Illinois Central Review: January 2025

This is the seventh issue since our first publication in January 2022, and I am continually amazed by the new depths of creativity by Illinois Central College’s students.

This issue is special for so many reasons. Namely, it marks the issue with the greatest number of submissions from and publication of art and writing by dual credit students. Overall, this issue features work from 16 students, spanning the categories of artwork (visual art and photography), poetry, and fiction.

Illinois Central Review is currently accepting submissions for its next issue, which will be published in August 2025. The deadline to submit is May 1, and you can do so here: Volume IV/Issue 2 Submission Form.

Remember, submissions are open to all students taking classes at ICC, including those in the Dual Enrollment and Strong Start programs through Early College.

Finally, I invite you to visit the Illinois Central Review Facebook page for updates and weekly features of this issue's contributions.

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

In writing,

Melissa Grunow
English Professor
Department of Humanities

Mine.

By Cameron Dorsey

About the Artist

Cameron Dorsey is in her first year of the Dual Degree Program at ICC through DHS. She is kept busy with her schedule as a dancer and dance teacher but uses her free time to engage in the art of photography.

Facets

By J. Gayle Mericle

About the Artist

Originally strongly discouraged from pursuing art as a career, J. Gayle Mericle followed the "get a practical job, go to work that can make you a living " directive. Retiring after stints in 2 professions, J. Gayle Mericle returned to classes to pursue one of her earliest interests, art.

Falling Fantasy

By J. Gayle Mericle

About the Artist

Knuckleheads 3

By J. Gayle Mericle

About the Artist

Chipper Woman of the Big Easy

By Peyton Reyes

About the Artist

Peyton Reyes is in his third year at ICC. Reyes currently lives in Lacon, Illinois. He is someone who largely focuses on the expressiveness of people and aims to capture that emotion through the character of his brush strokes. Besides school and work, Reyes spends his time writing, sketching, and storytelling. His goal is to find a way for the canvas and the quill to work hand in hand to create something wonderous.

Secrets in the Mountains

By Zoey Blair

I was your long-kept secret,

A whisper lost in the wind,

My name never left your lips,

Pictures of climbed mountains,

each one a snapshot of hope.

Then I went to Colorado,

The mountains stood over me,

Where I waited at the edge of your world,

Heart pounding out of my chest.

A reflection showed all we left unsaid,

The same eyes searching for belonging,

I saw the same fear,

Worried about being alone.

You’re a stranger in my story,

Mountains sharp peaks dividing us,

And your wife, unaware of the secrets,

Made me an uninvited guest at your table.

Now you’re trying for a baby,

The cycle changing like each season,

Even though I was your child,

Held in dreams two decades ago,

Only lost in the space between us.

About the Author

Zoey Blair is in her second year at ICC. Zoey plans to attend ISU after ICC to achieve her secondary education teaching degree. Besides school and work, Zoey likes to spend time with her dog, Enzo, and she tends to her indoor plants.

Between the Pages

By Xavier Bugos

The rough leather

The crinkling paper

The smudged ink.

These things bring me comfort.

Theres a smell of moths that have nibbled on the pages,

Theres a smell of freshly laid ink and the sorrow of fallen trees

I take a deep breath too

Savor the scents

Smells that carry me to my palace of joy.

Because outside those doors

Outside those gates of

Hell, lies soldiers and warriors alike.

Men with blades and wicked taunts.

Men who value strength,

But not intelligence,

Men who value bravery,

But not wisdom,

Men who value who you kill,

But not how, not why, not why not.

Maybe it’s me–

who is wrong?

Maybe I, sat in my museum,

Of leather-bound pages with smudges of ink,

Am the one–

who sees the world wrong?

The boy who sees every possibility,

But who is too weak to hold a sword,

The boy who could exploit every weakness,

But who couldn’t stomach a kill.

Well, they’re unfortunately incorrect.

I’ve understood a kill,

I’ve seen the blood flow,

I’ve watched the bodies decompose,

I’ve felt the rigor mortis set in.

I’m no longer that weak boy who couldn’t stomach a kill,

I’ve grown and have been wise.

I’ve grown and have been intelligent,

I’ve grown to know why,

I kill.

Now those demons bang

On those gates to hell

But I’ve grown wise,

And hide a knife

Between the crinkling pages.

About the Author

Xavier Bugos is in his second and final year of ICC as well as his senior year of high school. Xavier is an avid writer who has enjoyed forming countless stories and fantasies in his time. After long days of studying and working, Xavier often enjoys playing games like dungeons and dragons where he can explore the world of the creative and passionate. He often expresses more of this creativity through his writings.

Of The Mother’s Ashes

By Xavier Bugos

The mother whose tender fingers takes their time through her child’s hair,

Because her heart knows one day he’ll be too old for her affection,

Will spend every last moment shaping her child,

To be the best that he can be.

Even when the others scowl at him,

When their wrath feels heavy as the sins on one's back.

She teaches her child not to cower nor weep,

But to flourish his rage and let him overcome.

The mother nurtures her child's pain with watering support.

His flowering wrath is a sight for sore eyes.

No longer do the children taunt him,

But now they hide and fear,

As his rage is too much to tame,

For a child who never learned control.

So she watches, first with love

Then with care,

And then finally, a growing concern

As her once happy, babbling tot,

Is turned to a boy with a lust for revenge.

She couldn’t have predicted

That fateful, heat tainted day

When her boy was pushed for the last time

And his anger grew destructive.

Like a hellish volcano spewing out hatred

Or a hound from the depth of Hades howling his wrath.

The boy erupted the ground below them,

And smothered his home under fire and ash.

And as the black flecks of his revenge,

Swept down over his remorseful gaze.

His mother, running her tender fingers through his hair,

hid her precious boy in her arms.

Praying her frail bones,

Would protect him from the fate awaiting.

And as the boy clung to his goddess.

Her skin scorched and boiled

Her blood sizzled and steamed,

Turning to congealed drops

Decorating his darkened skin.

And as their homeland was buried

with the boy’s ego and pride

He clung to the remnants under the soot,

Of the mothers loving ashes.

About the Author

dust

By Dinah Henry

We are dust.

When we die,

our bodies turn into dust if we were buried.

We start from dust.

There is dust everywhere.

Dust is here, like where we walk, go to, breathe in,

Dust may be your future child

that you haven't thought about yet.

Dust is in the ground.

We came from dust,

yet there is more to come

Dust.

About the Author

Dinah Henry has been at ICC for almost 5 years. She has published 4 poems in this magazine. Dinah lives in Sparland, Illinois. She listens to music while she writes her poetry or other stuff. She is shy and mostly pays attention to her schoolwork. You might find her in classes or in the hallways of ICC with her bestie, Logan. Please tell her how her work is, and tell her if she is doing a good job. She can't wait for what comes next in her life's journey.

The Instrument and the Musician

By Rebekah Hewitt

I am an instrument.
An old, broken one
That longs to be played,
A song longing to be sung.

I sit there lifelessly
Collecting dust and dirt
And drowning in the silence
With only my thoughts at work.

I think of all the songs I could play,
But have no musician to play me.
I'm useless, worthless without a Musician
Without one I cannot be free.

The freedom I find in playing my music
Is beyond what words can describe.
But why think about the music I can make
If I'm stuck where no musician could find

I don't even know if musicians are real,
At least I've never seen any.
I'm beginning to lose hope to ever be played
After all, I'm broken. It wouldn't sound right anyway.

Why was I even bought
If all I do is sit here and wither?
I'm useless, drowning in dust and dirt
This is until I heard a whisper.

The light turned on down the hall
And footsteps began to come
Louder and louder the steps became
Until the musician appeared in the door frame.

I didn't believe it,
He'd finally come!
He walked over, picked me up,
Played me, and so I sung

I was a useless instrument
Without my musician
But now I'm being played
And my song is a commission

My song will be heard throughout all the world
The song My musician orchestrates.
I'll paint a picture through his song
There's no better picture I'd rather illustrate.

About the Author

Rebekah Hewitt is a senior in high school and plans to graduate in a half semester. She has taken many dual credit ICC classes. Rebekah found her love for writing poetry in middle school, and since then has written numerous poems. She hopes to use her writing in the future to share hope and love with others.

Unwilling Decision

By Grace Jackson

If ever there was a choice to let feelings leave,

I’d take the risk and sign in blood.

Sign it away: the bubbling thoughts, the prayers,

The wish I can’t quite remember from when I was small

I grasped onto that fire so deeply, the embers charring my little fingertips,

And now, only a trace remains.

A thin tendril of smoke, following my steps as if my fingerprints endured.

Even now, I wear a brand,

A name, carved upon my skin with the dagger of your spite.

Starving youth begs for any amount of love,

And it appears I was no different.

Every night, I whispered, sang a new song for your praise

In hopes for another scrapーthe crust off your bread

Or a wilted grape.

I will always fall at your feet,

No matter the grotesque pet I seem

I signed away my life when I met you,

And no other contract bears the same seal.

About the Author

Grace Jackson is a first-year at ICC and is starting her journey to become a recognized artist. She uses her art and writing as a way to express what she cannot through simple words. Outside of school, she spends most of her time analyzing creative works and finding joy in character creation and world development and hopes to someday take part in designing something great.

Avous/Toska

By Maxwell Laughlin

Avous:

A blind belief that things will work out. (Used similarly to hopefully or have faith)

Toska:

Boredom, melancholy or yearning. More of a concept than a word.

The monsters outside are so much scarier than the ones under my bed and yet, for some reason, time and time again I am lured away from the safety of my room into the looming void of possibilities. An infinite expanse for me to take a hold of.

And.

Yet.

Can't.

Inevitably i find myself wandering into that murky fog, I end up stumbling blindly onto the edge. This is where my mind turns numb.

I wake up falling. No ground to feel and no light to find any. Even the air whipping past my face seems to be empty.

And yet it is the lack of input that drives me to comfort. All alone, falling through that abhorrent wind, with nothing but sound to guide me.

After what feels like forever, the unending metronome of wind in my ears stops. I cant pinpoint when I stop falling, all I know is that I have.

I open my eyes to realize that nothing happened. No void, no wind. Nothing. I find myself back in my bed, waiting for someone to find me

Someone does come, eventually, at least.

He is no one to the world, but everyone to me.

He gets me up off the grass and up onto my feet. I start moving, slowly at first, but eventually I regain my stride.

I keep moving forward until it hurts, the world has become a blur around me and I am unable to stop my legs from moving.

Fully conscious but unable to stop, I watch myself become a background character in my own life.

Taking hold of opportunities that leap into my lap has always has been one of my many downfalls.

My life is full of those moments where I could turn myself around, do something positive for myself

and yet I'm completely unable

And it seems that once more my life has gone barreling ahead of me.

It appears that my life has started to morph from a mural, comprised of stories to be told and used to inspire, into a collection of my shortcomings and mistakes

But through all of my mistakes I have learned one thing.

Will.

Be.

Here.

Everywhere and nowhere, I will be here. For someone or for no one, here I sit, and here I sleep, accompanied by ghosts of what’s yet to come

About the Author

Maxwell Laughlin is in his first semester at ICC. Max is an avid reader and enjoys writing poems. He lives on the north side of Peoria, Illinois. Max likes to write poems about his past or present experiences because it lets him connect with his work and really make it his own.

Book Smugglers

By Sophia Larimore

For Andrea Gibson

I remember

the first time your bullets shot through my chest

the smoking pages from your gunpowder and

you walking through graveyards of children

whose families told them to stay in the dirt and

me drenching and blurring the pages

I remember

seeing the nurse carry out a mountain of books and

grabbing for your words like a man finding an oasis

then seeing

a starving man next to me

him looking at the feast like he could devour all

twenty-thousand words in front of us

I remember

me, and him, and

the slick cold tile

we can't let them see

his dried hands a dart on the floor

his hands grab for the cream of

Robin Wall Kimmer

her soothing words becoming our vitamins

I remember

the elderly woman who was

unable to sleep at 4 a.m.

breathing your fire and

her warm and at peace, asleep in a chair

I remember,

also, the starving queer girl next to me and

us feasting on your

anger

love

tears

laughter

pain

I remember

hope

About the Author

Sophia Larimore, a journalism major at ICC, currently works for the school's newspaper, Harbinger Student Media, as the managing editor. They are also president of the school's Student Government Association (S.G.A.). Sophia enjoys attending open mic nights at the local bookstore Lit. on Fire Books and writing at the nonprofit organization, My Writing Shed.

Illinois Central Review

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Thursday, January 23, 2025