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

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.

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Rock Creek Writing Center Best Essay Winner 2020 2020 The Key by Alexander Prescott Rock Creek Writing Center Best Essay Winner 2020  Mental illness isn’t something you can really seem to medicate away. Sure, this pill can numb the pain, and that pill might make you feel apathetic. But overall, you are just putting a different mask on an ugly problem. My mother was one of those people with a little pill box, marked with each day of the week, reminding her to put on her “facade."  It was the day before my eighteenth birthday. Freedom was so close. I would finally be old enough to leave this small dilapidated town behind me, but freedom came at a cost. I would have to leave her behind. You see, my mother was born deaf, and because of this, it closed out the world around her. Her life was silent, and over the years the silence dug its way deeper into her than it should’ve. Her depression kept her captive to her bed, as if the sheer weight of sadness immobilized her.  I stood in her bedroom doorway, her eyes looked just beyond me, fixed on an empty space of wall. This woman wasn’t the lively, beautiful creature that raised me. Her fierceness and wild exuberance for life had faded away and all that was left was this shell of a woman, laying in that bed, impersonating my mother. Signing to her, I attempted to pull her attention away, but she was lost in a heavily medicated gaze. When I left the next day, she would be alone. I mean sure, there’s my dad, but no one understood my mother the way that I did, nobody even tried to.  My things were all packed and situated in boxes neatly lining the wall of my childhood bedroom. Tomorrow was the day when everything would be different, a new beginning. The landlord was expecting me, I had to go pick up my new apartment key. My fingers fluttered as I signaled to my mother and signed to her that I would be back soon, it wouldn’t take long. Her eyes locked onto mine with a piercing glare, as if I was betraying her. Sometimes the sadness almost made her look manic. I hastily made my way to the bedside, planting a kiss on her forehead, assuring her that I would be back soon.  I sped off in my Ford Mustang, making great time. Swinging into a narrow parking space, I gawked at my freedom, in the shape of a red brick apartment complex. The landlord greeted me at the apartment door and passed me the key, but as I held it in my hand, it felt heavy and weighted with guilt. I was the last of my three brothers to leave the house, and I knew that the reality of us being gone would completely sink in for my parents. But I couldn’t stay there forever, leaving was inevitable, and all parents must say goodbye at some point. I bid farewell to the apartment building as I left; I would be back for it tomorrow.   The drive wasn’t long; my childhood home was just one city over and if I hit the highway it was only a 15-minute drive. I pulled into the gravel driveway, pebbles crunching under the tires. I shoved the apartment key deep into my jacket pocket. The front porch steps groaned as I made my way up them; it was lunch time now and I had to feed my mother. This was usually my fathers’ job, but he had to work a double shift that day.  I swung open the door, kicked my dirty Chuck Taylors off, and tossed my coat on the floor. Making a beeline straight to the kitchen, I set a pot of water to boil and prepared all the ingredients for a pasta dish. She usually refused to eat, but today I would make her something special. Spaghetti used to be her favorite before she became the epitome of sadness.  The house was nearly silent, as it usually was, except for the rattling of a pot on the stove and the sound of my own feet tapping impatiently. Minutes passed and I finally had a bowl of spaghetti in hand and her pill box in the other. I made my way down the hallway towards her bedroom door. It was closed, which was unusual. I knocked. Nothing. Slowly opening the door, so as not to startle her, I made my way in.  The smell of iron clung to the air, thick and musty. And there she was, still captive to her bed but this time it was swallowing her in a pool of her own blood. My body went numb as my grasp of reality and of my own hands was lost, dropping everything to the floor. I tripped over my own feet as I rushed to her side. She was breathing, but her breaths were shallow and possibly her last. My father’s .22 pistol rested there in her limp hand.    I sprung for the phone on her bedside table, clumsily dialing 911. My words blurted out nonsense, but somehow the dispatcher understood. She instructed me to open my mother’s airways and talked me through how to keep her alive until emergency services arrived. I could barely even see past the panic in my own eyes as I fought to keep her going. It was all up to me now.  It seemed like those minutes lasted an eternity before they showed up. A slew of people rushed in, almost attacking her body in a desperate attempt to keep her from slipping away. I stepped back finally letting it all sink in. This wasn’t a dream, this was my reality. Terror rushed over me, as I processed what was actually happening. Her body was thrown onto a gurney and off she went, leaving nothing but her blood-stained sheets and a group of interrogating cops behind.   She was rushed to OHSU in Portland, which was on the other side of the state, where she clung to life for months in a trauma-induced coma. The bullet barely missed her jugular vein, and the doctors assured us that it was a miracle she even made it this long. I had spent my eighteenth birthday with that useless apartment key in my pocket, heavier than ever, and my mother just lying there on a hospital bed, without the certainty that she would ever wake up.   Eventually she did awake, but she was never the same. We never spoke of what happened, locking it away in the shadows of our minds. Hotels and hospitals became our new home; she would never go back to that small town, the place where she had put her depression to rest. The bullet didn’t take her life that day, but it took away her ability to walk, and my ability to stomach a genuine relationship with her. And that sense of freedom I had longed for was crushed and replaced with an aching feeling of regrets and “what-ifs”.  Before that incident we never fully understood her depression, or how lost she really was to it. We trusted that her doctors were taking care of her, and that all those pills would eventually do something. I guess no one really took her mental illness as seriously as they should’ve. Her physicians just wrote on their prescription pads and sent her on her way, just another sad person in need of something to suppress their emotions. She needed psychological help. She needed more than just a pill. But that’s just it, no one wanted to acknowledge her depression as an actual illness. It’s one of those things you just don’t want to accept, and often is pushed to the side. In my experience most doctors will just open that prescription pad at the very first sign of mental illness. It’s not to be confronted. Just shroud it in medication and mask it in ignorance. Take another pill to hide depression's ugly face.

Welcome to PCC's Literary Magazine! Here you'll find our most recent digital issues of the Bellwether Review. BELLWETHER REVIEW VOL 1 Poetry Check out our prestigiously chosen works from the students of PCC. Here you'll find some of our beautifully written short stories Our Flash Non-Fiction pieces are sure to capture your attention. Our Spring Collection Fiction Nonfiction Art See our new pieces of photography and art that were phenomenally crafted. Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner A Literary Magazine like no other. Cover Art by: Jessica Graber