Stuck in the Library, October 20, 2014.

Brooklyn College’s Sliest Literary Magazine Brooklyn College’s Sliest Literary Magazine Brooklyn College’s Sliest Literary Magazine

STUCK IN THE LIBRARY OCTOBER 20, 2014

Prompt 1: Apocalypse + Orthodontist

Prompt 2: Food.

PAGE 9

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS:

Chavie Fleisher

Court Takats

Irina Manasherova

Jacob Woodbourne

Moshe Bressler

Millie Marcus

Noura Amara

Reena Furst

Rodshel Ustayev

PAGE 4

Prompt 3: Anonymous

Letters

PAGE 22

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Our Staff: Yaakov Bressler President Chavie Fleisher Vice President Akiva Fleisher Editor in Chief Chana Gekht Chief of Publications Yoni Akerman Treasurer Dovie Eisner Senior Editor Merav Kraitenberger Senior Editor Rebecca Najjar Associate Editor Moshe Bressler Associate Editor Dassy Heinemann Associate Editor Kami Salman Associate Editor Elkie Lanter Assistant Editor Ariella Lanter Assistant Editor Karen Shaefer Assistant Editor Lauren Esses Assistant Editor Carolyn Aboudi Assistant Editor Nisha J Nusrath Assistant Editor Ari Ziegler Associate Member of Event Committee Courtney Takats Associate Member of Event Committee Effie Klestzick Associate Member of Event Committee Yocheved Strum Associate Member of Event Committee Yoni Stern Assistant Member of Event Committee Shalom Lichtenstein Assistant Member of Event Committee Nora Schreiber Assistant Member of Event Committee Gitty Davidson Assistant Member of Event Committee Lena Farraj Chairperson of Awards Committee Lauren Fink Associate Member of Awards Committee Rechan Meshulam Associate Member of Awards Committee Ariella Nagel Associate Member of Awards Committee Moshe Berman Associate Member of Awards Committee Constantine Onishchenko Chairperson of Installation Committee Annusha Salman Associate Member of Installation Committee Sharanika Akter Associate Member of Installation Committee Mark Bandoylo Associate Member of Installation Committee Shreya Jane Associate Member of Installation Committee

Stuck in the Library aims to facilitate a space where creativity can flourish by creating a magazine which publishes often and encourages its enthusiasts to meet its contribu-tors, resulting in a thriving literary sphere in Brooklyn College.

Dear Reader, A short while ago, I received some harsh words about Stuck in the Library when a criticizer labeled this magazine “a cute place where students pretend to be writers.” Not having the chance to address this individual earlier, I will do so here. Allow me to begin with a simple question: How does one become a writer? Are there prerequisites? I believe that an individual who creates words in hopes of rep-resenting something, whether it be thoughts, emotions, or ex-periences, is a writer. And that there are no prerequisites – any-one can and should do it. I am sure this criticizer regards writing as an unobtainable entity which low beings such as students cannot engage with other than to admirably observe. But do you think every novelist was born into the trade? Certainly not! One’s writing develops. And so every successful writer has their roots where they first begin. A place such as STL allows writers to plant their first seeds and grow their early roots into the art of writing. Such growth is an act far from pretentiousness. To this I end that Stuck in the Library is a place where creativi-ty is furnished, crafted, and developed. In a short while you will enter a bookstore and smile when you can say “I wrote with this dude/gal back in college.” And anyone who writes for this publication, or even back at home in a cruddy notebook, is a writer. Don’t listen to bitter critics who dare say otherwise. Welcome to the glossy pages of Stuck in the Library,

Constantine Onishchenko

Merav Kraitenberger

Mohammad Nasrullah

Sanjida Bintekamal

YAAKOV BRESSLER

Pres ident

CHAVIE FLEISHER

Vice Pres ident

AKIVA FLEISHER

Editor in Chief

CHANA GEKHT

Chief of Publ icat ions

CONSTANTINE ONISHCHENKO

Chairperson of Insta l la t ion Committee (Stuck in the Cafeteria)

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YAAKOV BRESSLER President of Stuck in the Library

CONTRIBUTING VISUAL ARTISTS:

Prompt 1:

A post-apocalypse boy goes on a journey to find an orthodontist to remove his braces.

FOREWORD: As the proverbial saying goes, “Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.” The thin and challenging draw between comedy and tragedy is presented in the pages to follow. Whereas some see bitterness and hurt, others see laughter and humor. What do you see?

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I JUST WANT TO MAKE IT

By: Irina Manasherova

Is there anybody out there?

Walking alone..

Is there anybody out there?

Out in the cold..

One heartbeat.

Lost in the crowd of heartless zombies.

Walking the dreary streets.

Quiet streets. Walls that keep secrets.

This silence is a killer.

Danger in reach.

Where can I be safe?

The energy is dead, as the souls all around me.

They won't define me, I am still me.

Don't infect me, I have goals in hands’ reach.

One thing on my mind.

Replay. Replay. On and on and on.

I need an orthodontist.

Why is it so hard to find these?

There's no one else here to impress.

Take this pain from my mouth at last.

Finally eat what I'd like to.

No barriers to stop me.

No more you can't and you shouldn't.

Eat my heart out.

I'll run wild.

Eat whatever mind and heart desires.

Oh my, my stomach will hate me.

My body will be in shock.

What's going on? What's this change? What's going on?

Life's about evolution. Adaptation.

What's next? Will we survive?

I can make it, even if you don't want me to.

It will happen, you will see.

I'll smile, brace free onto the heartless zombie spree.

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LAND’S END By: Chavie Fleisher

Tom looked around himself. That didn’t take too long ’cuz, well, there wasn’t much to look at. All that sur-rounded him was a wasteland. Just an empty landscape with a couple of barbecued trees scattered around. Having finished looking around at nothing, Tom looked at his iWatch 3.1. He pressed a button and spoke into the watch: “Date: September 5th, 2018, time: 17:25, it is day 13 of my journey and I have still been unsuccessful. I passed what I think was Chicago two hours ago and there were no living beings. I will continue with my search and hope to find some sustenance. Also my gums are begin-ning to feel unbearably painful.” Tom tapped the watch and continued on.

This is all Tom has been doing for nearly three weeks. Just walking. He started off in New York City. Just walk-ing through Times Square, no human traffic. No vehicu-lar traffic either. It was silent. Just him and the aban-doned, decrepit buildings. It’s been like that since The Big Thing. Tom hasn’t met too many Survivors. They were the ones who still had their minds, and were trying to go on as best as they could after The Big Thing. Others weren’t as lucky, they became the Pigeons, soulless folks just walking around as empty shells, not doing anything, just looking for scraps of food and clean water. Some-times they would get violent, like feral animals. They tracked like animals too, using their sense of smell rather than their blind eyes to find food. You could spot them because they lacked color in their eyes, all they had were black orbs. Tom tried to avoid them, they creeped him out. Also, when they were really hungry, they would eat other humans, Survivors or Pigeons.

Tom liked the silence of the once prosperous city. He liked the tranquility of it. But Tom had a problem. Unfor-tunately, Tom had an overbite. Now Tom’s mother (whom he never got along with) took him to Dr. Gory and had him put braces on his teeth. Tom hated his brac-es. He hated the ache in his mouth. He hated having to go to Dr. Gory every month. He just plain old hated all of it.

After The Big Thing happened and everything was de-stroyed, Tom figured, there’s no electricity, no running

water, who gives a wooden nickel about an overbite any-way? So Tom decided to go to Dr. Gory’s office and have his braces removed. However, when he arrived at Gory Orthodontics, he discovered that the office was under-neath a Q-train subway car. Feeling rather desperate, Tom then spent the next week desperately searching the city for someone to take off his braces.

New York City got hit badly by The Big Thing, so Survi-vors, let alone orthodontists, were sparse. That was when Tom went on his journey across the ruined land to find someone, anyone to remove his God-forsaken braces.

“Date: September 28th, time: 11:54. Heading into Topeka now. At least, that’s what my navigation is telling me. Perhaps I’ll find some Survivors who will be able to point me to an orthodontist.”

Tom walked on. He paused by the Kansas River, tested it for contaminants and washed himself in it. After an hour of walking, he saw what looked like a camp a few yards away. As he approached, he saw that the camp consisted of eight Survivors sitting around a fire, three older men with shotguns, two women holding babies, and a boy of about sixteen. “Where ya come from, stranger?” said the man closest to him in a Southern drawl.

“New York City,” Tom replied.

The women gasped. “I heard it got hit real bad there,” one of them said. Tom shrugged.

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“I heard stories,” one of the men said in a low tone. “That the Pigeons there are real bad. Goin’ around, just chomp-in’ people’s limbs off! That’s why I got me Patricia here,” the man gestured to his shotgun. “Hard to get food and clean water ‘round here,” he continued, “Been scroungin’ around, just tryin’-a survive… I started meself a new business. Ya see, dem squirrels, after The Big Thing happened, they got all kinda soft and easy to skin so I take their tails, shine ‘em up real good and sell ‘em as accessories.”

The man held up a dead squirrel missing its tail. “Can I offer you one? Special post-apocalyptic pricing!”

Tom blinked and rubbed his painful jaw. “Ah, thanks but...no.” he said. “That’s good, um, do any of you know where I can find someone to take off these braces?”

The people in the camp looked at him. “Nope,” said an-other man with a huge moustache. All of them except for the boy shook their heads. Tom sighed. “Guess I’ll be moving on,” he said. “Good luck with your um...business. I’ll be going now.” The boy, who was standing quietly in the corner, spoke up. “I’ll walk ya a bit,” he said. Tom nodded as they walked out of the camp. They walked si-lently for a few minutes when the boy suddenly turned to Tom. “I know where you can find someone to take off

your braces.” Tom looked at the boy in shock.

“You do? Tell me where!”

“It’s only rumors,” the boy replied. “In Idaho, just north of Boise, there is said to be an orthodontist Survivor. Your best bet would be to head there.”

“Thank you,” said Tom.

“Just watch out for the Pigeons, there’s said to be a lot of them in Denver.”

“Thanks,” said Tom. “I will.”

“Date: October 22nd, time: 13:15. This journey is getting more and more difficult every day. I ran into a group of Pigeons back in Denver. I covered myself in mud to mask my scent and hid behind a destroyed building until they passed on. I got lucky. I hope my luck will hold out until I get to Boise. My gums are as swollen as a balloon and they are starting to bleed. I need to get there soon.”

“Date: November 5th, time: 9:08. I have finally reached Boise. There seem to be many more Survivors here. I will ask around for this orthodontist. I feel very weak, I am dehydrated and in desperate need of rest. Also my mouth hurts.”

Tom walked over to a group of Survivors. “Hello,” he said, “Do you know where I can find an orthodontist?” The group was silent for a moment. “Sure,” said a girl in the group. “You’re talking about Dr. Ying, yes? He’s right over there.” She pointed to a rundown office build-ing. Tom let out a big and bloody grin. “Thank you,” he said.

Tom ran over to the building and walked in. Dr. Ying was sitting in a chair reading a magazine titled “Armageddon Apparel” and as Tom walked in he looked up. “Can I help you?” the doctor asked. “Yes! Please!” Tom nearly yelled. “Please, just remove these cursed braces from my mouth!” Dr. Ying walked over to Tom and looked into his mouth. “Hmm,” He said. “It looks like you haven’t been taking proper care of these. You need to wear your rubber bands. Your braces are not ready to be taken off. Come back in six weeks”.

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Lullaby for TeethJacob Woodbourne

As the tale goes, the little child was afraid. Too afraid to venture forth from his hiding spot during the illuminated sky, lightening flashing, tears staining his face. The beautiful world usually seen, reduced to fear – storm clouds settling themselves in place of pleasant dreams. They – their screams meshing with the mechanized roar of destruction. Wind making creatures of trees, the boy knew nothing of what flew in the breeze – only to stay away. Inside his tears tearing his inside had and have him hushed. Hush! The darkness rises from the deep and carries

itself into the sky. The fathers of grief, now young children, bear the pain of the world’s widows. Rush! The spirits of darkness grip those without grip, ripping the ground of its meager resilience. The eerie echo of its end sounds through forests turned ash and humans turned raw. A smile, just one, would keep the few staggering remnants afloat. Blistered lips conceal rotten roots of acid-turned teeth – empty mouths washed empty with the sky’s new toxicity. Teeth, bound by a cage – they are now humanity’s hope – a flag of remembrance – the recall of pleasantness barely remembered.

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Prompt 2:

Food.

FOREWORD: Food. One of the basic human needs for survival, and yet so much more. A hobby, a cause for gathering, a profession, an expression, an obsession. Food means something different to everyone who eats it, and it has proven to be something that can bring us together or tear us apart, both as individuals and as a species. As you read through the following pages, you will experience some of the many qualities that food inspires in us.

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Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

Food – Scenes By: Jacob Woodbourne

Tom is a sandy haired boy from the back of the bus. Catherine is a thin girl who wants to be thinner.

Sis is Catherine’s cute younger sister. Dr. CarMichael is a psychologist who puts a lot of breath into

his voice. There are 102 calories in a tablespoon of butter. That’s 36 and ½ minutes of walking – 2 miles onto the ache of a heel. You want butter. Smell it. It’s impossible to gain calories from just smelling, so go ahead. Smell it, Fatty. Fat! EW, Fatty! Do you want to gain an extra 102 CALORIES? Good, so smell the butter and throw it in the garbage. Destroy that well of stinking fat. Sis: Cathy? Why are you crying? Cathy: Oh. I’m n– Sorry. I’m fe–

I don’t know why. Sis: I get scared when I see my sister cry. Or my friends also. Cathy: I’m sorry. Cathy shivers as she extends a thin arm to her younger sister. Cathy: Come here, let me give you a hug. They embrace, briefly. Sis: You shouldn’t cry so much. It’ll make you sad. Cathy: Yeah. (pauses) I’m just feeling a little anxious, that’s all. Sis: Cathy, what does anxious mean? Cathy: Anxious is when your insides feel glued and you aren’t sure why except you have a small idea why. Sis: It sounds like it could make you sad. Cathy: It sometimes does. Sis: That’s sad. Bye Cathy, I have to go to school. Cathy: Bye sis. Catherine will be going to school late that day because of an appointment she has with Dr. CarMichael, a psychologist who isn’t the same as a regular doctor because he wears regular clothes, not a white lab coat with a bow-tie, and doesn’t work in a hospital or even carry a stethoscope.

Catherine pours herself 4oz of fat-free milk. 40 calories without any disgusting FAT – almost half of what regular disgusting milk has in it, except no fat. Milk will make you OOZE! Milk will give you a MUFFIN TOP on your abdomen! Milk will make you ROUND! Unless there’s no fat. Fatless is harmless – fatless and cute. She drinks it in 2 swallows, then fills the cup to the top with water, being sure to cover all the areas where the milk touched the cup. She drinks that too in 2 swallows. Refill, gulp gulp. Water has no calories. Water is god’s gift to humanity. You can drink water all day and it’ll only make you skinnier, and a little cold. But it’s worth being cold to be skinny. Dr.: Good morning Catherine. Have a seat. Cathy: Hi. Catherine puts her bookbag down beside her but keeps her jacket on. Dr.: How are you feeling? Cathy: A little anxious. This morn– Dr.: Good. GOOD. Take those emotions, and put them in a box. (He smiles with satisfac tion.) A box, okay? Cathy: I can’t put them in a box. My emotions are stuck inside me. Dr.: That’s the challenge. (The Dr. fixes his glasses.) You must find a way to put them in a box. Cathy: I can’t though. I don’t know what box you’re talking about. Dr.: Do you usually have a hard time under standing adults? Cathy: What? No! Dr.: Do your failures make you upset? Cathy: No. You make me upset. Dr.: Does all authority make you upset? Catherine decides it would be best if she remains silent. Dr.: See, that’s the thing Catherine. We all have little things that make us upset. Just take those feelings and put them away, in some storage unit. A box works just fine. Do you understand Catherine?

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Cathy: No! The doctor seems puzzled. Cathy: I have no clue what you’re saying with all these boxes. Look, my feelings are very real. I carry them around in me. I can’t just take them out and put them wherever I wish. There aren’t boxes when it comes to feeling nervous and scared – I can’t just take these items out of me and displace them– Dr.: (interrupting) Good word! Cathy:

(singing) Rest be assured, A distance has been allured. For I cannot wait, My thinness needs her badly.

The rest’ll be endured, For when she’s immured For I cannot wait, I need my thinness gladly.

The rest of Catherine’s 45 minute appointment follows a similar rou-tine as Dr. CarMichael urges Catherine to place her feelings inside some entity she can’t understand. Last week it was a sponge, the week before, a ziplock bag. She hates how weird he makes her feel because she wants to feel normal. And thin. She walks out of the office feeling confused by her thoughts and won-ders why she can’t understand what the Dr. is telling her. She walks slow enough to smell the burgers that waft from the fast food joints

nearby even though it’s the morning. Fat people eat burgers in the morning, that’s why they’re huge. You’re supposed to drink fat-free milk and some water. And be thin – not huge. She was thinking of how many calories are in a burger as she boards the city-bus that would take her to school. Tom: Yo! Cathy! Catherine glances back and the boy whistles at her. It is Tom. She smiles. Tom and Catherine have begun to see each other and would soon date but are currently in an awkward stage where neither is sure what the other is feeling. Cathy: Oh, hey Tom. She sits beside him. Tom: Why you so late? (He takes a bite out of a burger. He is trying to remain cool despite a fast beating heart.) Cathy: (Shrugs with the same effort as Tom.) Why you late? Tom: Because my kid sister threw up and I had to clean the crap up because my dad is at work. Catherine nods in response. She imagines Tom cleaning the throw-up and gets a little nauseous. Tom: So now that I told you, it’s your turn. (He takes another bite.) Cathy: I… I have a therapist my parents make me see. Tom: Really? Cathy: Yeah. It’s not for any reason. My mom thinks it’s important for me to go, whatever. Tom: Uh huh. My dad once wanted me to see a shrink. Cathy: My guy isn’t a shrink. Tom: How do you know? Cathy: (She pauses because she isn’t sure of the differ-ence between a shrink or a therapist, or even what a shrink is.) I just do. Okay? Tom: Sure. Whatever. Cathy: I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. Tom: Nah. You’re not crazy. (He takes a bite, finishing the burger.) Cathy: Good. I don’t want you to think that. He crumples the plastic bag the burger came in and leans forward to Catherine. His hand falls onto hers and Cathy looks up with nervous surprisal. Neither is sure how to feel. Cathy pitches herself uncomfort-ably on the edge of the seat and Tom’s heart pounds. They each want to kiss but don’t know how to separate themselves from their current discomfort to do so. Tom tries to think of a way to accidentally lean into Cathy. Cathy fears the calories she might gain from doing so.

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Kitchen Adventure By: Irina Manasherova

Look in the fridge, Can't find a thing.

How can it be? It's full of anything and everything. I can get lost in things just looking,

But nothing catches my eye. You know that feeling?

It's often there. Food. Food.

It's all good, but what am I in the mood for?

We shall see.

Walk away, empty handed.

Just for a few minutes until my stom-ach tells me to look again.

Hoping something interesting appears, I stare away, dissecting the fridge.

I grab a snack, but nothing to kill the

craving. Something healthy? Or just some junk

food? Something for my sweet tooth, maybe?

Check the time,

End up on Instagram. #FoodPorn, there goes my stomach

again. Do I have that? Can I make it?

Grab this, from there. Grab that, from here.

Mix it up in a bowl, and add some spice.

It's just right. Grab some tools, let's taste the creation

of the moment. Expressed myself in edible art.

My stomach thanks me.

Now to share with the rest of the fami-ly?

Back to the fridge, let's try something new.

No instructions. No tutorials. Mix and match. What goes well with

what? The smell. The sight.

Snap a photo, share it with the world. Let the thoughts and feelings create the

meal that nourishes and helps me grow.

It's there for you, no matter what. For comfort, and to help relax. Some call it therapy, it can be.

Yeah, a stress reliever. Something that can be controlled yet

become so creatively expressive. Easy to get off your chest and onto

your plate. Dig in!

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FOOD By: Rodshel Ustayev

Food was the path I took to find you Food was all it took to see your eyes shine Food was all I needed to break the walls down Food was bringing us together

Food was the path I found into getting to know you Food was all it took for me to stop being mean Food was all I needed to understand how precious you are Food was the glue to keep us together

Food was the path for sincerity Food was all it took for us to connect Food was all I needed to think about you every moment Food is just food cause now we have amazing, nurturing love

OVERACTIVE ANAPHYLAXIS By: Chavie Fleisher Did you ever have that feeling? That feeling when you overeat? Just eating and stuffing Until you can’t stand on your feet? You eat large portions Or maybe you just eat a lot of junk Eating cupcakes and potato chips Perhaps to get you out of a funk? You eat that delicious stuff After you finish, you regretfully say What have I did, what have I done?! I could have made better choices today. So you sit down and do some internalizing You promise yourself; tomorrow I’ll eat salad Because, don’t you know after all That makes the snacking less valid Next day, you’re feeling invigorated You eat your veggies and feel all better Snacking on cucumbers and tomatoes Following a healthy regimen to the letter You did awesome! Good for you, you’re managing through Eating food that’s healthy However, there are people who are not as lucky as you Not as lucky as me? Yes You see there are a rare folk Who cannot eat healthy food For a different feeling it evokes Emotional eating? Well, not an emotion per se Rather a different physical result Is what gets displayed So sit and put your kale chips down Let me tell you about Jimmy Jones He had this strange condition That is very rarely known This condition he had was not so simple Well, it’s a real head scratcher If he ate something like your kale Well…he became a real head scratcher

Jimmy Jones was an interesting case You see, little Jimmy couldn’t eat an-ything healthy While some foods just made him nauseous Some others could be quite deathly Tomatoes made his throat itch Apples made him sneeze Whole wheat makes him achy As does low-fat American cheese It’s impossible for him to eat salad Why, it would make him break out in hives! And chia seeds, forget about them With those he would just curl up and die! The only things Jimmy could eat Were foods that were high in fat Full of sugar and carbohydrates And all yummy stuff like that It was pizza for breakfast Hamburgers for lunch And a fried chicken basket For dinner he would munch But God have mercy if he would have Any veggie garnish on those foods It would make him icky and yucky And he would vomit all over your shoes His doctors were very worried They looked at his charts and wheezed “Jimmy is at a high risk,” they said “For coronary heart disease” “He must do lots of exercise At least seven times a day Or he might just have a heart attack Because of his eating ways”

They tried giving him vitamins For all the nutrition he was losing But vitamins are considered healthy So when he took them he started swooning

So dear ol’ Jimmy would spend his days Eating chicken fingers and candy at his leisure Then going to the gym and exercising non-stop So that his eating wouldn’t give him a seizure You’re looking at me sadly With your quinoa in your mouth And say, ‘” will always eat well! So that my health does not go south” I nod and say eat your fruit and veggies And make sure good manners to apply For if you flaunt your healthy habits in everyone’s face You may cause one of them to die!

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Ingredients:4 bags of potato chips, smashed (BBQ works best)2 bags of chicken cutlets, sliced thin5 eggs1/2 cup flour1/2 tsp paprika1 clove garlic1 tsp mustard1 tsp salt

Steps:Mix eggs,salt,paprika,garlic and mustardCoat each piece of chicken in flour, coat in egg mixture, then cover with chips.Place on baking sheet/pan. Once pan is full, bake for 12 minutes at 350*Serve either hot or cool.

Pro-tip: Get yourself some sauce from your local Mexican place and dip the chicken in that

(Warning: things are about to get heavy)By: Noura Amara and Auntie Pie

Ingredients

A disturbed soul that craves an intense dessertGood music! 4 ounces of sun-kissed raisins 2 ounces of your oldest, wisest brandy1 ounce very fatty butter (or 1 1/2 cups) 1 quart heavy cream (heaviness must be metal head approved)12 ounce old bread you accidentally left to get stale (good job on that one kiddo, but hey it all worked out) 13 ounces granulated sugar 1 ounce vanilla (or two table spoons) 3 eggs (bet you can’t wait to break em)

1.In a small sauce pan simmer the fine brandy and raisins for a few minutes and set the ingredients aside. 2.Ferociously tear the stale bread into bite size chunks and pour the frothy heavy cream over bread in a large bowl. Set this aside and play some Megadeth so the bread absorbs the heaviness of the cream. 3. Beat eggs and sugar until they are super smooth and thick. Add the sweet vanilla, melted butter, and your raisins and brandy and play some jazz to ensure the smoothest of results. 4. Toss this decadent mixture with the bread gently.Pour all ingredients into a heavy metal baking pan that has been slathered with glorious, fatty butter.5.Bake your creation at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until browned. 6. Serve warm with brandy on the rocks. Garnish with berries and powered sugar. And if you have to (and yes you have to), make some more brandy and raisin sauce! Oh baby. Now blast some good music and enjoy!

Potato ChiP ChiCkenReena FuRst nouRa amaRa and auntie Pie

Heavy Metal Bread Pudding and Bourbon Sauce

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Ingredients:4 bags of potato chips, smashed (BBQ works best)2 bags of chicken cutlets, sliced thin5 eggs1/2 cup flour1/2 tsp paprika1 clove garlic1 tsp mustard1 tsp salt

Steps:Mix eggs,salt,paprika,garlic and mustardCoat each piece of chicken in flour, coat in egg mixture, then cover with chips.Place on baking sheet/pan. Once pan is full, bake for 12 minutes at 350*Serve either hot or cool.

Pro-tip: Get yourself some sauce from your local Mexican place and dip the chicken in that

(Warning: things are about to get heavy)By: Noura Amara and Auntie Pie

Ingredients

A disturbed soul that craves an intense dessertGood music! 4 ounces of sun-kissed raisins 2 ounces of your oldest, wisest brandy1 ounce very fatty butter (or 1 1/2 cups) 1 quart heavy cream (heaviness must be metal head approved)12 ounce old bread you accidentally left to get stale (good job on that one kiddo, but hey it all worked out) 13 ounces granulated sugar 1 ounce vanilla (or two table spoons) 3 eggs (bet you can’t wait to break em)

1.In a small sauce pan simmer the fine brandy and raisins for a few minutes and set the ingredients aside. 2.Ferociously tear the stale bread into bite size chunks and pour the frothy heavy cream over bread in a large bowl. Set this aside and play some Megadeth so the bread absorbs the heaviness of the cream. 3. Beat eggs and sugar until they are super smooth and thick. Add the sweet vanilla, melted butter, and your raisins and brandy and play some jazz to ensure the smoothest of results. 4. Toss this decadent mixture with the bread gently.Pour all ingredients into a heavy metal baking pan that has been slathered with glorious, fatty butter.5.Bake your creation at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until browned. 6. Serve warm with brandy on the rocks. Garnish with berries and powered sugar. And if you have to (and yes you have to), make some more brandy and raisin sauce! Oh baby. Now blast some good music and enjoy!

Potato ChiP ChiCkenReena FuRst nouRa amaRa and auntie Pie

Heavy Metal Bread Pudding and Bourbon Sauce

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GRandma millie’s kibbeh ReCiPemillie maRCus

Ingredients: 4 eggs2 cups sugar1 cup oil2 tsp vanilla extract1 package of vanilla pudding (2.8 oz)2 cups flour2 tsp baking powder3/4 cups orange juice

Steps:Mix eggs, sugar, oil, vanilla extract, pudding, then add flour, baking powder and OJ.Mix until no bubbles in the mixture (approx. two minutes)

Bake at 350* for 50-55 minEnjoy!

Reena FuRst

elie’s White Cake

Ingredients:Onion1 lb. Ground Beef2 ½ cups fine burghol. Don’t have to wash.1 cup flour1 tbsp salt1 tbsp cuminPaprika (for color)2 tbsp oil

Sautee an onion (well done, golden brown)Add 1 pound chopped meat. Shut fire.When done add salt, all spice, and a little cinnamon, add to your liking. Put meat in the freezer for a couple of minutes. 2 ½ cups fine burghol, don’t have to wash.1 cup flour1 tbsp salt1 tbsp cuminPaprika (for color)2 tbsp oilAdd 1 cup of water at a time (2 cups total) and let rest for 15 minutes, under dish towel. Take about a handful and use cigar holder to form a hollow tubelike shape with a point at the end. Fill with meat and close on other side. Makes about 30.Best deep fried until golden

This appetizer is a staple at a Syrian Jewish family’s Friday night dinner table. Originating in Aleppo, this recipe had been handed down for generations.

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GRandma millie’s kibbeh ReCiPemillie maRCus

Ingredients: 4 eggs2 cups sugar1 cup oil2 tsp vanilla extract1 package of vanilla pudding (2.8 oz)2 cups flour2 tsp baking powder3/4 cups orange juice

Steps:Mix eggs, sugar, oil, vanilla extract, pudding, then add flour, baking powder and OJ.Mix until no bubbles in the mixture (approx. two minutes)

Bake at 350* for 50-55 minEnjoy!

Reena FuRst

elie’s White Cake

Ingredients:Onion1 lb. Ground Beef2 ½ cups fine burghol. Don’t have to wash.1 cup flour1 tbsp salt1 tbsp cuminPaprika (for color)2 tbsp oil

Sautee an onion (well done, golden brown)Add 1 pound chopped meat. Shut fire.When done add salt, all spice, and a little cinnamon, add to your liking. Put meat in the freezer for a couple of minutes. 2 ½ cups fine burghol, don’t have to wash.1 cup flour1 tbsp salt1 tbsp cuminPaprika (for color)2 tbsp oilAdd 1 cup of water at a time (2 cups total) and let rest for 15 minutes, under dish towel. Take about a handful and use cigar holder to form a hollow tubelike shape with a point at the end. Fill with meat and close on other side. Makes about 30.Best deep fried until golden

This appetizer is a staple at a Syrian Jewish family’s Friday night dinner table. Originating in Aleppo, this recipe had been handed down for generations.

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Airplane to Blimp By: Moshe Bressler zoom zoom zveereer mash potatoes whiz by the food embargo firmly stands THE CHILD NEEDS HIS VITAMINS flipflipflipFLAPIDDYFLAPP helicopters tear off chicken and maneuver skillfully weave debris and fellow airplanes NEEDS MORE VITAMINS!!! tugboats are recruited to aid with the gravy more planes take off the carriers nearby Flop Flop Flip green beans flip catapulted long distance IS THAT ALL YOU CAN DO THE CHILD NEEDS TO GROW FEED HIM aircraft black out all light ships catapults dump-trucks methodically mesh like a construction-site assembly-line conveyer belt heavy wooden blocks of noise crash upon deafened ears -vitamins chop-chop grind-grind whirr-whirr bloating the plump child inflating like a fat useless stupid pig

18

Song of Starvation By: Noura Amara

Aajay always walked at night, for the day was too hot. He drank water from a deep hole at the side of the road and saw street dogs run from him. Empty. No moonlight. Darkness spilled from every angle and his night would be harder because of it.

His pace was brisk, quite unlike the still, crusty air. The smell of hot garbage and baked dirt paths filled the ten-year-old's head. He felt sick, and his insides moaned. Pain racked the lower half of his body but he had to continue.

The boy walked on into the velvet night, occasionally opening silver dumpsters and peeling back sections of trash to scan for treasures underneath. His little village seemed to heave from the weight of the air. Aajay took short, fast breaths. The night was penetrating and crashed down upon his chest and lungs. He moved quickly and precisely; he needed to find what he was looking for or this would be the end.

The thick silence of the air was broken. The boy heard flapping and quickly turned. The night bird that flew overhead whistled playfully at him. Come. It's wings gleamed ebony black and it's eyes shone with light that bore into Aajay's spirit and he became afraid. Despite his fear of the creature, which could very well be a demon, he decided to chase after it.

On and on they went. The bird would stop here and there to wait for the skinny boy. Although little Aajay was nim-ble, he could barely keep up. Sweat poured from his grime streaked skin and he gasped for air. Weakness was setting in. He had gone too long without replenishing his strength. After many miles the bird perched merrily on a thatched roof and cocked it's head at the boy. The world began to fade and slowly Aajay laid his frail, starving body under the cover of the thatched roof. This truly was the end, but Aajay forgot that there was another life be-sides the one of cruelty and suffering he had always known.

As dawn was breaking it's way through the ethers of the sky, a woman woke to the sound of bird song. She stood up from the little corner where she slept and walked out to greet the glory of the morning. It was on this day that the sun shone especially fierce, and the sounds of the new day drew the women outside to her door.

Laying there was Aajay. Barely moving. Sunlight danced upon his ribs that jutted out through his taunt leathery skin. Each one was visible enough to where one could count them in a matter of seconds. The lady stooped down to check for signs of life. Aajay opened his dull eyes to see what it was he felt touching him. He looked at the lady and she knew that the last embers of his spirit were dying out. She hurriedly got up and brought the boy a small tin bowl.

The smell of the fluffy white rice shot through Aajay with frightening power. It sent his limbs into a shaking fit and filled his heart with longing. The taste of Dalh was so distant from the deprived boy’s mouth that he didn't seem to remember how to drool. Nor did he remember how to chew or swallow. All he knew was the smell and the va-cancy he felt down to the very marrow of his bones. The boy propped himself up on wire thin elbows and desper-ately reached out for the bowl. He shook with fatigue and felt himself blacking out again from the expenditure of energy he exerted.

The women spoke to him in a language that was not Hin-di but he understood. She fed him and spoke with him and brought him her long duputa so he could wrap him-self against the coldness that had almost taken him. Aajay had never eaten from a clean bowl, nor had he ever been fed and spoken softly too. He ate and knew once again the feeling of his saliva glands tasting and breaking down food. He knew texture and the stability of a simple flavor to glue back his spirit to his flesh. He was so hungry. He could think of nothing, his involuntary bodily responses were in charge now.

Soon he was finished and he laid back down and felt his soul revived by the new day. The song of a single bird filled the air and the women muttered to herself and looked off into the clouds.

19

“So, anyway, the waitress goes to Sartre, ‘We’re fresh outta milk. How’s no cream instead?” I laughed loudly, delighted by how hilarious I thought I was. My sister’s lips twitched upwards – a weak effort, but one nonetheless. “Amber,” I groaned, dropping my façade of next big comedian, “Find my existentialism funny, goddammit.” She smiled now, and gestured with a flick of the finger to the bag of flour on the shelf across the kitchen. I brought it to her, helpful sous chef that I was. “So,” I said, “What have you been up to? This is the first we’re getting to bake together in like weeks.”

Amber shrugged, muttered that she’s been getting by, stirred the flour into the rest of the ingredients as though she could sift her problems away into them. Though she forgot to return the question, I began to speak, if only to fill the silence. “So I’ve decided I’m going to be good and listen to my wise older sister and go to college because I mean dad didn’t and look where he ended up and I’ve waited this long to travel across the country so I can postpone the journey four extra years and at least college will give me a lot to write about and new people and places and excitement and hey speaking of college are you excited to go?” Amber didn’t look at me. She didn’t answer. I prodded her arm. “Hey,” I said. “Hey mopey. You know, it’s not the end of the world. He’s not worth being sad

about. You have me; I have you. You don’t need his love. You have mine.” She shrugged my arm off, one shoulder up and down in a jerk, and mumbled an unconvinced agreement. I pretended it was enough and she pretended she believed it.

“Besides,” I went on, too young to understand when to shut the hell up and let silence run its course, “We’re all we ever really have anyway. Just you and me against the world, right Amb? We’re like fucking action heroes. Or those chicks in Arsenic and Old Lace, ‘cept we don’t kill people and they’re old as shit. But still you get my point. I mean, you’re leaving in two months anyway and you’re going to kick some ass in college and it’s going to be amazing and you’re going to take the place by storm and you won’t need to think about him because you’ll be doing so many exciting things and living such a great existence. Besides, what has he ever really done for you other than repeatedly fail you? If you ask me, we’re best off when it’s just you and me. Right? Right, Amb?” She didn’t look at me. Tears brimmed her eyes, but I pretended not to notice because I always hated when people called me out on being sad, and I didn’t yet realize some people just want a hug, sometimes. I handed my sister the eggs and turned to hunt for the vanilla.

In the KitchenCourt Takats

20

Next, a gasp. The sound of an egg colliding with hard tile floor. A beat of silence. Tears. She always was more sensitive than me, so this was a sight more familiar than I wished it to be. Still, I could never bear to see Amber cry, always felt the need to jump in and do something, do anything. Rushing to mop up the broken egg with a dirty sponge, I nearly slammed my head against a cabinet corner; luckily, I caught myself, latching onto the refrigerator handle, and Amber didn’t notice. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice brimming on the point of hysteria, “I’m so sorry. Fuck, I suck.” When she cursed, the word fell hard and clunky from her lips, unused to such a gentle nest. I laid a hand on her arm and she jerked away, tears cascading. When she cried, her face scrunched up and grew similar in color to the tomatoes we used to grow. When she cried, my world turned ugly. “Stop,” I said, gently. Then, stricter than I had intended, “Stop.” The word fell like a stone, crashing into the ground and separating us more than I could ever bear to conceive.

She bit her lips together, staring wide-eyed at me. I nodded to the sponge forgotten on the floor. “It’s an egg, Amb,” I said, “It’s okay.” She shook her head. “No. No. No.” Repeating it like a chant. “What,” I said, “What’s not okay? Thing’s are fucking swell.” Curses were more comfortable on my tongue, and this one rolled off with ease. “No,” She said again, “Nothing’s okay and nothing’s gonna be okay again. I can’t pretend to be. Be strong. Strong. Like you. Dad’s gone and he’s in jail and mom’s lost her mind and we’re all alone and why us, Ana? Why does it have to be us? Why does it always have to be us?” I couldn’t conjure a smile. “I don’t know, Amb.” My voice just above a whisper. I slid down to the tile ground, that tacky off-white eggshell bullshit of all kitchen floors, back pressed to the wall, legs bunched in front of me. She joined me. Above, on the counter, the cookie dough was forgotten.

21

Prompt 3:

Write an anonymous letter. It can be addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

FOREWORD: WORLD ENGLISH DICTIONARY:

Anonymous (əˈnɒnɪməs) anony - mous (əˈnɒnɪməs)

— adj — adj

1.

from or by a person, author etc, whose name is un known or withheld.

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Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU.

It's so hard to accept something that you can't con-trol. Just thinking about it makes my heart hurt. Makes my eyes tear. Muscles cringe. How can you let this happen? I thought you were in charge. How can you let it take you over? Take control? It's not too late. Please! How can you let it get this far? No turning back? I hope that's not the only option under your angel wing.

I have never prayed so much. I have never meditated on these words before. If it made a difference, I'd tattoo those words onto my heart. Would it help? Can anything in my control help? I'm scared to pieces. Scared as a whole, leading me back to shattered pieces. It hurts so much to think about it. But I can't get it off my mind. It sadly doesn't go away. Haunts me, day and night.

A constant reminder that life's so short. I wish I could pause the moments. Save the good memories forever. Delete the ones not so pleasant. Slow down time, and enjoy it to the fullest. Rewind the time to the happiest we have ever been. But it's reality, I hope you're here for a while. Promise me you will be. I need you to. I'll hold your hand through it all. I hope I make you proud. I strive to see you smile. Just remember, Irina loves you. We all honestly do, Grandma. — No one

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DEAR UNCLEAN PERSON,

You with the dirty soul. You talk about other people behind their backs, when you yourself are not worth the touch of their fingers. You go around pretending you are such a normal and deep person, but deep down inside you know who you really are. You are a jealous, small, egotistical, backstabbing nobody who does not deserve any happiness. So, before you go around commenting and spreading the venom which consumes your reality, stop and look at yourself in the mirror. Mind your own business and be the keeper of your own crap.

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DEAR EX-LOVER, It is only because I have lent you pain that you can acknowledge your need for rectification.

Thank me.

But no thanks is given because you mistakenly believe that thinking of me will bring me to you and, face to face, you will be forced to give me back the pain that you have gained.

You swore under and over that you would not be the owner but once I insinuated an offer there was no hesita-tion to accept as you disregarded your oath.

You won't even open this door that I dare not approach because you believe that, in my defense, I will offend you and remind us both why you are so permeable to recep-tion.

I won't even begin the journey that leads my home to yours today.

My happiness may tear through your window and shine onto the crystals from your rainstorm to form a rainbow on the damp walls that will symbolize the etching I have

placed onto your daft soul.

The pain’s newfound residence will know nothing of crossed fingers in fists and heads kept low to shadow the smirk on lips.

From lively to lifeless, I have shattered the ignorance amongst the bliss so that you always know that you are less than you ever were before.

I knew once I walked away that I was taking my proces-sion and commemoration and even my commencement ceremony adorned with ribbons in black for the past and gold for the future that you seem so willing to resist and birds that don't fly despite cage-less. We'd recite poems that don't rhyme and eat foods that must be eaten out of encasements. We'd speak just like we did on those nu-merous occasions where our eyes could read each other's lies.

And maybe there would have been sighing but certainly I won't cry and make you believe that I.....

I am no longer in possession of the pain that finishes that sentence.

I knew that I would never get a thank you.

Photograph by: Constantine Onishchenko

25

Hoarder of Unsent Letters,

Some days,

while everyone is participating in shallow conversations that mean nothing to

me

and watching TV shows that I can’t seem to understand the excitement in,

I sit at my desk

with a pen in my hand

and a blank sheet of paper from my journal in front of me

and I write letters to people that I know I will never send.

I am a hoarder of unsent letters.

Sometimes I bring that blank sheet of paper from my journal with me

in my backpack or pocket or purse

and add to it,

directing my thoughts at whomever it may be for.

I write when I am sitting on the bench at the bus stop,

as the harsh wind blows

and it would be a much better idea to keep my hands in my pockets

where they are warm.

I write when I am waiting in the art museum on campus between classes,

as the deadline for my next assignment approaches

and it would be a much better idea to start it.

I write when everyone goes to sleep,

as I stay up late pondering my life

and it would be a much better idea to go to sleep and stop overanalyzing.

I write

I think

I say

I feel

too much,

but not enough.

I write when I know it would be a much better idea

to just send the letters

or better yet

say them.

Best,

— No One

26

Dear Normal People,

When I’m in a room full of normal peo-ple but feel all alone, I try to think of how I can offend and horrify as many people as possible at the same time. For example, when in Chem lab, I wonder what would happen if I would walk in with a bathrobe and bathe in the yellow chemical shower with a bar of soap and shampoo.

I guess I try to make other people feel uncomfortable because this makes my awkwardness feel more comfortable. When I think of putting on a dog cos-tume and going shopping on 5th Ave, this makes me feel better, mostly be-cause it makes you feel worse.

I don’t think it’s sick; some people would even call it fun. I think it’s thera-peutic.

Love,

Awkward Dude

27

Jerry, I need you to understand me.Wish you could, without me explaining.Sometimes words can’t explain what’s in my heart.It sucks to have a heart full of feelings but a mouth emptied of words. I love nothing more than being held in your arms, hours at a time.I feel acceptance, comfort and care.You don’t have to say you love me, because I can feel you do.Actions mean so much more than words. Some things said aren’t meant,But they sting, oh they sting. It hurts.I try to brush it off. In the end, having you around means it all.Just try to understand me. It means more than you’ll ever know.Communicate with me. We’ll get through it all.

Be my diary, It will be mostly about you.Listen to my problems.Be my stress reliever.Hear my cries, and wipe away the tears. Give me advice.Be my best friend.Inspire me to be better.Sweet talk me to sleep. Be my morning coffee.Wake me up when it’s no longer time for sleep.

I’m going through a lot,It’s all brand new to me.Give me time to catch up, to readjust. Be fair with me.Walk in my shoes. Can’t you see?I wear my heart on my sleeve.I’m over-sensitive. You should know me by now.No more excuses. Are we on the same page?I want it to work. I’ve compromised more than you seem to understand. Understand?Or have you already forgotten? I haven’t, I remember.I remember it all.The good. The bad.The beautiful, and the ugly.You know me like no other. Sometimes, stop and prioritize. All I know is that I miss you, even when I feel your heartbeat next to mine.

Love, your “chicken head” haha! Xx

Understand Me

282828

Dear Captor, You stole me. You took my heart, Bit it, A bit.

Your teeth and tongue, Wrapped me, Your words, Just, Words.

I feel it, Felt it, The bite, The bit, No longer mine.

Your words, Passed, Over me, Into me.

Now not me.

My captor, I want my heart back.

Without words,

–Your Wilting Thorns

MY DEAR,

I was hoping that writing this letter wouldn’t tear my heart to pieces but it seems that was inevitable. I would like to start off by saying that I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you, because how could we have known? We were just a foolish love playing with an all-too-enticing flame. You didn’t mean for me to get hurt, for me to etch the scars of my heart onto my wrists, for me to drown in the pools of hurt that used to be your eyes. You didn’t mean to strip me of my confidence and throw me out of your stone cold heart. You didn’t mean to, and yet, you did, almost too easily. We never realized how our time spent together began to decay into time spent wrapped up in our own twisted minds. Purging reality from our thoughts to make way for new, deluded ideas of pain and gain but no momentum. We never recognized the blame brewing

inside ourselves, cultivating into bereavement and deprivation of sanity. We couldn’t have realized, so it can’t be your fault. Maybe it’s God’s fault. For creating human emotion, or creating relationships that decay with time, or creating humans. I guess we’ll never know. Maybe it’s best that we don’t know, because then there can be room for forgiveness, and there is room for patchwork. I guess time will tell. But for now, I wish you courage, dear heart, on your quest for self. I kindly ask that you do not contact me until I contact you. The pain of leaving is too great for me to bear while still in touch with the woman who stole my sense of self and locked me out of my own mind. I assure you I am in good hands here. I am responsibly taking my medication and seeing a specialist to help with my soul centering process. I am okay now. Away from you, and okay. Please send my love to my mother, if you can find her under all the layers of guilt you have wrapped her in.

29

30

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31


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(By BC’s Italian American Club):

A CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Stuck in the Library, Brooklyn College’s sliest literary magazine is now accepting submissions for their upcoming publication! Our next publication date is November 10th, a Monday. The deadline for submissions is Thursday night, 11:59pm the 6th. You can receive our magazine by attending our publication events or find one floating around campus. An online copy is available on our website (see below).

Guidelines for submissions: Just follow the prompt and have fun, let’s see what you can come up with. There are ZERO rules! (although we kindly ask you keep your piece PG-13). Send us all your poems, fiction, play-writes, illustrations and photos: as long as it falls into domain of one of the prompts. Keep in mind that STL is a Brooklyn College magazine and can refuse work that doesn’t agree with the mission of the university. Send your work to:

[email protected]

Prompt 1: Use one of the various Italian-American

neighborhoods throughout New York City, Long Island, Westchester &/or New Jersey as a theme/setting.

Prompt 2: Brooklyn College's old swimming pool is located in

Roosevelt Hall and has been empty since the construction of the West Quad building. Tell us the "real" (duh, we mean fictitious) reason the pool was emptied and abandoned.

Prompt 3: Write an anonymous letter. It can be

addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

Visit us on the web at:

www.StuckintheLibrary.com

A CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Stuck in the Library, Brooklyn College’s sliest literary magazine is now accepting submissions for their upcoming publication! Our next publication date is November 10th, a Monday. The deadline for submissions is Thursday night, 11:59pm the 6th. You can receive our magazine by attending our publication events or find one floating around campus. An online copy is available on our website (see below).

Guidelines for submissions: Just follow the prompt and have fun, let’s see what you can come up with. There are ZERO rules! (although we kindly ask you keep your piece PG-13). Send us all your poems, fiction, play-writes, illustrations and photos: as long as it falls into domain of one of the prompts. Keep in mind that STL is a Brooklyn College magazine and can refuse work that doesn’t agree with the mission of the university. Send your work to:

[email protected]

Prompt 1: Use one of the various Italian-American

neighborhoods throughout New York City, Long Island, Westchester &/or New Jersey as a theme/setting.

Prompt 2: Brooklyn College's old swimming pool is located in

Roosevelt Hall and has been empty since the construction of the West Quad building. Tell us the "real" (duh, we mean fictitious) reason the pool was emptied and abandoned.

Prompt 3: Write an anonymous letter. It can be

addressed to someone but it should be signed by no one.

Visit us on the web at:

www.StuckintheLibrary.com

Stuck in the Library, October 20, 2014.

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Transcript of Stuck in the Library, October 20, 2014.