Happy Summer Lit-Mag!

Next year I will pump life into your weary bones!

Contrary Contradictions

Oh! Turn down the music,Rose.
It's too loud.
Jeanne's trying to do paperwork.
Volume 10.
Out of volumes 0 to 30.
Stop playing the guitar, Rose.
It's too late at night.
8:58 P.M.
Go to bed, Rose!
It's ten o'clock.
Two hours later.
Their light is still on.
Hey Rose, can you help us with this crossword puzzle?
Sorry Rose, I don't have time right now; we're eating.
Stop reading at the breakfast table, Rose!
Stop using the computer, go read!
Schoolwork is the first priority!
Just look at your room! You could at least try to keep it clean.
The hot glue gun is only supposed to be used in the studio, Rose.
Stop hiding away in the studio, and help with the chores!
Rose, could you show me how to send an e-mail again, I forgot.
You're going too fast, Rose, I don't understand.
We're too tired to drive anywhere tonight, Rose, we work all day, and you sit on your butt at school.
My allergies, Rose, shut that window!
Your room smells like dirty laundry; open the window a bit!
No matches in your room, Rose.
All these candles, Rose, you never use them.
Don't laze around, go outside and play!
It's muddy outside, and you'll get all dirty!
Don't kick the ball into the flowerbeds!
Practice soccer with your sister!
Rose, dinner!
Rose, stop eating all the pretzels!
Rose!
Rose!
Rose!
Et cetera.

Shoot Out

Sophie Sophie, June, Rose.

The Arc of Two Wholes

If we were two halves, we'd make a whole
But we're two people, two different wholes
just happening right by each other's side
We meet, hand to hand
And suddenly everything makes sense
The little things seem magnificent
The mudane, extrordinary
And the big picture is finally clear
We wonder why this hadn't existed before
Before us
The world calls and
We take a step forward
Embracing this newfound wonder
As two people, not halves of a soul
Two wholes that make a wiser soul
We begin the arc of two wholes

Danielle Burns
9th Grade
Exeter Township School District

You lose some, you gain some.
lose a home
gain a house
lose a mother
gain a mistress
lose a life
gain death
gain love
lose childhood
lose memories
lose sunshine
gain rain
lose a farm
gain a city
very few constants
sister-dog-doll
books-attic-box
those constants
are rare
yet the photographs show what I've lost
I can never go back there
and the moments slip past
each will never be again
and I'll lose you
and you will never be here
we will never be again

CYBERPUNK

They said that it wouldn’t hurt; of course they would lie. Every cut and scar invisible on the outside is there on the inside; I can feel this false, corded muscle tightening around each steel wire inside of me, the charge of every pulse moving through my wire nerves, the chill of my plastic flesh, all of it I can feel, but no one on the outside notices until they look at my eyes.

They couldn’t get the eyes right. Each eye is so different, they tell me, the parts inside are too complex to replicate with synthetic parts. I have camera lenses for eyes. They are good ones, the state-of-the-art, of course. I can zoom in and out, I have night-vision, all of the things your eyes can’t do. It all looks so flat and fake, like a bad movie. The eyes are the only thing I wanted them to correct and they can’t.

I want my eyes back. I miss tearing up at a sad movie, I miss the swirling uncertainty of the morning before I put my contact lenses in, I want the strange little spokes that come out of streetlights when I pass them in my car. I miss being able to imagine things in what I see where they are not. My mind has changed because of these damn camera lenses, I can’t pretend that his shirt is pink or she’s falling over, I can’t see it unless it’s happening, just like real cameras.

Little heaters keep my skin temperature realistic, each follicle of falsified hair is carefully placed on a small spool in my head that winds it out with time, realistically growing, I even have nano-machines grow me stubble at a normalized rate. I can’t turn them off, believe me, I’ve asked. I still have blood, my brain in its steel shell needs that, I have a stomach-like organ that digests the food I eat, destroying the waste and only giving me the nutrients. Robotic lungs and heart keep the blood full of oxygen and movement.

It is my only weakness. The blood. The last normal person thing about me is my weakness. You see, blood spoils eventually, it’s why we replace it naturally with new white blood cells made in the marrow of our bones. My bones are micro-titanium struts and springs for support. I need to have my blood replaced every so often, changed out, and each time more of my original blood is washed out. I’m slowly losing another part of myself.

The blood, it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I can feel it running through my veins, but I know it’s not mine. I asked where it comes from, the blood that isn’t mine, chilled in order to prolong its shelf-life, ice cold as it flows through every veins and capillary, every crevice in my brains chills with every swell of this red falsehood in my body.

I can’t trust any of the people around me; even my body is a traitor. It works for them, the men behind the one-way mirror. They watch as I fight and do the dirty things they send me to do and I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. That’s where the hypocrisy comes in, I guess. I want to be normal again, but I love this new body. If I had the balls to run free, I would, but I’m not sure how everything works yet. When I find out how the pieces and parts all function and how to repair the new pieces of me, they’ll know how badly I want to be free. No one of these fleshy normals will be able to stop me.

It’ll be so much fun.

eulogy for a woman i met long ago whom i suspect is now dead, part II

there is a gap, nigh an inch
which stands too for a preoccupation.
manicured cuticles on cigarette hands.
ladyfingers, not displayed on a platter,
but to make useful an anachronism's splendid palms.

a gem so bright remains on the third pastry,
one half of the parliament facade,
that one could guess it charged the corpuscles of its late owner
and kept their swims efficient.

how now did it stop?
twenty years and not a heartbeat did it relax.
was an escape necessary?
or some lovely vacation?
or did its master pry itself from its relation
and reckon itself done.

all of these questions are now unnecessary.
negated by a swift wrist.
karen swoons from the old ship-to-shore.
"it's too late, baby now. it's too late."

my name is Gabulous Losoncy, and i am in my sophomore year.

Intro

So many dreams lurk
Hidden
Within my
Inner self.

Faint memories all
Mixed up
To create a
Twisted plot

Short or long,
Scary or amazing,
I want to keep them
All.

Though nightmares were
Most common,
A tale is best
Once told.

Here is but a bit
Of all those dreams
Within me.
Difficult to understand;
What could they possibly mean?

Perhaps I will find out,
Once darkness comes
Again.

Zeba Ahmed • grade 9

Toyland

Cruising down the lane with
Polly Pocket,
Her hair flowing in the wind
While Batman drives the Batmobile.

Zooming by loads of buildings,
The milk bottle tower, Polly Pocket Palace,
Never stopping for things in their way as
They tear through the masterpiece
Sally just drew with fingerpaint

Then it was dinner time and
Batman and Polly Pocket had to stop
And be put away into their dark cage
To wait for Sally to come back
And play with them again

Rachel Johnson • grade 10

Blue Bird

Hello, blue bird
It’s so good to see you
To feel the warmth of your presence
For so long I haven’t seen you
This feeling is everlasting
This feeling that this, us, will last forever

The crow’s black feathers appear
And break the peacefulness
The ear-shattering screech of the black nightmare
Forces you away until the crow flies away for winter

Bye bye, blue bird
The crow has cast you away
To a far, far land
To not see me for a long time

Rachel Johnson • grade 10

Tornado

I look outside
Through large glass doors
To see a scary sight
A raging thin, tall
Gray tornado
Reaches to the ground
To consume a house or a yard
As I whirl away.
“Hurry!” I shout and cry,
Grabbing ice cream cones
And pillows.
At the basement,
I pull
Open the door
To an unlit underground,
Shooing everyone into
Safety.
I look behind one last time
And step upon the stairs.
What happened next,
I do not know,
As darkness comes again.

Zeba Ahmed • Grade 9

Kill Ourselves Trying

Working like slaves each
Day and night
To complete pointless
Work…work…work
The printer is slow
And my head is still
Pounding from memorizing
That speech
Do they want us to learn
Or to kill ourselves trying
Brains numbered by
Lack of sleep
Lack of food
Lack of rest and relaxation
Is this a good learning environment
I think not

Murdering creativity
That’s what they’re doing
Some is okay
But enough is enough
We’re human beings
Not machines
And don’t say it’s for lack of trying
It is literally
Impossible
We A people
Kill ourselves
Trying
It’s a wonder
One can exist
On so little
Sleep
Zombie-like
Trances but
We must
Stay
Awake
To learn
More and more
And more and
More

Rose Chiango • grade 9

New poetry

Check out some of the recent works by Wyomissing Area Junior/Senior High School writers and artists.