Search The Bellwether Review, 2020-2022

Welcome to PCC's Literary Magazine! Here you'll find our most recent digital issues of the Bellwether Review. Bellwether Review 2022 A Search for Meaning This year, we discovered that many of our submissions related to a search for meaning throughout year two of the pandemic. This search manifested in a cycle of experiences, as shown below. Experiencing Loss and Injustice Finding Strength and Surviving Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving A Cycle Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Works Browse our wide array of stories, poetry, and art. View all Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth with art by Morgan Belden Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomsom with art by Morgan Belden The Stone Pig Casey Elder with art by Casey Elder Random Access Memory Tyler Allen with art by Morgan Belden Spring into Summer Heidi Shepherd with art by Issac J. Lutz Hennesy David Hurley with art by David Hurley View all

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Click to enlarge "Yosemite National Park" Miriam Ridout There is hope, there is Help Sydney Ross 2,000 miles from home, thick fog covers the dense evergreen tree line. a mix of mud and rain sloshes beneath my feet; a worn trail of footprints has led me here. snow capped mountains linger in the distant skyline overlooking the St. John’s bridge, grand and complex in its towering height above the Willamette river, whose tinted green waters offer an escape from this beautiful place where I feel so alone stranded so far from home. Sydney Ross (Writer) Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds.

Click to enlarge "Where Will I Go" Morgan Belden Random-Access Memory Tyler Allen You remember you’re on a beach, the air cool and wet, and you feel a crisp breeze on your face. You know it’s real because you can feel the sand in your hand and you watch as the sand slowly slips between your fingers and back into the beach. The sun sinks beneath the water, turning the sky and water an incalculable number of shades of red, orange, blue, and purple. You can’t remember which beach this is but you know you’re facing westward, maybe California? Oregon? Portugal? Upon turning you see her illuminated, her hair in the red-orange sunset. She calls your name but you pretend not to hear. You can still hear her, but when you turn you’re now at a rooftop bar overlooking the city. The city is lit, and the sun is entirely set. You feel the expensive but mediocre drink getting warmer in your hand. What a waste you think. Here everyone calls you the wrong name and you wonder why. No one seems to know or care, but she keeps introducing you to people whose faces you can’t remember. People from accounting and from business meetings and deals and blah blah blah. You overhear someone talking about not having time to find a real partner anyway. Looking for the exit, you find a half dozen of the staff of this bar in a semicircle smoking and taking bets. “Sorry,” you mumble, and slowly back away. When you turn you are in a doctor’s office, but you don’t want to be here so the walls wash away and refigure. It feels like home. You remember the doors and the walls and the way the light comes through the shades, but something is wrong. You think but you draw a blank. Turning to look out the window you notice the far green and brown horizon as you pass row and row of olive trees. Your hand grips the seat and you notice the white cotton interior is peeling and you pick at it nervously. Then you remember you are on a train in the south of Spain on your way to Italy. You’ve been stressed about this trip for months and you’ve wondered what your catholic mother would say about your plan to skip the Vatican. Sometimes you hear her voice when you fake swear, saying “God bless it,” or “gosh darn it.” You hear a voice in the train car but you don’t know what they’re saying. What year is it? The thought trickles through your mind—why can’t you remember? What is slipping through your fingers? You hear your name again, this time from the other side of your train car. Huh. You think you hear yourself, but the words remain on your tongue. Your name rings out in your ears again but you can’t place where from. You turn behind you and when you do, the world washes away. “Jasmine,” behind you again, you hear a trickle of water, a sink. The kitchen is smaller than you remember. The oven is on and you can hear the TV in the other room. Shinc, shinc, shinc, the sound of your knife as you chop cilantro for tonight’s dinner. No. You know what is going to happen next and you try to fight it. You don’t feel as you slice the end of your finger off. You think it’s adrenaline. You go to wash the cut and notice the water stays clear. Why aren’t I bleeding? you ask yourself. “Janie,” your voice calls out lamely. You see her in the hallway light, and she's nervous as she glides over to you. She bandages you lovingly and kisses you but you pull away. “Janie, why is there no blood?” She doesn’t answer. Instead, you drift away to a white room, your finger still bandaged. Janie and the doctor talk behind the door. Why aren’t they talking to me? The air is cold and you wish you were somewhere else but your body and your mind won’t move. Your hand drifts to the wall as you glide your finger on the rough stucco pattern. The light gust of recycled air turns on above you and a chill runs down your spine. What could take them this long? You try to picture your mother’s face but nothing materializes, then your room, then your bike, but nothing but blackness enters your thoughts. When you put your hand on the hard but soft bed in the doctor’s office, you feel the coarseness of sand as it sinks in. Beyond the door, the voices have now become the sounds of waves. The doctor comes in, but you remember none of the conversations. Something about Random-Access Memory, and the synapse breakdown brought on by sentience. They give you a month if you’re lucky. You are broken, and worse yet, unfixable. Janie has your papers and therefore you have no say in what happens next. This conversation is a formality. You feel if the doctor had a choice he would send you to the scrap heap. You don’t remember the operation but you remember the car ride. Janie looks at you and apologizes for being a bad owner. Her eyes are a crimson shade, and her cheeks wet. What do you say? “I love you,” you hear yourself mumble. A flash. A wave’s crashing descent. You hear your name from behind you. It’s not the name you were given but the name you would have chosen. “Laura!” you hear again. The sand is hot and coarse between your fingers, and the cool beach air smells sweet this time of year. You turn and you see her standing there, waving. When you close your eyes, you just let yourself listen to the sound of the waves. Tyler Allen (Writer) Tyler Allen was born and raised in small-town Nevada where they learned about blue-collar life and how to avoid rattlesnakes. They enjoy watching movies, reading books, and drinking coffee. They are getting married in the fall and they have a dog they love a lot even if he won’t let them pet him. Tyler enjoys writing stories about little failures and their effects on people, places, and things. They turn 30 next year. Morgan Belden (Artist) I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters.

Poetry 6am Sydney Ross a stranger sat beside me this morning as the sun rose over the damp parking lot... Read More Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth When they took my wisdom teeth, they extracted miles of fleshy, dirt-covered roots... Read More Come Away Heidi Shepherd Where have all the romantics gone? Is there a place for us, A place where our faltering words... Read More The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull Stephanie Thomsom I wonder if I'll ever be more than a taxidermied skull of an Irish elk. Hanging from a ceiling with fractured... Read More Grief, but Make it Sing Luka Russo My heart has this hot habit, of glaring at me from across the room, pouding on stucco walls It throws drummer boy tantrum fits... Read More guess what? Sydney Ross you are a butterfly and I am a caterpillar awaiting my new life... Read More Norma Sarah Guizzoti The air chilled my face as I stood staring unblinkingly. The ocean mist blends with my tears... Read More November Sydney Ross lonely tuesday mornings come and go... Read More November Taylor Woodworth Shortly after the geese fly south and the Jack O'Lantern smile melts into a grimace... Read More No Welcome Wagon Luka Russo That decrepit ashtray is a gatekeeper, silent and knowing watchdog... Read More Ocean Currency Ezra Maloney-Dunn When I was little my grandfather had a collection of sand dollars. I would peer above... Read More Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist Luka Russo I see you. Dramatic cadaver queen, no strut, prominent and street-wise... Read More Ode to the Sandwich David Hurley Oh sandwich, how lovely you can be... Read More Safety Blanket Angel Lopez She holds me tight at night wrapped around her... Read More Spring into Summer Heidi Shepherd I yearn... My body yearns For the first really warm day of spring... Read More The Stone Pig Casey Elder in the backyard the stone pig plays sentry... Read More There is hope, there is Help Sydney Ross 2,000 miles from home, thick fog covers the dense evergreen tree line. a mix... Read More To Have and to Hold Taylor Woodworth A woman lives to serve a man with grace. She soaks her hair in rain to keep him dry. Her legs a satin mask in hidebound... Read More

Click to enlarge "Untitled" Sawyer Not the Slightest Inclination Penny Harper Anna Margareta Buxtehude glanced nervously out the window of the sitting room as she straightened the cushions on the chairs. Her family was expecting two guests from Hamburg, and her mother had ordered her to make sure the sitting room was ready. While she inspected the shelves for dust, Anna Margareta listened intently for signs of the guests’ arrival. Soon enough, she heard carriage wheels on the cobblestones below and flew to the window to watch. “Are they here?” Anna Margareta’s younger sisters Catrin and Sophia piled into the sitting room, their eyes bright with curiosity. Anna Margareta moved over to make room at the window, and all three girls watched the carriage enter the courtyard and draw to a halt. “Behold! Your bridegroom approaches!” teased Catrin. Anna Margareta blushed furiously but her eyes stayed fixed on the scene below. Anna Margareta’s father Dieterich Buxtehude, a portly man in his late 60s, was waiting in the courtyard to greet their guests. A slim young man alighted from the carriage with a grimace, turned to Buxtehude and made an elaborate bow. “Johann Mattheson at your service, sir!” Buxtehude returned the bow with tolerant amusement. A slightly younger, fairer man descended from the carriage beside Mattheson and also saluted Buxtehude, saying stiffly “Georg Händel. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Herr Buxtehude.” Buxtehude surveyed both young men genially. “You are both very welcome!” He waved his hand at the imposing cathedral behind them, whose twin spires rose far into the sky. “I am looking forward to showing you what St. Mary’s has to offer and to hear what you will make of her organ. Come in, come in! You must need refreshment after your journey.” As the three men crossed the courtyard, Anna Margareta and her sisters retreated from the sitting room into the kitchen. They heard their mother greet the guests and usher them into the sitting room. “Welcome! Please, come and sit down -- my daughter is bringing coffee!” This was the moment that Anna Margareta had been dreading. She knew that her father was actively seeking the man who would succeed him as music director and organist at St. Mary’s, and she knew that both Mattheson and Händel, who were making names for themselves in the Hamburg Opera, were candidates. But she also knew what they did not: fearing for the future of his wife and their three unmarried daughters, and in accordance with guild custom, her father had determined that whoever inherited his position must also marry Anna Margareta, his eldest daughter. Other organists had applied for the position, but none of them had met her father’s expectations. Anna Margareta had not overly concerned herself with the matter at first. As her father’s amanuensis and assistant organ technician, she had learned patience with his ways: when the right candidate appeared, he would know it. She trusted her father’s judgement and she was in no hurry to marry in any case. Anna Margareta’s mother was less patient: her younger daughters Catrin and Sophia could not marry until Anna Margareta married and Mother was anxious to get them all settled. Catrin, who was engaged to a church organist in a nearby town, was philosophical about the delay; Sophia was more critical and seemed to blame Anna Margareta for the constraint of the marriage condition even though it was hardly her fault. In the kitchen, as Sophia finished loading the coffee tray, Catrin regarded Anna Margareta critically, smoothing her hair and straightening her collar. “There, you look very nice,” she said. “Now go and charm those young men. One of them is bound to win!” Anna Margareta carried the tray into the sitting room. Her father was showing the visitors a portrait of his friend Johann Reincken, whom both young men knew as the organist at St. Katherine’s in Hamburg, but as she entered he turned to her. “Ah, there you are! Gentlemen, may I present my eldest daughter Anna Margareta? Grete, this is Johann Mattheson and Georg Händel.” Both men rose and nodded to her; Anna Margareta shyly lowered her eyes as she crossed to the coffee table. She hoped she would not have to speak; a stutter often overcame her when she was nervous, which made conversation painfully difficult. As she poured the coffee, Anna Margareta was grateful to see that the young men seemed already to have forgotten her and were concentrating on her father. She took the opportunity to observe them more closely. Mattheson was the elder by a few years. Dark and slight, he had a restless gaze and an air of discontent. Anna Margareta watched his eyes dart around the room as if he were calculating the value of its contents. As she handed him his cup she wondered whether his restless eyes had already measured and dismissed her as well; he seemed to be skeptical about whether this opportunity was worth his time. Händel was younger – Anna Margareta guessed no older than 18 – and less confident than his friend. He seemed very aware of his purple velvet jacket, tugging at the cuffs and occasionally brushing a lapel. Perhaps the jacket was new, Anna Margareta thought, bought specifically to impress her father. Which amused her because clothing was the last thing that would enter her father’s mind when evaluating a candidate for the organist position. Unless the jacket somehow interfered with Händel’s organ playing, Father would never notice. He looked up at Anna Margareta and smiled as she passed him his cup. “How are things at the Opera?” Buxtehude asked. “Are you doing anything new?” Mattheson spoke first. “I’m writing an opera based on Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ which I hope will be performed next year. So many fine arias for the soprano! Magnificent.” As he went on, Anna Margareta saw her parents share a glint of amusement at the young man’s confidence. “And you, Herr Händel?” Buxtehude inquired. “Oh, I am also writing an opera, about Almira, the Queen of Castile. A courtly drama, nothing like as exciting as Marc Anthony, but I hope it will find favor.” Buxtehude nodded. “We have no opera house here in Lübeck, but there are always opportunities for new liturgical compositions. Perhaps you would find this dull by comparison?” Mattheson seemed to be considering this question, but Händel spoke up right away. “Not at all, Herr Buxtehude! How could such glorious music be dull?” “Yes, of course.” Beneath his genial manner, Buxtehude was studying the two young men carefully. He would never reach a final judgment until he had heard them play, but he was an experienced leader of musicians and well understood how their personalities could affect their performance. He would have their measure soon enough, thought Anna Margareta. Finally, Buxtehude clapped his hands together and rose. “Come! If you’re ready, I’m anxious to introduce you to St. Mary’s.” Mattheson and Händel made their courtesies to Anna Margareta and her mother before following Buxtehude out. “Well?” Anna Margareta’s mother watched her gather up the coffee service; Anna Margareta kept her eyes down. She knew how anxious her mother was to settle the question of Anna Margareta’s marriage, and that she considered both visitors to be highly desirable prospects. Mother herself had lived in St. Mary’s all her life; her father, Franz Tunder, had been Buxtehude’s predecessor, and Tunder had also required Buxtehude to marry his eldest daughter as a condition of inheriting his position. By and large the Buxtehudes’ marriage had been a happy one and Mother could not understand Anna Margareta’s reluctance to follow her example. “Mattheson seems to think very well of himself!” Anna Margareta thumped the cups onto the tray, earning a grimace from her mother. “Händel could hardly get a word in.” But even as she spoke Anna Margareta was considering what she’d seen in Händel’s face. After a moment, she realized what it was: Händel’s distracted and inwardly-focused aspect reminded her of her father. Mother pursed her lips. “If your father thinks they are suitable that’s the end of it. I expect you to look your best at dinner tonight – we must show them how charming you can be. Now finish clearing up.” Charming! Anna Margareta thought resentfully. Surely the visitors would be charmed by pretty Catrin and lively Sophia long before they even noticed plain Anna Margareta – it was awfully hard to be charming when your fear of stuttering kept you in silence. And even if she could speak, what would she say? At home, Anna Margareta and her father could talk easily about music and musicians; he often praised her acute ear and laughed heartily at some of her observations of what the church musicians did when he couldn’t see them. Anna Margareta loved the organ and under her father’s tutelage had become very competent at repairs and maintenance. Perhaps that was too practical to be charming, but it was interesting – wasn’t it? Anna Margareta considered what might be going on in the church at that moment. No doubt her father was in his element, showing off the church’s grand organ to the two visitors and enumerating its dozens of stops and thousands of pipes. He could go on at great length about the acoustics of the church and how the largest 32-foot pipes could make a congregant’s bones vibrate in his body. There was more than one way to communicate God’s power, he would say! But then each young man would take his turn at the organ console. Each would have prepared a piece to try to impress Buxtehude, and Anna Margareta badly wanted to be there to hear for herself what compositions they chose and how well they played. Anna Margareta also wanted to gauge her father’s response to the auditions. Whether Händel and Mattheson knew it or not, Buxtehude would hear every nuance of their performance and would understand precisely what they were capable of; he would also be highly sensitive to how much reverence they expressed in their music. If Buxtehude doubted their priorities – if he thought they were placing personal ambition over the glory of God – they would never succeed him at St. Mary’s regardless of their musical ability. But how was Anna Margareta to hear the auditions? They were none of her business as far as her mother was concerned. Despite a lifetime spent in St. Mary’s, church music didn’t move her mother; managing it was the family business and she did her part well, but she was indifferent to its quality and never understood Anna Margareta’s interest in the organ. Let the men worry about it, she would say: we have a house to keep! Anna Margareta found her sisters upstairs and quietly confided her dilemma. “I must go over to the church to hear them play, but you know Mother won’t allow me.” “Why do you care?” snipped Sophia. “You’ll have to marry one of them anyway!” Catrin eyed Anna Margareta consideringly, then smiled. “Yes, I see. I fell in love with Caspar when I heard him play.” Then she narrowed her eyes at Sophia and added, “Whatever it takes, we’ll do.” A few minutes later, Anna Margareta stood in the hallway until she heard Catrin crying from the kitchen: “Mother! The herring has gone bad! Come see!” and then quietly opened the front door. Anna Margareta slipped into the church and found a place out of sight in one of the side chapels. She arrived just in time to overhear her father inviting Mattheson to take his place at the console. After a long series of warnings about some of the organ’s weaknesses (“the Rückpositiv, alas, has not the power it should have”), Buxtehude retired from the organ loft and sat near the front of the church where he could hear the organ most clearly. After briefly testing the keyboards and pedals, Mattheson launched into one of her father’s own Preludes. Though it was obviously intended as flattery, Anna Margareta had to admit that Mattheson’s choice of this particular composition was deft: she knew how much its prominent pedal work, unique to North Germany, would please Father’s ear. She wished she could see his face: no doubt he understood the compliment, but did he also understand the calculation? Of course he would: Buxtehude’s living depended on the wealthy burgers of the town and he was hardly ignorant of the necessity of pleasing people in positions of power. Mattheson played well, if a little showily, Anna Margareta thought. When the piece was finished, Buxtehude cried “Well done, sir!” in the direction of the organ loft. “You carried that with great skill! Now, Herr Händel, what do you have for me?” A long silence followed. Anna Margareta, still concealed in the chapel, began to feel anxious. But when the music finally began, her anxiety dissolved in a moment. Father’s compositions were often solemn, and Händel’s composition started somewhat solemnly, even tentatively. Notes in the organ’s upper range emerged into the silence of the church; Anna Margareta was drawn along the complex chain of melody and counterpoint in a way that felt deeply familiar. But the piece grew in intensity as Händel seemed to gain confidence; before long, Anna Margareta was so overwhelmed that she had to sit down quickly. The composition – certainly one of Händel’s own – pulled in more and more of the grand organ’s stops until the music reverberated powerfully through the entire cathedral. To Anna Margareta’s ear it spoke not only of power, but also of gratitude for the glory of creation. In contrast to Mattheson’s showy and mannered playing, Händel held back nothing: his passion and skill were exalting. If Father wanted a successor who had surrendered his soul, who understood entirely that his efforts were for the glory of God, surely he had found his man. Anna Margareta could hear no more; she crept out of the church, her heart pounding and her head spinning. What was to be done? If Händel wanted the job, it was his. Could she bear it? Back at the apartment, Mother stood forbiddingly in the doorway. “Where have you been?” she demanded. Mother was fiercely protective of her family’s reputation among the burgers of Lübeck and made sure she knew exactly what her daughters were doing at all times, especially now, when the marriage prospects of all three girls were constantly in her mind. “Checking to be sure Father didn’t need anything,” Anna Margareta lied. Her mother’s furious scowl showed what she thought of that excuse. “Your father can take care of himself, Grete. I need you here, and you need to get ready for supper. Now go!” Anna Margareta fled upstairs. Her sisters were fluttering about the room putting the finishing touches on their own toilettes. “Grete, you look awful!” remarked Sophia with satisfaction. “Mother is in a temper and you’d better get dressed.” Catrin studied Anna Margareta as she crossed to the clothes press to take out her good dress. “What did you think? Did Father like them?” Anna Margareta was still too shaken to answer; she stared helplessly at her reflection in the mirror and wondered how she was going to get through the next few hours. How could she try to charm the two young men from Hamburg? Did she even want to? “Here, let me help you,” Catrin offered kindly. She untied Anna Margareta’s hair and gently drew the brush through it. “You wear it pulled back so tightly! Let’s leave it down, it is very becoming that way.” Sophia snorted, and Anna Margareta felt ashamed and confused. Didn’t she want to look well? She felt a bit like a prize cow at the town fair, fussed over, brushed and shined for the occasion. It felt unnatural, but it was clear that if she was a prize cow, she was meant to win the ribbon whether she wanted to or not. A burst of masculine laughter at the front door signaled the return of Buxtehude and the guests. Buxtehude was jovial; apparently the auditions had been passed, and all that remained was the negotiation of terms. But first, supper! Anna Margareta found herself seated by Händel. Mattheson sat across the table, and she noticed that his gaze turned on her as often as it did on Sophia, who chattered beside him, or Catrin, who sparkled on Händel’s other side. Had some whisper of the marriage condition reached Mattheson’s ears already? He was punctiliously polite, but there was no warmth in his eyes, and Anna Margareta shuddered inwardly and hoped that he returned to Hamburg quickly. Händel seemed to have lost his reticence. “Frau Buxtehude, what a lovely meal! We don’t get fish like these in Hamburg.” Anna Margareta’s mother smiled deprecatingly, but Anna Margareta could tell she was pleased. “Herr Buxtehude, can you tell me more about the Evening Music concerts? How did they start?” Father’s eyes twinkled. “Best ask Frau Buxtehude that question – they were started by her father Franz Tunder, who had this position before me!” Anna Margareta listened closely to the conversations at the table, and tried a few times to work up her courage to join in, but the subject always turned before she could form the words in her mouth. Once she thought Händel might have waited to hear her speak, but when Mattheson laughed loudly at some remark of Sophia’s, his attention turned away, and Anna Margareta did not know whether she was glad or sorry. After supper, the men repaired to Buxtehude’s study while the girls and their mother cleared away. Anna Margareta’s sisters gossiped about the two visitors. “Herr Mattheson is so handsome!” Sophia gushed. “Those dark eyes – so romantic!” Then, mischievously, “Don’t you think he is handsome, Grete? He could hardly keep his eyes off you!” “I quite like Herr Händel,” Catrin said quickly. “He spoke with good sense, at least when Herr Mattheson’s attention was elsewhere. Mother? What did you think?” “Herr Händel has lovely manners,” Mother allowed. “Your father said that he played extremely well.” Pointedly, “Perhaps you could tell us more about that, Grete?” Anna Margareta blushed and concentrated on the washing up. After the girls had been sent upstairs, Anna Margareta paced the room uneasily. What were her father and the visitors saying down there? She knew that her father would be conscientious to a fault in describing the rigors of the position, the stubbornness of the church officials, and the tight-fistedness of the town burgers. Had Händel and Mattheson seen enough of Lübeck to appreciate its charms? It must be different from Hamburg, though both towns were proud of their history as founders of the Hanseatic League. And how would the visitors respond when they understood that accepting the job at St. Mary’s required them to marry Anna Margareta? She slipped into bed and lay uneasily as men’s voices and pipe smoke arose from the study late into the evening. To Anna Margareta’s ear they sounded congenial, though occasionally her father could be heard making an emphatic point. Finally, unsleeping, Anna Margareta heard the two young men ascending to the attic bedroom. She strained to hear: what were they saying? Were they – oh, God! – making fun of her? Perhaps a bit tipsy, and unaware of how their voices carried, the two discussed what they had learned. “The salary is pitiful,” Mattheson complained. “How he must slave to support this household! Scraping up events with the town musicians! I would have thought a man of his position was above busking for his supper.” “I wouldn’t mind,” Händel admitted quietly. “Herr Buxtehude is well-respected in Lübeck, and he seems to enjoy playing the viola da gamba with the town musicians.” Mattheson huffed dismissively. “And Lübeck supports the Evening Music concerts,” Händel continued. “Imagine the possibilities! All of Germany comes every year to hear them. A man could make his name as a composer here – and he wouldn’t have to stay forever.” With a slight edge, Mattheson inquired, “And the daughter? Are you inclined?” There was a pause during which Anna Margareta thought her heart might actually have stopped. “Not very,” confessed Händel finally. “Are you?” “Not in the slightest,” Mattheson clipped out. The emphasis he placed on each word fell like blows on Anna Margareta’s ears. Long after the young men had settled for the night and the attic had fallen silent, she lay awake contemplating the cruelty of Mattheson’s dismissal. Oddly, for a moment she felt more offended for her father than for herself. How could either of these young men refuse one of the most desirable positions in Germany? But this was quickly followed by a deep feeling of shame. Why exactly were they refusing it? Was it the organist position, Lübeck, or herself? Her mother’s voice (“we must show them how charming you can be, Grete!”) rang in her head. Anna Margareta knew that Father would regret only the loss of Händel’s talents for St. Mary’s, but Mother would surely be angry at Anna Margareta for spoiling her chances. In the morning, Anna Margareta arose drearily; not even the aroma of sweet rolls (an unusual treat in the Buxtehude household) arising from the kitchen lightened her mood. Sophia and Catrin eyed Anna Margareta but said nothing; her sleepless night must have shown on her face. Perhaps they too had overheard the conversation in the attic. The three went down together to help their mother with breakfast. In the kitchen, Anna Margareta asked her mother, “What did Father decide?” Mother shook her head angrily. “Neither one wants the job, it seems.” For once, Sophia was silent; the girls laid the table quietly. When the visitors straggled downstairs, they seemed anxious to be gone. Both young men were polite but spoke little, mostly of the journey back to Hamburg. No one raised the question of their staying; a gloom hung over the conversation and everyone seemed relieved when their carriage arrived. Anna Margareta and her parents followed the visitors out into the courtyard, where a driving rain hastened the leavetaking. As Händel made his farewell to her, Anna Margareta steeled herself and said in a rush “Y-y-y-you play very well, Herr Händel.” This earned her a surprised, shy smile and a quick bow before Händel joined Mattheson in the carriage, which departed quickly into the rain. As they returned to the house, Anna Margareta ventured, “Father? Are you disappointed?” Buxtehude surveyed his daughter thoughtfully. “I don’t think they would have been happy here. Mattheson thinks he is meant for greater things, and Händel, it seems, will do what Mattheson tells him.” Anna Margareta nodded and waited for more. After a moment, Buxtehude asked gently, “And you? Are you disappointed?” Anna Margareta shook her head and withdrew, but continued to contemplate the question as she prepared to run an errand for her mother. Was she disappointed? In some sense, certainly: it hurt less to reject than to be rejected. And she was acutely aware of the disappointment of her mother and sisters, who were so anxious for the matter of Anna Margareta’s marriage to be resolved. But for herself? As Anna Margareta put on her cloak to leave the house she realized that what she was feeling was not disappointment, but relief. Not to have to be the wife of the man with the restless calculating eye, who would never stop seeking his own advantage regardless of the cost to others. Not to be handmaiden to the genius of the other: she knew well how her mother’s life had been subsumed in servitude to her father’s genius. The rain had stopped, and a weak April sun glossed the wet cobblestones as Anna Margareta passed down the street. Above all, she was relieved that the decision had been deferred. She might be Buxtehude’s daughter, to be bartered as part of a business deal, but she was still Anna Margareta Buxtehude and for the moment at least, the possibility of grace was still open to her. Penny Harper (Writer) I’ve been preoccupied with the story of Anna Margareta Buxtehude for some time. We know little about her other than the fact that Händel and Mattheson really did visit in 1703 and really did refuse the organist position when it was offered on the condition of marrying her (“neither of us had the slightest inclination” were Mattheson’s words), and that something similar may have happened when Johann Sebastian Bach visited Buxtehude two years later. People often speculate on how unattractive Anna Margareta must have been, which is not a story I like, so I tried to imagine something different. Grateful thanks to Prof. Johnny Zackel for his guidance and the courage to start writing, to my friends Dave, Dave, and Karen for their support, and to my family for making it possible. Oh, and to the PCC library for all the inter-library loans!

Click to enlarge "Reflection Creek" Miriam Ridout Soundless Dance Beryl Iverson INT. THE AUTHOR'S HOME OFFICE THE AUTHOR, a young woman in her late twenties with messy hair wearing sweats, leans over her notebook writing. Her office is filled with browns and grays. She suddenly stops her writing. Crossing her arms, she sighs and leans back in her chair looking at her project. Flipping empty pages, twirling her pen, scratching her head. All symptoms of her growing frustration until she eventually puts her head down in defeat. Her orange cat paws her to get her attention. Once she sits up the cat jumps into her lap. He rubs his face on her and meows. The author laughs and pets her pet before leaning back and closing her eyes. INT. BALLROOM The author opens her eyes to a beautiful colorful ballroom. There are decorations everywhere, glitter seems to infect her eyes. Panicking, she looks around trying to find something she knows. To the right are people staring at her and whispering. To the left are balconies with wind flowing in onto ornate ballroom dancers. The eyes of the strangers fill the author's head in this unfamiliar landscape. Behind her is a door, she chooses to run to it as an escape. INT./EXT. PALACE HALLS The author runs through the halls of the grand palace. Occasionally she runs past a person who looks at her strangely. Sometimes she runs past doors with warm light pouring out. She pays no mind to her big dress that is clearly holding her down. Finally she finds a stained glass window. She looks into the glass to see her reflection multiple times over in different colors. She's no longer messy haired or disheveled in any way, instead her hair is pulled into an elegant braid with jewels running along it and she wears a gorgeous green and black gown adorned in pearls. As she looks in amazement at her beautiful appearance, sparkles begin to accumulate next to her. Finally the sparkles catch her attention and she looks over to see THE PRINCE. He is clean shaved and has part of his hair slicked back. He wears blue and white with gold thread and a long cape. The author looks stunned at this prince suddenly appearing next to her. She opens her mouth to speak, but the prince cuts her off by offering her his hand. Unsure of what to do, the author reaches her hand out and takes the prince's hand. She blinks. EXT. MOONLIT GARDEN The prince and the author are dancing under the full moon beside a lake. Rose bushes and lilies adorn the outside of this picturesque clearing. The author looks around in shock as they dance. A glance back at the prince reveals that he only has eyes for her, but doesn't say anything. He looks through her with a simple smile and loving look on his face. EXT. ROOFTOP A sudden jump to the roof startles the author. Struggling to keep her footing she begins to panic. There is nothing but the stars around them as they dance on what seems like an impossible surface. The author brings her eyes back to the prince after he stops her from falling. She opens her mouth and attempts to speak, but no words come out. The author furrows her brow at her predicament. She tries speaking once again to no avail. INT. BALLROOM Another sudden jump brings the two back to the ballroom which fills the author's senses with bright light, glitter, and vibrant colors. There's a circle around the two dancers as everyone stares at them. Realizing she's stuck in this dance she attempts to speak to the prince more urgently, but once again no words come out. She tries a few more times as tears fill up her frustrated eyes. The prince continues to just smile at her without a word. The author looks around once more at the still extras in the ballroom, but someone catches her eyes. THE HEROINE is standing on the side. She's dressed in a blue and white ballgown with lilies in her half up hair. Unlike the extras who simply stare, she looks only at the prince with love in her eyes. The author takes a deep breath and attempts to yell. STOP No sound is made, yet the word Appears out of her mouth as writing. The sound of the ballroom stops, the glittering light stills, and the prince is frozen in place. The author pants as she looks at the prince and releases herself from his embrace. She walks over to the heroine who is now standing as still as everything else is in the ballroom. The author grabs the heroine's hands causing her to blink and look around. Leading the heroine over to the prince, the author sets the heroine up in the position she was in only a short while ago. The author walks back to where the heroine was standing as the heroine watches her. She motions for the heroine to look at the prince. The heroine looks slowly towards the prince before falling back into her loving gaze. The author smiles and takes a deep breath before attempting to speak. Now, fall in love. Once again the words appear as writing out of the author's mouth instead of being heard. The ballroom begins again. Now the extras whisper to each other and drink punch. The prince looks surprised at his new dance partner before chuckling back into a smile. The heroine closes her eyes and beams at her prince. The author stands on the side and smiles while watching her two characters fall in love. A waiter comes by and offers the author a drink which she takes. When she turns back she sees the prince offer the heroine a drink as he takes two from a waiter. The heroine happily accepts and laughs before taking a sip. The two lovebirds laugh as they walk towards the balcony, deep in conversation too far away to hear. The author smiles as she takes a sip from her own drink. Finally calm, she looks around the ballroom, seeing people enjoying themselves in dance, drinking, talking, and all kinds of other ballroom activities. The author takes one more deep breath before closing her eyes. INT. THE AUTHOR'S LIVING ROOM The author awakes on her couch. The room is dark except for the bright orange and red light coming in through the window. The cat sleeps next to the owner and her notebook is open on her messy coffee table with a full cup of coffee next to it. The orange light shines directly onto the notebook. "Just fall in love." is written in the notebook. The author smiles as she picks up her cat. Giving the cat kisses as she leaves her living room into her kitchen. The words on the notebook shine blue as the wind closes the notebook. Beryl Iverson (Writer) Angel Lopez is an artist and a writer that is currently studying full time at Portland Community College. Their writing is inspired by their innate sensitivity. They use writing as a means to funnel their overflow of feelings into words to help tether them to reality.

Click to enlarge "Night Watch" Morgan Belden No Welcome Wagon Luka Russo That decrepit ashtray is a gatekeeper, silent and knowing watchdog. I have been here before, crying over traphouse children's laughter, trembling with sisters in school chairs reused. Repurposed. We marked calendars with dead friends birthdays, and that bucket of inkless pens: an unwanted triumph. Now my body is a compass for breathing. I, once a shrouded corset, followed it to this entrance. Where cigarettes wrap secrets until they are burned into the air. I inhale and listen. Home. Anywhere I choose to snarl at my demons. Luka Russo (Writer) When Luka was 6 years old, some janky fortune teller came through with a traveling carnival. RIght in a small place called Plano, Texas. They told her convincingly she would grow up to be a writer and thought to herself, well that's mysterious, quite alluring and honestly how hard can it be? She was so wrong. Morgan Belden (Artist) I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters.

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner The 2021 Bellwether Editors Here are the fabulous people that made this magazine possible! “Create. Not for the money. Not for the fame. Not for the recognition. But for the pure joy of creating something and sharing it.” ― Ernest Barbaric

Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Frigid Blades By Stephanie Thomson You knew of the Saints, and they were not kind. You knew this, and yet you prayed to them. You’re on your hands and knees, bound to the cathedral walls, unholy hymns running through your veins, as you screamed for mercy. You wondered at first how dreams of climbing Mount Everest could grow into such a tiring and slow death. Clenching your fist as you held it up high in the sky, and now you couldn’t even see your hands as the snowstorm blanketed your vision. Your hands had been cold ten minutes ago, and now you couldn’t feel anything. Numbness trapped you in like a cocoon, unraveling in glacial metamorphosis with violet fingers. You were dying. The Saints knew it. You knew it. The dreams you cherished to be more than the shadows of giants that came before you, to stand above the rest, were impaled with the frigid blades piercing your ribcage. You resented your younger self, how you’d curl up by the fire with hot chocolate on your lap, covered by a warm blanket. You wish you could dig into your skin as the frost did to yours. You wanted to scream as loudly as the blizzard’s howls. “Give up on your dreams, don’t go to your deathbed. You’ll never stand above those giants. You are nothing, you are small, and that’s okay. Just don’t go there!” But you knew no matter how hard you screamed, how your numbed indigo fingertips dug into your own skin, you’d stay resilient. A fool’s ideology. They’d be different than the rest of the wide-eyed young climbers ready to walk with the giants. That’s what they all say. And now you’d join them, curled into yourself, trying to find warmth when you can’t even feel your own heartbeat. A funeral of dreamers buried in unmarked graves under the ice and snow. The snow would sing an empty lament for you. And you’d take it with saltwater tears streaming down your ashen skin, this was your legacy. To be buried under six feet of ice and snow, to one day be discovered by another hopeful wanderer who had dug a little too deep that night and found your decomposing bones. You wondered as your muscles began to stiffen and your skin began to harden up like wax if you were bound to this linear path as the Saints say. Had fate been so cruel to you that you’d be left to wander through the ice-ridden woodlands in search of glory for eternity? A childhood dream turned nightmare. The rusted skies mixed with the pale plies of cloud felt like an illustration only a few days ago that had filled you with hope and aspiration. You’d seen the peak of your casket before the reapers did and yet you continued on anyways like the hopeless idiot you were, you’d be different, after all. That’s what they all say. You wouldn’t find glory on the mountain. You went alone despite being told not to, you had always been too stubborn to ask for help. Instead, you were met with the cold, harsh reality of it all. The russet and cotton candy skies faded behind a wall of smoke and gray, the soft snow that crushed under the weight of your boot would be your death sentence. You wouldn’t live to see the peak of Everest, and your spirit would be tied to the harsh winds - chained down to the base of the mountain. Not even your ghost would know peace. You knew your time was coming to an end. The Saints wouldn’t answer your prayers. You used the last of your strength to kick the snow off of your jacket, wrapping your arms around your knees and pulling them in. Warmth was a necessity only granted to the dead. Touch felt like a broken man’s desperate prayer. You thought of everything you could be, everything you wouldn’t be. Memories would rewind and unfold with time, brushing against your waxy skin. A part of you wanted to fight, to set yourself and this whole damn mountain ablaze. To burn the giants to the ground, and walk amongst their ashes. But you aren’t a fighter, there was only the abandoned kindling from your camp resting in the ice. You closed your eyes one last time and finally allowed yourself to succumb to the elements. The Everest would welcome you as one of its own. The snowfall would blanket you from the frigid blades, capturing you. A masterpiece frozen to time. Back to top Random-Access Memory Tyler Allen You remember you’re on a beach, the air cool and wet, and you feel a crisp breeze on your face. You know it’s real because you can feel the sand in your hand and you watch as the sand slowly slips between your fingers and back into the beach. The sun sinks beneath the water, turning the sky and water an incalculable number of shades of red, orange, blue, and purple. You can’t remember which beach this is but you know you’re facing westward, maybe California? Oregon? Portugal? Upon turning you see her illuminated, her hair in the red-orange sunset. She calls your name but you pretend not to hear. You can still hear her, but when you turn you’re now at a rooftop bar overlooking the city. The city is lit, and the sun is entirely set. You feel the expensive but mediocre drink getting warmer in your hand. What a waste you think. Here everyone calls you the wrong name and you wonder why. No one seems to know or care, but she keeps introducing you to people whose faces you can’t remember. People from accounting and from business meetings and deals and blah blah blah. You overhear someone talking about not having time to find a real partner anyway. Looking for the exit, you find a half dozen of the staff of this bar in a semicircle smoking and taking bets. “Sorry,” you mumble, and slowly back away. When you turn you are in a doctor’s office, but you don’t want to be here so the walls wash away and refigure. It feels like home. You remember the doors and the walls and the way the light comes through the shades, but something is wrong. You think but you draw a blank. Turning to look out the window you notice the far green and brown horizon as you pass row and row of olive trees. Your hand grips the seat and you notice the white cotton interior is peeling and you pick at it nervously. Then you remember you are on a train in the south of Spain on your way to Italy. You’ve been stressed about this trip for months and you’ve wondered what your catholic mother would say about your plan to skip the Vatican. Sometimes you hear her voice when you fake swear, saying “God bless it,” or “gosh darn it.” You hear a voice in the train car but you don’t know what they’re saying. What year is it? The thought trickles through your mind—why can’t you remember? What is slipping through your fingers? You hear your name again, this time from the other side of your train car. Huh. You think you hear yourself, but the words remain on your tongue. Your name rings out in your ears again but you can’t place where from. You turn behind you and when you do, the world washes away. “Jasmine,” behind you again, you hear a trickle of water, a sink. The kitchen is smaller than you remember. The oven is on and you can hear the TV in the other room. Shinc, shinc, shinc, the sound of your knife as you chop cilantro for tonight’s dinner. No. You know what is going to happen next and you try to fight it. You don’t feel as you slice the end of your finger off. You think it’s adrenaline. You go to wash the cut and notice the water stays clear. Why aren’t I bleeding? you ask yourself. “Janie,” your voice calls out lamely. You see her in the hallway light, and she's nervous as she glides over to you. She bandages you lovingly and kisses you but you pull away. “Janie, why is there no blood?” She doesn’t answer. Instead, you drift away to a white room, your finger still bandaged. Janie and the doctor talk behind the door. Why aren’t they talking to me? The air is cold and you wish you were somewhere else but your body and your mind won’t move. Your hand drifts to the wall as you glide your finger on the rough stucco pattern. The light gust of recycled air turns on above you and a chill runs down your spine. What could take them this long? You try to picture your mother’s face but nothing materializes, then your room, then your bike, but nothing but blackness enters your thoughts. When you put your hand on the hard but soft bed in the doctor’s office, you feel the coarseness of sand as it sinks in. Beyond the door, the voices have now become the sounds of waves. The doctor comes in, but you remember none of the conversations. Something about Random-Access Memory, and the synapse breakdown brought on by sentience. They give you a month if you’re lucky. You are broken, and worse yet, unfixable. Janie has your papers and therefore you have no say in what happens next. This conversation is a formality. You feel if the doctor had a choice he would send you to the scrap heap. You don’t remember the operation but you remember the car ride. Janie looks at you and apologizes for being a bad owner. Her eyes are a crimson shade, and her cheeks wet. What do you say? “I love you,” you hear yourself mumble. A flash. A wave’s crashing descent. You hear your name from behind you. It’s not the name you were given but the name you would have chosen. “Laura!” you hear again. The sand is hot and coarse between your fingers, and the cool beach air smells sweet this time of year. You turn and you see her standing there, waving. When you close your eyes, you just let yours elf listen t o the sound of the waves. Back to top Spring Into Summer Heidi Shepherd I yearn… My body yearns for the first really warm day of spring. To feel the gentle caresses of the sun lavishly covering my flesh with kisses. My body yearns for warm tender breezes to play with my hair licking erotic trails upon my neck. I yearn… For the flora and fauna that spring brings. Vibrant splashes of color, flowers paint upon green lush of the garden. My eyes yearn… To look above and see shiny bright faces of the sunflowers gazing enduringly down upon me. My ears yearn… To hear the delicately vulnerable flutes of the loyal birds spring brings back to us. Of the chatter between crow and blackbirds. My heart yearns… For the chubby little butts of the fuzzy bumblebees sticking out of flowers like Pooh in his honey pot or when they buzz so diligently and happily from smelly fragrant pollinator buds. My soul yearns… For the lazy hot days of summer, for the stillness of the day when you can hear the wings of the hummingbird floating from flower to flower, when the day brings lazy dogs and lazy lounging tan legs that dangle over the arm of a chair, for the cool taste of ice tea and laughter and shouts and babies crying and fans blowing, of sprinklers spraying and all the kids playing. Yes, even I, can now frankly say I miss the days of spring that settle into summer. Back to top Hennesy by David Hurley In the cool night air of the city, a woman named Moe walks down the street. She walks past dozens of rich town businesses while several men try unsuccessfully to gesture to her. She is firm and steadfast. Her figure is an endless gaze into the stars. The dress she wears is a velvet black with overlapping slits on both sides; they conceal the holsters on her thighs. Around her waist is a red band that matches the red of her hat, a Kentucky derby style. So too, her gloves ran up to her elbows, a slightly darker red. In her right hand: a large, blue suitcase blotched with paint. It was for traveling out of town and for work. Dotted and streaked with an endless array of colors, it was large and sturdy enough to carry tools for various jobs. It was clean when her sister gifted it to her, now the last connection Moe has to that past. She comes up to an old building. Several stories tall, it has a pristine garden between it and the sidewalk with perfectly cut grass and exotic plants. A fountain was dancing amidst some palm trees. The front of the building has no windows, and instead is built with gothic designs and statues. Gargoyles look down at the onlookers while arches cover the doors and walls. She stops in front, looking at the old architecture and its dark ambience. It does not dissuade her. Clenched in her free hand is a note written on parchment. She looks it over one more time. In cursive and with a heavy ink, it says, “The Benson’s on Friday. Dress up.” She then lets go of the note, its frailty sweeping away, and proceeds up to the front doors. A modest looking man dressed in a sharp black suit is there. He looks her over. It is quick and professional. He opens one of the double doors for her with a high level of courtesy, even directing her with an open hand to come inside. She accepts without hesitation and steps through the stone archway. Inside is a sharply dressed woman standing opposite of the door, waiting for patrons who leave. There is a hallway to the back with a large flight of stairs on one side. On this floor the lights are dim and illuminate only large, locked doors. The stairs, however, lead up to a brighter set of lights. And there is a faint sound of music. Moe heads up the stairs. Her steps echo through the hall but are overshadowed whenever the bulky suitcase clunks against the stairs. About halfway up, several people in white suits and dresses come over the ledge. Before they reach her, she tries to tuck the suitcase between her and the wall. The action catches their attention, of whom give her a quizzical look. Moe’s eyes return a defensive moxy. But upon seeing the suitcase, they laugh and proceed down. Moe takes the moment to breathe and think about what’s coming. She eventually makes it to the top, dragging the case with her. Here, there is a small lobby with two oak doors leading into The Benson’s. Carvings run along them, depicting a dragon gobbling up a smaller beast. Another doorman opens these for her. A wave of smoke and smooth jazz hits Moe as she moves onto the polished oakwood floor. People are everywhere—in the great hall, in booths along the exterior, and huddled next to the bar itself. It is stocked with liquors from all over the world, its gatekeeper a charming looking man with a pleasant laugh. He leans on the counter’s river fractal design. While looking around, Moe bumps a couple of the patrons. Dressed in either the finest black or white attire, they shoot her dirty looks while they hold cigars or cigarettes in their off hands. She moves away and is careful to navigate onward. Eventually she makes it to the edge of the sea. Here, there is a glass wall, the cold night air beyond. Extending from the floor to the ceiling, it replaced the old gothic structure, save for two columns that supported the floor and roof above. A double set of clear doors opens to a balcony. Made of clear crystal, one could look down through them at the edge of the wilderness. It continues for miles, from the edge of the city to the edge of the lake. Serene, the moon reflected upon it. The snow-capped mountains lie beyond. There, in the middle of the balcony, he stands. A tall figure, wearing a brown suit and with scruffy hair that stood on its curls, is watching the lake. Moe steps through the glass doors and approaches him, once again with the steadfast walk. She comes up to his right side and against the railing, stopping just a couple of feet away. His gaze continues off into the distance, even as she can see her reflection out of the corner of his glasses. “Lester.” Her voice comes across stern. The man takes in a slow breath, the ruffles on his jacket’s collar showing themselves. “It’s good to see you again Moe.” His voice is calm. “I have it here. All of it.” Lester turns his head to see her holding up the suitcase with both arms. “Now tell me!” she demands of him. “A bit rash, aren’t we Moe?” Lester turns his entire body to face her now. Taller than her, she looks up at his sandstone face, no longer the chiseled and immaculate look of granite. Moe smirks. “They say the dead have all the time in the world. I guess I’m fortunate to not have that luxury.” Lester pauses, allowing for the steam to cool in Moe. “They also rest in that everlasting existence. But you owe me a great deal.” “Then take this and tell me where she is.” “No. That’s not enough.” Moe drops the case. In its stead, she reaches to one of her thigh holsters and pulls out a small pistol. The barrel aims at his head. “You said you would tell me.” His face remains sullen. “I said we would talk next time we met.” Her finger tightens around the trigger. A breeze blows past them, Lester’s loose jacket trailing with the wind. He tells her, “I know how to make money. I spent a lifetime working with it, making sure that what came in matched against the money that went out and would grow. Spreadsheets, finances, even gambling were all part of the equation. That was, until we met. And out of everyone I’ve dealt with, everyone that hindered me, you were the only one that shattered my dream. You took everything from me in Vegas. “Bullshit.” Lester’s eyebrows shift inward, thickening his gaze. “You love to gamble,” he reminds her. “No. Not anymore. This is the end of that life.” “Is that so? Then perhaps humor me. One last bet. A coin toss. If you call the toss correctly, I’ll tell you where your sister is. If you’re wrong, then at least you can keep the money.” Moe’s teeth begin to grind against each other. “You’re a sick man, Lester.” “No. I just want what I’m owed. A final gamble.” She shoves the gun to his head. “You’re lying, Lester. It’s easy to tell, even with a face as dead as yours.” “Then I might as well leave. Goodbye, Moe,” he says with his cold flesh. Lester starts to walk off, the gun slowly streaking across his brow as he turns. Moe presses the gun harder against his head, even catching the skin of his temple as he keeps moving. The force she uses causes her to stumble past him. Knees feeling weak, she catches herself after a few steps. She corrects herself to look at Lester’s back side. A tear starts to well up in her eye. She looks around for any of the other patrons, but most are inside, and the few on the balcony stand distant and guarded. They back up when she connects her sight with them, not afraid, but cautious. Lester plods a couple more stops before she speaks up. “OK! Ok. Flip the coin.” Lester stops. His hand reaches into deep pockets and pulls out an old silver dollar. He returns to the rail and holds the coin up for her to see. “What’s the call?” “Heads. You tell me where my sister is if its heads.” Her voice caves. Lester flicks it up, and she watches. Time slows to a crawl as it flies into the air. The patrons in the distance turn to mannequins. The wind takes its time swaying Lester’s curls. And Lester’s right arm moves steadily and with purpose. But Moe loses sight of all of this as her tears blocks it out and only registers the reverberations from the flips of the silver dollar. It shines and sparkles in the moonlight. Bang. Moe’s eyes fly open as a hot molten spike enters her stomach. The noise calls the attention of the bar patrons as well as the other balcony patrons. No one runs. Many are ready to draw. Moe, however, slumps to the ground. Above her, Lester is holding a smoking colt, his face unflinching and paying no heed to her action. Holding out the hand that flipped the coin, the silver dollar lands in the palm. He turns his gaze slowly to it, and then, gently, he puts it back in his pocket. “You’ll find her at the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. She was well taken care of and will be fine for days.” Lester then puts the colt back in his holster and grabs the suitcase. Moe, feeling hot liquid pour from her belly, looks back at him, the little gun in her hand. She feeds him a face: teeth barred, eyes hot as lightening. Lester looks straight back at her, pausing and waiting. Her grip starts to fade as she moves the pistol closer between the two of them. A terrible tremble starts to shoot through her weakening arm. When she reaches near her stomach, she drops it. Her hand continues to reach forth for the phone in the other holster under her dress. She pulls it out, and with it, accidentally spills her wallet. Moe is quick to dial. She slams the device to her ear. Meanwhile, Lester looks at the wallet. Its leather hide free on the ground. He picks it up, and stuffs it into his pocket. “Roger.” She gasps and spits. “Shut up! Just shut it. Go to the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. You got it? Read it back… No. 432… Yes. Now go!” She coughs up blood as she drops the phone. It hits and cracks against the crystal floor. Meanwhile, an eyebrow raises on Lester’s heavy face. “That is a fine memory you have. Perhaps it wasn’t all luck after all.” He snickers. “Maybe I’ll even see my face in an exhibit someday. It will be the only way you see me again.” Lester then walks off, his prim shoes clacking on the floor, his gait a steady pace. Moe follows him with one final glare. Her teeth are no longer bare, her eyes freed of rage. The pain unbearable. When he steps through the glass doors, she looks back at her wound. “I’m coming, sis,” she says weakly. She puts a mountain’s worth of pressure on her wound. With it, Moe tries to get up, but stops when she sees more movement out of the corner of her eye. A couple of patrons are running over to her. Lester makes it to the lobby unabated. He stops there. Standing tall, he adjusts his collar. The rumpled form straightens out. And when he walks down the stairs, a smile of obsidian chips up his right cheek. Back to top Sex Work Is Work by Silver Fox In 2018, the United States government passed a package of bills called SESTA and FOSTA. SESTA stands for Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act, and FOSTA stands for Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act. They were advertised as a cure all for stopping the online sex trade, and making it easier for victims of trafficking to get justice against their abusers. The bills amend Section 230 of the 1996 Communications Decency Act to allow prosecutors to penalize internet companies that “promote or facilitate prostitution.” Before, websites and internet service providers were not held liable for any user-generated content posted on their platforms. Now, the owner of any platform that hosts content involving sexual activity—including consensual sex work—can be sentenced to up to 25 years in prison. The idea was that if we could hold these websites liable for all 3rd party content, the website itself could be sued as an accomplice to sex trafficking. This way, victims could have some kind of justice for the harms done to them. The problem is that these bills are enabling trafficking and making life more dangerous for both consensual and nonconsensual sex workers. From FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost: Within one month of FOSTA’s enactment, thirteen sex workers were reported missing, and two were dead from suicide. Sex workers operating independently faced a tremendous and immediate uptick in unwanted solicitation from individuals offering or demanding to traffic them. Numerous others were raped, assaulted, and rendered homeless or unable to feed their children. (Chaimberlain 2174) Stuff like this isn’t even new. From Sex Workers of the World United: Likewise, in England, the white slavery crusade led to the passage of the Criminal Law Amendment, designed to protect women from trafficking and exploitation. The law enabled the police to search brothels on a whim, and made street solicitation a serious crime. Promoted as a way to protect women, it ended up being a cudgel that allowed state authorities to criminalize, stigmatize, and lock up thousands upon thousands of marginalized women. (Stern) The primary mechanics of the bills are about website hosts and allowable content. Many important websites that used to host sex workers were forced to shut down. With the loss of critical websites, sex workers lost access to important harm reduction tools. No more bad date lists, used for sharing info on clients. No more background checks on potential clients. No more advertising, no more private messaging, no more negotiating prices or services. Without these specific and tailored pages, sex workers are forced to be vague on social media or dating sites and hope for the best. Because those sites also prohibit solicitation, it gives potential clients a lot of room for pretending to be dumb and refusing to pay for services. SESTA/FOSTAs assault on the internet means less income for sex workers. If the workers can afford it, they can create their own website and have it hosted overseas in order to avoid being under SESTA/FOSTA jurisdiction. That is an expensive option, and out of reach for most sex workers. Losing all of the internet resources meant losing a large percentage of clients. The remaining available clients demand cheaper services - or they outright refuse to pay - because they know workers are desperate. Sex workers also reported working for less reputable and more dangerous clients, and engaging in activities they aren’t comfortable with; because of the desperation that comes with the loss of these critical internet resources. Websites banning sex-related content or shutting down completely means actual trafficking victims will be harder to find. When sex service ads could be posted online, the authorities could work with the website to study the situation and track the poster and even get some justice for the victim. Again, from FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost: Meanwhile, law enforcement professionals have complained that their investigations into sex-trafficking cases have been “blinded”—they no longer have advertisements to subpoena, digital records to produce for prosecutors, and leads that can bring them to live crime scenes full of evidence, like hotel rooms (Chaimberlain, 2175). Without the internet, everyone is forced outside. Out on the streets there is no protection for either consensual or nonconsensual sex workers. They are at a huge risk of being robbed, being assaulted, being raped, and being arrested. Being forced to work outside, sex workers have been subjected to more assaults, more arrests, and more murders since the passing of SESTA/FOSTA. Savannah Sly, with the Sex Workers Outreach Project, testified to the Washington state Senate Labor & Commerce Committee, "What we're seeing is an uptick in violence across the sex trade since the passing of these bills." Proponents claimed SESTA/FOSTA would save victims. This is an admirable position to take; trafficking is a big deal and victims need to be found and helped and the perpetrators ought to face some kind of justice. Forced labour is a human rights issue and stopping it would be great. From The New York Times: The bill “will grant victims the ability to secure the justice they deserve, allow internet platforms to continue their work combating human trafficking, and protect good actors in the ecosystem,” said Michael Beckerman, president of the Internet Association (Kang). Unfortunately, many of these people think all sex work is trafficking. The proponents are anti porn, anti strip club, and anti sex in general. A few of the Christian groups who support SESTA/FOSTA are so blatantly anti sex to the point that they want to eradicate all sex work. From the World Without Exploitation: “We understand that we won’t end sexual exploitation until we end the demand for prostitution. As long as there is a global sex trade, ours will be an unsafe, unjust world.” Others claim porn and stripping lead to sex trafficking and sex crimes. From Citizen Magazine: Lisa Thompson, liaison for the Abolition of Sexual Trafficking at the Salvation Army, points out the toxic side of porn for the user: “Pornography robs people from the ability to have an intimate, loving and committed relationship with their spouse where they can explore their sexuality within the safety of an exclusive union, because it programs the mind with debase, degrading, brutal and violent ideas about what human sexuality ought to look like. (DeMoss) Stopping trafficking is a good goal, because forced labour is injustice; and victims deserve justice. They deserve legal protections. But these bills are not doing anything to stop trafficking. They are making it easier for trafficking to happen. When avenues for safer ways to work disappear, more marginalized folks are pushed out onto the streets. Repression always leads to greater danger and more male control. More control in the hands of pimps has, historically, led to more trafficking. SESTA/FOSTA "has suddenly re-empowered this whole underclass of pimps and exploiters," according to Pike Long, deputy director of the St. James Infirmary. (Stern) Sex work is work, it is not trafficking. It shouldn’t be criminalized in the first place. Lots of marginalized people do sex work because they can’t or won’t participate in the regular economy. Many people chose sex work because of the higher hourly rates and flexible hours; people who are full time students, single parents, disabled, or have a criminal record. Gutting of social safety net programs always result in more people selling sex. Consensual and nonconsensual sex workers already had a difficult time seeking justice before SESTA/FOSTA. Reporting a rape often meant being arrested for prostitution. Sex work is primarily a cash only business, without sufficient paper trail to show to prospective landlords. Even strippers get discriminated against when trying to find housing, because sex work is seen as a moral failing and a dirty job. If a sex worker wants to find a different job in a more civilian arena, they will be discriminated against due to either a huge gap in employment or because they put it anyways and few bosses want to hire someone with that kind of history. As long as it’s illegal to do sex acts for money, there is a risk of being arrested for having that kind of history. Being arrested means gaining a criminal record, which is another barrier to housing and employment. If one already has housing assistance, being arrested means losing housing assistance. Even when sex workers try to combine forces and work together to stay safer, or when they talk to each other about clients or anything, that kind of communication and camaraderie is illegal due to FOSTA’s criminalization of any internet discussion that “promotes or facilitates prostitution.” Trafficking victims who fight back against their captors or try to get help also get arrested. SESTA/FOSTA hurts way more than it helps. It took away income and pushed workers who had access to harm reduction tools into less safe work environments, increasing their financial insecurity and exposure to violence. Pushing people out of online spaces and into the streets results in a loss of consistent income, which leads to more stress and more trauma and the potential for a loss of housing. Sex workers rights are human rights. SESTA/FOSTA successfully took away the rights of these workers, and the rights of the real victims. As long as these bills are active, more marginalized people will be harmed. As an anti-trafficking package, SESTA/FOSTA fails miserably. As a way to ruin people’s lives, SESTA/FOSTA has been a huge success. But I think that’s actually the point. Anti-trafficking laws have always been put into place so people can harass sex workers. They aren’t trying to stop sex trafficking, they are trying to end all sex work. If they really want to save “victims” then they should give us all a monthly universal basic income so we won’t have to do these jobs that are so publicly reviled. A minimum wage 9-5 isn’t a rescue, it’s a punishment. Works Cited Albert, Kendra, et al. “FOSTA in Legal Context” Columbia Human Rights Law Review. Issue 52.3. 2020-2021. hrlr.law.columbia.edu/files/2021/04/1084_Albert.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Blunt, Danielle and Wolf, Ariel. “Erased The Impact of FOSTA-SESTA” Hacking//Hustling. 2019-2020. hackinghustling.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/HackingHustling-Erased.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Chamberlain, Lura. “FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost” 87 Fordham Law Review 2171. 2019. https://ir.lawnet.fordham.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5598&context=flr COYOTE-RI. “Impact Survey Results” 2018. docs.google.com/presentation/d/1KBsVBQh7EsRexAyZacaf_fUvvsVb2MR1Q30_gV7Jegc/edit#slide=id.p . Accessed 1 March 2022 DeMoss, Bob. “A Sinister – And Growing – Business Model” Citizen Magazine. April 2011. s3.documentcloud.org/documents/4407844/Sinister-Business-Model-apr11cz.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Kang, Cecilia. “In Reversal, Tech Companies Back Sex Trafficking Bill.” The New York Times. November 2017. www.nytimes.com/2017/11/03/technology/sex-trafficking-bill.html Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Oliver, John. “Sex Work” Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. February 27 2022. www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gd8yUptg0Q . Accessed 28 Feb. 2022 Romano, Aja. “A new law intended to curb sex trafficking threatens the future of the internet as we know it.” Vox. July 2018. www.vox.com/culture/2018/4/13/17172762/fosta-sesta-backpage-230-internet-freedom . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Stern, Scott W. "Sex Workers of the World United: LAST YEAR'S SESTA/FOSTA LEGISLATION AIMED TO LIMIT SEX TRAFFICKING-BUT IT'S JUST THE LATEST IN A LONG LINE OF POLICIES DESIGNED TO CRIMINALIZE THE OLDEST PROFESSION." The American Scholar, vol. 88, no. 3, summer 2019, pp. 40+. Gale OneFile: Criminal Justice, go-gale-com.libproxy.pcc.edu/ps/retrieve.do?tabID=T003&resultListType=RESULT_LIST&searchResultsType=SingleTab&hitCount=1&searchType=BasicSearchForm¤tPosition=1&docId=GALE%7CA589798939&docType=Essay&sort=Relevance&contentSegment=ZCUC&prodId=PPCJ&pageNum=1&contentSet=GALE%7CA589798939&searchId=R1&userGroupName=pcc&inPS=true . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 World Without Exploitation. 2018. s3.documentcloud.org/documents/4359818/WWE-SESTA-Talking-Points.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Back to top Anchor 1 Experiencing Loss & Injustice Anchor 5 Previous Section Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving Next Section Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Table of Contents Loss “Black and Pearly White” Poem by Taylor Woodworth Art by Morgan Belden “Frigid Blades” Fiction by Stephanie Thomsom Art by Morgan Belden “Random Access Memory” Fiction by Tyler Allen Art by Morgan Belden “Spring into Summer” Poem by Heidi Shepherd Art by Issac J Lutz Injustice “Hennesy” Fiction by David Hurley Art by David Hurley “Sex Work is Work” Non Fiction by Silver Fox Art by Morgan Belden “To Have and To Hold” Poem by Taylor Woodworth Art by Piper Hutchinson Anchor 6 Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth When they took my wisdom teeth they extracted miles of fleshy, dirt-covered roots. Roots who latched onto my powers, carried them to their stainless steel grave. The flowers that once paraded their vibrant reds and yellows, lay sleepy and wilting, waiting for the absent sun. I can no longer see ghosts and my voice sits dormant, contemplating why everyone has stopped listening. Each day I pull the shortest straw and each day I’m disappointed. Candy turns to cabernet. Wildflowers turn to wallflowers, and once again I’m homesick for the blissful unknowingness of intact wisdom teeth. I live in a different world now. A world where the first day of school is no longer life or death, but a lonely, moonlit walk is. One where the tooth fairy leaves a different kind of bill under my pillow, and all my teeth are just teeth. Anchor 2 Anchor 3 Anchor 4 Anchor 8 Anchor 9 Anchor 10 To Have and to Hold Taylor Woodworth A woman lives to serve a man with grace. She soaks her hair in rain to keep him dry. Her legs of satin mask in hidebound lace and god forbid she lets him see her cry. Society, it tells her what she’s worth, a simple mannequin for cloaks to drape. Not much except a capsule built for birth, aside from man's expensive taste for shape. She longs to sing the truth, though she refrains, a ribbon from her corset knots her lips bound by steel of title ball and chain, her song is heard much better from her hips. And so he holds behind his back, a knife and tells that classic joke “I hate my wife.” Back to top Back to top Anchor 11

Click to enlarge "The Stone Pig" Casey Elder The Stone Pig Casey Elder in the backyard the stone pig plays sentry wisps of smoke drift by on the breeze in the otherwise still night beyond lies the crooked fence bulging with the overgrowth of ivy and aphrodite in the shadow of the big house a hammering on the sauna being built ricochets out into the open air i am looking into the yard where my mother and father were married within the soul of the 70’s from my grandmother’s gardening to my mother’s pruning to mine and my brother’s sometimes sleeping off the drink on the covered swing until the cold crept in the stone pig which nearly toppled me over in moving it sits with all patience, watching Casey Elder (Writer and Artist) Casey Elder was born and raised in Portland, Oregon and has always held a passion for writing and music. He is a student of creative writing at Portland Community College. Besides writing, Casey is an avid Dungeons and Dragons player and combines his interests by being one half of the musical rap group Dungeon Brothers with his real life brother.

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner About Portland Community College of Portland, Oregon hosts over 70,000 students across four campuses and numerous satellite centers. PCC provides a wide array of certificates, degrees, and programs for its diverse population of full-time and part-time students. Our President, Mark Mitsui, values the educational opportunities PCC, and community colleges in general, can provide to individuals, the community, and society as a whole. PCC Rock Creek campus represents just over a quarter of PCC’s student population. Our campus is green, both physically, as it spans across 260 acres, and sustainably, boasting a Tree Campus USA certification since 2016. With a farm, a beautiful interactive learning garden, and serene walking trails on campus, we appreciate the opportune landscape of Northwest Oregon and work to leave as small of a footprint as we can. Each PCC campus has its own unique literary magazine, and Rock Creek proudly produces The Bellwether Review once a year every Spring term. What was previously called the Rock Creek Review was taken up by Rock Creek’s Editing & Publishing class in 2011. At this time, the students adopted the name Bellwether in honor of Rock Creek’s notable sheep population on our campus’s farm. A bellwether is a reference to the bell worn by the alpha sheep of a flock, though by today’s understanding, it refers to one who leads the way. Our editorial team embraces this ideal as we publish The Bellwether Review : we want to initiate artistic expression and foster creativity at our campus and beyond. Our Mission Statement The Bellwether Review is Portland Community College Rock Creek’s literary magazine. Our mission is to promote original art, fiction, nonfiction, and many other mediums of expression created by authors and artists, inside and outside of Portland Community College. We value showcasing work that expresses a wide variety of voices and thoughts. Through this, we hope to encourage a passion for meaningful creation. All submissions go through a fair evaluation to select high-quality work for publishing. The Bellwether Review is grateful to all of the enthusiastic, dedicated people involved in its creation—from the writers and artists to the editorial team. After the uncertainty of this last year, we hope the 2021 issue of The Bellwether Review is a bright spot in the lives of both our readers and presented artists. The editorial team wants this year's issue to offer all readers and showcased artists a feeling of community, accomplishment, and solidarity while we are all still learning and writing remotely.