Goulash Winter 2021

Goulash Winter 2020–2021

Contents Artwork Jocelyn Diaz The Most Wonderful Time of the Year Callie Langs

Front Cover 2

Photo 2 Anna Sako Walking by the Sea Greta Nelson

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Photo 3 Anna Watson The Glass Eye Lorin Bucur

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Photo 5 Dasha Fagan Untitled Poem Amber Constante

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Artwork 7 Ms. Osenbaugh Society... 8 Emily Lathrop Artwork 9 Maura Dransoff Artwork 10 Jocelyn Diaz hypothetical wedding Lizzy Pilarz

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Photo 12 Jazmin Hernandez Marshmallow Boy, Part 1 Lorin Bucur

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Artwork 15 Greta Nelson red-eyed devil Maria Milazzo

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Artwork 17 Lindsey Marquez The Answer About Hope Stella Anderson

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Artwork 18 Ava Hartschuh Artwork 19 Neeve Olson

Awakening 20 J. Paliatka Artwork 21 Ms. Osenbaugh Ode to Mattress Sarah Newmann

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Artwork 23 Amber Constante mia tesora Lorin Bucur

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Photo 25 Anna Watson Masonry 26 Amber Constante Photo 26 Katherine Donofrio Photo 27 Isabel Gable Ten Things I know to be True Isabella Ortega

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Artwork 29 Nayeli Munoz Tough Love Amber Constante

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Photo 31 Billy O’Malley Riddles Three Ms. Osenbaugh

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Photo 32 Brisa Serrano Photo 33 Victoria Sarin Haiku on Hope Caroline Sullivan

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Her Angel Sarah Newmann

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Artwork 35 Maya Reina Photo 36 Gianna Ramirez Photo 37 Audrey Moster

Photo 38 Jazmin Hernandez Artwork 39 Jezebel Calva Untitled Poem Katherine Donofrio

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Artwork 40 Izzy Cameron Artwork 41 Javaugh Jossell The Raindrop Who Loved a Flower Mia Skaliotis

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Photo 43 Mary Calabria Photo 44 Julienne Custodio 1-800-273-8255 45 Alice Hamilton Artwork 47 Maya Reina Artwork Jocelyn Diaz

Back Cover

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.

Dear Reader, With all that has been happening in the world, the Goulash editors chose the theme of hope for this issue because that’s something that everyone needs this year. Hope is the light in the darkness: it grows and eventually defeats it. There is always going to be another day to try again, and joy will be found in the smallest of things if we look for it. This newfound hope has driven students to look towards the future with new eyes and create a better world with their art. This can be seen in the futuristic, space-themed front and back covers. Much like space, exploring 2020 has been scary and brought a lot of uncertainty, but that hasn’t stopped us. We are still journeying on because humans are driven by determination and curiosity. It is with this spirit that we present this issue of Goulash, a spicy stew of hope and creativity. Enjoy!

Sincerely, Maya Reina, Amber Constante, and Greta Nelson, editors

Goulash is produced

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

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year The blue-black night cloaked over the town as silent whispers glistened through the wind. The night stood still. Only stars draped over the darkness giving it a glimpse of light. Delicate breaths staggered as the coldness of the night drew cooler. Roads empty, homes full. The crisp air danced throughout the night. As dawn appeared, the brisk air faded. The sun shadowed the town and gave the land a blanket of warmth. The sky was broad and open. Puffs of air broke out as one spoke to another. The air, clean and crisp, kissed each cheek rosy. Hands numb, lips chapped. Little light flurries tumbled down leaving a fluffy sheet of snow. Decorations splattered over houses filling up the streets with wonderful green, red, and white lights. The smell of sugar cookies, hot chocolate, and cinnamon filled every nook and cranny in each home. Smiles spread, gifts shared. The silent day turned into a night full of laughter. Christmas music buzzed across the globe. Children dreaming of sugar plums and Santa Claus. Parents celebrating. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.

Callie Langs Photo

Anna Sako 2

Walking by the Sea I hear the spirits moan And thank goodness I am me.

Made of flesh and bone, Alive and walking by the sea.

To be only a ghost, How hard it would be!

Destined forever to float Alongside the sea.

I am still alive, Fortunately, So I can feel the sunshine As I walk by the sea.

I hear the spirits moan, They want to be like me: A man of flesh and bone, Walking by the sea.

Greta Nelson Photo

Anna Watson 3

The Glass Eye The man with the glass eye lived on Main Street, in a little brick-red house that never had its curtains open. Jane knew all of this because she would often see the man on walks: to the store, to church, to the beach. She had always been suspicious of him. But whenever Jane had voiced her concerns to her mother, her mom would promptly turn to her father and say “the hyperimaginative ramblings of a young child.” Jane didn’t know the words “hyperimaginative” or “ramblings,” but she correctly assumed it was nothing.

She also assumed that the man, with the glass eye and jet black hair, who lived in the little brick-red house on Main Street, was evil. Every time her lively brown eyes glanced over his blue glass one, she felt a chill rush over her.

She would promptly hide behind her mother, who was wholly unaware that Jane was in a mental battle with the glass eye, as she simply waved her hand and greeted her neighbor from Main Street, Edward.

Jane didn’t call him Edward. Jane would never call him Edward. Edward was a name for cute porcelain bunny dolls, and middle school boys that her mother liked to call ‘trouble’. It was not a name for the man with the glass eye, with jet black hair, who wore his suit to both church and walks on the beach.

Jane knew the glass eye because of his walks. To the store for milk, to church on Sunday.

To the beach, every evening, without fail.

Jane used to love the beach, but now its comforting blue waves had been fundamentally tied to Edward’s blue glass eye. Now, she avoided the beach whenever she could.

One day, Jane ran directly into this man, misnomered Edward. She had broken her evasion of the beach for one day, to build sand castles with the middle school boys called trouble. On her way back home for dinner, she ran straight into the man with the glass eye, and as he helped her up, she stared into it.

His glass eye. Oh, his horrible glass eye.

His glass fish-like eye was nature’s perfect oxymoron. It held no depth or emotions, yet it seemed to reflect your innermost core back at you. You were drowning in its artificial blue depths, weighed down by your sin, and only kept afloat by its desire to torture you.

Jane was more convinced than ever that the glass eye was evil.

Yet, as Jane reached her house for supper, she turned around and watched the man with the suit. She watched him trudge along the sands, methodically, without life. She watched him pull something out of his pocket and drop it into his mouth. And she watched him wade into the water, dressed in his suit, never to come out again.

The town was small, and so everyone had attended the funeral of the glass eye, Jane included. She watched the eye’s son place a bouquet onto his empty 4

casket, to mourn the old man who had disappeared. She felt sick.

When Jane told her mother that she had seen the glass eye wade into the ocean, her mother promptly turned to her father. Jane could barely make out the sentence “the hyper-imaginative ramblings of a young child.”

A life with no purpose had slowly crept by for Jane in the small town. The current Jane knew the words “hyper-imaginative” and “ramblings,” and she had buried her parents over 30 years ago. A car accident had resulted in an amputated finger, and she had lived life without her left pinky the same way she had lived prior to the accident.

On a walk to the store one day, Jane turned around and saw a young girl scamper behind her mother, while eyeing Jane’s hand. It was not the first time the young residents of the town had eyed her missing finger, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Jane remembered the eye.

She felt that after all these years, she finally knew Edward.

She was finally able to call him Edward.

And one day, after many mundane, uniform years, Jane waded into the ocean, never to come out again.

Lorin Bucur Photo

Dasha Fagan 5

Untitled Poem

Hunger.

So deep and widespread.

A longing, For sustenance and fulfilment.

Forever reaching into the shadows Forever looking in through the keyholes This hunger pains the many Outside my walls.

Thin, fragile fingers And skinny, boney legs Sunken faces full of dread No supper and then off to bed.

Haunting images of ash grey humans And the sadness behind all their eyes.

Hunger.

For more than they are given.

Hunger.

For that which they deserve.

Hunger.

Amber Constante

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Artwork

Ms. Osenbaugh 7

Society...

Society says girls must have long hair to be pretty Yet society says girls must chop their hair off if they have a break up Society says eating disorders show insecurity Yet society says to always lose weight no matter how much we weigh Society says boys must be masculine to “get the girls” Yet society says boys must show their “soft side” to “get the girls” Society says acne and other skin “issues” need to be gotten rid of to be “attractive” Yet society says we shouldn’t let these “issues” affect how one sees themself Society says we need the latest clothes to be “in” Yet society is constantly telling us our personality is the only thing that matters Society says attractiveness and inappropriate clothing is the only way to get a guy/girl Yet society says the only thing that should matter in a relationship is the love Society says one needs filters to look “good” in pictures Yet society says filters make us look “thirsty” Society says we need to be all be extroverts - period Yet society says to always shut it - period Society says body hair is disgusting and should all be shaven Yet society says that the hair on our faces and head is totally fine Society says we need to stand out to be noticed Yet society says we must “fit in” no matter what or be depressed Society is constantly telling us to love ourselves; that we are worth it Yet that’s not what society is saying at all Emily Lathrop

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Artwork

Maura Dransoff 9

Artwork

Jocelyn Diaz

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hypothetical wedding Do we even know what love is?

Do we know where to start? you don’t know what my name is and i don’t have a heart but i guess i’m independent, and i think i’m built to last, but we know that i’m just afraid that i’ll have to leave you in the past so let’s plan a hypothetical wedding where everyone’s laughing and nobody cries let’s plan a hypothetical wedding and pretend that love doesn’t die they tell me that my soul is older and your face is shiny and new i wish that i had been bolder but this body is borrowed and blue but let’s plan our hypothetical wedding they’ll dress you up nicely, and I’ll stand to the side let’s plan the hypothetical wedding and pretend that the love hasn’t died We’ll work in black and white pretend there’s a wrong and a right but you’re just so uptight because letting go means that you know Lizzy Pilarz

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Photo

Jazmin Hernandez

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Marshmallow Boy, Part 1 The boys called him a marshmallow. Yes, he was an unfortunate product of two diabetic parents, but he was happy nonetheless. While the other boys in their boarding school couldn’t distinguish between pi and pie, Mark, the marshmallow boy, could eat a whole one and recite the first 100 digits in his sleep.

The boys also called him old-fashioned. The increasing societal reliance on celebrity culture and social media eluded Mark, to a genius brain it was silly. He highly preferred his nose in books, text, and textbooks. But, the New Year’s Eve in that fateful boarding school would change his life. Even in Mark, his head too absorbed in Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem, didn’t know it yet.

Yes, the marshmallow boy was brilliant, but brilliance always comes with a price.

Mark had no semblance of the incoming doom. After all, not even a master of probability can portend the severity of future events. So, ignorance was bliss, or as close as bliss could get as a bullied high school freshman. And his life continued as normal, his idiosyncrasies making him more of an iconoclast than ever. His isolation became greater and greater each day.

Yet, one day in the dusty library Mark was reading Principia translated into English, when one of his female classmates approached him. Mark, thankful he had made it a priority to memorize all of his classmates’ names, let out a terse acknowledgement to the brunette.

“Julia, evening.” His statement reached her ears as he dog-eared his place in Newton’s opus and looked up at her.

“I didn’t think you knew my name, Marshmallow Boy,” She said with a slight smirk, sitting across the table from him. Although Mark was at first annoyed with the hackneyed insult, he couldn’t sense any malice in her words, thus he wryly smiled and moved his bag so she could put her things on the table.

“So what brings you to this little corner of the library,” Mark started as she sat and pulled out her book. Julia said nothing, though and twisted her fingers. When he realized she wasn’t going to answer, he continued, “Nothing can come of nothing, Julia.” He said it in his best iambic as he grabbed his book. With still no response he un-tagged his page and began to read again. But it wasn’t long in the awkward silence before he put it down again. “You don’t know Shakespeare?” He questioned.

“I do,” she said glancing up at him, “I just have no idea how to 13

respond.” Thus, she continued reading her book, Little Women. Mark was confused, but as she showed no further wish to talk, he gave up and continued to read Principia, much to the chagrin of Leibniz.

And thus, the original awkward silence between them evolved into a comfortable one—nothing filled the air but the sounds of the flipping of pages, as well as the occasional comings and goings of fellow students.

They finally parted ways once the library was closing for the night, with not even a word exchanged between the two. But Julia was there the next day, this time reading The Great Gatsby. Mark made no gesture to say hello, and neither did she, and so they continued in that sweet, comfortable silence of two intellectuals savoring the words of people who had come before them.

Every day they would go to that same table, a tradition, unbroken by anything, well, except when the library was closed for meetings.

Then the two freshmen would sit outside the library doors on the bench, crisscross, with their books in their laps. The library after class, that was simply what they did. Not a word was exchanged between them since that first awkward conversation, but no words needed to be. It seemed they understood that nothing had to be said, they had glimpsed into the other’s soul. Words would only ruin their sweet escape in silence, in the words on the page. They weren’t concerned with living their own lives, but living vicariously through the characters on the page, forgetting themselves in the prose.

That is, until Julia asked him on New Years’ Eve if he would date her.

Mark was surprised, but I, frankly, wasn’t. Between Mark’s awkwardness and Julia’s blunt nature, it was no question who would make the first….well, make the first everything. The first confession, the first hug, maybe even the first kiss.

Mark had said yes, not out of a particular interest in Julia, but because that was what he thought he should do. The comfortable silence between them was his one escape. He was Mark with her, he was the marshmallow boy with everyone else. So to continue this escape, he said yes, and they continued their tradition, nothing having changed between the two except their title.

Lorin Bucur

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Artwork

Greta Nelson 15

red-eyed devil a red-eyed devil drew himself together hair mouth blood eyes man one hundred and forty pounds with passion of man the ground on his back he had never been in his life and did not understand with a scream he was reborn and again he was aware but his madness knew no caution and a dozen times it smashed him down feet blood nose mouth ears Beautiful with bloody slaver but pain was nothing compared to agony a roar that was in its ferocity the man left at the same time, downward and backward a complete circle a red-eyed devil Maria Milazzo

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Artwork

Lindsey Marquez 17

The Answer About Hope What is the point of it?

What is the true meaning of hope?

Is hope a wish that you will pass a test?

Is hope a dream that you will make your parents proud?

Is hope that strength to pick up your world after it crashes down?

Is hope that will to carry on?

Is hope the feeling inside that one day the world will be together again?

Hope is that rainbow at the end of the storm there will bring you where you please to be.

Stella Anderson

Artwork

Ava Hartschuh 18

Artwork

Neeve Olson

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Awakening She waded into the misty sea, her dress pooling around her knees as she glided, undaunted, toward the grayness in front of her-a humid gray, ombre layers of thickness, dove that melded into charcoal near the water.

The cold numbed her feet like tiny bees stinging her toes into oblivion, yet, strangely, her cheeks flushed, a rare glimpse of warmth in the otherwise foggy cold.

She didn’t know what compelled her to keep walking through the sea-She was drawn to the horizon and the secrets that floated above it-secrets elusive for many years, just beyond her mind’s grasp-secrets untold to women even by other women.

She longed to know those audacious pearls of truth, wrapped in layers of luminous nacre, that no one dared to speak.

J. Paliatka

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Artwork

Ms. Osenbaugh

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Soft.

Pleasant.

Your rosy sheets cling to me as if they yearn for my presence like I yearn for your’s.

Without you I am nothing.

I’m dead.

I’m alone.

You bring me back even with a nap.

My home of fantasies that live in my head.

You, oh mattress, are the one.

I come storming in just to see you, for I await your time every day.

You are gentle, kind, calm.

I hope you never leave me or else I may be gone.

Ode to Mattress You, Mattress, are my object of praise.

Every night, I can’t wait to see you.

Every day, you are all that’s on my mind, for you are my day and night.

When I am jaded, my head clouded, you are what I search for.

That bit of tranquility, where I can snooze.

Nothing bad comes from you.

Even when the world has flipped upside down, you never change.

You are my hub of dreams, my slew of pillows, my relaxation station.

You don’t need a frame, you have the ground and me to hug you each night.

Home.

Comfortable.

Sarah Newmann

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Artwork

Amber Constante

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mia tesora along the cliffs of Amalfi, I spot mia tesora a treasure some call family, some call friend yet only I can call mia tesora lei non e’ un’amica o “mia amica,” ma mia tesoro sui strapiombi di amalfi, con me lei e’ a treasure greater than gold or silver capelli glistening in the light of the sun. occhi reflecting the blue sea, my thoughts and feelings, e la sua anima. vestito drifting in the wind. la sua bellezza rivaling only the sunset, only Italy itself if I had known che lei stava aspettando per me sooner forse starei con lei da pari a pari, in coppia but instead guardo dal paradiso guardando a lei, e dove ho toccato le acque di amalfi, tanti anni fa, prego che lei non farebbe lo stesso errore Lorin Bucur

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Photo

Anna Watson

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Masonry The working of stone The building of walls.

Walls that protect And rarely crumble.

Walls that can imprison But also contain The dangers that lie within them.

The tearing down of these walls is hard work Yet the building is not.

The stone is hard and durable Yet they crumble once hit with a well aimed chisel.

This stone is carved, beaten into shape, Used to make walls, and secured with the right materials.

If to build walls is a mason’s work, Then call me The Mason.

Amber Constante Artwork or Photo

Katherine Donofrio 26

Photo

Isabel Gable

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Ten Things I know to be True 1. It’s impossible to experience bad days because even those in retrospect allow the chance to see the hidden beauty that lies within the learning process.

2. Love isn’t about him or her it’s about why you chose them.

3. Every day is a gift that should be opened with enchanted eyes never seeing yesterday twice.

4. Your intentions should be golden honey that nurtures a community of bees, never just the mother bee.

5. It takes an infinite trial and error along the road to healing and recovering and that’s okay.

6. Judgment leads to deceptive misconceptions that become rotten food served to the heart and brain.

7. When you put your energy towards magical aspects of life you start to see fairy tales aren’t pretend after all.

8. Don’t become captivated by your head too often because you’ll miss the thousands of butterflies flying in front of your very own eyes.

9. Misery isn’t perennial, endure it; don’t say you can’t because you indeed can.

10. Do not resist interactions with the knowledgeable, the wise, and the meek, for harmonizing with them is no coincidence.

Isabella Ortega

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Artwork

Nayeli Munoz

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Tough Love Why does it feel like you’re not near?

Like you’re too far and never here?

Is it just me?

Am I crazy?

Is this how my world will be?

Why does it feel like you’re so far?

I kinda think it’s left a scar.

Then I start thinking I’ll go insane!

Then I thought a bit and now I’m saying.

I’m tired of being scared; tired of being lonely!

Is it just me? You treat me coldly!

If I give up, feeling I’m not enough, Would you let me be, or would you say “Be tough”?

Do you understand me? Do you understand, That nothing happened according to plan?

Do you understand the meaning of, The meaning of what you once said was “tough love.”

So now that I, that I am gone, How does it feel hearing this song?

You can’t hurt me anymore!

Knowing you felt like a chore!

Every day with you was so much pain.

I have the confidence to now say, I’m tired of being scared; tired of being lonely!

Is it just me? You treat me coldly!

If I give up, feeling I’m not enough, Would you let me be, or would you say “Be tough”?

Do you understand me? Do you understand, That nothing happened according to plan?

Do you understand the meaning of, The meaning of what you once said was “tough love.”

I know you didn’t mean to hurt me!

Maybe you were just scared too!

That doesn’t mean you had to ignore me.

I just wanted to talk to you!

I can’t deny that what happened, Was something that I had to do!

And that’s why I said,

I was tired of being scared; tired of being lonely!

It wasn’t just me! You treated me coldly!

If I gave up, feeling I wasn’t enough, You would let me be and you would say “Be tough!”

You don’t understand me! You don’t understand, That nothing happened according to plan!

You don’t understand, the meaning of, What happened between us, no, that wasn’t tough love!

Amber Constante

Photo

Billy O’Malley

Riddles Three I begin life as a humble bean; I end it as an unclothed queen.

A gift to make your lover sigh: Tell me, friend, what am I? Invisible, yet everywhere: I travel, ghostlike, through the air.

I fail you when you need me most.

A place for far-off guests and hosts.

What am I? Springing from an endless spout, Liquid born within, without.

Whether you feel joy or shame, I’ll escape you just the same.

Ms. Osenbaugh

Brisa Serrano

Answers: 1. Chocolate, 2. The Internet, 3. Tears.

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Photo

Victoria Sarin

Haiku on Hope What’s the true meaning Is it a feeling of trust Or just having faith?

Caroline Sullivan 33

Her Angel Flames for hair, embers lashing out to hit the eyes of innocent passersby.

Demonic brown eyes, devouring any poor soul with fear if they dare look at her.

Pale dry skin, tired of being baked from the flames of her hair.

A smile like the devil to match her eyes as the corners point up in mischief.

Nails long enough to claw at those she dislikes.

No one with eyes like her demonic ones ever cries.

Emotion is unknown to her according to most.

She merely stands with her nose held above the rest as they quiver or roll their eyes.

The demonic girl is told to be either absolutely infuriating or terrifying.

Feared or hated? She is both.

Those demonic eyes do cry though. Thousands of tears flush from her when she is alone.

The flames of her hair retract in on her, replaced with stone.

Her skin glows from the salty waters sprouting from her eyes.

Her nails no longer claws but normal hands that catch her sorrows.

Why is it that she has to look like a beast, but feel like a lonely puppy?

Puddles of tears swish around her as vibrations tremble through the floor.

Aqua light emitting from the depths of the waters, shining high.

The darkness shrivels, for it brakes with such light as a new figure steps out.

Her long brown hair, soft to the touch, swirling in waves around her.

An angelic smile overcomes her, not forced at all.

The demonic girl tears her face from her hands to see the new light.

Her eyes meet the gentle chocolate brown ones before her that swim with kindness.

She feels her tears dry away as her fire returns, igniting with a sharp red glow.

Her eyes still dark yet brightened by the angelic friend before her.

All her pain disappears as the patient girl stands with certainty.

“I like your hair,” she begins to speak, her voice gentle like a summer breeze.

“Your flames reflect in your eyes like rubies in the sun.

Your skin is like the terrain of Antarctica, pale, yet beautiful.

Your nails are perfect. You could easily pluck the strings of any instrument.

A lovely sound you would create. I’m sure of it.”

The two unlikely friends meander through the halls.

No one is scared nor annoyed; they are amazed at the sight.

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The demonic girl, no longer a fright with a smile like the stars.

Her flames are now admirable with the new light next to her.

And the angelic friend swears she can see a fleck of gold in the demonic girl’s black eyes.

Sarah Newmann Artwork

Maya Reina 35

Photo

Gianna Ramirez

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Photo

Audrey Moster

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Photo

Jazmin Hernandez 38

t rA

Jezebel Calva

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PhotoUntitled Poem

It was an eerie evening So cold, so mysterious And there I stood, leaning The wind grew furious Each tree, swaying with meaning The flowers were curious Full and harsh, the moon was beaming This was something very serious The stars were dreaming They acted so imperious Grieving and heaving, I threw the necklace full of meaning It had been promise so precarious And now I was weaning Now we were both notorious Katherine Donofrio

Art

Izzy Cameron

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Art

Javaugh Jossell

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The Raindrop Who Loved a Flower “I’m a raindrop boy. I formed from a raindrop that fell from the sky. I’m blue like the raindrop. There aren’t any others like me. Raindrop people form very rarely. I met a young bud. She was very small, but very pretty. She soon blossomed into a pretty poppy. She never saw me until today. We play games together. We watch butterflies and ladybugs fly by. She always laughs when they go by. She has such a pretty laugh. I love her laugh. I hope I never see the day when she stops laughing. I hope I never hear her cry. I love Poppy.”

“I met a nice raindrop boy. We spend all of our time together. He likes to look for rocks. Once we found a really big rock and we climbed it. He said he was now king of the big, gray rock. He said that makes me the queen. There are other flowers in the meadow where we play, they are big and tall. Droppy says one day I will grow like that. I hope so. I want to be pretty like the other poppies. Droppy says that I was a pretty poppy even when I was a bud. He says no other poppy bud was as pretty as me. The other flowers don’t like him. I don’t care. They say he will leave me. I know he won’t. He will never leave. I love Droppy.”

So that’s how it went. Poppy and Droppy like two peas in pod. Never apart, always together. They laughed and played together. They thought they would always be together, but sadly that would not be. There was dry spell.

Poppy grew weak and frail. She could not play like she used to. Of course, Droppy tried his hardest to help her, but her strength was leaving her and Poppy knew she didn’t have much longer. So when they were in the meadow lying in the no longer green grass watching ladybugs and butterflies, Poppy said goodbye to her raindrop friend. “Soon I will be going with the butterflies Droppy,” she spoke softly, “Soon I’ll be going back to my place in the sky.”

Droppy turned to her, his heart filled with sadness, “Don’t talk that way Poppy. You’re going to get better. The dry spell will be over soon and the grass will be green again and you will grow strong again.”

She smiled, but even he knew that his little Poppy was not going to be with him much longer. Even though she laughed, the laugh he loved so much, and smiled her beautiful smile, the little raindrop boy could not return her smile. He sat silently thinking about life without his flower love and ways that he could save her. There was only one way. Oh, he would miss her so much. He helped her stand then said solemnly, “Remember when I said you were going to grow tall like the other flowers?” She nodded, still smiling.

How he would miss that smile. “I’m going to help you with that.” He stood quietly for a moment. “I love you Poppy,” he choked, holding back tears.

“I love you too, Droppy.” He pulled her into a hug and then he was gone.

The little raindrop boy never got his wish. The last sight he saw of his beautiful flower was her smile fading and tears beginning to fall. Though the 42

sun shined bright the poppy felt nothing, but grief and despair. His flower friend cried that day. A part of her was gone. Her raindrop boy was gone. No one would ever know of the little raindrop boy who gave his life so his little Poppy could live.

Mia Skaliotis Photo

Mary Calabria 43

Photo

Julienne Custodio

44

Art

1-800-273-8255 1-800-273-8255.

A number I shall memorize and never forget as it is my home phone.

A number that should be posted all over like a new Instagram challenge.

A number I will remember.

1.

One is always first.

It is at the beginning of everything on a list. As you are my first, you quench my thirst, you make laughter from me burst, you bring the energy to me as I was nursed, and it would just be the worst...

If I didn’t remember this one.

8.

8 is great.

I will always remember 8 as you won’t enter the Heaven gates because what will be pounding will be your heart rate as your life will be what we celebrate as from you I can’t separate and I would never forgive myself if I was too late To make this call.

00 I hit zero twice.

It makes me think just how crazy and unpredictable life is when you roll a dice, Or how disgusting it is when you see a bunch of mice, Or how cold it is when you are put in ice, Or how plain it is just like white rice, But for life we pay that price.

Zero is your hero.

You will never forget zero as you will never forget a superhero Which is someone you could be after you call this hotline.

2.

I will remember 2 will never make you blue because 2 is always so new as something else adds from to make 2 because it simply grew to make a wider view.

I will remember 2 as if it is my strict curfew 7.

I will love seven as I love the slurpees from Seven Eleven that taste like icy heaven. Seven is Heaven.

Which is somewhere you won’t be after I make this call.

You may think that your life is small but to me it is greatly tall But I will catch you like a ball and never let you fall.

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You will be alive with me and that is all.

3.

Three is always with me.

As you will be too after I make this call.

With this three we will always be a we, I will not be a me Because when we are a we you bring me so much glee that you can’t just set free.

8.

8 comes again as you won’t because you only get one life.

If I don’t make this call the next time I will see you will be far upstairs and my body can’t wait that long.

8 is great because it reminds me that I have to stay with my mate because it is my fate that I can’t simply wait.

2.

It comes again I just knew.

I just knew that I need to know this 2 so I won’t be so blue when the funeral I have to attend is for you because I didn’t do my job and come through and to wipe those tears and give you a tissue.

55 Lastly, here comes five.

This five encourages me to strive to keep you from preventing yourself from being alive and not wanting to survive.

1-800-273-8255 A set of numbers you should never forget.

A set of numbers you shouldn’t be afraid to call.

Because if you don’t dial these numbers on the little boxes we call phones that connect to someone on the other side of the line, your friend or family’s life can be on that line and you could lose what you call mine.

As I have once lost what I called mine.

Alice Hamilton

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Art

Maya Reina

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