Search The Bellwether Review 2024

WANT TO SEE YOUR WORK PUBLISHED IN THE BELLWETHER REVIEW? The Bellwether Review primarily seeks to promote the work of Portland Community College students, but we also consider a limited number of submissions from the general public. Any individual can submit up to 5 poems, 2 short stories, 2 scripts, 2 creative nonfiction essays, and/or 4 pieces of visual artwork. We generally do not publish research essays or works over 5,000 words. All works submitted will be reviewed and taken into consideration by our editorial team! Submit your work(s) via e-mail to bellwetherreview@gmail.com . Written works should be submitted as a .docx file, and visual artwork as a print quality .jpeg or .png file. All submissions must be titled. Include your name, list of titles submitted, and phone number in the submission email, which should be sent from your PCC email address, if you have one. Submission files should not have your name or identifying information within the file itself. All contributors will receive a copy of The Bellwether Review . Send your work to bellwetherreview@gmail.com by April 6, 2025 to be considered for our next edition.

ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES ARTWORKS Mehdi Gassi: Using different mediums such as painting, graphic design, and 3D media I strive towards depicting the world we live in and the chaos that fills our time, as I aim to dive deep into the subject matter and create a sense of universality that resonates with all. My practice often involves creating a series of work using different mediums, allowing me to explore and experiment with techniques that are visually compelling and never been done before. I take great pleasure in discovering new ways to layer my paints to create a sense of depth and originality. As an artist, I am deeply passionate about exploring sentimental matters and pardoxes that we come across as humans, and do so using symbolic figurative style. I look forward to continuing to push the boundaries of what is possible with my creativity and bringing new perspectives to the subjects that I am passionate about. 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. 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. Xiomara Mueller is a PCC student whose artwork, Orange Is the Loneliest Color , is published in the 2024 issue of The Bellwether Review. J acky Sanchez Lozoya is a PCC student whose artwork, El Alcatraz , is published in the 2024 issue of The Bellwether Review. Laila Sheikh: Hailing from Lake Oswego, Oregon, my paintings reflect my love of cheerful, vivid colors inspired by my world travels. I am inspired by art masters, a global perspective, and my training in Feng Shui and Ikebana to create unique oil and acrylic paintings that intersect the abstract and the modern. I hope to fill your space with happy colors. https://lailaduttastudio.wixsite.com/lailaduttastudio Instagram ~ @lailaduttastudio lailaduttastudio@gmail.com Eddie Vassilenko: I’m a fella who likes to make things. My work centers around my life being queer, body image, and the people around me. I often focus on the human form. When I’m not making art, I’m probably playing Guitar Hero 3. Kelley Wezner is a recent retiree who has returned to school to study art. She is in her first year at PCC. She particularly enjoys drawing and painting the nature she sees on walks. When she’s not in school, she enjoys reading, hiking, and time with friends and family. 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. Facebook ~ Dean Wilson Photography Instagram ~ @DeanWilsonCanby

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.

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 .

DEAR CREATOR Mercedes Shafer I do not know myself. I do not know my worth. I do not know why I am here. But it must be for your paycheck. I do not know why you need me. I do not know why it is a must. I do not know your point of reasoning. But it is simple, I am just not enough. I do not know what I am meant to do. I do not know why you use me. I do not know if I am of any help. But it’s is easy to see, I am nothing much. I do not know my identity. I do not know your tests. I do not know where I belong. But what I do know, Is that I do not know you. Mercedes Shafer Mercedes Shafer: I am 18 years old and have always used poetry as a way to express how I feel. I took the Writing 242 poetry workshop at PCC and found that poetry helped me with my feelings a lot more than I thought. When creating “Dear Creator” I did not originally have a specific person that I was thinking about, but after some fixing up, I began to have a person in mind. I left it as “Dear Creator” to give the readers some room on how they want to interpret it.

NO RELIEF David P. Sterner Endless tears I shed in vain, though my eyes are cleansed the world still looks the same. I want to die and not exist, but this thing called life somehow persists. Though my friends reach out to understand, I can’t seem to grasp a helping hand. So I return to myself in sorrow, in grief, for this pain that I feel comes no relief. David Sterner I was born in the small town of Grants Pass, Oregon. I have attended 22 different schools in Oregon, Montana, and Northern California—including PCC—which all exposed me to various cultures. My passions are art and science. I express my inner feelings by drawing, painting, sculpting, and writing. I study science to understand life and emotions, which I find very intriguing. Some of my achievements include winning blue ribbons for my artworks, being the lead singer of the Dave Everest Band, and receiving U.S. Patent #4,572,622 for a photographic lens. I have also authored a book titled DOR: The Missing Geometric Link . My hobbies include rock and fossil hunting, and I am proud to own the largest carnelian agate ever to be discovered in the Vernonia, Oregon region: it weighs a whopping 65 lbs.

BACKSTAB IN FRENCH AMBASSADOR Slava Konoval The Nigerian junta backstabs the French ambassador. Partisans remind him subtly that their country is not a colony of Paris. The ambassador is crying, he has a legitimate agrément laments the old man desperately. The demand is brought by the rebel outwardly dirty and disgusting. “I don’t want to,” says the ambassador. “I’m worried a legion of 1.5 thousand stands here, Niger is my country.” Wagner musicians visit Niger, they’re laughing, looking hideous, Moscow is driving its ideas hybridly. Am I the only one ashamed? Am I the only one so confused? Measuring the force of direction it will wipe the despotism of the bourgeoisie into dust. The entire French rear dances on the bones of the Russians. You, Macron, weakened France, she is no longer a thunderstorm. Russia dictates rules to Africans, there is no strength on the continent from now on. 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.

A MEETING Shamik Banerjee We chose our old patisserie, Faheem’s, One Monday noontime. Half the chairs were stacked. The waiter Abdul’s smile displayed the fact He knew our likes: fudge brownies with whipped cream. Her clothes were simple, just a plain Salwar Kameez—not what she mostly wore to meet me. No dimples sat upon her cheeks to greet me; Her body there, her mind was somewhere far Away. “Must be a slight familial thing,” I thought and asked, “A crossfire with your mother? Another hijinks by your puckish brother?” It seemed no act or word of mine could bring The truth out of her throat. After a pause, She spoke (as if an old, corroded door, Reluctant to be slid): “Just six months more. My baba says it’s for my own good cause. The boy’s an engineer from our own caste With good emoluments.” She turned away From me to hide her face, now moist and gray. This news, like summer’s heat, wizened the last Bright bloom of optimism in my heart. “When is the day?” I wished to ask but could Not voice a word—perhaps, for my own good; Perhaps, to keep my soul a bit apart, Veiled from the knowledge of her wedding date. We sat, hands clasped, and watched the hour grow, The people leave, the lightbulbs’ dimmish glow. The food remained untouched on both our plates. Salwar Kameez: an Indian outfit for females Baba: Father 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 , Ekstasi s, Ink Sweat & Tears , and Autumn Sky Daily , among others.

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 .

HOW MUCH IS 'MASS'? Randall Camden Stemple My feed is a travesty a real-day modern tragedy and amongst all the cute photos of cats and dogs and all my sports team’s losses exists a catalog of all gun violence, an epidemic that crosses across this nation, rich or poor, black or white, or any color under the sun so that when running an errand you might get gunned down by a person with a problem, against you, against the store, against the world, or something at their very core we don’t discuss it, we believe it a chore, and so when a bug becomes a feature all that’s left to argue is nomenclature; how many bodies need to be stacked for it to be considered ‘mass’? Do we just consider holes in the ground and piles of ashes or do we consider the masses of others? The wounded and the maimed the traumatized and frightened whose lives will never again be the same. How much does one need to limp to claim their lives irrevocably changed by someone with a gun and too much pain? What we need is a scale something one to ten, then take all your pain all your trauma all your shattered dreams crunch the numbers, run them through a machine, a formula, the bar is a seven anything below and you just have to pretend that everything is fine, that it’s normal, that you didn’t just go through something horrible. While seven through ten will be casualties for the purpose of statistics, we will take a holistic approach to categorizing the slaughter from major to minor to barely a bother with so many instances they smother your empathy and innocence till all that’s left is mechanical precision just the cost of doing business. This may seem insensitive or at least in poor taste but considering the waste of life and of futures, we should at least use their deaths to best inform and educate to illuminate the problem and the paths that branch into the gloom. But we don’t and we won’t, we would rather forget it. We scream about what is right and respecting the dead and scold all the vultures and carrion birds preventing any conversations from being heard. I would argue that my system and scale are truly important, truly transformative of the horrid discourse surrounding this plague. I can see the messages and thoughts and prayers you have amassed. Let's see how many remain after a month has passed. Randall Camden Stemple Randall is a PCC student who enjoys spending most of his free time reading, writing, and watching whatever slop YouTube recommends.