AUNT BOBBIE IS MY FAVORITE ON MY DAD'S SIDE Shane Allison Aunt Bobbie put in 16 years at Extended Care. She gossips with her friend Elenore on picnic benches during lunch breaks. They say she’s doing crack again. She sells television sets and wholesale outfits to gold tooth drug dealers. She takes care of babies of girls who party all night with golden boyfriends. Aunt Bobbie doesn’t want to be found. She doesn’t want anybody to see her this way. Her sisters have given up, thrown their hands up like white flags. Her brothers have had enough. Shawn, her only son, is ashamed and doesn’t want her for a roommate. Aunt Earline, who creates magic in the kitchen, who makes the best jelly cake, doesn’t want Aunt Bobbie in the house. She gave her clothes, soap to wash herself and three square meals on the good plates from her china cabinet. Aunt Alice didn’t have room in her heart for a drug addict grown up. Bodies pack in every crack and crevice of a three-bedroom house. Aunt Norris doesn’t trust her. She could run off with my jewelry and sell it for drugs. Anyway, my son is coming home from the army and she can’t be here. “If only you knew how hard she worked,” Mama said. Aunt Bobbie is my favorite on my dad’s side. Third cousins talk about her like a legend. She used to laugh loudly at family reunions. She used to be pretty. Will someone help her? Help her like Uncle Howard, like Uncle Weed falling down drunk on the living room floor. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.