Angle of Reflection...Exonerate the sins of our compound Wounds, blood, and lies your royal majesty ... Help. Alone. Please. Gone. Help. I begin to jog, then panic ... You bit my friend

Angle of Reflection

Volume VIII Spring 2018

ANGLE OF REFLECTION 2

GULF BREEZE HIGH SCHOOL 675 Gulf Breeze Parkway

Gulf Breeze, Florida 32561

www.santarosa.k12.fl.us/gbh/

850.916.4100

Principal: Mr. Danny Brothers

Assistant Principals: Mrs. Victoria Baker, Mr. Patrick Keen, Mr. Jon Watts

Editor in Chief

Haley Odom

Staff

Art and English Students

Cover Art: Sara Tu

Inside Cover Art: Katharine Atwood

Sponsors: Ken Killam and Kelly Strozier

Colophon

This publication was produced in Microsoft Publisher using CAC Champagne,

Arabic Typesetting, and Gadugi Fonts.


Angle of Reflection

CONTENTS

Breakdown 05

Breakthrough 19

Awakening 31


As a freshman, my first year seeing The Angle of Reflection, I was

absolutely awe-struck. Every year the best and brightest up and

coming artists and writers of the school got to have their work

(which, as an art student, I know can take what seems like a lifetime

to complete) published and printed to be showcased not just to that

class, but to every other class thereafter.

Art to me, and many others I am surrounded with daily, is not only

something appealing to the eye and the mind, it is a form of expres-

sion that for some is the only way to exist despite the chaotic world

we call home.

Art has the ability to heal people. Art gives us the ability to tell sto-

ries in a way that only a certain few who can look through the ink,

paint, or whatever it may be to find a deeper meaning.

This publication however, could not have existed without two in-

credible people in particular who have influenced me immensely

over these past few years. Mrs. Strozier and Mr. Killam’s dedication

and love for the arts is nothing short of amazing, and without them

this opportunity to showcase some of the most amazing artists and

writers I have ever had the pleasure of knowing wouldn't have been

possible. A huge thank you to all of the artists and writer who con-

tributed to this incredible project. It was an honor to be able to have

put together on paper these student’s work. I am at ease knowing

that next year Angle of Reflection will be in the best of hands, and

will be for years to come.

Haley Odom, Editor in Chief


Breakdown We as humans, as life

goes on, endure trauma

in thousands of differ-

ent situations. Anytime

our perception, which

controls our reality,

changes, we endure

trauma, even if it is on a

micro cellular level.

Changes of environ-

ment, homes, jobs,

towns, cities, countries,

and relationships can cause

a breakdown, the first step in a spiritual transformation.

Anything that changes in your life, creating a new reali-

ty, can be referred to and treated as a spiritual break-

down. Although spiritual breakdowns are not always

that important, how we react, adjust to them, or even

try to fight them, is what makes us who we are and

transforms our character forever.

Hibiscuses, Sarah Tu


Red, Purple, and Blue

Not again, red and blue color hands

White flags outside my room, rings misery

And yet all I see is blue and purple

Darkened beautiful spots of history

Twisted reality is immortal

Fists intertwine and trade songs like sonnets

Screams are exchanged and drunken tears fall down

I hold on a rope of a cruel goddess

Shouting my anger to Her but no sound

Ever comes out, no words or actions within

Exonerate the sins of our compound

Wounds, blood, and lies your royal majesty

Enrique Diaz

Bittersweet symphony, the sound of pans

Clashing with cutlery, crash to the floor

Bang, bang- my feet hit the floor and I ran

It’s only the blue man who’s at our door


Beneath the surface is a black disease

I believe it is from extreme fatigue

No sleep, no flame can ignite the inner heat

It’s forever gone in ashes, please proceed

Tell me the story of how he’s gone at 16

This Civil War has taken everything

From me- my innocence, just a small kid

Songs of brutality stuck on repeat

Thwack, thwack, thwack… red rivers and blue craters form on my

ribs

Soulmates, Tessa Havrilla


.

A reckless, frightened child is huddled in an armor of blankets upon

his bed. A flashlight

in hand, acting as his sword to fend off what is hidden in the layers

of shadows consuming

his room. For the monster under his bed was the dragon, of course

the closet opposite of

him was another danger in itself. Being easily avoided by simply

keeping the doors shut. The child spent many sleepless nights bat-

tling with his monsters, when morning comes he could tell his par-

ents of his desperate struggles fighting them, they would simply say

it was a nightmare or a trick of his mind. Their explanations would

appease him, at least until nightfall

when his fear was at its fullest. For he knew his monsters were wait-

ing for him, for the door

to close leaving him alone in the room with them.

His childish clock read 1:09am, as he laid clutching his flashlight.

Large claw like figures grow along the edges of his twin bed, acting

like a budding flower enclosing around the child,

his light as like a blade as he slashes the figure’s spider like talons.

Withering as they jerk back underneath to the shadows, hissing

noises erupt from beneath. The doors of the closet

Megan Truskosky

Hidden Monsters


rattle as blackened smoke seeps through the shutters of its cage.

Flashing his light at the

smoke quickly attempting to slow it down, having no effect. Unable

to pay attention to the

reappearing talons as they utilize the piles of shadows as cover.

Looking over his shoulder

to see long sharpened talons point at him. Powerless against his

swelling fear, the child was

incapable to use his sword on the dragon. Instead he cries out for

his mother and father,

who come rushing in to find their reckless, frightened child with a

wet face from his tears

hiding under an armor of blankets.

Fear, the most fundamental and earliest emotion for one to discover.

Planting itself inside

its host, controlling you as it tugs at your dreams. When you're

young you fear everything, as

an adult it still follows, mocking as it grows with you.

Lips, Alyssa Craig


To my left, an empty desk,

Less filled and grotesque.

To my right, I hear a cough,

Long and lingering like a scoff.

Straight ahead, see some hair.

The back of a student’s great, blank stare.

Here it is so hard to stay focused

When our minds all swarm like locusts

A Class

Feed My Ego, Katherine At-

wood

Madi Mercado

Think, think, think, all through class,

What can I say, we all want to pass.

Numbers and numbers in our book,

Look at the notes we all

took.

Glance around, count 1, 2, 3,

17 students all watching.

We all look right in front of

us

At the teacher teaching pre-

calculus.


Intense, violent, rapid water rush the floodgates. I am quickly over-

whelmed and submerged in a sea of tumult. The cannons in my

heart roar as the cannonade goes thump thump thump as if the

Fourth of July. River are iced frozen like a winter December. I

scream desperately into that horrendous ominous forest. The one

where the branches are ragged knives and faces with smile lie at

the trunk of every tree. Clustered together like animals, a pack. I

begin to feel flustered, blood rushes to my face as I grow hotter

and flushed. All I can hear is my fast breathing, the fall and rise of

my chest every second. The wind howls as wolves cry out to the

lunar moon. What a beautiful sight tonight. A full moon. A white

orb brilliant casting shadows of the trees and in between those

shadows I see small words. Alone. Pain. Isolation. Marooned. Gone.

Forever. Help. Alone. Please. Gone. Help. I begin to jog, then panic

seizes me as I begin to run. I feel a presence following quickly be-

hind my footsteps. The crunch of snow beneath my bare feet. The

numbness doesn’t matter, I have grown accustomed to it. It has

molded onto my skin. I am not a part of it. I am numb. I sprint and

I cry and I tumble. It’s getting closer and closer. I can’t shake it

loose. I feel its evil take root inside of me.

Enrique Diaz

SOS

He Stole My Chicken Nugget, Ashton Guy


I begin to sob as I run. Wolves laugh at a distance, bears watch in

wonder, and birds fly away to nest to a new location. After a while, I

stopped running. I stopped in my tracks. And I looked behind me.

Slowly, and slowly. Nothing was there. I see all around me. I am

frightened to see I am lost in the woods. I run again and again but

only in circles. Panic seizes me again. The words chant louder and

louder in my head. Like the native Indians at every death mourning,

the words are etched into my skin. It glows red like lava. It starts to

itch. I want to scratch it so bad. It burns. Oh god, how it burns. What

do I do? Just shut up. SHUT UP! Alone. Pain. Isolation. Gone. Help.

Pain. Alone. Please. Marooned. Gone. Help me. Can anyone hear

me? I collapse to my knees and I cover my ears with my hands. It’s

so cold. I am numb, but the frostbite is gnawing at my face and feet.

The ice starts to grow all around my body. It devours me in its

warmth. They whisper come closer. The faces of the trees seem to be

frozen in laughter. The branches are reaching out to me, no, they’re

pointing at me. He’s alone. Dark shadows dance along the silhouette

of the moon. There’s no sound except my sobbing, breathing, and

occasionally a whisper in the wind. Somebody please rescue me. If

anybody can hear this. I tried.

Mathaya, Victoria Pirello


Katie Player

We bought you in a parking lot

I was in the first grade

It was the day that you were bought

That I knew right away

You would be the best worst dog

Anyone could say

The Best Worst Dog

A few years later

You bit my friend

It’s not like you ate her

But still, it could have been the end

Just last week

You bit my mom

This ended the good streak

This time, you really would be gone

Doggy heaven has been waiting

For a dog like you

The best worst dog

That has ever lived through and through


I recall part of my soul being taken with the leaves,

I recall being dried, to black and brown,

I recall being packaged, in a bag, and then shut in darkness,

I recall being placed in steaming water – giving taste to my

surroundings.

Camellia Sinensis

Rowan Freitas

I recall coming up from the

earth,

Raising my young leaves

from the dirt,

Sweet sun danced upon me

– and with love and warmth,

I began to grow.

I recall my first blossom,

From small round bulbs to

white flowers laced with gold,

Yellow pollen drifted into the wind – never to be seen again,

My white flowers faded to brown and returned to the earth.

I recall hands picking my fresh leaves,

Taking them in a basket with many other leaves of my neighbors,

-Pick, place, pick, place-

Until all of my new leaves were gone.

I recall my purpose.

Let Them Eat Cake, Natalie Beckham


The Heart Thief

Serena Carpenter

Silver stones of dazzling obliteration

Dance across the world

Hypnotic sensations leave the wanderer to wonder,

How was your world?

The world you loved in

The world you laughed in

Till the end.

Only then does one question come to light

Was it ever your world?

Natural Berry Flavored, Natalie Cross


Our lives never have meaning to our own self

But more to those who bless our own soul

When a flower wilts, only the bees notice

Like a child crying, the first to come is a mother.

Years of conceited thoughts will becloud one's mind

Until it's far too late to realize

That the dollars in a pocket are simply a decoration

Of one single timeline.

Elephant Octopus, Natalie Zokan


For no soul owns itself

The moon alone can’t bare life

Yet it can pull the tides for life on earth

I belong to you and you to me

Only until the end

Will we finally be complete.

The very being of a human’s life

Is to connect with a like mind

And when you drift away, you’re left unaware

Unenlightened of your absence

However, your friends of the living will be conscious

And they shall be awaiting for their departure.

Let Them Bee, Tessa Havrilla


For those who go to the afterlife are thieves

Criminals of the utmost crime

Not for the possession of precious gold or cool jewels

But of the human heart...

Thus with every new silver stone

Comes another most wanted sign

“Heart thief, heart thief!” is what it will say

For when one soul passes

Another is on its way.

Octopus– In Dots, Haley Odom


Breakthrough The second phase of a

spiritual transformation

is known as a break-

through. A spiritual

breakthrough is charac-

terized as a (not always,

but often) sudden, dra-

matic moment of reali-

zation when your body

and mind are finally able

to adjust to and com-

prehend the trauma en-

dured. Your body and mind

slowly begin to relax and you are able to catch your

breath again for the first time in what seems like forever.

A deeper understanding of your existence itself and how

it has changed, even down to a micro cellular level, is

achieved. During this stage you can begin to share your

story, on a level of understanding that you could have

never even imagined. Your perception is forever changed,

but you survived. Finally you can begin to heal.

Cymbidium Orchids, Sarah Tu


It’s nothing new to him, of

course,

nothing he hasn’t heard in a

song or a movie before—the

idea that driving alone

in a car can be one of the

most mindless pastimes, as well as

the most intense solo endeavor—

but it crosses his mind as he

drives home once again, the very

same routine he takes again and

again, every day when he leaves

at exactly 5:11

and gets home at 5:48

(on average)—

Gets home.

What would happen if he didn’t go home? What kind of existen-

tial revelations— What sort of revolutionary path could he be set

on by diverting from the norm, just once…

the CD he made for himself

starts over. he can hear the

rustling of the CD track

as it rewinds, back to the

beginning, and he thinks how

Mama’s Flower’s, Sarah Rushing

Rebecca Woodcock

Infinitely Insignificant


similar he and this CD are. trapped in a routine. but

unlike his CD, he’s got a

choice. He could keep driving. He could drive, and he could

drive, and he could run out of gas, but what would he en-

counter on the way? What happens when one sets out

without a plan, without a map and just drives?

the CD rolls over onto

his least favorite song on the

album. he remembers loving

this song, playing it with the

sunroof down and his girl’s arms

extended over her head, through

the exposed roof, her hair blowing

in the wind and her face lit up

in a smile that he always thought

could put the stars to shame. now

it’s

just a song, a reminder of an

evolution of unrequited,

a process of unsatisfactory,

the growth of undesirable.

he could skip this reminder of

a lost infatuation with

one press of a button but he

doesn’t. what does he gain from

Pelican, Marisa Hart


sulking in a painful state of

remembrance of desires from

long ago, a three-and-a-half

minute reminder of what could

have been? does his self-discipline

increase by not skipping this

particular song? is he more

of a man, a man with a heart

of stone, affected by nothing

and cold to everything? he knows

that’s not who he’s ever been.

What kind of people might he discover if he just kept driving?

He suddenly realizes that he’s lost track of distance. Maybe he’s

already passed his home, and his driving adventure has already

begun. But he looks up and sees how close he is to home. He

doesn’t want to stop, but he knows that the weight of the Life he’s

built for himself quickly cancels out whatever deviant dreams his

subconscious might be trying to conceive. These thoughts of es-

caping from reality on the open road have led him to an under-

standing. He realizes his hesitation comes from the fact that, at the

end of the day, he knows he simply

can’t.

as if awakened from a dream,

he looks out through the windshield of

his car and recognizes the

street lights that illuminate the


turn lane into his neighborhood.

he reaches out inside him,

grappling for that sense of

adventure, that reckless

abandon that he had felt a

moment ago, a lifetime ago,

but it’s

gone.

he gently swerves into his

driveway, relinquishing the keys

from his hand, and opens his door

to the reality of the

monotonous decision he’s

made, that he’ll make again

and

again, until that voice in-

side

him that cries out for

defiance against conformi-

ty

is finally stomped into

silence.

Tree Horse, Marisa Hart


The Life of a Frog

On a cold winter’s day I sat on a log

There was nobody near but a sweet little frog

He hopped and hopped eating galore

From a small little fly lying on the floor

He squirmed left and right trying to escape

But little did he know a sneaky little snake

Would come up behind him ready to coil

And eat upon the frog so he jumped in the soil

The soil was wet and he sank very deep

When all of a sudden he heard a soft peep

Maddie Lunday


Under the ground and to the frog’s right

A baby chick was right there in sight

The chick saw the frog and instead of being frightened

She exclaimed with a smile that her day was now brightened

The frog and chick knew it was love at first site

For they finally saw that life would turn out alright.

Soul Mate, Victoria Pirello


Sunset

Cameron Dane

We see

See my vibrant colors

Enthusiasm filled colors

Speaking with a slight breeze

Gliding through our eyes saying please

Let me in and allow my light to shine

I have beauty within and it's not just mine

It’s your beauty too so live the moment

Feel the moment

Feel my vibrant colors

We feel

Conch, Natalie Zokan


Gazebo of Truth

Mujtaba Ghulam

As I sat in the Gazebo of Truth, I observed the truths that lay before

me.

The grass growing prevalently -

only to be slaughtered by the monthly assassin.

The trees competing to be the tallest, seemingly in thirst of the wa-

ter that constructed the clouds.

The rain pouring down, soaking all it touched, as if it were a volley of

arrows from the heavens, hitting targets indiscriminately.

The rain droplets hugging

together in the irregulari-

ties of the dirt, forming

puddles to be stepped in

by an unsuspecting

sneaker of pedestrian or

the rain boots of an elat-

ed child

The lamp-posts lay in

deep slumber –

only to be abruptly awak-

ened for nocturnal ritual

of the flying balls.

Refreshment, Sierra Goette


Untitled Juliane Alba

His love is like a candle

Bringing light to a cold, dark room

Filling the air with its fiery scent

Like a bud in the Springtime bloom

I could stare at this candle forever

Watching the flame flicker

Soft at first

Then it grows bright

It’s love at first sight.

Every wisp of smoke

Whispers in my ear

An I love you

I try to hold back these tears

Oh! The candles out

Where are you, my dear?


Radiate, Haley Odom


A Mind Lost

Sam Gable

A mind is missing this moonlit night;

I insist it is not mine.

It was lost in the bowels of a desolate void,

An abyss where insanity thrives.

A mind is missing this moonlit night,

And I hope it is not mine.

For it leaves a man shaken and somber

When all that exists seems sublime.

A mind is missing this moonlit night.

And I fear it might be mine.

It claws and scratches and scrapes at the walls

Of the skull in which it is confined.

A mind is missing this moonlit night,

And I admit, it truly is mine.

The splintered remains of a fractured consciousness

Plague the world with terrors of a madman’s mind.

The soul writhes in the presence of the unearthly tithe,

And the offer of an unholy compromise.


Awakening The final phase of a spir-

itual transformation is

awakening. The trauma

endured, whatever the

circumstances may be,

has healed completely.

The final stage of this

spiritual transformation

is almost complete. The

person that you were

before the trauma you

suffered slowly sheds

away, simultaneously,

your new self is coming out

of their shell and into existence. No matter what you suf-

fered through, no matter how big or small the amount of

trauma you went through, you spend every day enjoying

a new existence. We learn from the pain, mistakes, and

the trauma in our lives. These experiences and the way

that we transform through and because of them is what

makes us who we are as individuals. After awakening,

you have broken free of the trauma that made you and

nothing can stand in your way.

Hibiscuses, Sarah Tu


He was bright, resilient, and absolutely breathtaking. When he en-

tered a room, his light nature demanded your attention just like the

stars do on a particularly dark night. Most importantly, he told sto-

ries. He would retell awesome tales of the past, or use excellent

word pictures to better explain the present. Sometimes he would

The Stars Trinity Oatts

He was like the stars.

Allow me to explain.

Everything about nature is so complex and beautiful. There is not a

single butterfly or dandelion that doesn’t have its own special pur-

pose. Its obvious that man understands the beauty of the life here

on earth but, what about the heavens—the sky? The sky is special.

In the sky, there is also much beauty: the sun, the moon, and, most

importantly, the stars. Just like the butterfly and the dandelion, the

sun and the moon have their own individual duties. The sun lights

the way of every living creature on Earth. During the day; it provides

warmth, protection, and guidance. The moon illuminates the night;

it gives us just the information we need to know and it pushes us to

new limits. But, what is truly unique is the job of the stars. Though

they can illuminate, that is not all they do. Though they are breath-

taking to behold, that is not their only great quality.

The stars tell stories.

The stars can tell the stories of the past, present, and future. They

paint vivid pictures and even help us to see who we really are. They

tell great tales of mythical heroes, tragedies of star-crossed lovers,

and their own spin of our mundane, everyday lives. The stars ob-

serve, learn, and entertain us with tales they create all on their own.

The stars do not let time defy them. They are present during all

hours of the day—even the sun is a great star. Whether we pay at-

tention or not, whether we give credit or take notice of them, or if

we ignore them completely…the stars are always there. Spinning

the same tales and new ones too. Either for the pleasure of men or

for their own benefit, they create.

He was like the stars.


Oh, how you could see the stars shining in his eyes! And even bet-

ter, how you could feel the awe inspiring beauty of the stars when

you read his words.

Why did he have to be like the stars?

Stars burn out and die in fantastic explosions but, they do so far

away from us humans here on Earth that admire them so. And…he

was like the stars; he was so bright and beautiful one moment and

then gone in a flash away from the ones who loved him the most,

the next. Away from me.

even create brilliant ideas of what the future might be like. Without

even trying, he could open up parts of you that you didn’t even

know existed. That was only what people noticed. There was anoth-

er side to him as well. He would write the most meaningful stories,

the most deep and tragic tales, all alone. In the dark of night, when

no one was around, he would continue to create characters, set-

tings and plots purely for his own benefit.

Boca, Tabitha Labrato


She stirs lazily awake to the sounds of a constant drizzle of rain on

her window; not a

great enough volume to disturb, but enough to lull early wakers

back into a tranquil

sleep.

The place outside the windows is dark and free of commotion, un-

touched and teaming

with possibilities for the day ahead. Nature seems to hold its breath

as she feels herself

melting into the moment.

Sliding open the window, she allows the earthy, wet air to engulf the

room in a haze.

Early morning darkness is different from the darkness of night:

comfort,

safety,

vitality,

nourishment.

There is beauty in beginnings and positivity in the enjoyment of a

new day, a new

perspective.

Morning Solace

Julia Moore


A light glows softly but strongly behind a window in a neighboring

house. She wonders if

the catalyst for the switch is like-minded, enjoying the fleeting mo-

ments of solitude or if

they're awake out of necessity.

Small lights swallowed by the dark are quickly traded for enclosed,

warm lights as

people stir and begin their daily routines.

The busyness of cars occasionally surfaces above the wind and rustle

of the trees.

She yearns for another harmonious silence, knowing that

solitude is opportunity.

Magnolias and a Sandpiper, Sarah Tu


Swoosh

Christina Gonzales

At the end of the court I see the net,

The bright orange hoop,

The open basket that hangs above head.

My teammate tosses the ball,

And with a clap of hands and rubber,

It is received.

Now the game begins.

As we race down the court,

Me and the others clad in team colors,

Bobbing and weaving between opposing forces.

Again the ball is thrown.

and leap to the highest peak of a nonexistent mountain.

Soar , Natalie Cross


The ball falls powerfully into my grip,

And I am surrounded.

I look to the gleaming halo, I take aim,

And I shoot with astounding accuracy.

The net swishes, the hoop rattles,

And we rejoice.

Now, we are the opposition.

It sails through the air like an orange flash of lightning

And finds its way to another teammate’s hands.

She takes five long lunges towards the orange target,

But she is pursued by an enemy.

In desperation, the ball is thrown into the air without direction.

I muster the strength in my legs,

Fiona and Bibi, Haley Odom


The only sport I know.

Wouldn’t be who I am without

My bat

My glove

And a ball

This is what I wake up for everyday

The practices, my team, the games and the intensity

My coaches are like second parents, they make me, me.

The best feeling is when I make a great play with my team behind

Me

Without this game I have no clue where’d I be

I have so much love for it there’s nothing else I’d rather play.

Florida Sunset, Libbie Jorgensen

The Best Known Sport Jackie Costello


Unplug

Carter Sheppard

A good night’s rest has concluded,

Eat your breakfast with haste,

We’ve got no time to waste

heading for waters unpolluted,

the sandy flats and coral heads,

listen to the locals with dreads,

Arrive to the spot,

Enjoy the sunrise before it gets hot,

Now it is time to sit and wait,

Go ahead and prepare your bait,

A string of tarpon 2 o’clock

Make a good cast and be ready to rock,

If we don’t hook up I may cry,

Into the water goes the fly,

Strip,

Strip,

Strip,


The water begins to swirl,

Come on big girl,

Strip,

Slower,

HIT EM,

The fly line comes tight,

It was what I had dreamed of during the night,

A dance with the silver king,

My how the drag sings,

An exhausting hour long fight,

The reward of spiritual delight,

Saltwater angling’s greatest feat,

The Silver King has finally been beat,

Back to the dock our group retreats,

All of us joyous with Mother Nature’s treats,

A tale of a lifetime,

The night calls for Key Lime,

A wild day in the great unknown,

I’m so glad that I put aside my phone.


The Shaman, Victoria Pirello


Beach, Natalie Zokan

Untitled Madi clay

When the night is long

I listen to the song

Of the bird in the tree

Sitting and staring right at me

In the dark we’re all alone

Except for the frog that’s on the stone

In the dark no one will hear the cry

Of a child going without a lullaby

But today in the light

You’ll go without a fright

I play in the sun

And have lots of fun

For when the day is bright

You’ll long forget about the night

For the ‘morrow will be filled with delight


Our Class

Kelsey Warnke

Sitting in a crowded classroom my thoughts begin to wonder

They begin to rain down on me like an

angry thunder

One year left in school, only one year left to ponder

A blank canvas will soon be filled

With the

accomplishments

all our lives will

fulfill.

Still, Sarah Rushing


The many different paths

That will be followed by just those in our very class

How will we change the world? Will we have any

impact?

Once more my thoughts begin to wonder apart

from any distract

How will our lives be changed? How will we

change the lives of others?

With all the things our separate lives will discover

Although we will take separate paths

We will all be able to look back

Upon the times we had together carrying our back-

packs

The memories we made we soon begin to fade

In light of the new accomplishments to be made.


Forced to Carry the Gun, Mathaya Hill


Florida Panther, Erin Zimmerman


LITERATURE

INDEX

Alba, Juliane 28

Carpenter, Serena 15

Clay, Madi 42

Costello, Jackie 38

Dane, Cameron 26

Diaz, Enrique 6, 11

Freitas, Rowan 14

Gable, Sam 30

Ghulam, Mujtaba 27

Gonzales, Christina 36

ARTWORK

Lunday, Maddie 24

Mercado, Madi 10

Moore, Julia 34

Oatts, Trinity 32

Player, Katie 13

Sheppard, Carter 39

Truskosky, Megan 8

Warnke, Kelsey 43

Woodcock, Rebecca 20

Atwood, Katherine 2, 10

Beckham, Natalie 14

Craig, Alyssa 9

Cross, Natalie 15, 36

Goette, Sierra 27

Guy, Ashton 11

Hart, Marisa 21, 23

Havrilla, Tessa 7, 17

Hill, Mathaya 45

Jorgensen, Libbie 38

Labrato, Tabitha 33

Odom, Haley 18, 29, 37

Pirello, Victoria 12, 25, 41

Rushing, Sarah 20, 43

Tu, Sara 5, 19, 31, 35

Zimmerman, Erin 46

Zokan, Natalie 16, 26, 42

A Gulf Breeze High School Literary Arts Production

Documents

Angle of Reflection...Exonerate the sins of our compound Wounds, blood, and lies your royal majesty ... Help. Alone. Please. Gone. Help. I begin to jog, then panic ... You bit my friend