Hunger Pangs

2025 Barrett Winner

1st Place Alaina Schnell

I remember wiping down countertops on a Sunday morning because the restaurant was slow (at least until the Baptists poured in after mass), so there was nothing else better to do than slowly drag a rag across the counter like a droopy ragdoll and hold my breath because I smelt like broasted chicken and my sleeves were soaked in sweat. The night before, I rinsed dirt out of my hair, and two weeks before that, we failed a health inspection. Jobs were on the line, she warned. It was summer, and I dreamt of having friends I could speed on the highway with past curfew and smoke pot with 'till we vomit, the orange chunks strolling down our chins and staining our laced tank tops. I would smell like raspberries and smile more. I would be important, but I was without a driver's license—no cash to buy decent pot. The smell of grime and grease stuck to my skin. Why would I smile if there was no one to do it with? My coworker interrupted this fantasy, placed his dark, calloused hand on my shoulder, and called me "lain," stating my full name is three syllables too long. "You're cute," he smiled coyly. I nodded in agreement and shrugged his fat hand off my shoulder. He walked away with a swagger, letting out a soft chuckle. He must've forgotten that I was seventeen and that he was seventeen, twenty years before me. Or maybe that he had a sad and unbathed girlfriend waiting at home, binge-watching TLC and chugging liquor (At least that is how I imagined her to be). Or maybe his chubby-cheeked little girl, whom he pinned a school picture of to the corkboard between chicken-scratched complaints.

"Chicken is too salty" and "Mac n cheese frozen". There wasn't much time to think because the Baptists filed in, yelling over the guitar riffs on the radio. Dark chicken. White chicken. Two Ketchup packets. No, make it three. Hold the cornbread; it tasted dry last time. You expect me to pay forty-five dollars for a sixteen-piece? A portly, clean-looking man approached the counter and asked me if I thought I was a good person. I was flirting with moral nihilism at this time and was tempted to say, "There is no such person," but I wasn't paid to philosophize, and besides, he would've agreed, confusing me for a Christian. "Yes," I replied. He shook his head in disappointment like I was his daughter whom he'd just found with a strange boy. He handed me a pamphlet and repeated the question. The pages contained poorly drawn cartoon characters indulging in the seven sins. One of them, a young man, I believe, was lusting over a blonde prostitute with big breasts walking by on the sidewalk, his chin wet with drool. "Yes," I said, returning the pamphlet. I thought people sadden me, often leaving me with hunger pangs, only feeding me empty calories.

Even my first love, my daddy. Dad. Father. A man.

He drove me and my brother to Coney Island in his white Mustang. The sunroof was down, and it was warm. The wind whipped thin hair strands into my face. We arrived, and I forgot what I ordered; It didn't matter. My lungs began to close in, my body trembling. I excused myself, sliding out of the booth into the bathroom. I hid behind a red sparkly stall door and worked up hot tears. I had admitted to myself that my father was a bad man who loved me and my brother so much that he proclaimed there was no one else worth his love. Everyone else was at the brunt of his drunken mood swings, flattened by his words and trapped by his charm. His love was so immense that he must've felt gluttonous as his cravings for kisses, cuddles, and crayon-written birthday cards diminished, but who else was there to feed me? I splashed water on my face 'till my face returned to its pasty complexion. Returning to the booth, I watched as my father devoured his cheeseburger and made faces, showing off the bits of beef between the root of his teeth and his gums. In a state of discomfort, we laughed, clapping our baby hands together 'till they burned- I don't recall picking up my fork.

When I was thirteen, I lived with my great aunt and uncle because the state of Michigan ripped me from my mother's grasp without warning and kept me out 'until they realized they had made an embarrassing mistake and sent me back home with two tubs of vanilla ice cream to share with Mom—a tasty apology.

My aunt has long, stringy legs like me, so we walked six miles through the side streets of Dearborn to Tim Hortons in a breeze. I ordered a frozen hot chocolate, and I believe she ordered a pink lemonade or something equal in vibrance and youth. On our walk back, I took off the lid to lick the whipped cream, some of it going up my nostrils, and stuck a fat pink straw into the center, sucking up the sugary treat as though it bottled my tears. My stomach eased, and I forgot who I was. "There isn't a scheduled court date yet." She shared. "okay," I said, because what else was there to say? No one was sure how long I was to be here. At night, I'd often lay on my side, silently weeping into the pillow, 'till I lost my breath, and then carry their Russian Blue cat, Nala, into my room, slowly dragging my nails across her striped fur, thinking. Other times, such unpredictability excited me.

At least my life was not dull. "Well," I said, "We may have many more Tim Hortons trips." I grinned. She studied me momentarily with tired eyes, "Sure," she smiled.

A Bird flew overhead, weaving its way in front of the sun. Moments later, I felt a cold goo splatter on my sweaty head. My aunt erupted into laughter, and I followed suit. We hurried back to Tim Hortons and grabbed a handful of napkins, dabbling each lump of poo. She spoke of a generational curse. "All women in our family have terrible luck with birds; each of us has been pooped on several times." Rather than the first-time blood poured out of my vagina, a half-drunken Tim Hortons cup and bird poop on my head felt like my inauguration into womanhood.

Or maybe it was early elementary when there were three neatly stacked hotcakes lathered in watery sugar and Land O Lakes in front of me. The pan, still hovering over a circle of blue flames, as my grandmother was flipping in her bubble-gum-colored robe that I never understood why she wore. It had an itchy exterior like a bath towel. Each bite was savored as the cake fluff hugged my mouth and rested for a moment so the syrup would tickle my tastebuds and soak through the outermost layer of my tongue. Pausing, I turned to my grandmother and giggled as she was mixing what was left of the batter. "You have to put your butt into it," she smiled, shaking hers to strengthen her way through the thick batter.

Her mother told her that. I had seen my mother do the same, so now I refuse to buy an electric hand whisk because I, too, know how to work my body until a task is complete.

"Why can't you just complete the fucking turn?" He bitched at the grey Honda in front of us, also turning out of the Kroger's parking lot. Below the silver, boxed in "H" on the car's rear, was a plate that read in the small, curved emerald text "MyFlorida.com." There were two white-speckled oranges with lovely orange blossoms blooming out of the centermost orange. The plate proudly declared being the "Sunshine State." "The sunshine state," I mused. "Why they are in Michigan in the dead of winter is beyond me." He said. Hicks, I thought. Being surrounded by ungroomed, obese men sporting MAGA hats with "I voted for the outlaw and hillbilly" lawn posters with Trump and Vance back to back in rocking shades in front of the American flag ought to make anyone dizzy. We returned to my brown-bricked bungalow carrying bags filled with pork sausage, whipped cream, baking powder, flour, and half a gallon of milk.

It takes roughly an hour to make biscuits and gravy, at least following his family's recipe. I worked my small palms into the dough, spreading it thinly and folding it hot-dog style; I repeated this process five times until the dough felt meaty with layers. I then pressed a glass cup into the dough, making a dozen cutouts ready to bake for approximately fifteen minutes.

I was hungry and in love. Cannibalism is perhaps my favorite metaphor in literature. I was ravenous, insatiable, wanting to tear into the salty flesh of my lover and treat the open wound. I wanted the hot gravy to burn my throat and bloat my belly. I read an excerpt from Eillen Meyers' poem "Peanut Butter" to him, "I am always hungry/ & wanting to have/ sex this is a fact." He appeared puzzled, dramatically raising his thick brow. I continued, selecting another excerpt,

Parts of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back.

"I think I understand," he said. The oven timer alarm began to blare, and he rushed over with grey cloth mittens with dainty white roses near their sleeves. We ate in my bedroom, the one I've had since childhood. "We need to make more gravy next time," I said, and he quietly nodded in agreement. Nonetheless, I was pleased. The biscuits were fluffy, and the gravy burned my throat and sizzled, almost hissed, at the bottom of my stomach before resting. I recognized how full I felt, oozing with ecstasy and bloody passion. He let out a low belch and giggled in embarrassment. "Yes, I understand," he smiled, "I think I love you too."