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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 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.

-> Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner 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. With Fiction, writers can take themselves to a world of their own and let their imagination run wild. You can open yourself to the possibilities that anything is possible, you just have to be willing to put the work in to make it come to life. Tales are what keeps the human race connected to each other, because no matter our differences, everyone loves a good story. THE VEIL Jessica Graber I ’m going to a funeral today. I enter through the back garden gate and briskly make my way to the sliding glass door. With my foot, I nudge the potted marigolds over to the left and retrieve the spare key. I make my way inside. The house is quiet. My husband, sister, and mother have already left for the reception. The servants have been sent off for the week, my mother too grief-stricken to have anyone in the house. On the second floor, my bedroom door is closed. The garish knob turns open with a tired groan. When I toss my purse onto the partially unmade bed, a freshly used check stub falls out, as well as a small white tag connected to a pale string. I don’t bother to pick them up as I won’t be here long. I sit at my vanity, glass perfume bottles arranged in a row against the oval mirror. Each bottle is filled with a luscious fragrance, imported from France, Italy, or the Far East. I pick out Apres L'Ondee Pure Parfum and spray a puff onto my neck and wrists. Then, I open a side drawer and pull out a small metallic tube. Even if it’s unconventional, I just can’t go without my signature Christian Dior #9 red lipstick. The stereo in the corner spins sweetly, playing new tunes of Rockin’ Robin. The satin white robe resting on my shoulders moves with each motion of my arms. I do a touch-step towards the closet, humming along with Bobby Day. In the very back of my closet sits a dress perfect for the funeral. I hang it on the door to admire, not one crease in its skirt. The black silk swing dress feels cool to the touch as I slip into it, buttoning up the front and smoothing out the cape collar. The petticoat snaps together under the tea-length skirt, filling it out perfectly. Read More THE WRONG TRAIN A HEALING LOVE Angelina Dewar Lisa Plummer I t was late afternoon, and the people on the train outgoing from the hospital looked tired. They were a mixed group of strangers. In the front seat, there was a middle-aged businessman in a suit with his hair slicked back. He was reading a book about investing. He smiled smugly to himself. Several rows of seats behind him, there sat a teenager in a red beanie. As she gazed out the window, her eyes sparkled with light and color, absorbing and reflecting fleeting images of the rapidly changing landscape outside. Across from her, there was a very old man. He too was looking out the window, but the reflections in his eyes looked dull and lifeless; they had none of the life and color and energy of those of the girl. He looked old and exhausted, not sad exactly, just extremely jaded and a little bit disappointed. In the rear of the compartment, there was a mother and her 9-year-old son. The mother squinted at the tiny images on her phone, swiping furiously on a social media site. Likewise occupied, the boy peered into his own screen. He mashed the buttons of his controller, completely engrossed in his video game. In the silence, the rhythmic clanking of the train expanded to fill the empty space like a dense cloud. It seemed to push the strangers away from each other, pinning them to opposite edges of the compartment. Suddenly, the clanking began to slow. It got slower and slower and slower. Then, the train stopped. They were in the middle of nowhere. An announcement came in on the intercom: Attention, passengers. We believe that someone on this vehicle has mistakenly taken the wrong train. In a few minutes, hospital personnel will arrive to take them back to the hospital train station. We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience. "M om, please?" I drew out the please so that it sounded like peas. "Really, I’ll only be gone for the summer and Tony and Nate are going to be with me the whole time. Plus, you already told Nate’s dad I could go when he bought the tickets." I added the last part, not because it was true…(though it was), but because I know how much my mom hates going back on her word. "I don't know, Joey. It's Europe. EUROPE! Have you ever watched the news about when people go missing overseas?” She was ringing her hands, in the way she usually does when she’s trying to slow down her thoughts, “Or those cheesy movies where the young American falls in love and never comes home?" Her face was taut with concern and worry and I was trying to not to laugh at her whiplash worries through opposite genre movie analogies. "No, but we have all seen Hostel," I joked, hoping to make her laugh but once I saw her face twist with fear, I got serious. "Mom, we're going to stay in London...no hostels, no crazy adventures or plans to immigrate. I promise." She stepped closer to me and pulled me into one of those tight 'mom hugs.' I knew that she was going to give in and say yes. "Fine, you can go, but you have to call me everyday.” She pulled away just enough to bring her hand up and cup my cheek, “ Joey, you're my baby...my only child, so cut me a little overbearing slack." As jet lagged as we all were, Nate’s eyes brightly lit up when we met his student liaison officer, Camilla Brandon. She was small and looked like a preppy, goth-girl mix. She had short, sharply cut black hair and matching onyx painted nails and lips. Her lace edged dress was at odds with her tattooed covered skin and while she was semi-polite it was like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, showing us around Nate’s new student apartment. Read More Read More -> FICTION “Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.” ~ Jessamyn West