What do you think when you think of reflections? Do you think of a mirror, or of water rippling and reflecting back the landscape around it? How about those reading reflections you had to write in elementary school about a book you probably didn't read? Maybe you think of a more philosophical interpretation; of reflecting back on yourself, on past choices you've made. The different meanings of reflections are as varied as the pieces before you, but, like the word itself, these pieces all contain the underlying theme of being face to face with something, whether you like it or not. Of being forced to address something, whether it be your dishevelled reflection in the morning, or the world from the angle of a puddle. Reflections show the world as it really is, not as we interpret it. They are the great unbiased equalizer of the universe. In short, reflections don't lie, and neither do these pieces. 

Bones 
By Rose Basu

Tonight I looked at myself in the mirror. Eyes red and puffy from crying, my face looked like a gorgeous mess. I saw a bag of bones, with a beautiful mind. No child-bearing goddess curves. Never enough.

Bloody Mary
​By Heidi Elder

​She passed the bathroom on her way to her room. The moonlight shining in through her unlocked windows was the only source of light in the otherwise dark upstairs level. As she turned, she startled when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She laughed it off, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, instantly naming it the culprit of her surprise.

However, she looked back to the bathroom and her entire body stiffened, her hand flying to her mouth. For the most part, the bathroom door was left closed; all she was able to see was the far left corner of the mirror but in its picture, she could make out the unmistakable reflection of a hand.

She moved her own but the reflection remained unchanged and her stomach began to tie itself in knots. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep unless she dismissed it for certain, she took a quivering breath and silently pushed open the door the rest of the way.

Her own silhouette appeared and she sighed with relief once she saw that the severed hand had disappeared--had never even been there in the first place, she figured. Without looking away from the mirror, she reached behind her for the light switch, sliding her hand up and down the wall. Once she missed, she turned to find it. Her blood ran cold when she realized that even in the darkness of the room, the switch wasn't there.

mirror image
​By Abigail McGhie

my reflection isn’t kind. 

they are rude. they ask me questions i cannot answer. 

they tell me things i shouldn’t know. 

they want me to free them. 

“we are the same. we are both just glass and light,” they say. 

“the only difference between us 

is that i am in here 

and you are out there.” 

but i don’t believe them.  

i am real. 

and they are trapped there for a reason. 

Peace
By Emma Breton

Your face looks different like this. 
Relaxed, with smile lines lying limp. 
The flush of your cheeks has diminished and your skin looks too pale.
Those brilliant blue eyes have turned dull and dim. 

But behind that empty gaze, there’s a brightness that lingers in the shadow of you.
Reflections of daisies littered in grass fields. 
Pink clouds with scarlet sunsets. 
Slow, lazy waves against sand shores.

Close your eyes, now, find your peace. 
The sky and the sea (Image by Brynn Duggan)

The sky and the sea
By Brynn Duggan

blurred lines
mirrored image
softened colors
slowly moving
shifting with the currents

the sky is painted orange and pink
so so is the sea
they crave to be each other, 
desperately.

the sky wants a break from having its spotlight taken by the sun,
and the sea wants to be what gives people life, not drown them

so the waves rise
and the sky lowers,
changing its colors,
and the sea mirrors it beautifully,

but as the sky darkens,
and the waves toughen,
they know they will never be each other,
so they must settle with being
​reflections.

A Postponement in Time
​By Sharon Xu

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most woeful of them all? Into your reflection that I see, it is no other than Time and he. She had long since forgotten this curious folklore, but was vexed to find that it was still a never-vanquishing tale. Years have passed and the authenticity of the fable inevitably altered with the seasons, but still, a broken clock is right twice a day.
Pacing up and down the corridor, she could not help but let out a ghost of a smile at the absurdity of the pristine marble, the clean-cut staircase, the looming walls adorned with an array of clocks— their hour and minute hands spinning and ticking out of sync either with advance or delay. What was once filled with crumbling slate and lively bodies was now a place devoid of any signs of vitality. Only Time herself existed, and she was content with remaining so. 
Blinking slowly, her feet glided across the floor to stand before the opaque mirror hanging from above the ceiling. Without reflection, it was nothing more than a cloudy pool, but still, she stared inside, longingly, with sorrow. A second, minute, or perhaps eternity passed, but the mirror remained as it was, unyielding to her privy pleas. With her skirts billowing out from beneath her, she raised an arm to touch the rippling surface— eyes widening when her fingertips broke through the looking glass. 
A soft sigh of release escaped from between her lips, and she caved to the unknown as the milky ichor swallowed her whole. 
Reflections (Image by Brynn Duggan)

A Dust Bowl Christmas
​By Hannah Blauer

It was late at night. The four of them sat on the ground in a circle in the middle of a deserted field, a lantern placed in the center. The dead crops rubbed against their legs and the thin sheet of snow covering the unfertil earth gave them an icy chill they never thought would ever feel so painful. The mother sighed and shivered a little. Under her thin cotton shirt we could see her bones nearly bulging out of her tight skin. 
She got up and went to their wagon, just five steps away and pulled out a small bag from the back. She sat down again and shook off a little bit of snow off the bag. Opening it, she pulled out a loaf of bread.The mother looked down at her three beautiful children. Their big bulging eyes shone bright in the glimmer of the lantern’s light. She looked at their sunken faces, their dust encrusted skin, and their hearts, beating behind their small skinny bodies. Then she started to tear the bread into small pieces. She gave each child an equal piece until there was just one piece left for her.
Their big eyes looked right back at her. Nothing was said. Although their faces were still sunken with sadness and exhaustion, their eyes seemed to shine a little, as if emitting some sort of little ray of hope.
​As she contemplated her children’s subtle but greatly impacting expressions she broke into a small smile and said: Merry Christmas.

i should
By Oonagh Calkin

i should take the time
to reflect
i should take the time
to listen to some music 
that makes me think of a moment
suspended in time where everything felt right
and listening to that music and remembering hurts so good
and stings like salt on faint cuts you didn’t know existed until they began to burn

i should take the time 
to reflect
i should take the time
to write
write about my life, the things that have happened
i have lots to tell, and i could sink hours into an old notebook and a pen that stains my hand 
just like i used to

i should take the time
to reflect
i should take the time
to sit down and think
to let my spirit rest; to let its bruises ache
to contemplate and breathe deeply
to close my eyes and block out the world so it's just me and my thoughts

but i won’t
because i don’t want to hear my thoughts
i just want to get by
and live immobile, unthinking, as external forces act on me
like a tree standing in place and weathering the storms of the changing seasons
Calm waters (Image by Brynn Duggan)

Look in the Mirror
​By Galadriel Bond

​I look in the mirror
I wait and see
I don't see anything
There is nothing I hate in the mirror
Maybe the curtains?
I got them when I was small
Not my style anymore
Never got around to changing them
But that's not what I'm looking for
That's not where I should be looking for flaws
I look at myself
What do I see?
Nothing
There is nothing I hate about myself
But I'm looking
I must find something
I've seen movies
I've read books
Normal teenage girls are supposed to look in the mirror and hate themselves
So why don't I?
And that's what I hate about myself when I look in the mirror
That I'm Cady Heron
Being told to find my flaws when I don't see any
I don't see my physical flaws when I look in the mirror
Why should I look for what's not there?
I turn away from the mirror
I have better things to do than stare all day

The Girl In The Mirror
​By Tara Fitzgerald

The mirror image stares back at me.
​What would she have done?
When she had a bruise on her knee,
Or her hair wasn't in the sun.

When she ate too much,
And her stomach was big.
When just a single touch
Made her feel like a pig.

When the gap in her teeth
Was on full display.
And she couldn't hide it underneath
A mask coloured grey.

When on her dried out face
Appeared red dots of pain.
That she could never seem to erase,
Especially with all the weight she would gain.

When her bright red hair
Was a ratty, tangled mess.
That no brush, iron or care
Could ever seem to digress.

When her thighs were too thick,
Or her nails were too long.
When her voice wasn't slick,
Like the tune of a song.

When big bulky glasses
Badly framed her round face.
When she had ugly gashes,
That never vanished without a trace.

When her short stubby fingers
Couldn't gracefully grasp
Anything that lingers,
Or she had to unclasp.

What did she do
On those days she felt off?
Would she sit feeling blue,
Look at herself and scoff?

Would her tears disappear
Into her pillow as she cried?
Would anyone ever hear
How she sobbed on the inside?

Did she see herself differently?
Not the way I see me.
Was her hair ever vibrantly
Alive by the sea?

Was she beautiful?
You see, this one I know.
Her allure was indisputable,
This I know to be so.

Friend
By Hinata Derouin

​I wonder how their day is?
My reflection in the mirror
I see them every morning displayed on the glass
Their figure still under my gaze
There are bags under their eyes
They look exhausted
I need to remind them to sleep
I wonder if they’ve eaten anything yet
I watch them lick their lips in anticipation
Probably not
They’re still in their pyjamas
Their hand brushes against the fabric
At least it looks comfortable
They look happier than the last time I saw them though
I watch them smile and I follow close behind
I’m glad they’re okay

Funhouse Mirror
​By Natalie Wueppelmann

​Whenever I look at my figure
It feels like I’m looking in a funhouse mirror.
The reflection I see doesn't look like me.
Or at least not the me, I think I’ll see.
Whether it’s my hair, my arms, my stomach my legs
My face, my shoulders, or even my neck
I never quite look the way that I think.
I never quite look as I do in my head.