, you told me, “Triple Stuf Vanilla Oreo, it’ll all get better one day because today is not the future and it’s also the day after yesterday which means that the past is behind us so we’re young and we’re free to just be ourselves with each other in the world around us and the sky above us and the ground beneath us with Aunt Judy in it who really did like seeing the two of us together before she slipped on that steamy pile of rice and accidentally hit her head on that pirate statue with everyone on the pier noticing but us because our love is so strong and meaningful and blinding and important and I love you so much and this big, a lot.”
And then you kissed me with that wet, juicy, slimy, oozing, glorious mouth-hole. And then I kissed you back, knowing everything would be all right. Everything would be all right.
But everything is not all right. Not anymore. I can’t help but look back at that last night we shared together. We were sprawled out in bed, our bodies warm with post-love sweat, silk sheets woven around our legs like ivy. The moment was perfect. Our love was perfect. You were perfect. But then I went and messed it all up. I know it was my fault, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so so so so so really really very sorry this big, a lot. I got up out of bed and trudged across the bedroom and opened that cabinet that I now know I shouldn’t have opened in front of you. I thought our love was strong enough to endure my life-long obsession, my biggest flaw. But it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.
I opened that cabinet, its dark wood glistening in the moonlight that streaked through the open window, and pulled out my 1999 Special Edition Tropical Furby. I cradled that Furby in my arms and stroked its tuft of yellow hair as if it were my own child. It was my own child— is! But you hated that Furby. You hated that Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, teal sunglasses-stylin’ Furby just like you hated all Furbies. How was I to know that you were a Furby-hater?
How was I to know when we first met that we would never work out because of my Furby? My darling Furby. I offered it to you—something I never did with anyone—but you rejected it.
You shot out of bed and grabbed your things, yelling, “I can’t be with you anymore, Chewy Sweet ’n Salty Salted Caramel Chunk Chocolate Chip Chips Ahoy! Cookie, because I hate Furbies and I always have because of the things that they do and the things that they say when you’re not looking and I know that you can’t ever witness them coming to life but they do and don’t we all but they’re not supposed to because they’re not a real human thing person but we are and it’s not okay for the Furbies to be like us because we’re us and they’re them and Aunt Judy’s a corpse but we never talk about it and our love just will never work out because I don’t like Furbies and so I don’t like you and I don’t like you or Furbies this big, a lot.”
And then you left.
After those seventy-four hours that we shared together, and also after sixty-five hours thinking about it and you and the whole situation, but especially you, I decided that my love of Furbies can never be broken. I love Furbies. But I loved you too, and in another universe it would work out. You would love Furbies too and we’d go on adventures together, we’d travel the world together, we’d go to the grocery store and buy as much of the yeast as we desire together.
But this isn’t a different universe, and we just didn’t work out. Still, I miss you. I miss you this big, a lot.
All my wads of gum,
Felix
This piece has been published in print and online in the fortieth edition of Hair Trigger. To read this story in its entirety, click the link above or pick up a copy of Hair Trigger 40 at Columbia College Chicago’s Creative Writing department or bookstore!
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Sam Showers entered the library with a big smile on his freckled face and a spring in his step. Today was not just another average Monday at this second home of his. Today was the day he would receive the prestigious “Outstanding Community Member” award, given annually to the cheeriest, hardest-working, most-dedicated-to-their-town individual in all of Townville. He had combed his curly red hair into perfect submission, worn his favorite green-plaid flannel and khakis, and even gone through his teeth cleaning routine three times to ensure he looked his best when he was handed the gold-plated replica of City Hall. The ceremony was scheduled for eleven sharp, and everybody who was anybody would be there: the mayor, the fire chief, the crossing guard, everyone. It was a really big deal.
Continue reading “The Sad, Sad Story of Sam Showers’ Ceaseless Sprinkling”
In space, you are an oxymoron.
You are both a complete anonymity and a bright beacon, able to be seen from anywhere in the darkness around you. You are one in a million, one in a billion, one in a trillion, a quadrillion, an infinite army of space explorers exploring this infinite space, completely alone but shining like the Sun. You stand out from everything around you, and yet the vast magic that lives amongst the stars swallows you up and turns you into a single blip in this giant, never-ending thing called the universe.
You are no one. You are the only one. You don’t belong. You fit in perfectly. You are the only you around in this endless sea, but in this ocean, being you doesn’t seem to matter. You are nothing and you are everything.
You think of all this as you follow the manatee through the asteroids, wondering if it will ever make its way back to the preserve.
Over the past few months, I’ve had the incredible opportunity to work on an as-told-to memoir project with Tonya Rabb, the founder of a new nonprofit called “Tonya’s Mission to Walk”. I’m excited to finally announce that My Mission to Walk: A Journey of Sight, Step, and Strength is officially out!
I made some soup for family and friends. While stirring, I accidentally spilled salt into the pot.
“There is too much salt in this soup!” they cried. “We need to do something to stop this from happening again!”
I promised to be more careful next time and my words put everyone at ease.
The next time I made soup, I spilled salt again.
Lawrence Silveira 