Works in Progress -- Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine, 2023-2024 Ed.

Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine Volume 42 2023-2024

WORKS IN

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Pietra Wagner digital design

Works in Progress

Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine Gulliver Preparatory Upper School 6575 North Kendall Drive Miami, Florida 33156 305-666-7937

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CONTENTS Poetry

6. Freckles - Mia Sullivan ‘26 9. Shadow Me - Benjamin Berger ‘24 10. Free - Sophia Kingston ‘25 15. Insomnia - Nirvana Sharma ‘25 16. The Strange Feeling - Lucas Armando ‘24 24. Someone I Used to Know - Ellie Rosenwald ‘26 26. Your Validation - Miranda De Armas ‘26 28. Someone I Used to Know - Ellie Rosenwald ‘26 31. Glass Child - Angelina Gonzalez ‘26 32. Just Write - Ellie Rosenwald ‘26 35. Inner Battle - Bianca Vila ‘26 36. Suiting Up - Tristan Duncan ‘23 45. Misunderstood - Angelina Gonzalez ‘26

Prose

12. Back of House - Dylan Amron ‘24 18. My Jew-ish Heritage - Nathan Brown ‘24 20. Breathe in Move out - Clarissa Echeverria ‘25 39. La Cara Ciega de Dios - Erika Travieso Benitez ‘24

Photography 22. Star Island - Mia Carrasco ‘24 46. A Look Below - Daniel Lara ‘23

Zip Odes 22. 33139 - Marianne Arana ‘25 22. 33133 - Lily-Rose Tobins ‘26 23. 33156 - Brooke Quevedo ‘27 23. 33133 - Sasha Bailine ‘27

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2D Art Cover. Ice Cream - Pietra Wagner ‘23 1. Baking - Pietra Wagner ‘23 4. Self Portrait - Joaquin Sandaal ‘25 7. Redhead - Samantha Diaz ‘23 8. Concrete Minds - Olivia Bueno ‘25 11. Reflection - Siqi Li ‘23 14. Despair - Siqi Li ‘23 17. Body Heat - Molly Atkins ‘23 21. Self portrait - Isabel McGinnis ‘26 25. Blooming Friendship - Tamara Santoyo Geijo ‘26 27. Human Figure - Mica Navarro-Grau ‘25 28. Ballerinas - Chiara Zecchini ‘23 30. Kihyun - Maya Shah ‘24 33. The Way I Spoke - Justin Fieler ‘24 34. Who I See - Gabriela Montalvo ‘23 37. Beach Sole - Giada D’Alerta ‘26 38. Stranger - Camila Sandaal ‘23 44. Keshi - Maya Shah ‘24 48. Careless - Sophia Azari ‘23

Song 29. Rosa - Victor Giraldez ‘23

Sculptures 2. Hand of the Artist - Finn Brennan ‘23 3. Mother Earth - Sofia Acosta ‘23

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Joaquin Sandaal oil painting

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Dear Reader...

Our world is constantly changing and evolving.

There’s no doubt that we are too; our high school years move quickly as we progress a little more each year. It’s one of the most transitional times in our lives.

Evolving, growing, learning...every day of our lives. We’re always in a state of change yet we remain palimpsests of our past selves. As we progress through life, we keep some of the old while constantly searching for the new, always striving to be better versions of ourselves. One of the greatest hopes in life is knowing that the person you are now is not the person you will be in six months, a year, ten years — ever.

The works in this magazine are all a part of the writer’s or artist’s immediate self at the time of their piece’s creation. While reading this magazine and wandering through the art, we hope you feel the same hope we do: the hope in knowing that you have the power to change who you are and grow because we’re all just works in progress.

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FRECKLES

Mia Sullivan

For 14 years I hated my freckles Concealer, foundation, clear skin filters Anything to make them disappear Never showed them off Tried to hide them whenever I got the chance I wanted the skin everyone else had The one thing that made me distinguishable The one thing that exhibited the Irish in my blood The one thing I wanted to change about myself Until they became relevant Having freckles were the “dream” Freckle filters, fake freckle markers They became popular, people yearned for freckles “I would do anything to have YOUR freckles” Wait Hm Maybe they aren’t so bad after all I started to express them, show them off No more filters, I didn’t wish they were gone anymore I embraced them With an attitude that spoke to others implying that I never hated them I like them now But why now?

Why couldn’t I have always liked them?

Why is it that I like them only because others do?

Why can’t I just like them because they are on me?

Because they are part of my identity.

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Samantha Diaz oil painting

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Olivia Bueno oil painting

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SHADOW ME

Benjamin Berger

My shadow, a perfect depiction of who I am and how I feel.

In the dark corner of my room who I assume will consume, A deeper part of me.

Displaying thoughts and emotions, Through dark motions across the wall.

When I come to understand that the slender man is not a friend.

He stalks me at night, sheets over me, to prevent a fight.

Then I wake up, morning sun in my eyes, No more shadows, and then I rise.

But midday, as I rest under a tree, my shadow is set free.

This time, with no malintent, For my shadow is content.

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free

Sophia Fernandes Kingston

That low dull bun that was no fun didn't represent anyone.

People always told me to wear my hair down, I would frown.

I was scared to embrace my curly hair and that's a disgrace.

And then I stopped and unlocked the key which made me free, I finally realized MY hair, wild and styled; nothing to be ashamed of.

Finally, I let myself shine, without any sign of a disguise.

I let my curls dance, and my confidence, I reclaimed.

My hair serves as a constant reminder to embrace my uniqueness, which is not a weakness, My hair, something rare, A reminder to stay true to myself.

It makes me stand out from the crowd, loud and proud — A part of who I am.

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Siqi Li oil painting

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back

of

house

Dylan Amron

“7 tunas! 13 tomatoes! 8 Caesars!” the Chef de Cuisine shouted from the expeditor station. We had 190 reservations and 110 walkins: the most stressful night I’d ever spent in a kitchen. Struggling to compose myself while the fire alarm blared, I was exasperated. It was the thirteenth hour of my shift, which was my second double-shift in a row. At the end of the exhausting evening, one thing was clear: nothing could ruin cooking for me, not even a chaotic night in a jam-packed restaurant.

Growing up watching Food Network and the Cooking Channel, I doubted my lawyer-parents believed their middle child may actually want to become a chef. They probably figured I liked food or was just hungry, but watching Bobby Flay dress a Thanksgiving turkey and seeing determined chefs tackle unforgiving basket ingredients on Chopped, captivated me. I originally discovered these shows because the food looked amazing but continued watching when I began to appreciate the time and pressure these chefs had to cook under in competitions and in their own restaurants. I was hooked.

My first cooking show was “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.” It was the episode where Guy Fieri visited a soul food restaurant and tried their fried chicken and waffles. I fell in love with the dish and decided to make it. Whether it was burning the chicken because the oil wouldn’t

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remain at a stable temperature or not double frying the chicken after letting it rest, my first few attempts were mediocre at best. Determined, I sharpened my skills and eventually mastered this meal. Soon my family was devouring my efforts, and the smiles on their faces were more rewarding than any “A” I’ve received in school. After years of religiously watching cooking shows and trying countless recipes, I decided to take a big step and applied to work in a restaurant the summer after ninth grade.

Starting off as a humble busboy, I learned the ropes of the register and even some food-prep. When a back-of-house employee was fired, an opportunity arose to receive a raise and work in the kitchen. Suddenly, I was rolling burritos and flipping quesadillas on the flat top grill. My manager was surprised because she had never asked about my experience in a kitchen; she had only inquired about the opportunity. My “Yes!” without a second of hesitation was good enough for her. After the first week in the kitchen, I broke out into tears. Surprised by my emotion, a realization dawned on me: I had finally found “my thing.” Cooking was a passion no one could take away. Like a well-composed recipe, one activity combined my competitiveness, academic knowledge, and creative skills.

During my time in four different restaurants, I’ve made pizzas, pasta, pastries, and held positions as a garde manger (preparing appetizers and salads) and prep-cook (assisting the line cooks and chef). Working in numerous kitchens, including Cuban and Italian, I’ve discovered new techniques and international flavors. Moving past chicken and waffles, now ropa vieja, bucatini carbonara, churrasco, and tiramisu have become some of my signature dishes. I especially appreciate the opportunities I’ve had to work alongside people who are much older because their perspectives and life experiences have helped me grow not only as a cook, but also as a person. In a kitchen, it doesn’t matter where you come from or if, in my case, you’re the youngest one in the room: we’re all on the same team.

For some, cooking shows are an escape; for me, they are a form of discovery. Preparing meals for my friends and family brings me joy.

The smiles and excitement that can come from food are universal.

While I may not know which college town I’ll call home for the next four years, I’m confident my path will include many opportunities to continue learning and growing in classrooms and kitchens along the way.

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Siqi Li watercolor

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insomnia

Nirvana Sharma

Every night seems to be the longest day Tossing and turning till I can’t stay awake My eyes stay open as I feel my mind drift Like a man in a terrifying sea Begging to be flipped one last time For the blessing of peace, But the waves will drown me.

They just need to stop fighting.

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I am an energy, which people find strange, Not even the smartest scientist can explain, I travel from person to person trying to find a match, I’m a magnet that attracts, I can make you feel warm as a sun or the ice cold snow, People need me through tough times or innocent days, Some may not want me but I’m still there, You lead my destiny, And I break easily, I can be one way lane, Or a two lane highway People often refer me as a baby angel, And I have a day dedicated to me, I am full of treats and flowers, I can be the high school lovers, Or the old couple holding hands in the backyard, Reminiscing on the good old days, For this strange feeling is love, And that is who I am.

the feeling 16

Lucas Armando

Molly Atkins digital drawing

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my Nathan Brown

heritage

Last year, I found myself at an Orthodox bar mitzvah, where I was the only man without a tallit, the only Jew without a prayer book, and the only person who didn't know what was going on. Up to that point, most services I had attended were at my local temple, where the faces were familiar, and the eyes were far less judgy. I had never felt so clearly out of place somewhere I was supposed to belong.

This feeling of isolation was not new, as I had always felt a disconnect from my Jewish heritage. In my Jewish elementary school, I never truly believed the words of the prayers I had memorized in Hebrew class. When it came time for my bar mitzvah, I realized how few prayers I actually remembered. This important moment in my religious path felt undeserved; I felt like I was taking the time, space, and bima away from someone "more Jewish" than I. Whenever I was asked about my Jewish heritage and religion, I never really had a good reply, typically answering, "I'm just in it for the food," for cheap laughs to avoid an honest answer. It's not that I don't have an answer to the question, but I believed I wasn't "Jewish enough" to call myself Jewish.

When the pandemic closed my temple for a year, my experience with Judaism changed—no more waking up early and dressing up on high holidays. Instead, my family would sleep in and have bagels and lox. Even after the synagogue reopened, my family continued celebrating the holidays at home, so I no longer associated them

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with stuffy clothes and extended services; instead, the holidays turned into fun times with relatives. And with these gatherings came the opportunity to experience our unique traditions. On Christmas, we'd host our beloved Chanukah Auction, where we bid on wrapped gifts of ranging quality with Monopoly money. On Passover, when the adults would drink their four cups of wine, a significant part of the Passover Ceremony, my Ukrainian grandmother replaced hers with vodka. When we'd open the door for Elijah, we left it open for my grandfather, who passed before I was born. As I experienced these traditions throughout the years, I was inspired to perform my research on Judaism and converse with my rabbi as we discussed what it meant to be Jewish. Over time, he helped me see that being Jewish and believing in a higher power were not mutually exclusive.

To believe in God was just as valid as not believing; therefore, there was no wrong way to be Jewish.

With this newfound understanding, I decided to volunteer with the Friendship Circle, an organization at a local Chabad to teach children with special needs about Judaism. Often, I found myself learning more than I'd anticipated, as the rabbis helped me understand the deeper meanings of the lessons. This led to a summer job as an Inclusion Counselor at my JCC, where I looked after the only boy with special needs within a larger group of kids.

Here, I could follow a core tenet of Judaism: mitzvot, giving back to my community.

I also became friends with a co-counselor, Kennieth, who invited me to join him for Shabbat at his temple. I hadn't been to a service since the Orthodox bar mitzvah and couldn't help feeling nervous.

But they were friendly and patient when Kennieth introduced me to his small congregation. Despite my inexperience, even when my ill-fitting yarmulke kept falling off, the temple welcomed me to Shabbat. When Kennieth asked me where we were in prayer during the service, I instinctively showed him the Hebrew portion, only then realizing that I was reading the prayers entirely in Hebrew. Prayers I hadn't read in over two years were still waiting for me. My religion had never really left me.

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Breathe in Move Out

Clarissa Echeverria

Trembling with fear, thinking about what I could’ve done, I followed my mom, dragging my feet one after the other. As we got to my room there was a gentle “click” as the door closed and she turned around to look in my direction with a pitiful smile that filled me with worry. “You’re not in trouble”, she said. Sitting down she took a deep breath. She looked into my eyes and said, “we’re moving to Hong Kong.”

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Isabel McGinnis oil painting

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33139 Marianne Arana Sun rays glisten On crystal clear waters.

Serenity. Palm trees waver While a warm breeze peacefully hums all day long.

33133 Lily-Rose Tobins Like a village Quiet action around Protected We shall stay A peaceful ground

ZIP ODES 22

33156 Brooke Quevedo Tree-lined streets standing tall, surrounding beautiful family homes. Ducks and geese flock and swim down the waterways

33133 Sasha Bailine Tall palm trees Hot, humid air Lots Of smiling faces Surrounded by love

Mia Carrasco photography

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Dear old friend, how I expected more I hate the way you simply betray, Getting you to understand is such a chore Now most of what you believe is hearsay Let me think of the ways you’ve been behaving You are more boastful and more conniving.

This “new you” is really so scathing I take this all in whilst my emotions begin rising How I used to love you. Let me count the ways.

I loved your whimsical style, wit and charm.

Thinking of our moments once filled my days.

The memories are like a persistent alarm.

Now we keep our distance with heavy hearts, It almost seems that we’re miles apart

SOMEONE

KNOW

I used to

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Ellie Rosenwald

Tamara Santoyo Geijo oil painting

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YOUR VALIDATION You created this person.

The person with: The lack of self-confidence The fear of mistakes The worry of injuries, The need to be the best.

Miranda De Armas

I try just for you.

I try to perform I try to be successful I try to make sure I give you nothing but my all, Yet every time I get nothing but a taste of disappointment.

With nothing but my failure in your eyes, I am bound to lose.

With nothing but your thoughts and lack of my own self-belief, I am bound to lose.

With nothing but you as my barrier to my path of success, I am bound to lose.

For every loss on the field, You blame me For every mistake by others, You blame me For every little glimpse of imperfection and dissatisfaction Proving that I am nothing but a human, You look over everyone else, But me.

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If only you understood the craves I desire, The crave of your happiness, The crave of your validation, The crave of your forgiveness, And lastly The crave to be perfect, Just for you.

M oi ica lp N as av te ar ls ro

-G

ar

u

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Chiarra Zecchini acrylic and oil painting

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scan to listen

rosa

Victor Giraldez original composition

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Maya Shah digital drawing

Glass Child 30

Angelina Gonzalez

Will I always be glass?

Transparent.

“Perfect.”

Pristine.

You see through me , And see him.

Because he needs your help.

Your undivided attention.

Your “I’m proud of you son.”

And I don't…

Right?

All I wanted was for you to say you were proud.

“You're doing just fine.”

And listen to me ramble on about the things I love.

In which you are one of them.

“I’m busy right now. I have to take this business call.”

I’m still waiting for the day you don’t just see completely through me.

And acknowledge me.

My passions.

My quirks.

My dreams.

When you told me to “fix” my attitude…

Couldn’t you tell I was lashing out?

I wanted you to SEE me.

Instead of boasting about my accomplishments to others, Why can’t you tell ME how proud you are?

THEY are not ME. HE is not ME. When I come crashing down and hit the floor, The glass isn’t so transparent anymore.

There lay pieces of my self worth.

Pieces of my happiness.

Pieces of my heart.

Pieces of our relationship.

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JUST

write

Ellie Rosenwald

Writing in my room the moments I replay all go to song memories on display the keys on a piano they play my melody the story has a purpose portraying my legacy the strings on a guitar each with its own tune Ecstasy, Bliss, and Guilt Daylight, Anger, and Doom so I pick up my pen and piece it together I start to sing a song that will live on forever

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Justin Fieler oil painting

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Gabriela Montalvo oil painting

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inner battle Bianca Vila

She chooses the river I cross, She chooses the path I take, She chooses whether I go right or left.

Because she is a protector and would never hurt me?

She is every waking thought, The good, the bad and the in between.

She makes sure I don’t endure pain, But feeling pain is part of life?

She is the little voice in my head, That tells me what I don’t want to hear.

She is a fortune teller, But her prophecies aren’t rational?

She is the crippling fear, That believes she can manipulate me.

She tries to keep me safe, But instead stabs me over a hundred times?

She is a guardian angel in disguise, that tells lies.

She carries a mask over her face.

Once that mask is unveiled, her true identity is revealed.

She is anxiety.

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Suiting Up

Tristan Duncan

Now that I am ending my last year of high school, and 100% going to school in Paris, the only thing I care about is putting on my wetsuit, strapping my leash and running into the water.

Do I get scared? For sure.

Do I let fear drive me? Of course not.

I realize fear is the only thing holding me back in the ocean.

As I get to the beach I hear the waves roaring, I can hear the birds screeching.

When dropping into a wave I hear the waves falling and splashing.

I hear all the sounds of mother nature creating the perfect moment.

I see a vast canvas of blue with white caps coming towards me.

I love looking at the bright, white, sandy shore, and the birds swooping down to catch fish.

The bitter taste of the salt water going into my mouth when falling the crunch of the sand when I bite down on it accidentally the smell of the fish in the summer is like the smell of flowers in spring for me.

As I grab the rail of my board I lean as far back as I can, the only thing holding me up is the stickiness of the wax under my feet.

The feeling of the 80 degree water inside my wetsuit keeps me warm.

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Giada D’Alerta soft pastels painting

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Camila Sandaal acrylic painting

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La Cara Ciega de

Dios

Erika Travieso Benitez

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When I was younger, I wore no face.

The streets of La Habana – cracked cement that smelled of cigars and sweat – had no need for my face. Faceless little boys and girls stood in attention, saluting the image of El Che in their sing-song voices. Older gentlemen wore faces of satisfaction: playing dominoes and kissing their grandchildren – paradigms of elderly contentment. The women whispered along the mile-long lines of markets; gossiping with other wives kept their sanity in check. Mothers wore faces of obedience they hoped their sons would imitate.

Once a year, a group of braggadocious teens with cracked faces would hiss profanities under the gleaming statue of Jose Marti. They foresaw a future where the Cuban people had skin beneath their faces, and would dance among the wealthiest, bathing in luxuries not even Fidel could indulge in. This wind of hope reached the commissioners, and the teens’ cracked faces crumbled under their iron boots.

For months, the wails of their mothers kept me up at night.

They would plead to a God that did not exist. My mother wore an intricate rubber face that betrayed no purpose or ambition. It had a smooth, flawless surface that drove me mad. How I loathed the face, yet wished it for myself.

Her ambition was unyielding: she sought to escape the streets that buckled under the weight of iron boots. Even when I cried and asked her “Mama, where is Papi?” She would smile and say, “Away on a mission.”

For three years, Papi was away on a mission. Near the dawn of my sixth birthday, when the sunlight kissed the eastern horizon, Mama whisked me and my brother away to see Papi – leaving behind the cracked faces and streets of La Habana.

The streets of Chicago – rough and frostbitten asphalt that smelled like empty gasoline – had too many faces. My mouth hung agape in awe. Little boys and girls, men and women, mothers and

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fathers, all wore a face. Each one was more scarred and disfigured than the last. Mama chastised me for staring and pulled me in to see Papi.

I do not remember what Papi looked like before he went on his mission. The first time I saw him in Chicago, he wore a robust face made of shiny steel. It was so distinct — yet so similar — to Mama’s.

From just a glance, I could tell that he had poured his livelihood into the mask. Perhaps it had been forged in under the moonlight’s glow, where no one but God could hear his pleas for a better life? I was captivated by its luster, and wished to make one similar in its image.

But Papi had been making faces for over three decades; it took him three years to make a face that not even iron could crack. Would my face one day be as shiny and strong as his? Or, would it be flexible and stubborn like Mama’s? Papi held my hand and smiled at his faceless daughter.

He said to me “One day, you’ll make a face as pretty as mine.”

A few months later, when I started American school, I began crafting my face. My first face was made of cheap glass. I could not find rubber, so I tried imitating the smoothness of Mama’s. On the first day of class, I wandered around reading faces, for I could not understand this new language that sounded like gravel. My schoolmates’ faces were made of coarse rock, like the streets of Chicago. My face was too fragile to be kept around theirs, so it broke several times before I decided to change the material.

When I was ten, I made a paper face. I was certain that, with this face, I could brave the change when we moved to New Jersey. I would not – could not – cower against the others’ rock faces. The paper face would last longer than the glass one, but the fabric got wet easily-betraying the outline of my eyes too often - so I threw it away and made a new one.

Two years later, I blossomed. To commemorate the occasion, I made a face out of wood. But, the tempest in my mind caused it to explode in flames once my face grew too hot. A year later, the last

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face I tried making was out of bronze. It, too, would rust away in a few years because of the perpetual sheen of sweat that clung to it.

I spent hours and hours examining Mama and Papa’s perfect faces, ones that appeared innate to them. But I had no steel or rubber – they were too expensive – and I knew it would nonetheless be futile. How could I hope to replicate un don given to them by a non-existent God? I grew tired of making new faces, so I created a cement-like paste with the residue of my past faces. It smelled of salt and mildew; I gagged as I smeared it on my face. I tried to not mind its stench and pressed forward. The paste hardened and curved to my face. The smell kept other faces away. For years, it did not crack.

Perhaps God truly did exist. Perhaps he was granting me my own don. I figured that if the cement cracked, I would cover it with another layer, and its form would stay true. I stacked layers upon layers of the paste, hoping that it would never crack, hoping that it would stand the test of time. If Mama could last with rubber, or Papi with steel, surely I could last with cement?

Miami had streets of paved cement, and the sun bathed its buildings in an ethereal glow. I spent so much time looking up – marveling and yearning to stand among God – that I didn’t notice the pool of tar in my path. I flipped on my side as I fell down. I flailed, trying to scream, but the tar clogged my throat. The faces of passersby crowded the corner of my eyes before I was completely encased.

Sometimes, people I knew would come by my side. They would give advice and half hearted tugs to pull me out. I told them I didn’t mind, that I was used to it, and they shouldn’t worry.

One day, Papi asked me if I was happy.

With my thick cement face, I smiled and said: “Of course, Papi.”

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“Perhaps God truly did exist.”

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Maya Shah digital drawing

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is m under s tood

Angelina Gonzalez

Mis-understood.

Born again.

Phoenix bird.

I fly, fly, fly but I can’t seem to catch up to the other birds.

The sun ignites my nest and the old me dies in flames.

I am born again, with the same Chiron.

People hear me, But they don’t hear me.

Misunderstood.

I speak, but it’s as if my words are like sand.

Slipping through their fingers.

Misunderstood.

Then I realize, If they knew my story word for word, Had all of my history, Would they still tell me the same things?

Would they still treat me the same way?

Would they still look at me the same?

No, they would misunderstand.

Because no one sees what you see, even if they see it too.

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Daniel Lara

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 directly from students, who submit their pieces through the Reflections website. Submissions are carefully reviewed by the magazine’s student editorial board.

Reflections is part of the curriculum of Gulliver Prep’s Journalism and Print Media classes, under the Digital Mass Media department.

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STAFF Editors-in-Chief Mia Carrasco ‘24 Sara Gelrud ‘24

Layout Designers Gina Copetti ‘25 Clarissa Echeverria ‘25 Laura Solorzano ‘25 Simone Marin ‘26 Mariapia Jarrin ‘26 Charlotte Nedee ‘26 Sophia Kingston ‘26

Adviser

Monica Rodriguez

Colophon The 2023 edition of the “Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine” is a digital and print publication, printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 150 copies. Student designers created the 48-page magazine using Adobe Creative Suite on iMac computers. Fonts include the Made Mirage and Avenir font families, as well as Helvetica Light and Oblique for body copy and bylines. The 4-color process cover is printed on 80# Dull, with a gloss aqueous coating. Reflections was printed in 4-color process on 80# Dull Text. Reflections features an online archive on ISSUU and through our website gulliver.life/reflectionslitmag, which is student created, managed, and produced. All submissions are reviewed, selected, and edited by the Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine editorial board. All literary and artistic work featured in Reflections is created by Gulliver students. Questions can be directed to adviser Monica Rodriguez at mrodriguez@gulliverprep.org.

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Sophia Azari digital drawing

ONLINE

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Memberships: FSPA, NSPA, CSPA, NCTE Scan the QRcode to access the Reflections website

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