Little Night Monserratt Sandoval The crickets host a party, but I'm never invited. So instead I climb up the steep hill. The swift sand spills between my toes as I approach the bridge. Two beams flash across my face from the headlights of a sputtering car that should've been retired long ago. Gleams of sweat gently slide down my temples. It's nearly pitch black, but the sun's fury is still near. Now the road lies still...The crickets turn up the music. All the tienditas have closed their garages and the sleeping street dogs pant, wishing for a cooler night. I cross the road and descend from the hill. My feet almost fly off the ground as I dash through the night, back to the sand beneath my feet. My heart pounds, screaming at my ears. In the back there's soft laughter being lifted through the air. A warm glow slowly spreads across my face. I squint my eyes to see all my tíos and tías looking at me. I walk past the open gate onto the uneven cement of the so-called driveway. Smells of instant coffee and fresh pan dulce engulf everyone's words. Pupils dilate, as my eyes fixate on an ojo de buey. The front door step lies empty, so there I sit. Watching mouths give and return conversations, I take a bite into my bread. Monserratt Sandoval My name is Monserratt Sandoval, I am a Mexican-American and am currently 18 years of age. I’ve always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating my own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this is my first art class in PCC. Here is where I first really used charcoal in my artwork, which I quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of my pieces. I enjoy creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases my dining table and backyard door, and myself. I also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in my work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that I hold close to my heart. I also enjoy writing, taking great inspiration from my own life experiences.

Nicole Jette’-Sarwar is a PCC student who contributed four artworks, Untitled 1812, Self Portrait 19, Baghdad 1995.53 , and Baghdad 1991.51 —which happens to be this year’s cover of The Bellwether Review. With creative juices and ADHD running through her veins, 20 year old Emily Miller finds joy in many artistic endeavors; writing, photography, painting, crocheting, and many other hobbies take up her time. She was beyond excited to have her story "At The Rooftop Garden" and painting "Botanische Malarei" accepted in this year's journal. With an open mind, and plenty of inspiration, she's excited to see what the future holds for her. Emily wants to thank you, reader, for taking the time to look at her art and story, and hopes you have a good day! Instagram chillyourbiscuits.com “I make art to tell imaginative visual stories. My stories are inspired by my experiences, passion for art, architecture, and other cultures. I am compelled by the creative process because it is teeming with uncertainty.” Wayne Wilburn was born in Detroit MI and grew up in Santa Fe NM. He lived and worked in the Republic of South Africa for 8 years. As an American Creative his solo and collaborative projects in photography and art explore dualities to express personal and cultural ethos. His efforts in architecture include sustainable design work in the American Southwest and the Republic of South Africa. He earned a BA in Architecture in 1986 and Masters of Architecture in 1993 from the University of New Mexico. LinkedIn Facebook Website Monserratt Sandoval is a Mexican-American and 18 years of age. She's always appreciated art from a young age, and couldn’t wait to start creating her own artwork. Other than one class in senior year high school, this was her first art class in PCC. Here is where she first really used charcoal in her artwork, which she quickly fell in love with, as it can be found in a lot of her pieces. She enjoys creating observational pieces, like See Through and Self Portrait, which showcases her dining table and backyard door, and herself. She also wanted to shine a light on new perspectives in her work on different lives, which is how the inspiration of Our Life came to be. This piece is one that she holds close to her heart. She also enjoys writing, taking great inspiration from her own life experiences. Jovie Portillo was born in EL Salvador. They moved to the U.S. when they were 11 years old. E ver since they were a child they were totally fascinated by the natural world, and began drawing and painting as they became a little older. Jovie started at PCC in order to complete an associates degree in Radiography, but once they began their journey they realized that art is what they wanted to pursue instead of the medical field. Jovie has always been in awe of the majesty and beauty of nature, they usually find themselves in the woods or at the beach wondering and contemplating the nature of reality, usually receiving deep insights which then produce a rush in them to transpose those insights in to beautiful works of art so that others can appreciate the beauty and joyful news of what they see. Remus Dublin is both a writer and a visual artist. The pieces Remus submitted are generally more abstract than they tend to lean toward, with a higher focus on self-expression, and mental health. Remus struggles with theirs, and the art in all three of their piec es display themes of depression, and the concept of self-liberation when operating within the confinement of expectation, which is something they are likely overly cognizant of, but are quite passionate about. Remus wanted to represent the surrealism of self-care when accessibility and support is often so absent, (and when it is present, often so inadequate). Bailey Moore contributed two artworks; Untitled inspired by Dufy and Untitled October to The Bellwether Review’s 2023 issue. Zada Smutz is currently a freshman at PCC. They have been doing art practically all their life and hope to one day go into tattooing as a profession. When it comes to work, they love to experiment with different materials and styles, but are most fond of ink. Zada loves the range of lines you can get from it and how you can get so many values from just adding a bit of water. Their work has always been a way for them to express how they are feeling and tend to translate that through the quality of the lines. They can be clean and refined or they can be scratchy and unpolished but either way, Zada finds that they show character. They see it as the voice of the artist, like how it can be found in writing and music. Instagram @daturaarts

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

Mission Statement The Bellwether Review is Portland Community College Rock Creek’s literary magazine. Our mission is to promote original art and writing through various mediums of expression cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a diversity of voice and thought. Through this, we encourage a passion for meaningful creation, and hope to provide a platform for students to appreciate art as a window into our individuality, solidarity, accomplishment and community.

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.

Where There's Smoke Travis Erb M ark looked around the bright white cathedral in disbelief. Where walls should have been, great curtains of white smoke billowed up, restricting his view. It was empty, save for a tall, winged man who stood at a white podium next to a large iron gate; he was dressed in white robes, and was holding a clipboard and a pen. Mark thought it all looked just as he had imagined it would while on Earth. He practically galloped towards the angel, giddy for eternity to start as soon as possible. “Hi!” Mark said. “I’d tell you my name, but I have a feeling you already know it.” Excitement emanated from his voice. Papers rustled. “Let’s see...Mark Simons...35 years old...cause of death: car accident...1523 good deeds, 1240 bad ones; 2 great deeds, 3 wicked...” The angel scratched his forehead with his pen. “...56% church attendance rate but with only a 23 focus score during the sermon...Worshiped 6.3 decibels above congregation average...Hmm, only one conversion. Right religion, wrong sect.” The angel clicked his tongue three times. “I'll have to put you on the waitlist.” Mark couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure there hasn't been some kind of mistake? I've been a Christian my whole life; I’ve been going to church since before I could walk; I read my Bible 3 times a week!” His breathing quickened. The angel flipped to the back of the stack of papers on his clipboard. “Looks like the best I can do is send you to Purgatory 3a. You do a few weeks of community service, and if you do well enough, I'll send you through.” Mark was furious. “If I do well enough? My whole life, I've been living for this moment. Do you know how much more I could have done if I wasn't so hellbent—” The angel raised an eyebrow. “—on going to heaven?” “What sorts of things might you have done?” The angel began scribbling something down. “Well, you know. I could have gone to strip clubs, I could have thieved, I could have disrespected my parents.” More scribbling. “Go on...” Mark's face turned red. “I'm starting to think that's not a great idea.” He paused. “Okay. I'll do the Purgatory.” “I'm afraid at this point I’d only be comfortable with putting you in 434g.” The angel placed his hand on a large blue lever that Mark hadn’t noticed before. Mark craned his neck around the angel, trying to get a glimpse of heaven, but the smoke seemed even thicker than before, curling around the charcoal gray gate to obscure what lay beyond. “Let’s go half,” Mark bargained. “217? What’s half of g?” Mark had no idea what any of it meant. The angel said nothing, but moved his hand from the blue lever to a smaller red one that was nestled behind the podium. “Okay, okay,” said Mark. “I’ll do 434g.” Mark thought he could see the beginnings of a smile at the corners of the angel’s mouth. “Alright now, off you go.” The Angel pulled the blue lever. Mark felt his body jerk suddenly. The pillars of white smoke puffed into the distance as if there was somebody blowing them away. He blinked and the afterlife fell away. ### When Mark awoke, he was lying in a bed. The room itself was windowless, and the ceiling slanted such that it was only a few feet higher than the bed itself at its head. The walls were off-white and it smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke. The thought occurred to him that he must have just awoken from a dream, but the fact remained that he was still in an unknown place. Was it another dream? Mark pinched his cheek and felt a sharp prick. Huh. He had a dull ache in his bladder, and he decided to look for a bathroom. He stepped off the bed and opened the door, which was a standard white wooden door with a thin metal chain lock, and was surprised to see that he was not in a house, but some kind of a hotel. Looking around, he could see a door every few yards stretching as far as he could see. Mark wasn’t the only one in the hallway. As he trekked further and further down the endless corridor, he saw several people. Curiously, every one of them looked to be about in their twenties. He saw a blonde boy wearing an aviator's cap, who smiled and gave him a wave as he passed by. He saw a girl with a shawl muttering to herself. Mark thought he heard the words “my baby” as he skirted past. Finally, after what felt like hours passed (there were no clocks or other timekeeping devices anywhere), he decided to ask for directions. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t occurred to him before that moment, but to be frank he was embarrassed at the whole situation, and tried his best to avoid the unscrupulous types that one would expect to find in a place like Purgatory. Unfortunately, Mark was so desperate for a bathroom by the time he thought to ask that the person he asked ended up looking exactly like one of the aforementioned unscrupulous types. He was a hulking thing—a veritable brute. A graying black ponytail sat atop his head, and he donned a black leather Harley Davidson jacket. His gait somehow told onlookers “stay away from me” and “I’m looking for trouble” simultaneously. Mark felt his body recoil as he approached. “Ex-excuse me, sir. Mind telling me where the bathroom is? I’m new here.” The man raised one gray eyebrow. “You’re looking in the wrong place,” he said. Mark’s heart sank. “Bathroom’s that way, though,” he said, pointing back the way Mark had come. “Room 40,056.” “Th-thank you,” Mark said. He started off toward the way the man had pointed when he felt a powerful hand on his back. “My name is Hudson by the way. What are you in for anyways? You don’t seem the type.” “Wrong sect, I think,” Mark muttered. “And I think the angel said something about my conversion count being a bit low, too.” He could feel his blood pooling in his chest with anger as he thought about it. “And my name is Mark.” “You got an angel?! Well shoot, Mark, everyone I’ve talked to on this floor had a meeting with a demon, or even the Devil himself. Apparently Hell’s getting full, and he’s not letting just any old troublemaker in. Even Stalin got waitlisted.” Hudson smirked. “Stalin’s in purgatory?!” Mark was incredulous. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Stalin’s in Hell. Lucky bastard.” Mark looked back down the hallway longingly, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. “Why would you want to be in Hell?” Mark asked. “Tell you the truth, so I don’t have to hang out with guys like you.” Hudson chuckled. “Rumor is, the Devil tired himself out with all the eternal punishment. He’s more or less retired now. God, too. Heaven and Hell is just a means of separating the dweebs from the true men at this point.” “Sorry, I really need to go.” Mark pointed the way to the bathroom. “Thank you, Hudson.” “Keep your head up kid, you’ll be alright.” But Mark had already gone. On the journey back down the hallway, Mark couldn’t stop thinking about what Hudson had said. Heaven and Hell, not real? How can that be? I was practically at God’s doorstep just yesterday! But the more he thought about it, the more doubt started to creep into his mind. It could explain why they sent me here, despite me being obviously qualified. His thoughts were interrupted as he finally reached the door marked 40,056. At once he knew why he hadn’t seen it on the first pass—it was exactly the same as every other door. There were no markings aside from the room number. He pushed the door open and walked in. The bathroom itself was standard fare, and Mark rushed to the urinal to relieve himself. Mark heard the door swing open again and a few seconds later he felt something brush his right shoulder roughly. He looked to his right and saw an angel with a ‘staff’ shirt next to him. His shaggy wings poked out of two shoddily-torn holes in the shirt, and fanned out to completely envelop the surrounding two urinals. Mark thought about saying something but decided not to in case it was some sort of test. Instead, he finished his business and awkwardly moved the wing out of way like a low-hanging tree limb. Mark went to wash his hands, but when he looked in the mirror, he was shocked. His wrinkles were gone, his hairline had moved up, gray had turned to black; he looked at least 10 years younger than he was the day that he died. He stood there admiring his new youth until he heard another flush, at which time he quickly left before having to face the angel. While Mark was walking back to his room, a door opened suddenly and spat out a man in an all- black suit and top hat. He looked to be in a hurry, taking a second to orient himself, then quickly pacing to escape a few doors down. Mark noticed the first door was still slightly ajar, and a bright yellow light very much unlike the light in Mark’s room blazed a stripe in the murky hallway. He was curious and walked over to the door, feeling a tinge of jealousy–did this man have a window? He slid his finger into the gap and flung the door all the way open. The light was so bright, that at first Mark wondered if he was back in the heaven waiting room. However, as his eyes adjusted he saw cars—cars!— whizzing silently by on what appeared to be a bustling urban street. Mark took a step through the door onto the sidewalk, and immediately the city soundscape erupted all around him. Just to be sure, Mark took a few turns stepping through the door each way—every time he made the switch, his ears pulsated with the difference in pressure. I bet there is a bar or someplace I could take my new youth for a test drive. However, just as he was about to step all the way through and close the door behind him, he heard a soft female voice behind him. “Excuse me, are you Mark Simons? I’m supposed to come tell you about the 434G meeting.” Mark whipped around. “Who are you? And how did you…” Mark trailed off as he locked eyes with the girl; the dingy lighting would have done anyone a disservice, but it was easy to tell she was beautiful. He considered asking her to step through the door into the sunlight but decided against it. “Well, we got a letter from heaven this morning that we got a new group member. When I went to your room to come get you, you weren’t there, so I asked an angel in the hallway, and he mentioned seeing you.” “Well, where do we go?” Mark asked. He hadn’t seen any stairs. “You can just follow me.” She turned back towards the hallway. “Wait!” Mark called. “At least tell me your name!” “I’m Nevaeh. Now come on, we’re going to be late!” She started off towards the hallway again. Just like with the bathroom, when she finally opened the door to the stairs, it looked like any other hotel room door. Mark wondered just how many other rooms and services there were in the hotel. It took 20 minutes for the pair to make the journey to the ground-floor lobby, and another 15 to the meeting room for group 434g. The meeting room was square, and not particularly big. There were about 10 people in total, and most were sitting on couches or on one of the two gray armchairs that sat around the perimeter. “Mark? Shoot, if I had known you were in our group, I could have saved Nevaeh the trouble and brought you down myself.” It was Hudson, and he was wearing the same Harley Davidson jacket as he had before. When Mark thought about it, he realized he was wearing the same thing that he was wearing when he died. “Motorcycle accident?” he asked. “I mean, is that how you died? I noticed the jacket.” Hudson leaned back in his armchair and laughed. “Kid, I wore this jacket pretty much every day, even on Earth.” He paused and looked around the room. The other members were looking at him expectantly. “I was 93 when I died. Heart attack.” Mark felt his jaw drop open. “See, guys? It gets the newbies every time.” He chuckled. The thought crossed Mark’s mind that most of these people were probably older than him–a lot older. His eyes drifted to Neveah and he considered asking. However, he realized he didn’t really want to know. There was, however, a question he did need answered. “What exactly do we do here? What is our community service?” The man in the other armchair, a young black-haired gentleman of Asian descent, sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Our community service is over there in that binder. It is supposed to take two weeks, but most of us have been here for at least a year.” A large man in a red baseball cap and broken glasses who took up half of the couch he was sitting on spoke next: “Our real mission? Eat doughnuts, play board games, drink; if you have any other ideas, I’m open to suggestions.” He passed a pink frosted doughnut to Mark. “Thanks.” He took a bite. “Can we get hotpot?” another voice chimed in. Mark finished chewing and cleared his throat. “Can we go to a bar? I think I know a spot.” “Oh, should we let the newbie show us around?” Hudson asked. “I’m game,” the hatted man, rising from the couch. Mark was still savoring the taste of the doughnut. It was better than anything he had experienced since he died. ### “I think it was around here,” Mark told the group. “What exactly are we looking for?” Hudson asked, arms folded. “I’m not exactly sure. A city was behind one of these doors. She saw.” He pointed to Nevaeh. Nevaeh sighed. “He’s talking about the New York City door.” “Seriously? You should have told me! I know a great bar we can go to there.” Hudson began leading the way, leading the group to the door, and not skipping a beat while stepping through it. As the group continued walking down the city street, Mark saw an elderly woman waiting to cross the street with a bag of groceries in one hand and a walker in the other. A test? Mark rushed over, eager to perform a good deed. “Do you need any hel–” Before he could finish, the woman had been hit by some dark figure, and lay sprawling across the pavement. He could see bone poking out her skin at the elbow, and blood was spurting out. Flecks of asphalt were caked into the side of her face. “Oh my goodness, we need to get help now.” He turned to the shadowy figure, scared that he might be its next victim. Instead it grabbed his hand and pulled. “We are soooo going to Hell for this!” It was Hudson. “Come on, Mark, we gotta get out of here.” Mark yanked his hand away. “What was that? You’re not actually trying to go to Hell are you?” Onlookers had begun to rush over and surround the old woman. “Yes, I am. Like I told you, Hell isn’t what you think it is. Neither is Heaven. Now, if you want to go to either one, I suggest you follow us right now before we get stuck here on Earth.” Mark had no choice but to follow. The group zigzagged through alleys and across roads for about a mile until they stopped in the middle of a dark alley in front of a nondescript metal door. Hudson pushed it open and revealed a pub. The bartender, a heavily-tattooed woman in her mid-thirties wearing black eyeliner, noticed the group immediately. “The usual, Hudson?” She gave him a wink. “The usual, as usual.” He winked back. The woman pulled down a few glasses and reached for a bottle of whiskey. “So, what mischief have you been getting into lately? Can’t be too good if you’re still here.” “Nothing you haven’t heard before,” Hudson replied. “Oh, and can you whip Mark up something extra special on me? He’s new here.” “Don’t bother,” said Mark. He was appalled at Hudson. A few minutes later, the drink arrived anyway. “Give it a try, kid.” “I’m not touching that drink, Hudson.” “Why don’t you try it, Mark.” He looked up to see Nevaeh smiling at him. “It really is wonderful. Nina makes the best drinks in the world.” “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll try it.” Mark put the cup to his lips. It was amazing. He could hardly taste the alcohol, and there was a strong taste of blueberry and mint. It had been so long since he had had anything but water to drink that he finished it in three large gulps. “C-could I have another one of those?” he asked. Hudson looked Mark dead in the eyes. “If you stay here with us, you can have as many of those as you like. And, if we ever make it into Hell, it only gets better from there. What do you say, kid?” He held out an empty beer bottle to Mark. “What do I have to do?” “Why don’t you start by smashing this beer bottle into that man’s head? Just think of it as your initiation.” Mark thought about it. He had never done anything like this before. But if Heaven and Hell were just a construct, it means he’d been duped. His whole life, he had been believing in and working towards a lie. God did exist, but he didn’t care about Mark. Maybe it was something in the drink, but when he thought about it, with a God like that, there was no reason Hudson shouldn’t have done what he did. What did it matter if you are good or evil, dead or alive, injured or well? In the end, where you end up is as inconsequential as which baseball team you root for. He wrenched the beer bottle from Hudson’s hand. “Thank you, Hudson. For showing me the truth.” He walked over behind the man, a balding old man in a trench coat, and raised the beer bottle. “Hey, what are you—” Mark brought the bottle down with a thud. ### Mark blinked open his eyes, and white light attacked his eyes from every direction. As his eyes focused, a form began to materialize. It had majestic wings and was adorned with a spotless white robe. His face looked incredibly stern, and when Mark looked him in the eye he shook his head mournfully. Suddenly, Mark realized. “Wait! I didn’t m—” But the trap door had already opened beneath his feet. Travis Erb Travis Erb is a second year student studying chemistry. Travis has always enjoyed writing and the art of storytelling, but has only recently started taking their writing outside of the classroom. Travis’ work is a look at what happens when a man who has devoted his life to his religion comes face to face with the fact that his stats weren’t quite good enough to get into heaven the first time. They enjoy the absurd and often add absurd elements to their stories. Travis is currently writing a fantasy/sci-fi book with his brother, and really enjoys the creativity that writing enables. instagram: @travis_erb

Admete Sean P. Hotchkiss S he is truly the spirit of the ocean sent to walk among us. Barely contained, always moving, shifting, changing. Usually benevolent and giving, but subject to wild changes when outside forces push and pull her, testing the limits of her patience and personness. Fascinated and captivated, he watches as she ebbs and flows in her randomly deliberate motions. Rising and falling, waves crashing in varying intensities against the shore of her life. Enthralled by all of it, even at the prospect of the raging storm he has never seen. Knowing he would weather it–not unchanged but unscathed–and still her friend. Her waters reach out to pull the willing into her embrace and force those that cause her pain away. The more time passes the more willing he is to drift into her waters, excitedly moving toward the depths. Eagerly anticipating the waters closing over him, surrounding him with her magnificent presence and intoxicating embrace. Willingly would he drown in the sea of emotion and intellect that is her, because he knows he will merely be reborn as something more when she places him gently back on the shore, having been baptized into her life—forever. Sean P. Hotchkiss Sean P. Hotchkiss was born and raised in the Portland Metro area of Oregon. Other than a 4 year stay in Anchorage Alaska, where he married and where his first child was born, has lived in Oregon his entire life. Sean is the father of three, widower of one. He recently rediscovered his love of writing after returning to college after three gap-decades. In addition to his “day job” as a digital marketer, he is also a reading and writing tutor at Portland Community College. He pursues his writing with passionate inspiration or, perhaps, inspired passion. He believes he does his best work where thought meets inspiration, and seeks out those things and people that stimulate both. You can engage with Sean on Instagram @sphotch_the_writer or on his website .

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