Return to Mortality Natalie Alsdorf don’t go thrashing. don’t try to deny death the promised pleasure of sweeping you away. stop pretending you have all the time in the world. you don’t. and that’s okay. whether flying in a private plane– pining for perspective on a moonlight flit, or lying on a table while they look at your pain, don’t go thrashing as death takes your hand. in its hushed and humble embrace, the darkness will ease the pain, will dim the lights. death won’t seem so sinister if you allow the vexing veil to fall. look into its steadfast eyes, and realize– it will do you the least damage. 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)

Untitled Monserratt Sandoval Drop . . . Splash. Drop . . . Splash Drop . . . Splash The last traces of rain trickle down the gutter’s broken edge None would it matter, who could hear it anyways? Especially when I’m inside, down below Down three flights of stairs Flies lay still in the circular lighting Fuzzy. Vibrating. Who could see? Surely not me Darker than vantablack down here Frost bites at my skin, sticking to the concrete floor Lips sealed shut My mind screams help My body screams death Drop . . . Splash. 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.

A Trick of the Light Erin Clarke Awash in clinical glow, It’s an attempted depression abduction; My makeshift sun with robot feet– High-voltage shine masking A sleight of head, shifting proteins around pulsing brains, Because something about a dearth of particle collisions In the action-starved backs of my eyeballs Has something to do with whether the dishes get done, Which makes as much sense as fitting a set of shoulders Through a pelvis But I managed that too, Many things are possible, with or without reason. The insides are dangerous, you know. It’s a spooky bog of venom, bindings, trap doors, and sheer cliffs Tangled up inside electrical twinges through hyper-aware pudding. If I am ever devoured It will be from the inside. The daylight keeps my vampires tucked in sulky coffins, In theory, So with fervor I flood my face in the spotlight And pray to a lamp Every morning, For twenty minutes, To save me from myself. Erin Clarke Erin Clarke is a poet, copywriter, and linguistics nerd currently living in Portland, Oregon. In her work she draws inspiration from meditation practice, physiology, nature, motherhood, and her decades-long history with major depression. In addition to writing poetry, she enjoys tap dancing, singing, hiking, learning new languages, and watching anime. You can read more of her work at erinclarkewrites.com and on Instagram @eeclarkeish

The Butler's Dilemma Samantha Sampang O tis Templeton grasped tightly onto his dad’s limp hand, staring with glassy eyes at the pale, weak form of his once energetic father. He despised the sight of the wires and tubes attached to him, the electronic lights and beeps that represented his life, which hung barely by a thread. How much longer will I have to do this? Otis wondered, closing his eyes and putting his head down on the stiff hospital bed. “Being a butler is so much more difficult than you made it seem,” Otis whispered wearily into the cushion, though his father couldn’t hear him. “How did you do it?” “Don’t beat yourself up, man, anyone in your situation would be strugglin’,” a voice said. Otis looked up to see a large, dark-skinned man sporting blue scrubs and holding a clipboard—the nurse who’d been taking care of his father for the past year. Otis thought for a moment and remembered that his name was Baxter. “I mean, your dad did formal butler training like they all do. You just filled in when he got sick, right? No training or nothin’?” Otis nodded. “Only directions from the family.” “Yeah, the Margiela family,” Baxter nodded as he checked the patient’s vitals and scribbled notes on his clipboard. “They’re pretty damn generous, offerin’ to pay all your dad’s medical bills in return for you workin’ in his place.” “Right,” Otis said flatly. “They’re saints.” The nurse paused, raising an eyebrow at Otis. “I know it’s like nothin’ to them, man, but you still gotta be thankful, ya know?” Otis didn’t reply. He didn’t tell Baxter that the Margielas hadn’t so much offered the arrangement as they had forced it, compelling him to work for them so that they would pay the medical bills. Otherwise, how could he possibly afford his father’s treatment? But of course, as the powerful always do, they’d worded it as if he had a choice. “Besides,” Nurse Baxter said, a new teasing lilt in his voice, “I bet your job’s at least made worth it by the fact that you get to work around that fine-ass daughter they got. Rika, right? Ain’t she only a few years younger than you?” Otis groaned, his face contorted in pure irritation. “Don’t even get me started on her.” # # # Rika closed the large mahogany door behind her and let her smile fade away. Warm colors of sunset streamed through the enormous third-floor window, casting light through her spacious bedroom and onto the silk curtains of her canopy bed. She ripped off her dainty lace gloves and tossed them carelessly on the floor before massaging her cheekbones to help ease the pain of faking that plastic polite smile. Reaching up, she freed her hair from the intricately tight pattern it had been woven in, until it fell in loose copper locks over her shoulders. She sighed in relief as she untied her corset; she’d missed breathing. Now, back to business. Rika reached down into her stockings where she’d hid the wad of money she retrieved earlier today from the family safe—the last little bit she needed before she was ready. Opening up the closet, she reached behind the dresses for the secret shelf compartment where she grabbed— Nothing. Nothing was there. Rika pushed past the hanging clothes in a panic, but the shelf was empty. She frantically looked around the closet in case it had fallen somewhere else– “Looking for something?” Rika startled and spun around to find the family butler standing behind her with an expectant stare. His short, tan hair seemed to glow from the light illuminating the room as he towered over her. “Mr. Templeton!” she said. “Otis,” he corrected, smoothing down his suit coat with white-gloved hands. “As I’ve said, you can drop the formalities when it’s just you and me; you know I’ve never cared for them in the first place. Now,” he peered through thin glasses into the closet behind her, “what exactly are we looking for?” “Nothing!” She hid her hand holding the money behind her back and laughed nervously. “I, uh, I lost a sock.” Otis scrutinized her through his glasses for a moment, then sighed. “If you’re going to lie, Rika, you’ll have to do much better than that.” “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rika said, unable to hide the defensiveness in her voice as she shut the closet doors. “What are you doing here anyway? Do butlers usually sneak up on people?” Otis hummed. “Do daughters of noblemen usually try to run away?” Rika froze, emerald eyes wide as she stared into his hazel ones. She gulped. “How… how’d you know?” Otis reached around and pulled her arm out from behind her, revealing the cash in her hand. “Hey—” “Taking money from the family safe,” he remarked before letting it go, “though in small increments, since you needed to garner up a substantial amount and couldn’t risk anyone noticing so much missing. Same with nonperishables from the food pantry. And one by one, your comfiest clothes and family photos just happened to disappear; yet not once did you ask anyone where they went. I had to wonder why you’d stash them away, unless you planned to be gone for a long time… Maybe forever?” Her face had grown bright red. “You’re supposed to be a butler, not a detective.” “I was never supposed to be a butler,” Otis said with a slight bitterness. In fact, his dream until a year ago had been to become an architect—to design mansions, not work in one for the rich family that owned it. “But as the butler, my suspicions were confirmed when I was arranging your dresses as reference for the tailor, and found your runaway bag with all the items that had been missing.” “Where did you put it?” Rika asked, her tone firm and accusing. “I don’t believe it matters,” Otis told her. “You’re not running away.” It was his number one duty, and he wasn’t about to forget it. He turned and headed for the door, ready to attend to his other duties, when— “I’m tired of being perfect,” Rika blurted out. Otis paused, gloved hand stilling on the doorknob. Behind him, Rika sighed. “I’m… I’m tired of being the perfect Margiela daughter, keeping up appearances and worrying about our family’s social status. But you know my parents. They want this to be my entire future, my whole life. I just thought… if I can get away, maybe it won’t have to be.” Otis was silent. “We’re all a little tired,” he said after a moment. “It doesn’t mean we can just run away.” With that, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the hallway. # # # A year or so ago, shortly after Otis was hired, he was called into Mr. Margiela’s private study for a quick briefing. The room was on the third floor, and considerably darker than most because of the tall, dark brown curtains that shielded the interior from most of the natural sunlight. When Otis entered, the Man of the House was sitting at his large desk, leaning back in his seat with chestnut hair slicked neatly back. He looked up at the new butler-to-be, jade-green eyes glimmering in the light of his desk lamp much like a jaguar’s would as it watched its prey. “Welcome, Mr. Templeton,” he said. His deep voice dripped with authority. “I must say, it was most pleasing to hear you’d accepted our offer.” “It was… hard to resist,” Otis replied. “I… I do genuinely appreciate your help with my father’s medical bills.” “Yes, well, we knew it would be unlikely you’d have sufficient resources to finance your father’s treatment, given your… background. We’re always looking out for ways to… help the less fortunate. And in return, I trust you’ll fulfill the duties of our family butler with utmost excellence.” Mr. Margiela stood, revealing his towering height, and made his way around the desk to stand closer to Otis. He held out his hand, offering two white cotton gloves. Otis took the gloves and began to put them on. “I’ll do my best, but it may take some time before I get the hang of things.” “No need to worry. Our headmaid Donna worked closely with your father; she’ll help train you on general tasks and learn all the formalities. But the real reason I wanted to meet with you, Templeton, is to discuss your most important duty as the Margiela butler.” “My most important duty...?” “Rika,” Mr. Margiela said, beginning to pace the length of the room. “Our daughter, and sole heir. As our legacy, she must be protected. I want you to ensure that she’s safe at all times here at the mansion. There’s really no reason she would need to leave our grounds, but if ever she does, she must be accompanied by at least three guards and be back before sundown.” “Isn’t she 19 already?” Otis asked, surprised at all the restrictions, but he shut his mouth upon seeing the seriousness in Mr. Margiela’s expression. “Well, I guess if it’s for her safety…” He rubbed his hands together; the gloves felt odd on his skin. “She’s become curious in past years,” Mr. Margiela continued. “Told us she wants to travel to other countries and see penguins, or something of the sort—whatever, it was nonsense. She fails to realize her potential in life. Her purpose. No matter how much her mother and I disapprove, that yearning seems to persist in her. And it’s dangerous.” All of a sudden he was right in front of Otis, green eyes holding a piercing stare. “Do not forget, Templeton. If there’s anything your employment here rests on, it’s this order: Rika stays here.” # # # R ika’s plan was simple, really: Step one, pack her essential belongings. Step two, sneak out of the house unnoticed. And Step two, catch the midnight train from Malaya Station to get out of the city. She was practically finished with Step one when Otis came along and had to ruin everything. But that was a fairly easy thing to fix—all she had to do was find the bag. Fortunately, she knew the butler a little better than he realized. She knew there was only one place in the entire mansion where he thought he could hide things for no one to see. It was only a few months after Otis started working for them that she noticed a cabinet door slightly ajar in a corner of the second-floor library. Usually those cabinets held old worn-out books that no one ever read, but when she went to inspect it she discovered countless drawings— breathtakingly intricate diagrams of buildings, all signed O. Templeton . It was then that she’d learned of his passion and talent for architectural art; he had never mentioned it himself. So the following morning around lunchtime, when she was sure no one was in the library, Rika snuck inside. Despite the vast size of the room it was easy to locate the cabinet, because it happened to be right underneath her favorite shelf of books, the one containing animal encyclopedias and atlases of the world. When she opened it, she found exactly what she’d suspected: her leather travel bag, sitting right on top of all of Otis’ drawings. “ Yes,” she said excitedly under her breath, grabbing the bag. She took a quick moment to check if everything she’d packed was still there, then she turned around and— “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Otis said, blocking her way with his arms crossed and making her jump. When he spotted the bag in her hands, his eyes widened and he reached out to grab it from her. “Honestly, Rika, why do you insist on making my job so difficult?” He pulled on the strap, trying to wrench it from her hands. Rika resisted, pulling the bag against his grasp in a game of tug-of-war. “Well if I make your job so difficult,” she argued between grunts, “then let me leave! Think about it: if I disappear, your job will be so much easier!” “If you disappear, I may not have a job left at all!” Otis said, tugging on the bag with persistence. “Well what’s so wrong with that? You clearly hate it, so why not leave? You could even come with me!” Otis froze, the bag’s strap slipping past his hands as Rika fell backwards from the sudden lack of opposing force. He’d assumed her parents would have told her about the nature of their agreement, but she evidently had no real idea why he was working for them. “It’s not that simple, Rika. We can’t all just run away.” “Why not?” Rika asked from the floor where she’d landed. She stared at him intensely. Otis clenched his fists. He couldn’t bring himself to explain it to her. To admit that his father had fallen ill, and that the only way to afford the treatment was to take over his butler duties for the Margielas - and that, in fact, her parents had emphasized that idea when “convincing” him to work for them. He couldn’t tell her he’d had to stop training as an architectural designer, his dream job since childhood, just to start working for them. And that as much as he disliked the job, he was terrified to lose it, because he’d risk losing his father too. Instead, Otis stormed out of the library without saying a word. “What… just happened?” Rika wondered aloud, puzzled at the butler’s sudden exit. But when she realized she was alone with the bag, her face lit up. “I’ve got to hide this,” she realized, grabbing a bookshelf for support as she stood up. “This time, somewhere he really won’t find it.” ### “S he’s a flight-risk, Donna,” Otis complained, frustrated as he shined silverware in the first-floor kitchen. He was ashamed of his mistake yesterday, leaving Rika in the library with the bag containing everything she needed to run away. He’d tried desperately to search for it again, but to no avail. Instead, he increased the number of guards stationed at the North and South entrances of the mansion, and even assigned some at the East and West, where usually there were none, but he was worried it wouldn’t be enough. Now to top it all off, he had to prepare for yet another fancy dinner party for the Margiela’s business partners and their families, set for tomorrow evening. The head maid laughed a gritty laugh as she helped shine utensils too, her aged eyes crinkling as she looked fondly at the young butler. “Ever since she started readin’ all those books ‘bout the foreign lands and exotic creatures, the girl’s been a flight risk,” she told him. “She wants to travel, Otis. She wants to see the world, meet the people, see the animals - and she doesn’t wanna do it in a private plane with an entourage of guards.” “Doesn’t she know how her parents feel about it?” “Oh, of course she does, honey,” Donna said, fluffy gray hair nodding. “First time she ever brought it up her father laughed like it was the funniest darn joke he’d ever heard.” Otis’ eyes softened. He would have been crushed if his father had laughed when he’d told him he wanted to become an architect. “Has Mr. Margiela always been so… harsh?” Donna’s expression turned stern, her wrinkled hands stilling on a piece of silver cutlery. “Money changes people, Templeton. Frankly, I’m glad she wants more in life.” “You’re happy she wants to run away? What about the family’s legacy? She’s the sole heir as the only Margiela daughter.” “And she’s willing to give it all up for a chance to live a little. Now, how often do you meet a person like that?” Donna set the last shined piece of silverware with the others, then rubbed her hands together. “Give me a second, I’ll go fetch the wine glasses for us to polish too.” Otis leaned against the kitchen counter while he waited, deep in thought. Could running away really be good for Rika? He couldn’t deny that her parents were often overprotective of her, not willing to risk anything happening to their only heir. But he personally didn’t think there was anything wrong with her wanting to see the world. And he knew firsthand exactly how torturous it was not to be able to live your dream, to be stuck instead in another reality. Who was he to force that misery onto her, if she had a way out? But he thought of his father, the one he was doing all of this for. Thought of how he’d felt that first night at the hospital, thinking he might lose him forever. When Donna returned with the tray of wine glasses, he found himself having to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. ### T hat night, Otis sat on a couch in the lounge, a warm glow emanating from the floor lamp as his eyes roamed over a piece of paper Donna had printed for him. He’d gone over the process of memorizing guest names and faces before a party many times now, but it never seemed to get any easier. Tomorrow evening, the Margiela’s business partners would be coming with their families, so now he had to memorize even the children’s names for his greeting responsibilities. “Let’s see… Johann Leone, the youngest son of the Leone family, 22 years old… Trevis Coriander, the oldest son of the Coriander family, 23 years old… Benjamin Volkov, the-” “-only son of the Volkovs, 20 years old,” a voice finished. Otis looked over to see Rika standing at the threshold of the hallway. “What are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously. He checked to see if she was holding the runaway bag, but she stood there empty-handed. “Relax,” she replied, holding up her hands, “I’m not up to anything. I just came down for a drink of water and overheard you in here. Memorizing the guests tomorrow?” “I’ve never been good at memorization,” Otis admitted, squinting as he looked back down at the paper. Rika walked towards him, the hem of her nightgown swaying gracefully as her bronze hair glinted in the light. “Johann’s easy enough to identify if you remember he’s the short one. Trevis has a bit of an aloof attitude, but a really nice smile. And Benjamin’s fairly outgoing, laughs a lot.” Otis nodded along, trying to remember the details for future reference. Looking back over the names, it occurred to him that there weren’t any daughters appearing on the guest list. “Why are these all young men?” “Suitors,” Rika answered simply, leaning over the arm of the couch next to where he sat. “Suitors?” She smiled shyly. “For me. My parents take every chance they can get to introduce me to potential husbands.” “So I’m memorizing all of these boys’ names because they might marry you someday?” Rika scoffed. “Not a chance.” Otis raised an eyebrow as he looked at the pictures of the handsome young men. “You’re telling me you don’t find any of them attractive?” Her standards must be through the roof. “Attraction is a different issue, Otis,” Rika told him. “I wouldn’t marry them for it, but they’re all attractive. Trevis especially is incredibly pretty—he sort of looks like you.” She stopped, realizing what she’d just said. Otis paused and looked at her, ruby warmth spreading across his cheeks as he processed her words. But before he could dwell on it any further, his thoughts were interrupted by the clack, clack, clack of heels as a familiar figure entered the room. Her face was stern and covered in makeup, and her dark brown hair and house dress were both extremely elegant, the picture of wealth. Otis immediately rose from the couch. “Mrs. Margiela,” he greeted with a slight bow. “Rika!” the Lady of the House called, her voice sounding out in the most reprimanding tone. “I thought I heard you in here. What on earth are you doing awake at this hour?” Rika stiffened. “This hour being 9 p.m.?” Her mother frowned. “Don’t you take that sarcastic tone with me, young lady. Not with anyone, you hear me? You’re a Margiela. You need to be respectable. What would your father think?” Rika sighed. “I’m sorry, Mother. I went to drink water, that’s all.” “I don’t see water in your hands, dear,” Mrs. Margiela replied, giving her daughter a once-over. “Regardless, it’s time to head off to bed. You know you need your beauty rest. Trevis Coriander will be coming tomorrow and we need to have you looking your best. Plus, you’ll need to wake up early to be fitted into your new gown so the tailor has plenty of time to make any necessary adjustments. Though he shouldn’t have to make any at all, if you’ve been good with your diet.” Rika’s shoulders slumped. “I understand.” “Good. Then let’s get going.” “I’ll be up in a minute, Mother.” “Now.” Otis winced. He wished he could say something, but only watched in silence as Rika followed her mother out the room to go upstairs. It’s not like this was his first time seeing the Margiela parents interact with their daughter this way; he knew it was their everyday. So why did he suddenly feel so different? ### T he next day, it was time for Step two, sneak out of the mansion unnoticed. Rika wasn’t just worried about being caught by her parents but also the countless house staff that roamed the mansion—the maids, cooks, guards, etc.—and of course, the butler. For this to work, she needed an occasion where most, if not all, of them would be occupied. And when guests arrived later that evening for the dinner party, that’s exactly what she had. Otis visited her room to notify her that the guests would be arriving shortly, and that her new gown was in the ladies’ dressing room all ready for her. But when she went to the dressing room, she ignored the obnoxiously petite boa-constricting concoction the tailor had made for her and instead made her way swiftly to the large wooden armoire. With the amount of maids on their staff, it had become necessary to keep a plentiful stash of female hygiene products in one of the drawers. Pulling it open and sifting past the pads—something she was sure Otis would never dare to do - she smiled at the sight of her leather travel bag, still safely hidden at the bottom. She reached inside and pulled out her comfy housedress—breathable and easy to move in, unlike most dresses she had to wear—as well as a pair of sturdy boots, and quickly changed into those. She also grabbed a random shawl from the wardrobe, probably one of the maid’s, and pulled it over her shoulders. Just then, she heard the characteristic ding dong of the doorbell, signaling the arrival of guests. Perfect, Rika thought. Now the staff would be busy assisting them, and it’d be easier for her to maneuver to an exit without getting caught. She waited until the concentration of voices had moved into the dining room, then she made a stealthy descent down the stairs and headed to the East exit, travel bag in hand. The East exit was one of the minor entryways into the mansion, simply a single door at the end of a one-off hallway. Much like the West entrance, it was pretty much never guarded, because guards were in charge of monitoring the staff and guests who went in and out of the building, and they nearly always went through the main entrances at the North or South ends. Her heart jolted with excitement as she made her way down the East hall, sure she’d be out in no time. She approached the door and reached out for the knob, freedom right at her fingertips— “I really need to use the restroom,” said a deep voice on the other side. Rika froze, pulling her hand away and involuntarily holding her breath as she listened through the door. “You can go later, on your break,” replied another voice. She recognized them. Guards. “Come on,” the first voice whined. “No one’s even here, all the guests are going through North and South as always. I’ll only be gone five minutes.” “Mr. Templeton ordered us to guard this entrance, and we were given a tight schedule.” Drat, Rika thought, of course he did, that rotten butler. What do I do now? But before she could devise a new plan of action, she heard the tapping of footsteps coming down the hall behind her in her direction, and her heart dropped. Shoot. Defeated, she turned around. ### H olding a silver platter of desserts in one hand, a white towel slung over the curve of his elbow, Otis looked out at the dining hall with a grin; everything seemed to be in order. Guests were enjoying themselves, the Margiela parents were entertaining their business partners, and the maids and house staff were helping to make sure everyone felt accommodated. But a sudden realization struck him, and his grin faded—one person was missing from the picture. He’d been so busy handling things with the evening party that he hadn’t noticed until now. “Where’s Rika?” he whispered discreetly to Donna, who had just returned from the hallway. “Beats me,” the head maid replied, dusting off the frilly white apron on her dress. “Will you please go find her?” Otis asked with a concerned look. “She may try to take advantage of this situation and sneak out while her parents are preoccupied.” “If you wanna find the girl, you find her,” Donna told him. Otis could see there was no arguing with her. “Very well,” he said, handing her the tray of desserts he’d been holding. After glancing to make sure the Margiela parents were still distracted, he snuck out the dining hall entrance. He made his way up the carved wooden staircase, two flights, and marched across the hallway to Rika’s bedroom before pushing the door wide open. “Rika?” She wasn’t here. His heart began to race. He ran to the dressing room and knocked on the door. No answer. He looked inside. Empty. “No, no, no…” His blood was surging as he rushed down the stairs. The entryways. The guards had to have stopped her, right? North entrance, they hadn’t seen her. South entrance, same thing. East entrance… Deserted. Standing at the threshold, Otis rubbed his eyes to see if he was missing something, but no—the two guards who were meant to be here were gone. Had she killed them? Just then, he heard jaunty whistling, and when he turned towards the sound he saw a tall, muscular man in uniform exiting the bathroom down the hall. Recognizing him as one of the guards meant to be stationed at the East entrance, Otis approached him. “Guardsman, would you care to explain why neither you nor your partner are at the post where you were stationed?” The man straightened. “We were ordered to move to the South entrance, Mr. Templeton. We were told there was no need for the East to be guarded.” “Ordered by whom exactly?” Otis asked, but he already had an inkling. “Miss Donna, sir.” Otis groaned, waving off the guard. He should have known the head maid would help her. He winced as Mr. Margiela’s commanding voice repeated in his mind: Rika stays here. She had definitely left the building by now, probably off to… where? Otis checked his watch, thinking. Rika would probably want to get as far as possible, as fast as possible, and at this late hour there was only one way she could do that - ride the midnight train from Malaya Station out of the city. Otis ran to grab a coat; the night air outside was chilly. ### W hen he arrived at the station, Otis spotted copper red hair in front of the ticket booth, warm light bouncing off of it from the buzzing electric bulb of the stand. He rushed over, just as she was handing over five coins - the fee for a single ticket—and snatched them from her palm. Shocked, she stumbled backwards. “Otis! Give me that back! What are you doing here?” “Taking you home.” He reached out for her wrist and pulled, trying to lead her away, the coins in his other hand. “Let me go, Otis!” she yelled, prying herself free with a grimace and stepping away. “You’re not going to stop me.” “Rika, come on. Why do you even feel the need to do this? You live a luxurious life! Look, your parents are probably looking for you right now, so let’s go. Don’t you love them?” Rika’s eyes prickled with tears, her expression almost offended. “Don’t you see?” she said, her voice tilting with grief as pain gripped her heart. “They don’t understand. They refuse to understand.” She inhaled, letting out a shaky breath. “Do you know what they said they want for my future? They expect me to stay their porcelain doll of a daughter and just keep getting polished until I can take over their assets. Then I’m supposed to be perfect enough to win over a suitor, a perfect husband, so I can have my own perfect children to pass on the assets to. To keep on the Margiela name. That’s going to be my life if I stay. My life, Otis. I can’t bear it.” Otis stood there in silence, unsure of what to say. He’d never seen her so upset. Rika went on, “If you knew you were going to live the rest of your life never getting to experience what you wanted most, would you be content? Would you be happy?” Otis thought of his dream of becoming an architect, of how hard it was simply to put a hold on it, even when he was doing it out of genuine love for his father. To think he’d never reach it at all? I’d be miserable, even more than now. A tear rolled down Rika’s cheek. “Tell me, Otis, if you were in my situation, would you really be able to stay?” Otis didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. Stretching his arm over the counter of the booth, he dropped the five coins he’d taken from her earlier and pushed them across to the merchant. The merchant, an old man with a curly white mustache on a round face, smiled softly as he slid a thin piece of paper across in return: a train ticket. “Oh, Otis,” Rika said, smiling through tear-stained cheeks as she took the ticket. “ Thank you.” Otis’ mind raced in mental preparation for his return to the mansion. What would he tell the Margiela parents? Could he get away with saying he tried his absolute best? That he was simply too late? No—even if he could, his dad raised him better. He’d have to tell the truth. But he’d beg too. Beg for their continued help in taking care of his father. Beg for them to keep him as the butler. He’d get on his knees if he had to. And even if they didn’t have mercy on him, maybe he could ask Donna for help to find a different wealthy family to work for; heck, maybe the Leones or Corianders or Volkovs would hire him. And even if they didn’t, he’d find someone. He’d find some way. He’d do whatever it took. Before he could take more than two steps away, Otis felt a hand catch his arm. He turned around. “Come with me,” Rika told him, her voice barely a breath. “I know you hate it here, just as much as I do.” I wish I could, Otis thought. “I’ve seen your drawings,” she continued, her eyes suddenly shiny with excitement. “You could build a whole city if you wanted to, Otis.” “I could design one,” he finally said. “You could design one!” Rika exclaimed, laughing in awe. “You could design one. I’ve seen you while you’re drawing them, too. You look like a different person.” She grabbed his hands, taking the gloves off of them so she could feel his skin. “Come with me,” she repeated. As Otis stared into her beckoning eyes, he remembered his father, lying in the hospital with no one by his side; always alone except when Nurse Baxter came to check on him, and when Otis came to visit. He shook his head in response, closing his eyes as he gently pulled his hands out of her grasp. Rika looked at him with resigned sadness in her eyes and opened her mouth to speak. But just then, the train rolled into the station, its familiar chug, chug, chug slowing to a screeching halt just before the doors opened with an inviting hiss. “Go get on that train,” Otis told her, “before I change my mind.” She turned to board, but paused after half a second and looked back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” she offered one last time. “I told you, Rika.” He put his white gloves back on. “We can’t all run away.” Samantha Sampang I’m Samantha Sampang, an Early College High School student studying Business at PCC. I wrote The Butler’s Dilemma while taking WR241 with Johnny Zackel (who is a lovely instructor). It’s a simple little story about feeling trapped, locked in an unsavory situation, and considering whether there’s a way out. I had tons of fun while brainstorming it with my cousin Jan, writing it, and especially hearing my classmates and instructor discuss it during our in-class workshop. The entire experience revived my long-felt love for writing, which I plan to keep alive moving forward even if I don’t pursue it as a career. I’ve always been fascinated by writers’ ability to convey deep messages and emotions through stories, and to be on the other side of that sort of art is a remarkable feeling.

A Recipe for Disaster Amy Smith A RECIPE FOR DISASTER Makes one absolute catastrophe Ingredients Alcohol —6-7 hours’ worth of tequila shots, in a dark strip-club, to be exact One Birthday Party – the use of the word “party” is a stretch An Ex-Boyfriend – the one you invited in an attempt to be the “bigger person” 1 One Bicycle – the blue-and-white Fuji that everyone calls a fixed-gear, but is really just a single-speed. She has a free-wheel & both of her brakes Rain – the Pacific-Northwest-in-March kind of rain 2 3 Preparation Weeks Prior: Before leaving for Peru, mom calls to say, “I already told this to your brother, but neither of you are allowed to injure yourselves while I’m out of the country.” Set this tidbit aside for later. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Despite what we’ve been taught by fables and proverbs, being “the bigger person” isn’t always beneficial, karma’s not always a bitch, the golden rule doesn’t apply to everyone, and sometimes selfishness serves you better than the alternative. Two brake s won’t save you in this situation, but a helmet would sure help. The kind of rain that soaks the edge of the street in gravel and miscellaneous debris and makes it treacherous to ride a bike, hike, drive, or exist outside in any capacity. Next: Run into the ex-boyfriend at the local dive bar; the bar you still frequent when you want to risk seeing him. Be sure you’ve had enough to drink, so that his advances are well-received, rather than met with your usual, bitter sarcasm. Once you’ve drunkenly spent the night and he’s insincerely said he loves you, invite him to the friend’s birthday. The friend the two of you once joked was your son, because despite being a grown man, usually behaved like a stoned teenager. The friend who tried to remain neutral after the breakup, but skewed towards you, and may have recently developed something resembling an Oedipus complex. Step One: Because cooking with fuel is so efficient, it's time to add alcohol and a strip club to this already zesty mix. Alcohol is a great emulsifier when you need to combine two things that no longer blend well. Round of shots. You’ve orchestrated this event, and you’ll be in control—until you’re not anymore. Round of shots. Once the boys are at the rack, you’ll get to watch the ex toss dollar bills at naked women. Women with long, lean muscles, capable of acrobatics, and who possess a level of confidence that you can’t even buy with liquor. Round of shots. Anger. Jealousy. Once you’ve brought all of your ingredients to a rolling boil, turn the heat down and let things simmer. Go outside and smoke a cigarette. Throw yourself at a stranger. Anything to play it cool. Step Two: Vignettes. Between the alcohol and the head injury, all you will have from the next few hours are fuzzy vignettes, gently folded into everyone else’s account of what happened. As far as you will remember, it's still light out when you unlock the sleek little bike that is your daily commuter. But that can’t be right, because it will be cold, and dark, and wet, when half an hour later you slide face-down along the unforgiving pavement. How will this happen, you may ask? You will break away from the ex and the birthday boy, as if you’re in a bicycle race, a fiery rage sizzling within you. You’ll take that soggy corner a lot too fast, and in your inebriated state, you’ll be unable to recover. Step Three: Do you remember anything? Or will you hear the story so many times that your brain has to fabricate something to make sense of it all? You will have no real recollection of the impact, but you’ll have the scar to prove it happened. The ex’s backyard—the house you once shared. Flashing blue and red lights and the obtrusive wail of a siren. Despite marinating in tequila all day, you’ll still have the wherewithal to tell the paramedics you can’t afford an ambulance ride because capitalism has ruined healthcare, and you’d rather take a cab. They’ll convince you to go with them only by threatening a DUI, which will seem like a stretch, but you’ll be in no condition to argue. Or maybe you are, being so full of liquid courage. ----------------------------------------------------------------- You can get a DUI on a bike in Oregon. The paramedics would have had to call the police to issue that DUI, and sober-you thinks they may have been bluffing. The paramedics will insist on strapping you to a backboard despite your obvious mobility; it’s protocol for a potential head/neck injury. Because you’re strapped down, the hospital will cut off your clothes, your pathetic protests falling on deaf-ears. This will include your favorite black skinny-jeans and a new, expensive bra–quickly reducing any residual dignity to despair, dredged in shame. A faceless doctor will pick finely-chopped-asphalt out of the ground flesh that was once your forehead, and close the gaping wound with a combination of sutures and glue, because neither would have been sufficient on its own. When the nurse wheeling you from the ER to a recovery room asks what you were doing when this happened, you’ll dryly reply, “Probably going to my ex’s house, to make poor decisions.” At least your sense of humor is intact. Although she’ll try to suppress her laughter, a chuckle will echo through the deafening silence of the otherwise empty elevator. You'll flirt shamelessly with the other nurse, in a desperate attempt at validation, but he’ll awkwardly mention his wife enough times for you to get the not-so-subtle hint. Step Four: Everything will hurt. The styrofoam donut, used to keep your neck immobile while reviewing the spinal x-rays, will feel like a torture device, and you will have never been so stiff in your entire life. Your left shoulder will scream at you with a searing pain emanating from the depths of the muscles, and the attached arm will be cradled in a soft, black sling, against your battered body. The ex will spend the night curled like spaghetti into a chair that is impossibly small for his six-foot frame. His presence will bring you little in the way of comfort though, at least until you realize your phone is dead and you’re reliant on him. As morning rolls around, a new nurse will bring a stiff pair of thin scrubs as compensation for the clothing the others destroyed. She’ll also hand you some individually packaged saltines, so the pain pills have something to tear through other than your stomach lining. When you try to choke down the soft, dry cracker, you’ll also bite down on something hard. It will take a moment for you to comprehend what’s happening, but once you realize it’s a piece of broken molar, you’ll be inconsolable. The uncontrollable sobbing will probably occur because both your serotonin and dopamine have bottomed out with the metabolization of the booze, but the tooth won’t help matters. Step Five: The ex will call a car, on account of your phone being dead. You’ll wait thirty minutes shivering in the wafer-thin scrubs before he’ll lose patience and try again. You’ll be humiliated, exhausted, freezing, and all around miserable. But wait. There’s more! After forty-five minutes you’ll finally climb into a warm, idling cab, only to discover you know the driver. He’s a regular at your bar and friends with your boss. Wonderful. You’ll look like a monster, with yesterday’s makeup smudged across a face that is swollen almost beyond recognition. Almost, but not quite, because he’ll know it's you! The small talk over the next fifteen minutes will be more painful than any muscle, tendon, or bone in your body. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Years from now you’ll find yourself in the apartment of that same bar-regular-cab-driver for a one-night stand that he wants to be more, and when he reminds you of the day he picked you up from the hospital, all of the shame and embarrassment will come flooding back. The ex will see you to your door before walking the fifteen blocks back to the house you once shared. You’ll ask him to bring you food from the barbeque restaurant where he works, but he’ll tell you that he has tickets to a concert, and needs to clean up before meeting his friend. Your friend, actually. The friend that you’ve known for more than a decade, who you introduced to the ex, and who tried to remain neutral after the breakup, but skewed towards the ex, because time doesn’t necessarily equal loyalty. You’ll be more ashamed of your appearance than you are hungry, and so instead of trying to find an alternative food source, you’ll head straight to bed. Somehow you’ll manage to make it through the common area and into your room without alerting the roommates. This will be a relief, given that you won’t yet be prepared to explain why it looks like someone took a meat tenderizer to your face. You’ll collapse into the surprisingly comfortable, oversized air mattress. It will have been five months since the breakup, but you’ve taken zero steps towards a more permanent sleeping arrangement. You will be out cold for god knows how long, but wake up in the same nightmare you fell asleep in. To make matters worse, you’ll have a text from your sister-in-law, informing you that your brother is in the ICU. Not because he’s a reckless idiot like you though; because he lost the genetic lottery, at least as far as his guts are concerned. He will be suffering from a dangerous flare up of his rare stomach condition. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Your older brother suffers from something called Meckel's diverticulum, a congenital intestinal abnormality that was originally misdiagnosed as appendicitis, before an emergency appendectomy turned into an exploratory surgery, and led to the discovery. It has been the cause of multiple bowel obstructions that have required numerous hospitalizations, spanning decades. The new girlfriend, who everyone seems to have really liked, is short-lived. He quickly trades her in for his 21-year-old-coworker, someone eight years his junior. As far as you know, they’re currently engaged. Step Six: According to Instagram, the ex will have a new girlfriend in a matter of days. The dental receptionist, the motherly, middle-aged one named Midge, will burst into tears at the mere sight of you. You’ll be reminded of a Chuck Palahniuk quote from Invisible Monsters, one of your personal favorites: “...if I can’t be beautiful, I want to be invisible...” Although the swelling will recede relatively quickly, your face will remain hideous, as the rich dark blues and purples of bruising fade to a sickly chartreuse. You’ll still want desperately to be invisible. Finally, you’ll be left with a scar that looks like an angrier version of Harry Potter’s lightning bolt. At some point, one of the men who own the bar you work at will assure you that incredible things can be done with plastic surgery nowadays, and that there are plenty of treatments to diminish horrific scarring. Not only is plastic surgery a financially unviable option for you, but this advice will come completely unsolicited, from someone who you barely know, and with whom you have an entirely transactional relationship. Fantastic! You will quickly come to appreciate the scar as an intimidating facade you can hide behind, but the shoulder will be the real issue. You won’t be able to manage the time off, so you’ll be back to work before you can lift the mangled arm that remains cradled in the sling. Luckily it’ll be slow season, and the lack of business means you can afford the speed you lose by bartending with only one arm. The sympathy tips won’t hurt either. After another surgery and a brief stay in the hospital, your brother will be fine, but you will both have the gnarled white scars, as a reminder of the time the two of you did exactly what mom asked you not to. 1 2 3 Amy Smith Amy Smith is a thirty six year old woman, originally from Utah, but has lived in Portland for about fifteen years. Amy has been a hair stylist, a bartender, and is currently deciding what she wants to do next. Her time at PCC has really helped her rediscover how much she enjoys writing, as well as build confidence in her own work. Most of what Amy has written is personal narrative, but she really likes being able to combine research and experience, and playing with creative structures. A Recipe for Disaster was a way for her to write about something that was both traumatic and embarrassing, in a way that was fun and a little more light-hearted. Instagram handle: @boozy_baby

2022 Theme Meet the 2022 Editors Fiction Nonfiction Poetry Scripts Art Bellwether Review 2022 A Search for Meaning This year, we discovered that many of our submissions related to a search for meaning throughout year two of the pandemic. This search manifested in a cycle of experiences, as shown below. Experiencing Loss and Injustice Finding Strength and Surviving Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving A Cycle Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Works Browse our wide array of stories, poetry, and art. View all

the forget-me-nots keep wilting, keep blooming Natalie Alsdorf tiny blue petals / my gold they are stolen by the wind faster than i can collect them faster than i can tuck them away in my bag, keep them safe. i wish to dry them in my flower press, pin them in my journal preserve their hues, their satin surface but so many are missing, i let them go, didn’t i? perhaps one day i’ll see one dancing in the wind while i run down 3rd avenue. perhaps they will surround my canoe on swan lake- one for each note. perhaps even the wilted ones will find their way back- diluted, precious. perhaps the september rain will bring more- this time i won’t let them go. this time i’ll hold on tight. 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)

Plastic Sandcastle Hunter Bordwell-Gray If you could trace the outline of a mirage, there Las Vegas would be. An approximate paradise served on the rocks. All magic, no tricks. No substance, just sin. Sin is just the luster of a land with no tomorrow. Where sorrows drown like flies in a pesticide of gin and rum. You can barely hear those sirens past the siren song of vice, only to covet life like diamonds from the stomach of an ambulance. 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.

Family Elegy Cat Terrell Clouds get bigger above, and this altitude smells of old books and their worn out pages. Short trees speckle the mountains here, but mostly bushes that are skeleton-like populate the dry earth, reaching upwards with their singed knuckles and cracking fingertips. The ground waits for rain: rocks with millions of husks within them, fossils known to be there yet never unburied even still. There is tension and anger and hurt but not from the dead marine life that haunts these hills. Rather, these stabbing feelings come from an odd family of four, human-like creatures in their flawed demeanors yet persisting together-ness: ones who have tried to love each other, but can't find their way out of Predetermined Essences. Those traits God gives and refuses to take away. The traits are as follows: a father with cynicism, a daughter with her father’s judgment, a son who stows emotion, and another daughter, with her father's cynicism. They walk in the crevice of two ancient rocks, two rocks that hold plenty of dead marine life. The daughter with her father's judgment peers at and picks up every blushing stone she sees. The son picks up large rocks he will splinter to look for fossils. The father points out lizards and kicks clinging ticks off arms and legs. The other daughter walks briskly ahead and asks first to turn around and go back, to leave the crevice. The rock picking sister of hers overpromises and her stoic brother underpromises. Promises don't come easy to her. It is normal, the lizards scurry with each new pair of eyes on them, the fossils remain dead, the conversation only veers as much the path allows. No peak, no river, no loop is reached, but the odd family finds a buried burlap sack heading home. The misfitted and frail gather: looking, leaning, hoping. They all find nothing, as softer earth turns to stone 3 inches deep. The sack rips and is ripped by the father and the son. The main path is once again resumed. And then to home. 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.

I am of this place Moonrose Doherty Funny thing about salal berries. Each one is different. Their ripening completely independent. Maybe that’s why I like them so much. The surprise Sweet? Tart? an opening to possibility stained fingers I am estuarine water Shore pine Brackish water Crawdads I am sword ferns and red alder I am cold fog and crabs burying themselves in the surf Melting sun and madrone blossoms I am the scent of baking fir needles I am open to possibility 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. Moonrose Doherty

Twilight Corryn Pettingill The sun is at its peak as Trinity and I prance around the sprinklers of my small front yard, laughing as the cold water hits our bare legs. It is a refreshing respite from the day’s tickling heat. It leads into a warm night where the sky feels open and endless, the stars infinite and marvelous. Our days are as free as the crows that hop along the telephone wires above our heads, cocking their heads down at the two children that run and play in the soggy green grass. The blades cling in between the crevices of my toes and kick up into the air as I attempt a cartwheel, submitting my upper torso to the spray of the sprinkler for the smallest moment before clambering away from the water. Trinity taps my shoulder and races across her driveway into her yard, avoiding my touch as I hop along her spiky dead lawn. I cringe and run back to mine, avoiding the pain on the other side of the pavement. Hose water washes away the grass that sticks to my legs, but the blades that don’t slide away leave itchy welts and a scratchy throat. I rinse it all away, for now, not thinking about it as I continue to play. Trinity’s long, black hair whips around in a blaze as we scour the boundaries of our two properties and roam around its premises, knowing two very important things: never run into the street, and fear the ice cream truck as it passes by. We could just imagine an evil man, deviously sitting behind the wheel searching lawns for small prey. The tales of an evil ice cream man kidnapping children told by our parents remain vivid in our minds, therefore we hide behind the wheels of our car as people pass, but scream with joy as we splash into the spongy lawn. “Olly olly oxen free!” I say as I grasp the predetermined neutral zone of the stair railing. I am safe, for now. Twilight arises and we play tag for the last time before heading inside, the closure of our childhood creeping nearer. It isn’t long before we fall out of rhythm, our schedules never matching and the sun setting sooner in the day as winter arrives. I hardly wave goodbye before Trinity’s family pack up all of their belongings into cardboard boxes and move to the other side of the city, making our front lawn turn into a simple square of grass. The evenings that previously welcomed laughter are now left reserved for homework. Rain comes and washes away the chalk and the biting snow hardens the earth, but the crows stay. They stay and they watch as twilight opens the window of the past.

Wishlist Poul Suero I wish I had a way with words Communicate through song, like birds Some way I could share my mind I wish that I could understand All the seas, the air, the sand crashing, swelling in my mind All I feel every time I stand next to you What I feel every time I walk away from you I wish I knew what it all meant To know what’s what and where it went And sort out what’s undefined I wish my heart would stay at rest Not try to jump out of my chest Can’t catch a breath, I’m out of time All I feel every time I stand next to you What I feel every time I walk away from you I wish I had a way with words I wish that I could understand I wish I knew what it all meant I wish my heart would stay at rest All I feel every time I stand next to you What I feel every time I walk away from you I wish I had a tale to tell That all worked out and came out well But all my thoughts are misaligned I wish that when I rang your bell You’d say hello and not farewell Life moves and I’m left behind All I feel every time I stand next to you What I feel every time I walk away from you