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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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 "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.

Nonfiction A Lonely Feat Tricia Dahms My eyes spring open suddenly, but through my grogginess, I am not sure what woke me. The smell of coffee begins to settle in... Read More Sex Work is Work Silver Fox In 2018, the United States government passed a package of bills called SESTA and FOSTA. SESTA stands for Stop... Read More

Feeling Trapped & Imprisoned Previous Section Experiencing Loss and Injustice Finding Strength and Surviving Next Section Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Table of Contents Finding Strength and Surviving “Not the Slightest Inclination” Fiction by Penny Harper Art by Sawyer “November” Poem by Taylor Woodworth Art by Morgan Belden “November” Poem by Sydney Ross Art by Miriam Ridout “No Welcome Wagon” Poem by Luka Russo Art by Morgan Belden “The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull” Poem by Stephanie Thomson Art by David Hurley “The Stone Pig” Poem by Casey Elder Art by Casey Elder Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Not the Slightest Inclination By 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 judgment 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 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 the dishes. 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, unable to sleep, 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. Back to top November Taylor Woodworth Shortly after the geese fly south and the Jack O’Lantern smile melts into a grimace, darkness begins to infect. Spreading like fog over a desolate graveyard, the night cloaks the cityscape and I lay sleepless. Between the unfinished tasks of the day and the sound of midnight scraping my name into a lone headstone, I’m afraid the only dream-like state I will inhabit is the all too familiar 4am delirium. My monochromatic days consist of searching for the REM cycle on the washing machine and endless hours of sitcom laugh tracks that giggle at me every time I stumble walking up the stairs. Every hour I sink a little deeper into my memory foam mattress, and hope that the sun will come to rescue me from dusk. Back to top November Sydney Ross lonely tuesday mornings come and go like leaves blowing softly in the wind, my hair dancing around my neck like a noose threatening to tighten at any given moment. Back to top 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. Back to top The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull Stephanie Thomson I wonder if I’ll ever be more than a taxidermied skull of an Irish elk hanging from a ceiling with fractured bones, oleanders growing in the cracks, floral overgrowing along the carcass. You’d watch it like a predator stalking its prey. Still and holy. Waxing and waning. Watching like a lonely moon, circulating an abandoned planet. Am I like the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk with overgrown antlers getting entangled in the trees? Too large to support my head as I sink deeper and deeper into the sea. Do my eyes match the hollowed-out gaze of the skull of an Irish elk? Dulled out, fragmented remains of a life once lived. Do you love me like you love the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk? Do you pray to its skeletal remains like a lost deity? Am I nothing but a silhouette? Not even your shadow? Maybe I am nothing but a skull hanging from a ceiling, A forgotten frame ith cracked antlers and blood leaking from the roots. I am the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk. I am the bindings of orthogenesis theory. The long since abandoned theory of how the Irish elk went extinct. Back to top 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 Back to top Anchor 1 Anchor 2 Anchor 3 Anchor 4 Anchor 5 Anchor 6 Anchor 7 Anchor 8 Anchor 9

POETRY Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history. ~Plato Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner -> -> Virginia Lisa Plummer I dig my toes down beneath the hot surface of the sand. My salt water curls dance in the breeze coming off the water. The pink and purple sky casts it all in a rosy glow. There’s a man on the boardwalk, he begins strumming an acoustic guitar. The tinny sound vibrates through the air. It brings thoughts of vinyl records spinning to the stories of your youth, to our midnight doughnut runs. The hot, sweet smell permeates the red cadillac’s interior as Motown sounds escape through the cracked windows. I see you, Virginia, in the granules coating my brightly polished toes, in the way the sun’s brilliance blinds me with its reflection off the water. You are there when I close my eyes, in that moment after a bite of pulled tart taffy, and as warm sugared doughnuts melt in my mouth. I see you, Virginia, when I take in deep gulps of the salt infused air. In stirring melodies springing from struck strings, in vibrant beats that echo your energy. I watch you, in the ocean’s blustering, destructive ways. You’re there, even in its powerful stillness. In the way the waves break and crash, their sound surrounding me, like boisterous laughter, wild and free. no milk, no sugar Katherine Harris i was never one of the pretty girls —wrists the perfect size for a talon’s grip, teeth stained from cigarettes and whitening strips stolen from their mother’s bathroom cabinet along with benzos for all the friends who wouldn’t last until spring. i tell myself i don’t miss drowning in jeans six sizes too big, held up by a shoe-string noose tied long before i tried my first diet, or nights spent on my knees clogging the shower drain with half-chewed chinese food and hair i didn’t have the chance to pull out, or my mother’s grieving smile every time she hugged me just to find another hollow where her daughter once was, but disease has made its home in me and i can’t stay above ground without it. i’m not one for confessionals but God, please, tell me i can fix myself if i bleed enough on the page, that if i empty all the ink from my veins, i will be beautiful in my mother’s face i once thought was a shame i inherited. four years fully recovered and i still take my coffee black. A Lost Voice Gabby Remington As a girl, I sat on a stiff wooden pew and gazed through stained glass; my father’s voice was God. The youngest of three children, I had to be the charm- all soft demeanor and graceful steps. My ears, coin slots. Eagerly accepting words of praise as currency. Every last detail from the warmth of my smile to the honeyed taste of my words, were precisely performed. But no amount of practice could erase the tired from my eyes. Now a woman, I walk the desolate streets plagued by the static sound of an abandoned world. Flash of traffic lights and empty store windows. The silence makes my skin itch and brain buzz. The voice I once knew, gone. All that remains is this quiet. Dear Henry Stella Robertson At the grocery store, just the two of us, the romantic music seems to be laughing at me. I think you must hear it too, but when I gaze through the cereal boxes on the shelf you’re in the other aisle, gently squeezing every single avocado. You look nice in the fluorescent lights and I wonder why you don’t use our shared bathroom anymore, or tell me that I take up a large space in your brain, the way you did that one night when it rained so loud you thought it was the sound of someone rolling in their trash cans for a really long time. We talked about how cool it was when the lightning hit, even though you wouldn’t get all your eight hours of sleep. As I’m looking for eggs I wonder if the other customers think we’re together. We check out separately, and you tell me I owe you $2.43 for paper towels. On the way back I ask you to help me cook brussel sprouts for dinner and you say no because you’ve already planned out each minute of your evening, but at home you stand over me as I add salt and oil to the pan. This house is plastic and the walls are thin so I find myself worrying late at night that you can hear me remembering when you’d hold me so tightly I thought I could spend the rest of our year-long lease in your arms. I wish I had pulled out a piece of paper right then and written out word for word how it felt, so on nights like these when we don’t speak of anything, besides paper towels and brussel sprouts, I’d still have it in my dresser drawer. I Would Rather Be A Champion Than A Martyr David Dionne Facing lions without the bright stigmata of fiction is a different thing by far than a storybook hero hurling steel and fire into the jaws of death. Our death need not bite to reduce our flesh to the shreds and tatters on the colosseum's sandy bleeding floor, spreading our blood on the bright ichor of poor truth. Our lions are toothless and light like celluloid, great beasts without substance that kill us invisibly, and those far away, unexamined, convenient. We victims of the colosseum, we poor and we small, must all guard each other, for the monster comes from behind, snarling in sirens and swinging claws like a nightstick. These are the beasts that pace beside every martyr: hyenas laughing at difference, jackals stealing success, unfeeling snakes, helpless mice, a virus. A hero is a martyr who has slain his lion: a champion the crowd liked already because he shone with the gleam of falsehood. I want a lion like the bright stigmata of fiction: something of flesh and blood, that I can rail against and kill with steel, a frail thing like me. Tulips Jessica Graber The rain sticks to me as I walk down the sidewalk. I carry with me a bouquet of tulips, a long way from Constantinople. This seems too far to be real, as I drift along. I should have known tulips weren’t the correct flower for this occasion. Every holiday and party has an array of roses, baby’s breath, carnations and even marigolds, but tulips... Always the odd one. Always looked down upon when their petals are still entombed around each other, never able to bare themselves as their best. Now, as I scrutinize these purple, parroting, peony wannabes, small droplets of water drip into the plastic crevices of this paltry wrapping. Could these be my watered sorrow, or just the rain adorned on my brow? The Fledgling Katherine Harris With wings outstretched I plummeted —I thrashed and flailed and with a cheep I plunged— but for a moment before I fell, when I met the crescendo of my callow arc, the currents surged, lifted up my hollow bones, and I flew— for a moment I flew! -> ->

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Poetry See some of our poems from past volumes. 2020 “Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.” ― Kamand Kojouri

Fiction Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomson You knew 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... Read More The Girl Who Glowed Morgan Belden We knew it was too good to be true when she walked into our class, eyes sparkling, and looked at us with a gaze so full of hope and... Read More Hennesy 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... Read More 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... Read More Surrogate Eliza Jones The walls of the cave were red stone, smooth and barren. The ground was slanted, stretching into a darkness the sunlight couldn't... Read More Random Access Memory Tyler Allen You remember you're on a beach, the air cool and wet, and you feel a breeze on your face. You know it's real because... Read More What it Takes to Live Ian Rule Arther took a calming breath and raised the pistol to his head. Candles cast a soft light, filling his living room with a mockingly gentle... Read More

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Art See 2020's amazing art pieces. 2020