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.

submit your work Any Portland Community College student may submit up to 5 poems, 2 short stories, 2 scripts, 2 creative nonfiction essays, 4 pieces of visual artwork. Bilingual/multilingual work will be considered. We will also consider limited submissions of non-student work, but we are committed to publishing primarily the work of PCC student writers and artists. All work is carefully reviewed for consideration by our editorial team! Submit your work(s) via email 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, PCC email, and phone number in the submission email, but 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 5, 2024 to be considered.

At the Rooftop Garden Emily Miller W ith the song of the birds outside his window, Charlie wakes from his deep sleep. They’re singing him a good morning tune, as was the routine. The sun peeks through the window, shining onto Charlie’s face. Charlie stretches as big as he can before returning the greeting to the birds. His bedroom door creaks open, revealing his mom standing there. “Who are you talking to Charlie?” Charlie motions to the blue birds, sitting right outside his window. With her cup of coffee in hand, Annie looks at her little boy. It was times like these where she thanked God for the gift that Charlie is. Annie’s life wasn’t the happily ever after she dreamt of since she was a kid. She had fallen in love, gotten married, and started her own family, but it was all with a less than ideal guy. Seth was her high school sweetheart, and she thought they would live happily ever after. However, shortly after Charlie was born, they got divorced. They made co-parenting work, that was, until Seth died seven months ago. Annie breaks away from her spiraling thoughts, and looks at her little boy again. “Ohhh,” she takes a sip of her ever-so-fast-cooling coffee, “well, tell the birds you’ll talk to them later, you’re going to be late for school.” About to leave, she watches as Charlie sits unmoving from his bed. She clears her throat, motioning that he get up with a nod of her head before leaving the room. Finally up, Charlie pulls his drawers out from his dresser. He stares into the muddled mess of shirts for a moment, then snaps out of it, grabbing a little button-up with pigeons flying all over. He takes a minute to focus on buttoning each button, then he heads out into the kitchen. Yogurt and fruit sat waiting for him. Annie had tried to arrange the fruit into the shape of a bird, but gave up and arranged a smiley face. Two voices turn Charlie’s attention away from his food. The voices belonged to two bushy tailed squirrels. Charlie scoots closer to get a better listen. “I found it first!” one of the squirrels argues as it tugs a nut closer to its body. “Yeah, well I’m hungrier than you are!” the other replies, pulling twice as hard as his friend. Charlie sets his spoon down and runs to the pantry to grab something. Annie is frantically walking around the house, getting ready for work as well as making sure Charlie is set for his school day. She steps into the kitchen and sees Charlie’s abandoned breakfast at the kitchen table. “Charlie!” she calls out. What is he doing now? “Yeah?” Charlie pokes his head from behind the pantry door, startling his mom. “Oh goodness gracious child, why haven’t you finished eating?” she asks while trying to not get upset over the accidental jump-scare. “The squirrels are fighting over food so I was going to get them more so they can share.” Charlie walks to the sliding door in the kitchen, using his shirt to hold dozens of nuts. Annie eyes the two squirrels sitting on her picnic table, angrily chittering away. She was about to tell him not to encourage the squirrel’s loitering, but notices the time and runs to finish getting ready. “Okay well just hurry up and finish your breakfast!” her voice trails off as Charlie empties his shirt in front of the two eager squirrels. “Oh, thank you little boy!” the squirrels say before filling their cheeks with the delicious gift. “You need to make sure you share; you need to play nice,” Charlie tells them as he dusts his shirt off. ### A s his mom drives him closer to his school, the pit in Charlie’s stomach doubles in size. It’s the first day back after spring break, and Charlie is not looking forward to being stuck in a room all day with his peers. Looking out the window, he tries some breathing exercises that he had been given by the school counselor. A gentle hand on his lap ends his spiraling thoughts. He looks up to see his mom’s hand on his leg. She gives him a reassuring squeeze. In the rearview mirror she makes eye contact with him, “it’s going to be okay.” Charlie gives a half smile before looking out the window again. He places his little hand in his mom’s and holds on tight. “How about we go to the community center today after school? That would be fun,” Annie says, hoping to give him something fun to look forward to. After a pause, she breaks the silence once again, “remember love, nobody can tell you who you are and who you aren’t. You can do anything you want and be whoever you want to be.” This time Charlie replies with a genuine smile, “thanks mom, and I’d love to go to the community center later!” ### C harlie is glad as he is released from his prison. Everyone had been too busy sharing their spring break adventures with each other, that they didn’t have time to pay any mind to him. Typically Charlie spent his school days being heckled and teased by the people who should’ve been his friends, but was glad today was calmer. Standing outside in front of the school, Charlie watches as parents come and pick their kids up. A butterfly catches Charlie’s eye. Fluttering from side to side, it lands on Charlie’s outstretched finger. Holding it close to his face, the butterfly reaches out and tickles his nose, before continuing its journey throughout the world. Charlie’s eyes follow the butterfly’s path, until some classmates draw his attention. “Hey Charlie! Come over here!” Charlie examines the situation, and hesitantly walks over to the group of kids. “Look, there’s a cat! Isn’t it so cute?” one of them asks as Charlie joins the circle. At this point, most of the kids were either on the school buses, or their parents had already picked them up. With the courtyard mostly cleared out, a black cat, who was just a few feet from them, decided to take a nap in the warm, late afternoon sun. Charlie, still second guessing their intentions, nods at the comment. He thought the cat was very cute, but was too nervous to speak up. “Why are you so quiet? Are you okay?” “Are you not a cat person?” “No, he likes all animals, he’ll talk to anything.” “Well why isn’t he talking to this cat?” “Someone just doesn’t seem very chatty today.” “Oh, maybe he’s talking telepathically with the cat!” “He doesn’t actually believe he can talk to animals- does he?” “Well, let’s see what he has to say after this,” one boy breaks from the group, taking several giant leaps towards the cat. With a slight pause, he raises one chubby leg back, before sending it full force into the side of the cat. “No!” Charlie dashes from the group as the kids laugh at him. He watches the screaming cat go flying into the patch of grass right next to the courtyard. Panting, he falls down next to the cat. “Are you okay Miss Cat?!” Shakily standing up, she replies, “I’m alright little boy, thank you for checking on me.” “You didn’t deserve that…” Charlie stretches his hand out, seeing if head scratches were welcome or not. The cat rubs her head under his hand, purring ever so softly. After a moment, her purring stops, “you didn’t deserve that teasing either, I overheard a bit. I’m really sorry. How about we show them a lesson?” she hisses as she turns to look at the group of bullies. They were still mocking Charlie for talking to the cat. “Oh don’t do that Miss Cat,” Charlie interrupts her pathway with his arm. “I know they’re mean… but it isn’t good to take matters into our own hands. They’ll get what they deserve, but let’s just leave them be for now.” Before the cat could reply, Annie drove up in the car, “Charlie, are you ready to go?” “Coming, Mom!” Charlie says standing up, then he looks back at the cat, “it’s your decision, so whatever you end up doing, I wish you luck.” Charlie and his mom were already driving away before he could see what the cat made out of the group of bullies. ### T he community center was a popular place for everyone of all ages. It was several stories high, each level featuring different activities. The first floor had a huge indoor swimming pool with slides. Charlie never liked going there. It was too loud and he didn’t like how kids would splash him in the face. There was also an arcade, a library, a workout gym, and a rooftop garden. Charlie plops down onto a patch of grass located in the quiet undisturbed garden. He is surrounded by bees and butterflies. Little bugs dig around in the loose dirt beside him. With a scoop of his hand, he catches a roly poly. It then starts to climb the infinite ladder which is his fingers, when a pigeon flutters over and lands a few feet away from him. “Hello there little boy,” coos the pigeon. “Hello, Mr. Pigeon. How are you doing today?” asks Charlie, the roly poly continuing its endless journey.. “I’m doing just fine thank you,” replies the pigeon, “I like your shirt,” he rustles his deep blue feathers. Looking down Charlie smiles, the pigeons on his shirt look just like the pigeon in front of him. “Thank you , Mr. Pigeon.” “Please,” the pigeon comes closer, “call me Seth.” Charlie finally lets the roly poly down into the grass, “that’s the same name as my dad—or, it was when he was alive… my mom says that he is always with us though,” Charlie places his hand over his heart, copying what his mother had motioned to him seven months ago, and stares off into the grass. “You’re never alone Charlie.” Charlie looks up, “how—how did you know my name?” “Haha, you just seem like a Charlie! I think you and I have a lot in common, I can just feel it,” Seth rustles his feathers. “Charlie, I need to go to the restroom, you okay being up here by yourself ?” Annie asks while setting the book she had been reading down. “I’m okay, I won’t be by myself,” Charlie motions towards the pigeon and other critters scattered throughout the garden. “Hey,” with a whisper, “do you want to go on an adventure?” Seth asks. “Okay,” Charlie dusts off his hands and stands up. “I have a question for you first,” Seth flies up and lands on a post, so that he is eye to eye with Charlie, “do you believe you can be whatever you want? Be whoever you want to be? Do you believe that Charlie?” Puzzled, Charlie thinks about it. His whole life his parents had always encouraged him with the very words this pigeon is telling him now. “Do you believe in me?” Seth questions, flying to another post, beckoning Charlie to follow. There is just something about his voice, that is familiar to Charlie. As he thinks about his response, he follows the pigeon. “Yes,” Charlie concludes, “I do believe in myself…” “Do you? Where’s the confidence?” Seth hops to a chair. “Yes… I do,” Charlie follows. “Dig deep inside- listen to what your mother has been telling you your whole life!” Seth flutters to the wall. “I do!” Charlie states with confidence, stepping up to the edge of the garden. “And do you believe in me?” Seth hops along the edge. “Yes, I do,” Charlie is standing right along the barrier, the only thing keeping him from falling down the side of the building. “Then follow me,” Seth turns away from Charlie, his wings spreading wide. Charlie hesitates before standing up onto the edge of the roof ’s walls. At that moment, Annie returns from the restroom. “Charlie! No!” she starts running after her son. Charlie turns, but then Seth gets his attention again. “Quick! It’s now or never!” Seth takes flight from the ledge. Charlie leaps after him. Annie watches as her son follows in the steps of his father. Emily Miller With creative juices and ADHD running through her veins, 20 year old Emily 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! Social media: chill.your.biscuits (instagram) chillyourbiscuits.com (website)

Food Pamela Hughes The white napkins from the Starbucks at the Barnes and Noble are wrinkled and written over. I stretch them out before me like two treasure maps. Nothing had to be wrung or rent. Wonder is no longer yonder. The wash of words have me in their grip. It’s firm but procreative, I postulate poems— they don’t prostrate me. The lines are loose or tight, depending on their position. As a poet I’m not a prostitute— not enough Americans want to pay for a verb job. The discharge of words is a release of sexual energy, though coming is not the end to going. I realized this tonight while reading Rilke at the bookstore. Consummation is about generation. Suddenly there is too much to write about —a commotion of creation waiting to be collected. I try to contain it on the computer when I get home. My husband offers me a Polish pickle— a literal pickle not a penis— even though his penis is also Polish. I put the pickle on the love poem. Now the napkin holds two kinds of food. Pamela Hughes Pamela Hughes’s second collection of poems, Femistry , is forthcoming. Her first collection Meadowland Take My Hand was published in 2017 by Three Mile Harbor Press. Her poetry and prose have appeared: Prairie Schooner ; Canary ; Literary Mama ; PANK Magazine ; The Paterson Literary Review ; Thema , and elsewhere.

Chills Shay Moore You give me chills, give because I still have them. I had begun to know feelings as a distant memory, until you drove them to my house on our first date. Still not sure how you snuck those on me. Maybe you slipped them in my pocket when you opened the car door for me. Maybe you seasoned them into the tater tots we shared while I was nervously checking my makeup. Maybe you smeared them on your lips before our goodnight kiss. Either way, here we are 3 months later I sit in this rocking chair Watching you play video games as I swell with love.

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.