Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers, 

I am delighted to share with you the latest issue of Illinois Central Review! It's hard to believe this literary journal is already on its fourth issue. 

Starting Illinois Central Review was a suggestion right before the shelter-in-place and shift to everything online during the COVID-19 pandemic. While some things in life have returned to "normal," there is an adapted normal that we live in now. The work in this issue is very much a reflection of how we have adapted and what we continue to endure post-COVID. 

You will see we have quite a bit of poetry in this issue. I have Jim Sullivan and his students in the spring 2023 Creative Writing: Poetry class to thank for that. I tell my students all the time that writing needs readers. The best way to get your writing read? Submit it to a literary magazine.

Illinois Central Review is currently accepting submissions for its next issue, which will be published in January 2024. The deadline to submit is December 1, and you can do so here: Volume III/Issue I Submission Form. 

I hope you enjoy this issue. Thank you for taking a look! 

In writing, 

Melissa Grunow, 
Associate Professor, English

the world & me

 By Bellamy Wagner

-

how is it possible to want to crawl back into bed while the world is just waiting for me to do something?

 

the world aches the same way i do,
gravity pries our fault lines apart and our bodies quake at the loosening seams,
we are the same, the world and i.

 

yet we are different too.

 

the world does not stop spinning,
perhaps because that’s how it is designed,
but this means it does not understand
that when my fault lines are ripping apart
that i need to sit down for a minute,
catch my breath,
write a poem in a bathroom stall.

 

the world just goes on,
though it watches many miserable people pass by in a fog every day.
the world goes on,
and yes it does get sad,
but some of us humans think its tears are beautiful and comforting,
the world would not dare to stop,
not once.

About the Author

Bellamy Wagner is an incredibly passionate person. This translates through their descriptive, almost romantic style of poetry. They have been writing since the age of twelve, and they do not plan on stopping any time soon! 

The Unused Songbird

 By Logan Lewis

-

I have no idea what to write about
The pain of the past is making me drown
This is a cautionary tale no doubt
Pekin to Mesa, a watership down

 

You planted a seed of hope in my mind
I should have just cast and banished you out
In a world that’s so cold and unkind
Our friendship was traded for gloom and doubt

 

A passenger on a runaway train
Going out west where I din’t belong
I decided you were not worth the pain
As I said goodbye, I wrote you a song

 

With my peace said, farewell is what you heard
Now nothing to you, the unused songbird.

About the Author
Logan "Bowie" Lewis is from Pekin, Illinois, and is going into his third year at Illinois Central College. He loves music and plays guitar and writes songs and poems. His favorite bands are The Replacements and The Lemonheads. His biggest heroes are God and his parents. He gets inspiration from events and tiding throughout life. You can often find him at music shops and record stores. 

Sometimes we are like falling leaves

 By Dinah Henry

-

A falling leaf is falling off a tree, but sometimes it doesn't know where it's going to land. On the ground? In the water? With more leaves? Or by itself? It is a falling leaf waiting to land. I keep thinking about what am I, and who am I. Sometimes we are like leaves because we don’t know where our journey is going to land in our life. We sometimes don’t know where that journey will take us. That is OK because sometimes our lives to us are questions that we need to find, to seek. Maybe we will find the answers, maybe we won’t, but whatever happens next, let the journey take you on a ride because sometimes you will never know what you will find.

About the Author

You might have know this person by her writing some other poems such as "I am a flower." She has been mostly busy with her school and writing more poems for you to read. She has been at ICC for over three years now and can't wait for what's next in store for her. Her name is Dinah and she hopes that you do love her work that she has done so far. 

Scars

 By Dinah Henry

- 

We don’t just have scars on the outside, we also have them in the inside, and in our lives too. Scars can tell stories of a person’s life, whether they are on the outside, in the inside, or through the trauma of someone’s life. Whether they tell a huge story or a small story it’s still a story to tell. Some people think scars are ugly, well that’s wrong! Scars are beautiful because they show that this person is a survivor, a warrior, a fighter, and maybe a hero! Some of us don’t know if they have scars too. Well, scars are not just on the outside.

About the Author

You might have know this person by her writing some other poems such as "I am a flower." She has been mostly busy with her school and writing more poems for you to read. She has been at ICC for over three years now and can't wait for what's next in store for her. Her name is Dinah and she hopes that you do love her work that she has done so far. 

Opportunity

 By Baden Jones

-

The sandwich half-eaten sits alone on the counter
Left forgotten all alone
The dog smells something delicious
It won't last very long

Left forgotten all alone
The final assignment looms overhead
It won't last very long
Though I lack the motivation to do it

The final assignment looms overhead
It's important for my future
Though I lack the motivation to do it
I know that eventually it will disappear

It's important for my future
This is an extremely rare opportunity 
I know that eventually it will disappear
And yet it always passes by

This is an extremely rare opportunity 
The dog smells something delicious
And yet it always passes by
The sand half-eaten sits alone on the counter

About the Author

Baden Jones was born and raised in Peoria, Illinois, and currently goes to ICC. He is planning on transferring after the fall class of 2023 and is currently writing poetry as a hobby. 

no thoughts head empty

By Rebekah Rademacher

-

I remember the sunset. Mostly clear sky, a few clouds. As the sun dips toward the horizon, the sky shifts from a light, bright blue to deep blue, red, orange, and purple. 

 

I’m panting. 

 

There’s that weird tang of metal in the back of my mouth. I just ran down the wooden stair and sand path from the Turret Arch to the North Window. I climbed up the red rock, almost slipping on the silty surface.

 

I found this perch, a perfect view of the sunset. 

 

Sunlight reflects off cars sitting in the parking lot below. People scattered around the trail and window section have their cameras out, taking photos and videos. I do too.

 

Trying to capture beauty and hold it in our hands, even though it will never compare to sitting here. 

 

Here, I can forget that I came on this trip with my parents. 

 

Here, I can imagine that it’s just me, taking a long hiking trip. I can pretend that I’m fit enough to hike as many trails as I want and not as out of shape as I truly am. 

 

Here, I feel like myself. 

↣ 

I didn’t expect Norfolk to be much. When I thought of the bay, I honestly thought it’d look like the Illinois River. Dirty and ugly. 

 

Not this. 

 

I touched my toes into the water earlier, down by the pier. There was sand, gritty bits of rock, and shattered seashells. The water was cold but decently clean. 

 

I watch the sunset between volleys as I switch positions on the sand volleyball court. It’s right next to the bay. It gives the vibes of being at Virginia Beach, but without the crowd. The water at this time of day is a deep blue color. There’s a strip of dark clouds along the skyline. The water reflects the bold, bright orange of the fading sun. 

 

My family isn’t here. Here, I’m my own person. Not older sister. Not the example-setter. Not the minimum wage Panera worker. Not the ex-Catholic girl. 

 

I’m simply Bekah. Just another person on the trip trying to figure out what I live for and what I want to do. Who I want to be. 

↣ 

Sitting on the deck on the top floor of the house is isolating, but nice. It was storming all day today. The sky is partially clear now. The wind is strong, carrying the roar of ocean waves and frat parties to my ears. Strong enough to knock my small cup of lemonade over, spilling onto the deck’s surface. 

 

Down below, I can hear people shouting at the TV. I think they’re watching one of the March Madness games. I hear a splash. Someone just jumped into the pool. Hopefully not off of the first-floor balcony again. They got in trouble for that the first night we were here. 

 

I have pictures of beautiful sunsets from throughout the week. Tonight’s is different. Clouds obscure most of it. Just the smallest bit of orange peeks through. 

 

I’m exhausted. My social battery is critically low. And this spot on the rooftop is my charger. I don’t think anyone realized I left. And I like that. 

 

It’s not quiet, but up here, it’s hard to hear anything but the wind. Up here, I can journal in peace. Have an account of what this trip was like.

 

Here, all I have to do is exist.

About the Author 
Rebekah graduated from ICC in the Spring of 2023. Her poetry has been published in previous issues of Illinois Central Review. She works part-time as a barista and loves coffee. When she's not writing, she may be found reading, hiking, and crocheting, and probably spoiling her two guinea pigs.

Looking at the Past

 By Brian Miller

-

About the Artist

Brian is a DACT student and loving it. In his spare time, he really loves to draw. He also loves to play guitar and write music. 

Landfill

By Jennifer Scott-Dewar

-

My dad took me to the landfill when I was eight. My dad only ever owned used vans and we would fill them with all his beer cans and my soda bottles. I was excited on those Tuesdays because I knew the recycling man would give me shiny quarters for the bottles. I wonder why they stopped paying people for those. I would ask my dad, but he passed away in the pandemic. Unlike the junk at the landfill, my dad isn’t buried. He is in ashes at sea.

About the Author
Jennifer Scott-Dewar earned a bachelor's degree in social justice and a master's degree in child, family, and community service from the University of Illinois at Springfield. She worked for several years in violence prevention and currently volunteers with various nonprofit organizations. She was recently awarded first place in the Illinois Central College Poetry contest. 

La Partie Toi

 By Kie Dupoy

-

You gave me bits of silence
        spéléologues de silence
To dwell in
        un endroit pour appeler à la patrie

There were empty plates on tables
        mais mon reste remplie alors que d’autres voletaient de table en table
Boards over paper, over glass and shutter doors
        L’odeur, se décompose

 

But you swept
        gardé les lumières coulant à travers les portes ouvertes
You gave what you had
        promis le reste

About the Author
Kie Dupoy grew up bilingual and likes to incorporate a complex language understanding into their literature. They've been published previously for short stories and are pursuing a career in writing and editing. 

Journey through the Forest of One Thousand Truths and Two Lies

 By Ashley Simone

-

The forest of one thousand truths and two lies is a terrible place, or so they warned me.
The leaves crackle and crunch beneath my boots, like the hundred mouse skeletons my brother collected one summer.
And yet I came here anyway, in spite of their warnings. I had to know.
The leaves stretch farther than your eye could see, though there are no trees.

The leaves crackle and crunch beneath my boots, like the hundred mouse skeletons my brother collected one summer.
They are every color a leaf could be, yellow, orange, brown, black, love red, hate red, loneliness blue, drowned purple.
The leaves stretch farther than your eye could see, though there are no trees.
Every leaf is a truth, except two that lie.

They are every color a leaf could be, yellow, orange, brown, black, love red, hate red, loneliness blue, drowned purple.
I reach down to pick up a leaf, cutting myself on its sharp, bladed edge.
Every leaf is a truth, except two that lie.
You cannot save her.

I reach down to pick up a leaf, cutting myself on its sharp, bladed edge.
Anyone else could, but you cannot.
You cannot save her.
I know who she is, though I’ve never met her. Or maybe these are the two lies, and I don’t know who she is, and I have met her.

Anyone else could, but I cannot.
I search my memory.
I know who she is, though I’ve never met her. Or maybe these are the two lies, and I don’t know who she is, and I have met her.
Another leaf nears my hand.

I search my memory.
This time I am careful. I do not bleed. It would have hurt less, though.
Another leaf nears my hand.
In every other life you would have been happier.

This time I am careful. I do not bleed. It would have hurt less, though.
There must be useful truths somewhere in this forest.
In every other life you would have been happier.
I don’t buy it. That must be the lie.

There must be useful truths somewhere in this forest.
There’s hope for a better future.
I don’t buy it. That must be the lie.
Perhaps the name is the lie, and there are 1000 lies and two truths.

There’s hope for a better future.
Without you.
Perhaps the name is the lie, and there are 1000 lies and two truths.
I wonder how the world would be

Without me.
In a flash I see another terrible truth or far more terrible lie; the world burns to ash; the people smile as they die.
I wonder how the world would be
and again

In a flash I see another terrible truth or far more terrible lie; the world burns to ash; the people smile as they die.
They hate you such that they would rather burn without you than live with you.
and again
They love you such that they would rather burn with you than live without you.

They hate me such that they would rather burn without me than live with me.
or
They love me such that they would rather burn with me than live without me.
It cannot be both, one must lie or both.

or
maybe
It cannot be both, one must lie or both.
Or maybe I am wrong and both must be truth.

maybe
or maybe both of both of both; both are true, they both lie and they both speak the truth
Or maybe I am wrong and both must be truth.
The truth or lies or both hurts less than the iron bladed edges of the leaves.

or maybe both of both of both; both are true, they both lie and they both speak the truth
Just maybe
The truth or lies or both hurts less than the iron bladed edges of the leaves.
But I came here to burn this place like the world burned, or burns.

Just maybe
I can gather some truths and two lies
But I came here to burn this place like the world burned, or burns.
And yet steel cannot burn.

I can gather some truths and two lies
Steel and books and the world can burn, but you cannot burn them for you have not yet been burned by them, and thus so for all things for all people.
And yet steel cannot burn.
but

Steel and books and the world can burn, but you cannot burn them for you have not yet been burned by them, and thus so for all things for all people.
The Fable of Pythagoras
but
Fables always lie; that is the truth.

The Fable of Pythagoras
And other stories
Fables always lie; that is the truth.
There was once a fellow named Pythagoras who promised to speak only the truth

And other stories
But that is not the truth
There was once a fellow named Pythagoras who promised to speak only the truth
and he did.

But that is not the truth
Everyone lies.
and he did.
And he spoke to his followers

Everyone lies.
Except me
And he spoke to his followers
Trust no man

Except me
and they did
Trust no man
But as it turns out, the world is full of women (some will tell you this is a lie) who could be trusted

and they did
And Pythagoras’s lies and truths fell on deaf ears
But as it turns out, the world is full of women (some will tell you this is a lie) who could be trusted
Who’s lies and truths did not

And Pythagoras’s lies and truths fell on deaf ears
for there are none among me that listened
Who’s lies and truths did not
pollute the truth and the lie and the story

for there are none among me that listened
when I said to
pollute the truth and the lie and the story
And so now I see that all fables are all lies and all truths but no story, and all stories are no lies and no truths and all story.

when I said to
listen, you did
And so now you see that all fables are all lies and all truths but no story, and all stories are no lies and no truths and all story.
Who’s teaching who, and who is teaching the truth, or the lie closest to the truth?

when I said to
learn, you taught. Though maybe you cannot learn without teaching, for surely you cannot teach without learning.
Who’s teaching who, and who is teaching the truth, or the lie closest to the truth?
How can you so batter me truth giver lie speaker story teller? When you said

learn, I taught. Though maybe I cannot learn without teaching, for surely I cannot teach without learning
Do not speak to me.
How can you so batter me truth giver lie speaker story teller? When you said
No, no more, your time is over and your truth has ended.

Do not speak to me.
I reach for another blood-blue leaf.
No, no more, your time is over and your truth has ended.
And yet I am still here.

I reach for another blood-blue leaf.
You would be better off dead.
And yet I am still here.
And when I continue on, I shall live far after you have burned.

You would be better off dead.
You shall not speak to me for long.
And when I continue on, I shall live far after you have bled.
But you won’t, and that is the truth.

I shall speak to you exactly as much as I damn well please and if there are only two truths in our world, this is one of them.
At the end of this, I will be free
But you won’t, and that is the truth.
Some day

At the end of this, I will be free
Another leaf
Some day
Golden as the moon this time

Another leaf
At the end of this, I will be free
This leaf shall help
Golden as the moon this time

You are not here to seek truths.
Wrong leaf.
This leaf shall help
You are not here to seek lies.

I are not here to seek truths.
and
I are not here to seek lies.
I am here to seek the one thing that actually matters in this world and the only thing that brought you and me and her and them here: I am here to find a story, amid the forest, and the blood, and the fables, and the junk, and the leafs that speak and argue and hate me and love me. In between it all or through it all, there is a story, told in the jagged edges of a steel, treeless forest. 

and
you must agree
you are here to seek the one thing that actually matters in this world and the only thing that brought me and you and her and them here: you are here to find a story, amid the forest, and the blood, and the fables, and the junk, and the leaves that speak and argue and hate me and love me. In between it all or through it all, there is a story, told in the jagged edges of a steel, treeless forest. 
Yes, and I see it now, or half see it.

you must agree
the moon looks awfully beautiful
Yes, and I see it now, or half see it.
I should think that makes it all worth it.

the moon looks awfully beautiful
It is a perfect half moon, though in truth it is as full as any moon ever, half is just shrouded by darkness.
I should think that makes it all worth it.
It does. Love

It is a perfect half moon, though in truth it is as full as any moon ever, half is just shrouded by darkness.
Don’t you think?
It does. Love
it is not a stranger to me.

Don’t you think?
That it is strange that I should be here all alone?
it is not a stranger to me.
Nor is this place, in truth, I have been here many time’s before.

That it is strange that you should be here all alone?
No. there is no other way to get here but alone, for if there was anyone there with you, they would pull you back, out of the forest, before you get a chance to turn over even a single steel leaf.
Nor is this place, in truth, I have been here many time’s before.
I am used to steel leaves.

No. there is no other way to get here but alone, for if there was anyone there with me, they would pull me back, out of the forest, before I got a chance to turn over even a single steel leaf.
Though the leaves are no longer steel. They feel more like paper.
I am used to steel leaves.
As am I. As am I...

Though the leaves are no longer steel. They feel more like paper.
They are still the same leafs, though. They can still hurt you, but not with their jagged edges. Those where never the worst parts, anyway. The letters, words, thoughts always cut deeper.
As am I. As am I...
Who among us is not cut deep? Who among us has not trudged through hell? Who among us stands here with their clothes yet unheavied by blood or fear or years.

They are still the same leafs, though. They can still hurt you, but not with their jagged edges. Those where never the worst parts, anyway. The letters, words, thoughts always cut deeper.
They heavy your clothes with something more than blood, or years, or fear.
Who among us is not cut deep? Who among us has not trudged through hell? Who among us stands here with their clothes yet unheavied by blood or fear or years.
We all are, but some carry deeper wounds.

We heavy your clothes with something more than blood, or years, or fear.
Is that why they burned this place? Why there are not trees? Is that why some of you where reduced to steel?
We all are, but some carry deeper wounds.
There are fates worse than an eternity of ash and steel.

Is that why they burned this place? Why there are not trees? Is that why some of you where reduced to steel?
Then again, I suppose
There are fates worse than an eternity of ash and steel.
At least we have an eternity

Then again, I suppose
An eternity of pain, and inflicting pain (although those two dance hand in burned hand) is not so great a fate.
At least you have an eternity
Not like me, or her, or them. We are doomed to walk this earth and the dark places beneath and above it for only moments, until we pass on into whatever is darker than darkness, whatever is quieter than silence, whatever is emptier than nothing.

An eternity of pain, and inflicting pain (although those two dance hand in burned hand) is not so great a fate.
But it is better than any afforded to us.
Not like me, or her, or them. We are doomed to walk this earth and the dark places beneath and above it for only moments, until we pass on into whatever is darker than darkness, whatever is quieter than silence, whatever is emptier than nothing.
And yet, we know truths we cannot, and were burned for it, and you know lies we could not, and were bled for it.

But it is better than any afforded to us.
I disagree.
And yet, you know truths I cannot, and were burned for it, and I know lies you could not, and were bled for it.
But to burn or bleed, not truly so different, and flesh and steel can live burned hand in bloodied hand, if only one of us reaches out in the darkness for the other

I disagree.
We are not the same, you and I. We can not truly live hand in hand, for in years or days your hand shall rot, but mine, mine shall weather the test of time.
But to burn or bleed, not truly so different, and flesh and steel can live burned hand in bloodied hand, if only one of us reaches out in the darkness for the other
if only for a moment.

We are not the same, you and I. We can not truly live hand in hand, for in years or days my hand shall rot, but yours, yours shall weather the test of time.
And yet here we are, living and loving and lying besides each other
if only for a moment.
I should like this moment to continue forever

And yet here we are, living and loving and lying besides each other
Then again, I don’t think I can say
I should like this moment to continue forever
Forever scares me, even as it consumes me. With death, you are afforded an ending of things, a conclusion, a freedom, a point. But come time or flame or the ravages of hatred or love, so fast or slow it might be, I shall remain, steadfast, evercontinuant, unfulfilled.

Then again, I don’t think I can say
I truly understand when you say
Forever scares me, even as it consumes me. With death, you are afforded an ending of things, a conclusion, a freedom, a point. But come time or flame or the ravages of hatred or love, so fast or slow it might be, I shall remain, steadfast, evercontinuant, unfulfilled.
For what I would give to take your place

I truly understand when you say

For what I would give to take your place

Then let us.

Then let us.
And I took your place.

And you mine.

And I took your place.

and you mine.

And so it is that I stand here as the forest. I can see now. The trees were never burned or died or reduced to steel or slag. They were always, though I missed them for the forest, just as I missed the leafs for their text. I looked for truths and lies where I ought to be looking for, where there was only beauty. I supposed I should have known, after all, it is the forest of 1000 truths and 2 lies, not the library of 1000 truths and 2 lies.

And now I see with eyes as slits in the bag of life that covers my head and I am lost and lost and lost amongst the rush of time for a day of a forest passes slower or faster, or maybe easier than the minute of a human, or something close to human. I see it all now, by which of course I mean I see nothing. No truths or lies, just the story, the story you promised me I had in me, though now in you, told in ash and steel and leaves. I cannot pretend to understand, if there is a veil to be pulled back, some inner meaning to reach, some grand message to be gleamed from it all, then I am not the forest or form for the job. Perhaps they are. Regardless, though, I see the second truth, and this is it, though I dare not speak it in any more words or any fewer. Amongst the trees and leaves and blood I shall leave it, as the home and self I leave behind.

There is not more truth beyond that.

None left in this forest, not for me at least. The truths, then, are all left to you.

There is not more truth beyond that.

None left in this forest, not for you at least. The truths, then, are all left to me.
For I am the forest of 1000 truths and two lies, and I suppose it is now my duty to find or safegaurd or write the other 998 truths.

This is your duty, as it was once mine:
For you are the forest of 1000 truths and two lies, and I suppose it is now your duty to find or safegaurd or write the other 998 truths.
Just as I once did, or once will do.

This is my duty, as it was once yours:
Tell them neither the truth nor the lie, but rather, the story they need to hear.
Just as you once did, or once will do.
No.

Tell them neither the truth nor the lie, but rather, the story they want to hear.
For there is nothing else you can do.
No.
There is not.

For there is nothing else you can do.
But breath and walk and love and hate and find meaning for yourself in the stars and the mountains and the puddles that dwell in gutters when the nights are wet.
There is not.
None but that.

But breath and walk and love and hate and find meaning for myself in the stars and the mountains and the puddles that dwell in gutters when the nights are wet.
I should think I should quite like that.
None but that.
And now you are free to be a forest.

I should think I should quite like that.
I was warned never to come here
And now I am free to be a forest.
And now I know, and know, and know.

I was warned never to come here
And yet I came here anyway, in spite of their warnings. I had to know.
And now I know, and know, and know.
The forest of one thousand truths and two lies is not so terrible a place as they warned me.

About the Author
Ashley Simone is a freshman currently studying at Illinois Central College for an Associates in English with hopes to transfer to a four-year school. She has been writing short fiction since early 2021 and took up poetry in 2022. This is her first published work. 

Imagining Closeness

 By Rebekah Rademacher

-

My eyes are shut
The air is quiet
My thoughts slow. 

I'm leaning against my bookbag
And I imagine you. 
What if I was leaning on you? 

Your smile is kind
Welcoming
Inviting. 

I lay my head on your shoulder. 
You want me to talk
Tell you about today, the past week 

I feel like we've grown apart
I don't talk to you as much as I want to
But right now, you're here. 

When I write to you, I hide behind my words. 
Hesitant to show emotion
If I do, it's not genuine. 

But imagining you here, 
There's no words to hide behind.
No barrier between us

You can see
Shame
Guilt
Bitterness
Eating away at my mind. 

You can see 
Fatigue
Stress
Anxiety
Pulling me under. 

You can see 
Excitement
Joy
Energy 
Peeking through. 

You sit here with me. 
Inviting me to talk 
And you'll listen. 

About the Author
Rebekah graduated from ICC in spring of 2023. Her poetry has been published in the previous issues of Illinois Central Review. She works part-time as a barista and loves coffee. When she's not writing, she may be found reading, hiking, and crocheting, and probably spoiling her two guinea pigs. 

Addiction

 By Skye Bullock

-

I've been addicted to a lot of things, 

Drugs...

Love...

Alcohol...

But there is one addiction I've found that is worst than all the rest: 

Writing. 

Day and night, it haunts me like a withdrawal

Like love, I've ruined my life for it. 

I'm looked and have no interest in quitting. 

The doctors advised stopping. 

I cannot- I will not. 

Not until both hands have shaken beyond legibility. 

Thank god for voice-to-text. 

About the Author

Arwen ‘Skye’ Bullock is a current ICC student living in West Peoria, Illinois. She began writing fiction as a hobby in 2011 and was published in Illinois Young Authors Contest in 2012. Outside of writing, she enjoys iced coffees and staying home with her cat, Lilith, and 6 leopard geckos.

Healing from You

 By Katelyn Hicks

-

Before I hated you I loved you. 
Your voice was one that would help me sleep. 
Your smiles and glances from across the room. Your hands that kept me safe at night. 

You bandaged my wounds when I got hurt. You were jokingly mad at me
when I picked at my scabs or acne
Told me I was your whole world. 

You were my everything Until you hurt me
broke me. 
My love for you caused this. 
I loved you too much 

I will never understand how you changed so quick
from your loving touches to hurtful ones

About the Author

Katelyn is a sophomore at ICC. She's currently working towards her Associate in Arts degree with a focus on English Language Arts Secondary Education. After Katelyn graduates, she's planning to go to cosmetology school. Her goal is to work in event hair and makeup while writing on the side, as it is one of her passions. 

Blurry Face

By Logan Lewis

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I've got nothing here to hide, 
tear me open: look inside
you'll see where a beating heart'd once stand
in the soul of a broken man. 
Solomon's got nothin on me
you pulled me apart yet I breathe
a sigh of quick relief
knowing that you're gone and I'm free. 
I'm still strong. 

If only I had a Time Machine
Then you'd see just what I mean
That I'm no good for you I see
Then I'd just let it be
We were young and everything was fun
But now it seems we're done
Another year older: another trip around the sun 

I blurred your face out of our pictures yesterday
I'd be lying if I said it didn't have to be this way
I saw the story in your eye
Oh how time would fly
And now all I have to say is Goodbye 

Now these pictures feature a featureless face
In that Mesa, Arizona, coffee shop place
The other face just takes up blank space
Every time I view our picture, your blurry face I see

And it makes no sense at all to me

About the Author
Logan "Bowie" Lewis is from Pekin, Illinois, going into his third year at Illinois Central College. He loves music and plays the guitar and writes songs and poems. His favorite bands are The Replacements and The Lemonheads. His biggest heroes are God and his parents. He gets inspiration from events and tidings throughout life. You can often find him at music shops and record stores.