Nazareth Academy Goulash Winter 2023

--Goulash--

Contents Artwork Erin Wilkosz

Front Cover

Artwork 15 Angelle Sherlock

Shy. 1 Sofia Martinez

Known to God Norah Cassidy

Artwork 3 Gabriela Falat

Photograph 17 Isabella Renteria

Free as a Hummingbird Pablo Guerrero

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Where I’m From Neeve Olson

Impulsive Hummingbird Pablo Guerrero

5

Artwork 19 Aszher Leal

Baby’s-breath 6 Emme Barnes

Artwork 20 Gabriela Falat

Photograph 7 Isabella Renteria

A Fragile Place J. Paliatka

Devil’s Twister Valentino Ramos

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Artwork 23 Angelle Sherlock

Photograph 11 Jiovani Espinosa

Patience 24 Katarina Santen

Façonnable 12 Iris Nelson

Photograph 25 Jiovani Espinosa

Photograph 13 Grace Enderle

Not Ready for the Dead Abigail Amaya

Giving up Sophia Valdez

Artwork 27 Jack O’Gorman

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16

18

22

26

The Sun, The Moon and The Clouds Elena Garcia

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Photograph 30 Rhiann Zulfer Waxing Poetic Roxanne Stasch

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Fantasy 32 Sophia Valdez Artwork 33 Gianna Ramirez The Heartbreak and Beauty of Younger Siblings Berenice Correa

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Why Won’t You Hear Me? Tatiana Huayamave

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The Date Sofia Martinez

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Artwork 37 Gianna Ramirez Treasure in the Sand Grace Enderle

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Artwork 39 Elizabeth Pedergnana TRACKER 40 Christopher Flores

Photograph 41 Jiovani Espinosa Hurricane 42 Roxanne Stasch Artwork 43 Alexa de la Cerda Artwork Grace Enderle

Back Cover

Dear readers, In the jumble of our lives, it is important to stop once in a while and take a moment to appreciate the wonders of self expression. Goulash is not only a mix of writing, art, and photography but a collage made from the unique creations of our contributors. Each contributor has shared a small piece of their life through their work, and all together, Goulash represents the collage of being human.

In this issue, the contents of Goulash are not only a patchwork of genius, but our front and back covers are collages themselves. As you read this issue, we encourage you to reflect on your own life as a collage. Who has left an impact on you? What experiences have made up who you are? And who knows, maybe you’ll be a piece of paper in the collage that is our next issue. Whether good or bad, the lives we lead, the people we know, and the memories we make are all a part of our own personal collage.

Be creative, have fun, and enjoy the jumble that is your life!

Best, Ava Bucur and Iris Nelson

Goulash is produced by Writers’ Society, which includes: Abigail Amaya Liliana Baena Haley Bedtke Ashlyn Briano Ava Bucur Norah Cassidy Izabella Castillo Lilliana Cerruti Arcelia Cruz Sofia Cuate Jane Cwik Ally D’Apice Ava Distel

Arabella Elliot Grace Enderle Gabriela Falat Brady Fisch Elena Garcia Pablo Guerrero Tatiana Huayamave Marcy Marshall Sofia Martinez Alaina Milon Iris Nelson Liam O’Meara Neeve Olson

Katelyn O’Toole Gianna Parolin Elizabeth Pedergnana Isabella Renteria Madison Rolnick Evelyn Rosenberg Mark Rovano Ashley Snyder Roxanne Stasch Caroline Sullivan Violet Umbrasas Rhiann Zulfer

Goulash Editorial Policy Goulash welcomes submissions of original 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.

Shy. Outside, it is silver like a tin can.

It fades away in the sky like a cloud.

Speak to it, no reaction.

As it stares into your soul with no sound.

Maybe they think, It’s dead inside like a corpse.

Its eyes don’t even blink.

They say in the jet black night, to find it, You will need a torch.

If you throw a book at it, It possibly won’t flinch.

All it does is sit, Still as a statue and doesn’t twitch.

Go ahead, you can talk about it!

It’s silent as a sleeping kitten.

Talk maybe even in front of it!

It’s just sitting in.

But just an FYI, I have one mouth, two eyes, and two ears.

Sometimes I smile, scream, or cry— And I can listen and hear.

“Can you speak up!”

“Why are you so quiet?”

“Do you ever crack up?”

“You’re so silent!”

These words sharp as scissors, Poke my eyes to cut the opening of my tears.

Gives me shivers, and flies at me like a random kickball coming to my face, before I can show fear.

In a classroom, it’s sometimes like — Security cameras are on me, like I committed a crime.

No sight on me, body still doesn’t feel right.

It’s like speed has gone slower for time.

1

Eyes spot people covered with masks, Voice has died.

Questions, unable to ask.

Mouth opens, but like a little kid terrified of clowns— Went behind its parents to hide.

Clear face, Judge says they’re innocent.

Hand shakes with theirs, and bodies embrace.

Lie detector proved their innocence.

The floor is a great sight, While feet step into the hallway.

In class, correct answer bangs my mouth, But lips are tightly locked.

“What are their impressions of your soul?”

Unknown.

See my face, just scroll.

I bet after watching my movie, You wish it wasn’t shown.

“What is its name?”

“Favorite show?”

“Favorite game?”

“It’s shy— and how should I know?!”

“Can you speak up!”

“Why are you so quiet?”

“Do you ever crack up?”

“You’re so silent!”

You want the why.

This is it.

Unless you are her, You won’t understand the person— Shy. Sofia Martinez

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Artwork

Gabriela Falat

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Free as a Hummingbird Freedom and impulse go hand and hand Like mother and son, Freedom is fair and just Impulse is beauty and curiosity.

Impulse is letting the mind run while To let go of logic…

To let one’s true expression come out To remove the shackles of social conformity To let go of anxiety and its comforting worries To express oneself as one wants to.

To let the Hummingbird fly free To let it go in surrealistic flight That it may be free and flourish.

In this newfound freedom that was once untouched from the being And once alive will it flourish with color and love.

May it run wild, let it graze the canvas, The book, The speech, The play, The music, The people, May it find new life as a Hummingbird Pablo Guerrero

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Impulsive Hummingbird

Pablo Guerrero

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Baby’s-breath I love baby’s-breath I am in love with baby’s-breath The flower, of course Well, I’m in love with the breath of babies as well Hearing the ins and outs of their tiny lungs Pump vigorously to inflate, then rapidly deflate The sound of their miniature yet earth-shattering lungs filling to the brim with air Theirs isn’t like yours, though Hearing you breathe in and out calms me Seeing your chest rise and fall It brings me peace Your breaths sound like the ocean waves crashing in And I slowly drift off into the ocean Drifting forwards, then backwards, towards the shore, then farther out As you hold my hand and lay it on your chest Our hearts begin to sync together Pounding, then slowing down, falling into each other’s warmth and arms I feel myself light up with pure euphoria I have found my peace right inside you You are my home Emme Barnes

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Photograph

Isabella Renteria

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Devil’s Twister “Dear Lord, it’s me, James. I come before you as your humble servant, as nothing more than a man with a question on his mind. All this time, all these years, only one thing has kept me awake at night and consumed my every waking moment. I come before you now begging you to answer…

“Why, God, did you send the Devil to take my family from me?”

Lightning flashed outside the stained glass windows, briefly outlining the interior of the old church. In the front row, praying on a worn kneeler with his fingers laced together in a tight fashion, James looked up just as the electric light came, and there, on the wall above the tainted altar, hanging from a wooden cross marked with embedded blood, was his Lord, His hands outstretched and chest pushed outward, as if to scream in pain in His eternal position of torment. Like his Lord, James was stuck in an endless life of torture and misery.

Oh how it pained him to think about the night the Devil’s twister came.

It had been unlike anything he had seen—any twister, for that matter. A mile it must have stretched in all directions, and it came leaning over his home like a colossus. Pitch black, a swirling vortex of death and destruction, and in its center, as he ran with his family to the shelter behind his home, he heard it laughing at him, taunting his desperate attempt to flee. And when he turned back to look, he had fallen and dropped his child. His leg had become stuck in a hole, and as he hopelessly tried to free himself, he watched the storm rip his baby girl and wife away from him, leaving nothing but the foundation of his home and the chiseled remnants of his belongings in a heaping pile of filth and rubble. He never found his family, but he knew, somewhere, that they were still alive.

He flinched once the thunder came. It shook the church walls and sent a stack of old Bibles teetering over. Even though he heard the doors open, he kept his head and tired eyes down focusing only on his prayer. When his family had been taken from him, he began to pray more and more, embedding it into his daily routine. His friends and church leaders even joined him. He was even offered a position as a minister. But, as time passed, voluntary prayer sessions became forced recitals. “Why did you all stop? Pray with me!” he would yell.

“My family is missing and you have the audacity to stop? Damn you all! Pray with me, you unfaithful bigots! Pray!”

He clutched the pew wall and lifted his head up. “Oh Lord!” he called out to the Heavens. “Hear my prayer! Return my family to me! Return them to me, oh gracious and generous Lord! Return them—” “You are quite an odd case, you know,” a deep voice interrupted.

James turned his head back and saw a stranger sitting a few rows behind him on the opposite side of the church. The man, that mysterious stranger, was 8

dressed in a long, black cloak that stretched out into the shadowy parts of the church where the light would not reach. Under his hood that, as it had been, covered his eyes and the extent of his nose, James could see the pale skin of his mandible and the dull grey shade of his lips. Any other feature that may have been distinguishable was not clear because of the distance between the two.

“I could never understand it,” the stranger continued. “Months and months, years and years have passed. And still, you cling onto that question of yours like it is made of the most valuable treasure on earth. Really, I must applaud you for your faith, but this is so far beyond just belief. This is… something more.

Something rarer.”

James furrowed his brow. “Who… who are you?” he asked.

The stranger smiled. “Who I am is not important. But who you are, oh my. You are more important than you can ever know. I’ve been watching you, James, and as His will may have it, I finally was able to reveal myself in the one place I thought I would never step foot in again: before Him.” James grimaced. “Are you not a man of God?” From under his cloak, the stranger lifted up a long, black pole crowned with a silver blade that curved down to a sharp point. Under his cloak, he was dressed in a dark, finely tailored suit. This was no man, James knew. No man at all.

The stranger’s smile faded and a frown of remorse parted his cracked lips. “I used to be. A long, long time ago. Like you, I never chose this life. We are both prisoners, slaves, servants. Call it what you will, but we both are tied by bonds we cannot break. But, unlike you, I chose to walk the middle path and allow God’s work to be done in His way. And you, James, have done nothing but curse and disrespect the Lord all the days you have lived.”

“What do you mean?” he questioned, turning completely around now. He stood up and curled his fingers into tight fists. “I’ve prayed, I’ve offered my entire life to Him. My blood, my soul, my tears! And you think I haven’t done His work? How dare you! How dare you accuse me of such an act! Who are you to say I have done wrong to the Lord? Who are you to say anything to me?”

“I am the Mediator in the swirling vortex that is the never-ending clash between light and darkness!” The stranger rose and the storm outside intensified. Lightning flashed, and the stranger’s skin momentarily vanished and was replaced with nothing but pale, white bone. A terrifying rumbling noise filled the empty church. “God provided you with everything you needed after the Devil’s twister, and you turned it all away! When you prayed for your home back, God gave you this church. When you prayed for your life back, God offered you a position as a priest. And when you prayed for your family back, God gave you this entire community of believers. But woe to you, James Franklin, for every gift God has given you was tossed aside. And in the same 9

way you abandoned it, those gifts abandoned you. See now that you sit here alone and in disgrace! And here you are, standing in what remains of God’s love for you! Don’t you see? Of all the things you rejected, the one thing that never was gone was your home with God! Because even after your ignorance and your ungratefulness, His love persevered the test of time, and the church stands tall in the ruins of this town. Shame on you, James Franklin! Shame on you!”

The noises continued to increase as James stood in his position before the stranger, finally recognizing his mistakes and trying to think of a way to repent.

“Your actions are meaningless now. Look here now, man!” the stranger boomed. James turned away, afraid. Again, the stranger called to him. “Look here, man!” The stranger lifted his boney hand and pointed out the front doors.

There, waiting for James and growing closer, was the dark twister that had taken his family from him. The rumbling reached its crescendo. “Look at what has become of you and your putrid human unfaithfulness! Look here at what comes for you!”

Overcome with fear, James rushed to the slippery altar steps and knelt before his Lord, his hands folded and his back to the stranger that approached him with his scythe lifted at a leveled position. He prayed and begged God to forgive him. “Lord God,” he prayed. His voice was drowned out by the intensifying sounds of the twister approaching from the front of the church.

Still, he continued. “Lord God, I come to you as a humble servant, as nothing more than a man who has seen the fault in his ways and wishes to repent before you. Lord, all this time, all these years, I have not seen what you have graciously given to me, and I have turned all of your gifts away. But, Lord, I am here now to repent and to ask for your forgiveness. So please, Lord God, don’t let the Devil take me away too. Don’t let me fall to him. Please, Lord, forgive me.”

A firm hand wrapped around his shoulder. At first, he thought it to be the cold grip of the stranger, but the longer he stayed on his knees, the warmer the touch became. The warm feeling enveloped him in a blanket of safety and comfort. Seven words echoed in his ears, and as they did, they silenced the coming twister and left him alone with the feeling.

“My son,” said a fatherly voice. “I have already forgiven you.”

And with that, the noises subsided, and the Devil’s twister was dispelled by the rays of hopeful sunshine piercing through the veil of dark clouds. The light stretched down in the church and flooded through the stained glass windows, outlining every crevasse of the church brilliantly. There, above the altar, looking down at James, was his Lord, but He no longer wore a look of eternal pain.

Now, it was a solemn look of acceptance. James stood up, his eyes renewed with the revelation that he was indeed left with the one thing that had been present since the Devil’s twister had come for him: God’s eternal and persevering love.

Valentino Ramos 10

Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa 11

Façonnable Even after he was gone, his smell blew through the house, not haunting but protective. His smell stuck around in your nose so long, it was as if the smell had snuggled in deep. It stung a little when you inhaled it, but not in a harsh cinnamon way, in a fresh way. It was Christmas, white tablecloths, breadsticks, fights with cousins, and mansions. It was family. I stood in a black suit, my shoes wet with the morning dew. I hadn’t cried until then. Not when I heard the news, not at the church, not when things got worse, not when we cleaned out his house, and not even when we sold it. But now as I gripped the hands of my sister and my cousins and saw him descend into the earth, I tried to contain the tears that were so close to falling, and the involuntary shaking that would come with them. A few tears fell, and slipped through my lips, covering the inside of my mouth with a prickly and salty taste. As my sense of taste was triggered, I became aware of the scents surrounding me. I smelled trees, lawn mower clippings, and the people around me. However, the one person that I longed to smell, despite him being just a few feet away, no longer emitted the booming smell that I loved so much. Smelling it never hurt my nose, it was never too much. But now when I smell it it does hurt. It hurts because now, I only smell it out of a bottle, not off him.

Iris Nelson

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Photograph

Grace Enderle

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Giving up As you look in the mirror, you lose interest in what you love.

With all your mistakes, you want to give up.

The years of effort you put in are meaningless at the moment.

Your inner voice tells you that this is not the proper course to follow. wishing for you to fail.

One error, and you’re out.

It just takes one slip-up from you to undo all the years of hard work.

The point I’m trying to make is this: It’s impossible to have perfect days.

Never allow a single day to diminish years of effort or the passion you have for something.

Bad days seem to last forever.

But the bright days always outweigh the bad.

What’s best for you shouldn’t be determined by your bad days.

If it feels good in your heart. It is then designed for you.

It’s so confusing to know what’s best for yourself.

Maybe you’ll lose your spark for the thing you’ve wanted for so long, but you’ll thank yourself in the end for never giving up.

Sophia Valdez

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Artwork

Angelle Sherlock

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Known to God I am unknown I am a mystery I am nothing but a picture on the wall, an empty chair at dinner, a rose thrown in a river.

I am prayed and thought about daily.

But I am known to God. I am unknown I am remembered I have seen the barbed wire, the land mines, the rifles, and the tanks I am the one who’s bravery has made us so proud But I am known to God. I am unknown I am never alone I hear the clicks of the soldier’s shoes, the weeping crowds remembering me, the soft breeze rustling through the trees I am protected and watched But I am known to God. I am unknown I am honored I have wreaths laid at my tomb, prayers sent to me, and guards watching me to keep me safe I am honored and respected But I am known to God. I am unknown I have seen places and people that no others have seen My resting place is in our nation’s capital, a place I have fought to keep us free. I have soldiers watching me at all hours of the day, all days of the week, weeks of the month, and months of the year.

Rain or shine, hot or cold, day or night, I am always guarded by my trusted sentinel.

The sentinel who has chosen to guard a soldier who lies and rests in honor and glory, an American soldier known But to God. Norah Cassidy 16

Photograph

Isabella Renteria

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Where I’m From I am from acrylic, From my grandfather’s paintings And the Classics Hanging on the walls of the Institute Six year old me would sketch I am the broth of my mother’s soup the warm feeling of something homemade stands for lemonade and The strangers that came.

I am from the willows at the Arboretum, the October baby When the leaves change in the fall brisk cold of Midwest before A Winterlong haul And from Grandma’s Earl Grey And Grandpa’s cafe My father’s smile and my mother’s face From swim in the sea And soak in the sun From let it be And the journey is fun.

From all of these people and things Continue to be shaped Continue to be rooted Yet, still, I keep my wings.

Neeve Olson

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Artwork

Aszher Leal

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Artwork

Gabriela Falat 20

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A Fragile Place Coffee stains the moonstone dress she wore the night of the dance-the night of the blizzard-the night nature unleashed on the Great Plains sending sand and snow and cowboys in a plume all the way to Orion’s belt.

We might have seen it coming-in tea leaves or horoscopes, but we lived deep in a cave of parchment-hidden in a fragile place-ignoring the bright ideas the world offered us-fixating instead on the prickly pears of our minds-darkly refusing to see that what the world foreshadowed was upon us.

J. Paliatka

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Artwork

Angelle Sherlock

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Patience Patience That’s what’s expected from us To sit still Stay quiet And be patient I was patient with you I told myself there was hope Hope that we could be something But it never happened Did I wait too long for you?

Was I the one who was inpatient?

You never told me So I continue to sit and ponder What if we never met?

And didn’t know each other for so long Would our lives be different?

When I think of you now My stomach feels sick I despise you from the bottom of my heart You made my stomach twist and turn In knots that could never be returned When I see you it’s like that stare all over again That so innocent stare You can fool a girl so easily from just one stare But now I read your looks so easily Moving on was my best decision But you were left looking at me And my stares Katarina Santen

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Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa 25

Not Ready for the Dead To all the people who have lost a pet but aren’t ready to move on

She must’ve forgotten about me, my owner without me feels free however I was her first best friend, there’s no way I will be left dead looked all around the city, nowhere in sight was there Millie maybe she did forget, and I felt upset My owner doesn’t want to remember, the day back in September where she had lost her best friend, and I have been blessed dead I haven’t forgotten about you, It always was us two I’m not ready to put you up on the altar, or else I will holler your death passed me by, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye when next year comes, On your altar there’ll be skulls I have to get over your death, but the memories will always be in my head i love you so much, my canine friend, wait for me in the end Abigail Amaya

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Artwork

Jack O’Gorman

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The Sun, The Moon and The Clouds When the Clouds ask the Sun “Go behind, and shine your powerful light so that I may glow with my beauty” The Sun has always And will always Say Yes But when the Sun asks Please Clouds Tell them of my beauty Tell them how I help And make you glow The Clouds say No For the sun ensures that the clouds Glow But the Clouds They have never said thank you For the help and the kindness of the Sun The Sun A beauty That she doesn’t see Because it shines too bright in a dimly lit sky and tries to be as quiet as it can be For the humans Who have always complained When it snows “Where’s the sun!”

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But then when its a clear day “Go away sun, you’re too bright!”

It is either too warm, or too cold But never just right Not like the clouds That glow But to the Moon Oh To the moon The Sun is more beautiful than Anything The Moon looks at her Sister With a Smile and says Remember what you’ve done for people And then Think how I can help you How can I help you shine?

How can I help you see That you You My beautiful Sun Are the brightest Thing In the Universe Elena Garcia

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Photograph

Rhiann Zulfer

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Waxing Poetic i fight feelings with a pen every strike another word on a page each death a poem’s end as i grow closer to a resolution of reason. stanzas bloom like spring flowers in the emptiness where an enemy stood. anger forms red-pen roses and heartbreak turns to blue chrysanthemums but bright ink never fills what once was there. a struggle’s headstone remains, a contrasting calm grey. if the battle started moments later than it did it could have ended in peace but what better way was there to kill my emotions than to bury them in metaphor and let them die as art more beautiful than they ever were?

Roxanne Stasch

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Fantasy Tell me how much you care about me.

Tell me how perfect we are Tell me how you’ll remain with me forever Tell me how we are like the moon & stars that never die Tell me how perfect i am to you Don’t tell me you’ve lost interest.

Don’t tell me you’ve found someone new Don’t tell me I’m not enough for you.

Don’t tell me that I’ll meet someone who isn’t you.

Don’t tell me you’ll become another stranger to me.

Please just don’t tell me the truth, Please just stay in this fantasy forever with me Please just you and me.

Sophia Valdez

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Artwork

Gianna Ramirez

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The Heartbreak and Beauty of Younger Siblings I look at my sister with eyes of admiration.

Solely with the thought of “how can I be her.”

I think to myself how she can be so perfect.

In my eyes she has the perfect life.

Only to her it is quite the opposite.

I steal her clothes in hopes to be her.

She doesn’t see my intentions.

Instead she sees me as the “annoying little sister.”

Who takes all of what she has.

She is the inspiration to all I have.

Some may call that unoriginal, I call that being the “annoying little sister.”

We argue.

We cry.

We laugh.

We hate each other at times.

But in the end we will always have one another.

You are my biggest critic.

Yet my most loyal other half.

Berenice Correa

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Why Won’t You Hear Me?

Tatiana Huayamave 35

The Date “It was never real.”

“You should’ve just kept your feelings concealed”.

“There was nothing there.”

“She never cared.”

These repeated thoughts scattering in my head.

I wish my feelings had never been said.

Flashback to July 22nd, 2023.

Recalling it back, she’s all I could see.

Her lingering perfume and ombré pink and purple hair.

My eyes were glued to her so long, I wasn’t even aware.

Sweaty hands on the wheel.

She was ready to go to the carnival, but I still didn’t know how to feel.

“Let’s go on the carnival swing!”

I didn’t know she wanted to go on that thing…

Closer to the entrance, palms are sweating, and can’t keep still.

On the ride her finger interlocks with mine, and suddenly I’m thrilled.

A warmth then rushes through me, and suddenly I become fine.

A quick glance at each other and I instantly want to hear, “You’re mine.”

Up in the air and my fingers are compressed into hers tightly.

Heart beating so fast, this ride is scaring me.

Suddenly, I’m glued to her sparkling eyes.

Our lips instantly touch, and it feels like I’m high.

Thoughts disappear, heart beats faster, and it feels like I’m in heaven.

She now became my new obsession.

Lips pull apart and my head quickly turns away.

Face is red like a tomato because I didn’t know this would happen today.

Heart beat gradually slows down.

Breath coming into my ear but no sound.

She murmurs something new.

Out of her mouth, “I love you.”

Heart beating fast again.

“What happens then?”

Oh that’s right, now she hurts me.

Because that girl was just a false she.

Today, when I think of her, I feel an ache.

I feel like I’m about to cry or maybe scream because she was fake.

“You’re so sensitive!”

“Why are you so insecure and negative!”

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“You’re acting paranoid and crazy!”

“You know I want our relationship “private,”so don’t let them see!”

“Oh, he’s just my friend!”

“I didn’t say that, your thoughts can’t comprehend!”

Eyes are on the ground everytime I pass her.

That black charcoal panther.

Her hissing and loud slander continues to swell.

As it becomes silent, I feel listless and not well.

I wish I never felt love for her, or was it adrenaline?

Because if it was love, there shouldn’t have been an end.

I need to go back in time to get me out of that love bubble.

That way I can breach out and there wouldn’t have been any trouble.

I hope I won’t continue to feel pain in this state.

But all I know is that all of this wouldn’t have happened without the date.

Sofia Martinez Artwork

Gianna Ramirez 37

Treasure in the Sand She bent down to pick up what she thought was a half buried seashell... but in the distant warmth of the night, her dirt caked hands uncovered a small faded pink orb. A ball that slowly formed to shape as her eyes acclimated to the wavering light that the moon provided these days. Bright and effervescent... then very suddenly black as slick oil washed up on a shore line.The orb gained power as her warming hands maintained their grip, the dullness it possessed before, almost as if it was run by battery about to fully drain, momentarily acquired something new. A brighter light. This unknown thing in her hand gained an unexplained source of energy with each second that passed by until it was brighter than the sun once was.

“Will they see me?” Her rapid footsteps in the sand were all she left behind.

“She’s gone,” said the voices emerging from the dry brush.

Grace Enderle

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Artwork

Elizabeth Pedergnana

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TRACKER “This chip,” Doctor Earl, who was wearing a yellow hazmat suit with white latex gloves, put the tiny green chip in front of my eye, “will be implanted in the cortex and will allow you to see things the way they aren’t usually seen.” Doctor Earl stepped back and sat down in his chair. On his titanium glass desk were pictures of his family and kids.

“It’s safe, no?” I asked, already knowing his answer. Doctor Earl nodded enthusiastically. “If it wasn’t safe then why would we hear so many success stories and people telling us how much their quality of life has improved?”

I shrugged. “It’s such a blessing,” he went on. “It feels great to be a part of something good…something that’ll change the way we handle the sickness.”

The sickness he is describing is the Caecus 42 virus that seemingly popped out of nowhere. Caecus is Latin for ‘blind.’ Contrary to its name, the sickness doesn’t make you blind, but rather slows down your brain.. making it impossible to think.

“So,” he said. “Would you like to proCEED eeeee…eee…e..

SurGErYEE?” His words are unintelligent. I regained focus. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Would you like to proceed with the surgery? We only have so many chips available.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I really need it.”

“But you have the sickness.” He said.

“And I’m only thirty three. The sickness has a much harsher effect on those older than fifty to sixty. I’m still young.”

Doctor Earl shook his head. “Why not nip the problem in the bud by just getting the surgery over with? It isn’t painful. You’ll be put to sleep and before you know it,” he snapped his finger, “just like that..it’ll be done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He confirmed. “And it’s free too.”

“No side effects? No changes in behavior or anything that I should know?”

“Well,” he said. “There is one thing that might be of concern.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“I want to assure you that the chip does wonders. It really helps.”

It felt like he was trying to dodge the question and so I asked again, “What’s there to worry about?”

“With the chip being free of cost, there has to be some sort of way for them to make money off of it. Do you know the saying, ‘if the product is free then you are the product’?”

“Yes, something like that.”

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“In order to keep the chip at such a low cost the company sells your data to advertisers. Let’s say you are thinking about ordering a pizza. A pizza company promo will appear on an advertisement for a website. Or let’s say you are thinking about buying a new smartphone. Companies will collect the data and use that to try to get you to buy something. It’s nothing new.

A lot of companies do that.”

To be continued…

Christopher Flores

Photograph

Jiovani Espinosa

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Hurricane she is a hurricane breath-takingly dangerous everyone says so. she is beautiful you know the warning signs but you can’t leave her behind. you still get swept up in her madness her winds strip you of your mind of your bodyof your sense. her waves push you every direction doing things you never thought you would for her. she can ruin you you always knew she would. and when she washes you ashore you will shrivel on the sand wishing waiting wanting. she leaves nothing but destruction in her wake.

Roxanne Stasch

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Artwork

Alexa de la Cerda 43