Search The Bellwether Review, 2020-2022

Click to enlarge "With Sprinkles on Top" Morgan Belden Ode to the Sandwich David Hurley Oh sandwich, how lovely you can be. Filled with more layers than an ogre like onion where we find, when we open between your sides, the meat of the situation. Every time, you are filled with an assortment of goodness: maybe some bologna, cheddar cheese, and ketchup to please us. Sure, there are many types but you are truest when you are simplest for you can whip up in a jiffy, maybe with Skippy. After all, your origins are said to come from a man playing poker with only one free hand. That tray of his lunch too difficult it would seem and instead, mashed food together into the genius of your genealogy. expeditious delicious nutritious *munch* I look forward to our next meating. David Hurley (Writer) David is working to write his first novel. It’s been over a year and he has been experimenting with designs, taking classes and making progress with his writing - his goal is to complete this book. He loves to cook, play dice and board RPG on Sundays. Morgan Belden (Artist) I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters.

Click to enlarge "Internal Garden" Morgan Belden guess what? Sydney Ross you are a butterfly and I am a caterpillar awaiting my new life in metamorphosis. you are the wind swaying through the trees and I am the leaves dancing on the forest floor. you are the moon pulling the waves to the edge of the sand each night and I am the tide blissfully unaware and following your lead. 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. 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 Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history. ~Plato -> Bonneville Dam Ines Rossi Y Costa Across a body of water far wider than the Columbia, your letter spills equations solving for distance. Your words engineer power from Oregon all the way to France. Adam, I will be your bride. Bonneville: a good city. Promises made in good faith. Ahead above groundwater, canals irrigated, we navigate this New Deal downstream. Two powerhouses, we electrify tides. Your reactivity leaves me off-balance, drunken hydraulics wreak havoc on my ecosystem and soon, short circuit my allegiance. You build a lock around me, raise and lower boats, control the waterway, erode my embankment and still, I swim against your current to spawn. Tag me, a mere statistic of depressed populations. Monumental pressure and obstruction turn this reservoir to sewage until The levee breaks and floods our soluble bond. I dredge a riverbed. Watershed. A stray sturgeon, I slip through your fingers, climb the fish ladder upstream. Alone, I now dive into a clear basin, follow the tide to my center, my scales shimmering, again. Virulent Lisa Plummer Y o u smile with teeth that shif t to fangs pressed into a plump pink tongue tip. As venom sits and d r i p s hate fueled fallacies from your mouth. Illicit, implicit, attention seeking missiles of ferocity. Imploding monstrosities lacking in quality. Atrocities escape through lie-lined lips painted red by animosity. Hostile frivolity, vomits verbosity that constantly colors me underwhelmed . Dinner’s Almost Ready Stella Robertson Mom tells me to set the table, and for the hundredth time reminds me that the napkins go on the left. I twist the knob on the wall and the chandelier blazes. By the wood stove, Dad sits in the chair he made himself. The chair is small, and he looks like a child who’s outgrown his old clothes. Not looking away from The New Yorker, he reaches up and dims the light. The candles glow, alone now, in their misshapen homemade pots. I pour in bowtie pasta too fast, and boiling water splashes my fingers. Mom holds a cold sliced cucumber to the burn. When she turns to cut the carrots, I place the slice in my mouth and my favorite album on the record player. Dramatic chords echo through the kitchen as Mom makes pesto pasta with basil from the garden. Angelic indie rock is the soundtrack to fresh leaves, garlic, and pine nuts in the blender, and she mixes anchovies in a metal bowl for caesar salad. The dining room is dark now, but this is how I know it. I stand on the metal grate for as long as I can, burying my toes in the cat’s black fur when it starts to burn. Cat Power sings so loud, I can hear it from the front yard. as I roll the recycling bin over our thin strip of grass and it catches on the stones we lined the sidewalk with two summers ago. The street is unlit, and I listen hard for music coming from other families’ houses. But all I hear is the deep bass that rattles my front door. Serenity at Last Belen Johnson S peckled deep plum and peacock catch my e ye as they mix like marbles with the oaks. I r elax as my nose fills with the scent of damp e arth and musty leaves. The soft crunch of n ew fallen leaves beneath my feet as I make my way to the lake. The water, like t iny crystals in the sunrays. A fish, y ellow as an ear of corn, flies through the a ir. Ripples of corn left behind, where it t ore through the shear glass wall. L ittle meows sound from my right. A kitten, a labaster, paws at a flower. I sit quiet and s till so the kitten won’t run away. A bright t angerine flower, sways from the swats made. A Bad Reason Not To Fear Traffic David Dionne Every tree is a cadaver in green throwing back our funereal headlights as we return from a quantum of suicide resplendent with potatoes and pasta The road swims through the darkness its cassette-ribbon length spooling behind unwinding ahead to play a new song every time we pass over this stretch To either side rise the hills fall the valleys stretch the fields Oregon silent in a graveyard of pines But here in front and there behind is only the road with its balefire tail lights and a motorcycle's cyclopean glow not even a light to shine from above We used to risk ourselves on the road road there and road back the cars still speed in nights too dark but we fear them no more There are smaller things to fear tonight that may lurk on every shelf beneath our daily bread or atop carrots or inside a watermelon among the juice -> Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner

Click to enlarge "Crash in Colorado" Miriam Ridout November Sydney Ross lonely tuesday mornings come and go like leaves blowing softly in the wind, my hair dancing around my neck like a noose threatening to tighten at any given moment. 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 "born to blossom, bloom to perish" Angel Lopez Grief, but Make it Sing Luka Russo My heart has this hot habit of glaring at me from across the room, pounding on stucco walls it throws drummer boy tantrum fits turning your urn ashes into nail-biting bangs beating like “hey you, remember?’’ and I whisper back, foreign tongue feebly coax it into my ribcage. Telling it to waltz on home. Telling it to stop all that pounding. Telling it that people are staring. Telling it sometimes “goodbye” sounds a lot like “I miss you don't leave.” But my heart is a deaf music conductor trying to keep time and I am a ticketless schmuck. That muffled clamor, that tiny horror show chorus telling me that heaven must be a concert hall with a steep cover charge and no refunds, where everyone whistles unending violin notes, reeling like the last moment I felt happy. That opening night, line around the block happy. That glance up, taste sweet sky sweat dripping down happy. That last look, what your eyes saw before they didn't. Happy. I bet you still look like that. And when there's a rest between songs, those doors swing open, and I hear you shimmie shake “hey you.” Luka Russo (Writer) When Luka was 6 years old, some janky fortune teller came through with a traveling carnival. RIght in a small place called Plano, Texas. They told her convincingly she would grow up to be a writer and thought to herself, well that's mysterious, quite alluring and honestly how hard can it be? She was so wrong. Angel Lopez (Artist) Angel Lopez is an artist and a writer that is currently studying full time at Portland Community College. Their writing is inspired by their innate sensitivity. They use writing as a means to funnel their overflow of feelings into words to help tether them to reality.

A Cycle

Click to enlarge "Idaho13" David Hurley The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull Stephanie Thomson I wonder if I’ll ever be more than a taxidermied skull of an Irish elk hanging from a ceiling with fractured bones, oleanders growing in the cracks, floral overgrowing along the carcass. You’d watch it like a predator stalking its prey. Still and holy. Waxing and waning. Watching like a lonely moon, circulating an abandoned planet. Am I like the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk with overgrown antlers getting entangled in the trees? Too large to support my head as I sink deeper and deeper into the sea. Do my eyes match the hollowed-out gaze of the skull of an Irish elk? Dulled out, fragmented remains of a life once lived. Do you love me like you love the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk? Do you pray to its skeletal remains like a lost deity? Am I nothing but a silhouette? Not even your shadow? Maybe I am nothing but a skull hanging from a ceiling, A forgotten frame ith cracked antlers and blood leaking from the roots. I am the taxidermied skull of an Irish elk. I am the bindings of orthogenesis theory. The long since abandoned theory of how the Irish elk went extinct. Stephanie Thomson (Writer) I’m an artist and writer from the PNW who loves nature and dragons. I currently study multimedia at PCC (Portland Community College) with hopes of becoming a professional animator and screenplay writer in the future. I spend my free time drawing critters and working on personal projects. I find a lot of my inspiration in Studio Ghibli films, nature, and art. I love hiking, watching movies, drawing, and reading! David Hurley (Artist) David Hurley is working to write his first novel. It’s been over a year and he has been experimenting with designs, taking classes and making progress with his writing - his goal is to complete this book. He loves to cook, play dice and board RPG on Sundays.

Stephanie Thomson Stephanie Thomson I’m an artist and writer from the PNW who loves nature and dragons. I currently study multimedia at PCC (Portland Community College) with hopes of becoming a professional animator and screenplay writer in the future. I spend my free time drawing critters and working on personal projects. I find a lot of my inspiration in Studio Ghibli films, nature, and art. I love hiking, watching movies, drawing, and reading! Morgan Belden Morgan Belden I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters. David Hurley David Hurley David Hurley is working to write his first novel. It’s been over a year and he has been experimenting with designs, taking classes and making progress with his writing - his goal is to complete this book. He loves to cook, play dice and board RPG on Sundays. Penny Harper Penny Harper I’ve been preoccupied with the story of Anna Margareta Buxtehude for some time. We know little about her other than the fact that Händel and Mattheson really did visit in 1703 and really did refuse the organist position when it was offered on the condition of marrying her (“neither of us had the slightest inclination” were Mattheson’s words), and that something similar may have happened when Johann Sebastian Bach visited Buxtehude two years later. People often speculate on how unattractive Anna Margareta must have been, which is not a story I like, so I tried to imagine something different. Grateful thanks to Prof. Johnny Zackel for his guidance and the courage to start writing, to my friends Dave, Dave, and Karen for their support, and to my family for making it possible. Oh, and to the PCC library for all the inter-library loans! Eliza Jones Eliza Jones is a lifelong writer with a passion for science fiction and fantasy. When she’s not writing, she’s nannying; when she’s not doing that, she’s usually maintaining her Japanese streak on duolingo. Eliza Jones Tyler Allen Tyler Allen was born and raised in small-town Nevada where they learned about blue-collar life and how to avoid rattlesnakes. They enjoy watching movies, reading books, and drinking coffee. They are getting married in the fall and they have a dog they love a lot even if he won’t let them pet him. Tyler enjoys writing stories about little failures and their effects on people, places, and things. They turn 30 next year. Tyler Allen Ian Rule Ian Rule is an avid golfer that loves any game with miniatures. Ian Rule Silver Fox Silver Fox My name is Silver and I'm an artist to the bone, I work with so many different mediums. In my life I've also been a mechanic, a vandweller, a nomad, a fur tanner, a musician, and I've been doing various forms of sex work for 9 years. I love most animals, even bugs. I care deeply about human rights and environmental justice. I’m in college right now for Russian language. Someday I hope to travel the world as a tattoo artist. Sydney Ross Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds. Sydney Ross Taylor Woodworth My name is Taylor, I’m 17 and this spring term is my third term at pcc. I graduated from Cleveland high school in 2021 as a junior. I’ve lived in Portland my whole life, but hope to venture elsewhere in the coming years. I wrote these poems last fall for a poetry class. I find myself having so much to say but not knowing how to say it, so I like to build pictures with words to organize my thoughts. That is the best way I can think to describe my work. In my free time I enjoy playing and listening to music, and casual ghost hunting. Taylor Woodworth Heidi Sheppard Heidi Sheppard Heidi L. Shepherd was born in Iowa and moved to Oregon at the age of three. She began writing at the age of sixteen when she realized you could teach through fiction. Mythology, Fairytales, and Gothic Horror are her favorite genres. She has contributed to popular magazines over the years and to The Bellwether Review before with her story, The Water Bottle. She calls Oregon home and would never want to live anywhere else. Heidi is looking forward to finishing her first YA Fiction novel in the coming months and returning to Eastern Oregon University to finish earning her Bachelor of Arts in English/Creative Writing. Luka Russo When Luka was 6 years old, some janky fortune teller came through with a traveling carnival. RIght in a small place called Plano, Texas. They told her convincingly she would grow up to be a writer and thought to herself, well that's mysterious, quite alluring and honestly how hard can it be? She was so wrong. Luka Russo Angel Lopez Angel Lopez is an artist and a writer that is currently studying full time at Portland Community College. Their writing is inspired by their innate sensitivity. They use writing as a means to funnel their overflow of feelings into words to help tether them to reality. Angel Lopez Casey Elder Casey Elder Casey Elder was born and raised in Portland, Oregon and has always held a passion for writing and music. He is a student of creative writing at Portland Community College. Besides writing, Casey is an avid Dungeons and Dragons player and combines his interests by being one half of the musical rap group Dungeon Brothers with his real life brother. Beryl Iverson Beryl moved to Portland from eastern Washington about 4 years ago and has been focusing on living comfortably. They started going to PCC in the middle of the pandemic with a writing focus. In their free time, Beryl likes to watch children's shows and play video games. Beryl Iverson

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

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

Click to enlarge "The Watchers" David Hurley 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 several men try unsuccessfully to gesture to her. She is firm and steadfast. Her figure is an endless gaze into the stars. The dress she wears is a velvet black with overlapping slits on both sides; they conceal the holsters on her thighs. Around her waist is a red band that matches the red of her hat, a Kentucky derby style. So too, her gloves ran up to her elbows, a slightly darker red. In her right hand: a large, blue suitcase blotched with paint. It was for traveling out of town and for work. Dotted and streaked with an endless array of colors, it was large and sturdy enough to carry tools for various jobs. It was clean when her sister gifted it to her, now the last connection Moe has to that past. She comes up to an old building. Several stories tall, it has a pristine garden between it and the sidewalk with perfectly cut grass and exotic plants. A fountain was dancing amidst some palm trees. The front of the building has no windows, and instead is built with gothic designs and statues. Gargoyles look down at the onlookers while arches cover the doors and walls. She stops in front, looking at the old architecture and its dark ambience. It does not dissuade her. Clenched in her free hand is a note written on parchment. She looks it over one more time. In cursive and with a heavy ink, it says, “The Benson’s on Friday. Dress up.” She then lets go of the note, its frailty sweeping away, and proceeds up to the front doors. A modest looking man dressed in a sharp black suit is there. He looks her over. It is quick and professional. He opens one of the double doors for her with a high level of courtesy, even directing her with an open hand to come inside. She accepts without hesitation and steps through the stone archway. Inside is a sharply dressed woman standing opposite of the door, waiting for patrons who leave. There is a hallway to the back with a large flight of stairs on one side. On this floor the lights are dim and illuminate only large, locked doors. The stairs, however, lead up to a brighter set of lights. And there is a faint sound of music. Moe heads up the stairs. Her steps echo through the hall but are overshadowed whenever the bulky suitcase clunks against the stairs. About halfway up, several people in white suits and dresses come over the ledge. Before they reach her, she tries to tuck the suitcase between her and the wall. The action catches their attention, of whom give her a quizzical look. Moe’s eyes return a defensive moxy. But upon seeing the suitcase, they laugh and proceed down. Moe takes the moment to breathe and think about what’s coming. She eventually makes it to the top, dragging the case with her. Here, there is a small lobby with two oak doors leading into The Benson’s. Carvings run along them, depicting a dragon gobbling up a smaller beast. Another doorman opens these for her. A wave of smoke and smooth jazz hits Moe as she moves onto the polished oakwood floor. People are everywhere—in the great hall, in booths along the exterior, and huddled next to the bar itself. It is stocked with liquors from all over the world, its gatekeeper a charming looking man with a pleasant laugh. He leans on the counter’s river fractal design. While looking around, Moe bumps a couple of the patrons. Dressed in either the finest black or white attire, they shoot her dirty looks while they hold cigars or cigarettes in their off hands. She moves away and is careful to navigate onward. Eventually she makes it to the edge of the sea. Here, there is a glass wall, the cold night air beyond. Extending from the floor to the ceiling, it replaced the old gothic structure, save for two columns that supported the floor and roof above. A double set of clear doors opens to a balcony. Made of clear crystal, one could look down through them at the edge of the wilderness. It continues for miles, from the edge of the city to the edge of the lake. Serene, the moon reflected upon it. The snow-capped mountains lie beyond. There, in the middle of the balcony, he stands. A tall figure, wearing a brown suit and with scruffy hair that stood on its curls, is watching the lake. Moe steps through the glass doors and approaches him, once again with the steadfast walk. She comes up to his right side and against the railing, stopping just a couple of feet away. His gaze continues off into the distance, even as she can see her reflection out of the corner of his glasses. “Lester.” Her voice comes across stern. The man takes in a slow breath, the ruffles on his jacket’s collar showing themselves. “It’s good to see you again Moe.” His voice is calm. “I have it here. All of it.” Lester turns his head to see her holding up the suitcase with both arms. “Now tell me!” she demands of him. “A bit rash, aren’t we Moe?” Lester turns his entire body to face her now. Taller than her, she looks up at his sandstone face, no longer the chiseled and immaculate look of granite. Moe smirks. “They say the dead have all the time in the world. I guess I’m fortunate to not have that luxury.” Lester pauses, allowing for the steam to cool in Moe. “They also rest in that everlasting existence. But you owe me a great deal.” “Then take this and tell me where she is.” “No. That’s not enough.” Moe drops the case. In its stead, she reaches to one of her thigh holsters and pulls out a small pistol. The barrel aims at his head. “You said you would tell me.” His face remains sullen. “I said we would talk next time we met.” Her finger tightens around the trigger. A breeze blows past them, Lester’s loose jacket trailing with the wind. He tells her, “I know how to make money. I spent a lifetime working with it, making sure that what came in matched against the money that went out and would grow. Spreadsheets, finances, even gambling were all part of the equation. That was, until we met. And out of everyone I’ve dealt with, everyone that hindered me, you were the only one that shattered my dream. You took everything from me in Vegas. “Bullshit.” Lester’s eyebrows shift inward, thickening his gaze. “You love to gamble,” he reminds her. “No. Not anymore. This is the end of that life.” “Is that so? Then perhaps humor me. One last bet. A coin toss. If you call the toss correctly, I’ll tell you where your sister is. If you’re wrong, then at least you can keep the money.” Moe’s teeth begin to grind against each other. “You’re a sick man, Lester.” “No. I just want what I’m owed. A final gamble.” She shoves the gun to his head. “You’re lying, Lester. It’s easy to tell, even with a face as dead as yours.” “Then I might as well leave. Goodbye, Moe,” he says with his cold flesh. Lester starts to walk off, the gun slowly streaking across his brow as he turns. Moe presses the gun harder against his head, even catching the skin of his temple as he keeps moving. The force she uses causes her to stumble past him. Knees feeling weak, she catches herself after a few steps. She corrects herself to look at Lester’s back side. A tear starts to well up in her eye. She looks around for any of the other patrons, but most are inside, and the few on the balcony stand distant and guarded. They back up when she connects her sight with them, not afraid, but cautious. Lester plods a couple more stops before she speaks up. “OK! Ok. Flip the coin.” Lester stops. His hand reaches into deep pockets and pulls out an old silver dollar. He returns to the rail and holds the coin up for her to see. “What’s the call?” “Heads. You tell me where my sister is if its heads.” Her voice caves. Lester flicks it up, and she watches. Time slows to a crawl as it flies into the air. The patrons in the distance turn to mannequins. The wind takes its time swaying Lester’s curls. And Lester’s right arm moves steadily and with purpose. But Moe loses sight of all of this as her tears blocks it out and only registers the reverberations from the flips of the silver dollar. It shines and sparkles in the moonlight. Bang. Moe’s eyes fly open as a hot molten spike enters her stomach. The noise calls the attention of the bar patrons as well as the other balcony patrons. No one runs. Many are ready to draw. Moe, however, slumps to the ground. Above her, Lester is holding a smoking colt, his face unflinching and paying no heed to her action. Holding out the hand that flipped the coin, the silver dollar lands in the palm. He turns his gaze slowly to it, and then, gently, he puts it back in his pocket. “You’ll find her at the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. She was well taken care of and will be fine for days.” Lester then puts the colt back in his holster and grabs the suitcase. Moe, feeling hot liquid pour from her belly, looks back at him, the little gun in her hand. She feeds him a face: teeth barred, eyes hot as lightening. Lester looks straight back at her, pausing and waiting. Her grip starts to fade as she moves the pistol closer between the two of them. A terrible tremble starts to shoot through her weakening arm. When she reaches near her stomach, she drops it. Her hand continues to reach forth for the phone in the other holster under her dress. She pulls it out, and with it, accidentally spills her wallet. Moe is quick to dial. She slams the device to her ear. Meanwhile, Lester looks at the wallet. Its leather hide free on the ground. He picks it up, and stuffs it into his pocket. “Roger.” She gasps and spits. “Shut up! Just shut it. Go to the docks under the old Hennesy fish market, pier 22, lot 432. You got it? Read it back… No. 432… Yes. Now go!” She coughs up blood as she drops the phone. It hits and cracks against the crystal floor. Meanwhile, an eyebrow raises on Lester’s heavy face. “That is a fine memory you have. Perhaps it wasn’t all luck after all.” He snickers. “Maybe I’ll even see my face in an exhibit someday. It will be the only way you see me again.” Lester then walks off, his prim shoes clacking on the floor, his gait a steady pace. Moe follows him with one final glare. Her teeth are no longer bare, her eyes freed of rage. The pain unbearable. When he steps through the glass doors, she looks back at her wound. “I’m coming, sis,” she says weakly. She puts a mountain’s worth of pressure on her wound. With it, Moe tries to get up, but stops when she sees more movement out of the corner of her eye. A couple of patrons are running over to her. Lester makes it to the lobby unabated. He stops there. Standing tall, he adjusts his collar. The rumpled form straightens out. And when he walks down the stairs, a smile of obsidian chips up his right cheek. David Hurley (Writer & Artist) David Hurley is working to write his first novel. It’s been over a year and he has been experimenting with designs, taking classes and making progress with his writing - his goal is to complete this book. He loves to cook, play dice and board RPG on Sundays.

Scripts Experimental Style Beryl Iverson 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... Read More Soundless Dance Beryl Iverson THE AUTHOR, a young woman in her late twenties with messy brown hair wearing sweats, leans over her notebook writing... Read More