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GOULASH SPRING 2022

Contents Empathy

Photograph 15 Front Cover

Addrian West late nights (a sonnet)

Lorin Bucur He Screamed

Miles Hayford Artwork 3

Maya Reina Photograph 4

Dasha Fagan The Guilt of a Friar

Grace Enderle and Evelyn Rosenberg Chicago

Artwork 18

Emily Sparke Things Unseen

Ava Bucur Inadequacy

Sarah Newmann Sarah Newmann Another Place Another Time

Laila Mularski Ketchup! 24

Artwork 25

Apathy 26

Peace, Love, Happiness

Frankie Schlehofer Mia Skaliotis Childhood 13

Amber Constante Nicholas Czochara

Arcelia Cruz

Valentino Ramos

The Sea

Let America Be America Again 17

Why? 22

Olga Kondraros

Children of Ashes

Ms. Radogno

Isabel Gable

A Branch of Blue

Photograph 16

Sinking 22

Photograph 8

The Prologue

Ms. Radogno

Leonardo Saavedra

Ode to the Seashell

Komorebi

Amber Constante

Elizabeth Corral A Quiet Night in Berwyn

Jazmin Hernandez

Iris Nelson Lily Verburgt Jocelyn Diaz 28

Mia Baumel Peace 29

Amber Constante For a Moment

Sarah Newmann

Perdóname 31

Tatiana Huayamave A Night in October

Azsher Leal 32

Neeve Olson Claire Layden 34 35 36

Isabel Gable Juliet Olson

Maleficent’s Staff

Artwork 54 Artwork

Grace Enderle

Shards 39

Sarah Newmann 40

Bella Ramírez Self-Worth 41

Tatiana Huaymave 42

Olga Kondraros Photograph 43

Grace Enderle Untitled 44

Miles Hayford Photograph 45

Jazmin Hernandez Amber Constante

Maya Reina

Opal 38

The Black Rose

Mr. Linden’s Library

Amber Constante

Photograph 37

The Night Café

Neeve Olson

Amber Constante

Under the rug

Never Love Again

Kate Belling

Lorin Bucur The Ticking Clock

Artwork 49

Marcella Marshall

Ava Bucur Ode to Tissue

Untitled 48

Greta Nelson

Photograph 33 Home is not a Home

Photograph 47

Back Cover

Welcome one and all, Did you know that all humans are inclined to empathize? Observing another person’s emotions lights up the same neurological sequences in our own brains, allowing us to feel what they feel. What better way to empathize with one another than art! Here at Goulash we believe the best way to connect with our world is through creativity. Emotions can be complex, but portraying them through a masterpiece not only helps you process them but intertwines you with others. Art allows us to be vulnerable and see into another side of each other, a side we are often hesitant to share. I may not know you and you may not know me, but we share a common love for expression and that is enough. As you flip through this issue of Goulash, we hope you embrace the emotions in all their different forms, because at the end of the day, we all are connected by Goulash. Sincerely, Your fellow empaths: Amber Constante, Greta Nelson, and Maya Reina P.S.: We want to thank Lorin Bucur, Jocelyn Diaz, Isabel Gable, Jazmin Hernandez, Maya Reina, and Mia Skaliotis for their consistent and amazing contributions over the past four years. You will be missed! Goulash is produced by Writers’ Society, which includes: Haley Bedtke Ava Bucur Lorin Bucur Lisani Calderon Amber Constante Grace Enderle Christopher Flores

Tatiana Huayamave Emily Lathrop Marcella Marshall Neeve Olson Liam O’Meara Greta Nelson Iris Nelson

Sarah Newmann Xylie Ramirez Valentino Ramos Maya Reina Mia Skaliotis Anna Watson

Goulash Editorial Policy Goulash welcomes submissions of written and visual expression from students, faculty, and alumni of Nazareth Academy. The editorial staff is committed to accepting a wide range of submissions for every issue. However, work cannot be published that disrespects or disparages another person’s race, ethnicity, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or ability. Works that do not meet Nazareth’s appropriateness standards also cannot be published. At times, works may be edited for length or grammar with the knowledge of the writer or artist.

late nights (a sonnet) eyes leisurely close beneath bright, white light. sickly sanitation smells seeped with blood dripping through IVs. Nurses work the night. Stitching wounds, visions of nonna’s quilt bud, slumbering under her stitches of string. Sapped, fatigued, spent, drained–crave caffeine increase. In scrubs, twelve hour hospital shifts they cling, busily work, generate elbow grease. Yet, guests with obituaries written patients in death beds, coffins nearly closed. Envy enervated nurses–smitten with their vigor of youth, undecomposed. In caskets, zombies attempt, wrought with pain fight to open eyes, they may live again Lorin Bucur

He Screamed* The Scream was as loud as a vulture’s screech A horrible, horrific, horrendous scream terrible as the howl of a creature meeting death evil and wickedness manifesting into sound Only the most vile of creatures could have made this deep hollowing scream But why? Why did he scream? Two men scurry away like pesky rodents As if they were culprits Their shadowy, enigmatic figures recede from view Into the dead of night As his scream held on Who are they? Behind him, a swirl, fusion, burst of color threatened to overwhelm him Threatening to overtake the horrific sound of his scream and silence it The swirl, a technicolor cloud of possibility A horizon far ahead, signaling a pace that shall never be reached His pale, ghosted face almost inhuman and demonic More dead than alive The yellow hollowness of his pupils are a deep ocean of fear His black garments eat him up and encourage his fear A scream fills the air. The scream rocks the boat A scream is all he is A scream is his fear and his life But why? What led to this consumption of fear That has corrupted his soul? Miles Hayford *Inspired by Edvard Munch’s The Scream

Artwork

Maya Reina

Photograph

Dasha Fagan

The Guilt of a Friar Friar Laurence: [aside] Friar John, my companion throughout time My guilt weighs down on me this weary day It seems now I’ve committed such a foul crime Should I doth run away from it or stay? How do I stand to face what I have done? Will there be prices to negotiate and pay? Will God’s displeasure match the fire of the sun? Let his dearly will be done as it may Oh Romeo, how could I have steered you so wrong? I have hurt thy reputation, and failed to save it Juliet, how could I have made you sing the widow’s song? Your heart hast been broken twice, and on a throne of guilt I sit Between stay or swiftly run away I choose to admit my faults today Grace Enderle and Evelyn Rosenberg

Chicago The Windy City, City By The Lake, Chi-Town, Chicagoland; Noisy, Tremendous, Industrious, City of The Broad Shoulders They tell me you are ambitious and I believe them, for your desire to explore what’s beyond the human mind is out of this world. And they tell me you are rowdy and I answer: Yes, it is true I hear the sirens screech as I know on the news we will see an investigation being solved. And they tell me you are mighty and my reply is: Yes, no one can defeat you, the winds you blow pushing the shadowy clouds away. And having answered so I turn once more to those who belittle at this my city, and I give them back that belittled look and say to them: Come and show me another city with the success of its dynasty standing tall. As we see you expand into this entrepreneur phase, poised and unscathed ready to grow sturdy and tall; As buildings loom towering over us in a booming form, they indulge us with their luster, Unique, Productive, Animated, Proud, Appealing, Spirited, Enthusiastic, Under the eyebags, there’s a widen lens, laughing with a radiant smile, Under the terrible burden of destiny thundering as children laugh, Laughing even as failure takes over our laughs, as if they continue to attempt more, Bragging and laughing that this history should be made out for all who come and see me, and for the people to acknowledge what I can do. Laughing! Laughing at the noisy, tremendous, industrious laughter of all who join, ambitious, rowdy, mighty, proud to be, The Windy City, City by the Lake, Chi-town and City of the Broad Shoulders. Elizabeth Corral

A Quiet Night in Berwyn

Leonardo Saavedra

Photograph

Isabel Gable

Ode to the Seashell You, seashell, are the object of my praise. I see the rippled patterns, curved like waves. Glistening as the sun shines upon your skin, laying out like a dog during summer. Listening through your shell, the sound of the crashing waves. Filled with velvet dust, plugged and stuffed. Your peel: convoluted and parched. You are ancient, dinosaurs and pyramids. You smell of the briny dry sand. The scent of summer looms through, sunscreen and crisp fruit. Your whispers are heard, charming and admirable. When we cradle your folds and polish your carapace, remembering you once were innate too. Olga Kondraros

The Prologue There was no music. There was no beat. I didn’t even have a chance to breathe. My right hand shook rapidly under the table. The green and blue lights dimmed as the room burst into eruptive applause. Many of the overly-excited girls in the back grabbed their cups and held it high about their heads, their inaudible cheers forcing a tiny grin on my face. It was impossible to describe the sensation. Four hours had flown by in one performance. Four hours… Time was irrelevant. There was no point in keeping track of it. While I played, it was just me and the music. The music… It challenged me. It made me remember things I wish I could forget. It was my curse. Escaping it was not an option. I was stuck with it, our bonds forged through time and experience. But yet, there was something comforting about it. Something beyond explanation. Music was my life, and I had relied on it for so long. I knew that now. As I stood on the stage before my audience, I took a swift bow and breathed out. A single tear escaped my eye. It fell down and looped around my smile. This was freedom. This, of all things, was my paradise. Valentino Ramos

A Branch of Blue

Frankie Schlehofer

Children of Ashes Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes, Ashes. We all fall down. The eight children all fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. Then they stood up and began again. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes, Ashes. We all fall down. Their mothers were in their houses, cooking and watching the younger children. Fathers were at work. Then it was time to come home. The children were tucked into bed and kissed goodnight. The bell rang loudly over the town. Out came the woman with a tear stained face, cradling a cold child. There was only the sound of a shovel, lifting the dirt away from the pit. The children who sang and played, stood quietly while they watched the diggers of the grave. The mother laid her child down. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The seven children all fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. It was time for home and time for bed. They said their prayers and whispered goodnight. While mothers and fathers kissed their little heads. The clatter of the bell sounded throughout the village. Out came the man pushing a cart covered in dirty clothes. An arm felt out from under the cloth. The sound of a shovel was heard from not far away. The children then ceased their play. They stood quietly to watch. The man lifted a child from the clothes and laid him down. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The six little children all fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. It was time to say goodbye to their friends. Time to eat their supper and then head on to bed. Mothers and fathers bade them goodnight, wishing them sweet dreams. For only the dreams of children are so sweet. Then they listened in fright as the bell sounded and it was heard by everyone. Who will be leaving tomorrow? Out came the parents of two children. The sound of a shovel was heard as they walked with their children in hand. The other children stopped and watched. The parents laid their children to rest. There were already bumps on them. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The four children all fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. Home time came and their mothers called. It was too early, they tried to say, but the parents did not hear. They waited for the children to climb into bed, to kiss them goodnight on their precious heads. Then they stood in fear and waited for the sound they did not want to hear. Of course it did come and the deadly sound of the bell took its toll on the village. Out came the man dressed in black with the pointed beak. Bottles full of medicine clinked as he walked. He disappeared through the door of a house. Then out he came with a bundle in his arms. The sound of a shovel could be heard from close by. The children stood still and watched the scary looking man as he laid the bundle down to sleep in the earth. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The three little children all fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. Time to return home again. Mothers and fathers were waiting. Time for bed and time to rest their little heads. Dread and fear surrounded the homes as they waited for the sound they knew too well. The bell began its solemn ring. No one 12

would sleep peacefully tonight. Out came the mother struggling to walk with her babe against her chest. She fell at the sound of a shovel. The children stopped and watched as the babe was placed in the pit. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The two little children fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. Then their parents called their names. The children bade each other goodbye, promising they would meet again tomorrow. For they could not wait to play more games. So they climbed into their beds, waiting for day. All the while the bell sang the tune the village had come to know and fear. Out came the little child, wondering where her friend was. She spun around in a circle, listening to the sound of a shovel. A little child’s body was covered with dirt. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down. The little child fell on the grass in a fit of giggles. She was soon called home and told to go straight to bed. She kissed her mother and then her father. She said her prayers and climbed into bed. The sound of the bell rang throughout the town. In came the man dressed in black with the pointed beak. His bottles of medicine clinked. He sat with the girl, his beak full of posies. He gave her some medicine, but she returned to ashes. Out came the man dressed in black with the pointed beak. He took up a shovel and began to dig. Then he laid the girl of ashes to rest. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down. But no child fell into a fit of giggles. No children were called home. Nor told to go to bed. No mother nor father kissed their children’s heads. No prayers were said and no supper was eaten. The bell began its eerie tune over the now silent town. For all the children had returned to ashes. And the man dressed in black with the pointed beak listened outside the village to the bell’s melancholy tune. Ring around the Rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down. Goodnight children of ashes. Mia Skaliotis

Childhood Open, closing Nightmare starts Aching heart

Tear stained faces Moving places Small black car Going far

Story unfolds Truths untold Growing up pains Sweet moon rays

Huddled nights Muddled sight Princess towels Sweet night owls

Childhood

Small eyes dozing

Amber Constante 13

The Sea* People doubted me Not even thinking for a second They called me demented Makes me feel like a clown In a big crowd But I am a force to be reckoned I wanted to see that land of lost Islands Which is thought to be made up I said I couldn’t stop until I see dry land Which gave me an extra pump That I needed Just like giving a weakened army A speech to keep going no matter what they are faced with I got a small crew Some them believed Some of them thought I was a clown Mostly they disbelieved Thinking I was a animal Trapped in my habitat Wanting and dreaming of exiting my Habitat that I was trapped in I knew that it was real Somewhere deep within me I felt it My confidence was as hard as steel All I need to do was commit After many months on the voyage I started to see dark figures in the figures Everyone glared in amazement Then they started to get immense No one could remark a statement The lost islands we sent for We can spot their shores. Nicholas Czochara *inspired by the painting The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, by Caspar David Friedrich

Photograph

Jazmin Hernandez

Komorebi* If only you knew how many times those Layers of light saved me, breathing hope into my lungs. Resurrecting my tired limbs from underneath the burden of the pesky grief of life. Something about it invites me to pause, breathe, be, and let go. And then I move on— my feet a little lighter on the path that leads to an unknown place— fueled by Komorebi. Ms. Radogno *Japanese for the way the sunlight filters through the trees Photograph

Ms. Radogno 16

Let America Be America Again* Let America be America again. Let it be the opportunity it used to be. Let it be the hard working man’s mine of Gold. (America never was an opportunity for me.) Let America be the home where everyone Could dream. Let it be the land filled With love and pride. Where people of all Colors could be accepted and happy. Where people Didn’t have to fight just to be seen. Where people aren’t being killed just because the color of their skin is different. Where he, she, and they could all be loved equally. (There’s never been acceptance for me) Let my land be a land where freedom is for all, Where everyone has the same rights and no one Is excluded, and no one is given a better life Just because of their background, but everyone Gets the opportunity to work and be given A chance. The workers in the blazing field of richness aren’t Treated like scum and the women who wear a hijab aren’t seen as evil. Let a man of color be just as powerful as the white man who sits on the throne. Let America be as diverse as the shapes of the snowflakes that fall onto the ground. (I was never given a chance nor or the same rights As a white man.) Who are you that sweats while taking all the hard jobs no one Wants? Who are you that is treated wrongly because Of the color of your skin?

I am the foundation, the bottom class, the fooled farmer. I am the Mexican that is called beaner or Juan. I am the immigrant that came to find a better life. I am the victim of injustice and colonization, the child Stripped of her identity. Trying to live as an immigrant on a land That was built by immigrants. I am a product of what America is now. Arcelia Cruz *Inspired by Langston Hughes’ poem, “Let America be America Again”

Artwork

Emily Sparke

Things Unseen Being a twin… it should be fun, right? Wrong. Alex and I have been twins since the day we were born. It was cute at first, everyone calling us the “AA batteries.” Audrey and Alex. Alex and Audrey. For a time, there was no saying one name without saying the other. But that was before Alex became the bane of my existence. That was before he stole all of my light. Before he ripped my life to shreds and left me alone with the pieces. It’s silly, really. How can you hate someone that is a mirror of yourself? But Alex and I are not the same and our parents never fail to remind me of that. How could I ever compare to a god like Alex? Captain of the football team, beautiful girlfriend, straight A’s, and a perfect record. You should be more like Alex. Yeah, I totally wish I could be more like that narcissistic jerk. I have spent my whole life trying to catch up to him because maybe then my parents would appreciate me. But it was like I was walking when he was in a sprint. He left me in the dust a long time ago and our bond fizzled out and died. At this point, it’s easier to avoid my parents. The only time they ever acknowledge my existence is when their Golden child Alex is away. It starts with the classic heavy sigh. Then their favorite line, “You know, Audrey, I wish you could be more like Alex.” That was a shot to the chest the first time I heard it. It’s getting a little old now though. Then I give a little eye roll to egg them on and my dad huffs out an irritated breath. “Audrey, this is serious. Look at your brother. He is succeeding in life, when I look at you I don’t see anything. What are you doing with your life?” Classic. And if you think my dad is bad, you should hear my mom. She jumps in after him, “You never fail to disappoint me. Do you know how it must look to other people? We have such a perfect son but then you… why are you like this?” Then I bite back, “I don’t know, Karen, maybe because I have such horrible parents.” I love it when she is seething. It feels like a little bit of payback after the hell she has put me through. Then I walk away. But today it was different. When I got home from school my parents weren’t home. I just took it as a victory and headed to my room. When I got there, however, there was an uninvited pest on my bed. “What are you doing here, Alex?” He straightened when he saw me, “Chill. You really need to stop that.” Great. Another person telling me what to do and how to act. I narrowed my eyes, “Get out. I don’t want you here.” I could feel the hatred bubble up inside me but I kept it contained like I always do. 19

He let out a soft breath, “I just want to talk to you.” “Oh, so now I’m worth your time? I want you to leave.” His brow twitched, “Please, Audrey. Just listen to me.” The audacity. “Why should I? No one ever listens to me! So why should I listen to you?” “JESUS, AUDREY! STOP. Just- stop. Take a minute and think about someone else for a change… please.” I staggered away from him, “Why should I think about you?” My fists balled at my sides, “All you’ve done is made my life miserable!” Hurt flashed across his face, he looked… surprised? He shot up off of the bed, his eyes glued to the floor, “I’m sorry. Forget it. I’ll go.” He made a beeline for the door but I grabbed his wrist and spat, “Sit back down. If you’re going to start this, you’re going to finish it.” He sat back on the bed and looked up at me, “Why don’t you like me?” He’s kidding, right? I just stared at him. “Seriously Aud-“ “Don’t call me Aud.” “Audrey… I just don’t get why you hate me so much. We used to be so close.” “You don’t get why I hate you?! Isn’t it obvious, Golden boy?! You took my life away! Every day I have to wake up knowing that our parents look at me with discontent when they look at you with stars in their eyes!” “I didn’t want that to happen-“ I cut him off, “But it did. It did happen. I will forever be overshadowed by you and it’s all your fault. You never let me have the spotlight and look at where I am now! You have it so good and it’s like you don’t even appreciate it-“ “Because I don’t! I don’t have it good and I don’t appreciate it! Geez Audrey! Have you ever thought about how I have felt?!” How he felt? What could he possibly“Their eyes are on me all the time,” he trembles on my bed, “I can never do anything! One small mistake and they’re on me about how I have an ‘image to protect’ and that this ‘isn’t becoming of me.’” This isn’t real… no. My heart was racing in my chest and my legs felt weak, “What… what do you mean?” I could see the shine in his eyes. He lowered his voice, pain and anguish and despair coming through when he said, “They expect me to be perfect all of the time. I’m trapped on a towering pedestal that our parents built for me out of ‘love’ but it feels like if I make one wrong move I’ll fall to my death.” I moved to get closer to him, “So… this whole time I’ve hated you when this is how you really felt?” A soft sob escaped his mouth as he wrapped his arms around me, “I missed you.” I didn’t realize it but I guess- “I missed you too.” Ava Bucur 20

Inadequacy A feeling of inadequacy. The ever-burning question of “Am I good enough?” Somehow always knowing the answer is “no.” Why keep fighting when it’s never enough? Why keep burning brighter and brighter just to end up a stump of useless wax? What’s the point in fighting with an invisible enemy, A figure so much like myself that it stares back with the same eyes? I question when I’ll be able to simply exist. To not have to justify every move Every word Every breath in my existence. I struggle to measure up. I claw my way through the list of a million names, all far better than mine, just to be seen. I work myself to the bone every day and every night. Restless. Yet it will never be enough. There will always be one person not satisfied. One person who looks at me and says “You can do more.” One person who can’t bear to just let me be. And she glares back at me from the mirror in disgust. A feeling of inadequacy. Amber Constante

Cold is the only sense What a rush life was Cruelly ripped away Feelings lost Nothingness Peace Just sinking

Sinking The light drifts away Darkness floods My eyes My ears My mouth It engulfs me easily The bright days gone

Sarah Newmann

Why?

Sarah Newmann 22

Another Place Another Time* If there was an answer, he’d find it there, far down the tracks, along the river. The journey begins, for the grand pearly castle. In the little train cart he starts, sunny and easy, cruising along rickety, old train tracks. Like chasing a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, rays of sunshine bursting from his joy. Along the tracks, a friend is met. A bond is formed, if there was an answer, he’d find it there. However, it’s not all rainbows and butterflies anymore, Fog appears, thick and hazy. The fog challenges him, it gives him lemons to see what he’ll do. Struggles begin, hitting bumps in the tracks, hitting the brakes, wanting to stop. In the midst of opaque clouds, a glimmer of light is seen. Tracks begin to lay flat again, finally, he sees the sun. He was able to make lemonade. Over the hill of glistening green grass, is the perfectly pearly white castle. So close, he can almost touch the smooth pearls on his hands. Approaching the castle doors, strong rays of sun bounce off the shiny, smooth, whiteness of the castle. Rays of sun reveal the answer. He opens the doors into a grand room, twinkling from the sun. Entering, he struts to a grand golden staircase, if there was an answer, he’d find it there. Laila Mularski *Inspired by the art of Chris Van Allsburg

Ketchup!

Iris Nelson

Artwork

Lily Verburgt

Apathy

Jocelyn Diaz 26

Peace, Love, Happiness I wish for PEACE For everyone to get along For internal peace For external peace For war to end For hugs to begin For freedom from disturbance For friendship and harmony I wish for LOVE For mothers and fathers to kiss goodnight For kids to share their toys For neighbors to say hello For strangers to hold the door For random acts of kindness For loving yourself For smiles at everyone you see For families to not only be bonded by blood I wish for HAPPINESS For people to want to wake up in the morning For people to want to go to work For people to want to go to school For people to live in a movie For people to know that things will get better For people to know it’s ok to have emotions For people to know it’s ok to not be ok For people to know happiness isn’t smiling all day For people to know happiness brings love, and happiness brings peace Mia Baumel

Peace

Amber Constante

For a Moment For a moment it’s as if you care Only for you to never be there For a moment all is calm But the world’s not in my palm For a moment you belong to me Soon I realize you were free For a moment I think you’re mine Just for you to break from my line For a moment you spare me a look Yet I’m still an intruder in your book For a moment I don’t see the knife Though we never even had a strife Sarah Newmann

Perdóname

Tatiana Huayamave

A Night in October* On a dark, cool night in October, when The moon shined its wicked gleam, Spirits hid in the shadows as they have-been The deviation, the differentiation: you wouldn’t hear their victims scream And today was the night I walked alone To the tone of my own exequy march The wind screeched at me, my foolish little poem, Talking to myself during my way home, coming to the arch The Gothic Arch marked the graveyard, the graveyard marked the path The path wrote my very epitaph, Here Lies she who died a fatal death, overcome with wrath Spirits seeked her and she was entrapped Hear Her shriek in the night Her life taken forevermore, that old banshee I could practically see it, even in the dull light Now I was running on the gravel on my would be Victim site I saw a light of someone Or something, it was so bright I was outdone and out-run Chills raced up my spine The end of the gate was near Or The End was nigh I almost made it, in the clear Though, something dreadful from behind, tickled my quivering ear…. Neeve Olson *Inspired by the writing of Edgar Allan Poe

Photograph

Claire Layden

Home is not a Home You say we’re all united but it doesn’t feel that way For the people on the outside that just seem to fade away One big, happy family has many cracks and breaks There are people you don’t notice and you let it be that way No one seems to notice but the people on the outside for if you’re in the “it crowd” your life’s just fine and dandy But if you’re on the outside It’s not one big, happy family and it hurts to admit because I love this place the most but I feel like I don’t fit You’ve built a home here but you’ve left me out and so I continue to question Why won’t you invite me in? Ava Bucur

Ode to Tissue You, tissue, are the object of my praise you are the finest product of Chinese silkworms. Sitting in your box, you offer yourself To the sky, posed like a dancing ballerina. As a girl on her wedding night I must ravage you and ruin you with my sick nose, Yet, even so, you maintain your royal decorum sitting on your throne of empathy although I harm and ruin you your skin still strokes me gently and lightly as a mother stroking the hair of her most beloved children allow me to snatch up all your innocent beauty and use it for myself Yes, you, tissue. Unobtrusive, Demure, a wild rabbit white as powdery snow, soft to the touch, elusive, contorting in form, I praise you. Lorin Bucur

The Ticking Clock It is odd how one ages. One is older but feels no wiser. Now where’s the sense in that? It’s a ticking clock, I’ll say! Like being pushed towards a door, Only to cling to the doorframe in denial. How does one walk through with ease? And to ask yet another, When will growing be a fact of life, Instead of inevitable misery? Is there truly only one way to know what is behind that door? All said and done, No amount of anger, sadness, nostalgia Can stop the ticking clock. I am gone but still here. I am grown but still young. I am older but not wiser. It is odd. Amber Constante

Photograph

Isabel Gable

Opal

Juliet Olson Editors’ Note: The creator of this artwork was misidentified in the previous issue of Goulash. We regret the error.

Shards The tears dripped down my cheeks, hot and sticky, as I looked at my reflection. Everything about us was the same down to the small freckle on our right cheek that showed darker in the Summer. Everything, but our eyes. Hers were angry and accentuated by a disturbing grin. I wasn’t smiling. I tried to stand up, to tear myself from whatever I was seeing, but I couldn’t move. My left hand suddenly jolted up to the mirror as did my reflection, a second before myself. Silence hung in the cold air of my room as I tried to pull my hand from the mirror, but it wouldn’t budge, as if it had been glued to the slick surface. My eyes looked around to realize that my reflection’s eyes didn’t move, they were trained on me as she smiled that same creepy smile. Then a chip rang through the still cold air. I focused on my hand as I had felt a vibration. Another chip sounded, and I saw a crack begin to break out from my hand on the mirror, growing in size with every breath I took. The mirror appeared to shatter along with reality. The walls around me seemed to crack along with the mirror and my vision went cloudy. Reality began to tear itself away from me as darkness and glass surrounded me. I could hear shattering and a laugh pulse through my ears while the sensation of falling overwhelmed me. Wind filled my hair as movement returned to my limbs. I looked around me only to see the darkness again with the glass that threatened to slice my skin. I screamed, but couldn’t hear anything except for the wind. It felt like I was falling for hours before color flooded my vision, and the hard floor hit my body, stopping it flat in space. I groaned as I slowly shook myself up. I blinked several times before my eyes started to make sense of my surroundings. I rubbed my head before looking at my walls, which were not broken anymore, except they seemed to be reversed. The words on my tapestry were all backwards, and my bed was on the other side of the room. My eyes finally landed on the mirror that was miraculously fine. Not a crack in sight on its shiny surface. Then I saw myself; I looked a bit shaken in my reflection. I must be dreaming, I thought as my reflection did the unthinkable. She stood up and smiled at me before exiting the room leaving me confused and terrified on the floor. Sarah Newmann 39

Under the rug* Two weeks had passed And it happened again. She irritated me like an open wound. I didn’t know what to do. I had no choice Please forgive me.

When to stop. I couldn’t take it anymore I hated her! I wanted nothing to do with her. I wished she would leave, I told her and told to go. But she insisted on staying.

Trust me, trust me! We were happy She used to adore me and love me Never could keep us apart. I knew she was the one Love is all we knew. You were the highlight of my boyhood. You held your claws deep into my heart, Until it stopped beating The one I loved is also The one I hate. Trust me, trust me! Until she changed It was so unordinary. What has gone through her She became so needy Always in my business. Never knew!! She never knew

Every peep Every breath Every step She made filled me to the brim with Hatred Trust me, trust me! I had no choice! I had no choice! She drove me crazy Till the end. Now I need help She is stuck under the rug! Bella Ramírez *Inspired by the art of Chris Van Allsburg

Self-Worth

Tatiana Huaymave

The Night Café* The man is looking, trying to reach out and escape. He seems like a stray, pondering to find a place called home. He seems empty—like a pool in the winter or a school on Christmas Day. Days getting duller and even murkier. Blending into an endless day like a never-ending carousel ride. There’s more depth to this than just four corners. He snubs the people around him and slugs his head up high. His beige coat and blue hat emanate like a seven o’clock sunrise. His face is telling a million words, but a particular one emerges. To flee what this life seems to be and move beyond the closed borders. He flounders for this, but hobbles on the bridge of life. There’s more depth to this than just four corners. The employees are gone and I see three parties and one dream. The man is dreaming of leaving this loop and discarding troubles off his coat. Wallowing away in himself, he seems to be out of the picture, but in the frame. There’s more depth to this than just four corners. Everything is still, in place, and in pause. The empty tables with half drunken glasses. The dimmed lights reveal the darkness overshadowing the true light of life. The abandoned pool table is like a vacated table in a diner. The wearing of hats indoors is like not laying a napkin on your lap— common decency. There’s more depth to this than just four corners. “The Night Café” is where they go so their dreams sway away. These four corners catch only a moment. A moment of loss and isolation—abandonment and deprivation. Indulging into the depths of despair to wither away into the night. Olga Kondraros * Inspired by Van Gogh’s The Night Cafe

Photograph

Grace Enderle

Untitled

People say I’m not sane. I have no idea what they are referring to. Sane? I am clearly sane. Sane as a child. Just a bit heartbroken, that’s it. Well soon, I won’t be. I won’t be heartbroken after I bring her back. I am clearly sane. She may lay below us right now, but soon she will be walking like she used to. Smiling at me like she used to. Soon our love will be refurbished. It will begin anew! I am clearly sane. We shall be together soon, my dear. All I need is a shovel. I shall start under the cover of night. I would be proud to hoist you up from down there in the apex of the day, when the sun is shining proudly, but unfortunately the townsmen would frown upon it. They are jealous of our eternal bond. Jealous that I alone have the power to bring those who have passed. So, I shall do it when the moon shines and the wolves howl. I am clearly sane. I even prepared your room for you. I know that you’ll be proud of my work. You’ll even tell me in person. I can make your favorite meal. I can cook that beef you like. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. I haven’t had it since that day. But I can’t wait to share it with you. I am clearly sane. Soon, we will be together, my love. Our separation has only made us stronger. But soon, we will be reunited in our little cottage, as if nothing ever happened. Let me fetch my shovel and I shall bring you back into the world of the living. I am clearly sane. Miles Hayford Inspired by the writings of Edgar Allan Poe

Photograph

Jazmin Hernandez

The Black Rose Withered. Decayed. Dark. Stained with the darkness in my heart. Sharp. Delicate. Dead. Elegant. A sign of life once lived. A token of love once giv’n. Death incarnate Once a blooming scarlet. Now crushed In my desolate palm Like a blackened heart. The Black Rose Of love disposed. Amber Constante

Photograph

Azsher Leal

Untitled

Dear future child, Don’t grow up too fast. Savor every day of your childhood and don’t worry about the future because I’ll be doing that for you. Never stop doing something because you think you’re too old for it; you’ll never be too old to do the things that make you happy. And future child, never apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t have to say sorry for living your life. Learn an instrument because music will open so many doors and learn to swim because otherwise you might drown. Future child, I know you’ll think it’s embarrassing when I cry tears of joy and pride, but I’ll do it anyway because you will make me so proud and happy. Surround yourself with stuffed animals at night because they’ll be there for you when I’m not. Bring them on errands with you so you can have adventures together even at the most mundane places. Promise me, future child, that you’ll always come to me for help when you need it because I will always help you with whatever you need. I’ll raise you on PBS Kids so you’ll learn something new every time you watch TV and I’ll surround you with art and books and music so you’ll be well-rounded before you can even walk. And future child, it’s okay to grow apart from your friends but promise me you’ll never get too old to play with your siblings. Wave at the people in cars next to you and leave tips for waiters and pay for the car behind you in the drive-thru every now and then because being kind is the coolest thing you can possibly be. When you get old enough, we’ll watch Star Trek and eat mac & cheese and do all the things I loved to do at your age. Future child, I’ll tell you I love you every night before you go to bed, because I do love you and even if you don’t always say it back I’ll know you love me too. When you go on walks, taste the cold air and smell the sky and hear birds singing and savor it. All of it. Be whatever you want to be. If you want to go to the moon, go to the moon and if you want to be a movie star, be a movie star because you can be anything you want as long as you don’t become a serial killer. Finally, future child, know that all I want is for you to be happy. Know that you are the most important person in my life. And know that I love you, so much, and I always will. I can’t wait to meet you. Love, Mom Greta Nelson 48

Artwork

Marcella Marshall

Never Love Again* Many years ago, in a town far, far away there lived a woman named Ariana. She was beautiful with her fair skin and golden blonde hair. She was loved by a man by the name of Charles. The two of them lived happily together for many years. The two of them never left each other’s side. One day something horrible happened. Ariana became ill and sick in bed, but Charles knew she wouldn’t be dead. How could she be dead with their love being so strong? He stayed by her side until he finally knew it was the end. The two of them knew they had to say one final goodbye. Ariana knew she was going to die. Charles knew he would never love again. He sat in his den and picked up his pen. He began writing his final love letter to Ariana. He thanked her for all the time they had in the town far, far away. At the bottom of the letter it was signed “Until we meet again.” He had to learn to live his life without the love of his life, Ariana. After he wrote the letter, she was dead and never got better. He was with her nevermore. She was buried in a beautiful tomb in a cemetery near their town. Charles would go to her tomb to drop a rose petal every day. This reminded her of his never ending love. This tradition continued until the day he died. He did this even into his old age because he never forgot Ariana. Ariana was his everything. He never loved again, but the death of his love didn’t stop him from loving her. Kate Belling *Inspired by the writings of Edgar Allan Poe

Mr. Linden’s Library* He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late… Mr. Linden was cryptic with his message It made the apprentice Want to try to impress her mentor She, safeguarded with the library as his successor He shook his head solemnly when she chose to take her test in training, third year, always wanting more more more through common courtesy she wouldn’t be denied Linden had handed her the Pandora’s box As if he was giving her a ticket to Charon’s canal ride His weary face paled. Mr. Linden began to cry. She took the thick, dusty book in her hands, remembering the price If it was not perfectly precise her enchantment would fail Certain mythical beings condemned To an eternity of punishment would escape, Reshape the world Strike of 12 Her hands danced with magic, plucking chords in air Her, the magician, her the musician Glowing symbols appearing from nowhere Earth Air Water Fire Now engraved in Violent violet ink Pen running a race against the fatal book’s page by her talent. Lights dimmed A different mood catches the harpist’s air Tune of death hums in her mind Worrying about mortality Leads to fatality Before she could catch her breath, Pages bled green and Mr. Linden was freed 51

Book shot open atop her hand Spewing sprouts at binding CLANG Pen had tendrils of linden leaves Wrapped around Forcing it down Pen fell As if in a blacksmith cell, fire symbol burned jack-o-lantern orange She hesitated, fingers frozen in time, spelled All her work, the magic undone Tried to run but Paralysis chilled her bones Snakes of linden slithered across her arm Gave the squeeze of eternal slumber Sleeping Beauty on her deathbed The mentor’s second half Laughed with minions Perceived as the linden leaves He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late—for her. For Mr. Linden, a fight against himself No calling for help from someone else To whom he withheld the wealth Of knowing his dark half Was trapped In that fatal book. Neeve Olson *Inspired by the art of Chris Van Allsburg

Maleficent’s Staff

Amber Constante 53

Artwork

Maya Reina