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The Bellwether Review promotes original art and writing cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a diversity of voice and thought. We encourage a passion for meaningful creation, and provide a platform for students to appreciate art. 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 Portland Community College Rock Creek but also throughout the broader global community of writers and artists. 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 in a future issue. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Reader, First and foremost, thank you for reading this year’s edition of The Bellwether Review . Students who submit their works for publication, as well as those who create the review, spend hundreds of hours working their craft, and we here on the editorial team truly appreciate the efforts that have gone into developing the outstanding works that appear in this year’s journal. One hundred and six works were submitted this year, and each one was reviewed and discussed by the editorial team, as we sought out what makes each piece special—what makes them beautiful—and ultimately selected those that stood out as exemplary to share with you, the readers of the 2024 edition. We here at The Bellwether Review team thank you for taking the time to appreciate the work of these contributing writers and artists, and we especially want to thank all those who contributed works to this edition. And with that, we hope to see you next year. Until then, take care. — The 2024 Editorial Team Copyright © 2024 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

STREET GLITTER Gigi Giangiobbe-Rodriguez Can you watch my section for five? we ask our coworker, one we may or may not have slept with, so we can slip outside apron still affixed and smoke a cigarette or just stand under the glow of street lamps, looking at the remains of a Tesla’s window in pieces on the sidewalk— street glitter — watching a rat scuttle across the pavement to dart behind a patch of grass, taking a moment of relative silence and fresh air. We are misfits degenerates hard workers sweethearts. We are gravely misunderstood. We smell like hops, yeast, oil, grilled meat, bread, fish. We make 500 on a good night if we’re front of-house, and we make 90 on a bad night. After our shift is over and we clock out, we drink three to six beers, depending. Sometimes, during the really long days, the really thankless nights, the nights where we cut the tip of our finger off, or have to clean up vomit, or piss, or a drunk guy pinches our ass, or some dude tells us we should smile more, we start drinking before clocking out. 86 TRIPLE SEC we yell at each and every server while we tend bar, pouring pint after pint of beer. 4 COUNT SWEET POTATO FRIES we yell as we pop out from our prep kitchen cave, to tell the spoiled front-of-house staff. BEHIND! ¡ATRÁS! we shout as we dart from kitchen to the line, back of house to the floor front bar to back bar walk-in back to the bar kitchen to the restroom restroom to the lockers storage closet back to the line prep kitchen to the dumpsters. WHERE IS TABLE SIX’S BURGER we demand of our line cooks, not daring to talk to the chef that way. STOP SEATING ME we frantically mouth to the host, after they have sat us a fifth consecutive four-top in ten minutes. Fuck. Table six stiffed me. On to the next. WHERE’S JESS? We, the almighty bartenders yell into the void. Our most loyal server finds her, tells her we have a question. Jess saunters up, already rolling her eyes— You didn’t ring this drink up right. Here’s how you do it. We hear ourselves and are annoyed. We’re nitpicking ingredient discrepancies with the servers for what, inventory? To save money? For who? So the owner can get a bit richer while we hustle our ass all night? What’s the new IPA taste like? A customer asks us, after they have already sampled three beers. “It tastes like fucking beer,” we wish we could say. “It’s really good. It’s hoppy but not too bitter. Super fresh,” we say instead. THREE BONELESS WINGS ALL DAY; FIRE ON TABLE NINE we yell from our little slice of hell stationed in front of the deep fryers, dodging hot oil, wielding knives and squirt bottles, tossing plating garnishing wiping repeat. Two hours left. Fuck I need a drink. I need five drinks. I need a new fucking job. And then we show up hungover the next day and do it all again. We don’t have much of a choice. No one’s holding our hands. We are a band of degenerates— these misfits, these sweethearts, these druggies, these assholes, these perfect human beings. We are a dysfunctional family just barely hanging on. 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 .

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.