2014 Reflections Literary Magazine

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SNOITCELFER REFLECTIONS loohcS yrotaraperP revilluG evirD lladneK htroN 5756 65133 adirolF ,imaiM 7397-666-503 gro.sloohcsrevillugw . ww

Gulliver Preparatory School 6575 North Kendall Drive Miami, Florida 33156 305-666-7937 www.gulliverschools.org

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Table

Of Contents Poetry 4 6 19 20 47

“Sleep,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 9 “Breaking Free,” Talia Pfeffer, Grade 9 “Words,” Talia Pfeffer, Grade 9 “Phoenix,” Minja Ranisavljevic, Grade 11 “Abandoned,” Nicholas Campo, Grade 11

Prose “Reflection,” Alejandra Ruttimann, Grade 12 8 12 “The Flee,” Camille Kelleher, Grade 12 22 “Viva Los Driggs,” Amaya Contreras Driggs, Grade 12 24 “The Same,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 9 26 “One Day in the Life of a Caricaturist,” Melanie Fuenmayor, Grade 12 30 “Queen of the Playground,” Paola Songeur, Grade 11 33 “The Theo I Know,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 9 36 “My Girl,” Anabel Epstein, Grade 12 38 “That Red Rose For Remembrance,” Emily Kirsner, Grade 12 43 “Strangers at a Bar,” Alexa Coots, Grade 12

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Original Artwork Cover “Autumn,” detail, Rachel Franklin, Grade 12 1 “2012,” Valeria Butacci, Grade 11 4 “Entangled,” Rachel Franklin, Grade 12 7 “Ominous Hum,” Erin Keating, Grade 10 8 “Movement,” Paola Bontempo, Grade 10 10 “Hallucination,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 9 12 “Lost,” Priya Dhairyawan, Grade 12 15 “Trees,” Isabel Hucker, Grade 9 16 “Into the Forest,” Ines Noel, Grade 10 18 “Words, Words, Words,” Ros Fiol, Grade 11 20 “Under the Willow Tree,” Rachel Franklin, Grade 12 23 “Mama Toya Cocinando Mole,”

Maria Del Pilar Garza, Grade 12 24 “Clashing Climates,” Franco Zacharzewski, Grade 11 26 “Self ‘Kind of ’ Portrait,’ ” Ros Fiol, Grade 11 29 “Bloomy,” Daniela Perez-Retes, Grade 9 30 “Swing In,” Nora Walz, Grade 11 32 “Looking Back,” Franco Zacharzewski, Grade 11 36 “Pears,” Monique Martinez, Grade 10 38 “Wristwatch,” Ros Fiol, Grade 11 41 “Rosa,” Monica Rodriguez, Grade 12 42 “Self Portrait,” Beatrice Martins, Grade 10 45 “Self Portrait,” Sophia Esquenazi, Grade 9 47 “Help,” Monica Rodriguez, Grade 12

Photography 11 11

“Tunnel,” Rebecca Serrano, Grade 12 “Bridge,” Rebecca Serrano, Grade 12

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Rachel Franklin

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Sleep

By Katherine Cohen

Sit, tired wanderer, rest heavy eyes,

this gentle bed of tears.

Lounge, tired wanderer, remove your

watch, dispel any time left.

Ease, tired wanderer, into soft fog,

light fading weary sight.

End, tired wanderer, the sound of life,

more beauty in silence.

Part, tired wanderer, with waving

warmth, and join eternal light.

Rachel Franklin

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Breaking Free

By Talia Pfeffer

Yes, I know I’m different It’s no secret.

Between the whispers and judgments, I am that one jagged piece of the puzzle that just doesn’t fit.

At times I wonder how I take it, Being the one no one knows what to do with.

I try to mesh with the crowd but I stand out.

I can hide all I want to in the meantime, And seek all the protection I can get, But I will never be accepted.

To break free from whatever holds me back, Is what I need to do.

If society can’t make a name for me, I have to make a name for myself.

I can’t drown myself in insecurities, For my imperfections make me who I am.

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Erin Keating

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Paola Bontempo

Reflection Alejandra Ruttimann

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As I walk through the concert gate entrance, even-tempered and overcome by the harmonious mixture of lurching bass and hypersonic tempo, I cannot conceive the state of tranquility I immediately enter. Light aqua and pale rosy hues of glitter neatly swept upon my eyelids with single rhinestones carefully set on either end of my eyes, the brightness of my attire does not nearly do justice to the sheer happiness radiating from within me. The multicolored assortment of bracelets stacked along my wrists and the fluorescent fanny pack fastened at my waist would surely seem like an oddity to those who do not understand the occasion for my garish ensemble.

From the exterior, we may look like tens of thousands of energetic listeners in outrageous neon outfits cramming into overcrowded spaces, comparable to a carnival freak show of sweaty young adults. However, beyond its initially unconventional façade, the electronic festival atmosphere reveals a distinctive culture based on more than just music.

It exudes an inherent respect and acceptance of one another’s differences behind a common adoration, embodied by the industry’s mantra of camaraderie, PLUR: “Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect.”

I am not blind to the industry’s controversial novelty and isolated tragedies. Skeptics and critics alike have undoubtedly attributed negative connotations to the purpose behind the concerts and generalized the intentions of their audiences, consequently branding electronic music itself. Irrespective of time, music serves as a release for both the positive and negative emotions of a population. From the viewpoint of a new generation growing up with this firsthand shift in musical taste, I encounter difficulty explaining to most adults how such a largely unfamiliar style has undeniably begun to define my generation just as the emblematic names of Elvis Presley and Tupac Shakur came to characterize the youth of previous decades. Every popular movement experiences its share of positive innovators and misfits, and listeners can be chastised or stigmatized in the process. This is my version of Beatle-mania.

What do I gain from listening to electronic music? Not only do its comforting soft-paced melodies and carefully constructed beats provide emotional catharsis and relaxation, but it also offers me an opportunity to appreciate the creative genius of its artists in an enjoyable environment. Its festivals allow people to venture beyond their regular social boundaries, giving introverts and exhibitionists alike a chance to escape everyday tedium even briefly, and encouraging them to embrace an alter ego through outrageous clothing and unreserved social interaction. Music has helped me thrive socially and connect with surprisingly brilliant individuals,

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whom I would have never encountered within a purely academic setting.

I perceive the ever-increasing integration of electronic music into modern culture as a microcosm of the new-age struggle to maintain emotion and elicit passion in an era when technology can cause individuals to distance themselves from each other. Music possesses a power so impalpable yet influential in bridging gaps between people of different backgrounds. It reflects an eclectic range of genres and sub-genres, serving as a testament that the beauty of music takes on different variations in order to appeal to cultural and emotional differences between whole communities. From Armin Van Buren to Knife Party and Hardwell, each artist provides distinctive melodies and tempos that accommodate my current struggles and feelings, essentially providing me with the proper tools to appreciate each style as a distinctive work of art.

My Theory of Knowledge teacher always stresses that we have to learn to filter out the noise in order to extract personal insight from a situation. That is exactly how I perceive the electronic music genre: a beautifully chaotic sensory overload that gives me the freedom to assign whatever emotion or meaning I want to the experience.

Catie Schwartzman

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Rebecca Serrano

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Priya Dhairyawan

The Flee

By Camille Kelleher

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The Escape

I had been following the family in front of me since we left the refuge. Everybody walked looking down at their feet and shuffling onestep at a time; left, right, left, right. We didn’t know who was leading us or even if we had a destination. So we would just follow one another in a long chain of despair; family after family, person after person. I would look behind myself and see my father and mother holding the hands of my little sister Brook, unfairly born into a world of doom and oblivious to what enjoyment had meant a few years ago. They walked on both sides of Brook, hiding her from the demolished buildings and mounds of bloody rubble.

The relentless, dark gray clouds blocked the sun and its power of warmth on our bare and numb bodies. There was no hope left in our hearts, passion circulating through our veins, or reason in our minds. When I took the uneasy moments to lift up my head and look around me, I saw the result of war, famine and disease. Everything had been destroyed for a while now. According to my watch we had been marching for a few months. The ticking of the seconds announced continuous losses for man and further passage into a permanent massacre. When day became dusk, we would all stop and the families would cluster together around the food. The diet of saltines, peanuts, and nutritional pills became dull and repetitive, but that was our only choice. The families huddled in their circles would murmur unimportant and trivial words amongst each other with no intention.

I had never accepted the fact that the march signaled the end of our existence; we couldn’t simply hand ourselves over to death. I knew there were other ways, and if there weren’t then at least we would die with dignity and honor. I wondered if people ever felt what I had thought, avoiding the hands of downfall and making alternatives. Over the degenerative years, the expression of my parents that was once warm and reassuring became forced with love. Both of them wanted the best for my sister and I but they found it difficult to take care of us. I knew they depended on me and the day when I would have to assume total care over Brook had been coming closer and closer.

The night I fled with my sister, there was a full moon shedding yellow toned light on the campsite. I had told no one my plan besides Brook, who was too young to comprehend what it meant. From what I can remember; I had thrown a stash of food for a few days, my sister’s favorite set of figurines, and a change of used underwear into my drawstring bag.

I grabbed her sweaty, small little hands while I looked into her scared,

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deep blue eyes with a mark of reassurance and tenderness. When I walked past my resting parents my mother’s gaze fell upon me. I froze. For a few moments we held each other’s vision until she slowly closed her eyes. I continued towards the wall of trees and entered into the forest keeping Brook at my side.

We had hurried through the forest with no definitive path. I held on tight to my Brook; I would not let her fall behind. Half of my motive was for her to see another world, one where she could spend a free and idle day playing with her toys and enjoying the nature around her. At that time, I did not know if this world existed; however, I had to experience one last feeling of pleasure and satisfaction in the company of Brook.

The Mountain

Brook’s face was smeared with dry blood, there were twigs knotted in her wavy hair, and the mosquito bites across her body swelled up into giant bumps. Even though she was in pain, her guiltless deep blue eyes made our situation seem conquerable. We had just stumbled upon a pasture where each blade of grass was illuminated by the sun. In the middle of the vast grassland, there was a protruding solitary mountain that stretched infinitely towards the sky.

I had to hide my face behind my arm to protect it from the sun’s intensity. After spending an unknown amount of days in the forest, my eyes were accustomed to darkness and the shadows of surrounding trees. The amount of days Brook and I spent aimlessly wandering through the forest remained unclear. My watch’s ability to track time broke after I tripped over a hidden log, and the only function that continued to work was the heartbeat monitor. My overly cautious mother gave me this watch because of my congenital slow heartbeat a couple years before the apocalypse; when people mindlessly considered a falling stock market or a bad annual review by his or her boss as the end of the world. While Brook and I rested in the forest, my heartbeat sustained a steady low of 28 beats per minute; however, it increased to 36 beats per minute when I watched Brook sleep in the pasture. Although I didn’t know what Brook and I would do next, I remember feeling a sense of ease because we were no longer just accepting the fate of accustomed death. Instead, we were fighting an unnamed battle against the human race.

Suddenly, Brook awoke from her deep slumber with a shriek that fell into a subdued cry and continual grasps for breath.

“Whe-where is mommy and daddy, big bruddah?”

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I didn’t know what to say, so I gave her a couple of saltine crackers and my canteen filled with water. I repositioned myself next to her and secured her in an embracing hug. As my head was buried into our embrace, I felt her breathing slow down and return to normal. She pushed me away with all of her strength, except it barely had any effect given the difference in size. Instead, she resorted to slithering out of my hold. Her determination to break the hug resembled a desperate need. My gaze followed Brook who was running towards a mountain goat. My heart momentarily stopped.

The goat continued towards us, as if wanting some of the saltine crackers.

This was the first time we saw a life form that wasn’t an insect. Brook placed both of her hands on the goat’s head and pushed it up to her face.

She fed it some of her stale crackers and gave it a big smooch on its cheek, oblivious to the fact that it could have bit her and transferred a disease.

Within five minutes, Brook had developed a relationship with the goat that could have been mistaken as a lifelong friendship. Brook’s natural gesture of innocence towards the goat only heightened my will to find a new home for both of us.

The mountain goat soon separated from Brook and began to walk in a direction towards the mountain. Brook, not ready to part ways with the goat, followed it. I grabbed our sole belongings, which was only my backpack, and followed the goat towards its mountain. I couldn’t separate my sister from her new friend, especially when she hadn’t experienced this much fun since leaving our home. Although I was not aware of it then, my decision to follow the goat had eventually led to our survival.

Isabel Hucker

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Ines Noel

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The Utopia

My heart rate monitor read a steady heartbeat of 72 beats per minute. Brook and I found a perfect area to disguise as our home after we followed the goat to its mountain. I used sturdy branches and leaves to make a camouflaged hut on the mountain’s peak, right next to a thunderous waterfall that sustains our existence. My sister and I fell into an autonomous and unforced routine since we arrived at the mountain. I was able to sleep into noon without parental interferences and requests, and still had a productive day caring for Brook. I found fish to eat for dinner, fetched water from the nearby waterfall, and fixed the hut each day to ensure that Brook felt at home on the mountain.

Brook spent the majority of her days playing with her favorite set of toy figurines that I packed for her from my family’s belongings. She created an ongoing story about a three-generation community living on a farm that is isolated from all societal institutions. Although I knew Brook was innocently playing with her toys and exercising her imagination, I always thought that the interactions between the individual toy figurines and the simple and honest storyline shed firm light on Brook’s pure and untainted perception of life. In her imagined community, Brook unconsciously made her characters take on youthful decisions like taking risks and living unrestrained as they grew more experienced via their mistakes and successes. I can remember one particular instance when Brook made a young boy on the farm take his little sister to a nearby river and teach her how to swim. Although the little girl almost drowned, the older brother saved her and she eventually was able to float without her brother’s help.

After that day, I had never felt closer to Brook and been happier about my decision to leave the human chain. ...

Today marks a particularly bittersweet day in our adventure. It

has been a year since Brook and I left our parents. After we ate some fish for dinner, Brook and I sit on top of the mountain’s peak and watch the golden sun fall behind the evergreen trees on the earth’s horizon. I place my arm around Brook in a secured embrace as our legs dangle from the edge. I focus on distant memories from when my family and I lived in our old wooden suburban house before the disaster. My mother and father always looked at baby Brook and I with genuine and unconditional love.

Although they aren’t here with Brook and I now, their presence still warms my heart and strengthens my responsibility over Brook.

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Ros Fiol

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Words

By Talia Pfeffer

We write them, We speak them, We think them, We dream them,

And we waste them.

They mean something.

At least,

we assume they do.

We overanalyze,

trying to find the perfect ones to use.

They have the ability to wound deeper than the sharpest arrow.

We must be careful in our choice,

using each one as if it were our last.

Remembered by the ones we facilitate, And forgotten by the ones left unused.

We are our words.

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Phoenix

By Minja Ranisavljevic

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Far away there is a place from a fairy tale Where gunshots come before you grow up Where streets are the only school Forget about books Money is the only knowledge you need.

Belgrade -- from angels make demons The city of broken dreams A mixture of East and West From cradle to grave, from grave to God. Grief of the city is a game of a butterfly That bleeds with every new sunrise Like weak laughter of sad men Who remembers everything that was happy Like a bird, falling after her first flight Trying to rise above Eager to reach wide, blue skies.

Rachel Maria delFranklin Pilar Garzas

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Viva Los Driggs

By Amaya Contreras Driggs

A place with collapsed walls, crooked floors, blackouts, no running water, no air conditioning, no Wi-Fi and no texting, may not be nice for many but for me it is a place where I am perfectly content. I was born in Playa, Ciudad de la Habana, Cuba, to my then 22-year-old Afro-Cuban mother. She met my then 53-year-old Italian stepfather shortly after my birth and we happily lived together in Havana, Marbella, and now Miami, notwithstanding our different backgrounds, languages and ages. Although I have not resided in Cuba for what became 10 years this past July, I have never spent more than a year without visiting my homeland. My highspirited family, the fresh fruit, the multicolor sunsets, the clear beaches, the lively music, the vintage cars, and the welcoming yet loud inhabitants, are what make my attachment to Cuba all the more special. Instead of dwelling on the adversity of the “third-world” accommodations, I chose to love and revere my home country for the tropical paradise that it is.

During the 6-and-a-half years that I lived in Marbella, Spain, a trip back to Cuba meant a 30-mile drive to the Malaga Airport, an hour flight to the Barajas Airport, followed by what seemed as a never-ending 10-hour plane ride to Jose Martí Internacional Airport. But then, I disembark onto a 40-degree Celsius terminal, where 4 mere light bulbs illuminate the path into the nation I call home. The joy of seeing my Grandma and the rest of “ Los Driggs” makes my trip worth the grueling travel. My family has motivated me to excel in whatever I wish to pursue, as they have led by example in several fields. My second cousin Abel competed in the Athens 2004 Summer Olympics, my other cousin Harold now lives in Paris, and my 96-year-old great grandfather walks 5-and-a-half miles daily, encouraging me to emulate their persistence and become a successful individual.

Although the majority of my family has not been to college (actually none), only speak Spanish, and have no clue as to what standardized tests and GPA’s are, I would never even consider the idea of replacing my loving, supportive, and wild clan. The festive environment of my family’s patio on New Year’s Eve, where my countless cousins, second cousins, uncles, 22

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and aunts, dance to ‘Tio’ Joel’s salsa tunes or blast “Gente de Zona,” is where I feel most content, because it allows me to bond with my family -- along with the fried plantains, croquetas, “picadillo”, “congri” rice, and a pig roasted on the side with the eldest family members enthusiastically gossiping, all the while adding another dimension to the Driggs’ home.

My country is a marvelous little island, even with the political misfortunes that cast such a large shadow. It is full of friendly, exuberant individuals that decide to conserve their wide smile despite the decaying characteristics of the nation. It is full of so much history and colonial buildings that never fail to fascinate me. The beaches are jaw dropping, even after visiting the stunning beaches of Bora Bora, Cancun and Bali. There is a band in every corner and $1 meals on every block. The simple culture of barefoot kids playing baseball in the streets and strangers inviting us to dine at their homes without expecting to be paid makes me proud to call a place -- where those less fortunate continue to give their everything -- my home. I do not mind missing an X Factor episode or having no access to my Instagram, but rather, I enjoy focusing on my family. I have learned that one can move away from one’s country, learn other languages, and obtain other citizenships, but one’s place of birth will always remain the same. Where I am from describes a great deal of who I am. So, why bother criticizing the negative features of my homeland when I can embrace the positive ones?

Maria del Pilar Garza

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The Same

By Katherine Cohen Art by Franco Zacharzewski

It all had happened too fast. How could such a thing happen? How could this happen to that little blue-eyed child?

The same child that stared into my reflective depths when she was just tall enough to tip-toe her eyes over that white marble sink before flopping back down and running away.

The same child that made faces at me as we laughed together, sharing the innocent freedom of a bathroom with a closed door.

The same girl who looked at her figure when she was tall enough to see herself in me, examining the new power held in the flick of her eyes, in the innocent blink of her lids.

The same girl whose young blue eyes, those mascara painted eyes, blinked in those dangerous new red heels, slipping one off, holding it up to the light, inspecting it with red glinting in her eyes.

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The same woman who made that one silly mistake -- that one silly mistake caused by those red heels and his red hair and his deceiving gentle skin and her soft blue eyes, all in that one silly, gentle mistake.

The same girl whose painted eyes melted away to reveal shattered blue wells.

The same girl who explored with me through those melting painted eyes to see that gentle round curve, that shadow of a curve that we explored after he beat it back into a flat submissive line.

The same child who stared with blank expression at me as we cried together at the terrifying secrecy of a bathroom with a closed door, the deadly combination of a broken mirror and a broken girl.

The same child that stared into my reflective depths, just tall enough to pull her face over the white marble sink to look into my frame before sinking back down to the floor for one last time, running for the last time, to some faraway place.

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Ros Fiol

One Day in the Life of a Caricaturist

By Melanie Fuenmayor 26

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As the last patch of fog disappeared from the glass of his spectacles, Robert Thorpe took this as a cue to remove his sketching paper from his worn leather bag, and began setting up for another day of work. Mr. Thorpe was cautious over the quality of his trade, so he always waited for the weather to settle before exposing his tools to the elements, preventing any damage from humidity -- or at least, that was what he liked to think. He was not well educated, so it did not occur to him that the fog from his glasses came from temperature change, and that humidity lingered throughout the day, but Robert Thorpe liked to imagine that there was an air science behind his work, believing that it deserved to be credited with certain elegance.

He tilted down the brim of his hat and wiped his slender, delicate hands on his trousers. It was now eleven in the morning and the sun had risen to its perfect angle, as he had predicted, for it shed light directly onto the mounted paper without any obstructing shadows. An evenly-cut square of cardboard rested against the base of his easel, which had “HONEST PORTRAITS: $12” printed in stark white paint onto its surface. Mr. Thorpe caught glimpse of his first customer for the day turning the corner onto the street. A businessman who appeared to be in his late fifties walked at an even pace down the sidewalk, yelling into his phone about stocks and the state of the economy.

Mr. Thorpe began to pull out his charcoals as the man passed right by his station. Suddenly, the man stopped, and back pedaled a few steps over to reread the cardboard sign.

“Honest portraits?” he scoffed, raising an eyebrow, his eyes fixated on the sign. Mr. Thorpe said nothing. “Give me a damn moment to think, Albert!” the man yelled into the phone, checking his watch. He stared off at the tall gray building in the distance and exhaled, succumbing to his curiosity. Continuing his conversation, he pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. “Don’t waste my time,” he threatened, dropping the money into an open jar that stood next to the easel. Robert Thorpe began to work.

The sun was at its peak when he finished and handed the portrait over to the man, who had not looked at Mr. Thorpe once the entire time, for he was far too annoyed to even acknowledge him. He looked away from his watch -- he had been frantically checking it the entire time -- and yanked away the paper. Before even looking at the portrait, he knelt down and gripped at the money he had placed in the jar and hastily stuffed it back in his pocket.

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"I said not to waste my time! What? No -- not you Albert... actually, yes you!" he shouted, staring at the building. He angrily unfurled the portrait, and his eyes widened in embarrassment. He swiftly hung up the phone and reached into his pocket, returning the money into the jar. Mr. Thorpe had painted this man with fierce, hollowed out eyes, and a mouth crammed with thick stacks of dollar bills; he appeared as though he wanted to shout something, the veins in his thick, sweaty neck swelling from frustration, but the wads of cash prevented it.

"My sincerest apologies..." he murmured, rolling the portrait back up. "I should have known it was you." With his eyes fixated once more at the building, the man walked off to work.

The sun was now setting, and Robert Thorpe had already moved his easel to a different position in order to catch the sun’s final rays without shadows. He had drawn a handful of portraits, for he was well known, and many tourists were eager to have their likenesses drawn. Mr. Thorpe had discovered, for some reason he could not understand, that people enjoyed having their worst features accentuated by his drawings, and with this he had become renown. His final customer of the day approached him from behind. Circling over to the front of the sign, a young girl in her teens placed the money into the jar, but not once did she lift her gaze from her phone.

"Heard about you on Twitter," she said, still engrossed by the screen. Mr. Thorpe began drawing her, continuing until the sun eventually set.

The soft yellow light of the lamppost illuminated the portrait she finally held in her hands. She was drawn with two large thumbs, much bigger than the rest of her fingers, covering her eyes. Her teeth were keys from a keyboard that spelled out "Tweet" with braces over them.

Snapping a picture, she turned on her heels and walked off. "You're kind of harsh, dude!" she yelled, facing away from him.

The moon rose high up in the night, and Mr. Thorpe had packed up all of his things and was walking back to his apartment. He placed his bag at the entrance, placed his hat on a small table, and locked the door behind him. He emptied the jar into a large cardboard box that sat next to a faded picture of a handsome young man proudly standing beside an expensive car with a beautiful woman seated in it. The side of the box read "STARTING OVER" in muddy black ink. Finally sitting down, he rubbed his head, and wiped at the tough skin where his face used to be. He gazed with his one eye at the fog collecting on the glass of his window, and eventually fell asleep.

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Daniela Perez-Retes

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Nora Walz

Queen of the Playground

By Paola Songeur

Standing at a mere 3 ft 5 inches, 4-year-old me was hardly a menacing sight. My small frame, chubby hands, and protruding stomach did little to encourage my cruelty, and my slightly-too-short bangs paired with my deceitful smile did little to hint at it. But none of that stopped me; my exterior may have incited assumptions regarding my ability to impose, but it certainly did not dictate my status among my peers. The playground was my kingdom all the same. I trudged around with abnormally heavy steps, establishing myself as a superior figure to the insolent rascals beneath me. I had a specific set of rules, and all who challenged them would face the consequences; none could escape my wrath.

As the queen, I reigned. The seesaw my horse, the slide my bed, the swing my throne. The babies and preteens alike cowered under my

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sovereignty and called me their ruler. And as the crown-holder, I -like most respectable women do -- held my family, predominantly my brother, at a degree of vital importance. Despite acting simultaneously as my loyal servant and dependent partner in crime, my brother, Lucas, has always been vastly different than me. And at the ripe ages of 4 and 7, the personality gap was even wider. While I was characterized by violence, bad temper, and intolerance, my brother, conversely, was characterized by his patience, good nature, and positivity. His frailness bestowed upon me a sense of responsibility for his well-being, and so, at any sign of disrespect towards my brother, I was forced to retaliate.

It was a fine Sunday morning, the best park-going day of the week, when I entered the playground and felt a sense of unease. Something was wrong. As I approached him, my brother looked gloomily in the distance.

I demanded him to tell me what was wrong, and my brother simply nodded in the direction of the hands of a certain Mike Schusterman, and explained that the boy had taken a toy of his. I glared at the curly haired brat, contemplating my next move, and took it upon myself to seek the revenge that I knew my brother wouldn’t. Although he may not have realized the severity of his actions while he was committing them, Schusterman signed his metaphorical death sentence the minute his blistered fingers grazed the tip of the plastic siren on my brother’s favorite Hot Wheels ambulance.

It didn’t take long for me to decide that it was my duty, as the queen, to re-establish the balance of the playground, to solidify its social structure, to remind the people of the rules they were to comply with. I stood, and with the longest strides my elfin legs could muster, I marched over to the 5-year-old perpetrator. I glowered threateningly into his beady eyes as I lowered my plump body onto my right knee. The eye contact did not break until I pushed his face so far into the sand that he had no choice but to shut his eyes resignedly. I rose, returned to where my brother was seated, and triumphantly handed him the ambulance I had retrieved from curly boy. He took the ambulance and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t nice or fair. I’m going to give it back.”

He stood, slowly made his way over to Schusterman, sat down beside him, and handed him the ambulance.

I froze, confused. “It wasn’t nice.” Nice? What a strange concept.

Being nice to those who were anything but to us. “Interesting”, I thought.

Maybe total control wasn’t the best way to foster relationships, and maybe being ‘nice’ wasn’t all that bad. Maybe having subjects and servants wasn’t the most important thing. And, maybe, just maybe, being queen wasn’t the ultimate goal.

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T

Franco Zacharzewski

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The Theo I Know

By Catie Schwartzman

I still don’t know how I ignored every sign that something was off; all the indications were dangling in front of my nose. I guess I didn’t want to believe that my formerly sweet brother Theo’s instability was beyond that of the average, misguided teenager, or maybe I was glad to see that the dweeb had come out of his shell.

At the beginning of his Sophomore year, Theo clung to the same friends he’d had in Seventh grade and spent every weekend in his boxers, burying his nose in his schoolwork. I couldn’t say the same for myself, a lackadaisical senior dying to ditch my family and collect my freedom.

“Theo!” I called one night, sprawled on the couch with a few forgettable friends. Empty beer cans littered the floor around us, to be picked up before Mom and Dad returned from their business trip. An unopened Coors Lite cooled my palm. Theo emerged from his lair and pitter pattered into the dim living room. A textbook rested in the crook of his elbow and stress lined his forehead. “You’ve studied for that test all

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night. It’s no big deal to let yourself have a cold one,” I teased. He eyed the beer with hesitation and curiosity. I laughed and extended my arm. “Come on, Sophomore. You’ve earned your first beer.”

He took the can with both hands and grinned at me before withdrawing to his room. “Thanks, Miranda. You’re the best.” It wasn’t his fake smile, where the corners of his lips barely shifted. To see the brother I loved natural and excited enough to bare his teeth made my stomach bubble. By the time my friends left, I realized they would never be as dear to me as the family member I was pushing away.

The light in Theo’s room was still on when I went to the bathroom we shared to wash my face. He poked his head in, and his face glowed.

“Love ya, sis,” he said easily, and closed the door. I was so delighted, I didn’t even notice the three empty beer cans in the wastebasket by the toilet.

You never know who has an addictive personality. Unfortunately, Theo did. The first brew I handed him sparked a change. Two months later, on Thanksgiving morning, Theo stumbled home after a night of debauchery with a throat decorated in raw hickeys and breath permeated with the scent of weed. Before our parents awoke, I yanked him into our bathroom and ordered him to shower and sober up.

“It’s okay to smoke,” I said, rubbing concealer onto the rosy marks below his jawline. His wet hair came to a point at the back of his neck.

“Just not before a holiday. You’re the intellectual. Where’s your head?” I wasn’t upset at first; just glad he was socializing. Well, until I found the baggie under his bath towel. I should have taken action then, but I didn’t want to play the bad guy against my experimenting brother.

“You forgot to put this in the hamper!” I shouted, but then remembered he wasn’t home and muttered, “You’re probably at some party that’s wild by your standards, where you play in a bouncy house and drink lemonade.” I chuckled and scooped the up towel. Something plastic plopped to the ground. I shoved the towel under my arm, catching a glance at what looked like a bag of glass shards. My breath caught in my throat.

Bending down, I pinched the bag with my fingernails and lobbed it into the toilet. I prayed it would go down with a flush. If I’d accepted that the bag belonged to Theo, I might have been more prepared for the call I received in March.

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“Ma’am, do you have a relationship with a Theodore Campbell?”

The police officer’s voice scratched through the phone while Ultra attendees roared in the background. “According to his driver’s license, born August twenty first, nineteen ninety--”

“Yes, I’m his sister,” I hissed. Six hours had passed since I’d dropped Theo off at Bayfront Park so he didn’t have to search for parking at the hectic music festival. As Theo exited my car, I’d noticed a new definition in his cheekbones and pimples speckling his face, which I assumed were both results of puberty. He’d looked handsome in his tank top and was more personable than I’d ever seen him before. I was proud of his transformation, but the urgency in the officer’s voice frightened me. “What’s going on?”

He took a deep breath. “You know, being the one to do this; it is one of the hardest parts of my job. We found your brother unconscious in a port-a-potty. Medics tried to resuscitate, but it was no use. I’m sorry to inform you that your brother was pronounced dead at 8:43 p.m.,” he said with a sigh. “We’ll need someone to come identify the body. You were his most recent call.” His words pierced my heart, and I couldn’t move.

No way the animated, breathing boy in my passenger seat drumming his fingers on his knee this morning, nor the boy chained to his homework a few months ago who would never be near Ultra in the first place, could be dead. Then again, did either boy ever exist?

I couldn’t pinpoint when Theo disappeared. Was it the night I handed him his first beer trying to make him a man? Even today, months after the toxicology report declaring his death a result of a drug overdose, I look back with regret and wonder why my gifted brother became just another statistic.

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Monique Martinez

My Girl

By Anabel Epstein

Everything is comprised of complex layers. Take a parfait, for instance. Although confined to a delicate cup, there is still room for creativity and much thought. I begin with a thin layer of crunchy cereal and top it with a teaspoon of pillowing yogurt. I then select the theme, which is no easy task. This art takes fine attunement to my innervations. If I am feeling adventurous, I pick mint leaves from my garden and carambola from the generous tree. If nostalgia sets in, I add some blueberries to the mix, reminding me of those blissfully innocent days in North Carolina with my grandparents, picking “bluebabies� until the sun set. If I am immersed in a project or reading a book, the standard banana takes nothing more than a quick peel. If my free-spirited side is itching to emerge, atypical

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fruits plunge into the yogurt cloud: canistel, mangosteen, even rambutan.

I then carefully cut and place each item devising an irresistible treat, both aesthetically and palatably. I always top it with a dainty flower, assuring that the parfait is, indeed, complete.

I have a distinct personal philosophy: I must find connectivity. I inherently seek to understand all layers of my surroundings to feel at home.

I feel such connectivity when I make my parfaits, when I sweat alongside other Bikram yogis, and when I contribute to classroom discussions.

Most significantly, I feel connected on the backs of colossal 1500-pound creatures. Their elegant legs, great spiritual power, unique personalities, and majestic necks never cease to take my breath. I always adjust my riding style to secure synchronicity, seeking oneness between our minds and physiques.

Greylyn was unlike any other equine challenge, my most complicated journey for oneness. Her beauty and peculiar softness could not conceal her unsurpassed power, suggesting that my strength would be a necessary ingredient. When others witnessed her potency, the strongest of bits seemed a logical choice. My gut, however, would not quiet because I intuitively sensed her need for gentle guidance. Nearly two years of attempting to unravel her complex layers still left our unity wanting. One afternoon, I could not resist testing my intuition despite its radical nature.

I changed her tack to a bit-less bridle which relieved all pressure in her mouth. She transformed. All I could feel was a steady rocking beneath the saddle, swaying my body back and forth. I eased into a gentler seat rather than an imposing one, allowing our layers of mind, movement, and body to fuse. We found it: her undisturbed mouth and my lightened seat combined to welcome a new partnership between us.

As Greylyn stopped, our breaths rose and fell to the same rhythm, finally. I collapsed on her strong and sweaty neck, wrapping my arms around this girl. My girl.

My struggle with Greylyn raised doubts that I could always achieve connectivity with these strong yet graceful animals. Although her sheer force had fooled me into thinking I needed to match her strength with mine, in fact it was just the opposite. My gut guided me to a gentler bit.

Greylyn remains the most significant challenge to my personal ideology thus far, yet we found a unique meeting point where our partnership secured. She fortified my confidence as a rider and a woman, serving as a constant reminder to seek my comfort in unity, no matter how many layers must be uncovered. Finding this sensitive balance was the flower on top of my parfait of rich, rewarding, and satiating layers.

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That Red Rose for Remembrance

Ros Fiol

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By Emily Kirsner

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Before any customer could see May Marbles’ Flower Shop, which hid behind a large art gallery, they smelled it. The individual fragrances of each flower merged together to form a single fresh aroma. The perfume which was carried by a gentle breeze, nearly always sparked the interest of passersby. The pedestrians’ curiosities would compel them to walk behind the art gallery and stumble upon a petite cottage, hidden slightly behind two willow trees. Hundred of flowers and other plants’ vivid shades and colors burst forth from two giant windows at the front of the shop. Upon opening the door of May’s shop, the scents filled every part of the room, overwhelming the senses. May Marbles could usually be found amongst the flora, watering the plants or humming softly to the flowers.

A small brown desk filled with paperwork and a white telephone sat directly in the center of the room, swallowed by its surroundings. The eccentric beauty of the flowers made the desk look old and bland. A handsome young man with a head of straw colored hair and black rimmed glasses, sat at the desk, tapping his foot against the ground anxiously. He glanced down at his watch, which glinted under the bright fluorescent lights. The sight of time caused the man’s face to twist in panic. A small silver name tag on his desk spelled his name, “Michael Marbles, Jr.”, in curly black letters. Michael shifted positions in his seat and focused his eyes on the door. It was thirty minutes after the shop was supposed to close, but he watched through the window as his grandmother, May Marbles, selected flowers for a middle aged man in a business suit. Michael worked for his grandmother every summer, delivering flowers and answering phone calls.

Michael was not normally impatient but as the hands on the clock moved ever closer to 7, the anxiety in his chest began to mount. It was six fifteen when his grandmother walked through the arching glass door.

“Gran, do you realize it’s 6:15!?” Michael practically screamed.

Unperturbed by Michaels’ declaration May examined a tiny bud on the stem of a potted orchid.

“Blooming flowers cannot be rushed, and neither can I.” She said with an amused smile “You may go now, I’ll close up the shop.” Michael leapt from his seat and ran to the door with thinly veiled excitement.

“Wait,” Michael turned around. His grandmother was holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and car keys in the other. “You take the car. I’ll call your mother to pick me up when I’m done,” She handed him the car keys and a bouquet of blood red roses. “Good luck, tonight!” May winked at her grandson and gave him a knowing smile.

Michael’s heart beat furiously against his rib cage, as he pulled up

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to a small white house with a brown roof and a giant front door. He opened the car door and stood on the front lawn, holding the flowers in his hand.

Michael’s hands began to shake and his knees felt like buckling. He looked down at his attire and suddenly felt undressed. He took a deep breath and walked slowly to the front door. He looked down at his watch. It was 6:59 pm. He balled up his sweaty palms and knocked on the door. He heard movement from behind the door, and in the confusion of different sounds he clearly heard the sound of someone yelling, “Bob, GET THE CAMERA!” and another person in a higher pitched tone screaming “Mom, That’s so embarrassing!” Michael chuckled for a moment but stopped when the door began to open.

All his nerves faded away when he saw a beautiful young woman in a white cotton dress standing in the door frame smiling brilliantly. Her red hair fell in prefect curls around her face, which highlighted her green eyes. “Hi Olivia.” He was practically drooling until a large balding man standing behind her extended his hand. The man introduced himself as her father and her mother then ran through the door with an enormous black camera. Olivia blushed. Her mother squealed, “Oh isn’t he just the cutest thing you ever saw!” Pictures were taken and unnecessarily long conversation about nothing in particular took place with several painfully long awkward silences. Finally, he handed Olivia the flowers and they walked to the car together.

The two of them chatted with unbridled excitement once they were beyond the reach of Olivia’s parents. They two of them were nervous and embarrassed but they both made a conscious effort to conceal it.

Michael’s palms remained sweaty and his fingers kept slipping from the wheel. Olivia looked down at her flowers; she smiled and smelled them.

“They’re beautiful. Are they from your grandmother’s sh--- “WATCH OUT!” The warning gave Michael just enough time to see two headlights from a massive truck heading toward Olivia’s side of the car. A car honk sounded. Michael flung himself over Olivia to shield her from the impact.

The last thing he saw before being knocked unconscious was a red rose and the smell of its flowery perfume.

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Monica Rodriguez

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Beatrice Martins

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Strangers at a Bar

By Alexa Coots

A significantly small woman, one could even go as far as describing her as tiny, sat slouched over, at the end of a bar. Her slumped shoulders indicated sorrow, or maybe extreme disappointment, and her little blonde head rested heavily on her outstretched arm. Her miniature feet, clad in patent leather pumps, didn’t reach the floor, and one had to look twice, maybe three times to assure themselves that they were not witnessing a young child being served alcohol at the local tavern.

No person in the room had seen this particular woman before, so one could only assume that she was not prone to heavy drinking, for this bar was the only decent one in town. Her size alone implied that it only took a few drinks to get the job done, yet the woman seemed intent on draining as many glasses as her petite belly could hold.

Her day had been nothing out of the ordinary; not one thing alone contributed to the pitiful, self-loathing feeling she felt in the core of her being. It was quite simply, “one of those days.”

She pushed herself up from her hunched over position, audibly cracking her back, wrapped her stubby fingers around the three quarters empty glass in front of her, and raised it to her bare lips, tipping the remaining brown liquid into her slight mouth in one fluid motion.

“What’s that rule about height and drinking? One drink per foot, or something like that? This is my fourth, and I’m yet to experience any blurred vision, Al. I asked for top-shelf scotch, not whatever this is.”

She closed her velvety, brown eyes for a brief moment, savoring the taste on her tongue. The burn of the liquor was yet to subside, but all she could think about was pouring the next glass down her throat.

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“Nope, nothing. Pour me another one, won’t you? Straight-up.”

“One more and I’m cutting you off, sweetheart. Try not to fall out of your chair.”

Along with another full glass, the bartender placed a bowl of salted peanuts in front of her, and the woman’s childlike hand clumsily reached for it, almost knocking both items over.

“Excuse me, Miss. Care to dance?” A stranger’s voice.

How cliché, she thought, without even looking up. The noble man notices the sad, lonely woman and swoops in to save the day. How chauvinistic. Do strangers really ask other strangers to dance, just like that? Doesn’t that only happen in the movies? He didn’t know anything about her. What she was feeling, what she was going through. He didn’t understand the looks she got, the whispers she heard. Yet, of all things, he asked her to dance. It seemed so trivial, yet it was such a grand gesture.

She looked up and realized that she had to tip her head back even further than she originally anticipated to get a good look at his face. Eyes a little too far apart, nose a little too long, hair a little too gelled back, but who was she to judge? After all, she was the stereotypical, lonely woman sitting at a bar.

She placed her small hand in his large, and he helped her make the considerable leap to the floor from her seat on the stool. She stood slightly above his belly button.

He hesitated, confusion clouding his clear blue eyes, but he did not back away or look down upon her with pity in his gaze. A few seconds passed and the confusion dissipated, he carefully guided her to the skid marked, worn out dance floor, and dropped to his knees directly in front of her. He placed his overbearing hands on her narrow waist, fingertip to fingertip, which, in return, prompted her to raise her own hands to his broad, massive shoulders. In this position, they were almost at eye level.

Brown staring into blue.

She slowly traced the contour of his body with her eyes, working her way from the top of his head, down the length of his long torso, to his thighs. His muscles flexed under his shirt, his fingers twitched on her backside. She could smell his after shave, a bit too strong for her liking, but she didn’t mind.

They began to sway to the rhythm of the music, heat flooding her cheeks. She could feel the eyes upon her and the whispers snaking around them, like thick, choking smoke trapped in a window-less room. At that moment, he smiled. The voices faded away, the sharp taste of alcohol disappeared, and she found herself smiling back. A moment of clarity.

“Hi,” he said. “My name is George.”

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Sophia Esquenazi

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she scares me blank, lacking emotion she was once loved but now forgotten is she afraid? what lurks in the corner of her mind i will never know

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Monica Rodriguez

Abandoned

By Nicholas Campo

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Reflections Editorial Board Editor in Chief Zachary Graulich Copy Editors Katherine Cohen Talia Pfeffer Jacqueline Dylewski Adviser Ms. Monica Rodriguez

Editorial Policy

Layout Design Sofia Diaz Brooke Ellis Madeleine Epstein Daniela Grava Brigitte Northland Kayla Patel Cecilia Perez Samantha Rosenberg Catie Schwartzman Evan Silberman Paola Songeur

As the official literary and art magazine of Gulliver Preparatory School, Reflections provides a forum showcasing the wide creative scope of the student body. Works are solicited through art and literature classes, but all students are welcome to submit entries. Submissions are carefully reviewed by the student Editorial Board. The magazine is part of the curriculum of the journalism program, and is completed during the second semester of the school year. Special thanks to Gulliver Preparatory School’s Art and English Departments for their contributions and support. Reflections is an award-winning publication, earning All Florida honors from the Florida Scholastic Press Association in 2013.

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