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SMALL TOWN, AMERICA Alli Tschirhart Yes ma’am no sir. In school, we prayed before every football game, the coach hand in hand with the players as amen rings out. Giant pickles wrapped in paper at every single event. Four churches in one square mile. A dog named Bear roamed the streets of town for years before we realized it was a pack of fluffy white dogs all with the same name. Once, through the window of our truck, I saw them, a pride of lions resting after a hunt. We find one on the side of the road one year and collectively grieve for a dog we didn’t really know. An old silo brittle and sharp, roof gone from past storms, we play carelessly, counting down for hide and seek. A vast backyard where we run, wild children screaming and pushing our hands into mud. The sprawling pecan tree in the yard that I spent so much time collecting the nuts from, and then more shelling. The one small bathroom with no windows that we all huddled in as the tornado warning rang out. The worn-out trampoline that my dad would spray in the summer so we could dance with the water, sometimes we would just lay out and watch the stars. Alli Tschirhart Alli Tschirhart is an aspiring writer and poet. From Texas, she enjoys being outdoors and reading, as well as her three cats. Her work has previously been published in The Bellwether Review and Free Verse Revolution . She is continuing her passion for reading and writing at PSU this fall. Instagram ~ @allitschirhart

Nonfiction The Whisper of the Rain Brooklyn Shepard Not the Worst Day Sean P. Hotchkiss What If I Got Those Cupcakes? Keith Kunze Notice Nancy McKinley Wagner

PATRIARCHY Sean P. Hotchkiss Father's daughter, husband's bride. The choice taken from her, and she accepts it–for now. Passive, subservient, obedient is how she has learned to be. But this is not really her, although she does not know it yet. Husband found and courtship orchestrated, she is wed with, perhaps, a skewed sense of what love is. Love is submission and obedience, it is not mutual respect or equality. Time passes; days, months, years, and still matrimony does not feel like love. More submission, more obedience must be the answer. But it is not. Freedom is the answer. Not the answer that will heal the marriage, but the answer that will heal herself. Not heal so much as reveal her strength, hidden within. Unveiling the person she has always been. The rebellion in her heart–thought of as weakness or failing–is strength and truth. Honest now, she breaks the bonds that have kept her from being herself. Smiles are natural, her face shines, doubts diminish–mostly. She is herself now–unmarried, unfettered, and free. Sean P. Hotchkiss Sean P. Hotchkiss was born and raised in the Portland Metro area of Oregon. He is a proud father of three, grateful partner of one, and widower. He rediscovered his love of writing after returning to college after three gap-decades. Sean is in his last term towards earning an A.A.S. in Business Marketing at Portland Community College (PCC) with plans to pursue a Master’s degree in clinical mental health. In addition to his “day job” as a digital marketer, he is also a reading and writing tutor at PCC. He believes he does his best work where thought meets inspiration, and seeks out those things and people that stimulate both. You can engage with Sean on Instagram @sphotch_the_writer or on his website at https://www.sphotch.com .

A LITANY FOR JARRET KEENE Shane Allison Jarret, can I ask you a question? Well more like a few questions. Have you written any poems lately? And if so, have you written any poems about pickles recently? What about tighty-whities? Do you have any poems about potted soil I could borrow? Have you ever written poems about dry, cracked lips? Jarret, do you have any poems about chewing gum Or cranberry-colored carpet cutters? Jarret, what about a poem about Lou Diamond Phillips? Got any Lou Diamond Phillips poems or poems about Siamese cats? Can you get me a moped for Christmas With a poem about it taped to the exhaust pipe? You got any Joyce DeWitt poems lying around? Can I have a bite of your danish? Could you write a poem about my taking a bite of your danish? I could use a good platinum wig poem And poems about nylon stockings and durags. You got any poems like this anywhere in your possession? Jarret, when you write that poem about the chiliburger Can you copy a few copies for me? Better yet, can I get some chili cheese fries Wrapped in wide ruled notebook paper with a poem About chili cheese fries written on it? Remember that series of poems about Marilyn Manson You said you were planning on writing? Did you finish it? Can I have one? The poems about Marilyn Manson? Jarret, do you have any poems about hermaphrodites Or poems about charbroiled chicken? Or how about that poem you wrote about Charbroiled-chicken eating hermaphrodites? Do you still have that one? Remember that bad dream you told me about, Jarret? Did you write a poem about it? Have you written any sonnets lately or maybe a villanelle? Can you write me a villanelle about pimple cream? Would it be too much to ask, Jarret, If you could write me a poem about Timothy Busfield? Got any poems about radioactive urine in Rice Krispies? Or if you have a poem or two about pissing in cereal, That would be so neat. Jarret, can you do me a favor? Can you possibly write a poem about this dead Armadillo I saw in the road once? I need a coconut poem. I need a poem about pink elephants and pig feet Pickled in pig feet juice, Jarret. Do you think you can write them? I need a hockey puck poem, a monkey wrench poem And a poem about wax fruit. Jarret, do you know anyone who has written Poems about Tammy Faye? Do you think you can write a sonnet on Tammy Faye? I need it by Thursday. This poem you wrote about deep-fried chicken fingers I’ve been hearing so much about, can you fax it to me? I might put an anthology of poems together about kiwi milkshakes. Do you have anything that fits this theme? You know what I need, Jarret? I need a Dana Plato poem. I need some poems about anal beads and shrimp forks. Jarret, can you write me a poem about dust mops? Jarret, I want you to write seventy or so poems About cum in shag carpet in a purple van. Think you can do that? Can you write about my hemorrhoids? Can you write something about that bad case of anal warts I had last year? I need a poem about chopsticks and anti-lock brakes. I need a Beau Bridges poem. I need that, and a poem written about Anne Bancroft eating peach cobbler. Think you can handle that? If you can, tell me about it in a poem. Shane Allison Shane Allison was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish several chapbooks of poetry, Black Fag , Ceiling of Mirrors , Cock and Balls , I Want to Fuck a Redneck , Remembered Men , and Live Nude Guys , as well as four full-length poetry collections, I Remember (Future Tense), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical), and I Want to Eat Chinese Food off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon & Schuster). Allison’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo , Unlikely Stories , Pnpplzine.com , Palavar Arts Magazine , Southeast Review , and a plethora of others. He is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.

SONNET Shamik Banerjee They came as light into my darkened world, Rekindling everything that once stood grey— The need to wield my pen, so thoughts unfurled, To be the lively man again who prayed. Six years of oneness, then this sudden pause That seems eternal; time’s reversed its course. The kibble bowl’s exactly where it was When Neeku left us. Life has lost its force. Now there’s no hopping on the etagere Or pawprints on the matting, though their noise From gamboling still echoes in the air. Two mortal friends gave all the love and joy No man can give, but left this void within And these immortal scratches on my skin. Shamik Banerjee Shamik Banerjee is a formalist poet from Assam, India, where he resides with his parents. His poems have been published by The Society of Classical Poets, Sparks of Calliope , The Hypertexts , Snakeskin , Ekstasis , Ink Sweat & Tears , and Autumn Sky Daily , among others.

The Bellwether Review 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner

BULLY Shane Allison The last time I saw my cousin, Darrin Was at the burial of my Aunt Lurine. It wasn’t a sad funeral. I didn’t cry when they lowered her into Southside Earth. Instead of wrapping me with a hug, he shook my hand As if I was simply a friend of the family. He didn’t show me the same kind of love as those My kin folks give on my father’s side. Maybe it had something to do with my being queer. If so, I don’t want to know. Growing up he was never much of a cousin. Maybe because he was older than us and was never around. Too cool to spend time with a bunch of babies. He was worse than any bully I ignored in school because he was family. Teasing and picking until I had no choice but to fall into a fight Which I always lost because Darrin was the oldest, the strongest. He knew how tender the skin of a shy boy was. My mother asked if I remember chasing him with a knife in my grandmother’s backyard. All that anger I would have cut him for sure. I don’t know why my aunt left him the most out of her money. He never wrote her letters or sent her poems. I imagine with all the trouble that has plagued our brood, He will either see me at my funeral, Or I’ll see him at his. Shane Allison Shane Allison was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish several chapbooks of poetry, Black Fag , Ceiling of Mirrors , Cock and Balls , I Want to Fuck a Redneck , Remembered Men , and Live Nude Guys , as well as four full-length poetry collections, I Remember (Future Tense), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical), and I Want to Eat Chinese Food off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon & Schuster). Allison’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo , Unlikely Stories , Pnpplzine.com , Palavar Arts Magazine , Southeast Review , and a plethora of others. He is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.

WHAT IF I GOT THOSE CUPCAKES? Keith Kunze Wes picked me up after I was done with class at Clackamas Community College. I didn’t want him to pick me up from home because I didn’t want my family to see me with him. I also knew a lot of people in the area, so I wanted our first date to be a bit more out of town. I had never been on a date with anyone before. We had been chatting for months on a dating site and it was a big deal for me to meet anybody. I was still in the closet and ended any communication from a group called Exodus International whose slogan was “Change is possible.” At some point prior to meeting in person I told him about “ex-gay ministries,” which he seemed interested in. Exodus International formed in 1976 and claimed to have helped many men live a life where they can be a family man and have a happy marriage. What they didn’t advertise was the incredibly low success rates and the fact that you can’t change your sexuality. I made sure to emphasize this with him in an effort to prevent him from looking into it. He only realized he might be gay after he saw two men kissing for the first time. He’d recently moved to Oregon from Texas where he’d never met a gay person before. We both grew up Christian Evangelical and we shared similar beliefs. Every day I woke up to a “Good Morning” text from him except once—to which I reached out saying, “Excuse me, where’s my good morning text?” in hopes he’d find it funny (he did). Boundaries were set and we agreed this meetup was a platonic date. I was waiting for him anxiously and kept looking around to make sure nobody saw me hopping in the car. His orange Fiat was small and felt appropriate as he was wearing orange-smelling cologne. Wes wore a white button down underneath a gray sweater vest. On his face he had thick-rimmed glasses, probably because I told him I had a weakness for them. He also had a small gift bag with a paper rose on top. I remember being embarrassed and a little nervous because I didn’t want anyone to ask me where I got the rose from. Inside the bag was a book called, The Official Dictionary of Sarcasm, which I loved! We chose to go to the theater at Clackamas Town Center because they had a cupcake kiosk right next to the theater. My nickname among friends was “cupcake,” due to my love towards them and I wanted to see if they had Christmas flavors. Naturally, the theater was decorated for Christmas and the cupcake kiosk was in the food court, just across from the entrance of the movie theater. We checked the time and agreed we should wait on the cupcakes because the movie had already started. While we both weren’t big fans of using guns, we enjoyed movies with guns. The movie we chose was the remake of Red Dawn. I’d always loved action movies and the original was a classic, so it was an easy choice for us to make. To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know how that movie ended. *** In 1999, two teens killed 13 others at Columbine High School. There were seven victims in 2005 during the shooting in the Living Church of God, located in Wisconsin. Thirty-two dead at Virginia Tech in 2007. In a movie theater in Aurora, there were 12 killed and over 70 injured in 2012, and that wasn’t even the deadliest one that year. “Everyone should have a gun on them so if there is a shooter, you can just shoot them first,” is an ideology I subscribed to for a long time. About 430 deaths happen per year in the U.S. due to accidental firearm usage. I was required to take gun safety classes as a kid and I’m not sure if that could prevent accidental deaths if everybody took those classes. Before 2012, there had been many conversations about mass shootings and gun control. We as a country have also experienced two of our deadliest ones since 2012: one at Pulse Nightclub in 2016, where forty-nine died and fifty-three were injured, and the biggest one where sixty-one people died and over four hundred were wounded during a concert on the Las Vegas Strip. Continued conversations about gun control happen often and little has been done to prevent mass shootings. *** I had knowledge of these incidents before 2012. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about them when we entered the movies. Just a few minutes into the movie, an employee of the theater came in. She sat right behind us looking petrified. After a few seconds, she leaned forward and calmly said, “There’s somebody right outside shooting a bunch of people. It’s really bad.” Then she leaned back into her seat. We looked at each other. I wondered if she was crazy but also remembered the face of the man who killed all those people in Colorado just a few months prior. The movie was the latest Batman film and apparently some audience members thought the gunshots were from the movie itself. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had heard real gunshots and assumed it was from Red Dawn. The employee left and after a few minutes, everything seemed fine. Suddenly, the movie stopped playing and she came back in. “Attention!” she announced to the audience, “there is a man shooting people in the mall. You are to remain in here until police escort you out of the theater.” Her posture was rigid. I remember she wore a navy-blue dress that looked very formal. She had no emotion in her voice, but you could tell she was in shock. Maybe the lack of emotion in her voice was her way of processing what was happening. Did she see it happen? It seemed like hours had passed before we were finally able to leave the theater. My mind and body felt numb; whenever someone tried to talk to me, I sank out of reality momentarily. The officers maintained a calm composure as they led us out of the theater through an exit I hadn’t noticed before. They gave firm directions and led us outside on the sidewalk near the entrance of the mall and theater where we were instructed to continue waiting. “Oh my God, there’s bodies,” said a bystander. I caught a glimpse of paramedics transporting motionless figures in wrappings. I saw that the cloth absorbed crimson blotches and quickly looked away, avoiding being exposed to their faces; I didn’t want to see them. Neither Wes nor I had much to say in the remaining moments. Eventually news reporters came and one started asking us questions about what happened and what we experienced. We told her everything and she asked if we could say it on camera. Both of us in unison firmly said, “No thanks.” She looked very surprised but thanked us for our words. It felt like a firework of reality hitting me in the face. This was my first date and it was with a man. Both of us were trying to be as discreet as possible. The dread of being seen on TV with a man my family didn’t know made my skeleton jump out of its own skin. The past hour I was only processing what was going on. I forgot about everything else in the world. I hadn’t realized it was extremely cold and a lot of people were shivering. It’s hard to explain but just being asked if I could “say it on camera” snapped me back into my reality outside of these moments. If people knew, would they say this happened because I was on a date with a man? Did I believe this? My church friends might say that. I’d finally cut off all ties to gay conversion therapy and this happens. Is there some tragedy everyone experiences when they come out? Is it bad that this is what I’m now focused on? How many more mass shootings are going to happen? Will this be the only one I experience? Keith Kunze Growing up in a rural small town in Oregon made being in the closet quite an intense experience. Journaling is something that I found beneficial and was a huge process in accepting myself as a gay man. Besides non-fiction storytelling, I enjoy a variety of other genres, but especially enjoy stories that are a “slice of life” with scifi/fantasy components. Playing video games, watching shows, and researching miscellaneous topics that might not be relevant to anything of importance are things you are likely to catch me doing at home. Currently, I am studying to become an elementary teacher, after taking a hiatus from college.

FAT BOY Shane Allison I’m barely awake checking emails And social media messages When my mother asks me If I want anything from the store. She does this sometimes, As if she’s some kind of space Martian From Mars who is new to planet Earth And doesn’t know her way around a supermarket. With sleep seeds still in my eyes, I tell her to get yogurt, Turkey cold cuts, and chicken pot pies. I tell her to throw waffles in the cart, Plums and green grapes without the seeds. I know she’ll forget most of what I ask For, like kiwi and dragon fruit. Raisin bread instead of Cherry plums. I don’t want to clutter the corners of her mind With things like blackberries and almond milk. Needed ingredients for smoothies To lower my blood pressure. She will come home armed With an arsenal of bags Filled with turkey wings, Ham hocks, Neck bones and frozen okra. Finger cookies for dad And canned vegetables pickled in some soupy, Salty concoction. She’ll come with chocolate milk, Sugar Pops and Frosted Flakes, Zero sugar root beer for Dad’s bad blood And her kidney disease, which was News she broke to me in the lobby at the cancer center Minutes before her CAT scan. The calories I burn at Planet Fitness Will only be regained under her reign Where everything must be cooked With butter, bacon, or grease. She doesn’t know that it takes more than push‑ups To flatten a belly like this. A thousand thigh crunches to keep them from rubbing together. My friend Chuck lost 90 pounds on Noom. I would give both my nuts To shed 90 pounds of fried food flesh, Suck out the midnight cravings with a vacuum hose. My mother doesn’t know what it’s like to look down And not be able to see your dick without having To hold your belly in. “You look fat sitting on the sofa,” she told me once. “Are you still going to the gym?” she asked when she Saw me coming out of the bathroom with my shirt off. Tonight I’ll write out a grocery list on the back of this poem: Pork loin Salmon Beet and pomegranate juice Almond milk, Yogurt, Blackberries and whiskey, A little something extra for the smoothies. Shane Allison Shane Allison was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish several chapbooks of poetry, Black Fag , Ceiling of Mirrors , Cock and Balls , I Want to Fuck a Redneck , Remembered Men , and Live Nude Guys , as well as four full-length poetry collections, I Remember (Future Tense), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical), and I Want to Eat Chinese Food off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon & Schuster). Allison’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo , Unlikely Stories , Pnpplzine.com , Palavar Arts Magazine , Southeast Review , and a plethora of others. He is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.

LAVENDER WEDDING Shane Allison I’m convinced that I’ll get married in the gym of my old high school. The ceremony will take place on a beautiful spring afternoon on Saturday ’cause Saturdays are for weddings. My suit will be “virgin” white with a shirt of lavender and ruffles at the collar. The shoes will be platformed. I’ll reek of Brut and Afro-sheen. My husband-to-be will look stunning in his lavender Christian Dior wedding dress imported from Paris. I’ll mow the hair from my legs like newly cut grass with a Lady Bic, pluck my chest hairs like feathers from a chicken, paint these lips with apple red lipstick. I want all my closest friends to come ornamented in those dresses like they wore in Footloose . The lesbians will come as Wall Street tycoons constantly reminding me how expensive all this shit is and how much it’s going to set me back no matter how many times I tell them that money is no object. I want my daddy to give me away if he promises to keep his hands off Aunt Tillie. My mama will be the bearer of rice and punch spiked with whiskey. The priest will be a Michael Jackson impersonator. The reception will be held at the house of Chicken and Waffles where Debbie, employee of the month, will catch the bouquet. Wally, the four-hundred-pound, stubble-faced cook, who smokes stink cigars, where the ashes occasionally fall in the blueberry pancake mix, will have the pleasure of pulling the garter belt from my husband’s thigh with his teeth. There will be no limousines ’cause if a Pinto was good enough for my sister and her husband, Then it’s good enough for me and mine. Shane Allison Shane Allison was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish several chapbooks of poetry, Black Fag , Ceiling of Mirrors , Cock and Balls , I Want to Fuck a Redneck , Remembered Men , and Live Nude Guys , as well as four full-length poetry collections, I Remember (Future Tense), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical), and I Want to Eat Chinese Food off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon & Schuster). Allison’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo , Unlikely Stories , Pnpplzine.com , Palavar Arts Magazine , Southeast Review , and a plethora of others. He is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.

PROMISE RINGS Bailey Moore Butterflies on silver wings tie silver strings On our fingers Blue skies, dark eyes Do you remember? Long days. No life Asking what am I? A pebble among the thousands Another grain among the bunch A tree in the forest Something easily overseen. Out of touch? You know When it rains it pours When I cry it storms, Sunshine What I’d give to see from your eyes A vision An after-image A reason Wings fluttering and suns setting Through the clouds and fields of blue I will be there for you Bailey Moore Bailey Moore: I live in a small Halloween-loving town with my family, including two cats and a dog. I love reading, writing, and playing games. I’ve worked with a lot of different mediums, but I have enjoyed working with oils the most. I plan to transfer to a university and pursue my degree in fine arts.