THE SOUL JUMPS WITH JOY Slava Konoval The soul jumps with joy, she’s surrounded by British care and twenty years of drunken life in Ukraine. A former alcoholic mother flaunts herself by the colored pictures in a web. Her peasant neighbors are jealous of her, their fields are not plowed, their fields are not sown, as they are all alone. How is it in the blood to live peacefully? How is it to thank God? He had released a mother from an impoverished life. Mother’s house is bequeathed by the descendants of English barons. A smoke has settled in Ukraine, never to see their mothers on Ukrainian railway platforms. Slava Konoval My creative works are dedicated to the central themes of modernity, and the main one is the exposure of the concepts of “good” and “evil” and their transformation into a gray shade. Poetry is a weapon against consciousness, which feeds on cheap informational garbage, cultivating a consumerist attitude and civic indifference for the future of the society in which individuals live. Since I am a lawyer by profession, poetry is my additional tool that allows me to fight where politics mercilessly and maliciously defeats the law. I am an active member of civil society and perform the functions of the Commissioner for Prevention and Counteraction of Corruption on public grounds. I adore the poetic satire. I have never attached much importance to the naming of my poetry, as I believe that poetry should be devoid of advertising content. The heart of poetry is the power of words. That’s the main thing. Ideologically, my works are in the canvas of a poetry group called Voices from Ukraine.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I KNOW ANGER WELL Alli Tschirhart He comes over often, arms overflowing with gifts I don’t want I offer him tea, which he always declines He instead prefers whiskey and a cigarette hanging from his lips I’ve told him no smoking in my house, I’m renting He scoffs and lights up Most times he arrives with unwanted guests: depression, rejection, anxiety All setting their hot cups on my furniture Please, use a coaster The rings set in the wood, not something I can easily clean My lover doesn’t appreciate anger, just finds him rude and difficult I try to tell him I am working on it, He just needs a place to stay every once in a while The truth is I worry I worry he has my secrets Secrets I don’t want anyone knowing, holding against me So, I let him walk all over me My friend, anger. 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

SEA AND STONE Dean Wilson Endless drifting sand carving the stone and shore, ever-changing meandering line as an invisible border between sea and stone. The sand does not stay, does not stop for a portrait to be painted like the words in a book of poetry. The sea does not hold back as it cuts and grinds stone into sand, casting about to destroy or create art. I stand between the sea and stone. Watching timeless lines shift beneath my feet. Dean Wilson Born in Oregon, our family moved around a lot. I used my first camera, a 126-roll film from the 1960s, very infrequently. Progressing through the Instamatic days of the 1970s, I bought my first SLT in 1976. This eventually led to a DSLR in 2015 and mirrorless from 2019. Photography is a passion for me that allows me to capture a feeling, mood, or a moment in time that tells a story. I capture landscapes with a creative eye of a place that may have existed for thousands of years or in the blink of an eye, which may suddenly disappear tomorrow. Instagram ~ @DeanWilsonCanby Facebook ~ Dean Wilson Photography

FETAL POSITION Alli Tschirhart This house holds no heat Chill clings to everything: the plywood floors, the furniture—me The small metal heaters do nothing only burning our fingertips as we press against them, the water pop-popping inside The naked mattress stays cool I shiver beneath my flimsy throw, my feet have turned to stone So many children in the house that when it comes to bedding, the oldest gets overlooked. Sleeping is easiest with my knees knocking against my chin, arms hugging them close Morning comes, bones creak and muscles ache It’s better than being cold. 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

MASJID ROAD Shamik Banerjee Fishmongers’ cleaver knives don’t rest at all; Their heavy thuds outdo the termless spiels Of colporteurs dispensing large and small Versions of holy books. On mud-sunk wheels, Waxed apples, sapodillas, apricots Effuse their fragrance, trapping passersby Who check the rates, then stand submerged in thoughts— Some fill their punnets, some leave with a sigh. Outside the mosque, blind footpath dwellers wait To hear the clinking sound—the sound of true Relief—while dogs, flopped by the butcher’s gate, Get jumpy when he throws a hunk or two. Loudspeakers, placed on high, say “call to prayer” And all work halts; there’s silence in the air. 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.

MECHANICAL PENCIL Sean P. Hotchkiss I prefer to write in pencil Not sure why Ink may be too permanent I wrote to you of my love “click” for you, the deepness of it There were times that we irritated each other, or “click” disagreed A short interruption of our story “click” like when the lead is too short and must be pulled from the pencil “click click click click” (too far, push it back a little) But our love was always there, always strong, always true “click click” Love, marriage, children, “click” bills, home, love. Always love Even when, or especially when you got sick. “click” Always love. Our story continued, with “click” care and mutual devotion I check the pencil, and the lead is running low “click” I see no refill, as your end draws near “click click” I would love to write less to preserve the lead but our love must be told, must continue fully until the end “click” To the last we were together, you “click” dying by my side as we slept The story ended, the lead is gone “ “ Perhaps if I had written our story in ink… 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 .

THE FOOL Gigi-Giangiobbe-Rodriguez The man on the bicycle’s name is Tony, short for Antonio. Antonio was his father’s name, sour on his tongue like spoiled milk. He ditched Antonio and he goes by Tony, hoping he can pass as an Anthony. He had always thought Anthony sounded like someone who graduated from high school, maybe even from college. Someone with a dad who didn’t punch on his mom every night and whose mom didn’t have two separate personalities on a good day. Tony could have been the guy who graduated college if he had kept pedaling, but as it was, he hopped off his bike and wandered, often. Tony had one hand on his ruby red bicycle and one hand on his cherry red gasoline drum that he just filled to the brim. Tony is as red as they come. His nose and ears are crimson from the gout. His eyes are bloodshot from years of drinking, smoking, and crying. That, and he doesn’t get much sleep. He’s been called a commie, socialist, anti-capitalist, revolutionary, Rudolph, bashful, flaming, angry—and he was most of these things. Even his bank account inched closer to being in the red every day. It wasn’t that he had spent more money than he’d made; the real problem was that he hadn’t had a job in decades, and that was just fine with him. He was pedaling through the Tenderloin district in San Francisco, where he had lived for twenty‑five years. He had seen more grown men’s pricks and backsides last year in the Tenderloin than he did in his whole tour in Germany. Very often, the noise and smells of this neighborhood brought his mind traveling back to the barracks, to a time when he didn’t know what tomorrow would bring and it scared him, but at least he hadn’t completely given up yet. His mp3 player broke last week, so today while he rides he hums “Killing Yourself to Live” by Black Sabbath. He has a beautiful voice, though no one ever hears it. Tony was well aware as he wandered through the streets that people assumed he was homeless, and that comforted him. The average person with their life together doesn’t bother to look at homeless people, to really see them or ask how they’re doing. He doesn’t want eyes on him, or questions directed at him. Today, as he made his commute in obscurity, he was bringing his full gasoline drum to his fire engine red Buick Skylark, which had been sitting in the same spot for months, on one of the only streets in San Francisco that remained unmetered and unpermitted. He had only received two street-sweeping tickets the whole time his car had been there, and that’s because it is an insanely steep and zigzaggy hill that most street- sweeping drivers conveniently “forget” to go up on their weekly route. *** He pedals past the weirdos he feels kinship with in the Haight Ashbury neighborhood, nodding at the few that make eye contact, keeps riding past Buena Vista Park, and hops off when he hits Belvedere Street. He squints through his sweat and scans the middle of the block for his rusty Buick, where he knows he left it. It takes him several seconds longer than it should to realize his car has been towed, or stolen, it really doesn’t matter which. Lungs burning with exercise and rage mingling with humiliation, he throws the gas drum and hears it thud and crack. Angry tears burn his eyes and he hopes someone lights a cigarette right now right this very moment and blows it all to fucking hell. Tony wishes he had a lighter or cigarettes on him because he is starting to get some sick thoughts and wants to do some sick things, and then the corner of the letter in his shirt pocket pokes him and snaps him out of his fury. He starts to walk his red bike over to the park, leaving the leaking red drum and the memory of his red car behind. He is drawn to a grove of towering eucalyptus trees, their bark torn and falling apart. He walks for a while as his anger turns to sadness and self-pity, the emotion he is most comfortable with. After about an hour, Tony finally sits on a large tree stump and feels for the contents of his breast pocket. Avoiding the piece of paper, he grabs the doobie next to it instead. Shit, he thinks, I don’t have a goddamn light. He walks up to a homeless man and offers a couple hits for a spark. *** By the time he returned to his stump, Tony had calmed considerably, and the breeze filtering through the grove was tepid like his mood. He took off his shoes and felt the grass with his toes. There was a letter from his son in his pocket that he hadn’t found the courage to read yet. His son had not contacted him for years, and considering Tony’s absence and behavior he more than understood this choice. Seeing the envelope in his mail slot made Tony feel both excited and ashamed. He took the letter out of his pocket and stared at his name on the envelope, inches away from a little red stamp, and was hit by a wave of nausea and jitters. Maybe after this smoke I’ll read it. But probably not. Most likely not. Where he sits, the salty ocean air is veiled by an herbaceous, arboreal smell. The eucalyptus trees and sweet bay laurels commanded his attention, and so while he sat and smoked he stared up at their peeling trunks. Every day it gets a bit harder to breathe, and the joint is probably hurting more than helping him, but he doesn’t care. Tomorrow, he will read the letter. Tomorrow. Gigi Giangiobbe-Rodriguez Gigi Giangiobbe-Rodriguez is a writer based in Portland, Oregon but was raised in Oakland, California. She’s never met a tree she didn’t like and has what some would call an acute addiction to tea. When Gigi is not amassing books faster than she can read them, she’s writing, snacking, or scream-singing karaoke at a dive bar with her husband and their friends. Her current works include her chapbook: I’m Okay, I Promise . Gigi writes personal essays, memoir, prose poetry, poetry, fiction, and occasionally takes a stab at other genres. Her research essay on Indigenous voter disenfranchisement was showcased at PCC’s 2023 Groundswell Conference. Gigi is on the President’s List at PCC and is an All-Oregon Academic Team scholar. She is an editor for the literary magazine The Pointed Circle .

HISTORY OF THE BELLWETHER REVIEW The Bellwether Review had its conception in 1996, originally dubbed The Rock Creek Review , staffed by PCC Rock Creek faculty members. The Rock Creek Review was renamed The Bellwether Review in 2011, with the inception of the Advanced Creative Writing, Editing & Publishing course. The Bellwether Review was chosen to symbolize the artistic drive of writers and artists, by drawing on the significance of a “bellwether” being the leader in a flock of sheep, who wears a bell to signal the best direction for the entire herd. Today, the term “bellwether” more commonly refers to any person who takes initiative and sets trends, as those whose work is published in The Bellwether Review do in leading the way for artistic expression.