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

SEARCH 2022 SITE

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.

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 "born to blossom, bloom to perish" Angel Lopez Grief, but Make it Sing Luka Russo My heart has this hot habit of glaring at me from across the room, pounding on stucco walls it throws drummer boy tantrum fits turning your urn ashes into nail-biting bangs beating like “hey you, remember?’’ and I whisper back, foreign tongue feebly coax it into my ribcage. Telling it to waltz on home. Telling it to stop all that pounding. Telling it that people are staring. Telling it sometimes “goodbye” sounds a lot like “I miss you don't leave.” But my heart is a deaf music conductor trying to keep time and I am a ticketless schmuck. That muffled clamor, that tiny horror show chorus telling me that heaven must be a concert hall with a steep cover charge and no refunds, where everyone whistles unending violin notes, reeling like the last moment I felt happy. That opening night, line around the block happy. That glance up, taste sweet sky sweat dripping down happy. That last look, what your eyes saw before they didn't. Happy. I bet you still look like that. And when there's a rest between songs, those doors swing open, and I hear you shimmie shake “hey you.” 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. Angel Lopez (Artist) 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.

A Cycle

Click to enlarge "Idaho13" David Hurley 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. Stephanie Thomson (Writer) I’m an artist and writer from the PNW who loves nature and dragons. I currently study multimedia at PCC (Portland Community College) with hopes of becoming a professional animator and screenplay writer in the future. I spend my free time drawing critters and working on personal projects. I find a lot of my inspiration in Studio Ghibli films, nature, and art. I love hiking, watching movies, drawing, and reading! 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.

Stephanie Thomson Stephanie Thomson I’m an artist and writer from the PNW who loves nature and dragons. I currently study multimedia at PCC (Portland Community College) with hopes of becoming a professional animator and screenplay writer in the future. I spend my free time drawing critters and working on personal projects. I find a lot of my inspiration in Studio Ghibli films, nature, and art. I love hiking, watching movies, drawing, and reading! Morgan Belden Morgan Belden 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. David Hurley David Hurley 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. Penny Harper Penny Harper 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! Eliza Jones Eliza Jones is a lifelong writer with a passion for science fiction and fantasy. When she’s not writing, she’s nannying; when she’s not doing that, she’s usually maintaining her Japanese streak on duolingo. Eliza Jones Tyler Allen 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. Tyler Allen Ian Rule Ian Rule is an avid golfer that loves any game with miniatures. Ian Rule Silver Fox Silver Fox My name is Silver and I'm an artist to the bone, I work with so many different mediums. In my life I've also been a mechanic, a vandweller, a nomad, a fur tanner, a musician, and I've been doing various forms of sex work for 9 years. I love most animals, even bugs. I care deeply about human rights and environmental justice. I’m in college right now for Russian language. Someday I hope to travel the world as a tattoo artist. Sydney Ross Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds. Sydney Ross Taylor Woodworth 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. Taylor Woodworth Heidi Sheppard Heidi Sheppard Heidi L. Shepherd was born in Iowa and moved to Oregon at the age of three. She began writing at the age of sixteen when she realized you could teach through fiction. Mythology, Fairytales, and Gothic Horror are her favorite genres. She has contributed to popular magazines over the years and to The Bellwether Review before with her story, The Water Bottle. She calls Oregon home and would never want to live anywhere else. Heidi is looking forward to finishing her first YA Fiction novel in the coming months and returning to Eastern Oregon University to finish earning her Bachelor of Arts in English/Creative Writing. Luka Russo 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. Luka Russo Angel Lopez 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. Angel Lopez Casey Elder Casey Elder 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. Beryl Iverson Beryl moved to Portland from eastern Washington about 4 years ago and has been focusing on living comfortably. They started going to PCC in the middle of the pandemic with a writing focus. In their free time, Beryl likes to watch children's shows and play video games. Beryl Iverson

See all our new Non-Fiction works. “Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.” ~ Thomas M. Cirignano NONFICTION Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner IGNORANCE IS BLISS Irene Omboke HOW THE SAUCE SPILLED Laura Evans There is a certain type of beauty that comes with ignorance, I have come to find out in these last few years. The term ignorance is bliss never really had much meaning to me until I was in my sixth period Language Arts class junior year. Who knew that in those sixty minutes my entire perception of myself and those around me would be changed forever. Read More BOTH AND NEITHER Throughout the past year, our society as a collective has been going through changes, rough ones especially. There has been a gradient of good and bad; from quick bursts of happiness to heartbroken moments that leave our souls torn. In this issue, we wanted to explore those shades of emotion and showcase that even in times such as these, you can still find the beauty in the gradience of it all. Non Fiction offers a look into the mind of many; readers are able to see how another person views the world through writing. No matter if it's just one paragraph or 12 pages long, being able to step into some else's shoes and experience life as they perceive it is a wonder in itself. In the early months of 2020 I was working as a server in a restaurant downtown. The building itself was a former house, converted into an eatery, and it still had an air of comfortable hominess to it, with hardwood floors that reverberated on busy nights, picture windows, and a cozy fireplace on the front patio. It was a family-owned place so, along with the rich aromas of tomatoes stewing for homemade dishes like the popular sugo di carne, there was also a high vibrancy in the air, the kind that comes when a family is working together to pursue a common creative interest. Read More Monica Krause I was sitting in the classroom, sometime around the fourth grade, and we were about to begin one of those standardized tests with the bubbles and the number two pencils. The paper was stiff and thick, and the pencil squeaked when it went over the bits that were already colored in. There were roughly thirty of us in that classroom, all wordlessly focused on filling in the circles that would tell some machine who we were. Read More SOLITUDE EVENINGS WERE MY FATHERS Danielle Witt As most days drew to a close the house would fill with the smell of strong coffee as my father brewed his favorite Italian dark roast, the smell of dark chocolate with a sweet twinge of vanilla wafted through the air. As he toggled the light switch the lights would dim from glaring white to a soft amber glow. He would ignite the fire and settle on the couch, book in hand, always on the left-hand side, the side worn in by the weight of time. Read More Ana Ochoa When I returned to the bakery from the nightly deliveries, it was empty of both bakers and light. They hadn’t thought to leave the light on for me. The darkness was filled with the whirring of the freezer and the slow hum of the oven that clicked every so often. I used my memory to grope my way to the set of switches on the far wall and carefully felt for the ones that would bathe the open space in a soft, warm light instead of the blinding fluorescent lights that left you feeling exposed and examined. I hadn’t showered in three days and after an eight-hour delivery shift, I did not want to be examined. Read More WHERE I GO AND ALSO WHERE I DON'T GO Lucky I exist in a scape of men's dreams and of mildew basements, of my fathers hands and of my love’s sacred heart. I build them bridges with my spine merging memories and perceptions. Closing gaps more like boundless chasms and voids that feel just shy of infinite. Read More ->

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Fiction View our great writings by clicking on the titles. 2020 Adios Casablanca The Apothecarium "I really can’t help myself Dick. (beat). It’s funny but my little coughing dance takes me back to the best days of my life. When I felt like I was doing something good, something that mattered. Delivering milk every day to hundreds of those little happy Howdy Doodies. The beautiful round pint jars with hard paper lids. When did those go away? Marshmallow ice cream for parties. (beat) You remember my old 55’Chevy milk truck don’t ya? New and beautiful and as shiny as our bedpans!" Double Barrell Ending Twenty one. That was usually a big deal, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it meant to be met with excessive amounts of liquor? Weren’t you supposed to be turning in that fake ID for a real one? But then, you never got any of that. Not even a glimpse of it. I had heard stories of the time before, how the planet was colonized by a corporation named Gaia, and how it was destroyed by another named Guanxi. And it was through my studies at Gaia University #37 of Wakefield, a small college town prior to The Dawn, that I discovered that humanity had come from the planet Terra that lay an immense distance away. The man being operated on winced in pain, “ I thought you university types were supposed to be good.” Down by the Bank Blood decorated the frost underneath his frame like too many fallen holly berries. Lysander’s bare right hand bobbed in the flowing water of the creek while he remained motionless. Caught downstream in the roots of a thirsty pine waited a winter glove. 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. The Gamble The Valkyrie arrived at Triton right on schedule. The trip from Io to deliver some contraband psychedelics to my client at a science station orbiting Neptune’s largest moon had taken sixteen hours. Thankfully, my client Mark lived on a station orbiting the moon, so I wouldn’t have to go to the surface. That saved a lot of money and fuel. The station was small so docking requests were automated. They didn’t have the population to have someone staffed 24/7 (strange how that phrase stuck with humans despite being meaningless off Earth), plus they only had a couple of shipments a week. The Girl in the Woods Have you seen her? She’s out in the woods, a basket of mushrooms on her arm. Her dress is plain and simple, a soft brown cotton. The townspeople talk about her in hushed voices as she passes. They say she’s wild. Raunchy. Unbroken. In July Les lifted his hands from the leather handlebars of his red mountain bike to grasp at the dandelions that drifted across the blue summer sky. In front of him, Oliver’s long dark hair dripped the last remnants of salt water onto his polo. They had swam the afternoon away on their favorite beach, hidden from the tourists by a mile of dense pines and sprawling ferns. But the need for food forced them from the waves and onto the twisting road. “I’m gonna miss this,” Oliver said as they rounded a bend that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. It was the first time all summer that he had voluntarily brought up the fact that in a few days he would be leaving. Last Moment A shake rumbles the tables and glasses. Champagne splashes against faces in mid-sip and bits of food fall onto the ground. The lights flicker, blackness blankets the ship split seconds at a time. The guests rise up from their seats, yelling at the other guards. New Office Hours He always got this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach every time they had to make a drop. At some point he gave up hope that the feeling would ever get easier. He couldn’t in a million years understand how Gabriel was fine with what they were doing—did the fear of getting caught never faze him? Hearing “What’s sign language?” we asked. Mom took a deep breath and readjusted Carson in her lap so his big blue eyes could look at us. “Sign language is how people who can’t hear talk to other people,” she explained carefully. “People who can’t hear talk with their hands instead of their mouth.” We didn’t understand why Mom was telling us this. Our ears worked just fine. “Why do we need these books?” we asked. “Well,” Dad half-smiled, “the doctors told us some news about baby Carson. They found out that he cannot hear. He is deaf.” The Slammed Door SLAM! Abi slammed the solid oak door behind her as she passed through the worn frame, scarred up and down from previous surges of fury. She sat on her bed and rested her head in her hands. She filled her lungs slowly, but deep enough for them to reach their maximum capacity, she paused at the peak of her inhale scrunched up her nose, and proceeded to let the mascara on her eyelashes run away with the frustration and disappointment from her ducts when she set the air from her lungs free. Letting Go I was loved while I was alive. Even if only for a day, if only for a passing moment, someone cherished me the way a warm coat is cherished in the middle of a freezing winter. Someone looked at me and saw all the gleaming giants of the sky, the sun, the moon, and the stars. Someone listened to the sound of my voice and heard the music of angels, the songs of whales, the soft ringing of bells carried on a warm breeze. Someone cradled my hand and felt its pressure with their heart. Till Death DON'T Us Part! “It’s a beautiful day for a murder...isn’t it?” The undead voice of Arthur Grimwood croaked from a year of disuse, as guests screamed and howled, staring in horror at the gruesome sight: Some remained frozen where they stood, too petrified to move, some—like Uncle Rupert—crumpled to the ground in a heap, while many of the others raced for the door. They practically trampled one another as they rushed past the revenant, who proclaimed with ghoulish delight as they passed, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” Untitled On day four, the kid went missing. We searched the brush for him. He left no tracks, to evidence anywhere. He just up and disappeared. When dusk came and we set up for the night, we found the food was gone. Romeo and Juuliet Many teenagers, alike to you and I in nativity, In fair Oregon, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge against a tobacco industry impure, Births the age of a “cleaner smoke”.