Felicity LuHill


‘Questions for Anthropophagists,’ by Don Hogle

With a thermometer plunged
into one orifice or another, a body
should register an internal

temperature of 98.6, more or less,
which begs a question of cannibals:
what’s the accepted safe minimum?

Poultry is reliably done at 170, pork
somewhat less. Beef and lamb, well,
there’s rare or well done. And what

about preparation: spiced and minced?
marinated or brined? Don’t forget
presentation – plattering matters.

The heart makes a good garnish,
red-petaled and splayed like a radish,
its blossom, proof that a knife

once sliced it. Is it reasonable
to believe we must suffer in love?
Should we expect it to hurt just a bit?

Don Hogle was the winner of the 2016 Hayden’s Ferry Review poetry contest as selected by Alberto Rios and a finalist in the 2015 Northern Colorado Writers and Aesthetica Creative Writing contests. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Chautauqua, Mud Season Review, Minetta Review, Blast Furnace, New Verse News and Shooter and A3 Review in the U.K. among others. He lives in Manhattan.

Featured image via Flickr.

Poet of the Month: ‘Their Sex Life,’ by Liora Mondlak

Where was Bernard? She wiped spilled sugar
from the gold-flecked Formica table and began
preparing deviled eggs. Henrietta thought about the day
she’d told him the good news, right after the Herring Festival.
She ate a candied apple at the bar and he’d shouted,
“Sambuca for everyone!” And how months later she’d sat
at this very table, timing her contractions while anthrax
updates aired on CNN. He was getting his beard trimmed
at the barbershop when she called to say, “It’s time!”
In the elevator at Mt. Sinai she knew not even morphine
could save her now. Bernard bought a bag of salted Fiji
almonds in the gift shop, and the male nurse warned him,
“None for Henrietta, only ice chips!” She hated the nurse
and the COURTESY COUNTS button pinned to his scrubs.
She hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and what she wanted
even more than Demerol were oysters. A dozen slippery
oysters nestled in those ice chips. The way she’d had them
at the café on Rivington Street the night she knew
she was pregnant. Henrietta put the plate of deviled eggs
on the table. She’d dyed the whites pink, and stuck sprigs
of something fragrant and green in the creamy centers.
Bernard phoned, he was running late as usual, “Don’t start
without me.” He said he was hungry for something
cooked with love.

Liora Mondlak is The Inquisitive Eater's Poet of the Month for December 2017.

Liora Mondlak remembers accompanying her mother to the market in Mexico City, where she grew up. She remembers the chickens hanging by their feet, and the sawdust around her saddle shoes. Years later, she would return to the market to buy ground chameleon, a well-known love potion, which she uses sparingly.

She lives in New York with her teenage daughter, where she teaches art and poetry.

Featured image via Pixabay.

‘Let it Brie,’ by Pune Dracker

Because there are many cheesy sentiments, but not many sentiments about cheese.

Dear Camembert,

How I miss your smiling face! Not only were you a stinky liar—a demure 7 ounces, your nutrition label claimed to serve 35!—but when I saw you on sale, unwanted and about to expire, I doubted your fatty goodness. After all, what kind of French cheese costs $1.99?

Oh, you were creamy! But not the mighty 3,500 calories you claimed to be. Did you give a sh*t? No, no whey.

And until the very end you laughed, living large in a fat-free world.


Pune Dracker is studying creative nonfiction at the New School. She writes, runs and dances, and is a huge proponent of sauerkraut.

Featured image via Pixabay.

Poet of the Month: ‘Crazy Land,’ by Liora Mondlak

“What’s good here?” we ask the waitress with Hello Kitty barrettes. In a suburb of Nagasaki there are fourteen fruit-flavored bus stops, where the children wait out another golden summer. The buses take you along Highway 207 to the coastal towns on the Ariake Sea. You can linger in a small café over a plate of Thousand-Year-Old Eggs, or a bowl of Grasp at Good Luck Noodles. After lunch you might walk to a traveling carnival called Crazy Land, where a contortionist squeezes himself into a small transparent cube. Some parents like to take their birdlike babies on the Caterpillar Roller-Coaster, others head to the Whirling Tea Cups. The waitress suggests we buy two bottles of Four Precious Jewels Ice Tea, and look for the games of chance at the far end of the boardwalk, where gulls wait for sea cucumbers to wash up.

Liora Mondlak is The Inquisitive Eater's Poet of the Month for December 2017.

Liora Mondlak remembers accompanying her mother to the market in Mexico City, where she grew up. She remembers the chickens hanging by their feet, and the sawdust around her saddle shoes. Years later, she would return to the market to buy ground chameleon, a well-known love potion, which she uses sparingly.

She lives in New York with her teenage daughter, where she teaches art and poetry.

‘Like an Apple,’ by Chelsea Wolf

On the day I ate my lover’s heart
I used the fingernail of my index finger
– the longest of them all –
to slit him
straight down the middle.
I cracked his sternum like a walnut
leaving the shell of him behind.
I yanked
until it lay beating
– glossy and red –
in both hands.
I bit into it
With a crunch.
And the juice, his blood, ran down my face.
I wish he could have seen me then,
So alive, picking his pulp from my teeth
With the sharpest piece of rib.
I don’t know what else to tell you –
Other than it was a Tuesday.

Chelsea Wolf is an overly caffeinated writer and musician living in New York City with her four rescue cats. She is currently working towards her MFA in Creative Writing at The New School. Follow her on twitter: @chelswolf

Featured image via Pexels.

Poet of the Month: ‘Could it be in Longing We are Most Ourselves?’ by Liora Mondlak

The Big Mamou is closed
now. You used to be able
to go in and order a dish
called southern eel, and stay
all night.

Liora Mondlak is The Inquisitive Eater's Poet of the Month for December 2017.

Liora Mondlak remembers accompanying her mother to the market in Mexico City, where she grew up. She remembers the chickens hanging by their feet, and the sawdust around her saddle shoes. Years later, she would return to the market to buy ground chameleon, a well-known love potion, which she uses sparingly.

She lives in New York with her teenage daughter, where she teaches art and poetry.

Featured image via Pixnio.

Essay of the Month: ‘Against Food,’ by Mika Bar-On Nesher


I hate going to restaurants, especially ones with dim lighting. I like food that tastes like cardboard, preferably just rice. I know it’s an art form for some. I watch my partner read every single ingredient on whatever product she buys, handling her sharpened knife like a serial killer. Going to the supermarket with her means I’ll be waiting by the cashier clutching rice and avocados for twenty minutes as she goes on scheming, pacing up, down, and around all the aisles. I get it. Her brother is a cook. They like discussing different body parts of fish, different degrees of dark chocolate, and so on. To me, food tastes good if it’s made by someone I love, and that’s the only criteria. Having worked in too many restaurants, I assure you the employees don’t wash their hands, the chefs are mentally strained, the servers are underpaid. It’s a terrible industry and I don’t understand what’s wrong with just wanting to eat rice twice a day until I die. The phrase “food porn” makes me uncomfortable. I do not find food in itself sensual—fruits, vegetables, raw meat. I have a hard time decorating my hunger. It’s not the food that’s sensual after all, but the appetite. Often my lack of participation in food pleasures makes others defensive, or they criticize me, diagnose me, show concern. I ate my first strawberry at age twenty-one. I didn’t like it. An entire short lifetime of resisting peer-pressure ended in one anticlimactic bite into that fuzzy, red triangle people will not give up. Food is emotional. Food is expensive. Food keeps us alive. It’s complicated from every angle.



Food and femininity are painfully aligned. I see my grandma frying schnitzels in sweatpants. She has been preparing the same meals for over fifty years. She’s obsessed with feeding us, haunted by night terrors about our stomachs. She’s brilliant—without finishing high school in Poland, she was able to climb up and manage Israel’s leading hospital. She did this in her thirties after giving birth to my mom when she was only nineteen. Her dream was to become a lawyer. She texts the members of my family daily to check when was the last time we had eaten, and what we want her to make us next. She is the food giver. It’s her channel of love and care taking. My grandpa is very fat. At seventy-six he can’t eat anymore. He’s finally full. On the verge of tears, he screams at her to stop making him chicken, but she, like many brilliant people, tends to be obsessive and thorough in her misplaced mission to ensure none of us will starve. Food no longer depends on a women’s imprisonment in domesticity alone, but someone somewhere is always carrying the weight, paying the price for this cavernous industry.



A few years ago I tried dating a man. It was a short, exhausting failure. What struck me most about that experience was discovering that men complain about their appearance and weight even more vocally and less shamefully than women do. When men express these food anxieties, they are not usually judged or diagnosed, they are answered seriously, laboriously, by the ear at hand. I asked my three straight friends for confirmation, and they agreed this was common. Some of them are unwell, but their masculinity will not allow visibility of their vulnerability. Many women are doing just fine, but their individuality is threatening to the long-held gender roles, specifically those regarding food and the female body. The boundaries of our bodies in space seem to be controlled so painfully by food. The relationships between space, gender, and food are inevitable. I remember sitting on a stool in a kitchenette during my freshman year of college, legs crossed, hand under chin. Suddenly, someone remarked how feminine I was, like a revelation. Surprised, I objected defensively. In my experience, I had always felt neither feminine nor masculine, just a gaze. Others joined in, and the more I objected to this intrusive adjective and the way it rang, resonating the gestures of my mother, the more they insisted. I won’t deny it if that’s what people see, but why does such an arbitrary binary allow for boundaries of my space to evaporate? Coded a femme woman, what I eat or don’t eat becomes a public forum for discussion. Anything a woman does that does not align with the social codes of expectation becomes a platform for diagnosis.



I cannot think of anything more private than my intestines, so why are we constantly searching for external authorities on food: how to eat, when to eat, how much to eat, and so on. In reality, it’s a lawless, genderless realm based purely on self-knowing and adjustment. In a privileged society, it’s possible to say each body is different, we all react differently to different ingredients, we all feel strong at different weights. The shallow aspects, the symptoms of food, are carried so publicly and insensitively while the burning core is completely ignored. Instead of policing each other’s plates and discussing diets while surrounded by nauseating abundance, why aren’t we asking how to treat our food givers with the respect they deserve and have never received? The funds surrounding food are mysterious. The amount of money that goes into branding those awful frozen pizzas or food reality TV shows could feed at least one of the nine million who die of hunger each year. I’m not that naive. I grew up in the 1990’s when there was a lot of talk about world hunger, cheesy all-star celebrity music videos, and intense anxiety over the ozone layer. Food is intoxicating. The most complex aspects of our lives end up being institutionalized the most easily. I’ve been too fat through one eye and too thin through another eye. These unstable calculating eyeballs of ours are misdirected in their informational fevers. For such smart animals we can’t seem to figure out our own hunger. Perhaps we could be kinder when trying to understand one another’s hunger.


Mika Bar-On Nesher is multidisciplinary artist and writer based in Brooklyn & Tel-Aviv, she studies creative writing at the New School.

Featured image by Mika Bar-On Nesher.

Poet of the Month: ‘Iron Chef,’ by Liora Mondlak

Donatella: A smart story, even though it’s a salad.
                    I particularly love the Portuguese
                    laurel with its dark-red perfumed
                    flowers. I’ve tasted them only once before.

Laurence: I spotted some on my way here. In the garden
                    next to the Birds’ Fountain.
                    This is a very vinaigretty cocktail.

Gina:          I lived on the border of the Basilica
                    and ate bitter gooseberries near the mouth
                    of the river. I’m an escargot
                    fan from way back.

Laurence: You wouldn’t expect escargot and corn
                    to harmonize so well. I secretly drink
                    skim milk and dream of a British country
                    home. I’ve always wanted someone
                    to call me The Master.

Donatella: The Brussels sprouts add just the right amount
                    of bitterness. They have a bite and piquancy
                    entirely their own. Any more would have been
                    too much. Pass the gnocchi, please.

Laurence: I took the train here from Valencia, past
                    the grazing lambs. Past the orange
                    groves. I’m not usually a gnocchi guy.

Gina:          The lambs eat from the fallen fronds
                    in the Queen’s Fern Valley. The trees grow
                    twelve meters and naturally regenerate.
                    I don’t understand it but I love it.

Donatella: In Japan, I chased a lover around a milk-bush.
                    We squeezed the leaves between our fingers,
                    which expels a poison. In small amounts
                    it is delicious. Such a tender lamb.

Liora Mondlak is The Inquisitive Eater's Poet of the Month for December 2017.

Liora Mondlak remembers accompanying her mother to the market in Mexico City, where she grew up. She remembers the chickens hanging by their feet, and the sawdust around her saddle shoes. Years later, she would return to the market to buy ground chameleon, a well-known love potion, which she uses sparingly.

She lives in New York with her teenage daughter, where she teaches art and poetry.

Photo via Pixabay.

‘The October Diet,’ by Akachi Obijiaku

On a fasted stomach
walking past babies and broccoli,
yams and empty palms,

I turn orange like an orange
my skin exposing my overdose
of bastard bargains.

On a sunny but slow day
I tell everyone “look! See how fit I am!”
even though the October Diet is not by choice.

Akachi Obijiaku is a new Nigerian poet, who started writing poetry in 2017. Her works are forthcoming or appearing in The Inquisitive Eater, Abstract Magazine, Meniscus Literary Journal, The Basil O’Flaherty, Rising Phoenix Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Sentinel Literary Quarterly. She emigrated to England four years ago and holds an MSc from King’s College London.

Featured image via Pexels.

Food & Writing: Chris Gramuglia

Chris Gramuglia is a second year Fiction student in The New School MFA program, whose writing expands from Fantasy to realist prose about dating in modern times. In addition to being a writer, Chris is also a film-maker and a drone operator. For the interview, he wanted to grab a burger at a place known for its burgers, Bistro & Barrel. B&B calls itself a “winepub” –the very concept of which sounds a bit like an oxymoron.

I arrived to B&B realizing I had been there once before for drinks and that B&B bore no resemblance to a pub, sporting heavy fixtures, warm lighting, and old New York, art deco inspired décor. I was late due to the manic tendencies of New York’s subways, and found Chris waiting for me (and a table) at the bar. A very nice gentleman with his young son gave up his seat for me, before I realized he would be forced to stand.

A gin martini, an in-depth discussion about Louis C.K., and a half hour later, we built up an appetite enough to give up on a table and decide to eat at the bar. As it turned out, with soft buns and thick patties well-marinated nothing like their dry diner counterparts, the burgers were delicious and worth the wait.

Felicity: Tell me a bit about your writing routine, if you have one.

Chris: Well, the ideal day is a day where I have no obligations otherwise. Where I can wake up and I have no social or work obligations. Usually I start writing in what I wore to bed the night before. I drink a ton of coffee, and before I start, I like to take care of all my basic needs. I eat a big meal, because I don’t want to think about anything except the project.

Felicity: So what’s your big meal?

Chris: Depending on what time I wake up, I either make myself eggs—there’s a very specific process to that—but if I don’t do that I’ll go get a muffin or like a sweet pastry, something to mildly sedate me. And then a big coffee that I sip on throughout the two or three hour struggle that occasionally is writing.

Felicity: So what’s your process for making eggs?

Chris: So I actually learned this from watching a Gordon Ramsey YouTube video. What I do is I crack four eggs and I will take like a nob of butter I’ll put that in, and then I’ll scramble them with the butter in the actual mixture. I don’t cook them in a pan I cook them in a pot and then I periodically take them on and off the flame so they don’t burn or get too crispy, and put a little cheese in there and you’re good to go. That’s pretty much it.

Felicity: Do you have a go-to snack when you’re reading or when you’re deep in the process of writing?

Chris: Usually what I’ll do is I’ll go forty-five minutes, whether it’s reading or writing and then I’ll take a break to go eat. And it’s usually very like quick. It’ll be just like a chunk of cheese or a piece of fruit or something. It’s usually heavy. Cheese is probably the best example. I will have a block of cheese and I’ll be like “Good, I can resume. I can pick up where I left off now because I got that dopamine hit.”

Felicity: What’s your favorite broke artist meal?

Chris: I know this is a cliché, but I don’t dislike ramen noodles.

Felicity: I love ramen noodles.

Chris: But I very rarely eat them as is. I modify them. Sometimes what I’ll do is I’ll get ramen noodles and I’ll get tomato paste, and I’ll literally put tomato paste and vegetables in my ramen noodles to thicken it up and make it more heavy. Tomato paste, broccoli, all that stuff. It makes me feel a little bit better about eating all that MSG.

Felicity: Yeah you got some vitamins in there. So what food do you think is the most fun to write about?

Chris: I think any new food. Any food that you haven’t had before is the kind of food that—if you like it, if it’s a good experience—will inspire you into writing about it. Like, I’ve never had cheese curds before. I’m extremely interested in having them. It’s not a super exciting thing, but food to me is curiosity. If you haven’t had it, even if it doesn’t look great, you still want to try it just for the experience. So I guess the answer is anything new.

Felicity: I think it’s kind of like an allegory for writing in general because when you’re writing something you want to bring a fresh perspective it, regardless of if the reader has experienced it. Like you may have gone on a hundred dates but when you’re writing about it you want the reader to think about it in a new way. And I think that writing about a new food is like bringing a fresh perspective to it. Speaking of which, what’s your favorite piece of writing or art that has to do with food?

Chris: I will tell you the first thing that comes to mind. I just think that those Epic Mealtime guys are incredible because they are so shameless in the kind of stuff they put together.

Felicity: I don’t know who that is.

Chris: It’s a Youtube channel. It’ll just be like 15 thousand calorie fast food pizza, and then they’ll make a pizza with like four different kinds of fast food on it. They’re insane. They’ve been around for a really long time. I don’t know if that classifies as like art.

Felicity: Oh, no that totally classifies. I love My Drunk Kitchen. Have you ever watched that? It’s so good, and I would totally think of that as an art form because it’s so creative.

Chris: Right. To me, food is a form of creativity. I love cooking. And I love when I don’t follow a recipe and I come up with something that you give it to people and they roll their eyes because they’re so excited about it, you know? I love that feeling…. There’s also a really lovely movie. It’s on Netflix with John Favreau, and it’s called Chef and it’s this story about this really well-known chef who falls from grace, because this reviewer writes some terrible stuff about him and he lashes out at the guy, and he’s got nothing. Then he buys this food truck, and he and his son drive across the country, making these Cuban sandwiches and all this traditional Cuban food. The movie makes me hungry and it’s just a really sweet, cute movie.

Felicity: I love movies that make you want to eat what they’re eating. I think that’s true for all the Miyazaki films. Also, I was just watching Ocean’s Eleven again recently and Brad Pitt is constantly eating in that film for absolutely no reason at all. It’s completely unexplained why he just keeps on eating, and I’m like “Ah yes, I want to be eating while I’m planning a heist.”

Chris: Watching people eat and enjoy food, it’s weird, it makes you feel good to watch someone be really into something that they’re eating. It’s strange.

Felicity: Alright, what would be your ideal meal, finances put aside? With no consequences, and as many courses as you want.

Chris: I don’t know about a first course, but one thing that I’ve only had once is dry-aged beef, dry-aged steak. I think the process is so fascinating, taking a piece of meat and then just drying it out. You take a five-pound piece of steak and you’re left with a pound and a half because you have to cut so much away, letting all of the flavors develop. I love dry-aged steak. For a first course, I know it sounds kind of basic, but I love salads, you know?

Felicity: I love salads.

Chris: But not a basic salad, an exciting one with pear and gorgonzola and walnuts. I love fruit in a salad. That would be a good way to start. Raisins, mandarin oranges, whatever crazy combination you can come up with. And then my answer for a dessert or a last course is something that I baked myself, because I love baking.

Felicity: What do you like to bake?

Chris: I actually bake really good cheesecake. I’ve done a dark chocolate Guinness cheesecake. I’ve done a cinnamon bun cheesecake.

Felicity: Oh my god, that sounds amazing! I love cheesecake so much.

Chris: If you have trouble sleeping. You have a slice of cheesecake and you’re done.

Felicity: It’s like Golden Girls! Whenever they couldn’t sleep at night they would eat cheesecake. They would just always have cheesecake around.

Chris: It’ll make your troubles go away. It’ll knock you out.

Felicity: If you had to live off of one food for the rest of your life what would it be?

Chris: Probably pizza. I know everyone thinks pizza is bad for you, but it’s a pretty complete food. You got your fat, you got your protein, you got your carbs. And you can never get sick of pizza.

Felicity: Alex gave the same answer! That’s so funny. I’m wondering if that’s going to be like a theme. Ok, what is your favorite book or piece of writing—it can be like a short story or an essay—and what food would you associate with that?

Chris: My favorite book of all time—and it may change but for right now it’s been this way since college—is Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. I would associate that book with a piece of chocolate wrapped in bacon. Because it’s kind of a weird book, but it’s fun, and it feels good. Like you don’t know why but it feels like a good book to read. It just makes you feel good when you’re reading it.

Felicity: So what do you think is the most writerly food? Like, this is what writers eat.

Chris: I’m sort of being funny when I say this, but I do notice this a lot. Writers are really into appetizers. They’re really into finger foods, finger sandwiches and hors d’oeuvres. I don’t know if that’s the case when writers are alone struggling. I think when writers are alone struggling it’s more a matter of “I’m gonna eat peanut butter right out of the jar because I don’t have any money and also because I’m focused and I don’t want to cook anything.”

Felicity: Yeah, but when you’re taking part in the social aspect, the social ritual of being a writer, it’s like finger foods are necessary. That’s so true. I never thought about that. Alright, what’s a food that has been written about that you wish you had experienced?

Chris: So I always thought that it was really interesting that in a lot of old bits of mythology, especially in Norse mythology or even Scandinavian like Beowulf, there’s a big obsession with mead, with this very heavy beer made of honey. And I always just wanted to know what that tasted like. That and just wild game. I love that.

Felicity: Like foods that don’t exist anymore, “What was that like?”

Chris: When the food is part of the milieu of the story. All that stuff I find very interesting.

Felicity: What do you eat in a typical week?

Chris: Mondays through Fridays is sort of unpredictable so it can be anything. It’s usually like deli sandwiches. If I have time I’ll make something for myself. But it’s very quick. And the reason that’s the case is because I like to build up an appetite for the weekend. I cook on the weekend. I like to really make a big meal on a Saturday night, and get all my pleasurable eating in then. The week is just too chaotic. It’s unpredictable.

Felicity: Where do you get your recipes from when you’re cooking on the weekend?

Chris: Usually, if I want to make something, I will look at a few different recipes. I don’t like to follow them exactly. I like to look at a few and then take what I like from each one and then do my own thing. I just find it more rewarding that way. I’ve been doing it long enough that I don’t mess it up. It’s usually good.

Felicity: I totally believe that being a good cook just means knowing what you can replace in a recipe, being savvy enough to know “I can cut this down” or “I can add this in” or “I can replace this,” because I think people who have that talent within them are able to figure that out by instinct somehow.

Chris: Good cooking is a form of fearlessness, because I think that when people are too afraid or they’re too focused on getting it right it comes out worse.

Felicity: Yeah, like understanding that the process is its own experience. It doesn’t have to be a replica.

Chris: Right. If you’re more focused on the process and the joy of doing it chances are your food is going to come out better.

Next, we moved on to food associations. This round, Chris and I did genre and food.

Romance – “Red Wine.”

Mystery – “Diner food, like bacon and eggs at two o’clock in the morning and a cup of coffee.”

Thriller/Horror – “Foods that you shouldn’t eat, or that you feel guilty about eating, like to eat a pint of ice cream. Like you just keep doing it. Someone’s watching you and you know it’s bad but you just keep doing it.”

Sci-Fi – “I always think of like Red Bull and candy, because I feel like it’s colorful, it makes you feel hyper, and I feel like there’s an old cliché that kids who are into Sci-Fi live off Red Bull and candy. Candy kind of reminds me of like, ‘It’s a food pill.’”

Fantasy – “A really beautiful, colorful cake. A fluffy, beautiful, colorful cake.”

YA/Children’s – “Comfort food. So like, for me a food would be anything that my mother used to make when I was younger. Whatever food you used to eat as a kid that has a special place in your heart. Like mac n’ cheese, things you always return to. It’s simple, it’s innocent, and it’s always when you were young.”

Self-Help Books – “Kale.”

Poetry – “I think poetry is like a pastry cake. Poetry to me is a pastry cake in a café somewhere and everyone’s having espresso. And it’s variety, it’s unpredictable. Something like that.”


Chris Gramuglia is a graduate student in creative writing at The New School. He is a regular contributor to The Social Man and Classiques Modernes, and his fiction has appeared in Babbling of the Irrational. He is currently working on a novel about dating in the digital age, and spends his free time taking photos, making short films, cooking and reading.


Felicity is a Second Year Creative Writing MFA Candidate at The New School. She is also the Deputy Editor for The Inquisitive Eater and the Digital Strategist for Barbershop Books. Along with The Inquisitive Eater and The New School Creative Writing Blog, her writing has been published with Barbershop Books, Healthy Materials Lab, and Enchantress Magazine, where she was also an editor. Felicity enjoys writing in all forms. You can find her on Twitter @charmingfelic

Featured image via Pexels.