White Coat, Black Magic

By Sophia Rosenberg

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About the Artist

Sophia Rosenberg is a first-year student at ICC who has loved writing since childhood. A devoted lover of the arts, she enjoys theatre, choir, writing, and both listening to and playing music. When she’s not at school, Sophia can often be found painting, gardening, or catching a good rock concert. Known for her fashionably overdressed style, she hopes to pursue a career as a dramaturg or translator.

Coffee in the Morning

 By Drashauna Souba

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About the Artist 

Drashauna Souba is in her second year at ICC. She is born and raised in Peoria, Illinois. She’s a rather creative, talkative, and aspiring person and likes to tell stories through art and writing. In her spare time she’ll play The Sims 2-4 or find herself watching random history videos. She’s been doing art since 4th grade which makes it 11 years now.

A Lonely Bachelor

By Sophia Rosenberg
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I moved here from the city slums, 
Hoping to live a quiet life working at the orchard.
I was very shy, but I was very much in love 
With the mayor’s daughter. 
She had round, red cheeks like the apples I picked, 
And golden hair the color of the trees during autumn.
I spent my youth competing with the local butcher for her affections,
Stupidly vying for her hand in marriage.
But he had a reputation with the women as some local Romeo,
And her mind had been made before I even came to town.
Why should I expect her to choose a poor fruit farmer?
The whole town was invited to their luxurious wedding.
And I too came, and left resentfully, 
Wishing I had not wasted so many years chasing after her like a fool.
It was a pathetic waste of time and spirit,
For one can never be content unless the one he loves is also happy,
And she was happy with him, so I had to make peace with that. 
I never did. 
I died at only fifty-six,
Still a lonely bachelor, still a meager farmer
 

About the Author 

Sophia Rosenberg is a first-year student at ICC who has loved writing since childhood. A devoted lover of the arts, she enjoys theatre, choir, writing, and both listening to and playing music. When she’s not at school, Sophia can often be found painting, gardening, or catching a good rock concert. Known for her fashionably overdressed style, she hopes to pursue a career as a dramaturg or translator.

"Jackpot" O'Neill

By Sophia Rosenberg

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He was in it to win it,

And he was famous for his zeal.

He refused to quit,

 The man known as Patrick O’Neill.

His friend said, “Pat, you’re nearly broke.

You’re gambling away all your finances!”

Pat laughed and took out a smoke.

“That’s why they call it the Capital of Second Chances!

If I win, I’ll buy myself a lifetime supply of Irish beer,

And I’ll buy you a sequin tux.”

He then grinned from ear to ear,

As he fed the slot machine his last hundred bucks.

Pat cranked the lever hopefully,

With a glint of greed in his eyes. 

“I doubt you’ll win this time,” his friend said openly,

But they both prayed for a prize.

The machine read 7-7-7,

And Pat was taken aback. 

He exclaimed, “I must be in heaven!”

But his friend just laughed and slapped his back. 

Pat had won three hundred grand— 

He couldn’t believe it was real. 

And so his new life began,

And he became known as “Jackpot” O’Neill

About the Author 

Sophia Rosenberg is a first-year student at ICC who has loved writing since childhood. A devoted lover of the arts, she enjoys theatre, choir, writing, and both listening to and playing music. When she’s not at school, Sophia can often be found painting, gardening, or catching a good rock concert. Known for her fashionably overdressed style, she hopes to pursue a career as a dramaturg or translator.

Old Sports

 By Gracie Brinker
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Amidst the glitz and glamour of a roaring night, between the clinking of champagne glass and casual conversations, slithering through the bump and grind of drunken partygoers, is the shell of a broken woman. She haunts the halls of the mansion like it was all her purpose in life, as if she was born just to die and become a wandering spirit. She tussled with a creature too dangerous and it killed her. They found her body in the ocean, a struggle being had; a rumor of a creature coming up and sending her soul to the seven seas, forever cursing her to wander the waters in search of herself again. Rumor says she may be unaware of the fact that she's dead, so as to never approach her ghost. She attempts to fill the void that the man she once loved left inside her before he had to transform into the hideous monster.
 
They never played games. People could agree and say that this whole subcategory of dating is disrespectful; roping someone into thinking you like them while instead you could care less. She had never been one for casual kissing, and through the lens of his curious eyes, they both never saw short term. She always thought that was the reason she liked him so much. He never showed her pretend. His love for her was never an act. His smile never faltered when he looked at her. She had once been in love with so many eyes that never sparked like lightbulbs when she spoke, until she met him. Until she learned his heart, she wanted to chase that light forever. She wanted to glimpse across the sea every night and see them shine from a distance. If she could take the opportunity to grasp at every piece of him she could find, she would stare directly into the sun. She would search the skies for traces of him floating in the air. He became a legend only few locals could tell the tale of, but not everyone might believe in its existence. People want real proof nowadays. She began to learn this quickly, wrestling with the current and trying to pull herself upstream.
 
If she really wanted to, she could have avoided it. It was the easiest thing to do in this scenario. It’s all she really could do. Because if he wouldn’t even give her the decency to talk it out, she had to resort to the aching memories. She wished she could push it to the side and just forget it. She would write it down in her diary and wish on hundreds of stars to forget. It wouldn’t go away. So many people write books on how to just “let go “, yet few of them truly know the feeling of a moment in time chaining them down. Like when the sea monster of unnecessary dread slithers his slimy tentacles onto the ship, wrapping up and tossing a body overboard. The memories will drag you down to Davy Jones’ locker. Where it’s dark, and because it's so dark, there is nothing to keep the mind off the crater in your soul. The loss of the one you once loved will tackle you in the dark. You won't be able to see until you're eaten by the monster in pitch black. Locals will call that monster a myth; a tale that only few claim to be true. Back in those times, they'd lock you away if you so happen to mention anything other than ordinary. Most people just kept their mouths shut; her words swam for miles.
 
She knows she can move on to whoever she wants, but he still lurks in the deep sea. Until the sword pierces his belly, the beast will continue to drag unwilling pirates into the depths of their weakest moments. There will still be people around to talk about him as long as he’s still alive. Folks gather around campfires to tell the tale of a fabled mythical creature. No, not Nessie. Far worse. They show off their weapons, preaching perilous stories about their encounters with the monster. She can only roll her eyes. They don't know the monster like she does. They’ll never experience the triumph against the deep sea like she has. They can wage war with any creature they want to, but they’ll never know her’s. They won’t know the dread of staring into the eyes of the love of your life and watching them form into a hideous beast. They’ve been telling stories of inhuman transformations since before Jekyll and Hyde; since before they planted the idea of separating the good and the bad into our minds. For some people, you could separate the good and the bad, and one would be significantly larger than the other. Their bad side might be a grotesque amalgamation of pure terror! Something that deserves to be locked away where the public cannot see. And possibly, their good side might be as small as a thumbnail. As in they could squish every positive thing about them between their fingers. Then there would be nothing good to say about the boy that broke her heart. Not that she ever had anything left anyways.
 
When the monster knows it's night, it will approach the surface with uncertainty. It's a nightly routine. This could be the risk of a lifetime. Just an ounce of vulnerability and it’s dead meat. And then someone will have another story about a monster they've killed. They'll make a plaque about them in the town square; a cheap statue they make about the “hero” that will rust within 20 years. It would be humiliating for the monster, though, so it usually approaches when it knows the world outside is mostly asleep or out enjoying the night. Most people don't dwell on the water during the night, for they believe it's much scarier. When you can't see what's below your feet, your mind immediately races to fear. It's probably the reason why so many people can't swim in natural waters. They've heard of the unlikely tales of an alligator, emerging from the deep and unhinging its jaw, dragging them into the murky depths below. Most people tend to avoid even looking at the water in the dark, because they're afraid of what they might see. The creature will scan the area for any sign of life, but its own eyes will focus instead on the happenings of a lively party coming from a large house. Barely visible through terrible eyesight, but the monster knows it's there. He's been invited before, but he never plans on attending.
 
She'll see him before he sees her. She spots the outline of his ginormous form, two bright lights shining back at her; beacons of what she's lost. She could spot those lights out of a crowd of a thousand discos, but tonight, they just look like dim bulbs. The type of cheap lights that flicker occasionally when the switch is flipped. She's thrown so many parties, invited hundreds of guests, spent fortunes on expensive champagne, hoping to see her love again. And she does. She always happens to spot him by the end of the night. But he never comes inside. He waits where it's scary. He has every opportunity to come in, to make himself at home like he once was, to find her again. He doesn't. He never will. He waits until the music is slow and the lights are dim until he makes his cameo, only for her. If anyone other than her were to see, they’d set out on a quest to kill him. They’d raise their pitchforks and chase the monster to his end. Instead, he’ll rise up out of the water, locking eyes with something he once wrapped his arms around, now far from his reach. She told him once that her door will always be unlocked for him, even if he doesn't have the strength to open it. She knows he will never admit that he'll never find it again. When the party is over, she'll find peace knowing that he's too weak to even try. She'll put away her champagne, party streamers and game pieces forever. If he wants to play, then he’s way too late for that. The monster sinks back into the water for a final time as the former love of his life retreats back into her house, sharp weapons against a wordless coward. He’s always been a terrible sport. Maybe now he'll finally retire at the game, once and for all.



About the Author

Gracie Brinker likes to write, A-LOT; so much so that she has to buy extra storage for her Google Drive just to keep track of all her writings. You'll see many references to pop culture and media within her writings. Although she is quite shy, she uses her writings to express the words she cannot say. You can usually find her reading a banned book or listening to The Beach Boys, or both. 

Virginia is for Lovers, Nebraska is for Cheaters

 By Gracie Brinker
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The Macarena is a song about cheating. In the same way that Semi Charmed Life is about crystal meth. It’s the idea of Pumped Up Kicks being about vintage shoes and also about kids that bring weapons to school. Sometimes, even the most upbeat song may have a disturbing backstory to it, almost like it’s lying right to your face. From painting a red door black to balloons floating in the summer sky, there is probably a song about anything you can think of. People thought Hotel California was about going to Hell. You could go on about The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia, or the time the devil went down there looking for a soul to steal. Many scenarios are exaggerated. Some take their inspiration from real world events. But not all murder ballads are created equally. Tears in Heaven is about Eric Clapton’s son who fell from a window. A girl didn't like a weekday so much that she aimed a rifle at a preschool and The Boomtown Rats penned I Don't Like Mondays about it. Bruce Springsteen wrote about a real couple that murdered 10 people in Nebraska. You might not realize it at first, but a second listen might give you questions you’ll have to search for the answer to. But it's not hard to be subtle when the lyrics spell out the meaning right there.
 
Sometimes, Georgia doesn't want the devil to visit her anymore, the Hotel California becomes an unlovely place, and Nebraska decides she wants to kill you herself. Unassisted. She'll show up at your front door unprompted. When you go to open it, she shoots you in the forehead. You almost don’t even see the weapon in her hand until it claims your life. There’s no emotion in her face. You used to love the way her blue eyes would twinkle at you, but now they only view you coldly. A color once vibrant and loving, now darkened. She might as well not look at you at all. She doesn't even have a reaction when she checks for your pulse, cold fingers against your cold neck, searching for a heartbeat she knows isn't there anymore. A heart that once beat for her, now lifeless. She’ll drag you by your arms to her car, unlocking her truck and tossing your body into it. It might as well be your final resting place. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds wrote an entire album about fictional murder ballads. Maybe the girl you once loved was inspired by these. You've become restricted to the girlfriend tied up in the trunk cliché. Maybe this is how it ends; this is how you die.
 
But most of the time the smoking gun is just her voice itself. She doesn’t stuff you into her trunk. She doesn’t shoot you at all. She won’t even look sad when she tells you she wants to break up with you. She doesn’t have to drag you to her car at all, instead you’ll climb into her passenger seat willingly. She has your favorite ice cream for you. It's a little melted, but you prefer softer ice cream and she is aware of that. Fuck. You wish she didn’t know you as well as she did. If she didn’t have you memorized like a favorite song, maybe this wouldn’t hurt as much. You've clung on to every “what-if?” of the relationship since the beginning; what's one more for good luck? She asks if you’d like to go for a drive and you agree, knowing what's to come. The silicon chip inside your head gets switched to overload, and you suddenly wanna shoot the whole day down. And since you'd rather not get heartbroken in your driveway, you agree. She's going to sweeten the deal and then go for your heart. If this is what the game of love is, she must be a very bad player. She’s always had terrible aim anyways.
 
She will start the conversation by asking about your job. She knows what you like to talk about and what you don't. However, she's very bad at respecting those boundaries. Your workplace has sucked the life out of you to the point where everyone around you notices. She has for sure. She backs out of your driveway and turns right down the street you take every day. To you with muscle memory, but for her she had to memorize the way she came from. She'll have to do the same when she drops you off too. You'll have to take that road for months afterwards and she's all you're going to think about. You wish you would’ve just opened up the door and rolled out of the moving vehicle before she could break your heart. She decides to drive down the road she's most familiar with. You don't question her because she should know her way around your neighborhood by now. She seems to have learned about other neighborhoods as well too. Neighborhoods with much bigger houses and yards. She can date across the 50 states all she wants; all interstates will lead back home to you. You ask her if she can cut the bullshit, and she doesn't expect you to be so blunt, but she agrees.
 
She confirms that she was cheating on you. You nod because you aren’t surprised. Although you don’t let her know that you aren’t surprised. The Beatles released many songs that sound like a bunch of random instruments jumbled together. To you, her words sound just like a hammer coming down upon your head. Bang! Bang! She creeps up behind you and strikes when you're the most vulnerable. It's the type of feeling that makes your fingers spark, like electricity being shocked into you through bolts on your neck; some sort of lovestruck Frankenstein’s monster. IT’S ALIVE!!! You let a tear run down your cheek and pray she doesn't notice it. She’s also always been terrible at paying attention. She only remembers what she wants to remember. She decides whether or not your sadness will dictate her own sadness. Her sympathy only stretches so far. Maybe she’ll write a murder ballad about you someday. You wonder how many words she could rhyme with your name.
 
She’s crying now. You don’t really know why she’s crying to begin with. She’s the reason why this is ending. She is the farmer with the rifle in her hand. You are the sick dog who cannot be saved. She looks the opposite way, as if turning and begging you to “Get! Get away you dumb dog! Can’t you see I don't want you anymore?” Avoidance is the silent killer. The silent stalker. It builds up inside before it snaps. You can run around avoiding the state of Nebraska all your life, but she’ll come to kill you in the end. She always takes back what is rightfully hers. She wipes stray tears from her eyes and turns back to you, as if wanting to hear what you have to say. There’s nothing left but blood on the axe. Blood on the saddle and blood on the wall. You can clean up your mess as much as possible but the stains will still be there to remind you.
 
You'll be convinced that there was something they had that you didn’t. You ask her what you could have done better, and she tells you “nothing”. You both know that's not true. Although you know she won't admit it to your face. She'll eventually be caught and tried and executed for her crimes. But right now, she thinks she's off the hook. She’ll brag to her friends about how good she’s handling it, but your shadow will terrorize her. Riders on the Storm; there’s a killer on the road. There's only so far you can drive until you'll have to stop for gas. But by now, she’s turned back and is driving towards your house. She might feel grateful this is the last time she's ever going to drive to your place. She might disappear from your life, but her melodies will always seem to chase you. Like an earworm so catchy it makes you miserable when you no longer remember how it goes. One day, you'll wake up and forget how her voice sounds, but you have a lot of music left to listen to until that happens. You need to clear the queue for better playlists.
 
She pulls into your driveway, and you know it’s time to go. You'll say goodbye forever; it's the only music left to hear, besides the beating of your own heart in your ears. She’ll ask to hug you one last time. She has her arms out before you can say no, so you agree because you know you’ll be alone later and regret it. Although, for the first time, hugging her doesn’t feel pleasant. It doesn’t feel like you’re wrapping your arms around a human, molding flesh together. Some people like to wrap their arms around their partners as tight as possible. She used to be so warm. She used to wrap her limbs around your waist, staining your face with her maraschino colored kisses, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you” against your skin like a promise. Her words became bullets which became bombs which blew up. You can compare the pain to any weapon known to man. Her embrace might feel like you are hugging the knife, letting her sharp blade puncture through your skin, piercing your lungs, stopping your breath. She’s unaware of the life she’s sucking out of you.
 
You'll go back to your bedroom alone, and then you’ll think about it. You’ll think about her. You’ll come up with every single scenario under the sun to make yourself feel better. You blame yourself for every situation where you could’ve been better, but you know you can’t change it. You might’ve not been perfect, but neither was she. You can’t fix how she feels about you. You can’t fix how her mind works. You’ll never truly realize it. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe the truth would eat you alive. Maybe it's better off to not know either way. You will never see her again. You'll only hear about her. But word-of-mouth doesn't seem to do her any justice.
 
And so you can’t say that you’re surprised that the girl named after the state got back with her ex-boyfriend, but you're glad you overheard. Makes the grieving process a lot better, in your eyes. You knew the second you split up, she was gonna run back to him like a record on a turntable, perpetually spinning just for him. You can call up the radio station and beg them to turn that shit off, or you can let the record play. She still makes art about you and you still write stories about her. It’s a silent agreement you both have. Hell, it's the only thing about her that’s silent. If Nebraska can kill everything in her path, then you can be bitter. You can be worse. You can be as evil as you want to be. You can rent a room at the Hotel California, but you can never leave. You can try to outrun the gun in your expensive shoes, but the quick hand always wins in the end. You can make a deal for your soul in Georgia, but the Devil probably sees far enough of her already.

About the Author 

Gracie Brinker likes to write, A-LOT; so much so that she has to buy extra storage for her Google Drive just to keep track of all her writings. You'll see many references to pop culture and media within her writings. Although she is quite shy, she uses her writings to express the words she cannot say. You can usually find her reading a banned book or listening to The Beach Boys, or both. 

Stride

By Estelle Goostree
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The hum of electricity trickled it way into my ears, consuming my thoughts. It was louder than anything I could think of. It’s monotonous, unchanging tone commanded me to open my eyes. I was no longer lying in my bed, covered by soft blankets that smelled of fresh-cut flowers.  Now, I was alone in a large room with white, bleak, infinite wallpaper. Instead of flowers, my nose was greeted by the unmistakable scent of mold and decay. The carpet I was on, the same color as the walls, was covered in stains of varying size, shape, and color. There was a slight dampness to it that left my hands slightly wet as I got up. 
 
In front of me, there was a hallway that reached as far as I could see. Fluorescent lights lined up neatly on the ceiling; that also had its fair share of stains. I noticed there were no rooms on either side of the hallway, just forward. Occasionally, I would go through a section that was darker than the rest; the lights either flickering or out entirely. I heard nothing but the sound of humming lights and my own footsteps. Nothing suggested any other life with me; no other footsteps, or voices; not even the sound of movement. I was all by myself here.
 
I had been walking for days, or maybe hours; it had to have been more than just minutes, I think. There was nothing on the walls, just its alluring infinity and the occasional droplet of water.  No clocks, no indication of day or night. All I had was the maddening sound of electricity and the stench of death. I looked back every now and then; it all looked the same. There were no signs of an exit, not even a turn or a dead end.
 
I kept walking forward, hoping that I would soon see a door; or at least some sort of exit.  I tried running as fast as I could and walking as slowly as possible, but the hallway didn’t seem to care. No matter my pace, it was the exact same in either direction. I was determined, though, there had to be something, and I would find it. 
 
More time had passed when I finally heard the singular, quiet ring of a bell. I froze in my tracks; this sound was new; it offered the release I had been hoping for: any sound other than electricity and footsteps. I waited a few minutes for another chime, but none came. I waited longer, but I got the feeling I was wasting time. So, I set out again, continuing down this corridor.
 
A few paces down the imprisoning passageway, I heard another distinct chime. This time, I could just barely make out a melodic ticking sound following every chime. The sound bounced off the walls; it felt like the sound was coming from every direction. Or so I thought, until I made the mistake of turning around. Behind me, there was a tall, dancing figure. The silhouette was the darkest black, but I could also make out dozens of flowing fabrics in every, impossible color emitting from this being. I stood still, looking at this wretch. I got what I so desperately wanted: something in this hall. 
 
I noticed it was coming straight for me, albeit at a very slow pace. Regardless, I panicked.  I ran as fast as I could until I collapsed on the wet carpet, out of breath. The chiming and ticking was much quieter than before so I must have put a good deal of distance between me and the dancing figure. I focused my mind on two things: finding a door and refusing to let that thing catch up to me.
 
I was hungry, and it was even worse that I was thirsty. I didn’t have time to stop and think about my options. I was trapped here, no foreseeable way out, and no supplies. I was unsure of the potential threat ever-lurking behind me, and I wasn’t ready to find out. I tried not to think about my need for sustenance and instead focused on trying to find a way out of this forsaken holding. I did the only thing I could do; I kept walking. 
 
The air in this section of the hallway was much heavier than the others. The intense humidity that reeked of fungus filled my lungs, reminding me that I had to keep moving, had to do whatever was necessary to find a way out. It was also much harder to breathe here; the air, thick with moisture, caused me to be out of breath much faster than usual. I had to take breaks more often, but I refused to sit here. The stain-ridden carpet also made an abhorrent squishing sound every few steps from the excess water, and I would not get any nearer to it than I had to.
 
My misfortunes would soon be over, though. I finally saw the outline of a door in the distance. It filled me with this unknown vigor, causing me to take off sprinting as fast as I could.  The singeing smell of mildew and the insanity-inducing sound of the lights seemed to be drowned out. All my focus was on this distant door, my escape.
 
I ran and ran; my body screamed for me to stop, my muscles pleading for a break, but I refused to stop. I kept going towards the door. Surely, I would be there soon. The longer I kept running, the more I noticed the buzz of electricity, the more I smelled the putrescence in the carpet. I had been running for hours, and the door didn’t seem any closer. The bells also seemed to be getting louder again. I only looked back once, and the dancer was still there, prancing through the hall, waving its ribbons in nonsensical movements.
 
In the midst of my run, the lights went out; all of them. I couldn’t see anything nor could I hear. The electricity had gone silent and because I had stopped moving, the sloshing footsteps had also stopped. The jingling of the dancer seemed to halt in this moment as well. For the first time since I could remember I had a moment of peace. The fluorescents had hurt my eyes from their brightness, and my head from their noisiness. I was ever so grateful to finally have a moment of quietness. I sat on the carpet, which was only slightly damp in this section, and enjoyed this juncture of tranquility. 
 
Almost as suddenly as they turned off, the lights turned back on. With them, the buzz began again. I looked around and saw the dancer was no longer there. This meant I could take my time walking again. I could see the door was much closer now as well. It didn’t take long before I was there; the golden doorknob reflected the light into hundreds of colorful fractals. I ran the final stretch, reaching out as far as I could for the knob. As I tried to grab it, my hand fell through it. Caught off guard, by body tumbled forward, phasing through the door entirely. I looked back to see nothing but the stretching hallway I had already ventured. 
 
I had spent so long imagining what it would look like to see a door in this infernal hell my mind created one for me. I was thirsty; it had been creeping up on me for hours but now it was unbearable. I turned over onto my stomach and began to drink the water encased in the carpet.  Every fiber of my being rejected this water; the water that was responsible for the stench of grime, for the unbearable, squelching footsteps I had spent an eternity putting up with. I forced this liquid, not fit to be called water, down and instantly felt sick. My head spun and I embraced the darkness that brushed my cheek.
 
I regained consciousness once more, and the dancer returned, of course, as things seemed to do here. I lay back, listening to the ticking and chiming of its metronome. I allowed myself to be engulfed in its fabrics as they wrapped themselves around me. Within them, I saw myself countless times, walking down endless corridors, looking for an end. For something. I saw dancers and crawlers and creatures that scratch. I saw blue and yellow walls, all with the same rot. I saw infinite successes and failures, all done by me. Every “what-if”. I saw everything and nothing all at once.

About the Author 

Estelle Goostree embraces the weird side of literature that others may shy away from. Just like her stories, she slips through pockets of time within her busy schedule to write her newest story. She is a huge fan of testing just how supernatural she can make a story that has relatable, realistic elements. From endless hallways to legendary spirit women, Estelle loves it all.