Issuu

Contents Girl of the Wind Neeve Olson

Front Cover

Paul D Lorin Bucur

Aurora’s Aura Isabella Ortega

Her Majesty the Queen Amber Constante

eyes. 4 Ava Bucur Eye See You Sarah Newmann

Meditations on the Frosty Mallard Ron Glas

Photo 7 Dasha Fagan A New Beginning Neeve Olson

Artwork 9 Isabella Ortega Artwork 9 Charlie McLaughlin Burning Guilt Amber Constante

Artwork 11 Lorin Bucur Cake Mistake Sarah Newmann

Chocolate Strawberry Girl Jocelyn Diaz

Dread 14 Amber Constante My Hands Are Not My Hands Ms. Osenbaugh

Clair de Lune Sarah Newmann

Photo 15 Isabel Gable We Were So Beautiful Katherine Donofrio

Photo 17 Isabel Gable

Monster Family Lindsey Marquez

Poem 20 Lorin Bucur Robot Pop Star Lindsey Marquez

Prose 22 Lorin Bucur David 23 Maya Reina Prose 24 Anna Watson Broken 25 Maya Reina Black Star Grace Lugo

Photo 27 Emily Lathrop Quarantine Mia Skaliotis

The Moon Arcelia Cruz

Photo 31 Lorin Bucur The Hero’s Villain Charlotte Plaiss

The Mirror Maya Reina

Happens for a Reason Katherine Donofrio

Photo 35 Dasha Fagan Prose 36 Sarah Newmann Inside Joke Amber Constante

Man in Pink Coat Maya Reina

Photo 39 Isabel Gable Spacey Lady Ms. Osenbaugh

Back Cover

Welcome fellow earth-dwellers, Neuroaesthetics is the scientific study of art’s effects on the brain. This year more than ever, many brains have needed art in all its forms. Have no fear, Goulash is here to help release your serotonin and relieve the stress of uncertainty that this year has brought. Let Goulash be the much needed reward for your brain. After this hard year, you deserve it. This being the third serving of Goulash published during the pandemic, we want to thank all the contributors for providing a dose of happiness. Hopefully, we will be able to enjoy a steaming bowl of Goulash together in the year to come. Until then, Amber Constante, Greta Nelson, and Maya Reina, Chefs

Goulash is produced by Writers’ Society, which includes: Lorin Bucur Amber Constante Arcelia Cruz Jocelyn Diaz Katherine Donofrio Jazmin Hernandez Emily Lathrop Greta Nelson Neeve Olson Maya Reina Mia Skaliotis Cody Sweeney 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.

Paul D Busy work is the savior of the modern-day, it is the constant droning of a tuning fork, filling the air and disallowing any other note to slip in to ruin the beautiful, purposeless, mundanity of the ringing. Busy work is the savior of the modern-day, it is the uniformity of an army, marching along to an endless rhythm of right foot left foot, disallowing any step out of line. Busy work is the savior of the modern-day. When the mind is doing busywork, all things are forgotten, all things lost to the silence which is not silence but deliberate silencing. Silencing all things that dare change the tune, step out of line, creep in your mind in the most unassuming of moments to plunge your soul into obscurity and sentience. It is the conscious suppression of the subconscious. An effort to make yourself crazy to prevent yourself from losing your mind. The subconscious doesn’t stay oppressed for long, it fights back against the persecution with a vengeance. It plagues you when you are off guard: with memories of the past, embarrassing stories from childhood, regrettable moments from those first loves in summers dyed in the light of blossoming youth and naïveté Ads, songs, pictures, influencers, videos, games, drabble, fun To fill the crevices that busy work fails to reach To provide your mind with relief from the agent of relief you already have employed To silence the fork and the march that silence the nagging voice that life is more than what you wish it to be That you must face the truth sometime That you must face your past sometime Sometime is not today Ring the fork, commence the march Decide to forget and forget to decide Lorin Bucur 1

Aurora’s Aura The sun kissed her eyes The waves soothed as lullabies The sand sprinkled between her curves The butterflies whispered she deserves All around she felt an aura Pondering of the princess Aurora What made a princess, she said Was it the way they sew a thread Or how they suppressed their dread Everyday the sun sets Everyday she lived with debts But the moon was greedy at night Grasping all the light away with might The fairytale unwillingly prolongs Ignoring all the harmonious songs Hearing only her pervasive wrongs Did the princess ever pay attention to the Melody of her songs She pondered on the shore Unsatisfied without a forevermore But denied the gut feeling roar She withered away Learning self love is Impending decay Withered across the sandy shore Was the girl she knew once She could never truly adore Isabella Ortega

Her Majesty the Queen Amber Constante

eyes. i feel eyes on me. all the time. at school, in public, even at home. there’s no escaping it. their stares bore into my body. criticizing my every move. my knotted stomach churns. my palms sweat. have i made the right choice…? have i said the right thing...? those questions fill my mind, eating away at my self-esteem. how do i evade their judgment? is that even attainable? must i learn to live with this unease the rest of my life? i’ve become ashamed of myself. i hide behind a mask each day. never faltering. always suppressing. but i’ve become too weak. i can’t hold up the weight of my facade. my heart gives out. my mask fades. i’m faced with a mirror. no one else in sight. and when i look up, the only eyes on me are my own. Ava Bucur

Eye See You

Sarah Newmann 5

Meditations on the Frosty Mallard The pond freezes over in winter, Or so my mind presumed. As I walk through the park, The sky reaches dark, And the icy lake is consumed. Oh, but on the far end I see them. There must have been at least twenty three. The ducks scattered, all swirled, Not a care in the world, Swimming in their sliver of sea. The time for migration has long since passed, But the ducks seem simply too attached. They’re a sentimental brood, Plus we shouldn’t exclude, That they’ve known just this lake since they’ve hatched. The winter has come and it’s ravaged this pond, Yet the ducks still swim just the same. The cold will be done, And the summer brings sun And this vast, scary lake they’ll reclaim. Ron Glas

Photo

Dasha Fagan

A New Beginning A new beginning Your chance to forget the past To break through the glass of your last mistake giving you the chance to awaken and grow into someone new you would want to know and emulate Create who you want to be Move forward from your past like a tree sprouts from its roots toward the sun No doubts or regrets A start of a depart from what happened then to what will happen now The present is your gift Use it. Now your second change has already begun. Neeve Olson

Artwork

Isabella Ortega

Artwork

Charlie McLaughlin 9

Burning Guilt Burning guilt, Fiery and hot, Spreading and scorching red. Blooming from malicious seeds Dooming all to rot. A well-known curse Of regret and pain, A tiring, endless game. The questions unseen. The memories that lead. An anger that ebbs and flows. Hatred towards oneself Disgust for one’s hands A feeling commonly known. Burning guilt. Amber Constante

Artwork

Lorin Bucur 11

Cake Mistake

Sarah Newmann 12

Chocolate Strawberry Girl Jocelyn Diaz

Dread I can’t live with this feeling of dread, eating, clawing, ripping at my soul. Begging for my attention. It consumes my waking days and lonely nights. It paints the corners of my vision black And nibbles at my fingertips. My heart pounds in fear. My hands tremble from anticipation. I can’t live with this dread And so I won’t. Amber Constante

My Hands Are Not My Hands Ms. Osenbaugh

Photo

Isabel Gable

Clair de Lune Their ghostly cries whispered along with hers that echoed throughout the massive ballroom that she was trapped in. Her ballgown was lined with dust from the floor as she sat with her head on her knees, her skirt billowing around her like ripples of water. The sound of a piano drifted through the air, its swift notes played by the ghosts who roamed the grand halls of the mansion. Only she and the ghosts inhabited the empty house, stuck in the depth of the woods. “What is wrong, little one?” a single ghostly lady asked her; one who had died years and years ago in that very mansion. This was a ghost that she knew well as she had practically raised her to her present age of eighteen. “Nothing, Matilda,” The girl spoke softly, lifting her head up from her knees, tears beaming against her features. “I just need to take a breath of fresh air.” “No, no! You mustn’t, my dear!” Matilda warned. “Matilda! You always tell me to never take even a step outside. Why?” When the ghost didn’t answer, she simply walked through her to the window and opened it. Sarah Newmann 15

We Were So Beautiful we were so beautiful. two swinging doves released in the palm of a spirited adolescent. our wings pumping wildly, so wildly. we so passionately attempted to entwine and fly from the world.

but i fell. my wings were too weak.

i fell, and couldn’t fall back on you. Katherine Donofrio

Photo

Isabel Gable

Monster Family

Lindsey Marquez

Poem

I often dream of windswept plains Of places never existing Of People never seen, never heard, never felt And the nostalgia hits like the gentle breeze of a hurricane Although I have never been, never experienced, never lived I dream of a place Where my own hard work leads to accomplishments, not failure, where my windfalls are not a byproduct of someone else’s gust. But I know when I wake My dreams will sadly never be drifting away in my mind taking its place on the plain where time and space don’t exist, where my dreams go to die - fin Lorin Bucur

Robot Pop Star

Lindsey Marquez

Prose

The battlefield was red, tainted with blood, stained with sin, and there I was in the throes of it. Fighting and catching my breath, breathing in the humidity of lies, tears, vengeance. Wiping away my sweat. Throwing away my life to fight an enemy I didn’t know, for a King who didn’t know me. My mind slowed and my eyes traced the path of countless soldiers before me. The world stopped for only an instant--to pronounce my imminent doom and laugh at it--then it resumed without hesitation. The clangs of the battlefield rushing back, the cries of men who would never lay their eyes on their family again. I cried a single tear, wiped it away, and began to fight. The enemy stole our land, that was reason enough, wasn’t it? That was enough for me to risk my life, the one I had never treasured before. I had never lived until now, at the moment that I would most certainly die. So, I ran forward and cast my sword upon an enemy right as his sword slashed at me, severing my arm, my dreams, my life. And so I fell asleep on the comfortable bed of life and death, where many had lain before me, and many would lie forevermore. There is no sympathy for soldiers, but that which lies in the home he has left. There is no second chance for those who choose to fight with their lives on the line. The souls of soldiers are stuck on the battlefield, the place they chose to be, forever wandering in their bloodlust, searching. Searching for nothing and everything, for life in death, for a way to escape the clutches of their own guilt and sadness. The souls never do find what they’re searching for, yet the poppies are always there. The rebirth of their emotions and their memories left behind the earthly visage of their otherworldly desires and wishes to return to the past. Revival comes through their effortless beauty, the poppies blow in the wind, come season by season, and there they shall remain. Coming without warning and standing as a reminder for all who glance upon their deep, red beauty. “your foot is stepping on hallowed land, a battle of years past, a burial for the forgotten” We shall not sleep, though I never did get out of that bed, the one which drew you in with lullabies of peace, with promises of light. I’m not a god, I’m not anyone but a soldier, with a single poppy blowing in my memory. The whole world has forgotten, but I remember. Even as I sink further into the abyss, I will remember, and now, so will you. Lest we forget. ** some lines were inspired and refer to the poem-turned-song “Flanders Fields” ** Lorin Bucur 22

David

Maya Reina

Prose

What am I to you? Am I just a rebound? Do you just use me to get back at her? I saw the way you looked at her. The way you continuously talk about her. I know all the things you say are bad but I wonder if it’s just so you can’t say anything good. But that’s fine. It’s not like I have feelings for you. You and I were first. I saw the way your eyes finally drifted for me to her. Then you told me she was the wrong choice. You chose the wrong girl. And finally I was getting over you, I was getting over us. But then you came back. And now I don’t know how to feel. You only came back because she hurt you; if she didn’t would you have stayed with her, or come with me? Do you even love me? Do you even like me? Or do you just like the thought of revenge. You put your arm around me and made sure she was watching. So am I just a rebound? What is it about her? Anna Watson

Broken

Maya Reina

Black Star A Black Star. That’s what you are. The deep purple calla lily. You think of yourself as negative, dark, hopeless; Ugly, imperfect, up the boohai. Very misunderstood. A Black Star. A rare flower. Elegant, mysterious, unique; Successful, conquering, powerful. A lucky charm. A symbolism of rebirth and resurrection. A Calla Lily. Meaning “Beautiful Flower.” One of the strongest flowers. Grows instead of drowning; Heals instead of freezing. THAT is what you are. You are a Black Star. Grace Lugo

Photo

Emily Lathrop

Quarantine 1) How quiet the room is tonight For long ago it was filled with laughter Long ago it was filled with smiles Now, in the present day, it sits silently It’s been so long since it was filled with people 2) In the beginning we were happy We were happy with the news we would not return so soon Just a few extra days And we smiled Just a few extra days, right? 3) But those days have turned into weeks Those weeks have stretched into months And that once-happy idea of extra time Is bleak and dreary Just a few more days, right? 4) Now a year has gone by Our parties could no longer happen Our families could no longer meet And simple tasks are no longer so simple So many more rules, so many guidelines 5) And people have said we are all in this together So we are, so we are But where are those happy days When we were promised that extra break?

6) And I can’t speak for the world But I doubt anyone is happy now Even the people who used to say I enjoy being alone I used to think I enjoyed it too But not for this long Never for this long 7) It’s no longer a break It’s now solitary confinement And I understand why we must do it And I’m not going to disobey I will stay where I should be 8) But no one can stop me from thinking Thinking about those old happy days And yes, there are still happy days in this confinement But they are not the same as the old happy days They are not as bright 9) And now we sit in quiet rooms Away from the world Filled with tears instead of smiles Ringing with cries instead of laughter Just a few more days, right? Mia Skaliotis

The Moon The moon is beautiful, isn’t it? And the stars shine so brightly tonight. Just like I once did, I used to be so beautiful. But then you came into my life, uninvited. I had thought the goddess Selene was giving me a gift, a true prize. I had once believed you were what my life rotated around, my purpose to live. Look at me, won’t you? Am I not as precious as you said I was? Please look at me, my love, if you could just look at me it would be enough. I could give you my entire galaxy if you look at me. No… you only see her now. Is she your star? Is that why you ended my love story so soon? For her? I suppose that’s fine, in the end, that is all I wanted. I just wanted to see the stars in your eyes and your bright smile. Even if it’s not for me. I just want to watch the stars with you one last time. And maybe then it would be enough. Your eyes and smile will always be a reminder of what was. Arcelia Cruz

Photo

Lorin Bucur

The Hero’s Villain when the villain isn’t the villain, and the hero isn’t good, we see the world through different eyes, but nothing looks, as it should. Charlotte Plaiss

The Mirror

Maya Reina

Happens for a Reason we so casually drifted from paragraphs to words- we fell apart i had had enough i just wanted to talk about me, but it was only about you and it will always be only about you. now we are just some strangers with memories. fifteen months, sixty five weeks, four hundred and fifty five days, but just a few words led our friendship to a halt thanks for the times together. maybe one day you won’t be a stranger to me a n y m o r e but now, for now, let’s accept what we have become. Katherine Donofrio

Photo

Dasha Fagan

Prose

Suddenly, icy fingers grabbed my arm as I inched through the darkness. My vision blurred, and a few wisps of fog made their way to my eyes. I could feel its talon-like nails against my skin, yet whatever it was didn’t squeeze me. It was almost welcoming in such a strange situation. “Where are we going?” I asked, careful with my words. I didn’t want to upset it, though its cold touch made me feel quite calm. “Away,” it responded. It’s voice sounded scratchy and almost like dark chocolate boiling; however, it was very obviously female. I could see a dim light not too far away and that was when I realized what grabbed me. Her skin was like crushed satin, and a morbid blush covering her body though she was clothed in dirtied rags. Her hair was knotted and grimy as if drenched in a vat of black oil. Her nails had an unpleasant yellow color to them. I could just see her eyes, but they didn’t appear to be eyes at all. Instead they were holes from which she peered through. She didn’t scare me. No. She made me feel like the worst was over, like I had known her before in a different life. She must be the one going through a lot, not me. She just saved me after all. I’m safe. It’s her that needs saving now. Sarah Newmann

Inside Joke

Amber Constante

Man in Pink Coat Maya Reina

Photo

Isabel Gable

Spacey Lady Ms. Osenbaugh (Back Cover)