2021 Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine by Student Publications and Multimedia Projects

Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine Volume 40 2021

Sofia Andrade

Passages Reflections Literary & Arts Magazine Gulliver Preparatory Upper School 6575 North Kendall Drive Miami, Florida 33156

writing

Poetry

Sofia Mueller clay sculpture

8. Eden — William Olrich ‘23 11. Ode to my Youth — Sabrina Bierman ‘22 12. Amour de Jeunesse— Lucie Duchene ‘22 14. Love in a Free Market — Isabel Cuellar ‘21 16. Useless Language — Anya Gruener ‘24 22. Chance Poem — Valeria Bigott ‘23 24. 13 Ways of Looking at the World — Sabrina Bierman ‘22

28. Win or Lose — Olivia Martin-Johnson ‘22 31. Running like the Wind — Sophia Gonzalez ‘22 32. Growing Pains — Michael Politis ‘22 35. Caged Bird — Jeronimo Leon Rodriguez ‘21 41. Architect — William Olrich ‘23 45. My Mind — Valeria Bigott ‘23 47. My One and Only Friend — Anya Gruener ‘24 48. Oda a Mi Mami Bella — Alexia Canto ‘24 58. Heard — Courtney Green ‘24 61. Fear and Opportunity — David Gonzalez ‘21 62. Underneath her White Blouse — Luna Mejia ‘23 65. Oda a la Musica — Raissa Almeida Miglioli ‘24 66. Survival — David Gonzalez ‘21 77. Transfer — Ainsley Kling ‘23

Prose

7. ‘22 Olivia Torres — From the Locked Vaults of 18. ‘22 Olivia Martin-Johnson — Editor’s Note the Female Brain

‘22 Margaret Miao — Aren’t I American

based on Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I a Woman?”

37.

52. ‘23 Julia Bueno — Realism 69. ‘21 Gerardo Naranjo — April 11th 2021 75. ‘21 Isabel Cuellar — Terminal Velocity

Sheet Music

‘23 Victor Giraldez — This Thing Called Love

57.

Zip Odes

42. ‘23 Madison Aguilera — 33173 42. ‘23 Paulino Mercenari — 33149 43. ‘22 Sabrina Bierman — 33134 43. ‘21 Eduardo Cachon — 33155

Julian Ruiz-Luzio clay sculpture

2D Art

9. Love or Lust — Lucie Duchene ‘22 13. Brain Dump — Karela Palazio ‘21 14. About Me — Tuse Tahhan ‘21 16. Brain of the World — Eva Mesa ‘22 23. Dreamer — Ava Levine ‘23 29. Rough Nap — Lucie Duchene ‘22 34. All in My Head — Sofia Navarro Grau ‘21 36. Aren’t I American — Margaret Miao ‘22 40. Overlap — Ludovica Enrico ‘22 46. Reflections — Emily Miller ‘22 48. Role Model — Jessica Medwin ‘21 50. Divergent Version — Tuse Tahhan ‘21 56. The Void — Ava Levine ‘23 59. Perspectives — Sofia Navarro Grau ‘21 60. Nature’s Peace — Susan Luo ‘22 64. Presence — Chloe Hernandez ‘21 68. Hope in a Bowl — Anne Bannon ‘22 73. Mix and Match — Eva Mesa ‘22

Karela Palazio mixed media sculpture

Sculptures

2. At Peace — Sofia Mueller ‘21 3. Bloody Mary — Julian Ruiz-Luzio ‘21 4. Decomposition is Weaver — Karela Palazio ‘21

5. Bucket List — Hadley Bowen ‘23 4

Digital Art ‘22 Lucie Duchene — Judgment or Appreciation

18.

‘21 Natalie Guillamon — Stage of Grief

44.

‘21 Paulina Hernandez — One with the Flowers

63.

‘21 Natalie Guillamon — Deconstructed Buddha

74.

Photography

‘23 Sofia Andrade — Tunnel Vision ‘22 Victor Quirch — Japan ‘21 Julian Ruiz-Luzio — High Five ‘21 Julian Ruiz-Luzio — Cloudy ‘23 Nina Castro Alves — Day Out ‘22 Paulina Hernandez — Sunset Surfing ‘24 Pilar Vargas —- Summer in Italy ‘21 Tuse Tahhan — Ilmou 1 ‘21 Sebastian Merlo — Reflection ‘22 Victor Quirch — Kicker Rock Galapagos ‘22 Victor Quirch — Fowey Light Reef ‘21 Tuse Tahhan — Ilmou 2 ‘24 Mia Carrasco — Lights ‘22 Daniela Rabassa — Miami

Cover 1. 6. 10. 25. 26. 27. 31. 33. 42. 54. 55. 76. 78. 80.

Hadley Bowen

mixed media sculpture

art

‘23 Sofia Andrade — Tunnel Vision

Victor Quirch

Editor’s Note

Olivia Martin-Johnson

Life is a series of passages. A transit to the next stop, whether by choice or circumstance. It’s a continuing path of success and failure, love and heartbreak, hope and frustration, happiness and despair. There are junctures in our path that we are forced to confront and endure. Junctures of doubt, struggle, anticipation and fear. We contemplate, we learn, and we discover to reach a new path. With each new passage, we grow. The passages within make up a collection of what makes us human. They define current circumstances, experiences and emotions, awakening our senses to the realities of our world. Turn the page and take each passage as a new opportunity to reflect, relate, and perhaps even rediscover.

Eden William Olrich

Sit here with me and remove this thing of its sharp edges tear limb from limb until all that’s left is soul grab by each figment and pull it unravel it until patterns become just like the universe too big to see too small to see so we float somewhere in the middle in meaninglessness and instead we look at what is

Lucie Duchene

paint marker and micron pen on paper

Julian Ruiz-Luzio

ode to my

youth Sabrina Bierman

my shoulders are strong they have yet to bear the weight of the world each day I’m reminded of this as I savor the sweet songs of spring dauntless I stand before the ocean weightless I float across the sea I can feel the warmth of the sun on my wax and feathered wings the old do as they're told this is how they reached their advanced age while the young unhindered and bold live for a brief thrill my elders remind me not to fly too high lest my wings melt but it’s too late I’ve already tasted the sun early in the morning I soar through the sky the sun rises and my wings catch fire

J’aime bien ton sourire, ton rire, J’aime bien tes yeux, ton regard. Ils disent “loins des yeux, loin du cœur,” Mais à des milliers de kilomètres, Je me sens comme si j’étais à tes côtés. J’aime tout a propos de toi, même ce que je déteste. J’aime que tu me rends heureuse comme personne avant.

amour de

jeunesse Lucie Duchene

I like your smile, your laugh, I like your eyes, your gaze. They say "out of sight, out of heart," But thousands of miles away I feel like I'm by your side. I love everything about you, even what I don’t like at times. I love that you make me happy like no one before.

Karela Palazio

oil paint on canvas

Tuse Tahhan

collage on paper

Love

in a Free Market Isabel Cuellar

When all else is equal, there is only one thing that affects demand, Trust, wrapped up in wonder, or that’s what I think when I listen to Lover. That one thing is price, and it only causes a movement along the curve, But sometimes that wonder isn’t enough to survive the harshness that inhabits the world. To cause a shift of the entire curve, something much larger has to change: a determinant, Walls have to be built in hearts and minds, noises tuned out, rules established to avoid betrayal. The first determinant is the number of buyers, which can cause a rightward or leftward shift, Communication is key, but for keys, there have to be locks. The second is tastes and preferences; customers don’t buy what they don’t want, Who am I locking out? My love? The third determinant is income, Money has this way of choking you out while it kisses your neck. The fourth one is a big one, consumer expectations about the future, Sometimes abstractness is a knife to the gut. Anything that’s only in your head is a knife to the gut. Just ask love. The final one is the price of a related good. There are two kinds of related goods, Once it’s over there is an absence of warmth. That is the definition of cold. The first kind is complementary goods. Salad dressing and croutons, Snow. But not when it’s floating down from the sky in billions of unique patterns, The other kind is substitute goods. Walnuts and pecans, The kind of snow that you step into and get stuck in for an hour until you finally face the question you’ve avoided since last night: The relationship between price and demand is negative. As price goes up, demand goes down, Where did all of that wonder go?

useless

Language Anya Gruener

Our languages, so unique yet so fester Serving as proof of our journeying elders Like a melting pot of our origins, solidifying into better A language to communicate, but not on far sectors Holding no purpose if no one can understand, like unknowing processors Useless when unknown, forgotten, and lesser A language flowing off the tongue for one but unknown for other members From Russian to German and Polish to Spanish, all languages of my predecessors Languages are the one thing which have the power to reach conjectures The power to spread ideas to people, even if they are rejectors What is a language for when there are no communicators?

Eva Mesa

pencil on digital background

From the Locked

Vaults

Lucie Duchene digital drawing

of the

Female Brain Olivia Torres

How does one wake up in the morning and decide to love oneself? Oh sure, I've heard the clichés, the influencer advice on how loving yourself comes first and then everything else, blah, blah, blah, but those are just words. Words that come out of the mouths of beautiful women, beautiful women with perfect bodies, beautiful women with the bodies of Greek heroines and runway models. How does one wake up, to the glare of a phone screen and open up to a social media page where the beauty standard has already been predetermined. How can messages of body positivity, be spread around by the same homogeneous style of what a woman is supposed to look like? What is a woman? Is she determined by the fullness of her breast? Maybe it’s the long waterfall of hair that cascades down a perfectly shaped back? Soft plump lips that tantalize? Or is it the tight tummy that doesn’t crease in the slightest when she crouches down to fix that sharp stiletto heel? Perhaps, it's the roundness of her behind, a behind that captures the male gaze and has created an entire industry revolving around sexualized bodies and the male fantasy. Is that what I have to live up to in order to be considered a proper woman? Who said? Whose standards am I to live up to if not my own and why do societal pressures seep into the labyrinth of my brain flooding it with insecurity? My hip dips dent

my sides and my legs are not long like theirs. Was it always this way though? Did little girls always compare themselves to one another when their bodies looked different? Sure everyone tells you that not everyone’s the same, that everyone is special. From an early age, little girls everywhere are fed that everyone is special and we have to accept that. I once believed it too; hell I had to believe it and I was happy. I was happy because it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, my innocence created the perfect bubble of oblivion. A bubble of possibility and imagination that elevated me high above the self hate and doubt, the bubble that allowed me to float up and be closer to the realm of dreams of talking animals, dancing princesses and a prince to admire the beauty I once clutched tightly to my heart. The bubble didn’t last long; it was the perfect world when it did, but it was later popped by the looming horizon of adolescence that later enshrouded that sweet, carefree little girl in an opaque blanket of anxiety and the self doubt she once floated over in her chaste bubble. But that must change, I can beat myself up about it, curse the mirror and do my best to change it, but there’s no remedy. I wonder, then I look and then I realize, my body works everyday to keep me alive, it's a miracle really, like a perfectly crafted machine. A blessing. A machine that needs its fuel to run

the distance everyday, fuel to be burned through the critical thinking of a precious brain, and sure hip dips too, but they form the mosaic of who I am — a perfect one. Little girls around the world must be taught that they cannot change who they are physically but they can change the way they think about who they are. Acceptance and empowerment for little girls everywhere, so they can realize that a woman is not the perfectly shaped fantasy of a man’s standard. Can I run outside without the pressures of the male gaze tailing behind me as if I were game? The scheming hunter with his eyes on the vulnerable deer, so he thinks. Running for me, not for him, but when he whistles and remarks in my direction, he expects me to turn around. How dare he? I think. Does he know my age? Would he flinch if he did? How dare he. The obscene whistling and the barking of a mad dog expects a reaction. Does he want me to bat my eyes? Give him the pleasure of the flash of my pearly white smile? What did he expect to receive with that gesture? That gesture that the feminist movement has been fighting since the beginning. Trailing back to the 1900’s with the right to vote. Sure, how can I compare such a revolutionary movement to the small aspect of life I lived? “Oh he was just complimenting you, take it and move on”. Take it? The catcalling, the jeering and the objectification of a body that does not belong to his threatening

eyes. The privileges he just revealed calling me out like meat in a market. It happens everyday, women in every obscure corner of the world being put through micro harassments. No matter how small,l they are always there. “That's pretty good for a girl” “You throw like a girl” “Go back to the kitchen” “Make me a sandwich, dishwasher”. But it's just a joke right? We must change the ways we view women all across the world as inferior, using language that belittles women, making them smaller in the eyes of the big man is wrong, and through the education of men and women we can change that. Put our girls in school, trust in their wits and invest in their education all across the world. And trust our boys too, work on educating them and making the next generation of our boys kinder, and able to handle a woman with ambition. I renounce this man’s world and I want to remind women that they are strong and we do incredible things. I renounce the stereotypes and the ill thinking views of women because what they can do, we can do it better and with more love. A mother’s love, a CEO’s guidance, a gymnast's strength and a soldier’s courage. All women, all inspiring and carving the way for the next generation — a generation of excellence and beauty. Because a woman is not measured by the width of her thighs or the shape of her belly. A woman is grace, she's beauty and she's a beacon in the storm of adversity.

Chance Poem

Valeria Bigott

The wrinkle of a dream is but the measure of how far your tainted thoughts desire so eagerly to escape a mind through a day. Perhaps if one ached for the vile touch of a desolate mind, the journey would stop, and rewind.

Ava Levine

oil pastel on paper

2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

realize that you are here you made it against all odds acknowledge your existence 1 in 7.8 billion you are insignificant, yet a part of a something now embrace the physicality of this planet inhale the air that billions of others are inhaling simultaneously look at the sky which envelops the earth where are you physically? where are you mentally? what led you to this place? this planet is vast with plenty of room for you to grow the more you strive, the longer you will thrive there is pain and suffering in this world you will inevitably experience both at one point don’t let go before it’s time each person is their own world with thoughts, feelings, and fears of their own allow yourself to venture to another world from time to time be cognizant of your surroundings you live among a host of diverse flora and fauna respect the roles they play in shaping this planet

the world is made up of ecosystems you as a human depend on these ecosystems without them you would cease to exist 10. there are things in nature you need a microscope to see there are things equally obscure in human nature 11. energy is neutral it can be harnessed what matters is how it is used with a pure heart 12. religion sacred or secular is an energy 13. embrace life accept death it is a part of nature, your time will come and go

Julian Ruiz-Luzio

ways of at the Looking

WORLD Sabrina Bierman

Nina Castro Alves

Paulina Hernandez

簡単なことは何もありません人生はあなた対残りですコストを決定する

勝つか負けるか Olivia Martin-Johnson

Win or Lose

Lucie Duchene

oil paint on canvas

nothing comes easy life is you versus the rest determine the cost

Pilar Vargas

I would run away. I’d run away right now If it meant being more Than a statistic on this planet.

Running like the Sophia Gonzalez

Wind

There’s something in me That wants more. More than a house More than money Or more than a job. Every single day I hear it Murmuring Feel it, Crawling beneath my Skin Searching for a way out, I would do it, If it meant finding a way out. I’d run away if it meant Living And I’d never look back.

i n pains

Grow Michael Politis

I love to hear the suggestions you give But I am not fooled by the hurt you bring You can damage a lovely and healthy thing Yet nourish it and allow it to live, I cannot stay for long you make me feel truly five I wish not to be a child, but rather a mighty king And this is something you cannot ring With hope lost, no longer can I drive I now know my position of where to be Love is a game and tools are used With hopes to make or break the others Leaving not the smallest accomplishments for thee Much happier and less mentally abused I am glad to say I am now a free brother

Tuse Tahhan

Sofia Navarro Grau pencil on paper

Caged

Bird Jeronimo Leon Rodriguez

Like a bird in a cage I’m stuck like a mountain sage My feet are made of rocks so I’m not able to leave And all I have are thoughts which I need to weave The sound of the sea calls to me With the smell of salt and heat of the sun All I have are urges to plunge in As the sea dances it makes me want to lean in But I’m hopeful for a future with freedom As I’m in need of some I’ll wait for a better time to come So I can later run in the sun.

Aren’t I

American Margaret Miao

Margaret Miao

water color on paper

I was born in the United States, the land of the free, home of the brave, where the foundation of our country is anchored in equality and freedom. America was the city upon a hill, a shining beacon of hope, renowned for diversity and the “melting pot” of diverse cultures, ethnicities, and language. Aren’t I an American? The East-Asian features of my face: flat nose, almond eyes, and dark hair, does not comply with societal standards for American beauty. Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, all these I lack. To pay for this absence, is the mockery from others, the casual pulling back of the eyes, and the constant reminder of being an alien, “go back to your country.” Go back to my country? Where? For my family members in my ethnic country don’t even accept me. Over there I’m not enough like them, and over here, I’m never American enough. What country do I go to now? Aren’t I an American? Didn’t we grow up in the same neighborhood, were taught the same rhetoric, believe in the same democratic values that the

Founding Fathers instilled into the nation, and share in the patriotism of American Exceptionalism? A country that preaches on equality of opportunity and freedom, but created by people foreign to the land, and conquered by foreigners. How were the European settlers that set foot on this soil considered more American than me? If America is a home to immigrants and aliens, aren’t I an American then? The onset of the pandemic wreaked panic across the globe. Suddenly, my race became the object of scrutiny. Everyone who shared physical features like me became targeted; we became a threat. They blamed us for disease and financial ruin, death and poverty. They blamed us for factors only God can control. Across the United States, hate crimes against Asians increased. Pedestrians getting harassed, old grandmas set ablaze, the blatant words of discrimination and bigotry hurled at us. Aren’t we American? Don’t we contribute to the same economy, participate in the same democracy, citizens

of the same country? When we speak up, our voices become stifled by patronizing stereotypes: “Asians are smart,” “all Asians are successful,” “don’t complain when Asians hold high earning jobs.” Have they seen the sacrifices of leaving a country whose government does not provide for the people? Have they experienced the persecution of their own country for speaking out against injustices? Have they seen the struggle of immigrant parents working multiple jobs? The blood, sweat, tears of leaving a familiar place, just to be thrown into a strange, lonely place? Our parents come to the United States seeking a better life and future for their children, but their children will forever be branded as foreigners. They reprimand us for speaking our native language, ridicule our culture, deride us for our native cuisines, but “fetishize” the likable parts of that same culture. We tried to retaliate, but our

parents told us no, “it is futile and it will only make for more trouble; keep your head down and they will go away. ” Instead of beating them, some of us joined them, deprived ourselves of what little self worth we have in our own culture. We made jocular insults about ourselves, spewed derogatory jeers about ourselves, and degraded ourselves just to get a few laughs from our “more American” counterparts. Ironically, in exchange for some acceptance, we were further ostracized. We allowed the normalized name calling, the affronts, the jokes, and didn't fight back to save face. What face is there to save when we don’t have any measure of self-value? Do we have to prove that we belong? Aren’t we American? Yet, they still regard us as outsiders, leaving us forever between a limbo of identities and lacking a place to truly call home. When will we be truly American?

“Do we have to prove that we belong?” 39

Ludovica Enrico

water color and micron pen on paper

Look These pillars They’re the same as they have been in every other Structure I’ve built Defined just enough to hold weight Smudged enough To resist logic These memorials To folly Made larger to cast large shadows I’ve built blocks with them I could demolish those streets

Architect William Olrich

Facades held up By these load bearers Which fade into singularity When it collapses It will be a prison I hope it will be mine And not someone else’s Look Look at them until You see what I see Tell me you see the staining cracks Or my mind is a faulty foundation My eyes faulty supports My architecture my own undoing

ZIP 33155

Odes

Eduardo Cachon

Abuelas on porches Teenagers with perms Cuban Loud crowds at La Carreta Spanglish and laughter heard everywhere

33173

Madison Aguilera

Shots echo outside Whether strangers roam Gritty. In the city, there’s good and evil Surrounded by beauty.

Sebastian Merlo

33149

Paulino Mercenari

Over wind beaten Dunes, exposed nature Fragile Paradise starts to fade “Island Living at Its Finest.” Won’t last much longer

33134 Sabrina Bierman

Spanish Street names White collar crimes Relics Of the past Within the city beautiful

digital drawing

Natalie Guillamon

My mind Valeria Bigott

My mind tends to wander It folds the inner edges of my own thoughts Allowing my head to be trapped, left defenseless Crumbling under the pressure I, myself have created My ideas a grain of sand Each conjoining together to form the greater picture of the shore A paradise which I seem not to relax in, but rather wither in my discomfort Slowly I begin to notice as my attention floats away from the current moment All time begins to lose meaning Suddenly the current moment is non existent and glides away My head filled with TV static I slash away the hundreds of little voices encompassing my mind I flick my head, nothing. My thoughts pressed away. Gone.

Emily Miller

oil and acrylic paints on canvas

My One and OnlyFriend Anya Gruener

My one and only friend Like a diamond in the rough They said it would be easy But I guess it is pretty tough A friend is hard to find A partner in crime To talk to when you are down A shining moon on a dark night My hero, a savior Out of a hundred I found one My one and only friend One that is here to stay And will always be my number one

Mommy How do you do it? How do you find the energy? To do all the things that you do be my role model, support me, give me shelter, Listen to me like a therapist Love without conditions put up with my follies. You are so beautiful, Your smile a rainbow of bright colors Your hair a free and brave grove Your eyes the expression of heaven in spring mornings Oh mommy! A woman so full of life! I learned everything from you how to have fun, how to act like a girl, how to deal with the bad

acrylic paint and collage on wood

Jessica Medwin

Mommy I love you infinitely thanks for everything you say and do I will cherish you forever.

Oda a Mi

mami bella

Alexia Canto

Mami, ¿Cómo lo haces? ¿Cómo encuentras la energía? Para hacer todas las cosas que haces, ser mi modelo a seguir, apoyarme, darme refugio, Escucharme como una terapeuta, Amar sin condiciones, aguantar mis locuras. Eres tan hermosa, Tu sonrisa un arcoiris de colores brillantes Tu pelo una arboleda libre y valiente Tus ojos la expresión del cielo en las mañanas de primavera ¡Oh mami! ¡Qué mujer más llena de vida! De ti aprendí todo cómo divertirme, cómo actuar como una niña, cómo lidiar con lo malo Mami, te amo infinitamente gracias por todo lo que dices y haces por siempre te apreciaré.

terminal VELOCITY Isabel Cuellar

Tuse Tahhan

acrylic paint on canvas

I recently came across a metaphor about progress that is fascinating and frustrating beyond compare. It’s the concept that, in space, an object—an asteroid, for example— could be traveling at the speed of light, but if there is no other object near it, like a planet or star, someone looking on might think the asteroid isn’t moving at all because there is nothing to compare it to. The asteroid could be nearing collision with another astral body, but if the viewer was close enough they wouldn’t be able to tell that it had moved at all. It’s a metaphor that teaches the importance of perspective and context but also captures the helplessness of being alive. In my head, it exists on two levels: the first serves to temper my frustrations, the second to soothe my uneasiness. Over the past year and a half, I have been working on writing my second novel. It’s a project I’m estimating will be around three hundred and fifty pages long and around a hundred and ten thousand words. Over the spring and summer, I felt like I was in a rut. With a project that long, I forgot the fact that I’d already written tens of thousands of words because I was still tens of thousands of words away from my goal. When I put that in perspective with what I had accomplished for my first novel, which was roughly sixty thousand words, I was able to appreciate the progress and growth I’ve made as a writer. While artistry shouldn’t be an effort in comparison, it served well as an act of reassurance. That summer, I was the object, the asteroid, hurtling through space

at a breakneck speed I couldn’t even understand because of how used to it I’d grown. And making that comparison, or metaphorically taking a step back to see where I was hurtling versus where I had hurtled before, gave me the motivation and strength to keep writing. I now use smaller measurements and comparisons to break down this daunting task into an assignment that feels doable. This metaphor has also helped me understand and come to terms with the nature of life. This might sound overused or melodramatic but the fact of the matter is that sometimes existing is hard. It’s messy and confusing and we live in a time where everything is designed to feel like the most important, urgent, life-changing decision you will ever make; sometimes that mindset is warranted but not on a quotidian basis. Understanding that I will never truly be able to see how far I’ve come or how far I have left to go in life feels like a breath of fresh air. Sure, I have some control over how I end up, and it’s important to be proactive and deliberate, but never to a point where I can’t enjoy the ride—where I can’t lay back on the shooting star that is my life and relish the galaxies as they pass me (or as I pass them). Even the idea that I’m supposed to start and finish my life somewhere specific and predetermined is irrational and harmful. Yes, I’m on a shooting star. No, I don’t know where it’s going. Yes, that scares me. But I’m learning to let go. I’m learning to savor the present. The night sky is beautiful so I think I’ll be okay.

“Yes, I’m on a shooting star. No, I don’t know where it’s going. “ 53

Victor Quirch

Scan to see “This thing called Love” performed

Ava Levine

inks on paper

This Thing Called Love Victor Giraldez

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G7♭9

this thing called

Love Victor Giraldez

Heard. Courtney Green

I want to be heard As an elephant screams people turn to look its way When a whale calls out, people stare in awe I want to be

heard

Heard

When I speak I am ignored When I tell I am “ignorant” One day I will scream out to the mountains and my voice will be heard across many lands as if I am a human microphone And all of this because I want to be

Just

heard

Heard

Sofia Navarro Grau pencil on paper

Fear and opportunity David Gonzalez

A lonely tree stands waiting anxiously in an open field a tired fox passes then calls to him “what are you waiting for?” “the wind” he responds “why” the fox asks the tree groans “she whispers to me stories of the world” the fox lays under the tree “why don’t you see the world yourself?” asks the fox “I’m rooted to this field, little fox. There is nowhere for me to go” the tree responds the fox laughs “Yes there is” she says “What are you so afraid of?”

Susan Luo

gouache on paper

digital drawing

Paulina Hernandez

Underneath Her White Blouse

Luna Mejia

Persistent, never-ending hunger, yet constant regret She hears those desperate screeches, those cries Pinching every insecurity, thighs to breast A lying mirror embodying a puppeteer Such a deluding, dysmorphic contraception The pit of her stomach continue grumbling and groaning Holding back from her carnivorous nature, eventually she caves Her guilt kidnapping the ounce of self-admiration left She wears her shape, which she cannot bear the guilt, torturing her once secluded slumber Awaking the next morning, her same fixed set of mind Ignoring the blubbering, howls on her exterior She admires all their petite figures that exemplify their curves She desires for a figure, she can admire herself Yet she remains pinching her stomach — underneath a white blouse.

Chloe Hernandez

mixed media on canvas

¡Música, qué sabrosa eres! Tantos sabores buenos que tienes. Cuando voy a elegir mi sabor en la heladería nunca se lo que quiero, Hay Pop, Hip-Hop, Rap, Rock, Jazz, Indie, y muchos más. Hay diferentes heladerías a las que voy yo. As veces voy a Spotify, o voy a Youtube, Pero no importa cual heladería que voy yo porque ¡Siempre me gustas tú! A mi me encantan los diferentes ingredientes que usas tú. Hay los tambores, las guitarras, el piano, las vocales, y muchos más. Pero no importa la combinación de ingredientes, ¡Siempre sale fenomenal! Los heladeros son muy talentosos. Ellos saben crear la mejor versión de ti. ¡Mi heladero favorito es Harry Styles Y mis sabores favoritos son Pop, Soft Rock, y Indie! El sabor de tu sonido es como la dulzura de un helado Y es por eso que eres mi postre favorito.

oda a la musica Raissa Almeida Miglioli

Music, how tasty you are! So many good flavors you have. When I go to choose my flavor in the ice cream parlor I never know what I want, There is Pop, Hip-Hop, Rap, Rock, Jazz, Indie, and many more. There are different ice cream parlors that I go to. So sometimes I go to Spotify, or I go to YouTube, But it doesn't matter which ice cream parlor I go to because I always like you! I love the different ingredients that you use. There are drums, guitars, piano, vocals, and many more. But no matter the combination of ingredients, It always comes out great! Ice cream makers are very talented. They know how to create the best version of you. My favorite ice cream man is Harry Styles! And my favorite flavors are Pop, Soft Rock, and Indie! The taste of your sound is like the sweetness of an ice cream And that is why you are my favorite dessert.

SURVIVAL

David Gonzalez

Longing for stability in an open ocean Jailed by what they need most It’s undrinkable Their reflection laughs amidst their cool comfort He tells the observer to look behind them A cloud forming How many weeks have passed? Security from the unforgiving heat And delivery of their needs But terror strikes For when the storm comes How will they stay afloat?

Paulina Hernandez digital drawing

Realism Julia Bueno

Anne Bannon

oil paint on canvas

As Seton walked into his house that evening, he thought about how strange it was for him to be home so early, with the last of the sunset light spilling inside through the gossamer-thin curtains. It was almost as if it had been pre-arranged for him to have been released early from work. Not only that, but his wife was home from one of her seemingly-eternal work trips. He smiled. Perhaps this had all been of her doing. She did enjoy spending time with him on the rare occasions that she was home. “Darling? Amanda?” he called out, dropping his satchel on the couch and peeling the rain-drenched coat from his body, slinging it over the back pillows. He mentally chided himself for being so loud, as Cole was probably already asleep up in his bedroom. Seton moved further into the living room, passing the doorway that led to the stairs. A moment later the clicking of heels on wood reached his ears, and he turned to see Amanda, a figure in red, slowly prowling down the steps of the staircase. She was wearing the expensive vermilion lipstick, hands tipped with crimson claw-like nails gliding down the handrail. He chuckled. “What’s this all for, honey?” “What do you mean? Did you forget that it’s our anniversary,

Se? I’ve already put Cole to bed so we can have a date like we decided.” He blinked a few times, took a minute to reacquaint himself with the day of the month, and remembered that she was in fact correct. A deep blush spread across his cheeks, and he crossed the room to her. “I’m really sorry,” he said, placing a hand over hers on the railing. “I know I promised I would remember this year, and I know I didn’t—” Amanda laughed and motioned nonchalantly. “Don’t worry about it. I expected this to happen, which is why I got the office to let you go home early.” “So that was you.” She sauntered into the living room, Seton on her heels, and moved over to the accent table with a single carnation bouquet across from the couch. “Of course that was me.” She smirked with a hand on her chest feigning hurt feelings. “Would you expect any less?” “No, of course not, darling,” he responded, moving over to the couch and sitting down beside his coat and satchel. In front of him, Amanda reached underneath the accent table to produce a tall, elegant bottle of wine and two glasses. When Seton caught sight of the name etched prettily on the bottle’s label, his eyes widened, a sound of disbelief escaping his

lips. “Is that Petrus?” he asked as he watched her uncork the bottle and pour some of the deep purple liquid into the two glasses. She hummed and nodded her head. “It’s a special occasion. I know it’s expensive, but we only get one tenth anniversary. Here, move your stuff over to the counter, and I’ll sit with you.” “Yeah, sure thing,” he said. Standing up, he moved to pick up the satchel with one hand and shimmy it down to his elbow before reaching for the coat. The wet wool that he felt as he grabbed it surprised him. He had known that the garment had been exposed to the rain, could remember peeling it off of him, but facing the window with its open roman shades he could clearly see the cloudless sky and dry pavement of the street. Turning to Amanda, he asked, “Darling, was it raining earlier?” The look on her face flickered for a moment, but it was quickly masked by confusion. “No, it hasn’t rained all day. Why do you ask?” “Ah, it’s nothing, just wondering if I have to water the plants again.” He set the articles on the kitchen counter and went back to stand by Amanda’s side where she handed him the glass. Seton swirled the liquid around the cup, admiring the dainty petals of the poinsettias on the accent

table. Bringing the cup to his lips, he took a gulp. Well that can’t be right, he thought, raising the glass to eye level. The blood drained from his face when he caught sight of the amber color of the liquor. “Weren’t we having wine?” Seton asked, eyeing Amanda’s similarly colored beverage. She delicately raised an eyebrow, setting down her glass and running a clawed finger around the rim. “No, I bought this bottle of Hennessy,” she said, motioning to the square container. A forced laugh passed her lips. “Weren’t you just griping about the cost?” He slowly backed away from the accent table and toward the couch. All the while Amanda stared at him with blank eyes, vermilion lips in a tight line, the tap-tap of her nails on the glass the only sound in the room aside from Seton’s harsh breathing. “Amanda, what’s my full name?” he asked quietly. The tapping in the background quickened. “Seton Alexander Herschell. Darling, what’s this about? Are you alright? You look rather pale.” Her voice dripped with the concern that was absent from her face. Seton pressed on. “What about our son? What’s his full name?” The confused look returned to Amanda’s face. “Son? We don’t have a son. Besides, we live in an apartment. We don’t have

room for a kid.” One moment Seton was facing her and the next he was crossing the room to the French doors beside the couch, ripping them open, and stepping onto the balcony. His grip on the glass he was still holding tightened. In front of him was a dizzying display of city architecture, buildings reaching upwards like brilliantly lit fingers. Looking over the edge of the balcony, he saw the vertigo-inducing threestory drop. Seton cursed under his breath and brought the cup to his lips. Perhaps the alcohol would make him forget whatever was going on. However, as soon as the liquid touched his tongue, he cringed at its unexpected bitterness. The glass was now filled with something clear, and his brain helpfully supplied him with the information that it was tonic. Seton spun around. Amanda was standing at the French doors, half in and half out, rolling the string of the venetian blinds around her finger. In her other hand was a matching glass with clear liquid. “Aren’t we drinking?” he asked breathlessly. Amanda shook her head vehemently, though the expression on her face was flat. “We both have work tomorrow. I thought about buying something nice but decided against it.”

“No, no, no, no,” Seton murmured, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not right. We were drinking wine, and then it was cognac, and we have curtains on our house, where we live with our son. You know I don’t like tonic. We’ve talked about this before. Darling, what’s going on?” Her face did not change, but when she spoke her voice took on an almost robotic tone. “I think you’re the one who’s confused. Come back inside, it’s cold.”

“Her voice dripped

with the concern that was absent from her face.”

“No. Tell me, are you even real? How can I know you’re real? Am I real?” he asked. The confusion within him boiled over into rage, and he threw the glass over the edge of the balcony. He watched its trajectory as it crashed into the ground, but failed to hear the shattering. He grimaced. “I’m right, aren’t I? You are not real. You are not my wife.” Amanda had gone very still, her face completely slack. Something about her was off, like

an image that was slightly out of focus. Suddenly, she convulsed, eyes rolling into her head, staggering back into the apartment like a puppet controlled by strings. Once she reached the accent table those strings snapped, sending her smashing into it before crumpling to the ground. The vase teetered over the edge, blanketing the red spider lilies around her. From where he stood she looked like a cruel parody of a painting. One moment he was watching her from the balcony and the next moment everything was white. He existed only within his head, without concept of movement or body. A gentle robotic voice was speaking in his head: Error. System overload. Please wait. And then there were hands everywhere, pulling the neural connector from the back of his neck and the headset from his eyes. A flurry of noise assaulted him, and instead of choosing to focus on the seemingly endless army of people fluttering around him he focused on the peonies on the windowsill, red like the flowers from the game. “Mr. Herschell. Mr. Herschell. You with me?” That was Mitchell’s voice. Seton dragged his eyes to meet his employee’s, relieved to see the genuine worry in them. “Mitchell,” he murmured. “What? Oh, right.”

In that moment his brain finished resetting, and he waved away the technicians who were holding him steady. Straightening his clothes, he stood taller and cleared his throat. “What was that?” he demanded. Mitchell averted his eyes. “Well, we had a few... bugs.” Seton rubbed his eyes. “Get it fixed. That was mildly terrifying. And what’s with Amanda? I thought you said you based her off of my wife.” Mitchell laughed nervously. “Sir, your wife is terrifying.” “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Just hurry up and get it fixed. Next week I’ll come back and at least don’t give me another horror experience. I thought you were making a dating sim. At this rate you’ll convince people not to go on dates,” he said, patting Mitchell on the shoulder. “Yes, sir,” the other man responded. “I’ll make sure not to give you another heart attack.” Seton laughed, picking up his belongings from the chair to the right. “Good to hear.” As he was languidly making his way out of the room, Seton passed by the windowsill and decided to bring a flower back to his wife. Pleased, he left the room with the petunia firmly in his grasp.

Eva Mesa

mixed media collage

Natalie Guillamon digital drawing

Gerardo Naranjo

APRIL 11, 2021

There are times in our lives where the stars align, the vibrations synchronize, and everything that happens on this fateful rotating planet conspires in such a way that culminates in a magical reunion, an electrifying kiss, a mystical journey. The hours pass undaunted while in the bubble of life that forms around us, time is no more. For a moment, borders, color, languages and Gods cease to exist. There is simply a collection of “selves” that for some reason, are summoned to join in soul (and sometimes in body) to contemplate the universe and tattoo in their hearts a smile that never fades. I have been a participant in this type of conspiracies a few times in my life, but never had I witnessed an event like this: made up of people who, either had met only a handful of times in their life, or had never crossed paths at all. Nevertheless, it happened. It so happened that the universe summoned a dozen of us on a virtual call and experimented its sorcery with us. There was laughter and there was love, there was seduction and there was jealousy, and for a moment, it seemed that the world had shrunk in such a way that it only left space for us: 10 wandering Hispanics without a destination who, for a few hours, shared a common path. Pepe and Matilde hosted the rest of us like a senile couple, and perhaps due to our fatigue or our youth (or both), we all looked at them with sponge eyes. At the same time, Marisol and Juan Carlos pretended not to be interested in each other, containing within their hoarse chests that blaze of hormones that romantics like me like to call “love.” Avery, Carmen, Beatriz, Daniela and Melisa contemplating the scene, contributing intelligently and appropriately to the general joy that spread all across our screens. And finally (and also luckily), there was me. The conversation that began at 10 o’clock at night, lasted until 2 o’clock in the morning, and if it weren’t for our bodies’ killjoy need to sleep, perhaps the night would never have known the end. But it did. The night ended and it is precisely its ending that contributes to its greatness. Knowing that we’ll have to wait months, years, or decades until such an occasion is repeated; and therefore, knowing that for as long as necessary, we will continue to wake up hopeful, speculating on the possibility that perhaps it will be that day that the universe will summon us again. Perhaps with other people, perhaps with the same people, but I am sure that while we closed our eyes that night, we all deeply felt the sparks of life splashing our souls, and wherever it is that these gather during our dreams, they did so with a smile tattooed on their hearts.

Tuse Tahhan

Transfer Ainsley Kling

Soft Beach Breezes Towering Glass Skyscrapers Miami Is it really my home? Ask the Southern girl looking around.

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 Prep’s journalism program, and is completed during the second semester of the school year.

Colophon

The 2021 edition of the Reflections Literary Magazine was printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 700 copies. Designers created the magazine using Adobe Indesign and Photoshop CS6 on iMac computers. Fonts included Charlotte Southern, Lemon milk light, Lemon milk Medium, Lemon milk Bold, Helvetica Light, and Helvetica Light Oblique. The 4-color process cover is printed on 80# Dull, with a gloss aqueous coating. The magazine consisted of 88 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.

Mia Carrasco

Staff Editors-in-Chief

Lucie Duchene ‘22 Olivia Martin-Johnson ‘22

Managing Editor Kathleen Lewis ‘22

Web Editor

Teresa Ariza ‘22

Layout Editor Kate Perez ‘22

Adviser

Monica Rodriguez

Layout Designers Ava Burke ‘23 Eduardo Kingston ‘24 Ian Uccelli ‘24

Olivia Johnson ‘24 Jackson Heise ‘24 Jade Garcia ‘23 79

Daniela Rabassa

ONLINE

gulliver.life/reflectionslitmag National Council of Teachers of English, REALM Superior Rating, 2019 Columbia Scholastic Press Association, Silver Crown Award, 2019, 2020 Florida Scholastic Press Association Sunshine Standout Award, 2018 National Scholastic Press Assoc. All American, with Four Marks of Distinction, 2018, 2019 CSPA Gold Medalist, 2018, 2019, 2020 *All Columbian Honors Florida Scholastic Press Assoc. All Florida Ranking, 2013-2019

Memberships: FSPA, NSPA, CSPA, NCTE

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