Threads RefLections literary & arts Magazine vol. 38 / 2019
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Threads Reflections LIterary & Arts Magazine Gulliver Preparatory School 6575 N. Kendall Drive Miami, Florida 33156 1
Table of Contents POETRY 8
“Head Wounds,” Juliana Vair, Grade 9
11
“Still a Flower,” Isabel Cuellar, Grade 10
13
“How Do I Love You,” Eugene Li, Grade 11
18
“Different,” Marcela Cortes Calixto, Grade 9
23
“Beautiful Tragedy,” Bella Peterson, Grade 9
27
“The Thief,” Juliana Vair, Grade 9
29
“Vai Passar,” Marcela Cortes Calixto, Grade 9
30
“Waves,” Daniella Tosca, Grade 11
42
“Hamburg In Der Sommerzeit,” Bella Peterson, Grade 9
45
“Him,” Cecilia Derlon, Grade 10
46
“Poema,” Pedro Schmeil, Grade 10
50
“The Greatest Thing I Have Ever Known,” Katie Alvarez, Grade 11
52
“Quand on Étaient Jeunes,” Lucie Duchene, Grade 9
55
“Mother Nature vs. Man,” Julianna del Rey, Grade 10
69
“Tea Time,” Swati Raolji, Grade 10
71
“The Snob,” Anita Rivella, Grade 11
72
“The Music of Life,” Karela Palazio, Grade 10
74
“The Question,” Diego Medal, Grade 9
76
“Dentro del Ávila,” Alessia Bianco, Grade 11
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PROSE 7
“Editor’s Note,” Olivia Martn-Johnson, Grade 9
15
“Untitled,” Jingyi Pan, Grade 12
20
“Beginning,” Olivia Martin-Johnson, Grade 9 (modeled after Maya Angelou)
24
“Saving Dexter,” Sophia Demir, Grade 9
35
“The Moon Still Shines Afterward,” Isabel Cuellar, Grade 10
38
“Cartagena,” Olivia Torres, Grade 9
40
“Culture Shock,” Leah Boyd, Grade 12
56
“Silver Limbs,” Lauren Bartel, Grade 9
66
“A Night at the Airport,” Wenyi Shao, Grade 12
HAIKUS 36
Carlos Acosta, Grade 11
36
Olivia Peña, Grade 10
36
Olivia Torres, Grade 9
37
Chelsea Kuys, Grade 10
37
Sophia Takahashi, Grade 12
ZIP ODES
*Local poetry event sponsored by O, Miami and WLRN
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Marcela Cortes Calixto, Grade 9
64
Isabel Cuellar, Grade 10
64
Kate Perez, Grade 9
65
Teresa Ariza, Grade 9
65
Carolina Di Blassio, Grade 9
65
Paulina Guajardo, Grade 9
3
Anglo-saxon riddles 62
Erick Clemente, Grade 11
62
Milla Busso, Grade 11
SCULPTURE 3
“Mr. Miami” Katerina Navarro, Grade 11
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“Free Spirit,” Chris McCormick, Grade 10
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“Play,” Sofia Cancio, Grade 11
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“Dragon,” Joy Hall, Grade 11
DRAWING & PAINTING 6
“Watching Netflix,” Elizabeth Vair, Grade 12
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“Two Stories,” Elizabeth Vair, Grade 12
14
“Oedipus Complex,” Annabelle Kang, Grade 11
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“Drag 1,” Samuel Starke, Grade 12
20
“Distorted Portrait,” Stephanie Potter, Grade 12
25
“Zeppo,” Joey Elsbernd, Grade 11
28
“Tantalus,” Carlos Sanchez, Grade 11
36
“Beauty,” Amanda Prager, Grade 12
44
“Daydreaming,” Lucie Duchene, Grade 9
49
“Inferno,” Carlos Sanchez, Grade 11
52
“Sisters,” Elizabeth Vair, Grade 12
56
“Hang In There,” Joey Elsbernd, Grade 11
61
“Garden of Secrets,” Victoria Paredero Quiros, Grade 12
70
“Effy,” Natalia Abramovich, Grade 12
80
“The Puppet,” Victoria Paredero Quiros, Grade 12
Installation Art 64
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“Yes Dear,” Elizabeth Vair, Grade 12
PHOTOGRAPHY Cover “Tropical Orbweaver,” Laura Attarian, Grade 11 1
“Filippo’s Duomo,” Filippo Di Franco, Grade 11
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“Make a Wish,” Julian Ruiz-Luzio, Grade 10
22
“Looking Out,” Julian Ruiz-Luzio, Grade 10
31
“Power,” Julian Ruiz-Luzio, Grade 10
32
“Sailboat,” Benjamin Carey, Grade 10
33
“Simple Joys,” Filippo Di Franco, Grade 11
35
“Looking Out,” Pedro Schmeil, Grade 10
39
“Ilm Uro,” Nicole Herrera, Grade 12
45
“Haiti,” Amanda Prager, Grade 12
47
“Melharar,” Nicole Herrera, Grade 12
51
“Eternal Love,” Pedro Schmeil, Grade 10
54
“California Sunset,” Laura Attarian, Grade 11
65
“Bimini,” Sophia Sacco, Grade 11
67
“Rua,” Nicole Herrera, Grade 12
72
“Yosemite,” Laura Attarian, Grade 11
77
“Here Comes the Sun,” Ignacio Izquierdo Dia, Grade 12
78
“Curiousity,” Filippo Di Franco, Grade 11
DIGITAL ART 9
“Trouble With Tape: Triptych” Covan Blair, Grade 12
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“Heartbreak,” Jessica Si, Grade 11
75
“Dream Room,” Jessica Si, Grade 11
Original Song 48
“Infrared,” Sophia Takahashi, Grade 12
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Eli
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air
hV
et zab
HERE
Editor s Note '
A spider meticulously spins its intricate web comprised of distinct, silken threads. A painter applies each deliberate brushstroke onto a canvas with a delicate hand. A photographer searches the horizon with a squinted eye through a camera lens. A writer chooses the finest words to fill an empty sheet. These artists weave raw emotions into masterpieces. Within these pages, stories emerge from different places and cultures, and are all united by common experience. Each one is unique, yet each one is similar. “Threads” shows how searching for one’s identity, coping with relationships and finding one’s place in a fast-paced world unifies us all. Weaving through these pages, you’ll embark on a journey of realization, love, sorrow and joy. By Olivia Martin-Johnson
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The woman in The picture she Is frail frailer than The paper trail of Wooden cranes she Leaves behind her Who fly away with her Footprints the wooden cranes Who give the people that they Land on paper cuts cuts all over Their eyes and their mouths and their Lips bleed out words that they cannot Help but speak and she walks in a Path of destruction we don’t Know what to do with her So they stick her in a Lab that woman With a smile that leaves Behind a paper trail that seems To stick to our eyes like purple glue Slowly turning white before our minds And before our bleeding voices and the Streetlights in her throat don’t mind The extra attention and they stuck Her in a lab and stuck her with Needles with tiny street Lamps and she hates Them hates them All but we Don’t
Wounds Head
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By Juliana Vair
Covan Blair
And they Did something next They always do that’s what Makes the world turn round and The page turn slower cause we live In a sped up world you and I we live in A fast forward button that just won’t un Stick so please tell me please tell me What came next she was on the Lab table one day and the doctor Was bleeding out words to her but not Really because he didn’t realize it and She said something quietly very very Quickly and quietly and he said What now you bled I’m sorry and He went to fetch a bandaid for The open wound on her face That wouldn’t stop bleeding Head wounds they bleed the most (And she said she said she Said she said she said she Said she almost said Head wounds bleed the most)
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Julian Ruiz-Luzio
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Flower STILL A
By Isabel Cuellar
You don’t see me as I lie limp— just another crack on the sidewalk. You pass by, stepping on me; I’m crushed further. This wasn’t what I wanted when the wind blew me here. You were supposed to rescue me.
I meant for your hand to feel my petals. Not for the hungry sole of your shoe. You move on to other flowers. And I miss my chance.
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Elizabeth Vair
how do
I Love You?
By Eugene Li
How do I love you? A moment to recall. I loved you as the rose rises and grows, Those crimson petals my heart sown, And each verdant leaf did me enthrall. Boundless dreams where time would stall, I loved you as the rose seeks the sun’s glow, Soaring higher and higher from deep below, And yet...only at the peak is fruit ripe to fall. How do I love you? My mind is clear. A rose plucked is naught but thorns, And all must wither to ascend anew. Drifted apart by Winter’s steer, A rose everlasting is yet unborn, But I wish it had ended with “I love you.”
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Annabelle Kang
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unTitleD
By Jingyi Pan
They always do that thing - the thing with their eyes. No matter how much they try to hide it, I always notice it. Sometimes I really appreciate those who don’t hide it, just the raw stares; yes, you are the bad guy, and I know what you want. I often look back onto that time of my life with a sense of detachment. It sometimes comes with the utter disgust I have for my current life and an obnoxious amount of self-pride that borderlines narcissism. It rarely comes, but it does, with a striking commiseration for that twelve-year-old me who was probably more well-trained and composed but at the same time lacked the sheer terror I now find so dear to heart. Maybe “appreciate” is not the right word. Why would anyone appreciate them? The scums of the earth, the men who forced themselves upon others. Maybe I just preferred the sincere perversion to the hypocritical decency. Maybe I just knew the ones who were proud of what they did often made my job easier. It is always easier to catch a pompous genius than a petrified fool. I would usually change into a shirt with a simple design, light colors, and looser fit. Then I would tie my hair back with a pin (I don’t know if I lost it, the one with a bow that my professor picked). I would practice a smile in the mirror situated in the bathroom next to the holding cell -- a sheepish smile accompanied by my fingers clutching. These little moments spent in that bathroom often find themselves back to me when I ready myself for social occasions now. The way I readied myself for our little interrogations carried the same insipid intimacy my daily routine carries. They were the special ones in the lot, the ones for whom I had to “prepare.” They were not the worst of the bunch, but they were indeed special. They bejeweled my memory with my own remarkable ineptitude to
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have the response of fear, which should have been the appropriate response even to the most trained individual. Like the latent pain the wound emits when a finger has been sliced off speedily, my realization of the appropriateness of fear in those moments comes with lassitude after I have left and grown. It is true my parsimonious emotions made me the best; they liked my spurious docility, my tame innocence, and my simulacrum of a full-bodied woman -- their prey. Nonetheless, the parsimony is something one can only find at the delicate state of bewilderedness which brands the age of twelve; it is the culprit to the predictable naivetĂŠ that signals ignorance in most children and the irreconcilable cruelty that inspires apathy in those whose functions surpassed the confinement of our age. They always do the thing with their eyes first -- up and down, up and down. See something you like? Good. That was what made me special. Like hundreds, thousands and millions of girl-children, I had baby fat, a petite frame, and the natural ability to inspire the most out of their monstrous minds; no matter their palates for preys, grown or prepubescent, defiant or acquiescent, there is no doubt to my acquisition of their underestimating effrontery which was the objective of my mission. I succeeded countless times. I was the one who fitted perfectly in their tussles with their own desire to be free and their insidious habit to brag, or even enlighten, to me, a voluptuously-inexperienced child, the dazzling bliss of violence. Therefore, I was filled with pride and awarded with the applause and astonishment amid a society which eagerly protects its children against any “pollutiveâ€? details of sex but nevertheless appreciated the sexualization of my fantastic power. With passing years and the distance away from the obnoxiouslycompacted streets of Hong Kong, I fell into the diaphanous boredom of normality. I kept in touch with almost none from that period of my life, those who saw me as a palliative agent of their own inability, and those who accepted me as a poignant miracle. The indolent routine of life incenses me like creeping darkness incenses a slowly blinding man. The pain of the sliced off finger arrives with my coming of age, I can no longer remain calm in the quicksand of reality. Yet I am grateful, for the more I shiver with fear, the more it grants the effulgence of worth to those acrid moments in that cell.
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“
They always do the thing with their eyes first -- up and down, up and down.
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“
Different By Marcela Cortes Calixto
Why do people look at me when I pass by Is there something wrong with your eyes Don’t be shy tell me what you’re thinking I promise, I’m not listening Can’t you see I am different from you Don’t judge me and be the fool I want people to notice, love, and adore me See all my colors, let me just “be” I want to be brave and roar like a lion Be different like pizza -- Hawaiian I have no shame in being like this Catch me if you can and give me a kiss Yes I am crazy but so are you For thinking I am normal because neither are you
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Sam
e
tark
S uel
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Stephanie Potter
Beginning By Olivia Martin-Johnson
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Now that I am firmly settled into high school, and pressing with resolute determination towards my upperclassman years, I find nothing so pleases me as a night with no homework, clueless substitute teachers, and an early dismissal from class. Do I look stressed? Probably not to my classmates. Do I feel that way? Most definitely. I have reached the dangerous age where chaos amuses me as much as sleep and sometimes more so. As a student, I would have my ears filled with admirable compliments from teachers, invites to hectic parties, and the ringing of the bell which determines the start of the weekend. I want to hear the ongoing song of late night phone calls, the bang of closing textbooks, and the whisper of fingers pressing protruding letters of onyx keyboards. All sounds of gossip and gossiping, life and living, will find welcome places in my ears. My eyes will gladly receive colors: tight black polos wrapped onto cute boys’ chests, and the faint white glow of finished papers. I like the money green of surrounding trees, and the sunshine yellow of a glass of lemonade during lunch. And I will have red. The tomato red of Pilot pens which draw A’s on essays, and the fire truck red of a glowing sunset. Let taste and smell be firmly joined, a marriage of loving senses. Let the scent of gooey brownies join the aroma of powdered sugar in delighting my salivary glands. Give me the smell of the sea and the fragrance of brand new clothing. I do not refuse the stingy scent of sweat or the common scent of overpowering cologne, for they remind me of the bitterness of chocolate and the sting of vinegar. And the sense of touch; last, but definitely not least. I wish for the feel of the cushiony fuzz inside my oversized sweatshirt and the supple leather on my cozy family-room couch. I welcome the sun on my back and sand between my toes. I want the suction of headphones in my ears and strawberry ice cream melting on my tongue. My fingers running through golden strands of wavy hair, small but impactful.
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Julian Ruiz-Luzio
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Beautiful Tragedy
By Bella Peterson
They love who she’s become. the person free from will and that wants everything all at once. who cries herself to sleep at night, who drains tears day in day out until she holds her lover lipless and tight. her head hurts, indeed, how could it not? the pitiful girl, doesn’t even put up a fight. what a frail life she bestows. not a thought on her future or anything in that light. the girl is one beautiful tragedy who releases herself into the cold night. she’s scared, the world is scary and so is her lover’s might. her insecurities, they pick and bite yet, she continues to claim she’s fine. she’s not. but, that’s just a thought..
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Dexter
saving
By Sophia Demir
Staring through the steel bars of a small enclosure, I remember anxiously hopping from foot to foot as I tried to focus on the words spoken by the staff member but my attention continuously wandered to the sad dog who lay still on cold floors. It was as if our gaze made him shrink into himself. His brindle fur was ungroomed, his tail nervously carried between his back legs. My mother nudged my arm and told me to concentrate as it was I who was in charge so I listened. I had assumed I knew what was in store for me at the shelter but as I stood in front of the cage, I found myself cringing from the loud barking, the medicinal smell, and the overall depressing vibe. I found Dexter’s name on a list for euthanization on a private social media account -- as euthanasia is a part of the shelter the staff don’t want presented to the public. There were ten other dogs on the list and hundreds that would someday find their way onto it. Yet, I chose Dexter. He was the special one. He was going to live. However, being at the shelter and walking by the cages of hundreds of other dogs provided a more negative perspective on what I was doing. How unfair was it that Dexter was being taken home, and that all the rest were going to sit and suffer? I second-guessed my decision and briskly walked away from the lady and my mum pacing down the aisle looking into the enclosures. Could I tell which dog needed me the most? Which one I could save without it being unfair? I couldn’t. Big or small, black or white they all needed me, every one of them deserved a better life. Shoulders slumped, I made my way back to Dexter. Here I was trying to commit an act of kindness and yet I had never felt more cruel in my life. Crouching by his cage, my arm extended through the cold isolating bars, I waited for Dexter to respond to my presence. It took five minutes. He was depressed, you could see it in his eyes. He’d been here too long. I was gently stroking Dexter through the wretched bars when I heard something that made my blood boil. “I wouldn’t recommend him as a family dog. He’s aggressive,” the lady said. Before my mum could respond, I shook my head frantically and told the obnoxious
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Joey Elsbernd
woman that I would decide that for myself. With a dramatic sigh from the wicked witch and the clinging of keys, the cage door was opened. Dexter lunged out, tail wagging and ears pricked. He was like a whole new dog. We played with him for ages and during that time he was not aggressive once. I was confident he was the one. We had arrived as a family of two and left as a family of three. And despite my previous negative thoughts about leaving hundreds of dogs behind, I was content with what I had done. I knew I could not save all the dogs, but for Dexter, his world had changed forever.
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Jessica Si
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the
Thief Her child in her heart is A little thief with a silver Knife and a running grin that Drips down his face and his Eyes melt sometimes down Her lungs but just sometimes and She chokes on his eyes and when She coughs them out he blinks At me and cuts open her heart And dances inside of it I can Hear the music from across The halls and the echoes aren’t Anything remarkable and he Dances in her heart with His knife making little Papercuts on the walls of her Chest as he grins at the Monsters lining the walls and Screaming at him and she Can only scream back but they Drown her out they drown her In their tears in their waterfalls Dripping dropping their knives on The floor of her and she can Only scream back and hope that Someone hears her but (the Echoes aren’t anything remarkable and She’s not loud enough for Them to notice)
By Juliana Vair
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Ca
rlos
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Sa
nch
ez
Vai passar
By Marcela Cortes Calixto
Tudo meio preto Nenhum sinal de claridade Meu coração partido E nenhuma diversidade Tudo meio escuro Todos estão chorando Minhas lágrimas escorrem Tem gente me olhando Não gosto de estar assim Por que está tudo cinza Será que é pra sempre Fiquei meio ranzinza
Ah se eu pudesse Gostaria de voltar ao tempo e ajudar Algumas palavras Não custa nada tentar Nunca vou entender Por mais que eu fale que sim É pra acalmar As pessoas envolta de mim Isso ficou longo Mas nada consegue descrever Não há páginas para dizer O quanto eu sinto falta de você.
It’s somewhat black No sign of clarity My broken heart And no diversity It’s somewhat dark Everyone is crying My tears run down There are people watching me I do not like being like this Why is everything gray Is it always going to be this way Suddenly I’m grouchy Oh if I could I wanted to go back and try Some words It does not hurt to try I’ll never understand As much as I say yes It’s to calm down People around me This went long But nothing manages to describe There are no words to tell How much I miss you
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Waves By Daniella Tosca
One day I sat in the sand Watching the ocean twinkle and dance Watching the waves, to and fro Wiping away what was there before And back into the deep they go
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Julian Ruiz-Luzio
Julian Ruiz-Luzio 31
Benjamin Carey
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Filippo Di Franco
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Grey and Yellow are the loneliest colors, which is why they look beautiful together. They dance on the clouds and get lost in the quiet rhythm of new companionship. I go to the clouds and they are surprised. Grey whispers to Yellow, “Her people rarely come after the age of eleven.” Yellow takes a brave step — I smile, and he smiles back. “Were you expecting visitors?” I ask. “No,” Yellow answers, “Your kind doesn’t like us very much. We don’t understand why they teach you to stay away.” Most people are not convinced that dancing with lonely friends is more valuable than the function of the mitochondria or the distant quasar. I learn, however, that basking in the golden light of the sunset surpasses the artificial brightness of a cell phone. Maybe most don’t stay because they fear that the kaleidoscope of imagination will turn the streets into a dance floor. Maybe if they stop and look up, a feral monster or a nightmare too real to ever wake up from will catch them. Or maybe they’ll come back, and hate the way that black goes with everything and blue always looks stunning with orange. But clouds carry rainbows inside of them and are the homes to the lonely colors; they form shapes to make me smile. I won’t disregard what makes me happy out of a fear that the moon will shine less brightly when I come down.
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Pedro Schmeil
The Moon still Shines
Afterwards By Isabel Cuellar
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HAIKUS
LIfe is all a lie, Government is listening They are watching you By Carlos Acosta
The world is boring When everything is the same Think outside the box
By Olivia PeĂąa
Blossoms, spring has sprung Vines create colored designs A curtain of rain By Olivia Torres
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r
age
a Pr
nd Ama
A fragile egg lies, And emerges a creature, Swift and majestic
By Chelsea Kuys
Nature in disguise A life transformed to wires Inhabits us all By Sophia Takahashi
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Cartagena By Olivia Torres
See how waves crash against sharp amorphous rocks clear blue sky above and sun smiling down from the heavens on a city where suffocating heat chokes tourists and dances around natives seagulls flying like kites, a symphony of squawks compliment merchants ringing their bells advertising popsicles and s ombreros vuelitaos La Muralla outlines a skyline that overlooks the mysterious horizon of the sea Ciudad Vieja, the jewel of the city lies in the center pink, blue, yellow, green and red old buildings create a labyrinth of color where exquisite restaurants overflow with native food, taste buds dance Caribbean m apale from a repas de huevo, mote de queso and, pescado plazas full of life, crowds drinking afternoon coffee or enjoying a hearty lunch Cathedrals, a flash of past Spanish conquest and oppression An oppression displayed in the towering somber statue holding a dying native in la plaza de San Pedro scents of fruit and fried foods waft through the breeze droplets of ice cream drip from children’s cones and grinning lips give the city its vibrant mood Color, life and beauty are not all that make up the city Poverty, hunger and a foul odor flood the outskirts of La Ciudad Vieja Where most of the population lives a dull life far from the color and music Where drops of blood replace drops of ice cream Where violence and scarcity choke this world like a vicious snake To an ignorant eye these two descriptions reflect Cartagena Not the city of vibrance and beauty tourists claim they know to the core.
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Nicole Herrera
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Culture By Leah Boyd
Shock
In June 2016, I had my first culture shock. I wasn’t surprised. The airport immediately directed me towards the “Reclamo de Equipaje,” and I was forced to choose my fate as either a Mujer or Hombre when all I really needed to do was use the restroom. By Monday, I had begun to embark on my new life as a mujer and was tasked with roll call at a summer volleyball camp for young children hosted by my new school. After failing to pronounce a single name correctly, my eyes scanned the sheet for the next name, and I finally felt as though I had hit the jackpot: Julia. It turns out that the Spanish “J” is spoken with the quaint whisper of the “H” sound and that every syllable of “Anastasia” is pronounced. On Tuesday, someone else took attendance. July hosted the discovery of the cafecito Cubano and the true churro, and my first fourth period class in August led me to question my decision to subject myself to the expansive assortment of irregular French verbs for another year instead of learning how to respond to “Cómo estás?” What seemed like the absence of all hope was nearly ameliorated during my last class of the day after stumbling upon a fellow new girl with skin paler than the moonlight and ginger curls. For a moment, my heart squirmed with relief at finally encountering someone of my same situation: another American soul feeling stranded in the overwhelming mass of a melting pot. She was from Brazil. A soft chuckle soon came to replace annoyance as my initial response to watching a barista print “Lía” in fat, round Sharpie letters on my cup whenever I ordered
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a beverage. Additionally, with time, came the realization that receiving a text message containing jajaja indicated laughter as opposed to a sufficient series of typos - the “Julia” fallacy strikes again. After years of blending in amongst a homogenous crowd of Georgians, with many of my acquaintances having two analogous first names - I suppose Mary Kate’s mother was a bit indecisive between the two and a tan house on the marsh, I felt as though I had been thrusted into the outskirts. Terms such as “ma’am” and “sir” that I had once construed as being universally mandatory were quickly swiped from my vocabulary and shunned from all of my future social interactions with adults. Being able to boast confidence in speaking three languages in Savannah would lead to eager whispers being spread throughout the hallways as you pass and your peers worshiping your abilities, but doing so in Miami simply places you in the shadows of those who speak four or five. Another year brushed past, next August bloomed, and I found myself at a table with a group of my closest friends slamming UNO! cards on the table and joining in the cacophony of screams and exasperated groans. I glanced around and observed a Colombian, Jamaican, Cuban, Italian, Puerto Rican, Brazilian, and Russian sharing in laughter and fondness. There was no international news outlet implementing hostility among our cultures or adherence to traditional political tensions at the table. An inexplicable beauty characterized the moment when I realized that my friend group fostered a movement much more powerful and expansive: the true “melting pot.” Fostering a home in Savannah was comfortable, but had I not challenged myself to break the barriers of my cultural comfort zone, then I would have never been granted the opportunity to admire and partake in the manifestation of international values and diversity. There were undoubtedly more worthy anecdotes along the way, and my friends still tease me for the time I was forced to dedicate ten minutes to explaining the notion “Yes, I am white, but no, that does not mean I have Cuban parents.” Disney World may be four hours away, but Miami is truly the small world after all.
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Hamburg in der Sommerzeit
By Bella Peterson
Hamburg in der Sommerzeit ist nicht anders als Hamburg in der Winterzeit . Kalter Wind gibt den Bürgern eine Umarmung und lässt Touristen wissen, dass sie im Norden sind. Man guckt nach oben und sieht die grauen Wolken, die später die Sonne verbergen. Auch im Sommer laufen Leute mit dicken Jacken herum und Regenschirme werden immer noch geöffnet. Niemand braucht Eis für sein Bier, es wird draussen von alleine kalt. Man kann das ganze Jahr lang Schlittschuh laufen. Das glitzernde Eis bleibt im Sommer fest. Der Regen fällt wie Tränen. Er fällt auf den Rasen, und macht ihn matschig. Er fällt in die Münder der Kinder. Weil Winter und Sommer so ähnlich sind, bemerkt niemand die leichte Verschiebung, bis weißer Schnee anfängt zu fallen.
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Amanda Prager
Hamburg in the summertime is no different than Hamburg in the wintertime The cold weather gives citizens a warm hug and lets tourists know that they are in the north You look up and see the grey clouds that will soon blanket the sun. Also in the summer people walk around with thick jackets and umbrellas continue to be opened. No one needs ice for their beer, it gets cold on its own outside. You can ice skate all year, as the gleaming ice stays together The rain falls like tears And falls on the grass and makes it muddy and falls in the mouths of the children Because winter and summer are so similar no one notices the slight shift Until white snow begins to fall.
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44 cie
Lu ne
he
Du c
Him
By Cecilia Derlon
Oh, how I wish I could smell it again, The sweet scent of him wafting through the air. His bright blue eyes twinkled as the stars do, And his charming smile with his teeth like pearls. My chest pounds as I think about our time, Connected eyes like our connected hearts. His touch was as addicting as a drug, My mind often turns without moving on. Memories of him persist in my head, Haunting me as I try to forget him. He kissed me softly, as oceans kiss shores, His love cured me but now it’s my disease.
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Sendo um imigrante pode ser bem difícil Nao se sentindo em casa, Se sentindo sozinho. E pior ainda quando sua melhor amiga vai embora. A escuridao toma conta Nada parece fazer sentido, Não sabendo onde você pertence Isso é o pior sentimento Até que tudo melhora Você acha seu lugar Finalmente se sente em casa E conhece as pessoas Que você sabe que estarão no seu lado Pelo resto da vida
Poema By Pedro Schmeil
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Being an immigrant can be really difficult Not feeling at home Feeling lonely And worse when your best friend leaves Darkness takes over Nothing seems to makes sense, You don’t know where you belong It’s the worst feeling Until everything gets better You find your place Finally, feel like you have a home And meet the people You know will be next to you Through the rest of your life
Nicole Herrera
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Transparency overtaking me Is it up high? Something too close? Life’s a breeze, axes through the trees Is it too far? Down the down low? Colours stare with different hues Tape’s too loose and you Inhibitions slip to the ocean floor Piece of metal in the foyer Blaze so far what can I restore Wide eyes, watch the sunrise Find a new hairdo When asked about you And I stare into the light Watch you by my side You are not that close Pictures on the counter Nothing likes to come through Hands collide it’s still not over you
Infrared fright, eyes burn so wide Picture taken, coming breaking Strings pulled out, sounds are way too loud Sores are aching, are you waiting? Strap a sword to your chest Neurons wrack your head And I stare into the light Watch you by my side You are not that close Pictures on the counter Nothing likes to come through Hands collide it’s still not over you Pictures on the counter Nothing likes to come through Hands collide it’s still not over you And I stare into the light Watch you by my side You are not that close Pictures on the counter Nothing likes to come through Hands collide it’s still not over you
Infrared By Sophia Takahashi
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Click to listen to Sophia Takahashi performing her song,“Infrared.� Car
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The Greatest Thing
I Have Ever
Known By Katie Alvarez
How do I love you? I love you from the first flicker of light And through the dark depths of night. I love you to heights no man can climb. I love you till the end of time. You are the first flower that blooms in May, Breaking through the listless gray. You’re a brand new season waiting to turn, A fire just beginning to burn. You are an everlasting summer glow, A sunbeam upon the winter snow. Even if the sun ceases to shine and the rivers dry to stone, I know you’ll always be mine, And that is the greatest thing I have ever known.
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Pedro Schmeil
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Samuel Stark
Quand on Étaient
Jeunes By Lucie Duchene
ir
Elizabeth Va
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Tout était facile, Tout était beau. Mais les années passent, Et les châteaux de sable que nous façonnions autrefois, Sont maintenant des réminiscences lointaines. Quand ces souvenirs se mêlent, Les larmes me viennent; Une euphorie solitaire. C’était nous, Les gamins à la plage. On s’amusait bien pendant ces années passées. Mais hélas les temps changent, Et on grandit petit à petit...
Everything was easy, Everything was beautiful.
But the years pass, And the sand castles that we once created, Are now distant memories. When these memories come to me, Tears appear too; A solitary euphoria. It was us The kids at the beach. We had fun during these years. But alas times change, And we grow slowly...
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Laura Attarian
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Mother Nature
VS.Man
By Julianna del Rey
Mother Nature’s creation; Slow is her gait, Elegant nonetheless Man’s creation; Anger in its step, Despite no malicious intent The marriage of the two At the cost of the former, Against her will Tumultuous as it may be, Her cries go unheard For the reign of Man never ceases Time will reveal the damage But, it will be too late For she will be long gone, Elegance and all.
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Joey Elsbernd
SILvER LiMBS
By Lauren Bartel
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Eve woke up, her dream still in memory but slowly blurring. The sight of tumbling rocks and the feeling of terrifying flight rapidly flashed in her mind before fading softly. She lifted her head, letting her long, pale, blonde hair fall from her shoulders and come to rest on the back of her nightgown. She rubbed her green eyes, still heavy from sleep, before leaving her cot and approaching a metal rod from which a speaker was attached. As she reached it, a voice imitating a woman’s greeted her. “Good morning number five-two-five. I hope you had a nice sleep. What would you like to eat today?” “I’m not hungry.” Eve retorted gruffly. “Very well. Would you like to listen to music while your schedule is loading?” “Yes, classical please.” “What song would you like?” There was a moment of hesitation. “Surprise me.” Eve went back to her cot and plopped down. She waited for a moment, hands folded, until melodic, serene notes sounded from the speaker and filled her small, cold room. As the music continued, she recognized the piece as a movement from Handel’s Water Music. Her mother had always played classical music throughout their home. Even at a young age, Eve had been an avid listener, training her ear to be able to recognize and know each piece by name. Even now, when there was nobody to share her vast knowledge of the genre with, it gave her joy knowing that she had what she considered to be good taste. Eve found the music fascinating, almost funny. After hundreds of years, these pieces were still played, studied, and remembered. As Eve got lost in the music, a piercing chiming interrupted her daydreaming. She let out an exasperated sigh and returned her focus to the speaker. The same artificial voice spoke. “Your schedule is ready. Today’s task will be a special challenge. After you get ready, step outside the sleeping quarters. Your assigned garments are waiting outside the door. That will be all. Good luck.”
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Eve sighed and, with a stretch, began to walk on the icy, metal flooring towards the door. She turned the doorknob and was greeted with a warm breeze and the smell of rain. Outside she could see a tropical forest-like environment filled with trees, flowers, and the distant calls of birds. Eve could distinguish certain plants such as bromeliads, strangler figs, and the bright, vibrant colors of orchids. These surroundings would seem completely natural if not for the silver dome walls that surrounded her enclosure. At her feet was a small, copper-colored box the size of a shoebox. Eve lifted the box, which was surprisingly light despite its metallic features. She took it back to her room and dropped it onto her cot. Inside was her assigned clothing: a greenish-gray long sleeve, gray sneakers, short billowy pants, and a watch that read nine o’clock. She quickly changed, folded her nightgown, and opened the door only to be greeted by the same scenery as before. With a deep breath, she stepped outside. As Eve walked she could hear the sound of leaves crunching beneath her feet. It was odd. The day seemed almost normal. Everything was quiet apart from the birds and the rustling of artificial wind, but to Eve this was as quiet as quiet could be. Nothing was ever this quiet. Eve continued walking, confused and unsettled by the peace. She passed through bushes, over fallen branches, and around patches of flowers. Everything was peaceful, but Eve was far from calm. Her mind raced, and she knew this tranquility wouldn’t last. “Something always happens,” Eve said to herself. “Something is wrong, something is wrong, something has to be wrong.” Eve looked at her watch. It was now ten o’clock. A full hour of nothing. As her watch hit ten-twenty, the birds went silent before a screeching sound reverberated throughout the forest. It was an ear piercing, loud and shrill alarm. Eve put her hands to her ears, but that did not block out the cries. It was as though they were sounding a warning, signaling incoming danger or singing a song of death. The sharp scent of burning wood stopped Eve’s wondering. As she turned, scarlet and orange lapped at the trees and spread faster than her heart was racing. Eve could feel the fire’s heat on her face as it approached, devouring everything it its path. Without thinking, she ran. She did not know where she was going, but she ran anyway. She ran as fast as she could, ignoring the bushes, the flowers, and the trees, but the flames proved to be faster. The back of her legs began to feel hot as the fire continued
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to follow. As Eve pushed herself through hanging leaves, she could see in the distance a narrow stream. The sight of the water pushed her forward, and with one final stride, Eve plunged into the stream. It was shallow and rocky, and though her legs were cut up, she was safe from the flames. “This is only a test, this is only a test, this is only a test,” she repeated to herself. After a while, Eve composed herself and took heed of her surroundings. In front of her the fire continued to spread, but its attempt to pass the stream had failed. Behind her was untouched forest. It seemed safe, as though something comforting was beyond the trees, but Eve had never gone into that side of the terrain, it could be dangerous. The only thing to do was wait. Eve faced forward and stared at the crackling fire, the heat strong on her face. She looked up and saw the faint wisps of clouds barely covering the high metal ceiling. Rain would not come for quite some time, but the fire still blazed with no signs of stopping, all while Eve sat helplessly in her stream. She looked at her hands, beginning to become pruny from the water. On her wrist the watch read ten-thirty, then eleven, then eleven-thirty. When her watch read twelve, Eve decided the only way out was through the untrodden forest behind her. They wouldn’t end the test so easily. Her enclosure was a circle with her sleeping quarters in the middle. She may be able to go around the fire. She would be able to be safe. Eve’s clothing from her chest down was soaked. Her shirt stuck to her, making her feel an uncomfortable wetness against her skin. Her pants clung to the sides of her legs, and her shoes made a “squish!” sound as she walked. She was freezing, and it felt as though she was being grabbed by cold, dead hands. These feelings could not allow her to stop. She continued to trek through the new territory. It was not much different from the rest of the forest at all. In fact, it looked the same. The same vines hung from the same trees, and the same dew clung to the same leaves, and the same insects hovered over the same flowers. However, something felt different to Eve, as though something lay in wait up ahead, a force that could possibly tell her something. This made Eve hesitate for a moment, but curiosity overpowered her caution. She continued her exploration of this new area. The watch read one-fifteen, and Eve’s stomach began to growl. She would usually look around for any possible fruits growing in the area, but
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she was much too concentrated. Something seemed to draw her deeper into the new, strange place. After some walking, a small, two-story wooden house came into view. Its walls were made of planks, and upon closer inspection, holes where nails and tacks once protruded were visible. The inside was lit up as if someone still lived there. The place felt familiar, yet completely different. Eve peered through the window. A small candle flickered by the windowsill. Inside, a tall, willowy figure with pale blonde hair much like Eve’s was at a piano. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the keys, never once looking up. She seemed unreal, but Eve could see her. Beside her, a similar, smaller figure sat on the floor. The little girl’s green eyes were wandering around the room, but always fell back on the woman. The notes from the piano could barely be heard through the window, but Eve listened. The notes kept trickling through, all forming a quiet, melodious tune. The tune, much like the house and much like the woman and her child, were familiar, yet they did not seem real. Suddenly, they stopped. Everything was quiet, but two new figures now stood in the room with the woman and her child. Their cold, hard bodies approached, their silver limbs grabbing. The smell of burning wood filled the air, and Eve stood motionless by the window. *
*
*
Eve woke up, her dream still in memory but slowly blurring. The smell of burning wood and the sight of icy, silver limbs rapidly flashed in her mind before fading softly. She was shaking, but she could not remember why. Confused, she rubbed her green eyes, which were watery and stung as if from weeping, before leaving her cot and approaching a metal rod from which a speaker was attached. As she reached it, the voice that imitates a woman’s greeted her as it did every morning. “Good morning number five-two-five. I hope you had a nice sleep. What would you like to eat today?”
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Victoria Paredero-Quiros
61 Bianca Garcia
Anglo-Saxon
Riddles 1.
Fire strikes this and leaves behind char Can be held by a great warrior Signed on to declare war
welcoming battle and peace simultaneously
Its origin begins in the forest When in solitude lies thin
Chewing it would be a challenge
Any child can pick it up forever damaging the ecosystem
Thick when stacked hundreds of times
A Bright balloon grows the material
tree huggers keep the busy bees from hurting them
Can be sent anywhere in the globe
glomerate this object when its useful is exasperated
A yellow sword leaves its black blood
blowing in the wind
Held together with bendable metal
held down with weights
Loses functionality when drenched
dreadful waste but 499 left By Erick Clemente 2.
Eyes ocean blue,
always opened and lurking through its tower
Pink and pointy at the front,
positioned outside the wooden barrier.
The spoiled prince in need of endearment, Around the corner standing still,
Trapped yet surrounded by daylight, Pitter patter on the tower floors,
always searching for song singers.
seemingly falling forward with every step
Close contact with him can be painful, A soft hum of satisfaction,
but I still constantly clasp him tightly
slowly shutting his eyes in delight
He gives an abundance of love and affection, A furry bundle of fun,
spotting someone alone is key to receive it.
clawing carefully for some care
attracting people in his direction
friendly but sometimes ferocious By Milla Busso
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y Jo
ll Ha
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Zip Odes 33133 Many happy families having fun together. Restaurants, Good all around. The perfect home.
By Marcela Cortes Calixto
33146 An unfamiliar home A year of pain. A night at Vizcaya And now I feel good again. By Isabel Cuellar
33156 Breathtaking, beautiful, comforting Incomparable to others Miami The place I call home A forever paradise in my backyard By Kate Perez
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33134 A new place to call home. Finding my way around through each new day. By Teresa Ariza
33134 Miracle Mile, Granada Biltmore, Venetian Pool Historic Lots to see Many new people here By Carolina Di Blasio
33143 A breezy day in the afternoon, poolside. Life in the Gables; so much fun.
By Paulina Guajardo
Sofia Sacco Sofia Sacco
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A Night at the Airport
By Wenyi Shao
The hours at the airport were long and exhausting. After a fourteen-hour flight, my body ached. My mind swam in the air, longing for a soft bed to lie down on. But there was no bed, only hard, steel benches. It was freezing. I knew the ads in TV played in order, for I heard the words “Shanghai” and “London” in the same tone many times, and each time they grew more annoying. I was the only passenger at the gate. The jet lag confused my circadian cycle. While there wasn’t much energy left, my body struggles to remain energetic. I couldn’t rest or concentrate, and there was still eight hours till my departure. Eventually, I decided to sit up. Staring at the spotless French windows, I saw the reflection of a desperate girl cringing in a thin, teal blanket. Suddenly a thought occurred to me. What if I could view this whole experience as part of the long movie I’ve been watching the past seventeen years? My spirit was somehow lifted up. I always felt that life is like watching a movie, with some repeating plots, and the rest changing continuously. The setting is my surrounding and the camera is my eyes. Mostly, I watch; sometimes, I’m the actor in the scenes. Now, what did I see? I saw lines of benches surrounding the TV in the middle of the gate. Outside, several planes stood motionlessly. The only other person here was a dustman vacuuming the carpets. What did I hear? I heard the vacuuming and the TV, of course, and sharp noises from the air conditioner. Then, I couldn’t help wondering what the airport terminal was like at three o’clock in the morning. Falling asleep was impossible any-
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way, so I gathered my belongings and started walking. The walkways, usually crowded by people, had not a single soul in sight. I almost felt like the last human being walking amongst the remnants of human civilization. Costly perfumes and leather bags sat silently in the flickering light of glass cases, and water dripped slowly from the restrooms blocked by cleaning carts. Only the escalator leading to the Skytrain worked, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. But was I? What if, as I was walking, I entered a parallel universe of another dimension, where I actually became the last human on earth? The thought scared me. So many times I read about the end of world and the subsequent question: what would one do if he/she were among the very last humans? While most people may choose to seek mundane pleasures, I would strive to preserve something for humanity. In this way, I could extend the civilization beyond its creator, and more importantly, to share the thoughts with the species—whatever it would be— that discovers the remnants of ours. What matters is the mind. Preserving humanity would be the last move I know to seek for understanding. So long as two thoughts resonate; the two minds connect. Then, they fuse, sublime, and mingle with more minds. It’s what made us who we are. I have been living my life as watching a long movie, but I was not only an observer. The things I see and hear turn into miscellaneous material as I write my stories. I always enjoyed writing, yet I never realized why. Now I do know. When my stories receive an audience, his/her mind and mine are weaved into one. This resonance was what that attracted me all along. Immersed in my thoughts, I roamed near the security checkpoint unawares. There, I finally saw another passenger staying overnight. Wrapped in a thick blanket, he was lying comfortably on one of the long sofas. The 7-eleven ten meters away was selling those blankets! I almost wanted to throw my arms into the air, but finally decided not to. There is a camera above my head. I didn’t want to look weird.
Nicole Herrera
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Elizabeth Vair Elizabeth Vair 68
Tea Time
By Swati Raolji
Carefree and without a care in the world, she’d jumped from balcony to balcony like a grasshopper seeking its meal. Restlessness overtook her dream world, As the day approached she faced reality, the day she needed to finalize a deal. Thoughts and desire in her mind swirled, while trembling hands showed hospitality To the man, who will her heart steal. Walking down the aisle she embraced her new world the long pink lengha dragged behind her heavily. Entering this hall felt surreal. Months passed and her stomach twirled, Living far away from home and the world she knew; time felt like an eternity. like a spinning wheel, this new society confused her on how to feel. After falling in love, everything uncurled, a new life welcomed her to reach normality. Routineness and everydayness met her appeal.
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Natalia Abramovich
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The Snob
By Anita Rivella
The snob was a naive, arrogant fool, Who drove Daddy’s Mercedes every day to school. With her spray-tan look and bleached blonde roots, Adorned with a Hermes bracelet and Chanel leather boots. A social climber who knows everything about everyone, Clubs on the weekend with her friends for fun. Her looks are transparent unless you’re part of the clique, Talking about things that matter makes her sick. She knows how to feign innocence, and puts others to shame, And she complains to her parents that her tutors are to blame, As she prepares to meet her trainer at the local gym, She drivels on and on about dieting to stay very slim. The snob lives in her own little world of deceit, Never realizing she’s the master of her own defeat.
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TheMusic
of life
By Karela Palazio
Laura Attarian
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A cool breeze dances the leaves on the trees, Making the music of life silence pushed away by the beat of crickets — static reaching from the shards of green grass, and the ever-delicate flutter of butterfly wings. The breeze rushes in once again, Its sounds are molded by every tree resting majestically on the mountainside Looking into the distance, the green rolls of earth seem to reach infinity The tops whispering to the clear blue sky, What notes should they play to bring the energy outside? As the puffs of white gas move to the music, bolts of golden rays touch the green land — A spark — a glimmer of light! The music runs wild across mother nature’s rainbow eyes She projects the image into the mind. All this in harmony is what makes up the music of life, Each one of us embedded into it — Like bright magic, running.
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The Question
By Diego Medal
What do you want to be when you grow up? A simple question. Plain, straightforward, elementary. But it reveals one’s true nature, Like an archaeologist, exposing dinosaur remains. When I was a child, I looked at the sky searching for superheroes. Men wearing capes and masks, hiding their identity for the good of humanity. I wanted to be like them, to hold a position of respect and relevance. No longer do I look at the sky but at thin, smooth parchment. Where philosophers divulge the layers of the mind, legislators dictate the course of a nation, and writers surrender creativity to paper and pen. These roles embellish my passion. Demanding respect because of undeniable virtues of elegance and power. Assuring they will never be forgotten. I will never be forgotten.
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Jessica Si
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Adentro del
Avila
El Ávila, con toda su belleza, no puede esconder lo que está adentro. Los niños se mueren de hambre, los hospitales andan sin medicina, regresando temprano a mi casa Es la única forma de seguridad. Que Dios proteja mi voz, cuando rezo cada noche que mi familia siga unida. Hay manifestaciones por la mañana y la noche; pero el ruido y los gritos, se desaparecen atrás de mis respiros, una vida de terror disfrazada de lujo. Por la calle, un niño llora, “y mi mamá, ¿dónde está?” Prefiero llevarlo a su casa, en vez de dejarlo sin nada con los ojos cerrados, cantando canciones de una vida pura. Con mis manos atadas, la opresión me mira en la cara, y me manda tras las rejas mientras lucho en la guerra por mi familia, y mi país. Enseguida luchamos por la democracia, y la Constitución que se nos olvidó.
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By Alessia Bianco
Cada grito es uno de resistencia. La esperanza vive a la izquierda del salto Ángel, a la derecha de Maracaibo, y directo en la distancia—la oposición que el gobierno empujó, y el pueblo levantó. Con protesta, el mundo se entera de nuestro esfuerzo, de la posibilidad de libertad, de la bandera con siete estrellas, de la historia de un pueblo que detuvo la opresión y comenzó la igualdad. Abro mis ojos, y veo a madre, padre, e hijo reunidos. Veo defensores activos que se niegan a bajar sin luchar. La esperanza viene con el amanecer. Hoy, el cambio es posible, y la libertad llega para iluminar la belleza del Ávila.
In the
Avila The Avila, with all its beauty, Cannot hide what lies inside. Kids are dying of hunger, Hospitals are without medicine, Returning home early Is my only form of security. God protect my voice When I pray at night, For my family to remain unified.
There’s protests in The morning and the night; But the noise and the screams, Disappear behind My breathing, living a life Of terror disguised as luxury. In the street, a child cries, “Where is my mom?” I choose to take him home, Rather than leave him alone, With his eyes closed, Singing songs of a better life. With my hands tied, Oppression looks me in the eyes, And sends me behind bars While I fight in a war For my family and my country. Today we fight for democracy, And the constitution we forgot.
Hope lives to the left Of Angel Falls, to the right Of Maracaibo, and directly In the distance – the opposition That the government pushed away, And the people pushed forward. With protests the world learns Of our fight, Of the possibility for liberty, Of the flag of seven stars, Of the story of the people That broke down oppression, And introduced equality. I open my eyes, And I see mother, father, And child reunited. I see activists That refused to go down Without a fight. Hope is on the horizon, Today, change is possible, And liberty comes to illuminate the beauty of the Avila
Every scream is one of resistance. Ignacio Izquierdo Diaz
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Filippo Di Franco
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 from the students of Gulliver Preparatory School, as well as through its art and literature classes. 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 2019 edition of the Reflections Literary Magazine was printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 700 copies. Student designers created the magazine using Adobe Indesign and Photoshop CC on iMac computers. Fonts included Jonah, Moon Flower, Silhouette, Helvetica Light and Bold. The 4-color process cover is printed on 80# Dull, with a gloss aqueous coating. The magazine consisted of 80 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 student editorial board. All literary and artistic work featured in Reflections is created by Gulliver Preparatory School students. Special thanks to the English, Visual Arts and World Languages Departments for their support, and to all students who generously shared their writing, photography and art with us.
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Staff Editors In Chief
Olivia Martin Johnson Lucie Duchene
Web Editor Teresa Ariza
Assistant Editors Estefania Campos Kate Perez
Copy Editor Kathleen Lewis
Layout Designers Tobias Beker-Flah Eduardo Cachon Julian Concepcion Marcela Cortes-Calixto Kalei Ganser Paulina Guajardo Nicole Hellmund Tobias Holguin
Matias Jaramillo Maria Sofia Latour Adriana Leyba Duru Oezdursun Kylie O’Day Isabella Palacio Victoria Poliak Sydni Rosenthal
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Victoria Paredero-Quiros
ONLINE gulliver.life/reflectionslitmag Florida Scholastic Press Association, Sunshine Standout Award, 2018 Florida Scholastic Press Association, All Florida Ranking, 2014-2018 National Scholastic Press Association, All American, 2018 Columbia Scholastic Press Association, Gold Medalist, 2017, 2018 National Council of Teachers of English, Superior Rating, 2013
MEMBERSHIPS: FSPA, NSPA, CSPA, NCTE 80
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