the eyas

the eyas

literary & arts magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. 1 2019

Welcome to the eyas =

Adel Berhe '20 | Henry Smith '20 Upper School Editors Lori Davis | Faculty Adviser

We hope you will enjoy this first edition of Charlotte Latin's Middle School literary and arts magazine, the eyas. An eyas is a young hawk that is not yet ready to leave its nest.

As our young contributors move forward in their journeys as writers and artists, we celebrate their willingness to spread their creative wings and soar.

Our Upper School student mentors and editors challenged their Middle School peers with sharing their writing and artwork with the School community; this is a step in encouraging these students to gain confidence in their ideas, creativity, and personal reflections.

Charlotte Latin School 9502 Providence Road Charlotte, NC 28277 704.846.1100 charlottelatin.org

Cover Art | Mimi Smith '23 | Photography | Devyn Knows

the eyas literary & arts magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. 1 2019

TABLE OF 6 Leopard Sydney Query '25 Poetry 7 Cairn Hailey Brasser '23 Digital Art 8 The Biggest Jackson Coble '25

Memoir

Bonfire Ever 9 Beauty Without Scarlett Nashbar '23 Watercolor Frustration Portrait 10 The Fury Camille Becker '25 Memoir 11 Oculus Reece Newman '24 Photography 12 Riding My Paige Fletcher '25 Memoir Bike 13 Pop Record Noelle Okland '24 Printmaking 14 The Woman Prentiss Cooper '25 Memoir

in Gold 15 Simple Line Caroline McGirt '23 Drawing

into Space 17 Untitled Mimi Smith '23 Photography 18 Smashing Addison Hull '25 Memoir Cupcakes 19 Hostias Libertas Tai Huang '23 Comic Art 20 Monkey Lily Bancroft '25 Poetry 21 Valle Daydream Lila Rhee '23 Digital Art 22 Hedgehog JT Cobb-Curtis '25 Poetry 23 LIghtening Strikes Twice Hailey Brasser '23 Sculpture

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CONTENTS 25 Open-Minded

Camille Darwich '23 Sculpture 26 American Sunrise Lily Bancroft '25 Poetry 27 Sky Glacier Camille Darwich '23 Digital Art 28 Flying Sydney Query '25 Memoir 29 Untitled Caroline Sumichrast '23 Mixed Media 30 The Balance Kayla Tillman '23 Sculpture

of Four 31 Swimming Color Agatha Stamatakos '23 Mixed Media 32 Inspiration through Jasmine Zheng '24 Memoir Example 33 Yamuna Eleanor Poole '23 Fashion 35 Untitled Macy Thigpen '23 Photography 36 Murder in Morroco Prentiss Cooper '25 Fiction 37 Pink 'n Black Camille Darwich '23 Mixed Media 39 Grand-Daddy Musing Hope Gottschling '24 Printmaking 41 Something Really Gracie Gore '23 Mixed Media

Really Colorful 43 Traffic Snack Marguerite Stouse '23 Fashion 43 Pale Struggle Biz Neely '23

Sculpture 45 Untitled George Lynch '23 Photography 47 Gloria Lola White '23 Mixed Media

the eyas vol. I

LEOPARD Sydney Query '25

Leopard.

Speckled, spotted, marked and dotted.

Ferocious.

Silent, cunning, keen.

Masters of deceiving and camouflage.

Always watching but never seen.

Slipping silently through the trees with grace, agility, stamina and ease.

Forever hunting, forever watching, Always listening but never seen.

Angelic, powerful, silent, strong, The guardians of the forest.

Silent rulers of their secret kingdoms.

Hailey Brasser '23 6

3 | Cairn | Digital Art the eyas vol. I

THE BIGGEST B ONFIRE EVER Jackson Coble '25

It was about halfway through our winter break when we arrived. My mom, dad, sister, brother, uncles, aunts, and cousins all came to my grandma's and great grandma's houses in the middle of the country.

Around my great grandma's house is open fields and empty roads. They don’t have much outside except for two huge oak trees in the front yard.

But you can always see the stars in the sky at night which you never really can in Charlotte.

We went outside to run around and play games but realized there was dead pine tree right next to my great grandma's house that might fall on it soon. We decided that we needed to cut it down and try to make it fall into the field, so we rushed to my uncle's house for a chainsaw. Then my dad and uncle cut the tree and it started to fall toward my great grandma's house.

Thankfully, my dad redirected it into the field and not toward her house. Phew, I thought, that pine tree had almost just fallen on my great grandma's house.

After eating lunch we came back to figure out how to get rid of it. Finally,

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we decided to burn it. Then we had to start and cut it up into smaller pieces to burn.

After hours upon hours of work we finally finished cutting and stacking the wood, and it was ready to light and begin the fire. So we went inside and came back out with matches only to realize that we were going to need smaller pieces of wood to get the fire going, so we set to gathering it and finally finished.

As soon as the fire was lit, I was astonished as a deep, fourfoot, orange, yellow, and red flame emerged from the pile of wood. The fire became so hot that night as we cooked our dinner with it and roasted marshmallows we could do it from two or three feet away from the flames.

The fire burned for over a week and continued into our last night.

The morning of our final day, I looked with disappointment to see that the fire had finally gone out and we had to leave. I learned from this experience that all good things must come to an end no matter how much fun they are. But I also learned that all things are better with family.

Scarlett Nashbar '23 | Beauty Without Frustration | Watercolor Portrait the eyas vol. I

THE FURY

Camille Becker '25

It was a normal, hot day but unlike most others, I was at Carowinds with a friend. We had made it through a twenty-minute line and we were boarding the Fury. The people still waiting all the way in the back of the line looked at me unhappily and impatiently. I glanced at my friend.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked her, having seen her blue eyes filled with a little fear.

“Kinda,” she responded.

I surveyed my surroundings while the worker came to buckle me in. On the other side of my friend I noticed two strangers' eyes darting over the hill, and everyone clutched the buckles on their safety harnesses even though the ride had not begun yet. I had a grin plastered on my face but after taking another glance at the hill, a knot started forming in my stomach. Suddenly, the ride lurched forward.

Next, we headed up 325 feet. The more we climbed up, the more I saw.

From the biggest ride at the park I could see the rest of the rides, the parking lot, and downtown Charlotte.

I heard the clacking as we headed up the hill. The knot in my stomach seemed to tighten.

As we neared the top, my knuckles started turning white because of the firm grasp I had on the seatbelt. I looked over at my friend. Her eyes

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shone back at me as she smiled a big smile.

Everything that could go wrong on a rollercoaster crossed my mind, but I quickly pushed the bad thoughts out as I saw the turning point ahead of us.

The cart in front of us curved downward, and we soon followed.

The wind was blowing my hair everywhere. I felt free. I felt as if I was flying. The broad grin on my face only widened as we zoomed to the bottom.

That might have been the most exhilarating part of the ride, but the twists and turns were great, especially since we were going super fast.

“Whooo!” I yelled while my hair blew everywhere. I was having the time of my life. Before I knew it, the ride screeched to a halt.

We stopped and waited for the blue and green cart in front of us to unload all of the people who had gone on the ride before us and load more people on.

Through my experience I have realized that I fret before things so much that it makes me too stressed to actually enjoy the moment.

Now I sometimes take a step back, not worry so much, enjoy the moment, and let life help carve a path for me.

In doing so, it gives me a sense of feeling free and happy, like a weight is being lifted off of my shoulders.

Reece Newman '24 | Oculus | Photography

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RIDING MY BIKE Paige Fletcher '25

It happened one summer right after we ate lunch. My brother went outside to ride his bike and my parents went with him. About 30 minutes later my dad called me to join them. I wondered what had happened—why did I need to come outside?

I walked out the side door to my house and my younger brother was riding his bike, without training wheels, all by himself! My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. My younger brother had learned how to ride his bike before I did. Tears started falling from my eyes. My dad noticed and offered to take me across the street to the cul de sac so he could help me practice riding my bike. I nodded my head as I wiped the tears off my face.

We rode our bikes to the cul de sac, mine with training wheels, my brother’s without. Once we arrived, Dad took the training wheels off of my bike. He said that the first thing that I needed to know was how to get onto the bike. He showed me how then told me to do it. I swung my leg up

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and sat on the bike. Next he showed how to start pedaling by pushing the pedal forward. I started to ride very slowly as my dad held my bike from behind to help me stay balanced.

Then he let go of the bike and I fell to the side. I started to cry again.

I didn’t want to get back on. Dad said if I wanted to learn how to ride the bike by myself, I would have to try again. I understood so I reluctantly swung my leg over seat. I slowly started to ride again. As I began to to go faster, my dad slowly released his grip the bike.

Eventually, I was riding by myself.

I had not even realized it until I did a lap and saw Dad wasn’t holding on. I never wanted to stop because I thought that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to do it again. I knew I had to at some point, so I pulled the brakes and went back home to practice.

From this experience I learned that if you want to accomplish anything in life, you cannot give up after you fail.

You have to keep trying until you do it. Even after you make it, you have to keep practicing.

Noelle Okland '24 | Pop Record | Printmaking

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THE WOMAN IN GOLD Prentiss Cooper '25

So What? My mom was willing to lie in order for me to get to see "The Woman in Gold."

My arms were sore from holding my mother’s raincoat above my head.

Even though the rain was coming down so hard that I could barely see ten feet ahead of me, the busy New York City street smelled of human waste. It smelled so awful that I was somewhat surprised that there wasn’t a cloud of green covering the street. I turned to my mom who was standing next to me. Her face was buried in her phone. That was never a good sign.

We had been in a line for over an hour and we had barely moved.

Inch forward, stop. Wait ten minutes, inch forward, stop. Wait twenty minutes, inch forward, stop. To a normal person, this would have been anything but exciting, but I was more excited than I had ever been in those short eight years of my life. My insides were dancing like ballerinas in The Nutcracker, leaping and jumping with joy, turning in spirals of happiness.

Then my mom told me the news that made the ballet dancers in my stomach fall off the stage.

When she said we were going to New York City that summer, the number one thing on my to-see list was to view the painting “The Woman in Gold” by Gustav Klimt before it was moved from the United States. The

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painting was nicknamed the “Mona Lisa of Austria.” It was a painting of a woman, Adele Block-Bower, dressed in a golden gown that took up the entire portrait except for her face. It had paper thin pieces of pure gold painted into the gown. It had been stolen by the Nazis during World War II. The niece of the painting’s subject fought a massive legal battle in order to get the painting back. Then she wanted to leave it on display in the Neue Gallery in New York City. I knew all this because I had seen the movie, “The Woman in Gold" at least five times before coming to New York.

The Neue Gallery, where the painting was held, was like something out of a dream. In the In the middle of a busy city stood an ornately carved house, about the size of my own, but this house was much more elegant.

Inside this house were In the middle of a busy city stood an ornately carved house, about the size of my own, but this house was much more elegant. Inside this house were some of the most beautiful pieces of art the world has ever known.

But the paintings were not the only masterpieces in this building.

There was also a five star Austrian restaurant. As I dreamed about cake and art (two of my favorite things), I was zapped back to reality.

Caroline McGirt '23 | Simple Line into Space | Drawing | 18x24

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“Sweetie,” my mom began. She had her “I’m-so-sorry-but-pleasedon’t-murder-the-messenger” look on her face. “You have to be twelve to get into the gallery. I just found out.”

I felt as if I was falling into a giant pit of nothingness. My ears stopped working as my mom tried to explain to me why the people in charge of the museum wanted it that way. It was ridiculous. I probably knew more about this painting than the majority of the people in line. I felt a mix of sadness and rage that had been formed by a lightning bolt of shock.

My eyes stung with the tears I was trying so hard to hold back. I was about to cry like a two-yearold who lost her favorite toy. “I have a plan,” my mom said with a determined and mischievous look in her eye. “If they ask your age, I will say twelve.

You are tall, so stand up straight and pull your baseball cap down over part of your face.”

At eight years old, twelve seemed like college-age. There was no way I was going to pull this off. My overlydramatic mind spiraled into a tornado of worry. What if we got caught? What if we were kicked out? What if we got banned from ever going to an art museum ever again? Can eight-year-

olds go to jail? My mom reassured me that we could get in, but I was not so sure. After all, I was only eight.

The woman ahead of us in line moved to reveal a tall, grouchy man who looked like he worked for the secret service. I slowly stepped forward. It took every muscle in my body to keep from falling over with fear. My legs were shaking. My hands were sweating so much that if I unclenched my fist, Niagara Falls would come from my fingertips. My heart was pounding so loudly I was almost positive that all of New York City could hear it.

I held my head high and stood as straight as I could.

“How old is she?” The man asked as if being under twelve was the most disgusting thing in the world.

“She is twelve,” my mom said.

I was somewhat surprised by how easy it was for her to lie. The man stared at me for about a minute. I imagined being yelled at by the guard and then being arrested. I got more nervous every tenth of a second.

My heart was pounding so loudly, I was almost positive all of New York could hear it. I felt like I was going to collapse with fear.

After a very intense and

"Can eight-year-olds go to jail?"

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nerve-racking minute, he finally waved us through the door. I could not believe I got in.

Once we were inside, I felt older, I felt excited, I felt fearless‌.until I noticed the security guards in every room were glaring at me. The fear returned in a giant wave of nerves. I walked around the halls like an enemy agent in a spy movie. I expected a police officer to to throw me out at any moment. But then I turned the corner and stopped. I was no longer afraid of being thrown out.

There it was, “The Woman in Gold."

The painting was the most incredible thing I had ever seen in my life. I almost floated into the room. The golden painting was impossible to miss. It took up half of the wall. I could see the gold shining in the dimly lit room. Her silver necklace looked like something a queen might wear. The woman in the painting looked so regal and elegant in her golden gown.

Mimi Smith '23 | Untitled | Photography

Staring at the painting, anything or anyone else in the room seemed to disappear. Mom, the other paintings, tourists, even the menacing looking security guards seemed to vanish.

I stared, almost unblinking, at the painting. I could see the paint that was mixed with tiny flecks of gold and the perfect rectangles of golden paper carefully painted on the canvas.

I almost could not believe how beautiful the painting was. It was the most incredible piece of art I had ever seen. Swirls of gold decorated the background of the painting while golden triangles and rectangles illuminated the front. The light that was reflected off the shiny gold surfaces danced joyfully around the room.

After waiting in an hour-long-line in the pouring rain and having to lie about my age, I was finally getting to see “The Woman in Gold."

It was worth it.

the eyas vol. I

SMASHING CUPCAKES

Addison Hull '25

“Addie! Get down here!” My dad yelled to me.

“Coming!” I replied. I ran down the steps and threw my stuff in the car.

“Hurry up Addie, get the car already!” My impatient brother complained.

“I’m going as fast as possible, Ian,” I replied. I jumped in the car. “All right, let’s go. I want to get to the beach!” I said enthusiastically.

In almost no time we broke out the board games.

“Who wants to play Uno?” I asked.

No answer. “Wow, you're all very boring,” I observed.

“Okay, I’ll play, but only because I’m going to beat you hands down,” Ian said.

“In your dreams.” I replied.

“Let’s make this more interesting,” Ian said. “If you lose, you have let me pie you in the face with whipped cream," he said slyly.

“Okay, and if I win then you have let me pie you in the face,” I replied thoughtfully.

“Deal,” he said.

We played for at least five minutes before finally I had Uno. Ian still had two cards. It all came down to who laid down his color first now. Ian drew from the pile, then smiled.

I knew he had won, but suddenly the car jerked to a stop. All of the Uno cards shot forward, and Ian dropped his cards, as did I. “We finally made it!” Dad said.

“No! I had a plus four card,” Ian groaned.

“Well, now you have no proof so

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we tie.” I said, relieved.

I stepped outside and took a deep breath of the hot summer air.

Everything about this place I loved.

The palm trees swayed, like dancers in a ballet. The sound of the waves crashed against the sand like maracas in a song. We went inside the beach house with great excitement.

“YAY!!!” I sang out.

“Can we celebrate being at the beach with ice cream?” Ian asked with a smile.

“Of course. It wouldn’t be a party without it," Mom said, laughing.

We pulled out the ice cream, chocolate, as deep and rich as the wood floors we stood on. I ate like I had never eaten before. Ian commented that I looked like a pig wolfing down mud. I ignored him.

When we finally went to bed, I slept deeply and soundly knowing that tomorrow held great adventures.

These days I know to enjoy all of my happy moments. That was four years ago. The year before my grandparents sold the beach house.

I remember not knowing until it was too late to go back and enjoy it to the fullest. Every single day was fun, even the day my brother smashed a cupcake in my face, or when he stole the last bag of popcorn from my grasp and ate it all. Good times.

All these memories make my face shine when I remember them. I still miss the beach house, but now I know to cherish what you have while you have it—and not eat cupcakes around crazy brothers.

Tai Huang '23 | Hostias Libertas | Comic Art

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MONKEY

Lily Bancroft '25

Curious creatures, Diving into everything, Short and fast Thumbs like humans.

They climb in the jungle On their short, stubby legs Kings of the jungle.

They scurry up and down.

Curious as can be, They rapidly run throughout the trees, Making sounds as beautiful as a song Tiny pink tongues Licking everything they come across, Jumping high in the wide canopy.

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Lila Rhee '23 | Valle Daydream | Digital Art

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HED GEHO G

JT Cobb-Curtis '25

Slow, small rodent, The turtle of the forest.

Brown, fuzzy, spiky, Easily preyed upon.

Clumsily waddles Through the undergrowth Feeds on the ripe berries it finds, Paces toward any dry spot Soaks in the energy it can reach.

Defensive toward enemies Shows no signs of weakness.

A walking gorse bush Definition of bravery.

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Hailey Brasser '23| Lightening Strikes Twice | Sculpture | 27x8x5

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FOUND

Evan Li '24

Sweat poured down Calvin’s face in rivulets as he pounded down the dark alley. He was a dead man walking and soon would be just dead.

He had been Found. That single word filled his existence with dread.

He knew he would die soon. No one had survived the government’s wrath. He thought about his father’s words before the door had been splintered by government troops: “Keep strong and remember with courage and confidence, you will survive this.” He had promised his family, if not for his father’s sake, to keep strong even when faced with the darkest of challenges.

Now, Calvin felt hypocritical, weak, a shell of his old robust self. He couldn’t bring his mind back to the cold, harsh reality. Calvin was slowly being destroyed by his shattered memories. Their cut-throat edges, sharpened by self-blame, stabbed and cut at his soul relentlessly, making

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him entertain the thoughts hidden in the darkest edges of his mind.

He remembered the times when he attended Middle School with his friends. He remembered laughing at jokes and hiding test scores from his parents. Those worries seemed so insignificant now when he was faced with the oppressive dread of being tortured, then sentenced to a painful death, the fate his parents had been sentenced to, no doubt.

Sudden adrenaline spiked through his body as his ears registered the overwhelming sound of military boots slapping against the concrete. He ran, losing all pretense of secrecy. Just as a glimmer of hope filled his body, blinding lights filled his eyes, stopping him.

As a fragile, small bloom of hope died and withered away, a shot rang out and Calvin fell to the ground, unmoving.

Camille Darwich '23 | Open-Minded | Sculpture

the eyas vol. I

AMERICAN SUNRISE Lily Bancroft '25

Sky— Stars fading out Moon disappearing, Temperature rising every second Light wind causing trees to sway.

The morning calls of both human and animals, Have just begun—vivid, bright colors filling the sky Orange, red, and yellow.

No more nighttime— Endless amount of colors rising above the horizon,

Endless amount of colors rising above the horizon,

Traffic getting worse and worse Drivers getting angry creatures awaking— from their good night's sleep.

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Camille Darwich '23 | Sky Glacier | Digital Art

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FLYING

Sydney Query '25

I wonder how long the ziplines are? halfway up the mountain). The trees, How many are there? green like a frog, waved in the wind Will it be fun? as we traveled. The dirt roads were as What if I fall? brown as the tree bark. We all sat in What if the lines break? the truck bed with just a tiny wooden “Sydney, earth to Sydney.” My railing keeping us inside. I almost fell dad’s voice pierced through my out twice! After awhile the bumping thoughts. stopped bothering me. My mom and I “What? I asked. started talking and laughing with the “We're almost there,” he replied. guys sitting next to us.

"Five more minutes."

The monkeys screeched their “Yes!” I shouted. annoyance in the trees. Then, BOOM! I had been looking forward to The truck lurched forward. It crashed ziplining all week. Finally, after what to the ground in an explosion of seemed like dust. Everyone "The trees exploded with life and forever, we screamed. I was color.

Birds flew up from the trees arrived at the sure we had loading zone. under me. Monkeys swung in the been shot. Our My mom tour guides branches." and dad jumped down slowly trudged up while Davis and from the truck to see what had I ran as fast as our legs could carry happened. They came back laughing. us. We bounded up the stairs and It turns out the truck had backfired. once we arrived at the top, we were Full of nervous laughter, the truck greeted by the most adorable mutt I drove on. had ever seen. Our Costa Rican tour A big sigh escaped from my mouth. guides called him Rover.

The rest of the ride went smoothly His fur, black as night and speckled and when we arrived at the top of the with white spots just like stars, rubbed mountain, we all took a group picture. against my leg. After our encounter Thirteen ziplines. I had to make with Rover, our tour guides helped us it down thirteen ziplines before I into our harnesses. Then we put on reached the bottom of the mountain. our equipment and loaded the truck I looked at the zipline and started that would take us up the mountain. shaking. These horrible images of me We bumped along for about thirty falling to my death came rushing at minutes (which only put us about me.

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Caroline Sumichrast '23 | Untitled | Mixed Media

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It was my turn. I took a deep breath, attached my hook to the line, and jumped. I started falling, falling, then the line caught me and I rocketed out over the revine. The trees exploded with life and color.

Birds flew up from the trees under me. Monkeys swung in the branches.

The amazing feeling of flying coursed through me.

All too soon I had to break and the zipline was over. On my sixth zipline, I saw someone go upside down. I turned to my guide.

“Can I do that?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “Flip your legs up over your head.”

I did what he told me.

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“Now let go,” he instructed.

I let go and just dangled for a second. Then he pushed me. Like a bird, I soared through the air. It felt amazing. The world seem to move in slow motion. I wanted it to last forever.

But way too soon, I stepped off my last zipline smiling and laughing.

“Let’s do that again!” I shouted.

These days when I am scared to try something new, I find myself remembering the zipline, remembering how scared I was to try, remembering how much fun it was once I overcame my fears. If I could overcome my fears then, why not now? I just have to get out of my head and try.

Kayla Tillman '23 | The Balance of Four | Sculpture } 44x13x10

Agatha Stamatakos '23 | Swimming Color | Mixed Media | 18x24

the eyas vol. I

INSPIRATION THROUGH EX AMPLE Jamine Zheng '24

Imagine a girl sleeping on a wooden board propped up by four sticks with only her two siblings squashed in next to her and a thin blanket to shelter her from the night’s bitter cold. Imagine that same girl, a few years older now, struggling to survive in New York City, with only her merit and hardworking nature and her family miles and miles away from her on the other side of the world. Can you believe that that girl would turn out to be my mom, Fang Dong, who helped build my family’s restaurants up from nothing? She made her way from nothing to something with only her own strength and determination.

Every day, she continues to inspire me with her selflessness, compassion, and perseverance.

My mom’s selflessness has stood out all throughout her life, and she is always thinking about how her actions can benefit others. Notably, when my older sisters were only a few months old, she sent them to China to be taken care of my grandparents; however, it was not because she did not want them, but because she knew they would have better beginnings to their lives. She sent them there for approximately two years while she worked hard to create better lives for them in the United States.

She sacrificed the memories of her children’s babyhood so they could

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eventually have a better childhood.

Likewise, my mom also demonstrates selflessness every day when she spends all her time to take care of us, her children. She gives up the hours that she could be able to use getting a better education for herself in order to create better opportunities than she had for her children. When she has free time, she thinks of us first, not herself.

She devotes her life to thinking of others. Her selflessness improves others’ lives in both big and small ways everyday because she is always thinking of them over herself.

Improving other people's lives is extremely important to my mom. She shows compassion and goes out of her way to help others. For example, one time when my family was on a hike, my mom spied someone’s keys left abandoned on a table.

Immediately, she decided to wait for the hiker who had lost his or her keys to make sure that the hiker did not panic. We waited for almost thirty minutes just to help a stranger, all because my mom saw someone who needed help and made a decision to take action. In fact, my mom is always thinking of ways she can help others.

She always encourages us to give others what she didn’t always have as a child, such as money or food.

Every time one of us grows out of

Eleanor Poole '23 | Yamuna | Fashion

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our clothes, she never fails to make sure to either donate the clothes or give them to my cousin to reuse.

In addition, my mom volunteers whenever she can. Every winter, she participates in Operation Christmas Child with Samaritan's Purse and fills boxes with toys for children who can’t afford good Christmas presents. My mom is never stingy—she is giving and strives to make other people’s lives better in any way she can.

Lastly, my mom perseveres through every obstacle that comes her way and every challenge that she faces. She moved to the United States at age eighteen; as a result, she had to bravely leave everything she had ever known, from her family to her language. The only familiarity waiting for her was her sister, who had already moved to the United States and was living in Kansas. However, in the end, my mom decided to travel to the Big Apple.

As she peered out of the plane window, she felt as if this city of lights was truly a place of opportunity.

Unfortunately, it was hard in New York City. She ended up living in a friend’s basement, where there was only room to fit a mattress and her few possessions. Nevertheless, my mom persevered and went from job to job, always striving for something better.

She steadily worked her way up from

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a busboy to a hostess to a waitress, from one dilapidated restaurant to a polished one. Even though all the odds were against her, she overcame adversity and found success.

Moreover, when my mom moved to America, she only knew the simplest English and had only the barest idea of how to pronounce words. She worked hard, however, and slowly but determinedly taught herself English.

She always tried to get better at it.

Even today, Mom is still learning more and more about English and is always aspiring to be even better than she already is. My mom is constantly working hard to push through life’s obstacles and sets an example for me everyday just by trying, again and again and again.

My mom’s difficult childhood and journey to success shaped her into the person she is today. Throughout my life, she has shown me the power and importance of selflessness, compassion, and determination.

Consequently, I always strive to think about others before myself. I try to work hard and to be resilient. I am constantly endeavoring to be like my mom: altruistic, understanding, and strong-willed. Her determination to be better and to be kind to everyone is what makes her my inspiration and my everyday hero.

Macy Thigpen '23 | Untitled | Photography

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MURDER IN MORO CCO

Prentiss Cooper '25

Part One: Murder Samira Skalli sat in her house watching her favorite movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much. Samira had always loved mysteries, how everything seemed to fit together in the end and the criminal was dealt with justly. Samira wished this was how life worked. Samira picked up the newspaper; the date read, “July 6, 2016,” two weeks before her wedding.

Under the paper sat a picture of her groom-to-be, Ibrahim Raiss, and his younger brother. Ibrahim’s crooked teeth, ample chins, and bead-like eyes stared back at her. Of all the men in all of the world, I have to be marrying this idiot, she thought. She had never met Ibrahim, but she knew that he was evil. Any man who was willing to marry a woman against her will was evil.

Samira’s parents had arranged the marriage when she met Ibrahim’s brother, Hassan, in culinary school a few years ago. While Ibrahim was too large to fit through a doorway, his brother was so thin it was a miracle that he did not blow away with the breeze. Hassan was always complaining about how his brother was the favorite and how all of his “culinary masterpieces,” as he called them, would be eaten by his greedy, blimp-shaped brother. Hassan prided himself on how he could disguise any

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disgusting food into a fabulous meal.

Hassan once bragged to Samira that he once fed Ibrahim’s own prized pet bird to him and Ibrahim never realized it. Hassan joked that he could either poison his brother or “pay any ragged urchin in the shanty towns of Casablanca to do it.”

The Raiss family was one of the wealthiest families in Morocco. This was the main reason her parents had determined that she and Ibrahim should marry.

Samira decided that, rather than focus on her plight, she should focus on one of her favorite movies that was set in her home country, Morocco.

Just as Louis Bernard was dying of stab wounds in Jimmy Stewart’s arms, there was a pounding at the door.

There was a shout, “Police! Open up!”

Samira obeyed. While the accusatory tone of the police officer scared her, she knew from all of the mysteries she had seen the innocent always get away.

“Hello officer, can I help you?”

Samira asked politely in Arabic.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Ibrahim Raiss,” the officer coldly responded.

Samira was stunned. “But…who…. why…I…how...WHAT?” “You have motive and we have evidence,” the officer responded to her poorly articulated questions.

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“It was no secret you did not want to marry Ibrahim, and the stab wounds are on the left side of his body. You are left-handed. This, paired with Raiss's lawyers and every literate person in Morocco will know you are guilty in the morning,” the officer replied matter of factly.

“I have never hurt a fly, much less that—” Samira realized that if she said anything bad about Ibrahim, it could be held against her. “You may arrest me, but the truth will come out,” Samira stated.

“You are the only suspect,” the officer responded.

Samira was so stunned she did not resist when the officer put her in handcuffs. As the officer walked Samira to the police station, which was only a block away from her house, she noticed that the handcuffs were so large and her wrists were so tiny that she could easily slip out of them and make a run for it. Samira knew she would be caught, but then she saw something that sealed the deal, the bus. The buses this time of day were always crowded; it sometimes seemed that the entire Moroccan population was on the bus.

As quick as a bolt of lightning, Samira slipped out of the handcuffs and bolted for the bus. By the time the officer realized what had happened, Samira was well hidden in a crowd of

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middle-aged women. To avoid anyone recognizing her, Samira pulled her lihaf a little tighter so the only thing you could see on her face were her eyes and a swirl of blue fabric. As the bus moved to a tortuously slow pace, Samira started to panic. Where would she go? How would she not get caught? Everyone she knew was in favor of her marriage except her best friend, Fouad Benkirane. She and Fouad had been best friends ever since they were children. Everything Fouad thought, she thought.

Everything Fouad did, she did. Her parents joked that if Fouad did not live in the shanty towns outside of Casablanca, they would never be apart. Fouad was as poor as dirt and as loyal a guard dog. One time when they were kids, an older boy made fun of how thin she was and Fouad knocked him out. Fouad was the only person Samira knew that disliked the Raiss family as much as she did.

Fouad worked at the Raiss family mansion for a while and according to him, Hassan and Ibrahim were always awful to him.

Part Two: Fouad When the bus reached the outskirts of the shanty town Fouad lived in, Samira slipped silently off the bus. Samira walked the path she had walked so many times in her life.

Samira moved the intricately stitched

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sheet in the doorway of Fouad’s oneroom home aside.

“Fouad, hello?” Samira’s voice shook as she called out for her friend.

Fouad was not there, so Samira let herself in. Exhausted, she sat on the couch with a loud sigh. When she sat down, she accidentally sat on the remote, and the old television turned on to a news channel. A picture of Samira filled the screen.

“Authorities are still on the lookout for suspected murderer, Samira Skalli.

All those who have information on this woman should call the police immediately. Warning: she is probably armed and very dangerous.”

Samira was shocked. Armed and dangerous, she thought. I have no weapons with me, and as for dangerous, well, if you consider a fivefoot, 22-year-old who weighs about ninety pounds dangerous, then, yes, be very afraid.

Samira’s rage was interrupted by Fouad entering the one-room house.

“Samira, I was at the market when I heard,” Fouad rushed at Samira and hugged her. “You must be so scared.

Sit, I will make you a cup of harira.”

Samira found Fouad’s supportive tone very reassuring. “Fouad, you don’t have to—“ Samira started.

“Ah! You shall not guilt me into letting you cook. You can stay as long as you like and eat as much as you

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like.”

Samira grinned. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. I am so happy I have a friend like you.”

“When I heard Ibrahim was dead, I thought of how relieved you would be, but when I found out that you were the only suspect, I was outraged. You are the kindest, most peaceful person I know. I never liked that family. Hassan was always so rude to me because he was jealous of your and my friendship. Ibrahim, well, he was just mean.”

“Yes! I am glad someone believes me and realizes how stupid it is to—“ Samira stopped mid-sentence. Fouad was chopping with his left hand. It all made sense. The stab wounds were on the left side, and it was obvious Fouad had never liked Ibrahim.

“I…I have to go,” Samira stuttered.

Before Fouad could respond, Samira was out the door. She raced passed tiny shacks and stray animals.

Samira once again boarded the bus, this time her destination was the scene of the crime.

Part Three: The Scene of the Crime When Samira arrived at the house she expected there to be police, but the exterior of the house was empty and showed no signs of police.

Apparently, the police had stopped looking for clues and focused on

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searching for her.

Samira cautiously approached the mansion, which looked like an angry beast rising from the ground. She slowly crept toward the back door in hopes that no one would see her. She placed one skinny hand on the door knob, and it opened with ease. That is odd, she thought. The lock does not seem to be tampered with. Samira crept through the house, searching for the body in hopes that it had not been moved yet.

As she entered the dining room, her prayers were answered. Ibrahim lie on the ground with an overturned chair by his side. The stab wounds were deep and on the left side of his body, just as the officer had said.

Just as Samira was coming to the conclusion that Fouad must be the killer, she tripped on the cone-shaped top of a tagine full of couscous that had been spilled across the floor.

Ibrahim must have been eating when he was stabbed, but the tangine was not broken. If Ibrahim had been attacked, he probably would have put up a fight, and he would most likely have thrown the tagine at his attacker, except the tagine was directly next to the overturned chair. Samira bent down and picked up a single grain of couscous. It smelled like rat poison.

Whoever killed Ibrahim must have poisoned him and then stabbed him

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to throw the police off of his trail and on to Foaud or Samira. That was when it hit her: Hassan.

It was like Samira had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Suddenly it all made sense. The lock, the couscous, the fake stab wounds. Hassan had a key to Ibrahim’s house, so he would not need to break the lock. Hassan was a master chef and would know how to poison his brother. The jokes he made in culinary school were not jokes; they were plans. Hassan had always been jealous of his brother, and the marriage to the woman he had had a crush on since culinary school was too much for him. And to top it off, Hassan stabbed the left side of his brother’s body to frame his former servant and Samira’s best friend, Fouad. Hassan must have not realized that this would inadvertently frame Samira. She slowly pulled the picture of Ibrahim and Hassan out of her pocket. Hassan’s eyes were shooting daggers at Ibrahim.

Samira knew the police would not believe her without a confession from Hassan. So she needed to get that confession, but in order to do that, she had to talk to a murderer.

Part Four: A Chat With a Killer Yet another torturously slow bus ride later, Samira arrived at the elegant, ornately decorated Hassan II Mosque. Even though it was a

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Wednesday, Samira knew exactly where to find Hassan. The Raiss family had always been very religious, so Hassan must be praying to Allah for forgiveness. Samira calmly entered the mosque. One would think confronting a murderer would be a stressful event, but something about the mosque made Samira feel calm and ready to face whatever challenges were in store for her.

Just as she was entering, she saw Hassan’s frail, sinister-looking figure getting ready to leave.

“Hello Hassan,” Samira said as strongly as she could.

“Why Samira, imagine seeing you here.” Samira could tell Hassan was sweating. His eyes were darting back and forth, looking for an exit. “I, uh, was, uh, praying for no particular reason,” Hassan stammered.

“Hassan, I was wondering if we could talk somewhere private,” Samira said cooly.

“Sure, but, uh, the mosque is pretty crowded. Uh, where should we go?”

“Perhaps we could try the minaret.

No one would be there this time of day.”

“Er…I don’t think we are allowed up there.”

“Come on, where is your sense of adventure?” Samira coaxed.

“Fine. But, if we get caught, you’re going to be in trouble, not me,”

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Hassan said forcefully.

After the climb to the minaret, Hassan was on the verge of passing out.

“Why...heh…are….heh…we…heh.. up…heh...here?” Hassan wheezed.

Samira ignored him. She loved the view from the minaret. One one side of her, the city of Casablanca stretched out in a sea of buildings and a roar of noise. A city that now hated her, but it would soon know the truth about Ibrahim’s murder. On the other side of her, the deep blue Atlantic Ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. The salt mist tickled her nose while the steady crash of the waves steadied her and prepared her for the confrontation to come.

“I know what you did,” Samira’s voice was shaky at first, but her confidence grew. “I know you killed Ibrahim. It was such an idiotic scheme.

Anyone with half a mind could have thought it up.” After spending years in school with Hassan, she knew exactly how to anger him. She prayed that it would make him mad enough to confess.

“Stupid! Ha! I killed my brother, and no one knows who did it. Only someone with my culinary genius could have poisoned that eating machine without him noticing. I then snuck into his house, a house that was rightfully mine, I might add, and I

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turned over his chair and stabbed his left side in hopes that I might frame that scum, Fouad Benkirane. I am truly sorry that my plan backfired and framed you.”

“Why would you kill your brother?”

Samira asked. She used every ounce of control she had to hold down her excitement. Hassan was falling directly into her trap.

“I killed that lazy, blimp-shaped, good-for-nothing, two-faced, selfish, greedy, lying, lump of trash because he always got whatever he wanted.

He got our parents’ love, the mansion, the fortune, the business, the best food, the best clothing, the best seats, the best car, the best everything! He even got the best woman in all of Morocco. Samira, I loved you from the day I met you. When I found out that Ibrahim was going to marry you, I became enraged. The jealousy and anger that had built up all of those years of being second best exploded out of me like a bomb. I could not sit by and let you marry that moron, I had to do something, and that is why I killed Ibrahim.”

As Samira stared into Hassan’s sunken eyes, she felt felt a glimmer of pity. The pity vanished as soon as it appeared. After all that Hassan had said and done, even the kindest person on earth could not feel sorry for him.

“Now that I have your confession, I will see to it that you go to jail so you cannot hurt anyone else,” Samira stated matter-of-factly.

“Why, it’s my word against yours, you—” “Have you forgotten?” Samira

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started, almost giddy with excitement.

“We are in a minaret, minarets are designed to be heard from far away for call to prayer. You just confessed to the entire city of Casablanca. So it is really your word against more than three million people.”

Hassan was silent. All of Casablanca was silent and staring at the minaret. Then, faint at first, then louder and louder in a scream of justice, the sirens on the top of police cars filled the air.

Part Five: Epilogue

The week after Hassan confessed to Samira, he was convicted of murder. Samira went on to become a women’s rights activist and was key to getting a law passed in 2018 that banned forced marriages.

After the law was passed, Samira and Fouad got married. Samira remains kind and peaceful, and she still loves a good mystery to this day.

Samira taught Fouad her secrets to cooking, and Fouad is now the best chef in Morocco. They had one daughter and remain a devoted couple and are as happy as ever. I should know. I am the daughter of Samira and Fouad Benkirane, and I am learning to write the mysteries my mother loves.

My teacher always says to write what you know, so I will. Samira Skalli sat in her house watching her favorite movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much.

Samira had always loved mysteries, how everything seemed to fit together in the end and the criminal was justly dealt with.

Samira wished this was how life worked….

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BECAUSE YOUNG HAWKS CANNOT LEARN TO FLY ALONE...

Special thanks to Middle School Art & English Faculty Art Faculty Anne Cammer Richard Fletcher, Chair Kaila Gottschling Clark Hawgood English Faculty Sallie Caddell Jake Jacobs Telia Martin Robert Salminen Kari Wimbish With appreciation to our administrators, who support our teachers' vision in guiding these creative Hawks: Administrative Support Todd Ballaban Chris Berger Rod Chamberlain Fletcher Gregory Arch McIntosh, Jr. Jenn Moore Matt Morrow

COLOPHON

literary and arts magazine, Blue Review. They are students who The body text is Proxima show an interest in leading and Nova Regular. Headline font encouraging Middle School is Minion Pro. the eyas is an students. The lead editors are online literary and arts magazine responsible for communicating and is not printed in hard-copy with the Middle School form; it is distributed to the students and teachers and Charlotte Latin Middle School for raising awareness for the community and posted on the eyas within the Middle School School wesbite. the eyas was community. They present to created using Adobe InDesign the Middle School during an CC. Charlotte Latin School assembly in the fall to solicit is a member of the following submissions from the students professional organizations: and to maintain communication North Carolina Scholastic Media with teachers and students Association and the Columbia throughout the school year.

Scholastic Press Association.

While students are encouraged to submit works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, EDITORIAL POLICY: and art in all forms, English All 338 students in grades and art teachers teachers can 6-8 are eligible to submit recommend pieces they feel work to the eyas. The lead merit recognition. Writing pieces Upper School editors and may be edited for grammar and/ mentors encourage students to or space, but content is not participate and submit work in censored by editors or adviser. art and writing in all mediums Students' high school and genres (poetry, fiction, graduation years are noted drama, and nonfiction). with their attributions; however, The Upper School editors pieces may have been crafted in are appointed by the faculty stages throughout their Middle adviser and are current staff School experiences. members of the Upper School

the eyas literary & arts magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. 1 2019