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. 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.

Nonfiction Admete Sean P. Hotchkiss A Recipe for Disaster Amy Smith Tell Your Goldfish You Love Him Charlie Divine Twilight Corryn Pettingill

In the End Poul Suero What’s it all for in the end? With all words spoken All promises broken Nothing left to hear But the whisper of the dead? What did it mean then, in the end? Warnings, could they be? That I saw but failed to see? Was it my lamentable conceit Passing over bloody puddles at my feet That beat and beat that oppression Into depleted depression A nothingness so sour but tasting so sweet What to do then, in the end? When sand pulls me to the quick And entombs me, brick by brick Into desolate darkness? Could there be a point, then, at the end Where hope and malice blend Where empty hearts fill and mend And with borrowed love attend To a single moment, to extend A lifeline to that moment Of love well spent Could that hope and love help me ascend? In darkness I dare and hope, my friend.

Under Moon Flowers Moonrose Doherty Under these moon flowers I let you go I tasted you Savored you on my tongue Felt your warm hug —when you used to pull me to your chest When you used to laugh to the sky with me. When you used to... A nest of cedar roots A dragonfly loving me A pinkish-orangish sky Dusk held us gently When you saw me When the cracks let light shine through When we weren’t exhausted yet When sunset shades held magic When we smiled across a pit of ashes A place where our arms intertwined like a spruce and a hemlock growing together Where lightening ran through us Moonrose Doherty Moonrose is a Queer, Non-binary/Genderfluid Poet, Farmer, Plant lover and Knowledge-Sharer who loves dancing with other humans or alone on the edge of a bay while talking with seagulls. Their friends say they're an artist and a creative who spreads inspiration and love of life. Moonrose sees themself as a constantly changing being that feels most at home when expressing and embodying for change.

Nehalem's Pocket Hunter Bordwell-Gray Each August is a departure past the paint of highway lines, where the concrete turns to gravel on a path unfolding into fathomless greenery. On those old silt roads a truck window becomes your aperture into the wilds, rife with little wonders known solely to the wood and stone. Like that truss bridge slumbering above the riverbed. Overgrowth climbs its steel lattice forever held in decommission. Perhaps it found some peace at last among the same flora it once defaced. A bridge in good company. Like that bucket of crawdads, stirring in thoughtless orbit of a container they cannot define, until a nameless fisherman can come to collect their prize. Granted they have a mind to return at all. Like that old silt road, A monument of impossible distance that can’t help but spark the question “How could anyone build this?” A question more valuable than its answer. To name its mystery is to break it when all I wish to find is peace in the unknown. Hunter Bordwell-Gray I am a lifelong Portland resident and a first-year Creative Writing/Poetry student at PCC. I started my journey in elementary school, intricately crafting my first novel on a rundown laptop…as far as a 10 year old could stay entertained before chasing the next shiny idea. Since then, I have delved into the realms of poetry, tabletop campaign writing, and multimedia production. For me, writing is the only medium that allows me to clearly convey my ideas and experiences to other people where otherwise I sometimes struggle to express myself. I take much of my inspiration from a hodgepodge of nature, analog horror podcasts, and the roulette wheel that is my taste in music.

Little Night Monserratt Sandoval The crickets host a party, but I'm never invited. So instead I climb up the steep hill. The swift sand spills between my toes as I approach the bridge. Two beams flash across my face from the headlights of a sputtering car that should've been retired long ago. Gleams of sweat gently slide down my temples. It's nearly pitch black, but the sun's fury is still near. Now the road lies still...The crickets turn up the music. All the tienditas have closed their garages and the sleeping street dogs pant, wishing for a cooler night. I cross the road and descend from the hill. My feet almost fly off the ground as I dash through the night, back to the sand beneath my feet. My heart pounds, screaming at my ears. In the back there's soft laughter being lifted through the air. A warm glow slowly spreads across my face. I squint my eyes to see all my tíos and tías looking at me. I walk past the open gate onto the uneven cement of the so-called driveway. Smells of instant coffee and fresh pan dulce engulf everyone's words. Pupils dilate, as my eyes fixate on an ojo de buey. The front door step lies empty, so there I sit. Watching mouths give and return conversations, I take a bite into my bread. Monserratt Sandoval My name is Monserratt Sandoval, I am a Mexican-American and am currently 18 years of age. I’ve always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating my own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this is my first art class in PCC. Here is where I first really used charcoal in my artwork, which I quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of my pieces. I enjoy creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases my dining table and backyard door, and myself. I also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in my work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that I hold close to my heart. I also enjoy writing, taking great inspiration from my own life experiences.

Nicole Jette’-Sarwar is a PCC student who contributed four artworks, Untitled 1812, Self Portrait 19, Baghdad 1995.53 , and Baghdad 1991.51 —which happens to be this year’s cover of The Bellwether Review. With creative juices and ADHD running through her veins, 20 year old Emily Miller finds joy in many artistic endeavors; writing, photography, painting, crocheting, and many other hobbies take up her time. She was beyond excited to have her story "At The Rooftop Garden" and painting "Botanische Malarei" accepted in this year's journal. With an open mind, and plenty of inspiration, she's excited to see what the future holds for her. Emily wants to thank you, reader, for taking the time to look at her art and story, and hopes you have a good day! Instagram chillyourbiscuits.com “I make art to tell imaginative visual stories. My stories are inspired by my experiences, passion for art, architecture, and other cultures. I am compelled by the creative process because it is teeming with uncertainty.” Wayne Wilburn was born in Detroit MI and grew up in Santa Fe NM. He lived and worked in the Republic of South Africa for 8 years. As an American Creative his solo and collaborative projects in photography and art explore dualities to express personal and cultural ethos. His efforts in architecture include sustainable design work in the American Southwest and the Republic of South Africa. He earned a BA in Architecture in 1986 and Masters of Architecture in 1993 from the University of New Mexico. LinkedIn Facebook Website Monserratt Sandoval is a Mexican-American and 18 years of age. She's always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating her own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this was her first art class in PCC. Here is where she first really used charcoal in her artwork, which she quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of her pieces. She enjoys creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases her dining table and backyard door, and herself. She also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in her work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that she holds close to her heart. She also enjoys writing, taking great inspiration from her own life experiences. Jovie Portillo was born in EL Salvador. They moved to the U.S. when they were 11 years old. E ver since they were a child they were totally fascinated by the natural world, and began drawing and painting as they became a little older. Jovie started at PCC in order to complete an associates degree in Radiography, but once they began their journey they realized that art is what they wanted to pursue instead of the medical field. Jovie has always been in awe of the majesty and beauty of nature, they usually find themselves in the woods or at the beach wondering and contemplating the nature of reality, usually receiving deep insights which then produce a rush in them to transpose those insights in to beautiful works of art so that others can appreciate the beauty and joyful news of what they see. Remus Dublin is both a writer and a visual artist. The pieces Remus submitted are generally more abstract than they tend to lean toward, with a higher focus on self-expression, and mental health. Remus struggles with theirs, and the art in all three of their piec es display themes of depression, and the concept of self-liberation when operating within the confinement of expectation, which is something they are likely overly cognizant of, but are quite passionate about. Remus wanted to represent the surrealism of self-care when accessibility and support is often so absent, (and when it is present, often so inadequate). Bailey Moore contributed two artworks; Untitled inspired by Dufy and Untitled October to The Bellwether Review’s 2023 issue. Zada Smutz is currently a freshman at PCC. They have been doing art practically all their life and hope to one day go into tattooing as a profession. When it comes to work, they love to experiment with different materials and styles, but are most fond of ink. Zada loves the range of lines you can get from it and how you can get so many values from just adding a bit of water. Their work has always been a way for them to express how they are feeling and tend to translate that through the quality of the lines. They can be clean and refined or they can be scratchy and unpolished but either way, Zada finds that they show character. They see it as the voice of the artist, like how it can be found in writing and music. Instagram @daturaarts

I Never Knew My Father Poul Suero I never knew my father Though I saw him every day Never understood his words Though I always did obey Never knew his passions Though we always were at play Never knew his sadness Though I saw him waste away I never saw his fears They were never on display I never felt his pain That he never would convey I never knew his anger That he always kept at bay I never knew his struggles That he always would allay But many years later now As I raise my son I see the sacrifices That always must be done I learn the little details That as a child I had missed And think of all his failings I had callowly dismissed My father wasn’t perfect But I know he tried his best Now I’m the one raising a child I hope to pass the test

Tell Your Goldfish You Love Him Charlie Divine My betta fish swims to the front of her tank and surfs the glass eagerly. Behind the blades of my ribs a fist of warmth opens and its heat radiates through my chest. “Hi baby, I love you.” Dilly is called a ‘galaxy koi’ plakat and looks like Claude Monet’s best rendering of a pink nebula. She has the short, agile fins of wild-variety bettas, but they are striped in various shades of fuchsia and red. Her shark-like body is sleek and dappled with white scales that iridesce blue under the aquarium lights. One of her eyes protrudes bulbously from her head, swollen almost to the point of bursting. It is disturbing, but does not have to be fatal. Unilateral Pop-Eye is a treatable condition caused by a bacterial infection following traumatic injury to the eye. I cried the first time I administered what’s called a salt bath treatment. With only the counsel of aquarium hobbyist forums to guide me, I siphoned a gallon of water from her tank into a clean bucket and mixed in one tablespoon of aquarium salt. I offered a prayer to what fish gods may be listening to a middling aquarist like me and lowered her into it, a knot of panic and horror twisting at the base of my throat as I watched her thrash and attempt to jump out of the solution. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” I moaned wretchedly. Previously, Dilly and I had not gotten along. The Demon Queen had killed the rest of her sorority in a ruthless conquest to claim the entire twenty gallons as her territory. The tank’s substrate is a smooth gravel that’s an attractive mix of rustic reds, slate blues, and tans. An enormous piece of driftwood populated with Java ferns is situated at an angle on the left side of the tank to block the current of the aquarium filter, and the opposite side of the tank is planted with tall, broad-leafed Amazon swords. In the calm water of the aquarium’s protected center is an assortment of smaller plants and driftwoods, and an enormous hand-thrown mug with a blue and green glaze, laid on its side so that white sand spills from its mouth. Despite numerous hiding places and an abundance of live plants to break up line of sight (this was sufficient enough, the forums had assured me, female bettas are social creatures and will surely thrive when kept in groups), Dilly hunted her tank mates doggedly. Marrow had died first, ganged up on because she was the weakest. But once the older fish was felled, Dilly was quick to turn on Dally. By the time I brought home the mesh partition that would divide the tank into two unimpeachable territories, it was too late. Dally clung to life for a few horrible weeks. Her pink scales blanched white until she was almost unrecognizable and her flesh wasted away until I could see the ridges of her skull underneath her scales. She spent her time hiding in a shaded cave at the bottom of the tank, only emerging to surface for air or to stare at the high-protein, slow-sinking pellets that I sprinkled into her side of the tank. I would watch her intently, begging her to eat, to recover her will to live. She didn’t. The thing about fishkeeping is that it’s highly scientific–most people don’t understand this. They dump “quickstart” bacteria cultures into their brand new tank and introduce their new fish the next day, then shrug their shoulders a week later when they flush their goldfish down the toilet (after all, it’s just a fish). Maybe they will try again with some other beginner-friendly species, like swordtails or guppies. If they are lucky, if the fish gods smile, these new fish will survive the ammonia and nitrogen spikes as their tank cycles and establishes a biofilter, but they don’t understand what those words mean or that it drastically shortens the lifespans of their new pets. Often this will not impact them emotionally because, after all, they are just fish. But maybe, if the fish gods tire of this cycle of slow death, the would-be aquarist will give up and list their equipment for $20 on Facebook Marketplace. Fishkeeping involves many variables–pH, GH, ammonia, nitrate, nitrite, tannins, temperature, substrate (are you bored yet?)–that fluctuate constantly and can quickly become fatal if even one tips out of balance. The unfortunate truth is, no matter how much time you spend studying, once you get beyond the basics you have to start wading through the opinions of strangers online (all of whom are passionately convinced their opinion is right) and try to decide for yourself what sounds like sane advice. For example, professionals and hobbyists alike may tell you female bettas can be kept in sororities of three to five, given adequate space and proper aquascape, but my personal belief (and yes, my opinion is right) is that they are best housed in the requisite conditions for groups of ten to fifteen. Ironically, the blow that nearly spelled The Demon Queen Dilly’s demise was delivered by an algae-eater. Stupid-Bitch-I-Hate-You (full name) is the other homicidal fish that menaces the tank due to an ignorant mistake. Flying Foxes, sometimes called False Siamese Algae Eaters, are an aggressive species of algae-eater that does best in large schools. I had purchased the offending fish under the assumption that he and his sibling would fill out the ranks of my school of three Dwarf Siamese Algae Eaters. He killed his fellow Fox first, then spent a few months picking off the school of three gentle suckerfish, and now harasses Dilly and the resident school of Rasboras (who are only guilty of being a little empty-headed). Where I had previously been inclined to subject the Demon Queen to my human sense of morality (jail for the murderess!), my affection for the pink betta fish bloomed when she took ill. I dutifully nursed her back to health, obsessively scouring the annals of the internet for more of the same information I’d already consumed, and fretting after her through work shifts and social engagements. It is, admittedly, absurd to love a fish (I know, I know, it’s just a fish). They are so unlike us, so unlike a cat or dog or bird or rabbit, it may seem strange to feel kinship with them. They live inside a world of glass and water. You can’t communicate with them, can’t understand their intelligence or their feelings, if they even have them (they do, I think–another aquarist’s staunch conviction). They will not jump into your lap when you are upset or sneak into your bed to snuggle. Neither are they easy to keep–even goldfish deserve diligent maintenance and continual study–and the learning curve is steep and sometimes financially devastating. I think you should love them anyway. It’s an important measure of character to give a damn about things we can’t understand– to give a damn. I even give a damn about Stupid-Bitch-I-Hate-You, in a furious sort of way. The second day of salt baths I switched from aquarium salt to epsom and Dilly tolerated it better. She swam tranquilly around in the net and humored me patiently, only testing her confines occasionally. By day three, the Demon Queen greeted me cheerfully and ate her frozen bloodworms greedily. Pop-Eye can take months to resolve and her red, angry eye perturbed my guests. When the swelling reduced after four days of treatments, I thought the worst was over. Surprise! I was wrong. I noticed swelling in her face three days after discontinuing the baths: around the side of her mouth and over the bridge of her nose. I canceled my plans to spend the day with my partner and bailed out on an already-rescheduled Dungeons & Dragons game (for a fish? you’re thinking). It was back to the forums. Wading through advice, discarding some based on gut feeling alone and re-evaluating others. Strike epsom salt, it’s best for impacted bowels. Back to the aquarium salt, one to five tablespoons depending on the condition of your fish. Still eating and swimming around some? Good signs, sick fish will feign health for as long as they can, but once your fish stops eating they’re good as dead already. You can administer up to two, 30-minute salt baths daily (one aquarist recommends keeping your fish in the bath until the salinity causes it to go belly up—fuck that guy). I opt for one and a half tablespoons of aquarium salt in a one gallon bucket, then I transfer 25% of the saline solution into a second bucket and add 75% aquarium water. I dip Dilly into the first bucket in her net and watch her for fifteen minutes, then transfer her to the second bucket for an additional five. I do this once a day, every day. Several hobbyists warn against using store-bought, broad spectrum antibiotics, but on day three of the new treatment I transition her into my nursery aquarium and start dosing it with antibiotics anyway. On day seven, the swelling in her face goes away and she starts hunting the guppy fry that share the tank (but you judge the salt-bath guy, you’re thinking). At the front of the tank Dilly follows my finger along the glass. She is likely just searching for food, but I like to think that when she recognizes my figure across the room and swims to the front of her habitat, she is saying ‘Hello, God! Manna from heaven, please!’ I do not know if a fish feels an approximation of love, but loving her is enough for me. My partner, having received daily updates for weeks, was understanding. Our friends perhaps less so, but they didn’t give me grief (for one reason or another, we still haven’t gotten around to that session of D&D). In what I suspect is an antibiotic-resistant resurgence, white discs now cloud Dilly’s eyes (Cloudy Eye, it’s called, inventively). Though she still has a voracious appetite and a good attitude, I have isolated her in the nursery tank and taken to salting it directly. But I’m not hopeful. While I often find myself praying to the fish gods these last months, it’s perhaps more like praying to myself. Asking for what power is within reach. I am the master of this wet world I have created. The stakes are high, the consequences real. Maybe they are only fish, but they are alive and engaged and that matters. “Hi Dill’, I love you.” I say every day, because it is a gift and a burden to be responsible for these tiny fishy lives. It is a gift and a burden to give a damn. I hope you will give a damn. I hope you tell your goldfish you love him. Charlie Divine Charlie Divine (he/they) is a poet-essayist born and raised in the shrub-steppe of rural Oregon. His work explores themes of fragmentation, restoration, and growing up queer in small-town America. In addition to writing, Charlie has a passion for roller skating and the cultivation of living things. They live with their 32 houseplants and beloved betta fish in the Columbia Gorge and look forward to starting a new chapter at PSU's creative writing program this fall. Instagram: @saturnseyepoetry

Water Cat Terrell When the water would swallow me, tickle my earlobes & soak my hair, I'd hop up to keep it from my lips, and pant with each extra kick it took to keep me breathing, keep my head on top of the warm blue lilts of the pool. Four feet deep used to mean all these things: that I'd have to count on my toes to get from one stretch of pool to the next. Now, feet flat on the pool ground, my head towers a foot and a half above the surface of that splashing sea. Four feet isn't so deep, no chlorine clogs my nose, and a head of wet hair is up to me. Cat Terrell My name is Cat Terrell, I am 21 years old, and I'm a poet, musician, mathematician, you get the idea. I like writing poetry that evokes very specific images, and I especially like it when the words I happen to choose have a lot of assonance between them. The poems published here are my first ever published anywhere, and most of them revolve around an incidental theme: growing up. When I'm not writing poetry I am spending time with friends, or going on a walk in nature, or reading. I am so grateful for the three poetry courses I took at PCC that expanded my poetry knowledge and subsequent worldview, so thank you to Van Wheeler, Mia Caruso, and Chrys Tobey for being excellent instructors.