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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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

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

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner 2020 The Groundswell Conference of Portland Community College provides a place for students to be heard. Throughout each year, professors across the college search for compelling creative and academic student work to be presented at the Groundswell Conference in the spring. The 2020 Conference, which was supposed to be an intimate day full of sharing voices and refreshments, was unfortunately canceled due to COVID-19. Angel of Scorn October 9, 2002. By all accounts, it is a gorgeous day to die in Florida. Placid sunlight beams down on the white roof of Raiford State Prison. From above the prison looks like a twelve-armed cross, twelve cellblocks forming limbs connected by a central beam. In a small room at the heart of the prison, brown curtained in front of the pane of viewing glass, several people gather to witness a woman's execution. Her name is Aileen Wuornos. She is the convicted murderer of six men and “America's first female serial killer.” Compassion In My Eyes When you are homeless, all you have to rely on is somebody's compassion and/or empathy. Whether it be a church group coming by where you are camped handing out sack lunches that generally contained and peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, a granola bar, and an apple or orange with a tiny little napkin and tiny styrofoam cups with hot chocolate or coffee in them or its some random stranger handing you a five, ten, or twenty dollar bill as you sit outside a business, generally a store of some kind, freezing to death because you have nowhere to go and starving cause you have had nothing to eat in days. I Love You Stinky Face Eight years earlier, snug in my bed, I held one side of the same book, I Love You Stinky Face with my left hand. I had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a giant mound of pillows behind me. My mom sat next to me, holding the other side of the book. We had read it together so many times that I nearly had it memorized. She turned the page. Always Okay On every brisk morning, my father walked me the five, much too few, minute walk to school. We would pass a pine tree that towered above us, and each day acknowledge its growth. Soon after, we’d meet the crosswalk lady, who was always kind and encouraging. She helped my brothers through their very own bouts of school anxiety in the years after mine. I’d come to know her as the librarian who played the bagpipes in celebration on every last day of school, even following her retirement. Sidewalk Reminisces It is true that humans are an emotionally resilient species. Most of us can persist through trauma, in fact, almost everyone I know lives with it. But it ravishes you and leaves you scathed. When we are hurt beyond our capacity to cope, our brain protects us from the brunt force of the pain. We may act out, we may become reckless, we may even appear apathetic, but this is all in lieu of breaking down. This keeps us from attempting to traverse to the far-away promised land ourselves. Most importantly, it keeps us sane. We may appear out of character, but this emotional response ensures the stability and health of our future. It ensures that we will have a future. Court Bear I am eighteen now and I have never heard from her or seen her again. No phone calls, no letters, not a damn thing. I never even saw her around town ever again. I thank my adoptive mom and dad so much for telling me when I was young because it brings me a sense of love and sincerity knowing the truth. That day taught me to never take loved ones for granted, and I still have my court bear from when I was first adopted over fifteen years ago. I Am An Indian Elephant We neared the end of a talk that lasted almost the whole day and my friend asked if he would be seeing me again. I stopped for a moment, unable to explain. After a minute of blabbering nonsense, trying to make sense of my situation, I thought of a book my dad very ironically had me read when I was younger, Do Hard Things: A Teenage Rebellion Against Low Expectations. Although I had only read the first chapter, the horrifying example of India’s elephants and their training had always made a deep impression on me: What I wasn't Taught In My Hometown When I later researched this I learned that children were being brought from all over the country to Forest Grove to be “civilized”. After learning a little more about the Natives I decided to visit my high school again and ask about whether or not they have changed the curriculum since I have left or whether or not they started teaching about them more in classes and if I could meet with the vice-principal briefly, but the look that the secretary gave me was like I offended her. The Filtration Pipeline In 2010, a male student was asked to remove his “‘do-rag’” prior to entering his school (Kupchick 79). Despite adhering to the request of the teacher, the student was sent to the principal's office for cursing and exhibiting aggressive behavior. Upon further events, the student tried to leave the office. Only to be stopped by the assistant principal. Due to attempting to push the assistant principal out of the way the student was handcuffed by a “‘school resource officer’” and then arrested (Kupchick 79). Instances such as this one, illustrate the improper methodation of dealing with children of color within schools. Moreover relating the predominant disengagement of students in combat to unfair and harsh punishment. Absence of Color To Those Who Don't Know Their Color: For every black child who has never been black enough: not enough melanin to be included. I'm speaking to you. "You sound 'White,'" they would always accuse. I never understood it. Because I was able to speak proper English? An "Uncle Tom" I have always been since March 17th, 1985.

Click to enlarge "Spooky Trends" Morgan Belden 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. Taylor Woodworth (Writer) My name is Taylor, I’m 17 and this spring term is my third term at pcc. I graduated from Cleveland high school in 2021 as a junior. I’ve lived in Portland my whole life, but hope to venture elsewhere in the coming years. I wrote these poems last fall for a poetry class. I find myself having so much to say but not knowing how to say it, so I like to build pictures with words to organize my thoughts. That is the best way I can think to describe my work. In my free time I enjoy playing and listening to music, and casual ghost hunting. 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.

Click to enlarge "Ancient Tree" David Hurley 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 the room; enticing me from my bed. Where is Derek? He is impossible to wake up in the mornings. I try not to schedule anything too early to avoid having to wake him. I imagine his poor mother’s futile attempts to rouse him for school, her hair turning a little grayer at the start of each day. So where is he now? It’s not yet six am . I roll onto my side and hoist my body upright before stepping heavily onto my swollen feet. The living room is welcoming; he has cleaned it, and the orange walls are glowing in the morning light. The cats are delighted at the activity and stretch their bodies before welcoming me to the couch. “What are you doing?” I ask as I drop my weight heavily onto the pillows. “I dunno. I couldn’t sleep,” he tells me as he smooths down the corner of the throw rug. As I drink my coffee, I start to feel a heat radiate from my lower belly around to my back. Is this what it feels like? This isn’t too bad. The heat is getting more intense now and is accompanied by a tightness that seems to wash over me like ocean waves gently rolling over my toes. It’s thrilling, but the water recedes quickly before approaching again, the force never too overwhelming. Things are shifting now . I open my eyes and find that the waves have overtaken me, and I cannot focus on anything outside of my body. The waves thrash me against the shore again and again, pounding me to sand. I moan as I am again pulled beneath the surface, my mind a captive audience to this animal feat. When did we get in the car? My weight shifts as we round the curve, our bodies changing direction as I fall beneath the surface again. The hallway is brightly lit and the woman behind the desk acts as if she sees this every day. How can people just go on with their lives right now? They take my weight and my temperature and lead me to a darkened room. I want to go in the tub; it seems like that will be more comfortable. I am lonely in here; I wish that someone would come in with me. I wish that I could tell them that, but the battering of the waves is relentless, so I only moan. They chat and snack while I anguish alone. I said that I would do this without drugs. It’s been twelve hours now and the waves are still hammering me alone on this island. I like when the pain makes me vomit, it gives me a break from the constricting pressure. They use a needle to break my water like a too-full balloon. “It’ll speed things along,” they say. Seventeen hours now and they say I need an epidural to keep trying. They say Derek can’t watch because husbands often faint at the sight of the needle. “Rest for a while” they say. The hammering recedes and I rest. I see a shock of curly red hair. A doctor says, “You can’t try anymore. We are prepping you for a C-section”. This is not what I wanted. I weep. They give me oxygen to calm me down. They say they’ll be back in five minutes; “It is what is best for the baby.” They push me through a set of double doors into a room filled with a half dozen people dressed in smocks and masks. It is so bright; I didn’t expect it to be so bright. My arms are strapped down, and I resemble a potbellied crucifix. I look up into Derek’s face and see only his eyes. “You’re okay,” they’re telling me. Derek talks to me, but I cannot hear him. I am scared and the drugs are making my body shake so badly that my teeth are chattering. “It’s normal,” they say. “Adrenaline”. I hear them gasp. “He is huge!” someone says. I hold my breath. Why isn’t he crying? They carry him to the table, and I turn my head to see him. His eyes are closed tightly and a nurse wipes antibiotic over them. She suctions his nose and mouth, and he shrieks in disapproval. I take a breath. “Ten pounds eight ounces,” they say. David Hurley (Artist) David Hurley is working to write his first novel. It’s been over a year and he has been experimenting with designs, taking classes and making progress with his writing - his goal is to complete this book. He loves to cook, play dice and board RPG on Sundays.

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

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.