2016 Reflections Literary Magazine

escape Reflections 2015-2016

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

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table of contents poetry 7 9 11 17 21 27 28 34

40 49 55 59

“Escape,” Grecia Perez, Grade 9 “My World,” Shannon McCloskey, Grade 10 “Bibliophile,” Ali Trattler, Grade 10 “Back Home,” Marieta Lanseros, Grade 11 “Beautiful Disaster,” Shannon Kunkel, Grade 11 “Turtles,” Brianna Delgado, Grade 10 “Recognition,” Laura Toubes, Grade 11 “Speak to Me,” Sean Seruya, Grade 12

Based on The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga “Nature’s Beauty,” Ariana Kravetz, Grade 10 “I Should’ve Been There,” Valeria Duran, Grade 10 “The New Normal,” Rylee Podrog, Grade 9 “Fire,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 11

prose 12 “Choices,” Jaclyn Soria, Grade 12 14 “My Heavy Heart,” Bianca Corgan, Grade 12 18 “My Time in the Rooster Coop,” Talia Pfeffer, Grade 11 23 “A Guide to Procrastination,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 11 31 “Death of a Passion,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 11 36 “How to Survive on a Deserted Island,” Alejandro Muñoz, Grade 11 38 “Fire Nights,” Gabriela Muller, Grade 12 42 “Who Am I?” Valentina Wakeman, Grade 12 46 “Freedom?” Nicolas Butnaru, Grade 12 50 “The Final Tune,” Francis Barassi, Grade 12 56 “Born to Run,” Alexis Trattler, Grade 10

Based on “Punch” by Maya Angelou

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original artwork 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20 22 25 26 29 30 37 38 41 42 45 46 48 50 52 53 54 56 58 60

“Through the Leaves,” Joanne Park, Grade 11 “Richard Ramirez,” Beatriz Martins, Grade 12 “Power to the Mind,” Paula Bontempo, Grade 12 “Mother’s Delight,” Carlee Snyder, Grade 12, “Self Portrait,” Andreina De La Blanca, Grade 9 “Coast,” Susan Huang, Grade 10 “Cherry Hill,” Vivien Huang, Grade 12 “Meh,” Sandra Hernandez, Grade 12 “Organic Nature” Erin Keating, Grade 12 “Turn Again,” Sarah Menasce, Grade 11 “Port Antonio,” Vivien Huang, Grade 12 “Under the Sea,” Cecilia Perez, Grade 11 “Breathe,” Isabel De Izaguirre, Grade 10 “Thunder Drum,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 11 “Foreshortening Nature,” Joanne Park, Grade 11 “Breathe,” Erin Keating, Grade 12 “Frenchman’s Cove,” Vivien Huang, Grade 12 “Q(UEE)R,” Gabriel Abascal-Marin, Grade 12 “Duality,” Paula Bontempo, Grade 12 “Lips,“ Sandra Hernandez, Grade 12 “Me,” Carlee Snyder, Grade 12 “Turntable,” Estefania Martinez, Grade 12 “Purple Pirouette,” Monique Martinez, Grade 12 “Bloom 1” and “Bloom 2,” Amanda Vera, Grade 10 “Follow,” Erin Keating, Grade 12 “Shoes in Blue,” Nicole Zedan, Grade 12 “Feeling,” Detail, Natalie Mouawad, Grade 11 “Girl,” Beatriz Martins, Grade 12

photography 34

“Miami Skyline,” Brianna Delgado, Grade 10

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Editor’s Note Escape. Take a breath and revel in a tranquil sigh. Take a few moments within, where there will be nothing to hold you down. In this magazine, time sings instead of screams, self-doubt fades into the scenery, human spirits thrive. But to escape is not to flee or hide. What determines our character is how we respond to that constant pressure we wish to run away from. Some pick up a pen and share their fighting words with the world; others plunge into color and line to boldly express themselves.

So fly from your reality to find that elusive shadow of meaning.

Break from existence, if only for a few precious seconds, and read a comfortable stranger’s rhythm.

Retreat to a realm where time is silent and where letters speak universal truths.

Feel the breath ebbing in your chest, the life in your pulse, the gentle touch of breeze on your cheeks as tales are woven.

Your life belongs to you. We hope this magazine encourages you to make the most of life, and most of all, to make it your own.

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Joanne Park

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Beatriz Martins

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Escape

by Grecia Perez

Hides people from reality hides secret life stories hides away the pain reveals feelings thoughts, observations Music encourages us to travel through personal dark frightening places it’s the road to free expression

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Paula Bontempo

My World

by Shannon McCloskey

8By Fefi Martinez

My World

by Shannon McCloskey

My world began with just my parents.

As I grew older, it became my house, and then I learned about cities.

Naturally I thought that Miami was the world.

It became my world.

Then I became aware of vacations.

Sarasota, Orlando, and St. Augustine were frequent getaways for my family.

I discovered Florida.

Florida became my world.

I learned that the world was much larger than our state.

It turns out there are fifty states in America, and Florida is just one.

I am a United States citizen.

The United States became my world.

I learned about other places, the difference between Indiana and India, One is a state, the other a mysterious place I would like to discover.

There’s a lot more out there besides the United States.

Knowledge became my world.

Although seven billion people exist in a world of 196 countries, I am an important person. I have a voice.

I have an opinion. I am me.

I became my world.

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Carlee Snyder

Bibliophile

by Alexis Trattler

Opening the first page That sense of wonder How will it end?

Delving deeper and deeper Staying up all night to try and finish It traps you into its spell To never put it down Until you’ve turned the last page And realize it’s ended Over You read it all away

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Andreina De La Blanca

CHOICES

by Jaclyn Soria

Dear my future innovator/student/dreamer/friend/child,

You’re going to be asked a lot of questions throughout your life.

When you’re little, the questions will be simple. What’s your favorite color? Do you look more like your mother or your father? Do you want to be an astronaut when you grow up?

You’re also going to have to answer questions that aren’t even asked. Should you tell Pete that you saw Thomas eat his cookie in the cafeteria? Is it worth pretending to be sick just to avoid Caroline on the playground? Do you ask Dad what “bastard” means or do you keep it to yourself?

All the answers and actions responding to these questions are your choices. And while atoms make up your body, your choices make up your character; they make up who you are.

By your sophomore year of high school, new types of questions will be asked of you. Paper or plastic? Pro-life or pro-choice? Are you

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a Democrat or Republican? Did you just answer “Democrat” because your parents are Democrats or do you actually know what you’re talking about?

And, once again, you’ll have to decide how to react to problems even when they don’t concern you. Do you stop Derrick from showing Stacey’s nudes to the guys in the locker room? Do you immediately tell Stacey why nudes are never a good idea? Do you remember to ask her if she is okay or if she needs help? And then minor, but important choices.

Do you blow off Friday night’s party to watch Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with your parents?

Your individual choices don’t define who you are; the combination of your choices shape who you are. In my sophomore year I made a big choice. A bad choice. A wrong choice. I chose to share the questions on the English test with a friend who shared them with another friend who shared them with every student in the class. When the teacher found out, everyone had to retake the test. Naturally, I was blamed. Students pointed at me. Teachers stared at me. I remember that everyone was shocked. “Jaclyn? Jaclyn SORIA?” These reactions made me feel good. They served as a confirmation and reminder that I was the good person I thought I was. The only time my mom interacted with me was when she drove me to Saturday detention. I remember thinking detention was nothing like The Breakfast Club (please watch The Breakfast Club). When I was bored in detention, I wrote. I wrote monologues, I wrote stories, I wrote lists.

Although cheating was a bad choice, it didn’t make me a bad person. And even though you will hear this countless times in your exciting life, you learn from your mistakes. In fact, making mistakes is important because it builds your character. So please, make mistakes.

And please be bored. Make stories. Make art. Make lists. Lists of restaurants. Lists of quotes. Lists of dreams.

When you’re a senior in high school (and trust me a lot about you will change from sophomore to senior year) even more questions will be thrown at you. Harder questions. What college are you going to?

Do you think the shooting in Baltimore was racially motivated? Are you gay or straight?

You have to know that your answers to these questions will in no way alter how I feel about you. I love you. I love you unconditionally.

When I was young, whenever my mom said “I love you” I would always reply “I love you more.” She would laugh. “Impossible.” I would get mad. How could she possibly know she loved me more than I loved her? “You won’t understand until you have a child,” she said. I’m excited to understand. I’m excited to see you. I’m excited to love you.

Love, Your Mom

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Susan Huang

My Heavy Heart

by Bianca Corgan

The constant pinging echoed in the grey sedan that crept in rush hour traffic. The text messages all shared the same news but each offered very little information. As a child vacationing on the island of Haiti and playing on the mountainsides, I had often asked why the rocks looked the way they did. Therefore, I knew of the volcanoes and earthquakes, which had played such an important part of the unique topography. However, while I understood the concept, I could not truly perceive what an earthquake meant in or for Haiti. January 12, 2010 changed our lives forever. Being Haitian-American took on a new meaning. We were no longer boat people escaping political tyranny; we were victims of a terrible natural disaster. This

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made the difference on how the world perceived and responded to us. I made it my purpose to share what being Haitian meant to me.

We were the first independent black nation in the Western Hemisphere, defeating Napoleon’s gun-loaded troops with everyday kitchen utensils. This earthquake, no matter how destructive, could not break us. At its very core, this earthquake served to edify and strengthen what I grew up knowing: Haitians are resilient, dedicated, and extremely resourceful, and I am proud to count myself among them.

Most of the cell towers were affected making communication nearly impossible. Within 24 hours, we were able to hear from a friend of the family. Many cousins, aunts, and uncles were still unaccounted for; several were confirmed dead. My grandfather, while alive, lacked all of the necessary medications that helped maintain his health. I was heartbroken.

I wanted to be with my family, but the airport was closed and the flights limited to service personnel. I felt helpless.

In the ashes and rubble of my helplessness rose a spirit willing and ready to do whatever it took to serve. I collected shoes, sheets, blankets, clothes, protein bars, toiletries, and money. Once packed, my mother secured space on the rescue airplanes to expedite the items.

However, while my efforts were bona fide, they could not measure up to the immense destruction. Most of the problems stemmed from the lack of basic infrastructure and the economic instability that existed before the earthquake.

This experience made me realize that I want to use my knowledge to positively influence the lives around me. My passion for political science is rooted in my belief that I can continue to help Haitians and Haitian Americans alike confront the racial, economic, and political issues that continue to hinder the growth of the developing nation.

Haiti remains both my paradise and my burden. At first glance, it seems that the humanitarian aid has finally reached the masses after years of leaders who filled their coffers and allowed people to starve.

Dig a little deeper and find that the improvements are superficial, a mere Band-Aid on a festering wound. While the roads are no longer filled with potholes and kids are clothed, the cost of living has risen exponentially due to the same people who have brought the help. Haitians still struggle to get a proper education, to find gainful employment, and to simply eat.

Reform is needed in the way non-governmental organizations render aid to insure that the indigenous people find self-sustainability and continue to grow once the aid has been terminated. This country that my ancestors called home weighs on my heart, for I have grown to love the people and the culture; yet, I am utterly heartbroken by the despair that continues to plague the nation.

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Vivien Huang

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Back Home

by Marieta Lanseros

Empty streets filled with old houses.

Illuminated by moonlight, Sounds of barking dogs, Chilled air, the smell of smoke.

Flowing from the old chimneys.

Leaves that fall off the trees.

That burnt orange color.

Dark hues such as black, brown, rust.

Nightlife starts at dusk With breezes of winter and chilly nights Aroma of wood and trees People speaking your language.

And you realize You are back where it all started.

Madrid.

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Sandra Hernandez

My Time in the Rooster Coop

by Talia Pfeffer

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I entered the rooster coop for protection. I admired that I would be with my kind and that I would be safe with all of them.

From behind the bars, I could see the world around me progress, but inside, everything was static. The same, pointless, everyday chatter mixed with my desire to emerge from the cage drove me insane. For the moments I could no longer stand, I would take my place with my face against the sides of the coop, and call for the other animals.

They would ask me to leave the coop and join them, but I had to decline. “I can’t abandon the coop,” I repeated in my head.

Up until now, I lived inside of a rooster coop. My intention of being in the coop made sense initially, but lost meaning, as I grew frustrated with the choice I made. Hanging on the walls of the coop, I looked through the spaces and could see nothing but other animals living their lives. I wanted to get that freedom, and leap into the outside world, but I couldn’t find my way out. The roosters would berate me when I would bring up my desires and goals for getting out. They would say that my dreams would never come true, that my words didn’t matter, and that I should stay silent.

I had to pretend that these judgments didn’t bother me; that they had no effect on the way I viewed myself. I wasn’t satisfied with what I was giving up in order to fit in. It was exhausting to play the happy rooster when inside I felt so unhappy.

Eventually, my hope for escaping the coop became an obsession. The months leading up to my dismissal, I shared my life every day. The reserved and quiet part of me became the part that would react to what was communicated by the other roosters, and my true self was depicted when I interacted with the free animals outside of the coop. When I talked to the animals of the outside world, I found that empathy and gratitude existed, and no longer had to apologize for being myself.

I couldn’t find my voice until someone told me I shouldn’t have one. The day I entered the rooster coop, my life paused. I lived in a way that would be convenient to others, and the help I offered would never be reciprocated. I realized that I had to stop living this disingenuous life filled with one-sided, destructive relationships.

I leaned my body against the coop, closed my eyes, and thought about the life ahead of me. The power I had within me busted everything that held me back.

I set myself free.

I always had the key to the outside world, and finally had the strength to unlock myself from the world I would leave behind. 19

Erin Keating

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Beautiful

Disaster

by Shannon Kunkel

Life. What a beautiful thing life is.

Full of love and happiness Joy and care.

(You had life) (You lived it) (You let is slip through your hands) Death.

So sudden and so soon How horrifying.

(You are gone) But your life, was a beautiful disaster.

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Sarah Menasce 22

a guide to procRastin atiON

by Katherine Cohen

You have homework. Lots of it. Tests to study for, forms to fill out, online quizzes to take, pages to read, worksheets to do.

But how do you organize yourself to complete it all within the short span of a few hours before you return to school to receive more homework?

To begin, you must make a list of all of your assignments.

Sit down at that desk and grab a pen and paper. Take a deep breath, and go through the school schedule in your head. An imaginary student begins the day again in a virtual school.

Go to first period, write down all of the assignments from first period. Visualize second period, remember that there is a test 23

tomorrow and note it on the list with a heavy sigh. Drag that poor imaginary soul through the day, through each period, and write down the myriad of homework this unfortunate soul must complete.

Upon reaching the end of the school day, set your pen down. Feel reality crash onto you as you stare at that long list, for you are that poor unfortunate soul. Spend a good ten minutes just soaking in the enormity of the assignments weighing infinitely more than that bulky backpack. Here, you have a variety of ways to suffer. You can sit there in an existential stupor contemplating the cyclic and cruel nature of the daily grind of life, or you can set your head down and spill a few productive tears.

Then go get a snack. No really, you deserve it. All of that suffering and stress about writing down your assignments is hard work. You need a break after all of that spiritual turmoil. I recommend a nice long meal, maybe something that takes a small eternity to prepare. This provides an illusion of productivity that lessens the rude anxiety breathing down your neck. Enjoy your meal, savor each bite. Maybe play a game or two on your phone during your meal. Don’t be a slob, wash your dishes and maybe even clean the entire kitchen when you are done eating.

Now, return to your workspace to start on those assignments.

Near the agenda of things to do, write out the assignments in order so you can begin the homework in manageable increments. Here, you have two options. Lethargically begin that first assignment only to give up after five minutes, or immediately reward yourself with another break because of your organizational genius. I prefer the latter. You can now begin watching your favorite Netflix show, checking your social media websites, scrolling through Tumblr, or aimlessly do all of the above while telling yourself every once in a while that you will do your homework in a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Just a . . .

SHOOT! It’s nine o’clock! What on Earth are you doing? You lazy dimwit! Freak out now. Return to that list of assignments with unparalleled vigor. Pencil in hand and dark circles growing under your eyes, tear through the assignments. Quality is insignificant, 24

finish the assignments as fast as you can. It’s better to at least turn in something. As the clock watches your progress, you work without cease for an hour. Two hours. Now its midnight, and you still have a few assignments left. Depending on your will, you can try to push through and complete these assignments or you can give up and hope that lunch is long enough to complete them. Regardless, you slump into bed at the end of the day with low self-esteem and an incredible fatigue-ridden haze of regret. Promise yourself that you will never procrastinate again.

Repeat tomorrow.

Vivien Huang

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Cecilia Perez

Turtles

by Brianna Delgado

Along the Caribbean Eastern coast Is where sea turtles are found the most Yellow to green to black are they, Making their nest close to the bay Burying their eggs deep in the sand Hoping they’ll stay safe on land.

Waddling back into the sea, Leaving her children and then swimming free Her solitary life seems lonely and blue, Just like the ocean she swims all day through.

When her babies have hatched, they will take their little shells Back into the deep sea where they will dwell

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Recognition

by Laura Toubes

She ran too far

Somewhere no one knows

Lost in her own parallel universe She danced too long

No one watched

Her grace was soon forgotten She flew too high

No one reached out to bring her home

A speck in unknown galaxies She dug too deep

No one understood why

Enclosed by darkness only she knew

Deep into her soul,

I found myself

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Isabel De Izaguirre 29

Catie Schwartzman

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DEATH of a PASSION

by Catie Schwartzman

Growing up, I never questioned the busy schedule that my parents gave me. I enjoyed the narrow selection of activities, so I never realized my lack of free time. My life had a routine that I was grateful for: right after the final school bell rang, I would shove my cleats on and head out to the soccer field; then, at 4:30, my mom would yank me into the car to my drum lesson; and come six on the dot, I was bound for two hours of Chinese calligraphy class. That was the sum of my day, and only on a few occasions did I wonder why I didn’t get to go out for pizza with the rest of the soccer team after practice. I loved all three of those activities: how powerful my body could be in soccer; how magnificent my music could be in band class; how precise my movements could be in calligraphy. My parents loved my time in these hobbies even more than I did, but in a different way. When I succeeded — when I won MVP on my soccer team, 31

when I placed in my music competitions, when I ranked number one young calligrapher in the state — they showered me with praise. However, even the smallest misstep in one of my activities prompted the most excruciating tongue-lashing that made me feel like I was nothing. I took it quietly every time though; they were my parents, my overlords, and that was just how it was.

When I was scouted by colleges for soccer in ninth grade, my world, my carefully cultivated routine, turned upside down.

My parents pulled me out of the music program and fired my calligraphy tutor. Instead, they upped my soccer training to twenty-five hours a week: three hours per weekday, five hours each on Saturday and Sunday. The team only held practice for one and a half hours on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday, so my parents paid for an elite coach to do individual training to fill in the time.

I was shocked at how easily I was broken: two of my greatest passions, activities that I had fallen in love with over all those years, were stolen by the same people who brought them into my life. My friendships with the other jazz band members and my bond with my calligraphy teacher fell by the wayside to non stop soccer. I took comfort at first in how much I loved soccer, but the longer I was forced to practice, the more I hated it. I came home every night, sore to the point of limping and alienated from the rest of the team by my parents. I struggled to find something to live for. *** I met Kaya at a match held at a school a few miles near mine.

My parents were on a business trip in California. The girls’ game was first, so I watched from the sidelines while they played. She had a joy in playing that I couldn’t find on my best days. She was really good, too; I’m sure scouts had their eyes on her. Even after her team lost, she actually smiled when she went down the line of opponents during the post-game handshake, and a few minutes later, was laughing with her teammates. I summoned energy I didn’t know I had in me and walked over to her while she untied her cleats on the bench.

“Hey. You fricking killed it out there,” I said. She turned from her shoes and looked up at me.

“Thanks,” she said with a grin. “Your team’s playing soon, right?”

32 “Yeah, guys go on in a half an hour. Would rather not play

though,” I added, glancing at the field.

“Why?” she asked. She took a swig of Gatorade from the bottle beside her.

“It’s like, I used to love it, but now that it’s become this whole obligation that’s taken over my life, I hate it.” She furrowed her eyebrows sympathetically.

“That sucks. You have to do other things besides soccer or you’ll go nuts.”

I shook my head and chuckled. “Tell that to my parents. They won’t let me do anything else.”

She eyed me flirtatiously, eyebrows raised. “What would your parents think if I gave you my number?”

“Screw ‘em,” I replied. “I’m Leo Cheng.”

“Kaya Young.” She typed her number into my phone and headed into the locker room. *** “Please, I need moderation, I need balance, and you’re killing me,” I begged. I was wearing my soccer uniform and shin guards.

I started to cry. Suddenly I was thinking about how my parents had never told me they loved me. I couldn’t get it out of my head, and it made me cry harder.

“How dare you! My word is law.” My mother grabbed me hard by my wrist. Her eyes glinted furiously. “You are too busy for that girl. Leo, you go to soccer right now! If you don’t go to soccer right now—” “Then what?! You always make me do what you want me to do anyway, and you’ve already taken away my friends and ruined the things I love!” My obedience derailed. I laughed wildly, tears still streaming down my face.

“Life isn’t supposed to be fun. Childhood is a training period.

Now, drive to soccer.”

“You treat my life like you own it. It’s mine, and I have passions I want to pursue. I want to do calligraphy, I want to play the drums, I even want to play soccer, because I love them! But you force it on me and toy with the line between passion and obligation like my wellbeing and what I want don’t matter. I don’t even know what I am anymore. So I’m going to hang out with Kaya, because I want to enjoy my life starting now!”

I tore from her grip. She looked at me with disgust, struck me across the face, and walked away.

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Speak to me

by Sean Seruya

Speak to me of opportunity, I told San Jose.

I will NOT, she said.

Driving down streets, people coming and going, people sitting and begging. Tourists all around. San Franciscans all around. BEGGARS all around. A land people talk of, looking to start anew, to make a difference in the world. To create an innovation that no one else can think of. To create a world no one else has DREAMED OF. Apple, Facebook, Google, Uber. They are the real few; all it provides to the masses is nothing.

Speak to me of opportunity, I told New York.

I will NOT, she said.

Wall Street, New York Times, Broadway... the Big Apple. Not so big anymore once you’re actually there. Minimum wage, maximum rent.

Minimum space, maximum needs. It’s the place about which we all dream, but the opportunities to succeed do not thrive in such an environment, but yet we still BELIEVE. Why? I don’t know. Go visit Harlem, the Bronx, even old Brooklyn, maybe they can explain why.

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Speak to me of opportunity, I told Los Angeles.

I will NOT, she said.

Strolling down the Walk of Fame, names of people who have dreamt and achieved and people stepped on by those have dreamt but never succeed. Tourists walk among Angelenos, but not the kind you see on TV, the ones who dream of being on TV. Their chances were never met and now they struggle on the streets doing impressions of the few who are lucky to be on TV and later flip burgers at your local In-N-Out. “Speak to me of struggle?�, I told Miami.

I will, she said.

A new hope, and not the Star Wars kind. People from far and wide in Latin America immigrate day after day, looking for a new chance at a new life and to leave a legacy for their families to succeed. The American Dream. But when you step foot in a country like ours, you soon realize we are built on false imagery. Just go to downtown Miami and you will see, nothing is as easy as it seems.

By Sean Seruya, 12th grade

Brianna Delgado

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How to Survive on a

Deserted Island

by Alejandro MuĂąoz

Castaway, Swiss Family Robinson, and Lord of the Flies all craft entrancing tales of people struggling to survive on a deserted island. The reason they neared the brink of death so easily was because they did not read this guide as I had not released it yet.

Lucky for you, this miniscule pamphlet of information is the sole reason you’ll survive for at least a week.

The first and most essential step in this guide is to survive a plane crash (If you are not able to accomplish this, no worries, you can try again some other time). Once you awaken, you’ll probably be floating on some wreckage; this happens in the movies all the time. The next step is to locate the island that will become your future home. Take your time as any realtor will tell you the importance of choosing a suitable abode. Once you swim to shore, pat yourself on the back for your accomplishment. (Positive reinforcement is crucial in such a dire situation.) You should then waste no time in searching for the necessities: water, shelter, and a Wi-Fi connection. Water can be located in ponds, coconuts, and some trees. You should then situate your shelter relatively close to this source without being in range of mosquitoes. To be able to drink this water, you must construct a fire to boil the bacteria out. Simply take the clothes off of your friends that did not follow step one and light their garb ablaze. (Keep in mind this is not a fire starting guide so a concise knowledge on the topic is advised). On your first night, campfire ghost stories are not encouraged, as you are most likely alone and will probably sound insane. Assuming you followed the 36

guide correctly and chose an island without dangerous animals, you will sleep soundly. If you did not, close your eyes and hope for the best. If you wake up in the morning, you will have a long day ahead of you. Finding a good source of food is your next task, and delivery is not an option. Fish, small animals, berries, and nuts are all good sources of nutrition and should be explored when crafting your menu. Once you manage to establish yourself in this hostile environment, you will need a house to call your own. Building a house from wood and leaves is a good way to build muscle and character. Once your fortress is built, supplies established, and fire prepped, you need only worry about maintaining sanity in your lonely existence. To do so, you can paint a volleyball and call it your friend or even establish your own government. Surfing, fishing, and sunbathing are all ideal ways to spend your beach days. After a while, you will undoubtedly grow tired of your environment.

It is at this point where you will need to build or catch a ride back to mainland to call your friends. Naturally, an airplane is recommended if you have a spare but generally a boat will suffice.

If you do not have any aforementioned means of transportation, the final step of the guide comes into play. Shout loudly and hope someone hears you. If this succeeds, you have now become a genuine survivor and you’ll have one hell of a story to tell.

Joanne Park

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Fire Nights

by Gabriela Muller

FLUGTAG! It was time. The adrenaline kicked in and I rushed out of my sleeping bag with one goal in mind: get that glow stick. My group had spent the previous week training like soldiers in the Israeli Army. At 4:00 am, the excitement began. We awoke to the commanders screaming Flugtag! — a German army command used by Israelis that roughly translates to “flight day.” It was time to put our training to the test. As the commanders spread out across the hill to play the role of the enemies, 120 teenagers hid from them, crawling through piles of insects to reach the “stick lights”; reaching the stick light represents that one has survived the mission. I could see the last of these flashing behind Cdr. Yotam. Like a child catching fire flies in a jar, I lunged impetuously for the light. Little did I know that, along with keeping the stick light as a badge of honor, I would acquire a panoply of thorns in my hand from the bush in which I landed.

A few nights after this adventure, we Tzofim (Scouts) were relaxing on the beach in the

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Erin Keating

Israeli City of Eilat. At around 1:30 a.m., we awoke to an enormous explosion that shook the entire hotel. As we heard screams in the hallway, we were evacuated to the bomb shelter and were told that a missile had hit the building across the street from our hotel.

This was the beginning of the 2014 Israel-Gaza conflict. Suddenly what had been adventure became a frightening reality. That night, as we waited for hours to leave the shelter, I naturally reverted to one of my favorite tricks, performing theatrical monologues to my impromptu audience. I spoke in different accents, inventing funny characters to lighten our moods, but we were still aware that we were in the midst of a war-zone.

The gravity of the situation only increased. Later into the trip, a tank of Israeli soldiers was blown up in Gaza. One of the soldiers killed was my commander’s boyfriend who came to Israel from California to serve in the army. Here were people only three years older than I, yet with enormous responsibilities and even dying for their country. Although I have tremendous respect for the commanders, more than anything, my experience in Israel was opening my eyes to both sides of the conflict.

Despite the sirens sounding daily, I continued to seek out what I came here for — cultural interaction. At a Bedouin tent, I watched the World Cup Finals with a group of Argentines as rivals, while I cheered for Germany in Spanish. Later on in the trip, I approached some Russian boys, excited to show off the few Russian phrases I had learned from a friend the summer before; somehow the word “shlepantsy,” meaning flip flop, kept coming up. The boys also shared with me their views about the RussianUkrainian conflict. Similarly, substantial conversations in Spanish arose with my new Venezuelan friends regarding the ongoing crisis in Venezuela. The media has absolved itself of responsibility in communicating this serious situation. Only by speaking Spanish, am I able to have access to firsthand accounts of what is happening. I am grateful my Venezuelan parents raised me in a Spanish speaking home.

On a far more serious note, when the program ended, Cdr. Yotam was sent to Gaza to fight. He told us that we scouts would not hear from him, since sending word could jeopardize his mission and his life. This trip, as surreal as it was, taught me the power of communication, both for good and for harm. Although fraught with challenges and risk, communication can always enrich one’s life. If we work hard enough, it can even deter conflicts.

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Nature’s Beauty

by Ariana Kravetz

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From light skies to grey To the green grass where the children play And gardening being arranged We all know that nature can change Flowers, plants, and trees all change with season But that does not give humans a reason To wreck all of the beautiful things Nature is more than people think

Vivien Huang

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Gabriel Abascal-Marin

Who am I?

by Valentina Wakeman

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I’m confused about who I am—but in a good way.

My youth was one relocation after another—six new countries, five new schools, and countless new people from all over. Though grateful for this lifestyle, I remember being unsure of what “normal” was, since always moving meant always trying to adapt to cultures that were so different from one another. In response to this feeling of self-doubt, I sought to assimilate through affirmation.

I thought I could only obtain self-acceptance if I made a positive impression on a teacher, friend, or complete stranger. I was “successful” when my hair-braiding skills received compliments, or when I was chosen to sing the Mexican national anthem at my kindergarten graduation.

Living in a bicultural household—the only constant in times of such change—only complicated everything even more. My mother is Argentine, and I spent the majority of my childhood surrounded by the passion that defines Latin culture. There was such value in human relationships: between family, friends, friends of friends, first cousins, second cousins, and even eighth cousins.

I’ve never been afraid to sing Soda Stereo’s Trátame Suavemente with mamá in the car, teach my friends how to salsa dance, or Skype my abuelita in Argentina on weekends. But even though I love to depend on these relationships, I’m usually the reserved one in a Latin crowd, despite the fact that I’m “one of them.” This is where my dad’s culture, that eventually turned into my own, came into play— my Latin effervescence often competed with my reserved, “American” personality.

The influence of both these lifestyles has become my essence—I love to scream my lungs out while watching Barcelona play a soccer match, but I also enjoy discussing the philosophy of Kant with my dad, Googling “top 10 British humorous jokes,” arguing with him about which Pink Floyd record is their best, and responding to my 43

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environment in ways that are more introspective—like painting. These seemingly opposing cultures had frustrated my ability to identify which of the two I truly was, since I love them both equally.

Thankfully, when I moved to Miami, a city both “Latino” and “American” at the same time, my two worlds came together. I was finally in an environment where both cultures became accessible to me and, for once, I felt comfortable. I could speak both Spanish and English on a daily basis. I could go watch the Miami Dolphins play football on a Sunday afternoon, and return to the same stadium a week later to watch Colombia play fútbol against Brazil. I could go to a salsa concert on Friday nights, and listen to Britney Spears on the car ride home.

My high school experience was my first true immersion into an environment where I didn’t have to worry about fitting in, and its biggest impact helped produce my newfound self-affirmation. At school, I started to appreciate my success without seeking approval from others once I realized my capabilities. I was celebrated because I did well academically, competed at a swim meet, or because my paintings won awards. But for the first time, I wasn’t proud of myself because I received congratulations from someone else, but because I gained self-confidence when I myself had achieved something.

Thanks to Miami, I’m in an environment where I’ve discovered the connection between heritage, confidence, and identity. As I’ve figured out, this Argentine-American synthesis is exactly who I am: a Latin heart with an Anglo mindset, and I love not having to choose one over another. I now consider this quality a valuable strength, as opposed to what was initially a conundrum, a vulnerability. Though I’m not the only traveler—physically, mentally, emotionally—my transitions, in every aspect, have become a self-defining journey. It’s one that’s been both fulfilling and enriching, and it’s encouraged me to continue discovering, no matter where I am.

Paula Bontempo

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Sandra Hernandez

FREEDOM?

by Nicolas Butnaru

Was this the teenage dream? Was this what I had been waiting for? It felt surreal. We were sitting at the dinner table, and my parents announced they were taking my older sister to college - without me. I would have the house to myself for two nights. I am not the wild type. But I am gregarious and have plenty of friends. I promptly texted a few of my friends and told them the great news.

The weekend couldn’t come quickly enough. I planned a modest party. I had it “under control.” Ten close friends had confirmed they were coming to my house. I made a playlist, bought snacks and ordered pizza. I was all set.

Panic set in as the doorbell rang, and I opened the door.

Teenagers came streaming in as if they were termites hungrily 46

marching into a wooden house. The number quickly reached five times my expectation. I recognized some of my uninvited guests from my school hallways, but I never pictured them in my family room. Suddenly, I felt defensive; there were too many strangers in my home, my sanctuary. This wasn’t my teenage dream; this was a nightmare in the making.

I exercised more that night than I ever did in a single lacrosse game, and trust me, playing lacrosse is exhausting. I ran up and down the stairs countless times, checking on every room in my house. The climax of my anxiety came when my mom called during the party. In the heat of the moment, I jumped into a bathroom, hoping to avoid the background noise. And when my mother asked how I was managing by myself, I lied and told her “I’m watching a football game.” The sharp pang of guilt hit me right in the stomach even before I hit the disconnect button on my iPhone. At the end of the party, I went into cleaning mode, and by the morning, the house looked as if there had not been a party the night before. Luckily, no one had been hurt and nothing was damaged, except for my pride and integrity; I knew I let my parents down, as well as myself.

When my parents returned home, I confessed to them. I couldn’t live with my guilt by continuing to lie to them. I have always considered myself lucky that my family and I enjoy a close and honest relationship, built on trust. I was putting my fun and popularity ahead of my principles. Sure, my parents punished me, but I fully expected and deserved the punishment.

The irony is that while the party was a great idea “on paper,” in reality, it was nowhere close to being fun. I realized that sometimes the best lessons come in the aftermath of impulsive actions. I certainly learned that honesty and integrity are too important to compromise, under any circumstances. My perspective on responsibility and life changed after that night. I learned that life is sometimes like a chess game you have to plan ahead and consider the potential consequences of your actions. Clearly, I did not appreciate that when I initiated my plans. I am glad I made this poor decision because it truly opened my eyes to the world. My parents always told me, “there is a time for everything,” but I was not mature enough to understand their message. Now I am.

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Carlee Snyder 48

I SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE

by Valeria Duran

I should’ve been there Ready to stand in front of her Ready to protect her from danger I should’ve been there From day one I had said I would From day one I promised to take care of her I should’ve been there Instead of having mindless conversations elsewhere Instead of taking my time I should’ve been there To comfort her To hold her as she was slipping away I should’ve been there When she was terrified When she was defenseless I was there To find a friend I had lost To hate myself for not being there I could have saved her 49

Estefania Martinez

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Art Work By: Philippe Bethlem

The Final Tune

by Francis Barassi

Grandma called. I knew the drill: get my headphones out of my pocket, find a comfortable spot, and answer the call. I was prepared to hear about the fascinating programs on PBS, the antics of her rescue dog, Jack, and the usual questions about my health and well-being. I was unprepared, however, to hear the inevitable.

“Hi doodlebug, grandpa and I would love it if you brought your violin to Tucson and played a little concerto for everyone on Christmas Eve.”

That was when I realized it really was that time of year again; excitement became apprehension. It is not that I do not enjoy playing the violin; on the contrary, I love playing the violin – with my peers in the school orchestra. There is something about playing solo, particularly for people whose opinions matter to me, that allows for anxiety and insecurity to get the better of me.

The confidence I have as a section leader in the school orchestra dissipates, making me seem as timid as a deer in the middle of hunting season. My body becomes sweaty, overheated, and itchy; my adept finger movements become clumsy and stiff. Not only does my body undergo physical discomfort, but I also start to justify mistakes with excuses and explanations. To sum things up, I become a complete mess. I have always been able to avoid playing my violin at family functions, but I knew that I would not get away with it this time. My grandma sent me a hard-shell, airtight, waterproof violin case equipped with a digital monitoring system that automatically responds to the slightest change in temperature or humidity; the excuse that my violin might crack in the process of traveling due to the drastic change in temperature was invalid. I was unprepared to cope with the apprehension of possibly embarrassing myself in front of all my loved ones. Nevertheless, I met my grandma’s request halfway and consented to playing my violin exclusively for her and my grandpa.

When I arrived in Tucson, my grandma greeted my dad, brother, and me with warm hugs and a strained smile. Something was wrong. On the drive to her house, she told us of my grandpa’s deteriorating condition. After enduring ten years of chemotherapy 51

and nauseating medication, my grandpa was ready to let the cold claws of fate take him from us. I was devastated. As a devotee of the arts, particularly of music, my grandfather always insisted on paying for my violin lessons and any other musical expenses. Because of his treatment, however, he was never strong enough to attend any of my orchestra’s performances. I was satisfied with the thought of my grandpa hearing his grandson play as a final goodbye before his departure from this world.

The day before Christmas Eve, I practiced diligently in my grandparents’ living room for days, using the untarnished music stand bought for me by my grandfather to prop up the lively tunes I was prepared to play. I was confident about tomorrow’s performance until my uncle approached me and told me how much he was looking forward to hearing me play. I felt deceived and outraged for a moment that my grandmother was planning on making my private performance into a family affair. I almost refused to play until I realized that the performance would bring my family together during a time of sorrow and alleviate some of my grandma’s stress.

When I saw my grandfather, it was clear that he was in his own world, and I felt as though he didn’t even know I was there. It was time to put my insecurities aside and focus on the feelings of others for a change. The following day, when I saw the tears roll down my grandfather’s cheeks as the notes resounded through his soul, I knew that the language of music had expressed my love for him.

Monique Martinez

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Amanda Vera

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Erin Keating

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The new normal

by Rylee Podrog

Waking up to fading light Darkness in a world all too bright Caught in the swirling stream Living in a hazy dream The dying stars that no longer shine The vast expanse that used to be mine Now the world is turning black A rigid body going slack Tears falling from wet eyes A world once wicked is baptized.

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Born to Run

by Alexis Trattler

Nicole Zedan

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Now that I am firmly settled into my second decade, and eagerly awaiting my third, I find nothing so pleases me as much as worn out running shoes, the open road, and my hair in a pony tail.

Do I look sporty? Possibly to my peers. Do I feel that way?

Definitely yes. I have reached the age where running satisfies me as much as working out and sometimes more so.

As a runner, I would have my ears filled with the sounds of nature, the free laughter of teens running in the hot sun, and the whirr of busy mosquitoes in the early morning. I want to hear the soft sound of feet hitting the ground and the murmur of today’s drama, a whisper of last night’s gossip. All sounds of life and living, death and dying, will find welcome places in my ears.

My eyes will gladly receive colors. The burnt red skin of sunburned girls on the road, and of cool blue shoes. I like the dark black t-shirts of night, the threatening dark green of grass, and yellow, as bright as the sun. And I will have blue. The iridescent blue of the ocean and the dusty blue twilight of New York.

Let the taste and smell be firmly joined, a marriage of loving scents. Let the scent of fresh cut citrus join the aroma of strawberries in delighting my salivary glands. Give me the smell of nature and the wild scent of oak trees. I do not refuse the acrid smell of sweat in the locker room or the pungent scent of dirty socks, for they remind me of the bitterness of chocolate and the sting of vinegar.

And the sense of touch — last, but hardly least. I wish for the feel of a hot shower and the stench of sweat washing away.

I welcome the soreness of my muscles and ankles. I want the crunch of chocolate between my teeth and ice cream melting on my tongue. Clothes that fit comfortably without squeezing and strong, fearless feet that run without pain.

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Natalie Mouawad 58

Fire

by Katherine Cohen

Spark.

A small explosive beginning Heat that can warm life back into cold hands, Heat that can burn living hands.

Dancing a gentle sway under a whispered breath, Dancing a frenzied chaotic tempo.

The light soft enough to barely caress your eye, The light that scalds through eyelids.

Smoke that waltzes lightly to the sighing sky Smoke like growling thunderclouds.

A flame like a friend, A flame like a foe.

Life and death becoming Embers.

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escape

Reflections Literary Magazine 2015-2016

Editors in Chief Katherine Cohen Catie Schwartzman

Creative Directors Shannon Kunkel Cecilia Perez

Staff Isabel De Izaguirre Brianna Delgado Lily Harris Isabella Lamus Zachary Letson Megan Lewis Vanessa Rosales Nicole Schwyn Laura Toubes Rylee Podrog

Adviser

Monica Rodriguez

colophon The 2016 edition of Reflections Literary Magazine was printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 800 copies. The magazine was created using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS6 on iMac computers. Fonts included Geomanist, Optima, Moon, and Mf Young and Beautiful. 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, 2014, and 2015.

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Beatriz Martins