2018 Reflections Literary Magazine

NEXUS Reflections literary & arts magazine

Vol. 37 / 2018

NEXUS

Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine Volume 37 | 2018 Gulliver Preparatory School 6575 North Kendall Drive 305-666-7937 www.gulliverschools.org

CONTENTS Taylor Quintero | alabaster stone

POETRY 10 “Rocky Road,” Kalei Ganser, Grade 9 16 “Portland,” Eda Aker, Grade 10 18 “Waves,” Sara Lizarazu, Grade 11 25 “In her Arms,” Abril Beretta, Grade 12 33 “Three Words,” Swati Raolji, Grade 9 36 “Treasures Within Me,” Lily Hochfelder, Grade 12 38 “The Stranger,” Haley Keepax, Grade 12 45 “Wild Child,” Daniella Tosca, Grade 10 48 “A Bellflower in the Barrel,” Isabella del Rey,” Grade 9 56 “Where I’m From,” Daniella Tosca, Grade 10 59 “See Each Other,” Giovanna Schmeil, Grade 12 62 “Write Something Real,” Lauren Nanes, Grade 12 64 “Try Me,” Anastasia Perez-Ternent, Grade 12 70 “Haiti,” John Madsen, Grade 9

SPOKEN WORD 28

“Miami, “ Joy Hall, Grade 10

HAIKUS 26 27 27 27

Sasha Kolesnikova, Grade 12 Isabela Herrera-Bello, Grade 12 Andrea Baumgartner Perez, Grade 12 Haiyun Zhu, Grade 12

ANGLO-SAXON RIDDLES 52 53

2

Nicholas Calle, Grade 11 Emily Cordovi, Grade 11

poetry event sponsored ZIP ODES *Local

by O, Miami and WLRN

46 46 46 47 47 47

John Madsen, Grade 9 Isabella Suarez, Grade 10 Maria Figuerira de Mello Gomes, Grade 10 Francesca Nord, Grade 10 Giovanna Schmeil, Grade 12 Isabel Cuellar, Grade 9

PROSE 6 “Editor’s Note,” Samantha Keepax, Grade 12 9 “Unknown,” Giovanna Schmeil, Grade 12

(based on “Punch” by Maya Angelou) 13 “Butterflies,” Yirong Shen, Grade 11

(based on a traditional Chinese folktale) 20 “I Want a Husband,” Leah Boyd, Grade 11 34 “The Warmth of Winter,” Isabel Cuellar, Grade 9 40 “Unlearned,” Valeria Wakil, Grade 12 50 “The Verdict,” Sofia Gomariz, Grade 9 54 “Let the Show Begin,” Isabel Cuellar, Grade 9 60 “Taybeh,” Tamara Uweyda, Grade 10 66 “Untitled,” D’Sean Perry, Grade 11 68 “The Legend of the White Snake,” Wenyi Shao, Grade 11

(based on a traditional Chinese folktale) 72 “Cabo San Lucas,” Daniela Orozco, Grade 10

Adriana Arguello | clay

3

DRAWING & PAINTING 7 11 12 16 18 20 23 24 33 34 37 38 40 45 52 57

“Madeline,” Evelyn Shumway, Grade 12 “Highs and Lows,” Carlos Sanchez, Grade 10 “Lovestruck,” Susan Huang, Grade 12 “Forest,” Haley Keepax, Grade 12 “Big Sur,” Susan Huang, Grade 12 “Natural Beauty,” Amanda Vera, Grade 12 “Bloom,” Amanda Vera, Grade 12 “Self-Portrait,” Gabriela Perez, Grade 12 “Wishful Thinking,” Samantha Keepax, Grade 12 “Transit,” Jonathan Brandt, Grade 12 “Worth it?” Samantha Keepax, Grade 12 “Matthew,” Evelyn Shumway, Grade 12 “Stockholm Syndrome,” Amanda Vera, Grade 12 “Cat Walk,” Anabelle Kang, Grade 10 “Boats,” Wallace Hallott, Grade 10 “Olla Peru,” Susan Huang, Grade 12 59 “Trouble Trio,” Santiago Ruan, Grade 12 68 “Longing,” Emma Gerlach, Grade 12 72 “Mexican Hats,” Shani Rupp, Grade 12 75 “Fresh Sip of Cola,” Victoria Paredero Quiros, Grade 11

DIGITAL ART 64

4

David-Jason Guillou | clay

“Dissonance,” Covan Blair, Grade 11

SCULPTURE 2 3 4 5 26

“Coco,” Taylor Quintero, Grade 10 “Mother and Child,” Adriana Arguello, Grade 11 “Viserion,” David-Jason Guillou, Grade 12 “Dream Tree,” Alexandra Scroggin, Grade 12 “Oceans,” Maria Sanchez, Grade 12

PHOTOGRAPHY Cover 1 9 28 30 31 46 49 50 55 60 67 70 76

“Notebook,” Nicole Hillis, Grade 9 “Daylight,” Filippo di Franco, Grade 10 “Destinations,” Filippo di Franco, Grade 10 “Void in Art,” Nicole Herrera, Grade 11 “Entenmanns,” Joey Elsbernd, Grade 10 “My Friend Ship,” Anabelle Kang, Grade 10 “Contrast,” Nicole Hillis, Grade 9 “White Orchids,” Laura Attarian, Grade 10 “Choir of Candles,” Gabrielle Hagenlocker, Grade 10 “On Fire,” Laura Loeb, Grade 10 “Camel Ride,” Danielle Engel, Grade 12 “Dethroned,” Catalina Muñoz, Grade 10 “Liberty,” Nicole Herrera, Grade 11 “Curiosity,” Filippo di Franco, Grade 10

Alexandra Scroggin | clay

L

Look up at the ebony sky and watch as tiny pinpricks of light wink into existence. Familiarity strikes as three stars align to form the Big Dipper, ladling the inky dark of the night. As five stars zig-zag across a swath of black, Cassiopeia takes her shape condemned to the sky for her vanity. Each star has its own story to tell and as they come together they create beings befitting myths and legends. These stars connect to tell stories and truths to those willing to see the brilliance within them.

Each student’s piece in this magazine is a star, burning with passion and conviction, shining through the dark, dullness of life, reaching the eyes of those who look up. Works of honesty, humility, veracity, humor, heartache, and wistfulness are each a shout piercing the quiet night.

These poets, artists, and storytellers create their own constellations asking the reader to become absorbed in their words and expressions, brush strokes and colors like stargazers longing for a clear night. Like the night sky, this magazine provides a haven for all these works, giving each a place to shine.

As a student body, as a society, as a world we are intertwined with the people and places of our lives. Each of us different, but connected through experience. Use these pages to create a bond with the human lives that have given part of their souls to their art. Each printed word gives voice to the perspectives of ponderers and whispers of wanderers. Riots of color, bending of shapes and light, and purposeful strokes carve out the artists’ zeal for creation and imagination. A panoply of literature and art intertwining achingly sweet homesickness, the urgency of time, the unbearableness of anguish, and all that makes us undeniably human. Delve into these pages and feel that which makes you part of the nexus that encompasses our world.

by Samantha Keepax

Editor’s Note

Evelyn Shumway | gel ink

9

N

ow that I am firmly settled into my last year of high school and looking forward to college, I find that nothing pleases me as much as hiking boots, leggings, comfortable T-shirts and having my hair braided.

Do I look attractive? Probably not. Do I feel that way?

Surprisingly, yes. I have reached the point where the unknown attracts me more than the known.

As an adventurer, I would have my ears filled with languages that I don’t understand, the loud impact of the airplane’s wheels to the asphalt in an unfamiliar place, the incomprehensible music in the background. I want to hear a complete stranger’s life story, the sound of loud music coming from a traditional local fair. All unfamiliar sounds filling my ears will be welcome.

My eyes will gladly receive colors: the bronze skin of the Australians, the brown skin of the Brazilians, the dark skin of the Africans and the pale skin of the Europeans. But I will have blue. The blue sky on a Sunday morning in Norway, the blue ocean on a Thursday afternoon in Thailand and the blue forgetme-not flowers in a Monday night in Germany.

Let taste and smell be firmly joined, a marriage of loving senses. Let the scent of fresh-cut orange and passion fruit fill my nose, making me salivate. Give me the smell of the pines in the Rocky Mountains and the aroma of the Pacific Ocean. I do not refuse the heavy smell of carbon dioxide in New York or Tokyo.

And the sense of touch -- last but not least. I wish to feel the cold wind in my nose as I hike glaciers in Patagonia and the humid air on my skin as I explore the Amazon forest. I welcome the fast but cold wind as I am ziplining and the sun in my face as I hike Atacama’s desert. I want to taste oranges off the tree and hot chocolate almost burning my tongue on a cold night in winter.

10

Filippo di Franco

Unknown

by Giovanna Schmeil

11

Rockyroad

by Kalei Ganser

Hair like curled dark chocolate shavings Thin spirals fall perfectly Skin doubles as caramel sauce Aurulent color shining in the sun Smooth, silky, soft to the touch A smile with marshmallow-white teeth Or candy pearls Or dollops of whipped cream And eyes shaped like almonds Colored as hazel But sweet-looking like coconut Behind a glass case She can only admire One sample of his personality One taste of his laugh Not enough courage to buy Just daring enough to try

Carlos Sanchez | oil on canvas

Susan Huang | mixed media

Butterflies

by Yirong Shen

E

ach culture has its own attitude toward love, so it makes sense that different cultures structure different love stories in order to attempt to define an exemplary love. As many Westerners take delight in the tale about the story of Romeo and Juliet, in my hometown in China, when people see a pair of butterflies, we see that as the embodiment of the dead Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai.

The story is set in the Eastern Jin dynasty (265-420 AD). Zhu Yingtai was the ninth child and only daughter of the wealthy official Zhus family of Shangyu, Zhejiang. During China’s Jin dynasty, women were traditionally discouraged from taking up scholarly pursuits; it was through marriage only that they were regarded as the link to other powerful families. However, Zhu ( a liberalist) was unsatisfied with these circumstances, so she tried convincing her father to allow her to attend classes. But of course, her request was rejected.

One day, Zhu disguised herself as a man, and with her servant, she secretly travelled to Hangzhou to study in one of the most famous schools. During her journey, she met Liang Shanbo, a scholar from Kuaiji who was also attending the school. During their first meeting, conversation led to a strong affinity for each other, and this bloomed into a strong friendship. For the next three years, they studied together and Zhu gradually fell in love with Liang. However, Liang was

a bookworm and he failed to notice that his best friend was, in fact, a woman.

One day, Zhu received a letter from her father, requesting that she return home. Zhu had no choice. Together with Liang, Zhu started to pack her belongings. Aware that this could be her last opportunity to reveal her feelings to Liang, Zhu started hinting to Liang that she was a girl. Unfortunately, Liang was so oblivious that he never understood.

Before Zhu’s departure, she revealed her true identity to the headmaster’s wife and asked her to pass a pendant along to Liang as a betrothal gift, if Liang ever recognized the truth.

During the summer holiday, Liang visited Zhu’s hometown. Again Zhu hinted her identity to Liang. She compared their relationship to a pair of mandarin ducks (a symbol of lovers in Chinese culture), but Liang still didn’t understand. Zhu finally came up with a foolproof idea, and told Liang that she said she wanted him to marry her non-existent sister. She told Liang to visit her residence later that day, so that he could propose to marry her “sister.”

It wasn’t until months later, when Liang again visited Zhu, that he discovered that the “sister” Zhu said was herself. Liang was so shocked but he immediately recognized Zhu’s heart. Passionately devoted to each other, they promised to remain together “till death do us part.”

However, days later, Zhu’s parents told her they had already arranged for her to marry a wealthy merchant’s son, Ma. Liang’s heart broke. Because he came from a poor family, Liang believed Zhu’s family wouldn’t agree to their marriage. As the day of Zhu’s marriage approached, Liang’s health gradually deteriorated. He died.

On the day of Ma and Zhu’s marriage, strong winds and thunder prevented the wedding procession. When they came close to Liang’s hometown, Zhu left the procession to mourn Liang. Crying in front of his grave, Zhu begged for the grave to open up. Suddenly, aided by a clap of thunder, the grave burst open. Zhu then threw herself into the gap to join Liang. Their spirits emerged in the form of a pair of butterflies, and they flew away together, never to be separated again.

This is the tale of Liang and Zhu’s story, and their statues still stand in Zhejiang today.

“Passionately devoted to each other, they promised to remain together ‘till death do us part.’”

17

Haley Keepax | pen, ink, watercolor

Portland

by Eda Aker

18

In the forested land Where fairy tales come true There truly is nothing new.

They say The people don’t move, Inhale, exhale, is that all?

Oh and those Bicycles.

They sit on top of those big fancy trees with their heads held high, Thinking.

Let’s protect or the world must go down in flames. We have rain.

Protest, protest, but for what? To stay in their fancy woodlands.

To rebel Though, oh, in the white land one can truly see!

Not just what’s in front of you but also what to believe!

Bookstores that provide homes, aid with no cost, organic foods, more than one Whole Foods, life as sweet as the fresh berries growing in schoolyards.

Blocks of books, coffee wafting in the crisp air on the city between the hills roses blooming, smiling at the rain.

The warm rain, which helps the plants grow.

Vast river, so many bridges, so many places to go.

So, I smile, smile at a home, smile at acceptance, embraced blanketed by the soft leaves on the branches of trees.

Hippies, Liberals, lovers of oh So special weeds.

Family.

Perhaps, they do not know how to clear the windshields of their Big Fancy Cars.

Waves

by Sara Lizarazu

The waves whispered nonsense into my heart The sand tough against my delicate soles The sun printing a red plate over my frame The sloppy splashes and the children’s shrieks Everyone should be scared of its vastness The water matched the sky’s baby blue hue The quite small grains of sand colored sheer taupe Walking towards the shore with joy The cold water embracing me like if I was its child; it is heaven for sure It knows things about me, all my secrets All I have been dreading to talk about Yet here, in this magical oasis, All my secrets come out floating gently It understands, it helps -- my needed cure

20

Susan Huang | acrylic

The dry breeze makes my hair a perfect nest For birds airing angelically around me Swooshing past the oncoming blow of wind Their beaks descend into the water To snatch their calm, awaiting little prey The blues, the greens, the beige, the pinks, the yellows Those hues make up this celestial jewel The color palette matching my mood Oncoming herd disregard the beauty Yet it only attracts me, in a way atoms are attracted to each other The dim sun smiles as its rays reflect on the water And the water welcomes it lovingly The creatures that lay beyond are unknown But the boundless water has no limits And so are all the hosts it contains and keeps

21

a Ver Amand

s n canva

a | oil o

I want

a

Husband

by Leah Boyd

Approaching adulthood requires a repetitive daily routine of waking up before dawn. One is given the chance to crack like an egg and work to develop within one’s areas of interest -- required by society to be acknowledged quickly, before one is shipped off for four years to study every aspect of its nature -- until the moonlight swallows the shadows of midnight whole. As I reflect on this whirlwind, I’ve come to think about why I expend disproportionate amounts of energy aiming to succeed within the school system and what I strive to do in the future using the fundamental and widely applicable academic skill sets, such as knowing where the mitochondria of the cell is located, that years of vigor taught me. My conclusion is that I want a husband.

When our son returns home from his daily studies, I want a husband who will play catch with him and teach him how to throw a football with the godlike precision of Tom Brady. I want a husband who will sit on the couch with my son -- only after showering, for the smell of the streets and hunting reeks of a detestably foul odor -- and analyze the controversial plays in the soccer games, knockouts of the month, and game-winning touchdowns. I want my husband

to teach my son about business and how the company my husband owns operates so that he may one day reign over the industry as his father once did, with standards of college and responsibility now forgotten. My husband will remain mindful of my rule against resting feet on the coffee table and shouting questionable expletives at the television as they broadcast the replay of the victory of an unfavorable team. I want a husband who will explain to me what it means to be offsides and explain to me the most effective plays by Aaron Rodgers in his 2012 Season.

I want my husband’s skin to protrude with veins due to the amount of times the door is held open for me; I wish for opening my car door and ensuring my comfortable entrance and seating to be of second nature to my husband. I want a husband whose coat is never dry, for it is on top of every puddle in the road for my walking’s convenience. I want a husband who seizes every opportunity to showcase me to the world, coaxing my heart with flattery and the praise of a true lover while managing to look just as beautiful and polished as I strive to be.

When we dance together, I want a husband who will make me feel as if I am a star -- perhaps not the brightest star in the sky of the entire room, but, just for a moment, as if I am the brightest in our little world.

I want a husband who will be willing to wander into the wilderness and perhaps slay a wild animal on which my family can feast in the evening for supper as we gather around the fire in superfluous fur coats. When returning home from a day full of hunting and gathering, I would like my husband to give me a soft hello kiss and remember to place beer cans and bottles from an evening of relaxation into the wastebasket. I want a husband who will defend the honor of my family by protecting our territory from foreign intruders with mighty and vigorous strength, shaking the town while ravaging any enemy who threatens our peaceful estate.

I want a husband who will be brave enough to leave the house and roam the streets to ensure the survival of my family, not knowing who or what could be encountered in the vast realms of land, and fight to provide health and prosperity for our loved ones. In providing for the family, I would like a husband who, when not attaining food or protection sources, works a steady job within the community to provide my family with an extravagant income so that we may whisk away on a vacation for as long as our rich hearts and minds desire.

Forgetting the location of the mitochondria is no matter when one has a husband to provide all the vital resources, such as live game for dinner, knowledge of every referee in the NCAA, and month-long vacations to cities which I cannot pronounce until after I’ve already returned home. Who wouldn’t desire such an immediate gateway to luxury?

Amanda Vera | graphite and colored pencil

Gabriela Perez | charcoal

In her Arms

by Abril Berreta

In her arms I felt something new, Something I had never felt before.

Such a simple action that stopped the chaos.

I became intoxicated with the safety her embrace offered.

I felt myself cry, But it wasn’t me.

It was another me, a purer me.

One that could cry.

In her arms I became someone else, And for that moment I was happy.

Then she let go.

27

Idyllic summer A latent little bird sings And the heat is still

Sandy stormy beach Warm southern ocean waves crash With the untamed wind

Bright sunny morning I wake up with the sun rays While someone still sleeps Snowflakes are falling Into the pile of cold snow Children are laughing

Maria Sanchez | wire and nylon

by Sasha Kolesnikova

HAIKUS

A power outage everything becomes silent even the birds’ chirps

Nothing but wind gusts and the sight of lightning leaving one alone

by Isabela Herrera-Bello The warm spring arrives, Blush flowers begin to bloom Bright birds soaring high.

by Andrea Baumgartner Perez

Morning arises The pit pat sounds of raindrops Where’s my umbrella?

Noon arrives with a Brightly glowing yellow sun Enjoy last moments

Playing hide and seek Always on endless ventures Go run wild, be free!

by Haiyun Zhu

Miami

by Joy Hall

MIAMI! My dear city!

You got it all don’t ya

The visitors know you’re the place to go for entertainment.

You’ve got parties, a characteristic of vivaciousness and the sounds of pure joy, loud laughter cheers ring all throughout your nights.

Everybody knows you’re the place where the sun rarely fails to shine So people flock to you like birds and those people are just as clueless as birds Everybody knows you are the best hangout spot to have a good time But I know the truth Miami, It is true that I know the truth So there is no need to lie because I am an insider not a visitor You see they don’t advertise all of you Miami But you have broken parts just like the rest of us They only advertise the rich spots, the pretty spots, the cleanest spots, the most entertaining spots…... but what about my spot?

You are the greatest oxymoron to the lower class.

Nicole Herrera

30

You aren’t all sunshine to some of us Miami Miami you are a world of two worlds You are segregated You put on a show to the rest of the world that you are the city that only knows a good time You are a LIAR Miami. You lie.

Miami you are a busy city… too busy to notice all of us apparently You host bad drivers, rude people and struggling people as well Not all of us party Miami, not all of us.

We aren’t all rich enough for you Miami Because you are the kingdom of the rich.

You cannot see the meek because you always have a stack of cash in your face or a drink in your mouth!

But jokes on you Miami because God said the meek shall inherit the Earth so ha!

Miami you are a work in progress just like the rest of us You’ve got some good parts Celebrities always come, good weather is our motto and the beaches are places of happiness You encourage people to work hard enough to earn enough so they can enjoy life on the richer side And by doing so, you motivate me Miami Miami, Miami, Miami, Florida

31

Joey Elsbernd

Anabelle Kang

“No, I can’t.”

Only three words.

Changed my life.

Standing at the altar.

Alone.

Watching her run.

Run away.

From the problems.

The mistakes.

Everything.

The pure white.

White shiny dress.

Slowly disappears.

Into the dark.

Samantha Keepax | watercolor

three WORDS

by Swati Raolji

Jo

and

ink

d

ran

nB

ha nat

en t|p

THE WARMTH OF

WINTER

by Isabel Cuellar

36

W

ith a gloved hand holding onto a metal handle, I stand in the metro as I tap my feet and hum a little. Only a few days each year do I get to ride, and those few days are spent in Paris, right before Christmas. Screeching wheels of the underground train are music to my ears, reassurance that I am on my way to the Christmas market on Les Champs Elysees.

A veil of snow hides the city from many eyes, and the cold chases most people away, but not me. Brisk air is welcomed when I visit. Heavy jackets and itchy scarves expected. Dirty stairs leading up to the street are littered with posters and newspapers, used tickets and cigarettes. Music, bells, and crowds of people laughing wash away the grime.

Picture this: A cold, dark tunnel that leads onto an even colder street. Except the cold fades as the tents appear. Instead of being crowded with cars, the street pulses with people bustling to and from. The smell of hot wine is so strong it can almost be tasted. Tents scattered on the sidewalk emit a warmth that should be impossible in the midst of winter. Walking by them, I hear the vendors call out, offering cheaply made jackets and crepes with warm Nutella oozing from their sides. Adults savor their vin chaud, while the kids sip watery hot chocolate.

A walk past the tents reveals Turkish vendors selling baklava and other sweet delicacies. Spanish sisters have warm croquetas at the ready, that, according to their broken French, each cost three euros. A Dutch family displays their collection of dolls and houses, that look like a tempting purchase, but would never fit in a suitcase. Small sparkling lights dangle from the trees and the tops of tents.

The streets are covered only in snow, and the occasional kernel of popcorn, but the usual trash that litters the cobblestones is nowhere to be found. The sweet smell of candy floss wafts through the crowd, tempting all who meander past, evoking sweet childhood memories that have all the adults reminiscing. Elderly couples huddle together close to a tent filled with toys and teddy bears, choosing one for each grandchild. Bands in the middle of the street perform Christmas carols wearing elf costumes and Santa hats, and smile at the little kids who walk past.

There is no past or future. There is only the Christmas market, a bubble of pure joy, that warms everyone’s hearts. Granted, there are always the executives and the consultants, with their briefcases, suits, and brisk paces, but even they are touched by the pure joy this market radiates. Grins on their faces as they pay for their crepes prove it.

At the end of the night, as I walk back to that dark, dirty tunnel, and the warmth of the market slips away. I take one last look around and smile, before slipping into the metro station.

37

treasures

within me

by Lily Hochfelder

My expertise has yet to be enhanced For as young as seventeen, Need at least one more chance.

Innocence abandoned, well, Depends on your stance. “Are you really only seventeen�?

Guess not at first glance.

Fluffy animals and a stuffed moose too, There are only so many things I should hold on to.

Plumped lips, dark eyes and red-stained cheeks.

What will this boy think of me in a few short weeks?

Fresh wisdom embedded in my head, Thoughts unraveling as my feet hit the bed.

Samantha Keepax | colored pencil

THE STRANGER

by Haley Keepax

Evelyn Shumway | oil

She was a curious girl with a heart that didn’t need to scream to be heard,

for her eyes did all the talking.

She was all jagged shapes and sharp lines, but she had a soft smile.

The opposite of the scars covering her physique.

But she loved those scars because they told a story; And because she loved them, others learned to love them too.

Not all tales are those of betrayal and loss; hers, she thought, was rather ordinary.

A girl on the outside who put up a front to the world, because actually her body

contained canyons and rivers instead of bone and blood.

Her mind took her places no map had ever seen.

Her ears heard the song of ancient trees that grew only for her.

And her eyes saw colors in a million different ways that were all the same.

All this time, people looked at her and saw her only for her appearance,

when truly she was thousands of miles long, with cotton candy

kinds of skies, and waters clear enough to be glass.

Outside of her beautifully crafted mind,

imperfection seemed to reign over the world.

But to the wonderful strangers who took the time to listen,

she was everything and nothing all at once.

Time and space didn’t seem to touch her.

She was all things chaotic, but equally as calm.

She looked like a kind of girl you’d bump into on the street,

and just keep walking.

But those eyes, there was something different about them.

Something that promised adventure waiting,

if you just took the time to look.

S

Amanda Vera | oil pastel

Unlearned Unlearned

by Valeria Wakil

S

he was afraid that if she screamed, her voice would be swallowed down by the vastness of infinity, so she just stood still, gasping, listening to the sound of her heart pushing past her chest. There was a room — a box — surrounding her, its walls and roof and floor bathed in white. There were no doors, which made her wonder whether she was confined to the inside, or protected from the outside.

She wanted to believe there was a danger she was being saved from; that, miraculously, she had been fortunate enough to win a ticket to secured solitude. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of uncertainty enveloping her; her bones were quivering and her eyes seemed restless.

The walls of the room felt smooth under her touch, as if teasing her hands with a prize in exchange for imprisonment. A voice she had never heard before escaped her lips, making the room shake. She pushed against the wall, willing it to surrender to her cries, to crumble apart at her touch. Her legs embraced the constant backand-forth of her body, as she stepped back, and lurched against the wall with her shoulders, her hands, her feet.

Aching and hopeless, she clutched at her bruised shoulder, healing it with the murmur of pained lullabies and salty tears. Resting her back against the wall, she begged sleep to rock her in its arms, begged her dreams to come in bursts of color and consuming sounds. But she was so alone, not even the creations of her own mind accompanied her.

Deep silence blasted in her ears, torturing her with its bitter serenity. She pulled at her hair, tipping her head back, and felt her tongue molding prayers of sweet insanity. She screamed, screamed so loud, she thought her brain would shatter.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Calm down. Calm down.

Through ragged breaths and heavy sighs, she ran her hands over her arms, soothing her turbulent skin.

Her fingertips traced her forearms slowly. She breathed deeper.

Her nails grazed her skin. She gasped for air.

Her nails were sinking into her arms, scratching the now rough skin back and forth with such a force it made her eyes water. She coughed repeatedly, forgetting how to breathe.

The skin in her forearms was red, tinted with crimson blood. Her eyes were now dancing at the sight of color, as a drop of it slid from her arm to the ground, staining it. Now the room was no longer white, it couldn’t be. It was tainted with her pain, with her deep longing to escape from herself. Desperation was clawing at her skin, a ravenous monster whose hunger she could not satiate.

Horror clouding her vision, she raked her eyes through the length of her arms, and found herself desperately wishing that what she felt was regret rather than relief at what she’d done. The seams of her skin were ripping apart, and the body that had once held her together now began spilling her out, coating the cold floor with her broken parts.

Everything around her seemed taunting, menacing. As if the walls were jealous of her being alive. Through her raw throat, she screamed again, but the madness

of her shrieks bounced back to her, reminding her that she was utterly hopeless.

Alone.

She had to leave.

She had to get out.

Frantically, she went about tapping every wall, examining every inch of the floor, observing the smallest details of the ceiling. There were no secret doors or routes to escape.

She swallowed a scream threatening to tear her lips. She concentrated on her rapid heartbeat, on the rhythmic melody of it pushing energy into the legs that had kicked at the walls, the fingers that had shredded her skin.

The energy stirring in her body seemed to be alive with a feral desire to move endlessly, to dance and jump and run. And so she did. Furiously, she skipped and sprinted about the room, needing to feel her legs ache and arms give out, needing to claim her body again. All her muscles and joints trembled with exhaustion and sweat was eagerly clinging to her skin when she lay upon the ground, its coolness refreshing her.

As she closed her eyes, her eyelids were heavy with desire to remember. She felt a hollowness growing in her chest, knowing it mourned for something lost and yet she couldn’t remember what that was. When she had first blinked at the uninviting brightness of the room, she had felt a sense of wrongness, as if no matter how long she’d stay, she’d never belong among these four plain walls.

But now, when she opened her eyes and observed the too familiar room, her eyebrows wrinkled above her nose. There was a sense of wrongness again, but it was somehow different than before. Her stretched out arms and splayed legs were too near the white walls, and only after she stood up and had to almost bend her neck to the side to fully stand, did she realize the room had shrunk.

Her fist aimed for the wall and lunged, sending her arm a wave of paralyzing pain. The walls, the ceiling, the floor continued to wrap her in an uncomfortable embrace. She was inhaling recycled breath, and her own company was sharply stabbing the composed part of her brain. She flailed and kicked out until the walls were suffocating her, until her body had no more space to pace or breathe or cry.

As she inhaled and exhaled, her chest crashed against the wall. She was trying to calm her heartbeat when it occurred to her she didn’t know what lay beyond these walls. She had been attempting to escape, except it would be her, alone, plunging into the unknown.

Throughout all of this, she realized the room had stayed in place. But when she launched her foot against the walls once more, they wrapped so closely to her figure, she forgot what it felt like to breathe.

The furious pounding of her heart rattled her bones. But her body was intact.

She hadn’t moved, hadn’t felt her eyelashes graze her cheeks, or living breath escaping her lips. Any movement from her would invite the chaos of the walls to a space of intimacy she did not yet want to share.

As her limbs ached, her arms obediently by her sides, she couldn’t help but wonder who she was a prisoner to. Her own body, or the room. Or if it even

made a difference now that the walls were so close to her skin, escaping either would feel the same.

But she dared it. Dared a finger to move against the white surface surrounding her. She exhaled when nothing happened. She even pushed against the wall, until the tip of her finger turned white from the effort. But her heart began beating again. Faster. Faster.

Rage sprung as a shadow, surrounding her body from all sides, fueling it with a thrumming so loud her ears barked. She needed something, anything, to change.

To react to her touch. And so she pushed against the wall once more, the strength of her bones willing the cage to shatter. But it didn’t.

The white walls neared even as she pushed them away with the little breath she had left. Her ribs were crushing under a weight that was not her own. Her head was angled forward and down, and now her chin was shoving in, pushing against her throat, trapping the small space she did have to filter the air she did not. Her spine was stabbing out against that horrible, horrible wall. And her eyes were hazy, determined tears sliding down her cheeks. But even as she yearned to ease the hollowness those tears left behind, she couldn’t move her arms to wipe them away. Her hands were locked under her, trapped beneath the statue of her shape.

So she began to breathe, keeping her rising chest as close to her as possible.

Anytime any thought would creep into her brain, she would push it away, replacing it with reassuring promises of safety. And anytime shadows would snake into her heart, she felt them and allowed them to pass, witnessing their rage but not accepting them for herself.

For a while, the walls had stopped their breathing and thrumming and pounding; and the only living thing in the room had been her and her beating heart. It was as if the serenity lazily swimming within her skin had been transferred to the walls through her touch. Still crouched in the corner, though no longer whimpering, she would remind herself to breathe. Her lips would curve into the most sincerest of smiles when she felt the calm blanketing her bones.

She continued to smile even as the walls began closing in on her once again, pinching her skin and robbing her air. Because, deep within her, a gentle whisper was trailing along tiny crooks of uncertainty, and she knew, she felt— The walls shattered around her, into nothing but a million pieces and empty space, in a silent devotion to her freedom.

And now, it seemed as if she was floating. She laughed, allowing the depth of that liberation to swirl and whirl through her voice. She was living amidst the clouds, suspended in the sky, in a space of white and infinity. That knowingness, that feeling lingered, for she knew— She never needed to learn how to be free, she just needed to unlearn how to be trapped.

There was a child, cute as can be Her eyes still closed and her slate still clean The moment she opened her eyes she knew She was loved by everyone in the room Her parents warmed with love of their first child Not knowing she would become so wild At first the wildness was running around the house And now it’s turned to something else And now the wildness is chaos The child grew up with poofy dresses and no shoes And every day her wildness grew And she climbed trees She had scrapes on her knees Her life was filled with baby pink ballet tights Bubble baths and stage lights But the wildness grew within her And now the wildness is chaos As she grew up her parents were idols They went to all the dance recitals They brought roses that pricked her finger But she laughed it off, not knowing hate would linger And as she grew she learned her Idols had flaws There were fights, tears and broken laws And now the wildness is chaos The child was now an adolescent Young yet not innocent She learned to live fast She faced the wrath Of her parents every once in awhile But screams and shouts could not swipe her smile She had boys eating out of her hand So young she had everything wickedly planned Her wildness became dangerous But only to her prestige And now the wildness is chaos And now the child is grown And is as wild as she is known And bubbles turned to big clouds of smoke And her reputation was a joke Sippy cups turned into tequila And her parents had no idea And the wildness is chaos.

Anabelle Kang

WILD CHILD

by Daniella Tosca

47

Zip Odes 33156 Gardens of Greenery Plenty of Peacocks However, there’s quiet among the neighbors.

Still, the quiet is completely sublime.

-- by John Madsen

33134 In South Miami trees are everywhere.

Tranquility...

Silence sits still; never wanting to leave.

-- by Isabella Suarez 33156 Between green trees, yellow sun shines.

Beautiful.

Cars at the stop sign, waiting for kids to pass by.

-- by Maria Figuerira de Mello Gomes

Nicole Hillis

48

33157 Six is early... yawning, squinting, dreading...

Brightness, hitting my eyes through blinds.

Mist from the swamp swarms the air.

Thick wet grass, streams after storms -gloomy.

Later mist roams the grounds, like horror, thrilling to enter the uknown.

-- by Francesca Nord 33156 Bright blue skies Green palm trees Contrast Of pale and dark skins Spanish words clashing into English slangs.

-- by Giovanna Schmeil

33146 U.S. 1 nearby Brilliant blue sky Breeze Blows three million leaves Onto the roof of Mom’s car -- by Isabel Cuellar

49

A Bellflower

in the Barrel

by Isabella del Rey We dreamt of a garden.

A healer to stale land, An advocate for peace upon restless winds, The reassuring flash of a golden daffodil lying in a sea of bronze.

And so, Our garden grew: Dainty forget-me-not skies and pastel blues, Sharp and deep roses, flaming with passion, Sunsets of poppies, marigolds, carnations, Dusks of Black Dahlias and Queen of the Night Tulips.

Once a sea of bronze, Now a sea of flowers.

Healers, Peacekeepers.

Our army was finally ready.

We arrived at a barren land, Legions of emotionless armed soldiers in straight lines, Coarse machine guns and murky browns, Swampy greens, shallow puddles, flaming firearms, Silver clouds of gunpowder, An abyss of shotguns and pistols.

In our straw woven baskets: Daffodils, forget-me-nots, roses, Poppies, marigolds, carnations, Black Dahlias, Queen of the Night Tulips, And a single lilac bellflower, planted without remembrance.

We approached each machine gun, Shotgun and pistol, Placing a single flower in each gun barrel.

50

The bells of the peacekeeper seemed to chime, As one formerly emotionless solider cracked a fond smile, And another even shed a tear.

Laura Attarian

51

The Verdict

by Sofia Gomariz

His sweaty, dirty hands were lying flat on the table, trembling slightly with fear. His fingers were stiff, except for his ring finger, where he wore his wedding ring. His hands were responsible for what happened, and now only a jury could decide if they got to live.

52

Gabrielle Hagenlocker

53

Wallace Hallott | spray paint

Anglo-Saxon

RIDDLES 1.

I create a canvas from nothing. I make sculptures come to life.

I make regular people into bookworms I make people shiver at my sight I lay down the blueprints for buildings I construct empires with ease But what object can do something so easily For I am merely nothing Not a thousand men with swords. Not an observatory with thoughts and things that explore I am merely just an object held in the hands of many.

A simple object, one that needs no effort One that can be destroyed in one second Yet I possess something that many do not Something that is powerful and true For I tell all stories, emotions, and thoughts Of any who seek to pick me up For I am the creator of all things That need shape and structure Without me, man would still be in a cave And anything created would just be nothing.

So when you are caught in a fender bender Driving down I-95 You think of something amazing That you just have to remember Remember to bring me along Because I make dreams last longer than ever

by Nicholas Calle

54

2.

I carry many Although I do not get weary I fight in battle But never find myself in pain Voyaging through the Whale-way Wondrous victories I shall attain As Sky’s black cloak falls sweet slumber falls on those who ride but do not sleep I travel to faraway places in order to protect my Motherland Children of battle use me A battle metal is what I am I fight with blows Not swords Once gravely wounded I drown Along with those who ride

by Emily Cordovi

55

The rumble of the masses taking their seats sets my stomach churning.

Darkness backstage is penetrated only by the exit signs, occasional flashlights, and a patter of feet. Whispers carry across the cramped space: actors going over their lines, stagehands double and triple checking light and sound cues. The smell of sweat is suffocating as my heart skips a beat, and the thick layer of makeup on my face doesn’t alleviate the stifling heat. A beat of silence, and then a voice tells the audience to please turn off their phones, and not use flash photography.

A light hits the stage like a spear impaling a soldier. Dust floats in the air, parting for me and as I saunter onto the stage, murmurs sweep through the vicinity. A bead of sweat rolls down my back when I reach my place on the polished black floor and turn to the audience. Though I cannot see a single face, my eyes narrow, focusing in on the lines that I know like the back of my hand.

The air shifts. Everyone backstage breathes in, preparing for me to deliver my first line. I break the deafening silence that has filled the room.

A part of me settles into place, even as another stirs awake at the rapt attention of hundreds of people.

Let the show begin.

LETthe BEGIN

by Isabel Cuellar

Laura Loeb

I’mfrom

where

by Daniella Tosca

I am from innocence, from love and life I am from the music From the big tree in front of home And the delicate flowers sheltered by its limbs I am from big family gatherings and loving arms And the kitchen and the sea I am from the shouting voices and hushed secrets From “be yourself ” and “get it together” I am from agnostic views And convincing Christian grandmothers I am from Hispanic roots Havana nights and heavily guarded family recipes I am from exotic vacations and lazy days at home From new ways and old views From the days on the sea and tans and salty hair And cozied up late night calls I am from a beautiful disaster And the clarity found in clutter I am from the bitter and the sweet I am from all the qualities and moments that make me a special addition to our perfectly dysfunctional family tree

58

Susan Huang | acrylic

59

The cold wind blowing in our faces, racing to grandma’s house You let me take the victory as usual We go to the closet, get our toys Grandma’s calling, we don’t put them away Oh no! Grandpa fell because of our toys - let’s hide Mother returns, grandpa is fine!

It’s time to go, we start to cry, don’t want to leave But we will see each other tomorrow I was five and you were eight We race to grandma’s house, one more time you let me win We make our way to the living room and sit by the TV Here comes grandma bringing our Jello with Coke Our mothers would not approve, we smile They are coming, it’s time to go, Don’t want to leave But we will see each other tomorrow I was six and you were nine Sunday is for lunch at grandma’s Lasagna for us, our favorite Adults are arguing about something boring, off to the bedroom Watching TV I fall asleep Grandma calls us for a chocolate cake treat We race, and again you let me take the victory After desert, goodbyes and tears But we will see each other next week I was ten and you were thirteen Pizza at grandma’s You talk about girls you like I talk about a special guy Suddenly we are saying goodbye, again This time is harder, you are moving to a different state But we will see each other in six months I was fifteen and you were eighteen You came visit us at grandma’s This time you brought your girlfriend We became friends and quickly we were teasing you I like her, she is good for you It’s that time what makes it harder is that I’m the one moving away Moving to a different country.

But we will see each other again, right?

After all you still are my cousin, my first friend, my best friend

Santiago Ruan | colored pencil

SEE EACH

other

by Giovianna Schmeil

Taybeh

by Tamara Uweyda

Danielle Engel

Fifteen kilometers northeast of Jerusalem is a small Palestinian village called Taybeh. To others it’s just an ordinary village, but to me it’s home. Living in Miami ten months of the year then going to Taybeh for the summer is like being transported to another dimension. Everything is different. You no longer see buildings, or hear English and Spanish, or smell the ocean; instead you see roads filled with rocks and dust, you hear others only speaking Arabic, and you smell hookah as it pierces your nose with its strong scent.

Visiting Taybeh knowing you’ll be greeted by everyone is a feeling like no other.

Villagers living there truly know each other. To them, strangers don’t exist. In Miami, I see ten new people a day at school alone, but in Taybeh you can go to the supermarket and the vendor will know you and your family’s entire life story. You are guaranteed to see a smiling familiar face on every corner, not to mention, your neighbors become your relatives. I live right next door to my grandpa, my two uncles, my grandma, and my aunt. But the “no strangers” rule is really emphasized when you order a pizza delivery. All you have to say is your dad’s name and they will immediately know where you live. Knowing I can walk down the street to the grocery store at 4:00 a.m. and feel safe is probably my favorite experience in Taybeh.

In Miami, I don’t get to practice and learn about religion and culture like I do in Taybeh. Almost everyone you meet in Miami has a different religion or no religion at all. Although I do love Miami’s diversity,being Muslim makes it hard to relate to that many people; which is why it’s so great to go somewhere and know that everyone shares your beliefs and values. Everyday in Taybeh you’ll see people walking to the mosque for prayer and hear the imam’s voice on speakers all around the village reading Quran. I hear new stories about my faith from my grandparents every week. During Ramadan, the whole village is filled with colorful moon string lights and everyone fasts together. I break my fast with an enormous feast of mouthwatering hummus, falafel, and grape leaves with my whole family. When Ramadan ends, I’m lucky enough to spend yet another holiday called Eid with my loved ones. We spend the entire day going to every relative’s house to greet them while drinking tea and devouring delicious datefilled pastries. We end the night at my house with a mouthwatering dinner.

A small village northeast of Jerusalem envelopes me with a type of happiness I’ve never felt anywhere else. It holds my most treasured memories and it’s the one place where I feel like I truly belong. Taybeh is my home.

Write Something Real

by Lauren Nanes

The moon is inevitably consumed by light and the sun by darkness. Clouds entangle themselves with one another until there is nothing but grey, nothing but haze. The sea becomes black and the air hot. The stars disappear.

One by one the lights in the houses dissipate, cars become extinct, humans become dormant.

Everything ceases to exist.

Except you.

You. Staring at yourself in the mirror.

You. Aimlessly walking around.

You. Gorging on possibilities. You. Swallowing your abilities.

Quiet is a lie. Noise multiplies in vacancy. How can there be life when the air is so stagnant. How can your heart still beat and my eyes still blink when all that is in view is still.

Humor me.

Dare me to disrupt the lines with an inconsistency.

Allow me to witness ideology not imagine it.

Do not show me red, let me smell it.

I am oxidizing in this quiet. In the noise-filled vacancy. I see the rust on my fingers, the corrosion on my palms. There are vertical lines running down my mouth and beetles in the carpet. Wood and stones are balancing on glass tables without relief while we wobble with so much as the force of gravity pushing down on our foreheads.

The clouds are blurring the edges of a full moon as you tell yourself the dancing lights on the ocean are performing for you.

Forgiveness smoothing over the dark liquid craters.

Hands - the single voice that raised you, and now after your skin has calloused and your muscles have worn you wonder if all the people that have disappeared from sight are a reaction to that raised voice, to those raised hands.

Forgiveness in spite of the charcoal waves.

Ich Lüge Mortality is a fallacy. How offensive to the oceans surrounding you, the ground beneath you, the air inside of you.

Immortality is a deception. How insulting to the rotting inside of you, the bodies beneath you, the age surrounding you.

Truth can only be in their duality, in their coexistence. Yet, there is only an I awake tonight, an I with its head facing a window, only an I staring at the glow fixed in the sky. ~ I believe my life to be genuine solely because it rests in my possession. The human experience is subjective and exclusionary. Voices are responding to me. I feel the light hitting only me. I see the moon following no one but me. Everything is to me. In essence, the human experience is fictitious. The verb phrase, “to coexist” is an enigma to the human brain. There is only “my experience”, “my moment” - and so we lie to each other, and we lie to ourselves. We are living out different moments in the same space, foolishly registering each event as fact rather than as implication.

And so when one by one the lights in the houses dissipate, when the cars become extinct, when the humans become dormant, and everything ceases to exist - what is left?

What happens when inconsistencies begin to disrupt the lines and you begin to witness ideology?

What am I to make of the smell of red or noise without vacancy?

Introspection free of degradation.

The moon and the sun - occupants of the same space and yet ignorant of each other’s claims.

You, inevitably consumed by light.

I, consequently consumed by darkness.

Humor me.

The clouds are blurring the edges of a full moon while the ocean glitters for me.

Forgiveness smoothing over the dark liquid craters.

Forgiveness in spite of the charcoal waves.

You, inevitably consumed by darkness.

I, consequently consumed by light.

65

Covan Blair | digital drawing

TRY ME

by Anastasia Perez-Ternent

Try me I swear Try me and my messed up responsibilities

Try me when I fight for something

Try me when I care

Try me when it’s not just TRY ME WHEN YOU’RE INCONSISTENT

How do we make change?

We address the fundamental issues.

But who wants to do that.

Political Short Termism

The easy way out

Get reelected

Money Try me when you’re educated and things matter

Try me in a month when these things no longer do

Try me when you think you’re winning

And you’ll find out you never were Try me when you feel self-conscious and self-assured

Try me when you want someone to bring you down

Try me when you need someone to knock you off your feet

Try me when you need help Try me because I don’t follow a pattern

Try me not to understand me

But because you want me

To fight Try the applause Try the hate Try the sinners And the saints Because we’re all hypocrites

When we ask for change we stay as we are

When we ask to make a difference we repeat our actions

What if we don’t know what to not fight for

And that’s the issue We can find emotion in a narrative and agree, but it never resonates so much over being We are biological creatures and a species first We are thinkers and doctors and janitors and humans second We are empathetic

When it relates to our narrative

But that’s not empathy

That’s just self-pity

The WORLD’S most powerful man without electricity sprays outrage like a comedian testing material and thunderous applause questioned the protestors’ patriotism and labeled them “privileged” millionaires.

by D’Sean Perry

68

Catalina MuĂąoz

Emma Gerlach | watercolor

The Legend of the White Snake

by Wenyi Shao

Love stories have played an essential role in history. In China, from the narrative poem about Jiao Zhongqing to the folktale of Chang’e, love stories have influenced generations of Chinese people. One of them in particular, the Legend of the White Snake, is considered to be among the most beautiful.

The story starts thousands of years ago with a young shepherd. One day, while he was walking in the woods, the young shepherd heard a rustling sound. Curious, he went to see what happened. Behind a tree, a snake-hunter had caught a small, white snake.

“Sir, please let it go. It’s just a small snake,” the shepherd said.

“Small snake,” the hunter looked up coldly. “Indeed it is, yet it still may harm you.”

The boy looked into the snake’s eyes and could not turn away. It was begging

for life.

“I will give you all the fruits in my bag, and play my flute for you,” he said.

Annoyed by the boy, the hunter agreed to let the snake go. The snake stared at the boy for a long time before disappearing inside the woods.

The sun went down, and thousands of years passed by — to what was the Song Dynasty. In the capital of the dynasty, Hangzhou, everything prospers. A young man, Xu Xian, runs his herbal medicine store by the West Lake. Every day he takes a walk outside. This afternoon though, it suddenly starts raining. Finding himself without his umbrella, Xian has to take shelter in a boat. After he sits down, Xian realizes an astonishingly beautiful woman is behind him, also hiding from the rain. It is love at first sight. Her name is Bai Suzhen. She could not move her eyes from the handsome young man, either — they seemed destined to meet and fall in love.

Very soon after, Xian and Suzhen got married. The newlywed couple runs the medicine store together, and Suzhen turns out to be quite talented at the business.

Everyone is fond of Suzhen, who is sweet and friendly. However, Xian gradually senses the slight abnormality of his wife: she never lets him see her bathe. To make the matters worse, translucent, wrapping-like material continues to appear in their home. Xian fears that she might have encountered devil spirits, so he climbs the Jin Mountain in Hangzhou to find the temple with the best exorcist, Fa Hai. Hai listens to Xian’s worries and his eyes light up. He hands Xian a bottle of realgar wine and tells him to mix it into his wife’s drink. The truth shall be revealed, Hai says. Although feeling dubious of the liquid, Xian does not dare to stall. Carefully, he follows Hai’s instructions. After only a single swallow, Suzhen falls and the form of her body changes: she turns into an enormous white snake.

Xian faints as he sees this horrifying change.

As soon as he woke up, Xian fled from his home to Hai. The monk agreed to help, but during that time, he said Xian needs to stay in the temple. In fact, Hai is expecting Suzhen to come to rescue her husband. Although well aware of the danger, the distraught lover rushes into the trap. A fierce fight starts as the two meet at the top of Jin Mountain. The duel lasts a whole day and, in the end, Hai exhausts the white snake’s magic power. He cages Suzhen in an exorcising bowl.

When he sees this, Xian blames himself for his blunder, yet the past cannot be altered. The sullen man begs to speak with his wife for one last time. Xian asks Suzhen why she came to him years ago. Suzhen answers, with her eyes filled with sorrow: “Thousands of years ago, when I was still a young and vulnerable snake, you saved me from a snake-hunter, who now stands beside you. Samsara wiped your memory of me long ago, but I cannot forget you. All those years I practiced magic, looking forward to reciprocating your kindness one day. After I learned how to retain a human form, I sought you in this life cycle. Then, I fell in love with you. I never wanted any harm done to you.”

As soon as Suzhen finishes her sentence, the bowl swallows her. Hai commands a tower to be built over the bowl to keep the snake in for forever. The tower is named Leifeng, and it still stands by the West Lake today.

Haiti

by John Madsen

The top of the hill I stand, My home behind me Ahead, I see my homeland Gorgeous, but dying Once a great land Lots of foliage and gold Peaceful natives lived well Then Haiti was discovered Pillage Pillage Pillage They enslaved and killed Slaves revolted and won But, by then, the damage was done Haiti never really recovered Stuck in time Resources? Gone Trapped with no way out

Nicole Herrera

72 72

73

Cabo San Lucas

by Daniella Orozco

Shani Rupp | graphite and colored pencil

I am the first to admit that I take the beauty of Miami for granted, but it is only because I’ve journeyed to far more serene and ethereal locations. The hustle and bustle of city life is not for me; I prefer to be isolated from society, sun tanning on a blanket of white, pretending I am one of the hundreds of thousands of grains of sand that make up Playa el Medano in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

This region of Mexico appears to be as beautiful as the underwater kingdom Hans Christian Andersen describes in his tale “The Little Mermaid.” The sea shimmers like a thousand sapphires, and occasionally a humpback whale will beat its navy tail against the shiny jewels, saluting one with a wave. One of my favorite things to do in this gorgeous region is to take a trip on a glass-bottom boat. Boarding the little boat you become anxious; it is puny compared to the endless Sea of Cortez. Although the waves shake you constantly, eventually they will rock you gently to sleep and the beaming sun will grant you a goodnight kiss as it radiates upon your pale cheeks.

Going out into town you will discover that every street in Cabo is lined with quaint little restaurants where native Mexican women toil with pride at preparing traditional dishes such as tacos al pastor, chilaquiles, tamales, and enchiladas. The fire cracks and creeps underneath the leather-like, spotted brown hands of an elderly woman. Although she may be old, her eyes gleam like freshly polished jet as she folds the tortilla, her faded lips revealing a toothy childish smile.

Roaming further down the street you’ll come across little gift shops where rings with turquoise stones are being sold for only a few pesos and authentic rag dolls mimicking Mexican Folkloric ballet dancers, hand-made with elegant stitching line stored on shelves and entrances. Pick what you like quickly, since inside the little shops there is no air conditioning and you may melt like a crayon in the sun if you succumb to your indecisiveness and stall within the “tienda.”

Strolling near the shore you will discover young, indigenous women who approach you with eyes foggy with desperation, pleading for you to purchase one of their intricately weaved textiles. The designs usually include neon fabrics of fuschia, orange, blue, green, and black occasionally displaying floral patterns. Most of these women are penniless and live within the impoverished neighborhoods of the city. The women and men who walk along the beach do everything they can to support their young ones, who most likely will follow in their footsteps one day.

When the sun sets, the sea becomes a strawberry daiquiri where dolphins swim happily and sleepy seals saunter. Humans enjoy basking underneath the miniature paper parasols which decorate the drink. My preferred time to visit is during the winter, because although summers are indeed magical, when luxurious hotels are adorned with lush wreaths of pine or twinkling tinsel, and dazzling 10-foot tall Christmas trees tower over guests in the lobby, happiness flourishes.

Although Miami may share the same smell of sunscreen, share the same feeling of running sand through one’s fingers, and share beautiful rose-colored sunsets, Cabo San Lucas will forever be my home away from home.

STAFF

Ximena Mota Otero EDITOR IN CHIEF

Kimberley Cruz LAYOUT EDITOR

Samantha Keepax CHIEF COPY EDITOR

Ignacio Izquierdo Diaz WEB EDITOR

Monica Rodriguez ADVISER COPY EDITS Anastasia Perez-Ternent Lauren Nanes Luis Martinez Amanda Vera Agustin Garcia Katerina Rodriguez Daniela Diaz Caballero

LAYOUT DESIGN Brianna Delgado G. Raphaella Egas Sara Ferrer Kiara Kamlani Vanessa Rosales Nicole Schwyn Isabel Solorzano Cindy Vega

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Paige Vignola

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 magazine’s student editorial board. Reflections is part of the curriculum of Gulliver Preparatory’s journalism program, and is completed during the second semester of the school year.

COLOPHON

The 2018 edition of the Reflections Literary Magazine was printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 800 copies. Designers created the magazine using Adobe Indesign and Photoshop CS6 on iMac computers. Fonts included Axis, Roboto Thin, MF Young & Beautiful, and Gill Sans Light and Regular. The 4-color process cover is printed on 80# Dull, with a gloss aqueous coating. The magazine consisted of 76 pages, printed in 4-color process on 80# Dull Text. Reflections features additional online content through our companion 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. Special thanks to the Gulliver NEHS students, and the English and Visual Arts Departments for their contributions and support.

Victoria Paredero Quiros | oil on canvas

Filippo di Franco

ONLINE gulliver.life/reflectionslitmag

Florida Scholastic Press Assoc. All Florida Ranking, 2014-2017 Columbia Scholastic Press Assoc. Gold Medalist, 2017 National Council of Teachers of English, Superior Rating, 2013

MEMBERSHIPS: FSPA,CSPA, NCTE