Search The Bellwether Review, 2020-2022

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

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

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

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

2022 Theme Searching for meaning in the pandemic. Click to enlarge "Electric Wheels" Morgan Belden The themes for this year’s magazine focus on understanding our individual experiences and interpreting them in the context of our collective experience. These themes -- which fall under the overarching pattern of “the meaning of students’ experiences during year two of the pandemic” are 1) experiencing loss and injustice; 2) being trapped/imprisoned; 3) finding strength/surviving; and 4) discovering and creating. We used hermeneutics (a form of interpretive phenomenology) to seek the meaning of students’ lived experience, which exists “in the space of the formative relations between who we are and who we may become, between how we think or feel and how we act” (van Manen, 2007). To illustrate this concept, consider the process of putting together a puzzle. Initially, pieces are looked at individually...and possibly as part of a group of individual pieces with similar colors or patterns. After some work, the individual pieces -- together with other individual pieces -- make small “blocks”/groups that can be “grown” by adding more pieces. From these “blocks”/groups, the image of the full puzzle begins to reveal itself. Ultimately, when all of the pieces have been joined, the illustration is clear, but individual pieces remain in their original form. It is possible to see the puzzle as a single, large illustration and as a group of small parts: the puzzle cannot be finished without all of the individual pieces, and the individual pieces cannot make the entire puzzle by themselves. To engage in interpretive phenomenology is not unlike putting together a puzzle (find more information on the process below). In this case, however, the individual puzzle pieces represent artists’ written pieces, and the finished puzzle illustrates the themes highlighted in this year’s publication of The Bellwether Review. Detailed Process Interpretive Phenomenology The goal of interpretive phenomenology is to find the meaning of our individual experiences; it does not strive to generalize (to all students everywhere, for example). It is a cyclical process; our goal was to allow the process to unfold naturally and be open to new understandings and insights as they arose, so that we could be prepared to uncover themes that were revealed as the process unfolded. After getting the final list of accepted submissions, we printed out copies of each story so they could be moved around like individual puzzle pieces. Initially, we immersed ourselves in the process by reading each poem; we sought the understanding of each and explored connections between them (as a group) to find the greater meaning that connects them all. At this stage of the process, ideas about individual and collective meaning were written down to articulate our understanding. Next, each piece was reread individually, with the addition of written ideas about individual and collective meaning. Short stories were added to increase our understanding of the meaning of the collection, as a whole, and to provide a form of “checks/balances” for the poetry. At this stage, we created a “map,” of sorts, that included our preliminary themes. We added each piece that “matched” a particular theme to the map. At this point, we had almost as many themes as written pieces! To condense the number of thematic groups, the written pieces were read again and again (each was read 10 or more times, depending on our understanding)! The thematic map was modified as the process unfolded: reading, rereading, and sitting with individual submissions (and the notes for each) to understand how they related to the overarching theme and subthemes. By continually revisiting “parts” of the collection, we were able to find meaning that was overlooked in prior readings. This process of reading, rereading, and reflecting on each piece -- and all of the pieces, collectively -- revealed the themes highlighted in this year’s publication of The Bellwether Review. Our hope is that we’ve created a guide–a lens, if you will– through which you can experience the entirety of this year’s magazine.

Click to enlarge "Nature Wrapped in Frost " Morgan Belden Safety Blanket Angel Lopez She holds me tight at night wrapped around her wrist and bundled in her fist I have soaked up the tears the fears and all the snot that comes from the nightmares that keep her up at night She finds solace in me even though I myself am frayed at the edges and have holes that need patching Angel Lopez (Writer) Angel Lopez is an artist and a writer that is currently studying full time at Portland Community College. Their writing is inspired by their innate sensitivity. They use writing as a means to funnel their overflow of feelings into words to help tether them to reality. 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 -> The Anatomy of a Childhood Home Lucky I find a beetle the same cavernous color as the road where I sit down to spill my lunch once a week snorting cocaine underneath the kitchen sink there is soft lip biting tongues move like blood ribbons underneath waning gibbous lighting stars shove us up the ladder a fizzy dizzy dance my hips have no more padding the attic is filled with frogs croaking and creaking I come down to familiar family songs spitting up flies at night quiet hiding, picking too loud fighting boiling meat until my clothes shrink winding down past motherhood nicotine sour teeth, nipples blistered pink my head has cracked open the black hole sink Ordinary Oviya Santiago The lily and the peony in the vase atop our formica table whose drooping heads are petted, sniffed for their fragrance amidst the stagnant air. I feel sorry for their loneliness, surely they must miss the clovers and dandelions who laugh in bunches unbothered by the bees smelling the sweet spring air. Only when I began to walk alone on many a cold winter morning could I learn to see the beauty in the cool clods of earth crumbling between my fingers the patch of mottled moss and petrichor ambiance. Did I find love hidden in the knotted lanes and overgrown creeks running the veins of - not the oak nor the maple but the unnamed lance. Only then could I stand to glance at the echo that fell on fouled mirrors running rivers. 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. Hyacinth and Apollo Hyacinth is what they call me, a beautiful young prince of Sparta, the beloved of Apollo, whose entire life was reduced to three moments. One, the luminescence of youth spent basking in the attention of my paramour. Two, -a throw meant to scatter the clouds- finding its target in my skull. Three, my body limp and clutched tightly against my lover’s chest. In your radiance I am reborn. I sprout from the blood spilled by your hand that has soaked the earth. My long stem grows blindly toward your light. Eternally I am reaching for you -absorbing your rays- but I am shackled to the earth, so as I bloom my purple petals openly bare themselves to you stained in drops of yellow inscribing your guilt ridden despair, and relaying our story to the sky. Uninvited Guests Evelyn Isakson Everything’s ok now, Everything’s forgotten, as the days go by, I don’t put much thought in. Mundane as I seem, sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry a little, it might help me by a little. Why do those sick thoughts taunt me everyday? Though I push them to go, they all want to stay- all of them uninvited guests in my brain all of them going by different names all of their sole purposes the same- every one, condemning me to shame. And the worst is, they all know my name. It was my fault, greeting them at the door, Remorse, Lament, and there’s just a few more: Anguish and Pain are the next in line, okay, I think I can deal with them and be fine. Here comes Regret and his brother, Resent, although they look the same, they are very different. More of them come to round the group out but I can’t keep them all in check, in fact I’ve lost count. Doe-Eyed Katherine Harris Loving you is like pulling deer teeth —nobody would think to but me, certifiable me, who weeps over hermit crabs and spilled mango. Bughouse me, who can’t tell the difference between tiger balm and fiberglass. Moonstruck me, who thinks with a bedsheet I can fly. Women Jessica Graber Used as house windows, men think them easily replaceable but when changed are always missed as the original fit best. Like sea glass, jagged edges of beer bottles smashed in a rage are smoothed over by the calm affection of waves. Seen as glass cases perched in a museum, people come to awe and wonder over what they claim a fragile exterior while they view her inside worth less than dirt, even as she holds gold plated ideas and bejeweled accomplishments for all to see. They are stained glass windows adorned high in the cathedrals. Pictures are painted and polished into her melted sand fragments, though only there to embellish men’s own glory. Yet, when the sun shines through her forcefully broken shards, a rainbow is cast in her wake, tinting a room that believes her inferior with the strength of her perseverance. Roadtrip Laura Evans We bore down on the highway, in a Ford adorned with bumper-sticker-reminders of trips we’d taken Before. Silent hours evaporated between your father and I. The air inside was a wet towel, soaked with the newness of our triad. We drove through the Illinois countryside in a cornfield trance: a man with new worry lines, shuffling through playlists for his old favorite songs, a baggy-eyed woman, scrolling through other people’s reviews: the Top Things To Do in the City, (with kids), and you, our mystical cherub cum carnivorous houseplant, sleeping newborn sleep, stinking up the back seat. The weather went rainy two hours outside Chicago. We didn’t think much of it, until the sky turned violent green. The car began to rock in the wind. Instantly we were strangers, trapped in an elevator, hurtling downwards, too fast. The tempest was endless. Your atheist father implored thunder gods, his fingers gripped the wheel against the force of gray torrents. I could see the outline of his forearm muscles; I choked on my own screams. And then you started to howl. I climbed towards you, was thrown as we swerved. I don’t remember doing it, but I made a bottle. Somehow measured formula, mixed it. I swear I saw a twister touch down across the fields. You latched onto the fake nipple, like a nun holds a rosary. That milk was gravity, and with every covetous suckle, you demanded survival. You made the car so heavy, with it, you kept us from spiraling into the eye of the storm. -> Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history. ~Plato

Click to enlarge "Negative Bloom" Angel Lopez Experimental Style Beryl Iverson Setting: Zeff’s bedroom, It’s simple with only a mirror, a wardrobe, and a bed. Characters: Zeff: Someone trying to learn about themselves and gender. Alala: Zeff’s older sister who is supportive but overly blunt. The dad: A strict parent who wants to see his children raised “right.” Zeff’s bedroom. Zeff is dressed in lolita style attire looking through their wardrobe. They find a scarf and put it on then turn to look in the mirror. Zeff : I wonder if this color works. I should have bought lipstick too. Alala : (off stage) Hey Zeff do you want a ride to the convention- Alala enters Zeff’s room. Zeff : Alala- I can explain! Alala : You are going in that? Zeff : Oh, no no no. I was just- Alala : Because it doesn’t match. Zeff : What? Alala walks over to the wardrobe. She searches for a beat before finding a different scarf. Alala : Here, this scarf actually matches your skirt. Zeff : You’re okay with this? Alala : It’s a good outfit, did you pay for it with your new job? Zeff : Yes. Alala : Well I have the perfect lipstick in my room for this outfit, we just have to sneak you over there. Come on, let's get it. Zeff : I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave yet. Alala : Why not? You look great! Zeff : This was my first time wearing this kind of outfit. Alala : Oooooooh. (beat) Wait, then why not go to the convention like this? Zeff : I’m not sure how I feel about this outfit yet. Alala : Zeff, as your older sister I’ve only seen you wear hoodies and jeans with converse for the last 5 years. When I walked in you looked actually confident, what do you mean you don’t know how you feel about this outfit? Zeff : That’s what I thought about the prom dress I bought. Alala : You bought a prom dress? You just had homecoming. Zeff : Aren’t they the same thing? Alala : Absolutely not. Homecoming is fun with friends, prom is classy with a date. Zeff : See I don’t even know the difference between those types of dresses! Alala : Wait, can I see that dress? Zeff : Why? Alala : I want to judge your taste. Zeff : No, no judging. Alala : Too late. Alala has already pulled the sparkly homecoming dress out of the wardrobe holding it up to her body. Alala : Oh wow, this is decent, a little sparkly for my taste but I have some friends who would wear this. Zeff : Alala! Alala : I’m putting it back before it burns my eyes. Zeff : Oh my god no, let me burn it. Alala : Why would you burn it? You can wear it next year. Zeff : I don’t know, maybe because you touched it. Alala : Gasp, what a cruel reason for a harmless piece of cloth. Zeff : Wasn’t it about to burn your eyes? Alala : Maybe I just want to show it some mercy. Though it’s a little short, I think mom and dad would only let Hera wear this. Zeff : Are you kidding? It’s not extravagant enough for our little sister. Alala : We could always adjust it for her. Add some frills, cut it up, and of course more glitter. Zeff : That’s even more cruel than burning it. Alala : True, well instead of torturing it with adjustments or burning it you could always donate it. Zeff : I don’t know if I’ll do that. Alala : Well you already sneaked two outfits into the house so I don’t think donating it is about getting caught. Zeff : It’s the first thing I bought for myself without other people’s influence. Even though I didn’t like it as much as I thought I would, it still feels like a part of me. Alala : That’s a lot of thought put into a piece of clothing. Zeff : A piece of clothing I told that cashier that I was buying for my girlfriend. Alala: You have an imaginary girlfriend? Zeff : Yeah, I named her Zeffina and she was my homecoming date. Alala : So does Zeffina call you her boyfriend or girlfriend? Beat. Zeff : I haven’t decided yet. Alala : I’m not well versed in this stuff but, what’s holding you back? Zeff : Nothing feels right. Girl, boy, nothing. Alala : Did you realize that when you looked into the mirror earlier? Zeff : No, I bought these lolita clothes to try and do something that is way out there and see how I feel. Alana : And? Zeff : I don’t recognize the me I thought I knew, and that feels good. Alala : That’s good! Zeff : But I don’t feel any closer to who I feel like I am. Alala : Well you know that this isn’t not it. Zeff : That’s fair. Alala : I have a plan. Zeff : It better not be- Alala : We’re going to the convention. Zeff : I already said I’m not sure if I’m ready. Alala : It doesn’t have to be this outfit, I could grab some clothes from my room for you to try on at that convention. Zeff : Where would I try the clothes on at the convention? Alala : In the bathrooms of course. Zeff : Bathrooms? Alala : Yes bathrooms. Zeff : I want you to think about that for a solid second. Think about bathrooms and this kind of thing very deeply. Alala : I don’t see what the problem is- Oh! Zeff : Now you get it. Alala : Okay new plan, we pretend that you’re my friend in my room getting ready and- Zeff : What friend? Alala : Angelica! Zeff : one, you don’t have a friend named Angelica, two I’m never going by Angelica. Alala : We can come up with a new name. Zeff : Three, mom and dad will never fall for that. Alala : Good point. (beat) Oh I know! Let me grab it. Alala runs out of the room. Zeff begins to put their scarf on the bed. Alala runs back into the room holding a pikachu and eevee onesie. Alala : Here you go! Zeff : What is this? Alala : You put on what clothes you want under it to leave the house and then you take it off at the convention. Zeff : Why are there two of them? Alala : Because I was going to go as pikachu in the first place, and it’s cute to match. Zeff : And then the parents won’t have a reason to suspect us! Sis you’re a genius! Alala: Oh I know, and this helps me too. Zeff : How so? Alala : Mom and dad are less likely to check my clothes underneath if we match. Zeff : Oh? And what diabolical plans do you have to defy the parents? Alala : A miniskirt and shoulders! Zeff : So scandalous. Alala : Oh you know, I just have to be the rebelling older sister corrupting her little siblings. Zeff : Oh yes, You are the reason I’m buying “girls clothes.” Alala : Speaking of which, I brought a change of clothes for you if you want it. Zeff : What did you come up with? Alala : I found this button up top that we could pair with a miniskirt, or a pair of fancy slacks we can put this blouse over. Zeff : I think we first try on- The dad : (knocks on the door from offstage) Hey kids, what’s going on. Alala : Oh nothing, We were just coordinating our outfits. The dad : That’s taking an awful long time. Alala hands Zeff the eevee onesie and both begin putting on the onesies. Zeff : We were arguing who got to be pikachu. Alala : We decided I get to be the bright electric yellow mouse. The dad : Well let me see! Alala : Okay, just give us a second to help each other get the onesies on. Alala helps Zeff get the onesie on and covers all the lolita garb underneath it. Alala : Ready! The door opens or the sound of the door opening, the dad continues to speak from offstage. The dad : Good choices, Have fun you two. Zeff : Thank you dad. The door closes. Zeff : That was close. Alala : I guess we’re stuck with these choices. Zeff : This is fine, I’m not sure if I’m ready yet anyways. Alala : Are you sure? I got these clothes for you to try. Zeff : Another time. Plus the lolita clothes are hard to get out of and they’ll be expecting us to leave soon. Alala : Alright, I’ll put these clothes back in my room. Zeff : I’ll see you downstairs? Alala : Yeah, I have to grab my keys anyways. Zeff : Don’t forget that lipstick that goes perfectly with this outfit. Alala : Oh yeah, Alala walks over to the bed and grabs the scarf. Alala : I put the finishing touches in my bag. Zeff : Thank you. Alala : No problem. Alala leaves as Zeff looks at themself in the mirror. Zeff : This will work. Alala enters again. Alala : Hey Zeff? Zeff : Yes Alala? Alala : I love you. Zeff : I love you too sis. Beryl Iverson (Writer) 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. 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.

About Click to enlarge "Lauren Daigle" Eryn Rust Welcome to Portland Community College's Rock Creek campus, home of the Bellwether Review. Want to know more about what we do here? Well, you've come to the right place. About Us 2022 Theme Meet the Editors

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