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)

Heat Poem Cat Terrell 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.

Fiction Where There's Smoke Travis Erb When the Bough Breaks Alli Tschirhart The Butler's Dilemma Samantha Sampang Sad Vacation Josiah Webster At the Rooftop Garden Emily Miller

He Lived up on the Bluff Hunter Bordwell-Gray The bass on the wall croaked a twee song to electric perfection: Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Sheet metal cowboys swayed so sweet, languid in that summer heat, a kindly sight on June’s dreary eyes. And no ocean deigned to count itself so vast as the sagebrush flats on which they danced, innumerable, incalculable as nature is. Yet grander still was Grandfather’s study, filled to the brim with little toy tractors. His leather-bag laugh bound clear to the walls and back. Such sanguine warmth not made to be contained, like a desert wind. 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.

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

Waking up, Again Erin Clarke Pleasure is the wake-up call, The ding-dong come and play Edged with twinkling tingles Charged by leaned-in conspiring, It’s silky body butter Remembered right after the shower, Whispering sweet nothings with each glide To all your luscious landscapes, It’s donuts after sleeping in, Then lying flat to spot Constellations in the spackle– A galaxy of favorites tucked in rorschach ceiling blots, It’s warm slippers on cold toes And neck nuzzles at breakfast, It’s a ripe pear yielding To testing teeth and curious tongues, It’s walking for the sake of beats Pounding through concrete And the excuse to pull fresh breezes Into your restless cells, It’s absorbing all the string sounds Echoing through hollowed wood, Loving the hands deftly Worshiping their instrument, It’s celebratory wiggles because soft clothing Kindly hugs and your favorite mug is waiting To be cupped by grateful palms, It’s wearing sparkles with no agenda, and playing like you mean it, It’s Doubt shrinking into the corner Newly chastened, power waning, While the body sings YES in gorgeous chorus Forging intrastellar joy, Selene and other goddesses Can’t compete with my delight, I gush Disco glitter moonbeams wrapped in chuckles wrapped in rapture When the tendrils of depression finally slacken at long last, When I am unbound and once again awake. 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