Three to Food for thought Fall 2025 OuncesFour
Three to Four Ounces -
Don DeLillo, Americana
Cover Design and Graphic Art by Yan Luo
Dear Reader,
Let me teach you something about food. It fuels our minds, our spirits, and of course, our stomachs. It has been with us since the dawn of civilization, but more importantly, it has been with us since the dawn of literature. Centuries ago, long before the creation of Three to Four Ounces, before the first novel or the first poem, one of the earliest writing systems was conceived in ancient Sumer. Around 3500 B.C.E., cuneiform, a Mesopotamian script, emerged because humans needed a way to manage the discovery of agriculture, developing language to list grain, track surpluses, and document trade. In other words, our earliest stories were not just written in clay; they were written in food, which makes literature one of humanity’s first shared meals.
It was because of this that when one of my fellow editors (thank you, Blythe) suggested “Food for Thought” as our next theme, I knew she was right. As history reminds us, there is nothing more artistic or more essential to creativity than food. Still, even knowing how intertwined food and language are, I found myself hungry for something more. I wanted a more satisfying reason why the words “Food for Thought” felt so true to me and to the legacy of our publication. This past August, I spent hours researching, combing through old editions of our magazine, and looking to our past literary icons. It was not until I found an old copy of Americana by Don DeLillo, the novel that lends us our name, that I finally understood.
On the cover of this well-worn edition was an image of a classic American diner, complete with checkered floors, plush leather seats, and a glass pastry display. In this beautiful novel, meant to dissect the American cultural landscape, DeLillo chose a diner to show how our identities have risen from a mixture of consumerism, community, and nostalgia. DeLillo understood how food connects to humanity and to humanity’s art. In a moment of societal contemplation, he once said:
“This is where we wait together, regardless of our age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods. A slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks.”
Executive Board
Chief Editor
Bella Santos
Managing Editors
Aderinola Adepoju & Caroline Bates
Graphic Designers
Yan Luo & Tate Vaccaro
Poetry Editors
Carolyn Malman, Sally Pendergrass, & Isabella romine
Prose Editors
Taylor Nisbet, Olivia Sullivan, & Emily Meinert
Art Editors
Caroline Gottsman & Ava LeBeau
Photography Editors
Table of Contents
5. Dear Reader by Sincere Fielder
6. Food Truck by Christopher J. DiLorenzo
7. Super Butter Girl by Sophia Fionda
9. Lobsters & Lemons by Gaits Buntin
9. Salmon Patties by Blair Newsome
10. Sundays by Aderinola Adepoju**
11. After the Market by Lauren Carpenter
11. Watermelon by Annelise Gray
12. Pear by Taylor Nisbet**
13. 3 to 4 Centimeters Apart by Sincere Fielder
15. Mourning Meal by Lucas Betancourt
16. Leftovers by Blythe Kingston Green
17. Incessance by Dominic Amato
18. Unbaked by Tien KN
19. Fruit of the Vine by Tate Vaccaro**
20. Tell Me When by The Magnolia Team
21. Soul Food by Zali Lawrence*
22. Even Soul Food Spoils by Zali Lawrence
23. starve myself by Alexis Orlando Dean***
24. Wild Essence by Wangwang Ma
25. Blessed Be by C.E. McCaskill
26. A Spoonful of Reflection by Roksanna Keyvan***
29. Starving by Christopher J. DiLorenzo*
30. The Revolution ‘Bout to be Televised by Camden Clem
31. Yesterday by Olivia Pinder***
32. Light Snack by Audrey Aiken
33. Last Meals by Thomas Raiford*
35. Live from Tokyo by Thomas Rigamonti
36. Smoke Break by Jack Perez
37. Potion of Providence by Lucas Betancourt
38. Don’t Chuck by Blair Newsome
39. Cena sul Canale by Blair Newsome*
40. Enteric by Yilin Tan
41. A Last Address by Megan Zanni
43. Bright Red Berries by Lauren Carpenter
44. Made of Many by Alicia Maginn
45. The Garden by Blair Newsome
46. The Barred Owl by Margaret Williams
47. Marinated in Amritsar by Avikar Khakh
47. Cotton Candy in Tangerang by Evan Harris
48. Late Night Bites in Penang by Evan Harris
48. Clocking out in Itaewon by Evan Harris
49. A Certain Degree of Popularity by Elizabeth Unger
50. Blackberries by Christopher J. DiLorenzo
51. Just a Piece of Gum by Priya Leela Mendiratta
53. Magic Bottles by Nina Clayton
54. 5 Star Chinese Restaurant by Yilin Tan
55. Hate Mail from an Old Disgruntled Young Person by Blythe Kingston Green
56. Food Collage by Various Artists
57. Pit Observations by Emily Meinert**
58. Lunch at Bryant Park by Carolyn Malman**
59. Lady Grey by Blair Newsome
60. Midnight Mission by Jordan Resnick
61. Ars Poetica Out of Desperation by Camden Clem
62. Aftertaste by Clara Davis** ´
*Category Winners **Executive Board Piece ***Content Warning
Dear Reader Sincere Fielder
When you read these, are you accompanied with snacks?
I’ve always wondered what other readers go-to snack is.
Mine is Trollis.
The ones with purple, pink, and blue. “Very Berry”, I’m eating them right now. How about you?
Do you choose to not eat because you fear your hands may be stained? Did you just check to see if you had Cheeto stains on your finger chips- tips* Dang it, I’m hungry now too. For actual food though.
Though I should be eating, I’m glued to my writing so that I can be in the books you choose to read.
My thoughts read me over and over.
And my anti overthinking sergeant that delegates those rampant thoughts, is what allows my writing to get to you.
But you have them too, don’t you?
You’re tasked to:
Read, ponder, flip
Read, ponder, flip
Read, ponder, flip–you get the gist. Well, I hope you do.
But don’t forget you need nutrients too!
Treat yourself to some fast food or a good hibachi place!
In fact, did you know that red is used in fast food restaurants because it is a “powerful” color that stimulates the senses, increases heart rate, and prompts a sense of urgency and appetite?
Yes, it’s true.
So after all of your hard work, please eat. I care about you.
Sincerely, Sincere. A restless writer.
Food Truck
Christopher J. DiLorenzo
Super Butter Girl
Sophia Fionda
Who Am I?
Fancy butter at the restaurant. French butter, whipped. Bread crust and crayons on the white table cloth. Jazz. Celebrity cigarette smoke. Moonlit hopscotch. A familiar street corner. I am running across gum-splattered pavement, struggling to find my father in the crowd.
Who Am I?
Fluffy butter in the mixing bowl. Butter on the baking tray, too. I lick the spatula, steal a chocolate chip. Sugar-coated lips. Pleading puppy eyes. Open window, cool breeze. My mother’s laughter ripples like the brown-water bay. We are slow dancing in the kitchen. I am spinning. I am soft and sweet, like the butter. I am blurring; everything blurs.
I want to spin until my long skirt envelops the butter, my mother, and the kitchen whole, gently tucking the memory somewhere safe and secure.
Who
Am I?
Looky here, folks! A Super Butter Girl! The first of her kind. Don’t get too close now–she melts easily. Here, reach your hand out. Slowly now, just like that. Good. Yes, she sees you. Hey, she sees you! She Sees You!
Do you see me?
Do you know what I Am?
I Am a Super Butter Girl, made of all of the butter that has come before me. I mold myself like clay. I am learning, evolving, reminiscing, regretting. I pinch my sticky, gooey arm to remind myself that I Am the Real Thing.
Sundays
Aderinola Adepoju
Every Sunday, I woke not by choice, but to the reverberations of Yoruba praise music rattling through my bedroom walls and to the firm knocks from my brother, who had been tasked with making sure I was fully up. The harsh awakening was only the first irritation of the morning, soon followed by the uncomfortable sheen of sweat on my skin after my mother had, without fail, added yet another blanket over me while I slept, despite my constant reminders that I ran hot at night.
I’d quickly ready myself for the morning and slip into one of the itchy, brightly colored Nigerian dresses supposedly tailored by “professionals.” I’d zip my sister up, and then she’d zip me, and I would hold my breath, praying her sharp nails wouldn’t nip my back this time. By 8:45, we’d be out the door for church a service that was always meant to end at eleven, yet somehow we never left before one.
But what defined the day, and made every inconvenience worth it, was the meal waiting on the kitchen island at 8:00 a.m.
Sundays were for the hefty dishes smothered in spices so strong they made me sneeze if I leaned too close. They were for eggs fried in oily, red stew and scooped from a ceramic bowl; for a large plate stacked with small, cylindrical cuts of boiled yam; for a long platter holding two fish, seasoned with Maggi and buried under more stew; and for the bowl holding two or three boiled eggs, untouched by everyone except my father and brother. And always, set in front of the picky eater’s spot my younger sister sat the inevitable plastic bowl of dry Cheerios, out of place among the white ceramics on the table.
Sundays were for the frantic attempts of my siblings and me to serve ourselves before the third slop of red stew on the table sent my mother into full control mode. They were for my father’s proclamation of “only water with your breakfast,” even as he quietly defied his own rule and guzzled three tall glasses of juice. They were for the laughter and groans as we navigated the crowded table, elbows bumping, reaching over steaming bowls, and the subtle negotiations over who got the last piece of yam. Sundays were for claiming our portions, tasting everything at once, and somehow, despite the chaos, feeling like the table itself was what made the morning sacred.
And when the last bite was eaten and the plates and bowls piled in the sink, all my morning irritations felt trivial because Sundays were for the morning meals.
After the Market
Lauren Carpenter
Peach-juice on your chin pits heavy in your pocket the scent of her touch still sweet in your hair.
You tell yourself you will not go back and already you are listening for the bells.
Watermelon
Annelise Gray
You paint them to be breathtakingly beautiful–not perfect,
So you may attempt to bake it. You paint them with intentionality, coarse sugar, and a red that carries an aroma of strawberry and vanilla extract.
So when your time is up–they, and everyone else, Will see that it was painfully obvious you were in love. And I wrote this as she was sitting 3 to 4 centimeters away from me.
So I changed the timer ringer that was made for the cherry pie to come out the oven to church bells.
Mourning Meal
Lucas
Betancourt
In the morning, you’d taste of honey that you steeped in your tea. Your lips coated with sugar wherefrom love would rush like a river.
At lunchtime, you’d pluck herbs and carrots so fresh your taste had a hint of dirt. My teeth would rake around to rip out your weeds and in their place I’d plant passion’s fertile seeds.
Then at dusk, we’d stuff ourselves full, taste of steak and wine, let gluttony rule. We’d sink into bed slow and heavy dreaming of delights any would envy.
But now you don’t taste of anything at all. Now you only smell of flowers withering in the fall. Now you’re as dry as the earth that’s swallowed you whole. Now you’re as heavy as the stone that carries your name. Now my heart is left tasteless and dull, and I am left hungry and lame.
Blythe Kingston Green
To whom it may concern,
Incessance Dominic Amato
You are my infinite condition. Across time, regardless of place, and without concern for my desires, you creep into all of my moments, waking or otherwise. You give me the grace to think before I speak and at other times, bleed into my eyes with “what if’s.” You force visions onto me, desires I crave but am deprived of. You re responsible for regret and hope. I should know it to be you playing tricks on me, but as I stare into the darkness, “what if.” I love and hate you, but you are inescapable, for we are entangled. At times, I know not if you are me or I am you; I know not if you are to be listened to or ignored. But one thing I do know: whenever I try to silence you, it’s as if I stoke the coal oven fueling your untouchable engine. I wish you were there before I danced with that girl, to tell me how I’d feel when it didn’t work out. I wish you were there to remind me of how far we’ve come in moments when I fall short. I wish we could have rehearsed that conversation that ended before I could find solace. I wish to know you, to understand you, to get it right with your powerful ability to advise and analyze through veiled foresight.
But you remain hidden, after all it is you that informs that which I do, from silence. You only echo from your throne of hindsight, a condition I find unfair. I’ve tried to explain it to others. I tell them there are two men on a sofa, watching the most mundane, epic, and emotional film ever viewed. One man is in control, but when it matters most the other man has a say too, the general and his informant, commanding a nervous system to act. I’ve described it as a warzone: a tumultuous and distorted array of scenarios, in conversation with one another, yet often at odds; ideas and possibilities in conflict with a depth that should not (perhaps cannot) be explored. No one understands, and I guess I don’t either. I want to scream at you to show yourself, to give me the ending of the story, because I think you know. No, I know you know, and you know I know, it’s why you don’t let me sleep at nights, a punishment for knowing more than I am capable of articulating. What a pity.
You are my thoughts, and wherever you come from, and whatever angst you bring, I wish you to be mine forever.
Dreaming, Suffering, Wishing, wide awake but unconscious, Your Withering Vessel
but not toward bread. What he longs for late at night. Why?
...The oven is not yet meant to burn.
the Vine Tate Vaccaro
How suddenly one drop stains my lips, how suddenly the unruliness of the world spills from our hands.
Fill my glass and I’ll look not for your face, but for the river that runs red in my dreams.
I’ll be there, dripping with sunlight, demanding to be transformed.
Soul Food
Zali Lawrence
I want you to pour into me like sugar momma’s gravy
Explore all the hips and dips of this relationship
The same way you eat a neckbone
I want to love you, slow-roasted cooking in a crockpot all day
Kiss me at the breath of a baby’s back rib
For I will give my last to you at the taste of your sweet lips
Your tongue carves out the flavors of my sweet potato pie
Put me on the highest of levels so I can fuel your soul with the flavors of love
Seasoned into the heart, and I become one with your mind
Your words drip down my legs like fine wine
And baby, you are so divine
Hold me a secret like your grandmother’s family recipe
Lock me away into a bottle and never let the wrong one get a hold of me
Let the chocolate drip from my mouth as I pour my heart out to you
Wait for me impatiently like kids at the dinner table waiting on Thanksgiving day
Thank the lord for this super you have been yearning for
Touch my soul like the hot stove grandma told you to leave alone
Lock your eyes in the sight of my macaroni baked into your lungs
For you have finally found your glory
Wrap me up in foil and take me home
Lay me down and eat me up
And remember that this has become a different kind of love
Dress me up in all types of dressings
Cleanse my soul like you would do chicken
I will be the soul food you waited months for
And you will be the food to my soul that I have prayed for
Even Soul Food Spoils Spoils
Zali Lawrence
Trapped in the essence of an imaginary beauty, and I I have fallen victim to the pain I placed upon myself
Pour into me
No, actually pour me slow
Spoon me like sugar momma’s gravy
Then burn me at the bottom of the pot if you must
And then comes the craving
The spirit of her beauty latches onto your soul
I’m sorry
Honey dripped down my spine, and I really could’ve made you mine
But your tongue carved out the favors of my sweet potato pie
And now the sweetness burns my throat
It’s complicated
Your love touched my soul and swept me right off the platter
I scooped myself back up and placed myself back where I was
Glared in your eyes, warning you to stop
I thought you were the type of man that didn’t like his food touching
Daring me to be the perfect platter crafted just for you I guess you’ve already laid me down and ate me up
And still that wasn’t enough
I’m intoxicated, tears dripped down your face like red wine
Maybe I was soul food
Slow-roasted cooking in a crockpot all day
But even soul food spoils
If you leave it out for long enough
I'm spoiled rotten
Mold built up on the surface of my skin
Heartbreak formed in the shape of stuffed peppers
Spicy and daring
Savory and sharp
What once filled you like neck bone now cuts at the bone
A feast turned feral in your mouth
Normally, I like my rolls buttered
But baby, I’m tired
Like leftovers reheated too many times
Or maybe the crockpot got left on too long
Once I poured into you like sugar momma’s gravy
Or maybe I gave my last to you at the last of your lips
But now I’m burnt
Stuck at the bottom of the pot
You continue to swallow me even though the taste is bitter
Even as it poisons you
And still you come back starving
Scraping the pan for what’s left of me
Because spoiled sweetness still coats your tongue
Even
Poison Drips Sweet When It's Me
Tell me . . . was it longing you swallowed
Or just belonging you mistook for a meal?
i’ll deny my needs over and over again smoke another cigarette drink another cup of coffee until i see my ribs in the mirror and the dark circles under my eyes cover my face i always had high cheekbones now they’re all i can see i never deserved to live so i’ll waste away alienate all my friends i’ll die young and alone burns covering my fingers
i don’t deserve music or poetry that blessed food of love why should i delude my heart when it too withers away no i deserve the pain it’s all ive ever deserved
i can feel my teeth rotting and i again i say i deserve this what need have i for them when the coffee and cigarettes the discordant noises and incomplete poems never left me anything to chew
sometimes i pray that some angel will come and raise me from my debased state but no relief comes for me she will not hear my prayers for my throat is dry and cracked and my singsong voice has lost its sweetness so i will consign myself to the fate i made a collection of bones where once stood a woman
Blessed Be
C.E. McCaskill
Blessed be this meal of spoiled meat
forgive the holes, I know there’s less to eat
But martyred, hollowed, cavities in skin
A skewered dish, say how holy free of sin
For the sake of good, or maybe god
Slice slowly / gently / make pieces of fraud
For unseeing eyes have limited view
The way to be known? Cut off half of you
Hundreds of acres of salivating mouth
Patrons of wealth all sons of the south
Out of place? No. You have a duty to serve
A plate, a dish, just another hors d’oeuvre
The campus of rain, cold bite of the storm
Come closer, lost lamb, the oven is warm
I promise, come here, draw next to the heat
Pray over us all: blessed be this meal of spoiled meat
A Spoonful of Reflection
They reflect, spoons empty, mouths open–
Roksanna Keyvan
Not since the water rose and drowned the crops.
Not since the waste seeped into the soil.
Not since our ancestors’ memory vanished–
Not since junk food became cheaper than food. for research–their yearly studies pay well. fight back.
An anthropologist has been here three years–he’ll leave soon, the ethnography is done. A politician calls us a discontent of globalization, his Congress nods in solidarity. They vote.
´ we made sure of it. even if it makes your eyes water. But hey, there’s good pork on the plate. we’re the best in the state!
What’s not to comprehend about that? I can taste it. Not sure what they’re spraying on this corn.
No, she didn’t have cancer before. No, we don’t have a history of illness. No, it’s not radiation from somewhere else.
What don’t you understand? We need help.
just the EPA? Just the CDC? Isn’t that your job? What are my taxes paying for? This
What’s not to comprehend about that–you nut.
Yeah, it’s the third time I’ve had it this week. At least I’m eating. Better than nothing at all. It’s not like there’s other options around here.
Oh–what was that...? Food desert?
Haha, is that a joke? Oh.
No, I’m not really sure I comprehend. But hey–since you’re such a big fan of wordplay, that’s certainly
Food for thought.
Starving Christopher J. DiLorenzo
‘
The Revolution Bout to be Televised
´
These days I feel the metaphor of having current events shoved down my throat a bit too literally, my jaw sore and my stomach
Yesterday is a fleeting word, but it’s a feeling I carry often.
2017...
Olivia Pinder
If I close my eyes, I can still picture being in the kitchen with my family, burgers grilling, chicken frying, pie baking, the heat of the food causing sweat to drip down my face and arms My oh my, how I miss yesterday.
Bright summer days, where you could play all day until the streetlights came on
But my rule was different, play until your momma called you in. So I stayed inside, stuck in a place I didn’t know I’d long for all my life: the sounds of laughter, stories of the good old days. Of yesterday.
Back when kids played without worrying if it was their last game
Back when the only identifying a mother had to do was deciding what she’d cook tomorrow.
In my mind, I was always reaching ahead, but I didn’t know, today.. No tomorrow could hurt so much.
I lost two of my big brothers that year. They weren’t home when the sun went down, when the streetlights came on
Taken by guns before their time.
but the streetlights kept shining,
I can still picture being in the kitchen with my family,
the coldness of emptiness in my chest causing tears to drip down my face
Snack
Audrey Aiken
Last Meals
Thomas Raiford
The day we sat and watched the world end was a nice one. We had a picnic.
We hadn’t talked in a while. We hadn’t felt the need to. But, the weather was lovely, so I called you. You were excited on the phone, more excited than I expected. It was strange hearing your voice again. It seemed so far and so close. I was scared. Not because of the sirens or the screams. I was scared to see you again.
You asked where, and I told you the beach. It seemed fitting to watch the world end on the beach. There’s something so poetic about it. Behind you, the chaos of it all unfolded. Buildings crowded each other, cars stood still and screamed, and people ran, like ants fleeing a flooding hill. Before you, the sea stretched beyond your view. There’s a similar chaos of the waves crashing against each other, rising and falling with the tide, but it’s made quiet by its scope. To you, it’s rhythmic, relaxing, and real. To me, its visceral, vexing, and vast.
I knew it was you coming by the sound. You walk as if you’re floating, as if the world you carry weighs no more than a feather. I trudge. I thud. I drag my feet, and I ache and groan. But I heard you, amidst it all. You were wearing a yellow dress that day. It was beautiful; it made the beach and the ocean seem dull by comparison. I don’t quite remember what I wore, probably a wrinkled T-Shirt and some shorts with a drawstring. I’m sure it felt inadequate. You sat down and greeted me. You had a basket with you, the kind you see in picture books. You asked me if I had brought the drinks. I hadn’t. You teased me. I laughed.
We heard a dull boom in the distance, and it seemed as good a time as any to start. You took out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the kind we used to make. They were cut in half, split down the middle to make 2 triangles, one for you, one for me. I bit into it, and you handed me an apple. It seemed absurd, to worry about my fruits and veggies now, but I looked at you and there were tears in your eyes. The humor died in my throat.
We sat there for a while, listening to the waves. My mind raced to say something, everything, and nothing. It all seemed to matter now, what we said to each other. And it didn’t before? It seemed unfair. The waves kept coming, like a metronome counting down a performance.
“What would you have for your last meal?” you croaked, your voice raw, a small smile on your face.
been perfect. People never are.” I stayed silent. You continued, “And yet, I’m grateful for it all. There was more we could’ve said, should’ve said, didn’t say. But I’m grateful for it all.”
And we laid there. We didn’t hear the fourth boom or any waves. We just laid there.
Live From Toyko Thomas Rigamonti
Smoke Break
Jack Perez
If there was one thing Tom hated more than anything in the world, it was the smell of smoke. Not the taste, mind you. No, he savored the smokey, woody flavor that transformed a piece of beef or pork into a delightful experience. He relished in the mesquite flavor of the small pack of Slim Jims he was devouring like it was his last meal. His enjoyment was solely dampened by the smell of smoke emitting from the teenage cashier nervously smoking a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He really despised that acrid and pungent smell. The reason why wasn’t a mystery to him; his grandfather had smoked at least five packs a day, seven days a week. His childhood home always smelled like a southern smokehouse, the air heavy and dense in its charcoal fragrance as his adolescent lungs struggled to adjust. He always lied to his friends about the smell that would linger on his shirt, claiming it came from the incense his grandfather would light, like he was a hippie. He was uncertain why he lied about something so mundane. After all, back then smoking wasn’t nearly as taboo. But in Tom’s mind he must have thought that lighting incense was more dignified. Perhaps his lie let him forget about his grandfather’s snarling voice, poisoned from smoke inhalation and his own malicious personality, telling him how weak and pathetic he was and how he should take a cigarette to “grow some hair on that fat chest of yours”.
He wonders how his grandfather would react if he could see the skinny teenager next to him, shakingly holding a cigarette up to his mouth, practically daring his body to calm down from the day's stress during his mandatory 10 minute break. The neon lights above mixed with the crisp, warm burn of the nicotine made his chapped lips and acne all the more apparent. One couldn’t help but take pity on his appearance, ravaged by the harsh hand of adolescence. Tom hoped, no, prayed that he never looked like that when he was in high school. But looking at the poor kid and smelling the smoke brought a flood of questions to the forefront of his mind. Would his grandfather think that this bundle of nerves constitutes a real man? Did he ever think of Tom as a real man? It didn’t really matter; his grandfather had been dead for almost two decades now, and Tom rarely thought of him. But he was in a particularly pensive mood tonight, and perhaps that was the reason he found himself at a gas station on a cold winter night instead of in bed with his wife of 23 years.
He figured he would implement his tried-and-true tactic of grabbing some Slim Jims at the station and wait for his wife to calm down. He had gotten into an argument with her earlier about his hobby of collecting model trains. He would be the first to admit that it was more of an obsession than a hobby, but he had mellowed out over the years and had bought fewer and fewer trains in favor of saving up for his kids.
But with the kids in college, he figured he’d splurge on a Bachmann Dash 8-40CW. Big price tag, yes, but an even bigger mistake when his wife found out. On the surface, it was a fight about money, but Tom had a sneaking suspicion his wife’s anger was stemming from something deeper. He had stormed out when she called him childish, not even caring that technically he was proving her right. The whole money problem wasn’t really bothering him; he made enough to compensate for his spending, but he was more annoyed at the fact that a woman he had known, had loved, for more than two decades still didn’t seem to understand him. He recognized, on a logical level, that to say such a thing was a fallacy. After all, could he say that he appreciates her in her entirety? He wished that he could say yes, but the truth was most likely the opposite. Maybe that's the ultimate burden of individuality, to have a complete understanding of self that cannot be conveyed in any shape or form to others.
Tom shook his head, emerging from his haze. Philosophy wasn’t his strong suit, and it sure wasn’t going to solve his problem. Action was the only remedy. He was going to get in his car, drive home, march right through the door, and go to bed. The fight would most likely linger the next morning but be quickly forgotten or forgiven by midday. That’s how it always went. As Tom got into his car he silently wished that it would always be this way. The cozy routine of love and fighting, of late nights sorting his head right, living life with its ups and downs. However, he could do without the smell of smoke lingering on his jacket. If there was one thing Tom hated more than anything in the world, it was the smell of smoke...
Potion
Lucas Betancourt
Smoke slithering up from goldbrown liquid exhaling warm breath, waves of steam crash together, dissipating into whistles of air.
Inhale its fumes, breathe in breath colored with hints of honey; the warm wind of a lover’s whisper soothes shivering skin on a frosty night.
The cup sits as a hearth in hands, melting the icy stiffness of bones. Fingers trace paper cup skin, massaging, embracing warm cardboard.
Blair Newsome
It’s the song an old man sings, humming an old folk tune with a sandpaper voice and a rust-stringed guitar.
The touch of tea is tender, inviting sip after sip, kiss after kiss.
A bittersweet brew, earthy roughness dancing with honey’s sweet dew.
Sipping silky sunlight, coloring lips, teeth, and tongue, gold pastes itself onto plaque, like the stains that scar the sun.
My world is enteric.
Enteric Yilin Tan
The table before me, choked with titles, trophies, treasures. My plate heaped beyond abundance, the curse of a glutton. My desire is to gorge myself on glory, to indulge myself in my own vanity. In the pursuit of greatness, I struck upon indigestion. My words are a bolus, stuck in my throat, halfway-digested, unable to be expelled Dysphagia.
For fear of asphyxiation, I use them less and less and less. I hunger, and I thirst. What is there for me to consume?
No less than a miracle would ease my appetite. What I need is a land flowing with milk and honey to coat my words, to soothe my aching throat; water from a rock and quail from heaven providence unexpected and undeserved; two fish and five loaves
multiplying again and again as they’re passed into my hands; communion wine and unleavened bread, a promise kept that I might live; a wine-soaked sponge on a reed, blood turned to living water It is finished
Stone table, split in half
My glory in pieces, his body broken
Famished, now full
Starving, now satiated I can breathe. I can speak. And then when I am fed and satisfied, will his words become mine?
A Last Address
Megan Zanni
Heart in my throat, I sit among the tomes. The last time I sat here, I was carefully balancing math equations. Now, I carefully balance silence with commotion. It’s not as easy a comparison as I would’ve thought. Again, the last time I was here, my preference would definitely have been silence. I’d always liked the quiet of the library and found it difficult to concentrate on my thoughts when someone near me was chatting. But right now, I think a little distraction from my thoughts would probably help.
Or maybe not. Every sound, even that of my own heartbeat, is a constant reminder of why those terrifying thoughts are there in the first place.
The sound of footsteps on the floor above me makes me shrink ever further into the shadows. At least they’re not on this floor. But then a thought (one of the terrifying ones) grabs me, and I realize the danger may be nearby, yet silent and thus undetectable by me: a worst-case scenario. I wonder if it’s better to hear footsteps, horrifying as they are, in order to delude myself into thinking I know what’s coming. It’s either that or the overwhelming silence, where the equally horrifying knowledge that I really have no control over what’s coming is as apparent as the lack of noise. Realizing there’s no right answer, I let my mind wander to other ultimately meaningless (but less scary) topics.
Despite being in the library many times, I’ve never been in this nook before. I’m tucked under a desk in a tiny room, really more of a closet, along the back wall of the seventh floor. There is no door. These rooms/closets were originally meant for students to have a more private place to study, though in my current situation the limitations of that privacy are painfully clear.
Surrounding my cave are stacks and stacks of books, the only company I hope to have. The title of one catches my eye: Trouble in Eden: A Comparison of the British and Swedish Economies . Doesn’t sound particularly interesting to me, though I’d give almost anything now to have the time to read it. I’m not sure how Eden connects to the British and Swedish economies, but I suppose that explanation is hidden somewhere in the dusty pages.
I wonder about Eden. I wonder what life would be like if Adam and Eve hadn’t eaten that fruit. They left paradise because they couldn’t trust a God good enough to love them without knowing what was good and bad for themselves. I suppose we all have doubts, but now everyone else has had to live in a world which has clearly fallen. Maybe sometimes we should have a little more trust. Maybe then we’d have a better world.
But I’m afraid this world, fallen as it is, offers me no future. I wonder if there’s a paradise waiting for me, and I think back to all of the sermons I’d listened to but never really heard. I’d always thought I’d have time to dwell on such spiritual mysteries “later,” but it looks like I’m running out of “laters.” In that moment, I decide to believe. I believe because the existence of an all-powerful being who loves me and offers me a peaceful eternity after this life is so much better than the alternative.
A scream tears my mind out of Eden and back to this (fallen) world. I think it came from the first floor. I try not to think about who it came from, and of course I do anyway. Maybe it was one of my friends. The voice didn’t sound familiar, but I’d never heard any of my friends’ death wails before. I try to assign the horrible fate to an anonymous stranger, but I can’t. Suddenly, there are no anonymous strangers. All of the people who had seemed to be a part of the background take center stage. For the first time, the people I’d only ever glanced at had names, and interests, and friends, and families, and I realize that they had those things all along. I wish I’d taken the time to learn about them before.
A moment of quiet in my mind makes me aware of the noise in my ears. It’s louder, more constant than before, and it sounds like the library itself is alive with the dead. One sound cuts through the whispers: a door, opening somewhere to my right. I know better than to hope for a friend.
I hear a shuffling coming closer slowly, almost leisurely. Death is taking its time. Maybe it’s here by chance, maybe it’s looking for me. Maybe it’s already found me. Either way, it’s coming, and there is no escaping it.
I find I’m not as upset by that as I should be. Maybe it’s because I already knew it was coming. Maybe I always knew it was coming.
The only witness to my end will be a book on systems that mean nothing and a place that could mean everything. I think back to my newfound faith, and as I have nothing left, I cling to it with everything I once had. I wish I’d gotten to know it better, like the people I’d never learned about, but I’m glad I know it now.
I hear one final noise.
I look up at the figure standing before me. I don’t think it’s human, but maybe it was once. Either way, something about it is definitely familiar, like something out of a horror movie. Or a nightmare. I see eyes, but no soul. Just pain. And hunger. An emptiness that consumes. Maybe it was never human after all. Then-
Bright Lauren Carpenter
You know not to eat the Bright Red Berries. They are poisonous. They hang lazily, plump, soft, that dazzling color. They are all you can see, as if the sun is shining a spotlight on them. They cry out to you, begging you to swallow just one. They are glittering, drawing you closer. They promise you bliss. But they are poisonous.
Just one, two, three
Bright Red Berries won’t hurt you, right?
They burst in your mouth, everything you thought they’d be, sweet and satisfying -
Just four five, six, thirteen, twenty-nine, fifty-four won’t kill you, right?
Their thin skin breaking between your teeth, sweetness coating your mouth, juice dribbling down your chin, they are so refreshing, so delectable, so heavenly, you cannot stop popping them into your mouth, one after the other, and another, and another,
Until you are turned inside out. Just a body, burning, quivering on the forest floor.
Aching, with what you let those Bright Red Berries do to you.
Made of Many Alicia Maginn
The Barred Owl
Margaret Williams
The barred owl watches patiently from the branch of his oak tree. The land that stretches before his great eyes belongs to him. He calls out through the forest. A call that might sound to human ears like a low howl of someone asking, “Who cooks for you?” The sun had begun to set some time ago, the nocturnal creatures beginning to stir, and the barred owl keeps watch over it all. Down below, on the forest floor, a teenager sits on a fallen tree trunk. She watches him intently, her body relaxed but her eyes firmly fixed on the owl above.
The girl did not bring the apple into the woods with the intent to owl watch. She was looking for a moment of blessed solitude to have a snack and stumbled upon the creature. The owl’s wings are dappled as if with sunlight, its yellow beak poking out of soft feathers. The apple becomes a tether in her hands, drawing her to the earth beneath her feet. She cannot rise up to the owl or even move to finish her apple without making a noise that might scare away the beautiful bird of prey. She is transfixed by the eyes that look beyond her own; it feels like a gift in this moment alone together.
from the lake. They howl with raucous laughter, and the barred owl, feathers ruffled, takes flight. Its wings flap, deathly silent, swooping deeper into the forest. The girl sighs, takes a loud bite out of her apple, then stands. She wipes the juice from her mouth and chin, deftly moving through the trees back towards the noises of camp, carefully avoiding the path of the boys crashing and pushing their way through the foliage. She mutters a curse, tripping over a small stick, finding herself back in the throes of camp life.
Marinated in Amritsar
Avikar Khakh
Cotton Candy in Tangerang
Evan Harris
Late Night Bites in Penang
Evan Harris
A Certain Degree of Popularity
Elizabeth Unger
The kitchen is spacious, modern, fully-functioning, and almost always vacant. The fixtures, once vibrant, are forlorn. The countertop slumps. The table doesn’t have gum on its underside, though it sometimes wonders if gum would mark an improvement. A table must achieve a certain degree of popularity to be covered in gum. The chairs used to sag, but when they realized no one noticed their sulking, they sprang back into prime condition. Of course, nobody notices them now either. The fridge is mostly empty, save for glass tupperware containers, slabs of raw meat, and a suspicious red smudge. A cracked window constitutes the room’s only line of defense against the pungent odor of raw chicken and the fumes emanating from the yellow mold in the sink.
Ryan likes the kitchen because he can cook. The large countertops and vacuous fridge give him plenty of space to prepare his meals and store his food. In return, Ryan makes sure the fridge is always sated with chicken breast, salmon, and raw beef. He also feeds it kiwis and cucumbers. Fruits and vegetables are imperative to the diet of the well-adjusted refrigerator. Sometimes Ryan is absent from the kitchen, but his presence is still felt. See the pressure cooker about to boil over? See the three chicken breasts resting side by side in the sink? That was Ryan. Don’t worry, he won’t leave his food out forever – just long enough for its rotting smell to saturate the room. Does Ryan realize that the odors spewed by his cuisine prevent other people from using the kitchen? Perhaps, but Ryan is territorial. While society has taught him that marking his ground like a dog would be quite improper, it does not frown upon the culinary arts. In fact, society informs Ryan that men who cook are highly valued, especially by middle-aged housewives. If the pungent smell of flaccid meat marks Ryan’s territory in a somewhat acceptable manner, Ryan is satisfied. Perhaps it will even help him with the ladies.
Celia likes the room because it is empty. The table can clearly fit at least six people, and the cabinets are plentiful enough to host the food of thirty. Aside from Ryan, Celia is the room’s only visitor. When she presides over the room, she suffocates the table with bags of tea, packs of popcorn, notebooks, pens, pencils, hair ties, erasers, and a mug shaped like an elephant. Not even an inch of tabletop can see the sun. Celia is territorial too. Why would Celia hold court in a haven for stenches, smells, and odors? Well, perhaps Celia enjoys the fragrance of thawing beef. Perhaps she is one of those insufferable people who always sees the world through rose-colored glasses and enjoys making a molehill out of a mountain. Or perhaps she has no better place to go.
Ryan tolerates Celia. She is quiet. She doesn’t ask too many questions. And she doesn’t complain about the stench of rotten meat.
One day, Celia brings a pack of gum with her. The table shudders, concerned for its exposed underbelly. After pulverizing the gum between her teeth and leaching its sweet flavor, Celia spits the gum into the trash can. The table sighs in relief and reevaluates the merits of popularity.
Blackberries Christopher J. DiLorenzo
Just a Piece
Priya Leela Mendiratta
Brand new, refreshing, and sweet, exciting even, especially when pulled out from a
Sometimes spearmint, sometimes peppermint, its flavor is ever changing, but a few things remain true about the purpose it serves. It is to be carefully unwrapped just before it is enjoyed, and chewed until the rectangular shape it once resembled is smashed into a colorless wad, and it is devoid of all
Then, once it has become boring, and has offered everything it once had to give, it is condemned to be tossed aside, Neatly spit into the wrapper from which it came by those who attempt to behave in a
Or, if it is so unlucky, it is spit into the garbage, Or, perhaps the most dreadful of all, if it is most unlucky it is disrespectfully flung from a pair of wet lips shiny with saliva and onto a rough, gray, filthy sidewalk. There, it unwillingly grips the crevices of the concrete, either remaining invisible to those passing by, or provoking reactions characterized by repulsion if seen at all. It had once been looked at with excitement, something desired the second it had been pulled from its pack, and it often thinks about how many eyes had once lit up around it as they excitedly waited to be granted the piece, But, it was well aware that it had now been deemed worthless, that its value had been drained, and it had accepted that it would never again be wanted.
It thought it was destined to harden onto the disgusting cement forever alone, and that its journey had just about concluded. However, its complex story had far from reached its end, and the period of suffering was hardly over for the poor piece of gum...
It would soon be met with the sole of a shoe whose owner would never seem to be quite able to shake it,
Naïve as can be, it would be thrilled to be pulled up from the concrete, so it would cling to the rising rubber sole and bask in the beauty of its temporary freedom from the miserable sidewalk.
Unfortunately though, it would only feel this intoxicating bliss for a split second before the shoe would cruelly push it back into the ground, breaking its spirit at an exponential rate and in a cyclic nature with each ruthless stomp it took. And so the gum continued to be lifted and crushed until it had but barely anything left within itself, staying stuck somehow even when it longed to be scraped off.
omous voice expressing a burning hatred for how the gum had clung to him, how its unconditional loyalty was terrifying to him, disgusting even... and yet he refused to remove it from the ridges of the rubber soles upon which he’d pressed the gum ever so firmly, leaving it feeling perpetually wanted yet unwanted and continuously drowning in his disrespect.
And so, this is the tragically overlooked, never-ending story of a terribly unlucky
It hates what its life has come to, more than anything, but it is simultaneously incapable of picturing a world where there is no shoe to fill its days with the highs and lows
I feel tremendous sorrow for this piece of chewing gum, as I understand its horrific has made me into that powerless, miserable piece of chewing gum whose plight I’ve
So now I live my life, devoid of my spark, the hope that once coursed through my veins nowhere to be seen, and eternally trapped in the vicious cycle of pain by the addictive toxicity that binds the shoe to me and me to the shoe more tightly than a tube of super glue.
And so, as for my shoe,
I don’t think I’ll ever find it in my heart to forgive you for turning me into your piece of chewing gum, because I could have been, and was so much more before you defined me the equivalent of something so pathetic.
But, even so, keep crushing my heart, keep flattening my soul, And keep treating me as though I am an object that can only provide you with temporary pleasure...
You might as well, because...after all,
In your eyes,
I have not the light, heat, or completeness about which Peter Gabriel beautifully sings in my parent’s wedding song, In your eyes, and perhaps now even in my own, I’m just a piece of gum...aren’t I?
As a child, I had a doll with an on-off switch. When I switched it on, she would cry a harsh, infinite loop of and I, the dutiful mother, would jump to her aid. We lived together, in a hand-me-down playhouse.
without reciting that sugar is a carcinogen carcinogens give you cancer cancer makes you die
After each plastic meal, the doll would begin to cry, plastic sobs as I heat her bottle the one in the doll’s kit from Walmart, the one with the cat-print bib, that my father said we couldn’t afford, that he scrimped and saved for, that I found under the tree on Christmas morn.
Within those plastic walls, I could feed her real disappearing orange juice ignore the guilt that took root in my chest.
Years later, at a yard sale, my mother would sell the house, the doll, the things she deemed me too old for. Years later, I would only mother myself.
Restaurant
Yilin Tan
But the food is handed down to me at the
Me at the end of the table looking over the Stuffing myself with goodness I can hard-
I want to see China with my own eyes but What I want from China is no different from the plunderers of the Old Summer
I desperately yank at the treasures that
The sparkling waters and mountains, the grand, modern cities, the delicious, unfa-
I see everything China wants me to see as is she wants me to see as her child.
I am only a visitor through the looking glass, enjoying the upside down world that
I crave something to pass onto my chil-
But all of the poems my mother imparts
It is counterfeit to capitalize off of my lived and half-lived experiences, and yet I
My spirit feeling mean
Mail From an Old Young Person
Blythe Kingston Green
I had to look the whole thing up Could the hours really change
Editorial Staff
Alli Ysaguirre
Sophia
Cuttita
Sophia
Cuttita
Wednesday, October 1st, 11:05 AM ~ The Pit
Pit Observations
Emily Meinert
Harvest Table staff prepare to take photographs of their
Black tabletop covered with three different kinds of specialty pizza:
Goat cheese, figs, balsamic dressing, arugula, cauliflower crust
And the cheese melts right onto the serving plate when the first slice is pulled.
Every booth is occupied:
Many have only one student, or one on each side,
Most with laptops out or headphones on.
A boy has cleaned his plate, save for a very large piece of broccoli.
A girl is bent over her phone, orange rice still on the plate in front of her.
The Stress Less Pantry door remains shut and locked.
A boy eats a chocolate chip cookie while walking to his seat;
He sets his phone faceup on the table before putting his bag down.
A Pit staff member fumbles in her pockets for her key to open the Stress Less Pantry door, Walks away in dismay as if she has lost it, finds the key, opens the door, Disappears inside.
The boy who was eating the cookie has nothing on the table in front of him but
A mechanical pencil and his face-up phone.
There are open booths now
And many students are leaving Or have moved onto dessert
Or their tablemate has left, and they look at their phone.
Lunch at Bryant ParkCarolyn Malman
I’m sitting in Bryant park in front of the New York public library I’ve been coming here almost every single day for lunch.
I sit here in the northwest corner looking over at the lions They frame the entrance to the library as the iconic symbols of knowledge and strength marking New York as a center of culture.
My great aunt used to paint those lions
I grew up with them in a painting in our downstairs bathroom
My mom took us on a journey here when I was young to see them... Saying, “can you guess why we’re here?”
My mom was so excited to show us.
I didn’t appreciate it at the time but my great aunt was at the cusp of everything in New York
She was an artist, a socialite in the 1930s, capturing the essence of New York in every cover she drew for the iconic New Yorker magazine.
It’s been a dream of mine to have one hung up in my apartment one day. I never knew her. My dad barely did too. But it’s those strange almost random connections that make us think about our place in all this. Those small things stick into the fabric of our being.
New York has always been a part of me. I grew up with stories of my grandma’s fourth story walk up in Gramercy or my mom’s office on 54th and Madison in the 80s. My best friend’s parents showed us around Greenwich Village where they shared their first apart-
I moved into a tiny apartment in the East Village this summer for my internship. I could not have imagined the magic I would feel in this part of the city. Long histories of poetic performances and artist gatherings in St. Mark’s church. The energy pulsated with the emotion of Patti Smith’s poetics and Lenny Kaye on guitar. It felt like I was held up by artists before me so that I could be a part of their legacy.
It really is like love. I’ve imagined what my life with this city would be like before I even knew it. A young girl imagining a relationship that would reshape her whole world. We shared a starcrossed summer together. Ran down streets in the West village in the rain, laughed over shared dinners, and dreamed about our future while looking out over the sky-
You can see why I started crying when my mom told me that my great aunt studied at the school a block from my apartment. My first New York City apartment. I stared at her in shock. Here? On 3rd avenue and 9th street? She walked these streets on the way to class? She dreamed? She thought deeply about the world and how to show her perception in a way that made sense to so many people? It was all by some crazy set of happenstances that I’m
Blair Newsome
Ears straining, I startle
A stir downstairs, we’re running out of time
We need a miracle, we need a twist
Expertly, Grandma turns the lid
We did it.
Silent laughter shared in the dark
We dig in.
Ars Poetica Out of Desperation
What if the best is already behind me?
I am terrified that Percy Shelley was right. That poetry is something you can lose. At night I turn the feeling over in my mind like a thumb-worn penny and imagine a blockage behind my teeth, rising in my throat and swelling my tongue with a silence that begs to question why I ever thought I’d have this forever?
One time, on the third of five passes down the road of our dead end town, my best friend admitted that he wished he could go back to before he knew how to write a good song. Before We had to be good. When unpolished desperation fell out of our mouths onto the page and the coals sitting in our stomachs burned us up inside instead of sitting ulcerous and useless.
Things are supposed to get harder before they get easier right? Then why am i longing for fourteen again? Why do I dream a blank page and wake up wishing I knew latin. Wishing I knew how to fish. Wishing I knew how to get myself out of this. Knowing the only way out is through writing. Praying my eyes run dry before my pen runs out of ink.
Camden Clem
Clara Davis
