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

Fiction Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomson You knew the Saints, and they were not kind. You knew this, and yet you prayed to them. You're on your hands and knees, bound to the... Read More The Girl Who Glowed Morgan Belden We knew it was too good to be true when she walked into our class, eyes sparkling, and looked at us with a gaze so full of hope and... Read More Hennesy David Hurley In the cool night air of the city, a woman named Moe walks down the street. She walks past dozens of rich town businesses while... Read More Not the Slightest Inclination Penny Harper Anna Margareta Buxtehude glanced nervously out the window of the sitting room as she straightened the cushions on the chairs. Her family... Read More Surrogate Eliza Jones The walls of the cave were red stone, smooth and barren. The ground was slanted, stretching into a darkness the sunlight couldn't... Read More Random Access Memory Tyler Allen You remember you're on a beach, the air cool and wet, and you feel a breeze on your face. You know it's real because... Read More What it Takes to Live Ian Rule Arther took a calming breath and raised the pistol to his head. Candles cast a soft light, filling his living room with a mockingly gentle... Read More

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

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

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

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 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”.