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

Sad Vacation Josiah Webster F ive thousand Hellobucks. That’s almost enough to buy a rocketship. You can pick up a few if you watch a 30 second ad, or if you complete the Daily Slog. But the real source is cold hard cash. Ħ100 for $2, Ħ300 for $5, Ħ1000 for $12. At the $50-$100 range you get loads of Hellobucks for free, but I can’t afford that right now, so I just buy them a few hundred at a time, slowly saving up to get that rocketship. I’m going to name it Glenda. Isn’t that pretty? But it’s only a game. I play it at night when I’m trying to sleep. When I’m too exhausted to move. When I am filled with the dread of sleeping because I know that it will pass too quickly. There are ads–they come in little batches of twos and threes, always at random, always too loud. They are always the same ads. For $10 you can turn them off. But if you turn them off, you won’t get any Hellobucks for free. I’m playing more these nights. When the light is off and I am lying in bed, so sapped, and stomach growling from noodles again. The screen is a pulsating spotlight, binding my head in its glow like a tractor beam. Blue beam. Reflecting off eyegloss, noseshine, and the matte white of my pillow. My eyes have been stinging, vessels distending. The sclera is red by morning. And there is seemingly endless game to be played. The numbers get bigger at each new stage. I was at one point grinding for a covered wagon–now look! Now the numbers are bigger. With glitzy cheesy sound effects through tinny-speakered phone, the vaguely wood- sounding tap of the fingers on plastic. Expert quick tapping. The screen with its slight pliability. The cachet of rewards, of boxes that glow when they open, momentously opening. Of course, you could beat the game without buying anything at all. It just takes time. These false currencies are used to buy skins and trinkets and great beauties like Glenda that would take so, so much longer to earn the old-fashioned way. The game is not designed to be satisfying that way. But if you grease it, it almost can be. You just don’t have the time to be that unsatisfied for that long, not when you’ve rent due and work in the morning and nothing in brain but the strained sub-emotion, the half-thought; the need for a moment to breathe or to wander outside yourself, empty with lightness and hope for a piece of the— peace of the mind. There is no time. No energy left. There is just enough to keep the eyes pried and play the game. Plugged into the wall all night as you play, because it drains your battery, because your battery’s never full. Because you’re too tired to get out of bed except when you have to in mornings on too little sleep after the long night up getting nowhere in particular except for maybe somewhere on a budget far, far from here that doesn’t exist. When I get my Glenda, she sits on the virtual property, unable to move. It isn’t programmed like that. I tap on her, furiously tapping, and numbers come out. They’re bigger than ever. Weighted to my mattress, I wonder where I would fly, if I could. Josiah Webster Josiah Webster's favorite place to dwell is the uncanny gulch between the real and the perceived. He also dwells in SE Portland. His recent publications can be found at Ergot Press and Figwort Literary Journal . You can also find him via @byzantine_dream on Instagram and Twitter.

Meet the editors Sean P. Hotchkiss “When you have found something, it's always in the last place you looked.” Sean P. Hotchkiss is one of the Layout and Special Pages Editors, as well as our Social Media Editor. Father of three, widower of one. Sean is pursuing an A.A.S. Business: Marketing degree at Portland Community College (PCC). He rediscovered his love of writing after returning to college after three gap-decades. In addition to owning a small marketing support firm, he is a reading and writing tutor at the PCC Sylvania Campus. He pursues his writing with passionate inspiration or, perhaps, inspired passion. Sean is also a presenting author at the PCC Groundswell: a Conference of Student Writing in June, 2023. Arpi Schlesinger “Power isn’t determined by your size, but by the size of your hopes and dreams!” -Monkey D. Luffy Arpi Schlesinger is one of the Fiction/Nonfiction, Typesetting, and Web Editors for this issue of the Bellwether Review. As a kid, he always loved making up stories and telling them to people, whether that be through art, writing, or on stage, and that love carries with him to this day. He is super honored to be able to edit a student magazine like this, and is passionate about young people having a platform to share their art. In his free time he enjoys working out, cooking, hiking, and playing video games. One day he hopes to be a published author. Mars Carver “Life is just too complicated to be smart all the time” -Scott Adams Mars Carver is one of our Special Pages editors and Poetry editors. They started off as an editor for their highschool newspaper, now onto bigger things like the Bellwether . They love to read short stories/manga online. Some of their favorite authors/illustrators include Junji Ito, Cornelia Funke, and Lemony Snicket. They also crochet a lot including the cardigan in this image! Alli Tschirhart “Don't look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance.” ―Anne Lamott Alli Tschirhart is our Fiction/ Nonfiction, Web, and Correspondence Editor. She is an aspiring author who focuses on themes of motherhood, mental illness, and family dynamics with a preference for horror. She will be transferring to PSU to obtain a degree in English and Writing. She loves reading and her three cats. Emily Miller “Wait, we had to pick a quote?” -me I definitely feel like I bit off more than I can chew, having taken 15 credits, working more than one job, and volunteering… but in the end, I’m excited and proud to show off this year's journal. I enjoyed working with this editorial team to bring you, the reader, this journal. I don’t have much to say, except to go out there and get creative, (while also making sure you don’t overwork yourself). Emmy Ward “We are all stories in the end, just made it a good one.” - Doctor Who Emmy is one of our Correspondence and Poetry Editors. She is an avid reader who loves to write short stories. In a few years she will be pursuing an English degree at PSU. In her free time you will find her hiking, working out at her CrossFit gym, spending time with her dog and cats, or snuggled up on her couch reading a good book. Adam Parker “The mind is a good thing to lose every so often.” -Dominic Monaghan Adam Parker is the Art and Co-Proof Editor for this issue of the Bellwether Review. Adam has had a strong connection with writing and storytelling since a very young age. He wrote his first short story in the second grade which was simply titled, ‘The Wonders of Lasagna,’ describing his favorite food. He has since shifted his writing in a more serious direction, now producing content in the genres of Fantasy and Fiction. His personal battles with anxiety and depression are what inspire him to write as it is a wonderful outlet to process emotion. He is thrilled to have this opportunity and hopes it will help him on his journey to becoming a published author.

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.

Submission Cat Terrell The light shines in from the window. The blinds do not work in this room, or if they do I haven't twisted them enough to block out the street lights that tempt my eyes as I lay in the dark. In the daytime, sleep tempts me with each word I read, with each sip of a hot drink. I've learned that I'm no good at sharing, but that I live with people who are good at sharing, so I either have to get a bit better at allowing others to take my stuff or say fuck off entirely, I want every last drop of milk to myself. But no one can do this alone; I don't ever buy butter, and my bags of tea don't last as long as they would if it were just me. I will doze off just like I always do, after the words on the screen become little hands that reach out to pull my eyelids down to my chin, and my own hands become warm until they go completely still, and my thoughts become dreams that my bed is not where I am. 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.

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)

Poetry I am of this place Moonrose Doherty Under Moon Flowers Moonrose Doherty God's Acre CJ Maruyama Return to Mortality Natalie Alsdorf Northwest Natalie Alsdorf Wishlist Poul Suero Little Night Monserratt Sandoval Submission Cat Terrell Water Cat Terrell Nehalem's Pocket HunterBordwell- Gray Existence Natalie Alsdorf Waking up, again Erin Clarke In the End Poul Suero Chills Shay Moore I Never Knew My Father Poul Suero Heat Poem Cat Terrell A Trick Of the Light Erin Clarke Family Elegy Cat Terrell He Lived up on the Bluff Hunter Bordwell- Gray Plastic Sandcastle Hunter Bordwell- Gray Food Pamela Hughes Forego Natalie Alsdorf the forget-me-nots keep wilting, keep blooming Natalie Alsdorf Untitled Monserratt Sandoval My Last Malika Bailey

God's Acre CJ Maruyama In cerulean skies, I stand alone with granite relics— familiar angels engraved upon stone. I peer above, to where the jay rests in songs of oak— & from the bough, a screech owl glides out, above the ravens that tend the grounds & offer collected bones to their guests. In cerulean skies, tears meet vale. Below my heels, lives a satin grass—beneath which, these angels, laid to rest, soar! Soar, far beyond my sight. CJ Maruyama CJ Maruyama is a writer based in Portland, Oregon. He writes poetry and fiction, ranging from humorous to visceral to transcendentalist. CJ has a BA from Occidental College, studies at PCC, and is enrolled in Portland State’s Creative Writing MFA program beginning Fall 2023. His poetry features in Letter & Line Magazine and will be in the next issue of Alchemy Literary Magazine. In his free time, CJ hikes, snowboards, and explores breweries with his wife, Erin,and their Siberian Husky, Kira.