VOLUME I, ISSUE 2: SPRING 2012

L(eg)IT MAG M

S

M

There is always hope. If you or a friend are having prob-

lems, talk to a friend, a teacher, a trusted adult, or God, or

call 1-800-273 TALK (8255) — together we can find a REAL

solution. Let’s remember Blake Laughlin by loving and car-

ing for one another, and celebrating the beauty of LIFE!

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“Defamiliarization gives us the oppor-

tunity to wonder…” (Danielle Pierce)

What is defamiliarization? It's forcing other people to see com-mon things in uncommon ways. It's when you look at someone or something you've known all your life as if you're seeing it for the

very first time. It’s when you shine a new light on something old, find anunusual perspective, draw a fresh comparison... in short, make us wonder at those ordinary miracles that surround us.

3

She puts her hair up in a tight clean bow,

And only wished one day one person might know.

She hates this game—it’s gone long enough.

But what can she do? The rules are too tough.

She opens the door, and walks right in.

Her friends come over and she puts on a grin.

She looks at the man she truly loves,

But all thoughts about him she’ll surely shove.

The pressure is gone; hence she gave in

And broke the boundaries that have always been.

She finally surrendered, but not to a knife —

She married the unpopular boy in back,

and now has a wonderful life.

She hates having to do this again and again, Even though this is how its always been. They run in different circles, so the two will never meet, Even though his music is her beat.

Poisoned Popularity by McKenna Walker-Hirzy

The love of a child

so innocent, so pure,

so small and easily unnoticed,

yet so great and influential.

Tiny Hands by Bailee Bronson

Small paint brush, never-ending picture. The faintest sob, able to break the hearts of millions.

Their laugh, able to well the sick and turn every demon holy. Scared of nothing, exemplary to the most fierce or warriors.

Tiny giggles,

Tiny bodies,

Most beautiful soul,

Our world's future,

Tiny hands.

How is it possible that year after year

Our principle hires teachers, without any fears.

She seems to have a knack, to tell future stars from duds,

This lady has talent, to know who’s the next stud. Or stud-ette.

(Poetic license, thank you very much!)

So as a full year approaches rapidly, for our rookie teachers of 2011,

And as we sing their praises, and send thanks to God in heaven:

For the blessings of Mr. Baldridge, or Big John as he is known;

A passion for U.S. history to our kids he has shown.

For the gift of Mr. Bishop, talented Chuck making his mark,

Two sections of freshman algebra—our kids are pretty dang smart!

And then there is the drama lady—how ‘bout some improve and speech?

Kudoes to Caroline Brown, our kids just love the way you teach.

Coach Bryce is now in the classroom, a whole lotta gov while you coach

track,

And as a mom who serves our contry, coach says, ‘I just wanted to give

back.’

And check out all that noise (the good kind—music) out there in ye’ old

band room,

The drums beating oh so gently and Mr. Jech’s kids’ vocal sonic booms.

And out of South Bend, Indiana—fields of dreams and corn—

Amy Kalmar with this lit mag, and another star is born.

She hails from St. James Parish: ‘Teach English to them new kids.’

Mrs. Lane’s care and understanding, to ensure your kids do not skid.

And the wonderful Mrs. Lee, teaching Chinese down the hall

In the year of the Chinese Dragon, and Quin Dynasty beauty dolls.

Check out the action among juniors, Mrs. Morris’ a favorite teach,

‘Cause God gave her a talent for every kid that she will reach.

And down there in the basement, a holy place to be,

Our religion leaders inspiring us, to give thanks upon our knees.

Ms. Rziha totally committed, to showing her kids God’s love,

Advising her students of sins that they should all get rid of.

And up on the science deck, a young chemist in our place,

Mrs. Swearingen helping youngsters, discover science in God’s grace.

And finally we hired Mrs. Welch, to teach juniors Religion III,

Your mentorship and example… you are another top draftee.

And so we thank our first-year teachers, from the bottom of our hearts.

For your kindness to our kids, your performance off the charts.

We thank you for the professionalism you show each and every day.

We thank you for your friendship and for being here today.

Three cheers for our rookie Rocket teachers — HIP HIP HOORAY! 44

In Praise of Mount First Year Teachers

by Coach Keilty

Dreams are black and silver.

They taste like honey, or maybe lemon water.

They sound like the laughter of you best friend And they smell like dust and ashes.

They look like swirls and curl-i-ques.

Dreams make you feel alive.

Dreams

by Caitlin Bradley

5

Delicately it is formed by all-knowing hands,

Molded and made, so when it's done—sand.

Desired by beasts that were first here,

Quickly disappearing like the bounding deer.

Many secrets and pain held within

Silk and iridescence, shy skin.

But what lies beneath is a strong heart and mind;

The real reason to devote to it is hard to find.

Determined to behold, able to shine;

The answer when asked is: "I'm just fine."

It tries to look perfect, and gains and looses

Only to serve the role for wrong uses.

It can be tempted, easily vulnerable;

When persuaded, easily gullible.

It walks, it speaks, it hears and loves—

Only to fall, manipulated by the beast who hasn't

had enough.

No respect, only lust—

Being protected is a must.

How often it is hurt, how brutal the blame—

No wonder through culture it's ashamed.

What am I?

by Miryam Coleman

Clockwise from top right:

Collage

by Anne Yoon

Photograph & Caption

by Mary Silas

Photograph of Ariel Contreras

by Andrew Yoon

“Beauty”

by Brooke Harrington

The sweet, satisfying fluid flows through the icy mounds like a

mountain stream turned into a river from the melted snow of a

winter storm, bringing vitality to the valley below.

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7

Thesis Statements

By Elizabeth

Personette

Murder Birds

by Elizabeth Personette

Everyone has that dream.

You know, that one nightmare where you wake up and go,

“What was that? That wasn’t even scary,” yet you woke up shak-

ing and terrified.

Or maybe that one dream where you wake up, think about

what you just dreamed, and then start shaking. You should have

been terrified.

Chickens are like that. They’re like the second one, any-

way. I mean, think about it. Chickens are, indeed, the dumbest

things on the face of the planet. I would know, I’ve raised several broods. They eat, scratch at the ground, peck at the ground, bugs,

their feet, other chickens’ feet or pretty much anything else within

beak range. They also stare glassily off into space as if it’s so bor-

ing they can’t not look at it and derp around in an ungainly fash-

ion. Pretty much the last things on earth you’d be afraid of if they

became irate, right?

Wrong. Chickens are freaking scary. They have wings,

claws, and those beaks are pretty sharp. The roosters even have

spikes on the backs of their legs. You know the term cockfighting

used to refer to rings where people would set roosters loose on

each other to beat the crap out of each other? That’s because

they were good at it. They would tear each other into little bleed-

ing pieces. Chickens are murder-birds.

I remember when I was around seven years old, we had a

giant chicken coop full of Red Sussex and some other breeds, out

in the middle of nowhere (read: 250 acres of untamed woodlands

with a giant clearing in the middle). These weren’t meat chickens;

they were robust and active. The ratio of males to females was

something like 1:5, which isn’t a good ratio for chickens. The fe-

males hide under things to keep from being mauled because the

little roosters got their butts kicked and needed to abuse some-

thing that was too demure to abuse back (and didn’t have mas-

sive spikes on the backs of their legs).

Anyway, I’d been chucking corncobs at the biggest rooster

because he was a really huge jerk. He beat the crud out of ALL

the other chickens, just because he could. The rooster was big

and mean and a complete wuss while I was chasing him. Then I

lost interest and turned around. Two and a half seconds later,

something large, heavy, feathery, loud, and very hurty came hur-tling at the back of my head. I was a very gangly, skinny child, and

was promptly knocked over, flapping wildly at this terrifying mon-

strosity that was once a chicken. That was probably the single

scariest moment of my life, in terms of adrenaline and fight-or-

flight instincts. Being an ornery child, I chased him around for a

while after that and left him outside to be devoured by the coyo-

tes and cougars that lived around.

The next day, we found the tracks of a single dog-like

creature (probably rather small, but still) and some bloodstains.

The rooster was strutting around with a limp and half his feathers

chewed off, but that stupid bird was still alive. And it fought off a

dog. Maybe he murdered it and offered its carcass to the spirit of

the wilderness in which it lived. We may never know.

I am not afraid of chickens. I probably never will be. But I

respect the stupid, useless birds because I know what they truly

are. The murder-birds.

Note: the occurrences in this rant are subject to the embellish-

ment of a seven-year-old mind, memory, and pure undiluted fear. 8

I was driving an old beat up, silver Ford van. My friend was

sitting in the backseat wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt and san-

dals. The middle row of seats had been pulled out long ago. We

pulled up and parked in an empty small gravel parking lot on the

side of a two-lane road in the middle of the desert. My friend

hopped out the side door and walked straight into a wooden-shack

of a restaurant as if on a mission.

I slowly exited the driver’s side door and walked around to the

back of the van. There was practically no green to be found on the

gently rolling desert hills. Only dirt, some rocks, boulders, and a

rare sage bush dotted here and there. In the clear blue sky, a late

morning sun was already beating down and baking the desert

floor. Heat waves shimmered off the blacktop of the road behind

me.

To my surprise, this friendly, nearly knee-high, little white fuzzy

dog appeared from around the side of the van and approached

me, half begging for some attention, half trying to ignore me but

not doing a very convincing job of it. I slowly knelt down as my

back and leg muscles enjoyed the stretch from the long ride. I

reached out my hand and the dog cozied up to me to be petted.

The fur was soft and cool. Odd that he would feel cool to the touch.

No shade in sight. Too much fur for an animal in the desert. Yet,

the little guy didn’t seem bothered by the heat.

As I knelt there petting the dog, gazing at the horizon, a gentle

breeze blew across the desert and caressed my face and arms. It

felt refreshing. I sank into the moment, absorbed in the softness

of the dog’s fur, the contrast of the azure sky with the tans of the

desert and the hot sun on my shoulders.

My moment was broken when I heard the screen door to the

restaurant squeak and close with a clack. I stood up and the little

white fuzzy dog stepped back from me a few steps. Our encounter

was over. Part of me was eager to get started back on the road.

Another part of me wanted to reach out and hold on to that little

dog, to cling to that moment of peace. But the moment was over. A

new moment was waiting.

My friend had reached the van. Instead of jumping into the

open side door and climbing into the backseat where he had been

sitting, he smiled at me, opened the front passenger door and hopped into the seat

next to the driver’s seat. He leaned his right arm out the window and smiled again

at me. The little white fuzzy dog patiently walked to the edge of the gravel parking

lot and turned to watch us, wagging his tail, almost in anticipation of something.

I closed the side door of the van and walked around the back of the van to the

driver’s side door. As my hand touched the door handle, I paused. A thought occurred to me. I should ask him to drive.

With a sheepish grin on my face, I let go of the handle and walked around the back of the van to the passenger door to the

open window where my friend was. I stood there for the briefest of moments looking down at the dust on my shoes. I slowly looked

up into his face and asked, “Will you drive?”

He smiled a warm and inviting smile. He gently shook his head and said, “No.”

My heart sank.

“But I would like you to drive now,” I implored.

“I know,” he said. “I know. You’re not quite ready for that yet.”

“But I really want you to…”

“Soon,” he said confidently, “soon.”

My spirits rose again. He had said, “Soon.” I can wait for that.

I walked around the back of the van again, hopped into the

driver’s seat and started the engine. As I backed up the van, I caught a

glimpse of the little white fuzzy dog. He appeared as if he was smiling.

How could a dog smile?

I popped the gear into drive and pulled up to the edge of the parking lot

next to the road. I smiled a little grin towards my friend and asked,

“Which way?”

He grinned wide with a sparkle in his eye. He pointed down the

road to the right and said, “Let’s go this way.”

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The Passanger

by Mr. Mark Woodward

The Errand

by Sylvia Proctor

I stepped, tentatively. One wrong move and I could end up in the wrong place. I found myself

at the mouth of the last tunnel. The last aisle. Glistening tiles swam before my eyes like pixels on an

old computer screen. They teased me. They were a river I had yet to cross. I wiped a bit of sweat from

my thick, unwaxed brow, not unlike my sister’s. What could be at the very end? The powdered sugar

mother had asked for, fine white sand in a small paper sack?

I bit my lip, taking a step. I felt the ends of vines on my head and shoulders. I looked up at a

cloud of bright-colored bubble shapes attached to white strings. I ran from them but made a mistake.

I looked back. I grimaced as I felt the sharp, metal hooves of a tribal warrior’s horse, rolling over my

foot. Her snake-like eyes glared sharply into mine. I walked away quickly, although injured. I found

the loot. Powdered sugar for my sister’s birthday cake.

I ran. Quickly, quietly, though not quite unnoticed. “In a rush?”

I breathed. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown freckles and clear cream skin, his face was like a

foamy latte with cinnamon sprinkled on top. His hair was just curled at the ends, and looked very soft.

He had thick brows as I.

“I…yes. I mean, no. Not really anyway,” I muttered looking at my sun-kissed feet.

He smiled, almost laughing. “You look hot.” He shook his head, “I mean, ah, you’re still all

flushed from outside. You ought to stay awhile and cool off.”

I looked inside his eyes, pretending I could look inside him, the way you do when you see

someone the first time. I forgot to respond for a moment. “I…” considered, “My mother is waiting on

this…”

“Alright, well, that will be $1.57,” he said. He rocked back and forth on his feet with his

hands behind his back, as I searched out the money. He handed me my paper sack.

“Thanks, Gabe,” I said, blushing, although I didn’t know why.

“Come back and see us! I’m always here, you know.”

I nodded towards him on my way out, exiting the grocery store through its small fingerprint-

smudged, automatic doors, back into the sweltering heat of summer.

10

A WRITER TO WATCH:

CHRISTOPHER CONNER

Chris’s current work in progress is a tale of the MINIFIG-

URES, “a small race of warriors who protect the world.”

He provided L(eg)IT MAG with a summary of his book:

This story is about the three founding members and

their adventures on earth, meeting other Minifigures.

They fight the evil of the Minifigures who want to take

over the Toyroom (the Minifigures’ version of the United

States). They do things that hardly anyone else can do

— like fight in Antarctica, space, wilderness, and other

dimensions. They sometimes encounter Minifigures

that are made of dried clay — hand-made Minifigures

that kids have thought of in past years. The Minifigures

have adventures in places so awesome that they have

earned their place in the history books. These are the

Minifigures and their adventures against evil.

“Sparkman, Tahu, and Gelu are the main heroes and the founders of

Team Minifigures. They united with others because the Toyroom govern-

ment kept secrets from them…”

What inspires you as a writer?

Where do you get your ideas?

I’m a fan of the Percy Jackson series. My sto-

ries are kind of like the Kingdom Keepers,

which uses characters from Disney films. My

stories have characters [from books, comics,

and TV shows] that people might be familiar

with, from the past, present, and hopefully

even the future.

You said you like to use characters that your readers

are already familiar with — how do you make them your

own?

What makes them different is that in my story,

they don’t act the way they do in their own se-

ries. They’re different in this one. My story

shows them as different people – the genders

are the same, but the heroes could be the vil-

lain and the villain could be the hero.

When did you start writing?

I started writing last year because I was in a

speech class, and I got good grades on my

writing assignments. It got me thinking – if

other people can write books, why can’t I do

that too?

What do you like the best about writing?

It gives me the chance to be creative. It lets

me use my imagination for a good purpose,

instead of just thinking about things…

What advice could you give to someone who

wanted to begin writing?

You need to think of characters you want to

put in your story. Give it a good plot, and a

good villain, and learn about the place you

want your adventure to be. The more you

learn about the place you’re writing about, the

better it will be.

Imagination is a

bad thing to waste.

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2 L(eg)IT

0 WRITER

1 AWARD

2 WINNER

12

Want more?

THANK YOU to all supporters, con-

tributors, and editors of this issue

of L(eg)IT MAG. And special

thanks to Mr. Bruce Pierce for

making our magazine a reality!

Spring L(eg)IT MAG Staff *

KELSIE KENT (Editor-in-Chief)

ANNE YOON (Asst. Editor-in-Chief)

NADIYA BRADLEY CAITLYN BRADLEY

SAM OLA MIRYAM COLEMAN

BECA PERRETTI SKARLET PERRETTI MCKENNA WALKER-HIRZY ANDREW YOON

CONNOR HARTZELL LEXI RODRIGUEZ MILEY DURBIN RACHEL NGO

CHRISTIAN MONK DOMINIC REYNA

ARIEL CONTRERAS RACHEL STROUHAL

BETHANY HEID MS. AMY KALMAR (Faculty Advisor)

Find a FULL COLOR copy of the magazine, and more creative works by your friends and faculty, at msmlitmag.yolasite.com.

PREPARE TO BE ASSIMILATED.

Lit Mag meets after school on

Tuesdays in Ms. Kalmar’s room

(108). Come join us!

Question? Comment? Submission? msmlitmag@gmail.com or akalmar@mountstmary.org.