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.

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

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

Northwest Natalie Alsdorf Washington, we felt free, bounding like fawns along the wet sand at dawn, mist in our wind-swept hair, reflections of the sea painted on our sunglasses. Jeans– a misguided choice, cuffed, soaked through with salt and glass leaving our legs smooth and speckled. Ladybugs more likely to drown than us, despite our parents’ warnings. Despite stories of others’ drowning where we stood. Plans of morning runs in tank tops were spoiled by sleep as the stuffy humidity begged my window to open, harsh breeze while you try to dream, and a song of time gone slipped from my eyes, whisked away by fog and fray. Natalie Alsdorf I am currently 19 years old and have spent most of my life in western Colorado. Besides my time in Oregon the past year and a half (for which I am so grateful), I consider myself a Coloradan at heart and felt called to move back to the colorful, sunny state. Most of my inspiration for my work is derived from nature, my faith, and the human experience. I enjoy sunrise runs, cat snuggles, writing (and re-writing) late at night, and listening to audiobooks and music. I hope to become a published fiction author in the future and am taking my goal one day, and one word, at a time. @nataliealsdorf (Instagram)

When the Bough Breaks Alli Tschirhart T he air was thick with hot humidity. I wiped a bead of sweat from my upper lip as I entered the apartment. It was not much cooler inside, but any relief from the sun was welcomed. I called to my wife as I slipped off my shoes. “Naomi,” I said. “I’m home.” No response. I walked to her usual perch, the living room couch. It was empty except for the book opened like a butterfly, spine pointed towards the air. “Naomi.” I said again, this time more assertive. I heard giggles in response. I walked to the bathroom where they seemed to be coming from and opened the door. She jumped, startled by my presence. She was laying in the bath, covered in soapy bubbles, and our black cat, Brontes, laying on her chest. “What is going on here?” My face tried its best to hide its disgust. She didn’t bother looking at me as she spoke, just continued petting Brontes. “Well, I was sitting in the bath and he was looking at me like he usually does. I called to him and he just climbed in. Isn’t that so cute of him?” As if to prove her point she used her hand to scoop up some of the bubbles to put on his head and laughed. My eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think it’s a good idea to bathe with him? Isn’t it just… a little strange?” “You wouldn’t understand.” She scoffed at me, saying what had become her mantra as of late. I looked at them for a few moments longer before making my way to the kitchen. Behind the boxes of generic cereal hid my vice, a half-opened bottle of Jim Beam. I poured into a coffee mug to avoid any unwanted lectures before I drank a mouthful and breathed out a sigh of release. On the countertop was a picture I couldn’t bear to see, every time I was in its vicinity it was like a hole was burned deep in my chest. We’d gotten Brontes when we first moved to this apartment. We’d moved to a new city, hotter than we had ever experienced before. When I was at work, she was stuck home save for the few days the school called her in to substitute teach. I wanted to help cure her loneliness, and she had talked about having a cat as a child and the happiness he had brought her. She’d loved him at first glance. If it were up to me, I would’ve gone for a more conventionally cute cat, but she said she always loved sad looking things. He was skinny, shiny, and black. He had been in some kind of accident before the shelter received him that took his right eye. The same accident had messed with his jaw, so one of his teeth jutted from his mouth perpetually. He had become very attached to her since his introduction to our family. It started off with him clawing at the bathroom door when she was in there, sometimes so hard it sounded like a banging. Bam, bam, bam. He would sleep between us at night, with her armed wrapped tightly around him. I’d offered to get him a nice bed next to her on the floor but she has refused. The first time I tried to pet him, he stepped back, almost like he smelled something he didn’t like. I tried again, and he bared his teeth at me with a hiss. Our relationship had never been mended and he spent his time with me watching me with a scornful eye. I sat down in front of the television and absentmindedly flipped through the channels. I landed on the news, the weather report called for heavy rain and possible power outages. My cup ran empty and I refilled it in the kitchen. Naomi stepped into the kitchen as I was walking back to the couch. I jumped, startled by her sudden presence. Lately, we rarely occupied the same space. “I’m going to bed now.” She said, a white towel covered her body and another wrapped around her hair. In her arms was Brontes, swaddled in a pink towel, not even looking at me, just staring at her face. “I’ll be there soon,” I responded as I sat back on the couch. She padded towards our room, gushing to the cat in her arms. My stomach was now warm and my body felt heavy, but in the way that I like. I craved the numbness alcohol provided. The nightly news ended and I stumbled my way to the room. I didn’t drink enough to get drunk, just enough to feel the buzz. She was still awake when I arrived, which was unusual. We both tried our best to stay away from each other lately. She was sitting up in bed playing with Brontes, who was lying on his back, paws up above his head. My god, I thought. She’s tickling him. They both looked at me like a deer in headlights. The second I saw the eye, that damned eye, something shifted inside of me. All the anger that I had repressed came bubbling up to the surface and spewed from my mouth like sour beer. “I wish you loved me like you do that damn cat,” I mumbled. Her smiling face contorted to anger. “What did you say?” “I said I wish loved me like you do that damn cat,” I said, sharply. “That damn cat? He’s everything to me.” “I thought I was everything to you,” I retorted. She looked at me with disdain. “Every time you look at me, it’s with disgust. I just wish you would’ve latched on to me after everything instead of the cat. I need you too.” “You need me? You weren’t even there, Dominic. I needed you and you weren’t there!” Tears welled in my eyes. “I thought you said you wouldn’t hold it against me! I had to go, for my job. I didn’t want to leave my pregnant wife home alone. But, what was I supposed to do? They needed me. We could’ve never kno—” “They needed you? I was the one bleeding. I was the one laying in that hospital. I was the one who was alone when they told me we lost her.” She was yelling now. “Please. Every night I fall asleep with tears in my eyes. I think about her, about how you must have felt that day. Please don’t use that against me. You promised you never would.” I pleaded. “It’s not something I could ever forget. I know I said that, but it’s so hard to look at you and not think of that horrible day. Even when I came home, you just let me be alone.” “I only did that because I thought you needed space. You told me to give you some time. Do you know how badly I wanted to be there with you, holding you, instead of you holding him.” I said, sourly. “Please, stop making everything about Brontes. This is about us! I couldn’t look at you, let alone touch you. I’m still healing. My body is still healing. I look at my sagging stomach and think to myself, ‘you couldn’t even house a child, the thing women are built for. You are a disgrace.’” She was crying. I reached out to her, holding onto her arms. “You did nothing wrong. The doctor said it was the chromosomes. There was no way for the baby to be born.” She laid her head on my chest. “I love you so much. If there was anything I could do to make your pain go away, I would in an instant. I’m so sorry for not being there. I wish I could go back to change that. But, I can’t. Please just forgive me.” I sobbed. She raised her head and looked deeply into my eyes. Her gaze scared me, it felt empty. She smiled at me. “I forgive you, Dominic. I just want us to be the way we were before. I just want a baby more than anything in the world.” “I will do anything in my power to give you what you want.” I kissed her, a deep passionate kiss. And, for the first time since the miscarriage, I held her in my arms tightly, afraid to let go. We drifted off to sleep with our bodies pressed against each other. That night I dreamt of blood. So much blood pooled at my feet and reached my ankles, rising steadily. I tried to run but the liquid slowed my step, it was now at my belly. Naomi was next to me, still pregnant, looking at the floor wondering what was going on. I tried to scream, to yell at her to run, to get away, but the thick warm liquid coated my lips, my tongue, and my throat. I awoke out of breath. My forehead was slick with sweat and I felt as though I had just taken a run. I walked into the bathroom and flicked the lightswitch. Nothing happened. I tried a few more times before I realized the power was out. Outside thunder boomed so loudly it shook the house. I returned to the bed and realized I was alone in the room. I felt a sense of panic as I slipped on clothes and grabbed my phone plugged in beside my bed. As I reached the hallway, I saw light under a door. I walked to the door and took a deep breath. The battery operated mobile twinkled its song as stars danced around the room. There were candles lit enough for me to see the room was just how I’d last seen it, the crib in the center of the room with pink blankets and plush toys inside. The walls were egg shell white with decals spelling out our dead daughter’s name hung up for display. If I were to open the drawers, I would find baby clothes and diapers we haven’t had the courage to go through. My heart was beating fast at what I was seeing. Naomi was sat in the rocking chair, swaying back and forth, softly singing with the mobile. In her arms was Brontes, wrapped in a blanket, his face in her chest. “Naomi, what’s going on?” I was nervous for the answer. “Dominic!” She smiled at me. “I’m so glad you are here. I had the most wonderful dream last night. Before I fell asleep last night, I watched you sleep. When I was looking at you, I thought about everything we talked about. I thought about her, about Stephanie, and I thought about our loss.” My heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. I braced myself with the door frame, gripping it so tightly, my fingertips turned ghost white. “I thought about everything. About how I felt this— I don’t know— resentment because I had to miscarry alone. But, as I was sleeping, I dreamt of Stephanie. Only, she didn’t look like her. She told me, ‘Momma, I’m in heaven but I sent somebody else for you.’ I didn’t know what that dream was. I woke up and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her.” To my horror, I realized then that her breast was out. There was blood trickling down into her shirt. The cat was nestled close to her body, his face pressed against her breast, suckling. My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor and buried my face inside my hands. “Don’t you see Dominic? God sent me a baby, he just doesn’t look like us.” Her voice rang in my ears. Alli Tschirhart Alli Tschirhart has moved around a lot in her life, but is glad to call Portland her home. She writes fiction and nonfiction. This will be her first published work, but hopefully not the last. She will be attending PSU in the future for a degree in English and Writing. She enjoys reading and her three cats. @allitschirhart (Instagram)

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.

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.

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.

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

History of the Bellwether review This literary and arts journal was originally named The Rock Creek Review and was started by Rock Creek faculty members. In 2011, the Advanced Creative Writing, Publishing and Editing course was started, and the decision to change the journal’s name to The Bellwether Review was implemented to symbolize the artistic drive of writers and artists at PCC. A bellwether is a reference to agrarian society, referring to a bell placed around the neck of the lead ram, or alpha ram, in a flock of sheep. The alpha ram leads the flock of sheep in the best direction for the entire herd. In this stead, the contributors whose works are published in The Bellwether Review lead the way for students from all backgrounds to express themselves and set trends for artistic expression within the college community.

Existence Natalie Als dorf Backs to the ground, swaying. Crimson and canary-striped hammock, cradling us three. Lilac’s ambrosial perfume fills the warm night. I am afraid to blink, waiting for a sole star to divide the sky. Why does the moon rest just above the roof tonight, but not tomorrow? The moon has its own routine. It, like me, has places to be. Dad tells us tales of his time in London. One scene plays in my head like an echo as if the memory were my own, or real. My visits are infrequent and long. And cut short every time. An ethereal glade, my father and his friends running from the ecotone through the rain to a bar, the sound of folk songs like mist in the air, asking for chips, and getting fries. A trivial locale in London, that may only exist in my mind. But it’s London to me. And now the celestial night holds in its merciful grasp– London, and rain, and the hammock. It holds the lilac bush past its uprooting. It holds the waxing crescent moon lingering forever above the church roof. It holds the anticipation of a wish and the warmth of summer. It holds loneliness and the reminder of how much we must mean to be this small and to still be loved. It holds the secrets of life and death, and the story of time. And I get to see it for a fraction of its existence, for the entirety of mine. Natalie Alsdorf I am currently 19 years old and have spent most of my life in western Colorado. Besides my time in Oregon the past year and a half (for which I am so grateful), I consider myself a Coloradan at heart and felt called to move back to the colorful, sunny state. Most of my inspiration for my work is derived from nature, my faith, and the human experience. I enjoy sunrise runs, cat snuggles, writing (and re-writing) late at night, and listening to audiobooks and music. I hope to become a published fiction author in the future and am taking my goal one day, and one word, at a time. @nataliealsdorf (Instagram)