Goulash Spring 2023

Goulash Spring 2023

Contents The Spot Andre Estrada

Front Cover

Artwork 15 Addrian West

Artwork 1 Kevin Prosen

everything that a girl i met in the city always had with her 16 Madison Rolnick

Untitled 2 Adrian Perez Artwork 3 Gabriela Falat Pieces of Soul Amber Constante

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Photograph 5 Grace Enderle Loneliness 6 Amber Constante Photograph 7 Marcy Marshall The Remnant Valentino Ramos

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Artwork 10 Tatiana Huayamave Artwork 11 Matea Hewitt Artwork 11 Greta Nelson So Close yet so far Berenice Correa

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Photograph 13 Marcy Marshall Untitled 14 Ava Bucur

Photograph 17 Jiovani Espinosa i want to live a beautiful life. 18 Madison Rolnick Photograph 19 Julienne Custodio to feel alive Madison Rolnick

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Photograph 21 Lilliana Cerruti Living a Lie Bella Ramirez

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The Bonnet Lady Gianna Ramirez

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Artwork 24 Addrian West Untitled 26 Roxanne Stasch Photograph 26 Grace Enderle Artwork 27 Ashlyn Briano Untitled 28 Amber Constante

Photograph 29 Jiovani Espinosa

The Narrow Place J. Paliatka

Untitled 30 Sarah Newmann

Artwork 45 Tatiana Huayamave

Photograph 31 Rhiann Zulfer

The quiet one Sophia Valdez

Writing is a conduit Miles Hayford

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Artwork 46 Ava Bucur

Childhood Tchotchkes Vincent Valera de Barrett

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Anxiety 47 Sophia Valdez

The Ocean Miles Hayford

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Artwork 47 Sarah Newmann

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Photograph 35 Isabella Broderick

Mother Nature’s Call Katarina Santen

Ecstatic yet Petrified Miles Hayford

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Photograph 48 Katarina Santen

Photograph 37 Iris Nelson

Artwork 49 Gabriela Falat

Promise Me Sofia Martinez

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Artwork 49 Anton Marano

Photograph 40 Julienne Custodio

Untitled 50 Sarah Newmann

The 100th Time Isabella Ortega

Photograph 51 Sarah Newmann

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Photograph 41 Julienne Custodio Not the Same Iris Nelson

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Photograph 43 Jiovani Espinosa

Photograph Jiovani Espinosa

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Back Cover

Dear seekers of truth, Greetings from the garden!

As this issue of Goulash grows up and enters the world, we reflect on the life cycle of Goulash. Each issue begins as many separate works of art and writing from students all over the school. These are the seeds of Goulash. We in Writers’ Society cultivate these seeds and nurture them as they bloom.

In much the same way, we at Goulash go through our own life cycle. As freshmen, we watched in admiration as upperclassmen created beautiful work and brought together amazing issues of Goulash. As we grew through high school, we became more confident to share our work. Soon enough, we were in full bloom as Goulash editors.

This is the last issue for two of our editors, Amber Constante and Greta Nelson. They have grown tremendously over the last four years and are moving on to the next stage of growth. Just as a dandelion’s seeds blow away and grow new flowers, these editors will go out into the world and blossom, spreading new ideas wherever they go.

We leave this garden of imagination in the capable hands of Writers’ Society and its next leaders. As more seeds are planted, and more flowers bloom, we cannot wait to see how Goulash blossoms over time.

So please, turn the page and see what’s growing.

Your horticulturalists, Amber Constante, Greta Nelson, and Iris Nelson

Goulash is produced by Writers’ Society, which includes: Hugh Ascher Hayley Bedtke Ava Bucur Lilliana Cerruti Amber Constante Grace Enderle Gabriela Falat Miles Hayford

Tatiana Huayamave Emily Lathrop Marcella Marshall Sofia Marttinez Sarah Newmann Greta Nelson Iris Nelson Liam O’Meara

Neeve Olson Elizabeth Pedergnana Valentino Ramos Madison Rolnick Katarina Santen Ashley Snyder Roxanne Stasch Rhiann Zulfer

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.

Artwork

Kevin Prosen

1

Untitled

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being five ages.

The kid, Barely able to throw and catch a ball.

With a stumble in his barely walking legs.

Eager to take on the world set in front of him.

The hot-shot, With his cockiness and confidence, Has signs of talent, but unpolished.

Jealous of a man for taking his high school sweetheart, Seeking the recognition of a girl he once had.

The college captain, Playing with speed, heart, and passion.

Making mistakes as he grows, And learning from the past.

Near ready for the next level, but far from perfect.

The pro.

Trials and tribulations have shaped the kid into a glorious professional, Playing in front of a crowd bigger than he could’ve ever dreamed.

His hunger has grown to be too great for a world too small, Yearning for the taste of victory on the largest stage.

Turning towards retirement with arms and hands too tired The last scene of all, Without strength, toughness, charm, motivation, That ends the most impactful story, His legacy.

Adrian Perez

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Artwork

Gabriela Falat

3

Pieces of Soul Humans are like crows.

We are collectors.

But what we collect is far more precious than shiny trinkets And stolen quarters.

What we collect are pieces of soul, Harvested from time’s loving embrace, Carried in a knapsack as we wander on the journey of life.

Pieces of soul, Colorful shards of glass, Make up the mosaic of our being.

Pieces of soul, Remnants of those who’ve walked with us, Embedded in our very essence.

Pieces of soul, Musical notes of a song, Motion pictures, phrases, and idiosyncrasies.

Pieces of soul, Sharp with memory, A bittersweet feeling.

Wandering through the endless mist of life, We depart having left a small shard behind.

Little saplings of love, Growing in the cracks along the road.

A bread crumb trail left for those, Long stolen by time.

Indeed, we are collectors.

Amber Constante

4

Photograph

Grace Enderle

5

Loneliness Loneliness is the empty echo in a room full of people.

It is the feeling as you stand still in the ever-moving world.

Loneliness is the void no longer filled by familiar voices, the void left behind by the exit of loving laughter.

It is the shadows that dance in your memory and the sadness that promptly follows.

Loneliness is the unspoken word to the nonexistent ear.

It is the lack of indents in couch cushions and the growing of dust on window sills.

Loneliness is the searching, the aching and longing for a companion to roam the earth with, for a place among the movement, for noise to fill in the silence of an echo chamber heart.

Amber Constante

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Photograph

Marcy Marshall

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The Remnant The fire brought new light to the darkness that had fallen over the prairie. David sat in front of the flames, his skin chilled in the evening summer air. He knew his coat and worn cap were not enough to keep him warm for long. Even still, he resented the idea of retiring for the night in his pickup and falling asleep in the driver’s seat. It was better to stay awake. He had to keep watch.

His eyes were locked on the timepiece he sat across from. The golden piece was perched upon an old, mossy stone. The raging flames reflected on its broken glass. Little fragments of sand and dirt were trapped inside that prevented the gears from making even the slightest movement. It simply sat there as a reminder.

He growled in anger. The watch matched his expression with a distorted manipulation of his reflection. He thought he saw someone else in the mirror for a moment, but with another glance, he knew it was just his imagination. He clutched the bottle in his hand and took a hard drink from it. The liquid warmed his insides and sent his mind spinning. He tossed the empty bottle to his side and rubbed his knees. He was beginning to grow colder even as the fire raged in its enclosure.

It wasn’t like he had a choice to leave. His shadow would find him again.

It always did.

He frowned. Maybe it was finally time they left him alone. It wouldn’t be the worst thing, to be able to get some sleep without waking up and not being able to fall back. Sleep was something he’d become a stranger to. It’d been so long, almost two years, since he’d been able to get more than five hours of sleep for any period of time. He’d always have the most horrible nightmares of his time across the Pacific. Memories he couldn’t escape. He was trapped in his head, and the things he once called memories taunted him evermore.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood tall and straight, as did his back. His eyes widened, and he froze. He prayed the shadow would pass over him, that the shadow would leave him alone for one night. But it happened. Footsteps, quick but deathly silent, approached him from behind. It came behind him as he stared at the watch, the hand stuck on the eleventh hour. The cold presence behind him forced the air from his lungs, and he fell forward next to the fire. He gasped rapidly, trying to regain his lost breath. As he lay there, trying to breathe, he looked up at the beauty of the night sky that was obscured by the shadow, who was staring down at him.

He was afraid.

“Come on, David. This is no place to hide. We have a battle to win.”

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An explosion caused him to shut his eyes. It was in the inkwell of his imagination that he saw trees with dangling vines thick enough to support a building. The screams of men, both familiar and foreign, echoed through his throbbing head. The weight of the bag attached to his shoulders prevented him from jumping to his feet. He knew where he was. He knew where the thing standing over him wanted him to be. It wanted him to remember it all. The helicopter blade. The Vietnamese. The Soviet tank. All of it came rushing back in one, horrible second, and when it was done, he shot his eyes open and screamed.

Sitting up, frantic and sweating, he looked around his campfire and saw the shadow’s outline above the flames. It stood motionless opposite to him.

In its hand was the golden watch.

“You were so close, David,” it said. He imagined a frown on its face.

“You almost got us out. Yet you still managed to fail the mission. How awful it must have been to attend all those funerals.”

“Shut up!” He cried. “You’re not real! Just leave me alone!”

The shadow’s smile dissipated and turned into a snarl. “Not real?” It rounded the fire and pushed David back to the ground. The shock of how cold it was was enough to send him running, but he was frozen, unable to move in its presence. “Am I not real now? Was I not real when you ran and left me in the jungle to die?”

David put his hands up defensively. “No. No! That’s not what I-” “Then what, David? What do you mean by it? Are you trying to forget me? Are you afraid of me? What is it?”

“I can’t forget you!” He boomed. The shadow took a step back. David got to his feet and curled his palms into fists. “I… I can’t forget you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. If I forgot, then it would be over.”

The shadow sighed. “You don’t have to think that.”

David shut his eyes tight as tears began to roll down his dirty face.

“Then what should I think? You’re right! I was the one who left you to die!

I’ve paid for my crimes, for my mistakes! So why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“Do you think I had a choice?” The shadow snapped. It tightened its fists. “Do you think I would keep coming back if I had the chance to escape? NO! I’m only here because of you and your stupid watch! If you would just get rid of the thing, I would be able to go away in peace. The war is over, David. We lost. It’s time for you to let go and move on! But you won’t! Why can’t you just let me go?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did!”

A harsh and ear-piercing silence fell upon them. David stared at the shadow in front of him. His own hands were clutching his jeans. He could 9

feel salty tears running down his face, but he did not move in fear the shadow would react again. The shadow knew him. If he tried to run, he would be caught.

So he did not move.

He did not run away.

He stood and waited for his friend.

“I won’t let you go,” David whispered through waves of sadness.

He bowed his head. “Not again. I-I can’t. I won’t. So please, Marcus, forgive me.”

And when he opened his eyes, his friend was gone. All that remained was the broken remnant perched on its stone seat. He was cold, frantic, and utterly alone. The lone crackling of the fire drowned out his sorrowful cries that echoed over the quiet prairie.

Valentino Ramos

Artwork

Tatiana Huayamave 10

Artwork

Matea Hewitt

Artwork

Greta Nelson 11

So Close yet so far I see you, you see me Yet no words to be said So close yet so far I’m too shy to say hi, yet I try and try You’re the spotlight and I’m the shadow So close yet so far Perhaps someday I’ll get the strength to talk Even though I act nonchalant Lately you’ve been in sight, yet I don’t meet your eyes Lingering wishes of what I could’ve done Interactions so small Naive of me to think they meant something at all Glowing radiance of your smile glistening from far away So close yet so far Born to be a star Your elegant style so hard not to regard Evidently everyone admires who you are How could they not, you’re the star.

Berenice Correa

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Photograph

Marcy Marshall

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Untitled

heart in hands waiting no one notices beating screaming loving someone notice please. hurt faltering beating again. just for a moment take it treasure it play with it prey on it just for a moment take the weight pain love take my heart given freely someone anyone please free me Ava Bucur

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Artwork

Addrian West

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everything that a girl i met in the city always had with her a bottle of red nail polish because it was part of her flesh. without the red nail polish, she was without her soul. a lollipop in case she ever saw a child. a notebook because she believed she could write anything anyone else could. a watch with the straps ripped off because she felt the need to know the time, but hated the feeling of something against her wrist. a wad of sticky notes to give strangers like me a way to stay in touch. a tiny ear piercing kit (which was never used) because as a girl, her mother never allowed her to pierce her ears, she always thought if she could pierce someone else’s, she’d please her inner child. a bag of chocolate coated espresso beans in case she ever got tired. a pen because without the pen, her notebook and sticky notes would be useless. a guitar pick because she was convinced that she could be asked to play a song at any moment. I know she would rather not play with just her fingers, because she would hate to mess up her beautiful red nails.

Madison Rolnick

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Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa 17

i want to live a beautiful life. i want a house with a spiral staircase and a mini library. i want to sip coffee, sitting out my bedroom window. i want to stop in flower shops and buy flowers to give them out to everyone i love. i want to drive off with no destination. i want to get on a plane with less than twenty-four hours of decision making. i want to smile until i fear my face will break. i want to laugh until i have to cancel my plans for the next day, because my stomach still aches. i want to knock on a friend’s door to surprise them with banana bread. i want to call a friend over for no reason just to talk and sip on iced tea for the afternoon. i want to build a swing onto a tree and laugh when it breaks. i want one of those smart refrigerators with a screen so i can fall asleep on my kitchen counter while watching a movie. i want a collection of spoons so every time a friend is eating cereal in my kitchen i can give them the spoon that perfectly matches their personality. i want to recommend to a friend a book, and a few weeks later for them to walk into my house unannounced, telling me they just finished it. i want to dance in the rain until my hair has completely coiled. i want to have an assortment of candy that sits by my front door so when someone takes one, i can smile and say “that’s my favorite one, you have good taste,” whether or not it’s my favorite. i want to watch the sunset turn into the sunrise everyday for a week straight. i want to run into a field and stay there for hours. i want to taste the perfect cherry after picking it from a tree in my backyard. i want to dance in my kitchen, cooking soup. i want to live a beautiful life.

Madison Rolnick

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Photograph

Julienne Custodio

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to feel alive i think it’s important to feel alive everyday. or at least every once in a while. to do what fuels us. to experience what we crave. to wake up early to catch the sunrise. or to stay up watching the stars. to sit out a window listening to music. to bake cookies at three in the morning. to go outside when the air is just perfect. to run at night. to read while birds are chirping. to laugh until you can’t talk. or better to make someone else laugh until they can’t talk. to sprint through a field. to walk in the rain. to cartwheel in a place you normally wouldn’t cartwheel. to be piggybacked across a long hallway. to reach that point where your body is exhausted but your mind is still racing. to blow out a dandelion, feeling so confident that your wish will come true. to make a new friend that you have a strong feeling that they are going to be in your life for a long time. to take a morning walk. to pick flowers. to go anywhere in a dress. to execute a plan or achieve a goal you’ve always wanted. to have a conversation where you feel like someone completely understands you. to skateboard around an empty neighborhood. to lay down on a hill. or better, to roll down a hill. to sit on a roof. to drive with the windows rolled down on a windy day. to lay in a field. to hear a compliment that you know you are going to think about for days. or better, to give someone else a compliment and being able to tell by their face that they are going to be thinking about it for days. to see someone you have been missing for a long time. to find a new song that you know you’re about to listen to again immediately once it finishes. these are some things that remind me just how alive i am. i think if we all experience enough of these things, we will feel alive and in love with life everyday.

Madison Rolnick 20

Photograph

Lilliana Cerruti

21

Living a Lie The joyous voices color the party But a hush dumps down my courage.

Well-dressed men aware of money Rambling over bonds and automobiles Lost in the crowd Giving the impression of melancholy Sinking in the restless eye Awaiting a scandal No privacy left No more familiarity Violent romance attacks the heart No difference between dishonest and honestly Swooned by grace People are careless Bella Ramirez

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The Bonnet Lady

Gianna Ramirez

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Artwork

Addrian West 24

25

Untitled

I wish I was the clay on a potter’s round molded by loving hands held tight until all of my imperfections are gone.

Instead I am ceramic finished but never cared for.

Only used until I cannot be used anymore when I shatter into pieces.

Roxanne Stasch Photograph

Grace Enderle 26

Artwork

Ashlyn Briano

27

Untitled

I feel boiling rage red looming all consuming.

A violence wishing to break forth from within screaming ripping and clawing tearing and crying.

I feel like a tantrum-throwing child wild with emotion kicking and screaming to break free forth from these familiar chains that bind me.

I feel wall-hitting glass-breaking fury ever enduring.

A burning fire runs races through my veins screeching cutting and biting I end up tearing up and crying.

Amber Constante

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Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa 29

Untitled

Little paper cranes flowing in the breeze They know not where the wind is taking them, But they all wait for the wind to decide.

The dainty pink crane may fly west and land In a park for a small child to find.

The watery blue crane may drift to a distant Town where it is displayed in someone’s room.

The pale yellow crane may soar to a big city Where it nearly dodges cars and lands on The sidewalk to be picked up by an old man.

And the muted green crane may flutter On forever until its wings no longer flap.

However the wind has a plan for every little Paper crane that enters her breeze.

Each crane has a purpose to others and itself.

The child, the someone, the old man are all Made happy by the little cranes for they have Entered their lives after exiting the breeze.

Even the muted green crane is spotted Everyday by someone new, giving it a purpose, Even if it does not have a destination.

Every paper crane is unique and beautiful.

Every paper crane must leave the breeze sometime, somehow when it is right.

And every paper crane has a purpose.

For we are all little paper cranes flowing in the breeze.

Sarah Newmann

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Photograph

Rhiann Zulfer

31

Writing is a conduit Writing.

Boy, am I thankful for it.

It is a conduit for my feelings.

My thoughts, hopes, dreams, and sorrow are exhibited through what I create.

Tko? My fears are depicted through his menacing scowl.

Jax? The best version of myself.

Condora? A dystopian nightmare that fosters my terror and trepidation.

Bo? My hopes for the future align with her saga.

Begru? My fears of the unknown lie in the deep shadowy depths of his hood.

Writing is a tool A conveyance of myself A way for me to transform everything I feel in my soul into a paper confession When the day has treated me harshly, I can escape to another world A better world.

Because I created it.

I control the affairs of the world.

The good, the evil, and all that lies in between.

Putting pen to paper is an alleviation.

A soothing herb that heals my soul.

It heals the scars left behind, hidden behind the crevices my body holds.

Writing is a liberation.

It unbinds the sorrows that have been captured within my soul.

Their chains are broken with a chainsaw, unshackled and free to be seen.

Writing is a conduit through which my personality flows My hopes, my dreams, my love, my hatred, my sorrows All poured into words.

Writing keeps me sane.

It is a way for me to get it all out there.

The pen is a waterfall Overflowing with the rapids and the strong current of my soul.

Writing is a conduit.

Miles Hayford 32

Childhood Tchotchkes

Vincent Valera de Barrett

33

The Ocean Where i spend my summers relaxing A voyage into the unknown Fish, corals, and shells are a Technicolor meld of Rupturing brilliant Bursts of color Vibrant yet Serene.

Ocean.

Miles Hayford

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Photograph

Isabella Broderick

35

Ecstatic yet Petrified College seems Freeing and Exciting Full of new Prospects but I don’t know.

Away from What I know, I’m nervous.

Miles Hayford

36

Photograph

Iris Nelson

37

Promise Me “Promise Me” I say, That you’ll hold onto It. It should not be taken away, For someone else’s benefit.

There are millions of souls, But yours is filled with goodness.

You’ll soon realize up to the point, That people will take notice.

Delicate as a vase, So fragile and frail.

One minor crack, All your flaws will unveil.

People like the ingénues, That’s how females are loved.

The more naive you are, More likely you’ll be taken advantage of.

Not every guy will treat you right, Not every person will be a good friend.

I’m hoping you got this ingrained in your mind, Because these issues can lead your self love to an end.

You’ll start to get into doubt, Thinking you’re not good enough.

Your bones will crack, your heart will die, Then suddenly it’s starting to get rough.

You’ll end up thinking your the problem, So you start punishing yourself.

All for them, you try to fix the trouble, But at this point you’re ruining oneself.

Up to the point you start to lose hope, Life is now a darkness.

Your self love has disappeared, Everything has become meaningless.

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But I’m begging And praying that you don’t throw yourself away.

Your self love is what you really need, It doesn’t have to decay.

You are strong and powerful, Bright as the sun.

You’re tougher than the demons, That can be outrun.

I will constantly be there, Even during your worst moments.

But you’ll have to team up with self love, To overcome the opponent.

The world will collapse, The good things will come to an end.

You might’ve lost the battle, But here is one thing I recommend.

Go find a mirror And look at the view.

You think you’ve lost everything, Well there still is, You. I know it’s scary, Not knowing when you’ll be attacked.

But it will all be okay, As a matter of fact.

Just have your troops ready, Because there’s always some sort of incident.

One will tell you you’re so weak, But she will say you can do it.

“So Promise Me” I demand, That again It won’t be neglected.

If you want to rise up again, It’s going to have to be accepted.

Sofia Martinez

39

Photograph

Julienne Custodio

40

The 100th Time Her eyes were guarded And the way her demeanor You could just tell She missed what was What had taken place And what would never be again She was lost on her island Stranded from the love that once surrounded Her only way of surviving was to remember She found comfort in what had been temporarily But grew tired, of the constant void Impatient of feeling incomplete, worthless And so she began, for what felt like the 100th beginning To recognize that true love arrives in waves like the sea Flowing forwards directly, sometimes backwards but never stops Loving a sandy shore filled with delicate, yet rough sea shells Honoring the different versions of love that arrive through people So she strengthened herself and began For what felt like the 100th time Isabella Ortega

Photograph

Julienne Custodio

41

Not the Same I grew up across from a park.

My neighbors, my sister, and I would spend our summers and any free time we had at the park.

The park was like a second home to us.

But then we all grew up and stopped talking.

Our hips didn’t fit in the swings anymore and it wasn’t funny to watch our hair stand up when we went down the slide.

The wood chips weren’t food and the jungle gym wasn’t our home.

That one bush that was never filled with leaves wasn’t big enough to hide us and the crack in the fence at the back of the park was suddenly smaller than it had ever been.

The swings were always thrown over and the holes in the dirt got bigger.

The tree in the middle was too small to climb and the benches were sat on more than the swings.

Our park wasn’t ours anymore.

Iris Nelson

42

Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa 43

The Narrow Place As the child recalls the questions of the Seder and their eternal answers, I raise my cup four times, yet, I fear the plagues that divide us.

To Spring: I want to collect shriveled petals and repair the halflipped stems of our flowers, wide-eyed and raging and pry the indifference from the face of the wind.

Can I rouse proof that life shimmered around me?

Mud thickens the soles of my shoes as I upturn winter’s emphatic musk without you.

To Liberation: Drained and swallowed, howling from your bones, you ceased resisting the defiance that browsed through your blood, you stopped stretching through nights that cloaked you in convulsions, You abandoned the irascible murmurs that bloated your dreams and as an accomplice, I watched you die.

To Next Year: Tonight is no different from any other night.

Many are dying while others cry into the mortar that holds them invisible to the narrow place.

Door propped open, places all set, I am waiting for Elijah to return with my friends.

Despite choking on the seeping days of another year, I trudge toward the promised land, brittle and needing solace.

To Resistance: Your eyes broiled the torment of melting sweat and hallucinations-projection screens for a rage that cavorted and chattered on your lashes-flickers that curdled your mind and sour faltering spirals that pierced your veins.

Your vivid dissidence is dissolving.

J. Paliatka

44

Artwork

Tatiana Huayamave 45

The quiet one I am the quiet one.

The one who inhabits a back seat and wears headphones listening to other people’s discussions While Stuck in my thoughts Wondering Why am I the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit?

Why am I constantly alone?

Why is it so tough for me to blend in?

I am the quiet one.

The one that no one understands yet I can’t understand them either I spend the majority of my time sitting in a corner I try to speak but the words never come out Within my own bubble Afraid to blend in Watching as everyone passes by Hiding in my corner where I belong, unseen.

I am the quiet one Sophia Valdez Artwork

Ava Bucur 46

Artwork

Sarah Newmann

Anxiety Filled in a room full with people As my body begins to take over the voices in the background start to fade.

The air begins to tighten.

As my body begins to inflate My hands begin to shake.

Despite my fear, I am still smiling.

My eyes begin to tear up.

Feeling like I can’t breathe, Feeling like I’m drowning at the bottom of the sea My face that was previously bright red , goes pale.

My knees begin to shake .

Thinking to myself, “It’ll be over soon.”

Sophia Valdez 47

Mother Nature’s Call This time of year has evolved From the cold, gloomy winters To the blooming colors of Spring Empty branches with no leaves Sprout back to fulfill those empty trees Pale grass turns to nourished colors of green Sunlight breaks free from the gray clouds Joy is brought back to your soul You feel that all your energy, thoughts, and emotions have been restored Sharp frozen winds no longer stab you when you step outside Mother Nature comes to hug you and pulls you into Spring Where everything is open and alive once again All because Mother Nature called out for Spring Katarina Santen

Photograph

Katarina Santen 48

Artwork

Anton Marano

Artwork

Gabriela Falat 49

Untitled

I would not die for you Dying is easy No, For you, I would live I would stand against The traumas that life throws me The stress that life brings me The fear that life feeds me The annoyance that life leaves me No, For you, I would live Then we could live together Take on the traumas together Deal with the stress together Cope with the fear together Groan at the annoyances together I would never force you to live life for me Without me Because life is scary, annoying, and sad when you’re alone No, For you, I would live Sarah Newmann

50

Photograph

Sarah Newmann 51

Photograph Back Cover

Jiovani Espinosa