2015 Reflections LIterary Magazine

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

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Table

Of Contents Poetry 5 10 12 15 21 22 27 28 36 38 40 46

“The Real ‘Us,’” Valeria Wakil, Grade 9 “A Reminder,” Carlee Snyder, Grade 11 “Stem,” Aurora Hermida, Grade 11 “Mechanism,” Laura Toubes, Grade 9 “Time,” Victoria Roca, Grade 10 “Unseeing,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 10 “Palestine,” Sara Uweyda, Grade 9 “Sheets,” Aurora Hermida, Grade 11 “Pretty,” Talia Pfeffer, Grade 10 “Sparkling Sea,” Nicole Torres, Grade 9 “Come Afire,” Luis Martinez, Grade 9 “An Epitaph,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 10

Prose 7 16 24 30 32 44

“Introspection and Girlhood,” Daniela Grava, Grade 12 “Jeremy’s Smile, “ Dyanna Fleites Cruz, Grade 12 “From Jazz to Alternative Rock,” Danny Garcia, Grade 12 “Reunion,” Bianca Corgan, Grade 11 “Home,” Zara Biggs, Grade 12 “Aurora Borealis,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 10

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Original Artwork Cover 1 4 6 12 14 16 19 20 23 24 26 28 31 33 34 35 36 39 44 46 48

“Pencils,” Ros Fiol, Grade 12 “Emotional,’” Anna Anikina, Grade 12 “Uncomfortable,” Franco Zacharewski, Grade 12 “Daisy,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 10 “Otoño,” Franco Zacharewski, Grade 12 “Mechanics,” Nora Walz, Grade 12 “Childhood,” Gabriel Abascal Marin, Grade 11 “Floating Light,” Nora Walz, Grade 12 “Fuego,” Valeria Buttaci, Grade 12 “Girl in Forest,” Xuang Zhang, Grade 12 “On Rotation,” Erin Keating, Grade 11 “Prism,” Valeria Buttaci, Grade 12 “Thirst,” Clarissa Acosta Girbau, Grade 11 “Hidden,” Sonia Kulkarni, Grade 12 “Camel,” Alejandra Sanchez, Grade 12 “Dragonfly,” Nora Walz, Grade 12 “Tree,” Mariana Berruecos, Grade 12 “Don’t Forget to Wear Sunblock,” Remi Beek, Grade 12 “Lobster,” Cecilia Perez, Grade 10 “Pink and Green,” Ros Fiol, Grade 12 “College of Kings,” Valentina Wakeman, Grade 11 “A Woman’s Weapon,” Remi Beek, Grade 12

Photography 9 11 41

“Camo-flash,” Anna Anikina, Grade 12 “Overexposed,” Angelica Bourland, Grade 12 “Bright Lights, Big City,” Marina Wakil, Grade 11

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Franco Zacharewski

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The Real “Us”

by Valeria Wakil

Opposite faces, flexing and dancing.

The rawness of emotion, ecstasy, exasperation.

The natural state of uncontrolled humans.

Eyes bulging, twinkling, Noses twisting and wrinkling, Lips wobbling, parting, stretching.

Cheeks flushing from happiness? from rage?

Veins throbbing guiding our emotions like maps, to our hearts, to our vulnerabilities.

Suffocating in the pain of reality, We are sentenced to ourselves.

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Introspection and Girlhood

by Daniela Grava

Catie Schwartzman

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Growing up. The inevitable, bittersweet thing that happens to all of us as time goes by. I hardly notice it happening to me until I blink my eyes and another year has passed.

I was looking through my iPhoto albums as some pictures synced from my phone when I came across some photos I hadn’t looked at in years. These were from four years ago around the same time today. The album is called “Birthday Movies 2011,” showcasing some now very unattractive pictures of three of my eighth grade friends and me at the movies, P.F. Chang’s and my house for my 14th birthday. Even though that was only four years ago, it’s like I was an entirely different person.

It’s crazy to think how much we really change in such a short period of time--physically, mentally and emotionally. I recently watched the movie Boyhood, which I highly recommend, and it made me introspective. The movie was filmed over 12 years with the same cast, and it follows the life of a boy from age 6 to 18. I felt especially attached to the movie because I am the exact age now as the boy was in it. As I saw his life going by year by year, I remembered myself growing up in the same evolving environment: VCRs, GameBoys, sibling wars, huge computers, moving, bullying, Motorola Razrs, Facebook, iPhones, parties, fights, firsts. It’s all relevant. Seeing him go off to college at 18 was very bittersweet for me because that’s going to be me in only a couple of months. I’m going to leave behind the life I’ve known for 18 years and head into the unfamiliar territory that will mark the next chapter of my life.

It seems like just yesterday was my first day of kindergarten as I tried to learn English in a new country. I learned the way around my city in elementary school and made some friends I’d keep for life. I blink and it’s sixth grade. I distinctly remember being overwhelmed by the drastic change in environment

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and having to adapt after switching to a school where I didn’t know anybody. Middle school was a time for me to find out who my real friends were and for me to realize that it’s better to have three genuine best friends than 20 fake ones. I also discovered that life isn’t sugarcoated and that things may not always happen for us the way we want them to. Blink again.

Freshman year of high school: Meeting new people, trying new things and experiencing the good, the bad and the ugly as the years go by. Blink. I’m a second semester senior who just got accepted into her dream school. All the years of staying up until 5am studying paid off. None of my hard work was ever in vain. In a couple of months, I’ll be able to store my memories of high school and all of the unforgettable experiences I’ve had and the amazing friends I’ve made to make room for new memories and new experiences with new friends (and some old ones, too, of course).

You can’t turn back the clock. But you can take what you’ve undergone with you anywhere you go. We are the product of our experiences. I wouldn’t be the same person I am today had I not been exposed to everything I have been. Even though it seems like time flies by the older you get, each new year is a chance to make new memories and a chance to not only physically grow, but also emotionally grow.

In the long run, you’re not going to remember the insignificant matters you were hung up on. You’re not going to remember those six hours you spent scrolling through Facebook or texting or watching Netflix all day. You’re not going to remember that C you got in math class or those three hours you spent studying until 4am. You’re going to remember the moments that felt the most real, the moments that you wish you could replay.

This is the only life we’re ever going to get. Don’t waste it.

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Anna Anikina

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a reminder

by Carlee Snyder

Lilac colors formed on the skin After a sharp fall to the pavement A child’s yelp, faces flinch A mother runs to her child’s side Hoping that the cries will die A bruise will turn into a scar A battle wound the child will carry far Remains of life as a child

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Angelica Bourland

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Stem

by Aurora Hermida

the trees are skinny shaking in the autumn wind long sticks of crimson flaming wood coral timber standing tall they reach the sky and hug the sun they cry leaves of shining colors red and orange cover their roots trunks rough but strong together they cast a dark shadow over all of the woods and the world they breathe and live in symphony they keep the forest warm in the evening accepting the cold and the night and when the morning comes again their dark trunks glimmer with the sunrise

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Franco Zacharewski

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Nora Walz

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Mechanism

by Laura Toubes

She has a manufactured heart Drilled for protection Remote controlled, a sequenced interlocking cycle Assembled to perfection My brain has its own motor You can’t control me You can’t fix me, skin made of steel I am my own machine, my own engine.

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Gabriel Abascal Marin

Jeremy’s Smile

by Dyanna Fleites Cruz

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I walk around that courtyard for the third time, trying to find a place to sit. It is screening day and the sweltering heat of Pampanga surrounds me, exhausting me more and more by the minute. After spotting the other two student volunteers, I walk over to the child-life corner and sit down to cool off for a minute. Not once do I expect that this will be the moment that my life will be changed forever.

Suddenly, I feel something push me over. I turn around and I see a young boy, no older than eight, flashing me the most gorgeous smile. I assume he’s a patient’s brother since he does not seem to have a cleft lip or palate. He continues to play and laugh, but does not say a single word to me. I ask him his name, and he just smiles at me.

This past June, I had the remarkable opportunity to go on a medical mission with Operation Smile to Pampanga, Philippines. I was a part of a four-person student team that was there to educate young children with cleft lip and palate about five health modules: oral hygiene, dental care, burn care, oral rehydration therapy, and hand washing.

After meeting the boy’s mother, Luz, I learned that his name was Jeremy and he was seven. Luz and her partner just laughed and made jokes despite the uncomfortable heat and the crowd of people surrounding us, waiting for their children to be screened for surgery. They even made me forget about how exhausted I was from working that day by making me laugh along with them.

Jeremy wasn’t able to tell me his name earlier because he had a cleft palate. I wasn’t able to tell because, unlike the other children, his teeth were perfectly straight.

However, this affliction hindered him from speaking, preventing him from enrolling in school.

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I was lucky enough to be with Jeremy in pre-op, in the OR during his surgery, in post-op, and at their taxi before they left. Saying good-bye to that wonderful family, I promised myself that I would never forget them. They helped me realize that despite any obstacle or issue, all that matters is how you deal with the challenges life throws at you.

I have been able to stay in contact with Luz even after returning to Florida. I’m happy to say that Jeremy is now doing extremely well in speech therapy and has officially begun school. Hearing all about his first day of school brought tears to my eyes. I plan on going on many other missions throughout my life and continuing to raise money for Operation Smile.

Sometimes in life, we don’t realize life-changing events while they’re happening. At the moment, they tend to feel like completely ordinary events that are just a constituent to an average day. Even though I didn’t realize how great of an impact Jeremy would have on me at that moment, I realize it now. His hidden cleft was just a metaphor for how things are not always as perfect as they seem. However, that did not stop him from being as happy as he could be. Moments like the ones I shared with Jeremy proved that it’s the little, underestimated moments that are pivotal in one’s life, and they should never be overlooked because they can always become a factor that can change a life forever. during his surgery, in post-op, and at their taxi before they left. Saying good-bye to that wonderful family, I promised myself that I would never forget them. They helped me realize that despite any obstacle or issue, all that matters is how you deal with the challenges life throws at you.

I have been able to stay in contact with Luz even after returning to Florida. I’m happy to say that Jeremy is now doing extremely well in speech therapy and has officially begun school.

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Nora Walz

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Valeria Butacci

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time

by Victoria Roca

A time to stand, and one to fall A time for one, and one for all A time to live, a time to die,

a time for just having fun, Clocks tick, days move on,

all schedule by the sun.

Time is measured from minutes to months Which keeps everything from

happening and once.

A time for truth, and one for lies A time for laughter, and one for sighs.

What turns the weather from hot to cold, Also forces us to face growing old.

Time is what you remember from the past, Because it always goes by so incredibly fast.

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Unseeing

by Katherine Cohen

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Nora Walz

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A person stands amongst a field, Magnificence surrounds her.

She walks blindly without purpose, Society drives her.

The grass, sky, life, she does not see Infinite rush defines her.

She will never stop, smell, and enjoy, A ‘purpose’ dictates her.

A prison she built from an empty field And the ignorance he does not know Are her only true enemy.

However, she continues Towards the only eternal blindness She can see.

Xuang Zhang

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Erin Keating

From Jazz to Alternative Rock

by Danny Garcia

As I looked out of my grandpa’s grey SUV window, not even the dense Venezuelan foliage could get rid of my aching head and nausea. As the hours progressed, so did the pain, and I began to wonder if a weekend at my grandpa’s farm was worth the grueling hours of unexpected carsickness I was enduring. I quickly reached for my bag; sifting through old crackers and extra clothes, I retrieved an MP3 Player recently given to me by my dad. I had never used one before; I had just inferred that a long car ride was the appropriate occasion for the device. Uncomfortably easing the earphones in, I was met with a soothing guitar tone and bright silky voice.

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Closing my eyes, I imagined myself breathing in crisp mountain air and looking around at a vast expanse of snow and sky. The carsickness had become almost as minuscule as I felt in my aurally induced daydream. I imagined 20-foot pine trees with snow sprinkled branches towering over my small presence in the enormous being that was nature. I felt isolated in the most comforting way.

In retrospect, this was the first time I experienced the environment in which I am perfectly content. It wasn’t only this feeling that this specific song evoked in me, rather the different places that music takes me. Personally, where I am most comfortable, is wherever I am able to immerse myself in music.

Whether it’s in academically oriented musical endeavors like playing guitar in my school’s jazz band and analyzing 18th century classical music in the AP Music Theory class I took my sophomore year, or simply lying down and listening to other genres for leisure, a musical environment represents much more than just a place where I feel “at home.” It represents an escape to a different place in time or mood where I am able to be serene while experiencing the different feelings that the music indescribably evokes. The beauty of this lies within the idea that music is not limited to one feeling. My musical endeavors have taken me from Jazz to Alternative Rock, and every where in between. Each genre, each song, evokes a different feeling that transports me to a new place, or manifests a new feeling inside me. For this I am grateful because not only am I exposed to musical and cultural diversity by listening to different styles, but I have also learned to appreciate the different feelings that each of these styles arouse. I have learned to accept sadness and despair through Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor, just as I have been sparked into a giddily happy mood by the upbeat 8th note groove on Electric Light Orchestra’s “Mr. Blue Sky.” Music has taught me how to be content in the different environments that it creates in my head. It has become an incredibly important part of my life due to the array of feelings that it awakens, and will continue grow as an invaluable factor for the same reasons.

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Valeria Butacci

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Palestine

by Sara Uweyda

Walking across rocky streets, Mesmerized by the beautiful red sun shining down on the country.

Smells of freshly grilled lamb kabobs fill the air, And hip-shaking Arabic drum music flows through your ears.

Friendly faces with exuberant smiles exchange welcoming handshakes, Love is always present.

BOOM! War sirens scream.

Everyone falls to the floor, Worrying about the safety of their family.

Children crying, Mothers bleeding, Fathers protecting.

A cry for help.

It’s a deadly place lacking humanity.

Indeed it is.

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Sheets

Clarissa Acosta Girbau

by Aurora Hermida i used to curl up in the worn out sheets of my brothers bed when i felt lonely. i would lie on my back finally getting the chance to feel my heart steadily thumping in my chest. i had forgotten what it felt like to hear something so soft. everything in my life was a loud scream in the middle of night, shattering air and squeezing my body inch by inch, closer and closer until i could feel no more, breathe no more, and the only thing i could hear was the slow fading thump of my little heart. and suddenly, i was the one screaming i was the one shattering the air i was the one with all these thoughts that created a loud hurricane of voices inside me, holding it back for the sake of holding together this already broken family.

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i was responsible, it was my fault, i always felt like it was my fault. i remember the money was tight and i remember hearing my mother cry at night and my father trying to help, but every touch from him was like poison on her skin and every word led to an argument that always ended with “it’s over.” they always said to not worry, that divorce wouldn’t change anything and that my life wouldn’t change but it did, everything changed. i used to listen to gospel rock music and i would convince myself that it made me feel better. i spent hours listening to things i didn’t believe. i would pretend that my friends’ houses were mine, and i would talk to their parents more than i talked to my friends, asking them what it was like cooking inside the kitchen and using stainless steel pots worth more than my mattress. i would stay up late running my hands through the soft fabrics of their new sheets, touching the plush pillow that my head lay on, dreaming that i was home, and that my parents were down the hall, together, sleeping in the same room for once, and that my brother was here, lying next to me peacefully, but when i woke, i knew this was only a dream, and i was still living the nightmare i was born in and i knew all of this was my fault. i became used to sleeping on other people’s couches. i would sneak into my friends’ food cabinets at late hours in the night to make sure i wouldn’t be hungry at dinner the next day. my brother moved away and my parents hardly talked. i felt as if my body was weighing me down even though i weighed ninety pounds. the looks i got through the hallways at school knifed through my flesh just like i used to do. there was no way out, there is no way out. i kept my brother’s worn out sheets.

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Reunion

by Bianca Corgan

Nervous? No. Tired? Slightly. Frustrated? Maybe a little.

I didn’t want to return to my hometown of Sedona, Arizona.

Everything here was followed by a cloud of dust.

Behind our car, dust rolled along, racing after our tires and piling on the roof of our Jeep until the cloth sagged gently over our heads. Annie and Mark were asleep. Soon, the sun began to rise and there was a slight glimpse of light shining from the East. All I could hear was the gentle hum of the engine. The stillness was not eerie; it was perfect. There is a certain beauty to a small desert town at the break of dawn.

The usual, monotonously brown sand was mysteriously blue. It was like the ocean, soothing yet foreboding. Even without direct interference to stir the sand, it slithered around and danced in tiny waltzes around the ankles of the unwise pedestrian. It had the cunning of a fine criminal, slipping effortlessly through doors and windows and under bed sheets to disturb the light sleeper. It was a devilish thing, that sand.

Not quite as devilish as the town itself though.

Annie woke just as I pulled into the gas station. Gas, these days, was the sole reason for my desperate destitution.

It was sweet of Annie and Mark to accompany me on the four-day drive across the country at a moment’s notice. It was my little sister Maria’s fourteenth birthday and I could never forgive myself if I missed it. I had missed the last three and when she called last Wednesday and begged me to come, I just could not resist.

As we pulled into my driveway, there was light shining from the kitchen window. Ma was probably brewing her coffee and making Maria’s favorite blueberry pancakes. I knocked

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Sonia Kulkarni

on the door and waited for my mother’s brief welcome that was always followed by a look of disdain and a battering of criticism.

As the door opened, I caught a glimpse of Maria’s blue eyes. However, her eyelashes were adorned with mascara, her lips, cherry red, and her hair was perfectly straightened. She was no longer the little girl in the ripped jean shorts and hair pulled back in a ponytail. This was not the girl I had built all my childhood memories with. I missed her whole life in just three short years.

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Home

by Zara Biggs

Home is a place where you feel you belong, secure and loved. At the age of two, I moved from my home in Johannesburg to Dubai and seven years later I moved to Miami. After five years in Miami I moved to a new home in Kenya where I spent three impressionable years before moving back to Miami. I consider myself an ‘International Nomad’ and all these places my home. I have had unique, unforgettable experiences in each country and count myself fortunate to have loved ones across the globe.

Kenya taught me how to be compassionate towards others and appreciative of my own life. Living in a developing country, one experiences extreme daily poverty. I had the opportunity to work in The Runda Feeding Program, an organization that fed undernourished families. The first time I helped, there were close to five hundred people queuing way beyond the gated premises and down the road. The sheer numbers shocked me. Four year olds were carrying infants in order to get an extra slice of bread for their families. Our small handouts of a few slices of bread, some fruit, and sliced meats

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would barely last the week, but the toothy smiles made our meager meal seem like gold. Knowing this community work made a difference in other’s lives, I never missed a session.

In Kenya I also worked in Msamaria Children’s Home and School for Orphaned and Vulnerable Children (OVC). Msamaria Orphanage is run by a poor Kenyan couple, Winnie and Peter, who unselfishly opened their home to give these children a hot meal, a roof over their heads, family love, and an education.

Winnie always said to me “Love your life, appreciate your parents and what you have, as God has blessed you.” Her words have helped me appreciate both what I have and what I can contribute.

At OVC, working with orphaned children and hearing their shocking stories, yet seeing their faces light up when playing games with them, was humbling, rewarding and inspiring. These experiences taught me a different level of love and compassion.

I truly ‘lived Kenya’: I camped with a Maasai tribe for a week, hiked up Mt. Kenya, rock climbed, white-water rafted, and participated in building a school in Sagana. Each activity challenged me; climbing 16,000 feet Mt. Kenya was one of the hardest things I have ever done. The temperature on the mountain was constantly changing from freezing to boiling I did not know whether to bundle up or strip layers off. On our second day, climbing uphill for four hours before our first stop in the scorching sun with small bush fires around was not at all what I thought the climb would be.

On the second day two of our teachers decided they could no longer continue on the climb. On the third day two students also chose to stop. I didn’t know whether Alejandra Sanchez

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I could make it, so when I summited, I felt a huge sense of achievement. The climb taught me the benefits of pushing myself to extraordinary lengths both mentally and physically.

Camping with the Maasai tribe taught me to be open minded to different cultures and traditions. Traditions such as participating in a genuine coming of age ceremony, drinking cows blood, and hiking with one of the Maasai leaders to one of their most sacred locations in the Mara.

My Kenyan experience has profoundly changed me and my view on life. In the future, I would like to work with people trying to make a positive difference wherever I can. I would be a completely different person if I had not immersed myself in this life changing experience. I have learned that I can create a home through love, understanding, and using my capabilities to improve the lives of people less fortunate.

Nora Walz

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Mariana Berruecos

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Remi Beek

Pretty

by Talia Pfeffer

I look down

At my iPhone, my eyelashes heavy from drug store mascara.

A glass of Diet Coke is placed into my hand and it feels heavier than usual.

My friend, sitting next to me stirs the soda with her straw, looks into my eyes, and compliments my hair.

I smile at her, running my fingers through my curly hair.

I take a sip of my drink, hold it close, and cover the top of the cold glass with my shaking hand.

I drink some more and then

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I look up To see a grown man stumbling across the crowded room.

He comes to us and begins to engage in conversation.

“You two are the prettiest girls in here,” says the man.

I laugh while my friend is quiet and gazes at his drunken stupor.

The man leaves us, and stumbles along to another group of women.

I take my last sip of Diet Coke, and with that hearty, final gulp, I look inside Myself and consider what just happened.

Why did that guy come over to me and say that I was pretty?

Maybe he noticed the twenty minutes I spent applying eyeliner to my face, but I don’t think this was the reason why.

I’ve worked hard to make a name for myself, but the only name this man can give me is “pretty”?

I look away From my empty glass, and gather my hair in my hand and twist it to my shoulder.

“You’re a 16-year old woman,” says my friend in a hushed tone.

I take a breath, and I look ahead And notice the bright city lights as we walk outside to leave.

I swing the door open, and in that instant, a rush of cool wind hits my hair and brushes the heavy curls off my shoulder, And in this moment, I realize how “pretty” I really am.

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Sparkling Sea

by Nicole Torres

The orb of blinding light above our heads, Rich in colors of yellow and orange, Slowly descends into the Ocean Blue So creatures below can see its glow.

Waves crash into the vesicle of two Aeolus propels it to accelerate at the speed of light “Hike! Hike!” They yell.

We tossed our bodies out to sea Feeling Poseidon’s wrath.

“Round the Mark and head in” The motivation to make us win Round the mark we go Down to the valley of No Return Til’ Monday we’ll sail- Ahoy!

Monday came In a swift Just to see the Gold Flakes Disappear into mist.

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Cecilia Perez

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Come Afire

by Luis Martinez

Gravity exerting Chains pulling Devil’s cannonball Feet tied numb Heart slashed blind Light has succumbed Eternal Eden, I pity you.

Your venom-fanged marks Your bitten cores, dispersed in This wasteland you have become.

This raw, aching flesh, These searing, quaking scars I will blow the gusts of the Holy Wind To distribute the fire and To divide the ashes.

Such onerous suffering is Now both yours and mine: Here lies darkness, our shrine of sin Now apotheosize me, frailty Cast the shadow Of my bloodred halo Over Heaven and under Hell Miasmic haze, toxic supernova Pierce his moon and destruct her stars

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Marina Wakil

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Quench his sun and then erupt Black hole, beast’s maw, You may open and consume: Pulse to the cadence of my Requiem To the cacophony those cold waves roared.

Their white frothing tides Revived my memories and sparked the embers Come alight, come afire, ardent past: A betrothal severed Requited love estranged Unreciprocated love reborn.

Blood father’s death Holy father’s death Starvation and convulsion.

One tear, one drop O salt and blood How I have danced With your briny affectations.

Three forms of God My inner truth is free Cry and insist, believe forever

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That the darkness has morphed me.

But my eyes have accustomed to the void To your transparency, to your submission, And to your brittle, broken will.

Mere transatlanticism was enough to shatter you Three point one four one five nine, fourteen years You lay across my prison, bathed in white Still living in Marseilles, but now dressed in silk Deafened by your own heart’s silence.

I could hear it When you whispered ‘yes.’

You say I have transformed, but it is I Who has had to struggle to remember the Memories, once so close, once so warm.

And so I ask you, Sitting on my father’s grave, To come alight, to come afire, Come to me, tell me one more time, that Your heart can bear to span so great a distance, That it will never be broken, That it will never be tamed, Not even by the sea.

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Ros

l

Fio

Aurora

Borealis

by Catie Schwartzman

There is a natural phenomenon that takes place in Sweden and other latitudes north of the Arctic Circle called the Midnight Sun. It is an unbroken 24-hour period of sunlight in summertime in which reality blends with hallucination. Darkness is banished by the almost constant daylight as night and daytime blur, the stars crossing to create a nauseating nightmare. Despite any desperate employment of black out curtains or sleeping masks, the light will relentlessly bombard, exposing pockets of the universe’s vulnerable flesh. An eerie night outdoors in the mistimed daylight gives an environment of a barren, alien world devoid of human life and earthly comforts.

Yes, eventually you will succumb to the eternal dawn and proceed with life, but always in the back of your head sits the memory of a different anomaly, just weeks before, with the opposite effect: the Northern Lights. Brilliant colors blaze across the Arctic skies in Sweden when charged particles sprinkled from the Sun reach Earth’s atmosphere on solar winds and collide with gaseous particles. They easily dazzle their witnesses, and to me, are the embodiment of Anna Johnson.

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Born in Miami to a young, Swedish salesclerk for a department store and an American businessman, Anna and I were introduced to each other before we could even walk, when we lived in the same apartment building on Key Biscayne. I became fast friends with that sweet, selfless girl with the big blue eyes and considerate smile. Every weekend, I knew she was there to accompany me in our childish antics, and that we would both support each other. We were best friends, in fact, up until fifth grade when I left Key Biscayne Community School and entered Gulliver’s class.

For some reason, our conversations became more infrequent, meetings less crucial, and it saddens me to say, but we drifted apart like sailboats surrendering to a light wind. We had not talked in four years when she called me and invited me to celebrate her birthday this February, a date which I knew by heart.

That is when she gave me the news: her father and her mother had been feuding throughout the year, and she, her mother, and her older brother would be moving to Sweden when summer vacation arrived. I had never heard her sob as hard as she did during that phone call, and my always genial and noble buddy let herself be the center of attention for once and revealed her despair.

I learned that even the most outwardly chipper people, the ones who are always there as a shoulder to cry on, can crack at the seams themselves when the stability in their lives crumbles and buries them in rubble. Anna had a sound and happy life here in the United States, and although she speaks Swedish, has never lived anywhere but her homey little apartment. Now is the moment that she needs me most, and I learned that when we are together, it feels like the gap in our friendship never occurred. We return to being Anna and Catie, those partners in crime who wore the same outfits and pretended to be sisters. This experience has taught me to savor the time I have with Anna, my Northern Lights, before she is swallowed up by the Midnight Sun, because I know now she wishes she could stay even more than I do.

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Valentina Wakeman

An Epitaph

by Katherine Cohen

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What fun it was on that roller coaster, that ride That dipped and rose while I cried While I laughed and closed my eyes And I never looked again at the skies

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Reflections Editorial Board Creative Directors Katherine Cohen Bianca Corgan Estefania Martinez Claudia Picado

Copy Editor Catie Schwartzman

Layout and Photos

Daniela Grava Susan Huang Michaela Marcille Cecilia Perez Alvaro Rodriguez Calvet Marcela Royo

Adviser Monica Rodriguez

Editorial Policy 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 and 2014.

Remi Beek

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