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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.

Spring 2023 art poetry fiction Nonfiction Thank you for visiting our website. The Bellwether Review is a literary journal that hopes to promote and inspire creativity amongst those not only at PCC Rock Creek, but throughout the community. We hope you take the time to review these great pieces that were sent in to us and selected for publication by our editorial team. Visit our Submissions page if you are interested in having your work considered for publication. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, This edition of The Bellwether Review is special in two ways from previous editions. It is the first print edition to be published after the Covid-19 restrictions were lifted, and will be the first edition to be published alongside its online companion at bellwetherreview.com . Our editing team is honored and privileged to have witnessed the amazing levels of beauty, creativity, bravery, thought, and emotion infused by the Contributors into all of their submissions. Each piece was reviewed, discussed, and carefully selected by us with you, and a profound respect for the act of artistic creation, in mind. The Bellwether Review is created by the students of Portland Community College for the purpose of being enjoyed by all it can reach, and the editorial team would like to thank you for exploring and enjoying the contributions of our fellow students contained within these pages. With gratitude, The 2023 Editorial Team Copyright © 2023 Portland Community College Portland Community College reserves all rights to the material contained herein for the contributors’ protection. On publication, all rights revert to the respective authors and artists.

THE WHISPER OF THE RAIN Brooklyn Shepard It was a stark and unforgiving mid-winter’s evening in western Oregon. This was my second time in Corvallis in a week. The light from the Shari’s sign reflected off our faces, casting a morbid glow on the pavement. Sitting on the ground of a rain-soaked parking lot, I held Jason’s uncalloused hand as he bled to death. The dark rivulets spreading out from his body were growing into a puddle, somehow avoiding the place where I sat, as if they too blamed me for their presence. “I . . . I think I got shot,” Jason spoke quietly. Three days prior, my daughter had called me, hysterical on the phone, blubbering out, “He hit me.” I already wasn’t fond of Jason Williams. While my daughter, Cha’uri, felt he was a mature and distinguished older guy, I just saw him as the nearly thirty-year-old who was dating my barely legal daughter. I may have been able to get past that, but he had been accused of molesting his much-younger sister when she was a baby, and he was all too often around my infant granddaughters. When my youngest granddaughter was born to Cha’uri and Jason, the Department of Health and Human Services stepped in and refused to let Nova go home with him. They called me early on the second morning of my daughter’s hospital stay and asked if I would take the girls until Jason completed a psychosexual parameters test. We didn’t expect that he would refuse, but he did. At the time of the incident, I was living in Forest Grove, a tiny agricultural town two hours north of Corvallis. It was a harshly beautiful night. There was no moon out, and the stars glinted hard like chips of quartz freshly dug out of their earth. The highway was lonely, and headlights spit their beams through my windshield in stark bursts breaking up long periods of darkness. During my frantic drive south, Cha’uri and Jason had the ill grace to make up, and she sent me a text right before I left the interstate telling me to turn around. She tried to assure me that she was fine; it was all a big misunderstanding. But once a plate is broken, no amount of glue can put it back exactly the same as it was before. I convinced her to meet up with me, and we talked, but she decided not to go home with me, to stay instead with Jason. No amount of my considerable persuasion could change her mind. She was definitely my daughter. Stubborn as a mule. I couldn’t let it go. My boyfriend of the time, an ex-Army grunt, pitched one solution that would remove Jason from ever being a problem again. If the United States Armed Forces is good at anything, it’s at training its recruits that killing another person is a solution to most problems. The next day, I offered to meet up with Cha’uri and Jason for dinner, saying I had something to talk to Jason about. I never intended to have a conversation with him. Upon arriving at the Shari’s Saturday evening, I expressed a desire to smoke, and predictably, as smokers will do, my daughter and Jason followed outside, bumming smokes off me as we huddled under the bicycle rack out of the rain. I stepped away to drop my filter in the receptacle, and the first shot ricocheted off the bike rack and hit me in the knee. No plan survives the first attempt, and my plan was already going awry. The shots came from across the parking lot, in the wooded area near the cars, and the pops from the gunfire were so loud and so close together that they sounded like fireworks going off in the space between us. I fell to the ground, and saw my daughter, still standing, staring agape at Jason, who lay on the ground behind me. I screamed at Cha’uri to get down, honestly afraid for the first time. What would I do if she got hurt? She dropped and scrambled over to me on hands and knees. I checked her quickly, desperately making sure she wasn’t injured, then shoved her inside the glass-walled entrance to the diner. The door chimed, an incongruous welcoming noise. I crawled over to Jason. He lay on his back, several small red marks scattered across his body, like he had been dotted with a red Sharpie. I could see that none were immediately fatal, but it wouldn’t be long. Suddenly, this wasn’t what I wanted at all. Death, right in front of you, goes from being a distant, sterile concept, to being a real and present event. “I . . . I think I got shot,” Jason whispered to me. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “You’re going to be fine,” I lied. There was no reason to frighten him. It would be pointlessly cruel. Both of our lives were fading away like the last light from the sky. While he would never hit my daughter again, I hadn’t saved her. I had cost her both her own free will in her relationship choices, and her time with her mother. As I watched her through the plate glass window, safe within the restaurant, I realized I would spend most of the foreseeable future unable to hold her when she needed me or be by her side as she celebrated life. Our lives would be as they were in this moment: me on the outside, watching her, and all too often doing so through glass. The police and ambulance arrived in minutes. It didn’t take the detectives long to arrest my boyfriend and me. I was treated at the Corvallis hospital for a superficial gunshot wound to the knee, and released into the custody of a detective of the Corvallis Police Department. After spending eight months in the county’s ancient and derelict jail, my co-defendant and I were each sentenced to prison time for our roles in Jason’s death. I received eighteen years, and he got twenty-five to life. It could have been worse. I’ve been at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility for a little over eight years. The time has passed quickly, but I’ve missed so much of my life outside of these walls. My granddaughters are now nine and eight years old. Like them, I’ve learned and grown. Most importantly perhaps, I have learned that no one has the right to take life from someone else. It is possibly the only thing we own that is ours alone. The ending of a life is a lot like strong perfume. It’s impossible to put it on someone else without getting a little on yourself. My freedom died with Jason that night in the parking lot, our funeral dirge the whisper of the rain. Brooklyn Shepard Brooklyn Shepard, who also goes by Crescent Holiday, is a resident at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Wilsonville. She takes college courses offered by both Portland Community College and Portland State University, where she majors in English. She is the mother of a number of children including Soriyah, Britain, Iliyana, Indigo, Sterling, and Cha’uri—and she has a husband who is the love of her life. She can be reached by mail for comments and discussion: Brooklyn Shepard/Crescent Holiday CCF #15721242 24499 SW Grahams Ferry Rd. Wilsonville, OR 97070

NOTICE Nancy McKinley Wagner Hey, you . . . did you perhaps notice something as you passed this way? Did something wonderful try to sneak into the corner of your eye? Did you resist? Did you notice the lovely little sparrow singing its song? Did you hear the hopefulness in its shrill? Did it make you feel alive and connected to the whole wide world? Or did you simply pass by? Allow me to let you in on a secret; there is an innate knowledge that’s been washed away by a good scrubbing and an infantile belief that the world must be conquered in the name of progress. We live in a world of concrete, of chemicals and of hard steel and flimsy plastics. It is a place of indifference and of a strange superiority that dares to look down on the soil of the good earth like it’s something dirty. The sound of traffic is amplified by the tall fences that skirt the sides of the wide boulevard. People enveloped by cars speed by. Every one of them wears a crumpled forehead of practiced concentration accompanied by an intense and slightly sorrowful scowl. There is not one smile among them, not one. The striped song sparrow tries to get your attention. It is in a bush near the entrance of your building. It sings its lovely song. Its little throat vibrates with every note. The roar of traffic almost drowns it out but if you listen—if you stop and take a moment to notice this tiny life right there in front of you, singing its heart out, you may be able to receive its message. You may then realize, if you haven’t already, that you, all-powerful human, and this small, seemingly insignificant creature are kin. If we don’t notice something, we don’t notice when it’s gone. Humankind’s expansive growth has left our precious wildlife with nowhere to go. And we are losing our precious birds. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, habitat loss poses by far the greatest threat to birds, both directly and indirectly, more so than any other cause ("Threats to Birds "). It is essential to conserve what we have and rewild and restore what places we can that will make the most impact. Our natural world is our home as well as it is home to the sparrow and all the other creatures. All life on this Earth is connected. It is up to us all to do our part. Desmond Tutu, the Nobel prize winning Archbishop, once said, “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.” I believe that wholeheartedly. We have inherited this good Earth from our ancestors, just as others have before them, but never has the Earth needed us as it does now. It goes beyond recycling and reusing, it entails a rethinking of what it means to be human and live on this planet. Coexisting in harmony and working with nature instead of against her. This is a way of thinking we must teach our children who will ultimately inherit it all from us. The little sparrow is a canary in a coal mine, singing a warning and a plea. My hope is that we listen. Nancy McKinley Wagner Nancy McKinley Wagner is a business major with a love for nature and writing. Writer of nonfiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry centered on the natural world and its wondrous and beautiful connection to the human spirit, she lives with her family in Beaverton, Oregon.

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.

LAND ACKNOWLEDGMENT We would like to acknowledge that the home of The Bellwether Review , Portland Community College’s Rock Creek campus, is located on the land of the Atfalati-Kalapuya tribes (also known as Tualatin Kalapuya), who were among the First People living in what we currently call Washington County. In 1855, the Atfalati tribes were forced to sign a treaty relinquishing ownership of their land . Today, the Kalapuya people are members of the Confederated Tribes of the Grande Ronde, located southwest of Washington County. We also want to acknowledge and thank the original stewards of the land throughout the area which PCC serves today, including the Molalla; the Multnomah, Kathlamet, and Clackamas bands of the Chinook; as well as the many other Tribes who have made their homes along the Columbia River. We, the editors, have chosen to include this land acknowledgment as an active commitment to supporting contemporary Indigenous sovereignty by promoting awareness and fostering dialogue as a contribution toward decolonizing the oppression which has resulted from systemic policies of colonization—including genocide, relocation, broken treaties, and assimilation. The Bellwether Review seeks to highlight the diversity of linguistic and artistic expression of student voices on the Rock Creek campus and throughout the PCC community; with this in mind, we want to acknowledge the absence of voices that might otherwise have been thriving today, if it were not for the practices of forced cultural assimilation that leads to the loss of fluency in local Indigenous languages. The last known fluent speaker of Tualatin Northern Kalapuya, Louis Kenoyer ( baxawádas ), died in 1937. Kenoyer’s memoir, My Life: Reminiscences of a Grande Ronde Reservation Childhood , translated into English from Tualatin Northern Kalapuya, is available at the PCC Rock Creek Library. We encourage readers of The Bellwether Review to honor the journal’s connection to the history of the land upon which it is produced by supporting and promoting organizations that are working to cultivate and honor contemporary Indigenous cultures in a variety of ways, such as PCC’s Native Nations Club , Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde , Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians , The NAYA Family Center , Salmon Nation , and the First Nations’ Native Language Immersion Initiative . Learn more about the Kalapuya people by exploring Kalapuyan Tribal History , Pacific University’s Indigenous History of Oregon , and the Five Oaks Museum’s online exhibition, This IS Kalapuyan Land . The Bellwether Review editorial team would like to thank PCC Native Nations Club Coordinator Karry Kelley (Yahooskin/Modoc) and Dr. Blake Hausman (Cherokee Nation), PCC faculty in English and Native American Studies, for advising us on crafting this acknowledgment.

The Bellwether Review A Student-Led Literary and Arts Journal Spring 2023 art poetry fiction Nonfiction Thank you for visiting our website. The Bellwether Review is a literary journal that hopes to promote and inspire creativity amongst those not only at PCC Rock Creek, but throughout the community. We hope you take the time to review these great pieces that were sent in to us and selected for publication by our editorial team. Visit our Submissions page if you are interested in having your work considered for publication. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, This edition of The Bellwether Review is special in two ways from previous editions. It is the first print edition to be published after the Covid-19 restrictions were lifted, and will be the first edition to be published alongside its online companion at bellwetherreview.com . Our editing team is honored and privileged to have witnessed the amazing levels of beauty, creativity, bravery, thought, and emotion infused by the Contributors into all of their submissions. Each piece was reviewed, discussed, and carefully selected by us with you, and a profound respect for the act of artistic creation, in mind. The Bellwether Review is created by the students of Portland Community College for the purpose of being enjoyed by all it can reach, and the editorial team would like to thank you for exploring and enjoying the contributions of our fellow students contained within these pages. With gratitude, The 2023 Editorial Team MEET THE 2023 EDITORS Copyright © 2023 Portland Community College Portland Community College reserves all rights to the material contained herein for the contributors’ protection. On publication, all rights revert to the respective authors and artists.

Fiction The Fool Gigi Giangiobbe-Rodriguez The Red's Death Matt Smith

MEET THE EDITORS A high-adrenaline enthusiast with an endless supply of energy, Claire Batchelder has been writing for as long as she can remember, and these days she writes a solid mix of poetry and fiction. She has been rock climbing for eight years and scuba diving for five, and her inspiration draws heavily from the natural world she’s encountered—and the disturbing changes she’s witnessed. Claire has submitted an assortment of poems and a piece of nonfiction for publication in several journals, and she’s currently revising a fiction story. When she’s not writing or adventuring in the outdoors, she’s cuddling with her husky, Artemis. Jonathan Bennett is a 21-year-old writer from Oregon currently attending Portland Community College. Jonathan works as both a Poetry and Fiction editor for this journal. They have been writing on and off since their junior year at Mountainside High School, taking a gap year to find another but ultimately going back to writing. They plan on transferring to Portland State University for a Creative Writing degree, and they hope to someday write lore for a good indie game. They mainly want to pursue fiction writing, but that’s currently taken a backseat to their newly found passion for poetry. Outside of writing, they enjoy hiking, listening to Midwest emo music, playing games a bit too competitively, and hanging out with their amazing partner. “O Time thy pyramids.” —Jorge Luis Borges Hunter Bordwell-Gray is a lifelong Portland resident and half-a-lifelong writer. What was first a dead set passion on becoming a novelist in the third grade has since warped and evolved into a much broader love of writing. His inspirations draw from a roulette wheel of nature, analog horror podcasts, and music to create . . . whatever the intersection of those three things creates. Mostly poetry, but who knows what it may be tomorrow! Quinn Brown is a trans and indigenous Portland writer and poet. Since writing from a very young age, Quinn found herself pursuing a passion for writing in all different forms, from varying genres of fiction to poetry. Her key inspirations for most of her writing comes from a place exploring identity, culture, and where those ideas overlap. Sean P. Hotchkiss is one of the Typesetting Editors, as well as our Art Editor and Web Editor. Proud father of three, grateful partner of one, and widower. Sean is in his last term towards earning an A.A.S. Business: Marketing degree at Portland Community College (PCC) with plans to pursue a Masters degree in clinical mental health. He rediscovered his love of writing after returning to college after three gap-decades. In addition to owning a small marketing support firm, he is a reading and writing tutor at the PCC Sylvania Campus. In addition to being a second time contributing editor and author in The Bellwether Review, Sean was also a presenting author at the 2023 PCC Groundswell: a Conference of Student Writing. “I am the puppet master! You’re a puppet in a play, and I hold all the strings! And cards, still got the cards. I’ve got the cards in one hand, and the strings in the other hand, and I’m making you dance around, like a puppet, playing cards.” —Wheatley, Portal 2 . Who’s that fine lookin’ fellow with the sexy hair, the one whose opinions on style choices were like black sheep? Why, that’s Adam Idris , baby! His very first year of college and he’s already dabbling in the art of publications, maybe he’s hoping to get his own stories published. What kinda stories, you may ask? Just your typical fiction, filled to the brim with laughs, action, witty one-liners and loveable characters. What a guy, am I right? “Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can.” —Naya Rivera Bo Leo , one of our Typesetting Editors and Proofing Editors, is an aspiring author who resides in the Pacific Northwest. Their deep appreciation for animals and nature is evident in their writing, which typically focuses on themes of identity and trauma. When they’re away from their desk, you can find them reading, painting, daydreaming, spending time with their pets, or enraptured by the music of one Alessia Cara. Megan McGrory is an avid consumer of media who’s lived in Washington, Alaska, and finally Oregon. She has been writing since before she could technically write, getting her mother to write down her stories for her. Her greatest passion is prose, particularly fantasy and science fiction. Aside from writing, Megan loves to read, watch movies and tv, perform on stage, and analyze media through a feminist lens. One of her greatest passions is napping with her cat, Spooky. You can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.” —Jodi Picoult Randall Camden Stemple is a PCC student who enjoys spending most of his free time reading, writing, and watching whatever slop YouTube recommends. This of course, in-between bouts of struggling to format his dialogue and working as the Correspondence Editor. If at any point you received an email from The Bellwether Review , it was most likely from him, and if you at any point noticed the inconsistent manner in which he formatted each email, please keep it to yourself.

MISSION STATEMENT The Bellwether Review is Portland Community College Rock Creek’s literary magazine. Our mission is to showcase the original writing and art from both students and artistically inclined folks from the greater community. We aim to publish diverse bodies of work from a variety of voices. All submissions go through a fair and democratic process, which ensures the highest quality of work is selected. The Bellwether Review commemorates the hard work and dedication of all those involved in its creation.