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POETRY Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history. ~Plato Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner -> -> Strictly Speaking David Dionne Someone long ago said that garages do not need windows. This was basically correct: imagine your battered Ford Taurus drenched in natural light from a square of glass with painted sash and a sill to rest nuts and bolts on in place of apple pies. This is also basically correct: houses do not need windows. Strictly speaking they are superfluous like a great many things. Houses, also, do not need chairs floors tables kitchens or anything but walls and roof and door. Let us inhabit the perfect house with its one room a place to be when we cannot escape. The floor begins as grass and slowly dies to soil then dirt then finally compacted earth. The walls are solid and do not permit a draft. The roof is strong and will not leak. The door is resilient and will not be blown open by wind. Each piece, then, is defined by is and not and of course by don't This, what's more, is basically correct: we are not what we do not need. Imagine your battered Ford Taurus heart drenched in warm sunlight from the kitchen window over the sink with that awful white paint and the wide sill covered in potted plants and sun tea brewing. Breakdown Crane Ines Rossi Y Costa A horizontal projection (a rail) You swing about a vertical axis (a rope) Assemble potential around you (unrealized father) Now you are done erecting (crash forward) with stoic surgical precision (terminal strain) you collapse (murderer) You hover over the kitchen table, the metal gleams from your nosedrip, I stabilize your shaky shoulders, your lips spill words suspended in time: I am the mechanism of a machine I can’t experience. So you rigged your body beneath the overcast sky. Funeral mourners gathered in a construction zone, Face masks, our grief uniform, crushed by your fallen monument, we excavate memories and hoist narratives. Your dog watched you disassemble your last breath but he won’t tell why a crane took flight on a Thursday night. We never went back to Lookout Mountain to dig out the treasure you buried for my children. I crawled under firs; bare hands, grisly knees, tripped on the cargo you lugged to the ridge, unearthed. I met your disembodied beauty overhead and beneath the dirt, the levy. Sunken arteries coagulate the hour 33 stories high, braced by two dates on a hill. (undo) My Grandfather's Coffee Oviya Santiago My grandfather was once an army gentleman. Tall and thin, with silver gray hair combed back with oil. Never so much as a crease on his rice starched shirts. In his mahogany cupboard he kept his daily linens, waters of Jerusalem poker cards from America, furs from Russia, and a good inch of dust on his army cap Every morning, we would slip on our sandals and walk quietly through the dirty roads. Cars, peddlers and motorbikes shot past my grandfather always missing by an inch. The honk of cars and rickshaws speeding flew dust and debris into the air thick with a haze that made all cough. The blistering sun trapped the engine exhaust in a dirty fog that always loomed above. By noon the sun was looming high mercilessly beating down on the bare arms and faces of passersby who hurried squinting under the sun’s glare. That was when he would make coffee. I watched him pour it dark, sweet and fragrant thickened with milk powder into tiny tin cups. Pour it back and forth back and forth from cup to saucer. Monotony chiseled away at the lengthening days until the last cup was brewed and mango bartered As I sat on the train rattling through towns and rice patties alike pulled out empty tin of instant coffee sniffed the lingering sweetness amidst tobacco and gasoline showed it to the cockroaches who ran in and out of sight, along the rusted window frames. Hurricane Noa (1997) Gabby Remington Eye of the storm lined in black, silver pierced smile and stained lips, clad in ripped fishnet this is she. It is always calm before the storm. Silver pierced smile and stained lips. Blood is thicker than water, yet she still has tears. It is always calm before the storm. Scattered scrapbooks litter the living room floor. Blood is thicker than water, yet she still has tears enough to drown the family tree. Scattered scrapbooks litter the living room floor, tattered pieces of a tarnished past. It’s enough to drown the family tree and turn the front door grey. Tattered pieces of a tarnished past, the home whirls in winds of chaos and turns the front door grey. Raised voices run red and veiny as the home whirls in winds of chaos. Submerged, the house falls quiet. Raised voices run red and veiny. Trailed by the shattered glass of broken windows. Submerged, the house falls quiet on its cracked foundation. Trailed by the shattered glass of broken windows, clad in ripped fishnet, this is she. On a cracked foundation the eye of the storm, lined in black. -> ->

Click to enlarge "Zion National Park" Miriam Ridout Norma Sara Guizzoti The air chilled my face as I stood staring, unblinking. The ocean mist blends with my tears while sobs echo the pain. Independent and strong, recalling days of warm sunshine I remember my grandmother’s laughter, the way she use to smile, claiming the jackpot from her sons at poker night. Cigarettes, red wine, this was her legacy: nonconforming to standards which she belonged. I look around. Seagulls hover, waves crash into rocks. It is time. Seeking comfort in my sister’s hand I watch as the waves engulf her ashes, blending essence with sea. Turning away, it is done. Sara Guizzotti Sara Guizzotti is a recent college graduate with an associates degree in science and an associates degree in art. She loves to write and express herself through vivid imagery, and capturing images through words. Her passion is health care and helping those in need, spending most of their time raising their foster son, of whom is non verbal autistic. "It is through the eyes of a toddler that I now see how simple life is, if we allow ourself to stop and take everything in, one piece at a time. "

Click to enlarge "Beyond the Window" Morgan Belden Come Away Heidi Shepherd Where have all the romantics gone? Is there a place for us, A place where our faltering words, our soulful, boundless, gray words fall like rain upon white sheets of murdered trees? I search the manuscripts, the magazines, the blogs, the websites… Is there no more room for the flowers of Pemberley? Does Jane Eyre lay silent in her grave? Do tears still stain the cheeks of the youngling over the torn wing of the butterfly? My heart aches. I search the manderings of the foolhardy, of the complacent, of the modern progressive. Come out come out wherever you are, the followers of silent forest pathways or rain-felled garden stone walkways. Are there any who still hold their breast at the ocean waves, still catch their breath with every crest fall? Is there a place for our words? If so, please tell me. For I long to fill the pages of a handmade leather bound journal to find Ms. Potter laying about the ground conversing with the brown rabbit. To run headlong into another girl such as I, a pencil in her hand, her hair, a notebook tucked away in a pocket, her lips pursed with thoughts needing to be expressed needing to be read, pondered over. Are there any more like us? These gray-pink girls with hearts all a flutter over the white herring which flies over head. Whose eyes water over the trailing wind among the willows, the storming wind searing through the long yellowed grasses of the moors, the dunes. I wonder.. Where are you my fellow lovelies? Do you hide in the libraries surrounded by the words of our elders or within the classrooms of our colleges learning new things, forgetting the old? Come out come out wherever you are, we need you, we need your prudence, your thoughtfulness, your musings and ponderings, your romantic gray-pink words which fall from your lips, your pen like delicate rose petals in death. Come, let us chat over tea, delight in the simplest of things, talk not of politics, of wars, of hate. Let us instead muse over the ants carrying heavy loads, over the flight of the dragonfly, the lit up grasses under a full moon. Let us look to the magnificence of the moon and dream and yearn for quieter days, for laughter, for kinship. Come away with me! Come, let us play as school girls at hopscotch, at tag, let us lay upon quilts upon the lawn, let us read from our favorite passages let us giggle over boyish behaviors, make fun of the arrogance of men, let us be feminine, feisty, and at times full of rage, ff passion. Let us grow old in grace, in wisdom, in love. In kinship. Heidi Shepherd (Writer) 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. 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 "Untitled" Piper Hutchinson To Have and to Hold Taylor Woodworth A woman lives to serve a man with grace. She soaks her hair in rain to keep him dry. Her legs of satin mask in hidebound lace and god forbid she lets him see her cry. Society, it tells her what she’s worth, a simple mannequin for cloaks to drape. Not much except a capsule built for birth, aside from man's expensive taste for shape. She longs to sing the truth, though she refrains, a ribbon from her corset knots her lips bound by steel of title ball and chain, her song is heard much better from her hips. And so he holds behind his back, a knife and tells that classic joke “I hate my wife.” Taylor Woodworth (Writer) My name is Taylor, I’m 17 and this spring term is my third term at pcc. I graduated from Cleveland high school in 2021 as a junior. I’ve lived in Portland my whole life, but hope to venture elsewhere in the coming years. I wrote these poems last fall for a poetry class. I find myself having so much to say but not knowing how to say it, so I like to build pictures with words to organize my thoughts. That is the best way I can think to describe my work. In my free time I enjoy playing and listening to music, and casual ghost hunting.

Click to enlarge Black Lightning Morgan Belden Sex Work is Work Silver Fox In 2018, the United States government passed a package of bills called SESTA and FOSTA. SESTA stands for Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act, and FOSTA stands for Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act. They were advertised as a cure all for stopping the online sex trade, and making it easier for victims of trafficking to get justice against their abusers. The bills amend Section 230 of the 1996 Communications Decency Act to allow prosecutors to penalize internet companies that “promote or facilitate prostitution.” Before, websites and internet service providers were not held liable for any user-generated content posted on their platforms. Now, the owner of any platform that hosts content involving sexual activity—including consensual sex work—can be sentenced to up to 25 years in prison. The idea was that if we could hold these websites liable for all 3rd party content, the website itself could be sued as an accomplice to sex trafficking. This way, victims could have some kind of justice for the harms done to them. The problem is that these bills are enabling trafficking and making life more dangerous for both consensual and nonconsensual sex workers. From FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost : Within one month of FOSTA’s enactment, thirteen sex workers were reported missing, and two were dead from suicide. Sex workers operating independently faced a tremendous and immediate uptick in unwanted solicitation from individuals offering or demanding to traffic them. Numerous others were raped, assaulted, and rendered homeless or unable to feed their children. (Chaimberlain 2174) Stuff like this isn’t even new. From Sex Workers of the World United : Likewise, in England, the white slavery crusade led to the passage of the Criminal Law Amendment, designed to protect women from trafficking and exploitation. The law enabled the police to search brothels on a whim, and made street solicitation a serious crime. Promoted as a way to protect women, it ended up being a cudgel that allowed state authorities to criminalize, stigmatize, and lock up thousands upon thousands of marginalized women. (Stern) The primary mechanics of the bills are about website hosts and allowable content. Many important websites that used to host sex workers were forced to shut down. With the loss of critical websites, sex workers lost access to important harm reduction tools. No more bad date lists, used for sharing info on clients. No more background checks on potential clients. No more advertising, no more private messaging, no more negotiating prices or services. Without these specific and tailored pages, sex workers are forced to be vague on social media or dating sites and hope for the best. Because those sites also prohibit solicitation, it gives potential clients a lot of room for pretending to be dumb and refusing to pay for services. SESTA/FOSTAs assault on the internet means less income for sex workers. If the workers can afford it, they can create their own website and have it hosted overseas in order to avoid being under SESTA/FOSTA jurisdiction. That is an expensive option, and out of reach for most sex workers. Losing all of the internet resources meant losing a large percentage of clients. The remaining available clients demand cheaper services - or they outright refuse to pay - because they know workers are desperate. Sex workers also reported working for less reputable and more dangerous clients, and engaging in activities they aren’t comfortable with; because of the desperation that comes with the loss of these critical internet resources. Websites banning sex-related content or shutting down completely means actual trafficking victims will be harder to find. When sex service ads could be posted online, the authorities could work with the website to study the situation and track the poster and even get some justice for the victim. Again, from FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost : Meanwhile, law enforcement professionals have complained that their investigations into sex-trafficking cases have been “blinded”—they no longer have advertisements to subpoena, digital records to produce for prosecutors, and leads that can bring them to live crime scenes full of evidence, like hotel rooms (Chaimberlain, 2175). Without the internet, everyone is forced outside. Out on the streets there is no protection for either consensual or nonconsensual sex workers. They are at a huge risk of being robbed, being assaulted, being raped, and being arrested. Being forced to work outside, sex workers have been subjected to more assaults, more arrests, and more murders since the passing of SESTA/FOSTA. Savannah Sly, with the Sex Workers Outreach Project, testified to the Washington state Senate Labor & Commerce Committee, "What we're seeing is an uptick in violence across the sex trade since the passing of these bills." Proponents claimed SESTA/FOSTA would save victims. This is an admirable position to take; trafficking is a big deal and victims need to be found and helped and the perpetrators ought to face some kind of justice. Forced labor is a human rights issue and stopping it would be great. From The New York Times: The bill “will grant victims the ability to secure the justice they deserve, allow internet platforms to continue their work combating human trafficking, and protect good actors in the ecosystem,” said Michael Beckerman, president of the Internet Association (Kang). Unfortunately, many of these people think all sex work is trafficking. The proponents are anti porn, anti strip club, and anti sex in general. A few of the Christian groups who support SESTA/FOSTA are so blatantly anti sex to the point that they want to eradicate all sex work. From the World Without Exploitation : “We understand that we won’t end sexual exploitation until we end the demand for prostitution. As long as there is a global sex trade, ours will be an unsafe, unjust world.” Others claim porn and stripping lead to sex trafficking and sex crimes. From Citizen Magazine : Lisa Thompson, liaison for the Abolition of Sexual Trafficking at the Salvation Army, points out the toxic side of porn for the user: “Pornography robs people from the ability to have an intimate, loving and committed relationship with their spouse where they can explore their sexuality within the safety of an exclusive union, because it programs the mind with debase, degrading, brutal and violent ideas about what human sexuality ought to look like. (DeMoss) Stopping trafficking is a good goal, because forced labor is injustice; and victims deserve justice. They deserve legal protections. But these bills are not doing anything to stop trafficking. They are making it easier for trafficking to happen. When avenues for safer ways to work disappear, more marginalized folks are pushed out onto the streets. Repression always leads to greater danger and more male control. More control in the hands of pimps has, historically, led to more trafficking. SESTA/FOSTA "has suddenly re-empowered this whole underclass of pimps and exploiters," according to Pike Long, deputy director of the St. James Infirmary. (Stern) Sex work is work, it is not trafficking. It shouldn’t be criminalized in the first place. Lots of marginalized people do sex work because they can’t or won’t participate in the regular economy. Many people chose sex work because of the higher hourly rates and flexible hours; people who are full time students, single parents, disabled, or have a criminal record. Gutting of social safety net programs always result in more people selling sex. Consensual and nonconsensual sex workers already had a difficult time seeking justice before SESTA/FOSTA. Reporting a rape often meant being arrested for prostitution. Sex work is primarily a cash only business, without sufficient paper trails to show to prospective landlords. Even strippers get discriminated against when trying to find housing, because sex work is seen as a moral failing and a dirty job. If a sex worker wants to find a different job in a more civilian arena, they will be discriminated against due to either a huge gap in employment or because they put it anyways and few bosses want to hire someone with that kind of history. As long as it’s illegal to do sex acts for money, there is a risk of being arrested for having that kind of history. Being arrested means gaining a criminal record, which is another barrier to housing and employment. If one already has housing assistance, being arrested means losing housing assistance. Even when sex workers try to combine forces and work together to stay safer, or when they talk to each other about clients or anything, that kind of communication and camaraderie is illegal due to FOSTA’s criminalization of any internet discussion that “promotes or facilitates prostitution.” Trafficking victims who fight back against their captors or try to get help also get arrested. SESTA/FOSTA hurts way more than it helps. It took away income and pushed workers who had access to harm reduction tools into less safe work environments, increasing their financial insecurity and exposure to violence. Pushing people out of online spaces and into the streets results in a loss of consistent income, which leads to more stress and more trauma and the potential for a loss of housing. Sex workers rights are human rights. SESTA/FOSTA successfully took away the rights of these workers, and the rights of the real victims. As long as these bills are active, more marginalized people will be harmed. As an anti-trafficking package, SESTA/FOSTA fails miserably. As a way to ruin people’s lives, SESTA/FOSTA has been a huge success. But I think that’s actually the point. Anti-trafficking laws have always been put into place so people can harass sex workers. They aren’t trying to stop sex trafficking, they are trying to end all sex work. If they really want to save “victims” then they should give us all a monthly universal basic income so we won’t have to do these jobs that are so publicly reviled. A minimum wage 9-5 isn’t a rescue, it’s a punishment. Works Cited Albert, Kendra, et al. “FOSTA in Legal Context” Columbia Human Rights Law Review . Issue 52.3. 2020-2021. hrlr.law.columbia.edu/files/2021/04/1084_Albert.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Blunt, Danielle and Wolf, Ariel. “Erased The Impact of FOSTA-SESTA” Hacking//Hustling . 2019-2020. hackinghustling.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/HackingHustling-Erased.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Chamberlain, Lura. “FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost” 87 Fordham Law Review 2171. 2019. https://ir.lawnet.fordham.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5598&context=flr COYOTE-RI. “Impact Survey Results” 2018. docs.google.com/presentation/d/1KBsVBQh7EsRexAyZacaf_fUvvsVb2MR1Q30_gV7Je gc/edit#slide=id.p . Accessed 1 March 2022 DeMoss, Bob. “A Sinister – And Growing – Business Model” Citizen Magazine . April 2011. s3.documentcloud.org/documents/4407844/Sinister-Business-Model-apr11cz.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Kang, Cecilia. “In Reversal, Tech Companies Back Sex Trafficking Bill.” The New York Times . November 2017. www.nytimes.com/2017/11/03/technology/sex-trafficking-bill.html Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Oliver, John. “Sex Work” Last Week Tonight with John Oliver . February 27 2022. www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gd8yUptg0Q . Accessed 28 Feb. 2022 Romano, Aja. “A new law intended to curb sex trafficking threatens the future of the internet as we know it.” Vox . July 2018. www.vox.com/culture/2018/4/13/17172762/fosta-sesta-backpage-230-internet-freedom . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Stern, Scott W. "Sex Workers of the World United: LAST YEAR'S SESTA/FOSTA LEGISLATION AIMED TO LIMIT SEX TRAFFICKING-BUT IT'S JUST THE LATEST IN A LONG LINE OF POLICIES DESIGNED TO CRIMINALIZE THE OLDEST PROFESSION." The American Scholar , vol. 88, no. 3, summer 2019, pp. 40+. Gale OneFile: Criminal Justice, go-gale-com.libproxy.pcc.edu/ps/retrieve.do?tabID=T003&resultListType=RESULT_LIS T&searchResultsType=SingleTab&hitCount=1&searchType=BasicSearchForm¤tP osition=1&docId=GALE%7CA589798939&docType=Essay&sort=Relevance&contentS egment=ZCUC&prodId=PPCJ&pageNum=1&contentSet=GALE%7CA589798939&sear chId=R1&userGroupName=pcc&inPS=true . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 World Without Exploitation . 2018. s3.documentcloud.org/documents/4359818/WWE-SESTA-Talking-Points.pdf . Accessed 23 Feb. 2022 Silver Fox (Writer) 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. 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 "Trapped" Morgan Belden Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomsom You knew of 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 cathedral walls, unholy hymns running through your veins, as you screamed for mercy. You wondered at first how dreams of climbing Mount Everest could grow into such a tiring and slow death. Clenching your fist as you held it up high in the sky, and now you couldn’t even see your hands as the snowstorm blanketed your vision. Your hands had been cold ten minutes ago, and now you couldn’t feel anything. Numbness trapped you in like a cocoon, unraveling in glacial metamorphosis with violet fingers. You were dying. The Saints knew it. You knew it. The dreams you cherished to be more than the shadows of giants that came before you, to stand above the rest, were impaled with the frigid blades piercing your ribcage. You resented your younger self, how you’d curl up by the fire with hot chocolate on your lap, covered by a warm blanket. You wish you could dig into your skin as the frost did to yours. You wanted to scream as loudly as the blizzard’s howls. “Give up on your dreams, don’t go to your deathbed. You’ll never stand above those giants. You are nothing, you are small, and that’s okay. Just don’t go there!” But you knew no matter how hard you screamed, how your numbed indigo fingertips dug into your own skin, you’d stay resilient. A fool’s ideology. They’d be different than the rest of the wide-eyed young climbers ready to walk with the giants. That’s what they all say. And now you’d join them, curled into yourself, trying to find warmth when you can’t even feel your own heartbeat. A funeral of dreamers buried in unmarked graves under the ice and snow. The snow would sing an empty lament for you. And you’d take it with saltwater tears streaming down your ashen skin, this was your legacy. To be buried under six feet of ice and snow, to one day be discovered by another hopeful wanderer who had dug a little too deep that night and found your decomposing bones. You wondered as your muscles began to stiffen and your skin began to harden up like wax if you were bound to this linear path as the Saints say. Had fate been so cruel to you that you’d be left to wander through the ice-ridden woodlands in search of glory for eternity? A childhood dream turned nightmare. The rusted skies mixed with the pale plies of cloud felt like an illustration only a few days ago that had filled you with hope and aspiration. You’d seen the peak of your casket before the reapers did and yet you continued on anyways like the hopeless idiot you were, you’d be different, after all. That’s what they all say. You wouldn’t find glory on the mountain. You went alone despite being told not to, you had always been too stubborn to ask for help. Instead, you were met with the cold, harsh reality of it all. The russet and cotton candy skies faded behind a wall of smoke and gray, the soft snow that crushed under the weight of your boot would be your death sentence. You wouldn’t live to see the peak of Everest, and your spirit would be tied to the harsh winds - chained down to the base of the mountain. Not even your ghost would know peace. You knew your time was coming to an end. The Saints wouldn’t answer your prayers. You used the last of your strength to kick the snow off of your jacket, wrapping your arms around your knees and pulling them in. Warmth was a necessity only granted to the dead. Touch felt like a broken man’s desperate prayer. You thought of everything you could be, everything you wouldn’t be. Memories would rewind and unfold with time, brushing against your waxy skin. A part of you wanted to fight, to set yourself and this whole damn mountain ablaze. To burn the giants to the ground, and walk amongst their ashes. But you aren’t a fighter, there was only the abandoned kindling from your camp resting in the ice. You closed your eyes one last time and finally allowed yourself to succumb to the elements. The Everest would welcome you as one of its own. The snowfall would blanket you from the frigid blades, capturing you. A masterpiece frozen to time. 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! 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.

Discovering & Creating Previous Section Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Next Section Experiencing loss and Injustice Finding Strength and Surviving Table of Contents Discovering “Come Away” Poem by Heidi Shepherd Art by Morgan Belden “Experimental Style” Script by Beryl Iverson Art by Angel Lopez “guess what?” Poem by Sydney Ross Art by Morgan Belden “There is Hope, There is Help” Poem by Sydney Ross Art by Miriam Ridout Creating “A Lonely Feat” Non Fiction by Tricia Dahms Art by David Hurley “The Girl who Glowed” Fiction by Morgan Belden Art by Morgan Belden “Ode to the Sandwich” Poem by David Hurley Art by Morgan Belden “Soundless Dance” Script by Beryl Iverson Art by Miriam Ridout “Surrogate” Fiction by Eliza Jones Art by Morgan Belden Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Come Away Heidi Shepherd Where have all the romantics gone? Is there a place for us, A place where our faltering words, our soulful, boundless, gray words fall like rain upon white sheets of murdered trees? I search the manuscripts, the magazines, the blogs, the websites… Is there no more room for the flowers of Pemberley? Does Jane Eyre lay silent in her grave? Do tears still stain the cheeks of the youngling over the torn wing of the butterfly? My heart aches. I search the manderings of the foolhardy, of the complacent, of the modern progressive. Come out come out wherever you are, the followers of silent forest pathways or rain-felled garden stone walkways. Are there any who still hold their breast at the ocean waves, still catch their breath with every crest fall? Is there a place for our words? If so, please tell me. For I long to fill the pages of a handmade leather bound journal to find Ms. Potter laying about the ground conversing with the brown rabbit. To run headlong into another girl such as I, a pencil in her hand, her hair, a notebook tucked away in a pocket, her lips pursed with thoughts needing to be expressed needing to be read, pondered over. Are there any more like us? These gray-pink girls with hearts all a flutter over the white herring which flies over head. Whose eyes water over the trailing wind among the willows, the storming wind searing through the long yellowed grasses of the moors, the dunes. I wonder.. Where are you my fellow lovelies? Do you hide in the libraries surrounded by the words of our elders or within the classrooms of our colleges learning new things, forgetting the old? Come out come out wherever you are, we need you, we need your prudence, your thoughtfulness, your musings and ponderings, your romantic gray-pink words which fall from your lips, your pen like delicate rose petals in death. Come, let us chat over tea, delight in the simplest of things, talk not of politics, of wars, of hate. Let us instead muse over the ants carrying heavy loads, over the flight of the dragonfly, the lit up grasses under a full moon. Let us look to the magnificence of the moon and dream and yearn for quieter days, for laughter, for kinship. Come away with me! Come, let us play as school girls at hopscotch, at tag, let us lay upon quilts upon the lawn, let us read from our favorite passages let us giggle over boyish behaviors, make fun of the arrogance of men, let us be feminine, feisty, and at times full of rage, ff passion. Let us grow old in grace, in wisdom, in love. In kinship. Back to top Experimental Style a script by 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. Back to top 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 following your lead. Back to top “There is Hope, There is Help” Sydney Ross 2,000 miles from home, thick fog covers the dense evergreen tree line. a mix of mud and rain sloshes beneath my feet; a worn trail of footprints has led me here. snow capped mountains linger in the distant skyline overlooking the St. John’s bridge, grand and complex in its towering height above the Willamette river, whose tinted green waters offer an escape from this beautiful place where I feel so alone stranded so far from home. Back to top A Lonely Feat By Tricia Dahms My eyes spring open suddenly, but through my grogginess, I am not sure what woke me. The smell of coffee begins to settle in the room; enticing me from my bed. Where is Derek? He is impossible to wake up in the mornings. I try not to schedule anything too early to avoid having to wake him. I imagine his poor mother’s futile attempts to rouse him for school, her hair turning a little grayer at the start of each day. So where is he now? It’s not yet six am. I roll onto my side and hoist my body upright before stepping heavily onto my swollen feet. The living room is welcoming; he has cleaned it, and the orange walls are glowing in the morning light. The cats are delighted at the activity and stretch their bodies before welcoming me to the couch. “What are you doing?” I ask as I drop my weight heavily onto the pillows. “I dunno. I couldn’t sleep,” he tells me as he smooths down the corner of the throw rug. As I drink my coffee, I start to feel a heat radiate from my lower belly around to my back. Is this what it feels like? This isn’t too bad. The heat is getting more intense now and is accompanied by a tightness that seems to wash over me like ocean waves gently rolling over my toes. It’s thrilling, but the water recedes quickly before approaching again, the force never too overwhelming. Things are shifting now. I open my eyes and find that the waves have overtaken me, and I cannot focus on anything outside of my body. The waves thrash me against the shore again and again, pounding me to sand. I moan as I am again pulled beneath the surface, my mind a captive audience to this animal feat. When did we get in the car? My weight shifts as we round the curve, our bodies changing direction as I fall beneath the surface again. The hallway is brightly lit and the woman behind the desk acts as if she sees this every day. How can people just go on with their lives right now? They take my weight and my temperature and lead me to a darkened room. I want to go in the tub; it seems like that will be more comfortable. I am lonely in here; I wish that someone would come in with me. I wish that I could tell them that, but the battering of the waves is relentless, so I only moan. They chat and snack while I anguish alone. I said that I would do this without drugs. It’s been twelve hours now and the waves are still hammering me alone on this island. I like when the pain makes me vomit, it gives me a break from the constricting pressure. They use a needle to break my water like a too-full balloon. “It’ll speed things along,” they say. Seventeen hours now and they say I need an epidural to keep trying. They say Derek can’t watch because husbands often faint at the sight of the needle. “Rest for a while” they say. The hammering recedes and I rest. I see a shock of curly red hair. A doctor says, “You can’t try anymore. We are prepping you for a C-section”. This is not what I wanted. I weep. They give me oxygen to calm me down. They say they’ll be back in five minutes; “It is what is best for the baby.” They push me through a set of double doors into a room filled with a half dozen people dressed in smocks and masks. It is so bright; I didn’t expect it to be so bright. My arms are strapped down, and I resemble a potbellied crucifix. I look up into Derek’s face and see only his eyes. “You’re okay,” they’re telling me. Derek talks to me, but I cannot hear him. I am scared and the drugs are making my body shake so badly that my teeth are chattering. “It’s normal,” they say. “Adrenaline”. I hear them gasp. “He is huge!” someone says. I hold my breath. Why isn’t he crying? They carry him to the table, and I turn my head to see him. His eyes are closed tightly and a nurse wipes antibiotic over them. She suctions his nose and mouth, and he shrieks in disapproval. I take a breath. “Ten pounds eight ounces,” they say. Back to top The Girl Who Glowed By 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 innocence. We held a pain in our hearts for that girl. Life had been cruel to us, but it did not too heavily impact us since we had held a lower status from the rest of those in our world. However, for her, we suspected, the hardships of life would hold more weight. She was like a beautiful winged angel that had been cast into the darkest pit of the underworld without knowing it yet. We wondered how she carried her head so high, and how she held a smile so radiant. But ultimately, we wondered how long it would last. That day—the first day—she stood at the front of our small and crowded classroom. We waited for her to make her introduction, at the edge of our seats. She began to speak. With a voice as smooth as the finest silk fabric one could find, her words poured out and blanketed us in a luxury we had not yet been accustomed to. We were in awe, staring at her wide-eyed as she cast the most enchanting transcendent glow upon our lifeless auras. When she reached the end, she didn’t just take her seat, she floated to her seat as graciously as a brilliant white cloud does through a blue open sky. Watching her, we almost forgot how glum and grayish our world was. As we came to the realization that with time she, too, would surely become as dull and pathetic as ourselves, we relinquished the hope in our hearts that we so desperately grasped for. Our eyes returned forward. We stared blankly ahead at nothing in particular but the space that laid before us. We had no hopes, interests, desires, or anything else of that sort. We were brought into the world without those, and had been assured that they were nothing more than a waste of time, like everything else. However, deep inside we felt that something was changing. Throughout the following few days, her glow didn’t fade. It remained as lustrous as ever. Weeks passed, and we continued to be awestruck everytime she entered the room and graced us with her presence. As each passing day came and went, she proved our hypothesis incorrect. And eventually, we too started to believe that there was something worth being alive for. Something more than the pain and suffering we knew all too well. We never gained the courage to approach her, though. Her glow was something we feared we would tarnish with our touch, but words could not describe the hunger we felt to be a part of her world of bliss that only she existed within. One day, after school had been let out, we observed her as she left the grounds. When she walked through the shriveled and dried out garden that was out in front of the foyeur, she crouched down and observed a wilted flower. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, revealing her concerned facial expression to us as we watched from afar. We started to see her begin speaking to the flower that was bent to its side, on the brink of death. We could not tell what she said to it, as we were too far away to hear her or make out the words. Her expression shifted, and, smiling now, she reached out her hand towards the flower. Upon contact, the flower seemed to glow, we were certain, and next thing we knew, it began to stand up tall once more. It was like she had transferred her own life force into the plant itself, sacrificing a piece of her own being for something so pitiful as an old, dying flower. It’s petals gained a color so vividly red we could see it from where we had been watching. She stood back up, seeming pleased with how the flower had responded, and walked off into the distance. Once she was out of sight, we rushed over to the flower to get a look at what she had done. We asked ourselves if it could’ve been magic, but no—could it have been? Was magic real? Until now, magic had been an interest or possibility that was unattainable, something that existed only outside of our reality. But now, we weren’t so sure. The following day, we noticed a change in her radiance. Her glow didn’t seem to hold the same strength as it had the day before. She acted the same as she had, engaged and confident, so we thought nothing much of it. It was not until a few days later that we started to worry. Her glow had significantly diminished. We thought maybe she was sick, but also, maybe she was just becoming dull like us after all. Besides her own change, we started to notice parts of our town that were now colorful and alive that were once gray and dilapidated. We were confused on how the town could’ve become so lively. It didn’t click until we remembered that exchange between her and the flower. She must have had something to do with the developments of the town, but we didn’t understand why it had taken us so long to notice. Then came the final day. The bell rang, signifying the time for class to begin, but instead of remaining in her seat, she stood up tall. With her glow only remaining in her hopeful eyes, and with her dress wrinkled and fraying, we watched her make her way to the front. She walked slowly, and we listened to each step she took toward the podium. When she reached it, she stepped up onto the stool and faced us. “Hello, it has been some time since I stood before you to speak. Unlike last time, I must say my goodbye. You were so wonderful to be around, and I have cherished my time here with you, but I have stayed far longer than I was supposed to. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother. Thank you for having me.” With that being said, she smiled at us with her eyes closed. Then she turned towards the door and left. We didn’t stop her. In fact, we didn’t say a word. We just watched her in awe for one last time. Though she was gone, we carried her in our hearts until their last beat. As we grew old, we had our memories of her to look back on. To this day, we believe it was her who blessed our empty world with all she had to give and all she was to be. Bringing us new life, and a chance to live happily. Back to top Ode to the sandwich by 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. Back to top Soundless Dance A script by Beryl Iverson Int. The author's home office THE AUTHOR, a young woman in her late twenties with messy hair wearing sweats, leans over her notebook writing. Her office is filled with browns and grays. She suddenly stops her writing. Crossing her arms, she sighs and leans back in her chair looking at her project. Flipping empty pages, twirling her pen, scratching her head. All symptoms of her growing frustration until she eventually puts her head down in defeat. Her orange cat paws her to get her attention. Once she sits up the cat jumps into her lap. He rubs his face on her and meows. The author laughs and pets her pet before leaning back and closing her eyes. Int. Ballroom The author opens her eyes to a beautiful colorful ballroom. There are decorations everywhere, glitter seems to infect her eyes. Panicking, she looks around trying to find something she knows. To the right are people staring at her and whispering. To the left are balconies with wind flowing in onto ornate ballroom dancers. The eyes of the strangers fill the author's head in this unfamiliar landscape. Behind her is a door, she chooses to run to it as an escape. Int./EXT. Palace halls The author runs through the halls of the grand palace. Occasionally she runs past a person who looks at her strangely. Sometimes she runs past doors with warm light pouring out. She pays no mind to her big dress that is clearly holding her down. Finally she finds a stained glass window. She looks into the glass to see her reflection multiple times over in different colors. She's No longer messy haired or disheveled in any way, instead her hair is pulled into an elegant braid with jewels running along it and she wears a gorgeous green and black gown adorned in pearls. As she looks in amazement at her beautiful appearance, sparkles begin to accumulate next to her. Finally the sparkles catch her attention and she looks over to see THE PRINCE. He is clean shaved and has part of his hair slicked back. He wears blue and white with gold thread and a long cape. The author looks stunned at this prince suddenly appearing next to her. She opens her mouth to speak, but the prince cuts her off by offering her his hand. Unsure of what to do, the author reaches her hand out and takes the prince's hand. She blinks. Ext. Moonlight garden The prince and the author are dancing under the full moon beside a lake. Rose bushes and lilies adorn the outside of this picturesque clearing. The author looks around in shock as they dance. A glance back at the prince reveals that he only has eyes for her, but doesn't say anything. He looks through her with a simple smile and loving look on his face. Ext. Rooftop A sudden jump to the roof startles the author. Struggling to keep her footing she begins to panic. There is nothing but the stars around them as they dance on what seems like an impossible surface. The author brings her eyes back to the prince after he stops her from falling. She opens her mouth and attempts to speak, but no words come out. The author furrows her brow at her predicament. She tries speaking once again to no avail. Int. BALLROOM Another sudden jump brings the two back to the ballroom which fills the author's senses with bright light, glitter, and vibrant colors. There's a circle around the two dancers as everyone stares at them. Realizing she's stuck in this dance she attempts to speak to the prince more urgently, but once again no words come out. She tries a few more times as tears fill up her frustrated eyes. The prince continues to just smile at her without a word. The author looks around once more at the still extras in the ballroom, but someone catches her eyes. THE HEROINE is standing on the side. She's dressed in a blue and white ballgown with lilies in her half up hair. Unlike the extras who simply stare, she looks only at the prince with love in her eyes. The author takes a deep breath and attempts to yell. STOP No sound is made, yet the word Appears out of her mouth as writing. The sound of the ballroom stops, the glittering light stills, and the prince is frozen in place. The author pants as she looks at the prince and releases herself from his embrace. She walks over to the heroine who is now standing as still as everything else is in the ballroom. The author grabs the heroine's hands causing her to blink and look around. Leading the heroine over to the prince, the author sets the heroine up in the position she was in only a short while ago. The author walks back to where the heroine was standing as the heroine watches her. She motions for the heroine to look at the prince. The heroine looks slowly towards the prince before falling back into her loving gaze. The author smiles and takes a deep breath before attempting to speak. Now, fall in love. Once again the words appear as writing out of the author's mouth instead of being heard. The ballroom begins again. Now the extras whisper to each other and drink punch. The prince looks surprised at his new dance partner before chuckling back into a smile. The heroine closes her eyes and beams at her prince. The author stands on the side and smiles while watching her two characters fall in love. A waiter comes by and offers the author a drink which she takes. When she turns back she sees the prince offer the heroine a drink as he takes two from a waiter. The heroine happily accepts and laughs before taking a sip. The two lovebirds laugh as they walk towards the balcony, deep in conversation too far away to hear. The author smiles as she takes a sip from her own drink. Finally calm, she looks around the ballroom, seeing people enjoying themselves in dance, drinking, talking, and all kinds of other ballroom activities. The author takes one more deep breath before closing her eyes. Int. The author's living room The author awakes on her couch. The room is dark except for the bright orange and red light coming in through the window. The cat sleeps next to the owner and her notebook is open on her messy coffee table with a full cup of coffee next to it. The orange light shines directly onto the notebook. "Just fall in love." is written in the notebook. The author smiles as she picks up her cat. Giving the cat kisses as she leaves her living room into her kitchen. The words on the notebook shine blue as the wind closes the notebook. Back to top Surrogate By Eliza Jones The walls of the cave were red stone, smooth and barren. The ground was slanted, stretching down into a darkness the sunlight couldn’t penetrate. Yimha held out her torch, took a deep breath, and then began to walk. Lotok followed a step behind, glancing at the walls like they would close in around them at any moment. “May I ask…You said only children come here. Why?” Her voice echoed in the empty space. Yimha weighed her words. “This place is…in your language, I think I would call it sacred. Children come here on their first voyages.” The sand shifted under their feet, growing more sparse as they traveled down into the earth. Lotok looked around, no doubt trying to see how such a lifeless place could be sacred. “It was the home of the Mother River,” explained Yimha. “Thousands of years ago, it carried my people to the valley. It tunneled through the earth with persistence and strength, and taught us to do the same.” The torchlight flickered, the only motion in the stale air. “It’s gone now,” she said, “but we are still its people.” Lotok looked at her in awe. “Mother River,” she said softly. “That is why you call yourselves River Children! I always thought it was a mistake in translation.” Yimha smiled and shook her head. “No,” she said. “It is our history. This is our valley, even if it is now desert. It is our home even if it is changed. It is said that when voyagers enter this place, they can feel the Mother’s echo.” Yimha had grown up on the voyagers’ tales. They said Mother pushed them, guided them to its heart just like the waters of old. Its hand once sustained and carried this valley, and it still did so for all who knew its history. Mother River flowed through all its Children, like a song never to be forgotten. “Did you voyage here?” asked Lotok. Yimha stumbled, nearly dropping the torch. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet from the trek here, like she was a kid again, traveling through her first dry season on the surface. “No,” she said, regaining her footing. “Voyagers must carry the River in their blood. When I was banished, I was renounced from my bloodline, and thus stripped of the chance to carry the title.” That seemed to stun Lotok into silence. Yimha’s banishment was clearly marked on her neck, but she supposed gauging the age of scars would be a rather useless skill for a highborn to learn. The sand was gone completely now. The bare stone was cool under the wrappings meant to protect her cracked and bleeding feet. They were deep beneath the ground now, the air chill but no less dry than that heated by the sun. It pricked the back of Yimha’s throat and pulled at her skin. “Do your people have places like this?” she asked, wanting suddenly to fill this empty air. “Places sacred to you?” “Not sacred,” Lotok said, “but special, yes. At Kolewott’s base is the Spirit Gardens. On the solstice, those who wish to commune join together and make the trek down.” “Commune,” Yimha repeated. “I don’t know this word.” “Commune is…like communicate,” Lotok said. “Communicate. Do you hear it?” “Communicate,” Yimha repeated, rolling the word on her tongue. “So it is a way of talking?” “Not exactly. Talking is what you do with someone standing in front of you. A spirit attached to you, appearing to you in visible form, you might talk to. Communing is for those spirits who have already left the mountain. We don’t commune through words.” Yimha watched Lotok out of the corner of her eye. She knew the people of the mountain were spiritual in a way that went beyond religion or culture. It was said that Kolewott showed them things unknowable to anyone else. That they could see the dead made flesh and bone again. “Have you ever had a spirit attach to you?” she asked. “No,” said Lotok. “But I know people who have. Parents staying to guard their children, friends not ready to say goodbyes…Eventually, they all make the journey down, but there is no harm in lingering. It means you loved the life you were given.” Yimha considered this. “And when they leave the mountain?” she asked. “Where do they go then?” “I don’t know,” Lotok said. “No one does, except the spirits who are ready, I suppose.” “It’s like a voyage, then,” said Yimha. “Leaving home to go where you are led.” Lotok smiled. “Yes. I suppose it is.” The path before them branched into two, each dark and foreboding. Yimha knew one would lead through the Mother River’s heart and out the other side. The other, she couldn’t say. She didn’t know how it worked for voyagers. Was she supposed to notice some small difference between the two tunnels? Or should she hear something calling out to her, beckoning her home? “Wait,” said Lotok, holding out her hand. “Do you feel that?” Yimha stilled, holding her breath for a moment. She turned her focus inward, to her own body. She became aware of the painful dryness in her throat, the way the bare skin of her arms itched from the lack of moisture, the fact that her feet had finally gone completely numb. Yimha let out the breath. “No,” she said finally. Lotok took a step forward. “It’s like…movement.” Yimha raised her torch, illuminating the same stagnant walls as before. Lotok approached the entrance to the left passage and stopped again, looking up to the ceiling. “It’s this way,” she said. She strode forward confidently, quickly leaving the radius of torchlight and forcing Yimha to scramble after her. When the tunnel branched again, Lotok made the choice without pause. Suddenly, she gasped, whipping her head around to look at something not there. She began to run. Yimha followed, desperate not to lose her in the maze of winding tunnels. “Lotok!” she cried. She could hear laughter bouncing off the unforgiving walls. Yimha was quickly becoming afraid. Her unfeeling feet hit a groove in the stone floor, and she fell forward. Her chin hit the ground hard, cracking her teeth together and sending vibrations up and down her skull. The torch flew forward and landed before her, illuminating a yawning cavern, stretching up and around like an open fist. Yimha pressed her cheek to the cold, unfeeling stone. Her body ached. She tasted blood in her mouth. The air pressed in, leeching the moisture from her veins. She fought the urge to cry. For the first time in years, she felt utterly forsaken. Then came again the laughter. Yimha froze. She looked up once more, and there was Lotok. She was dancing. She leapt about the open space of the cavern, her movements casting distorted shadows on the far walls. She was the only motion in the deadened place. “It’s here!” she cried, laughter still in her voice. “I understand now! It’s still here! The parent guarding its children, watching over its home! It’s still here!” She rushed over and pulled Yimha to her feet, still laughing. “Yimha, do you see this?” she said. “Do you feel it?” Yimha leaned on her shoulder and stared up at the stone walls, the dry desert air. The heart of her valley, the birthright of her people, the ghost of her beautiful Mother. She could feel nothing at all. Back to top Anchor 1 Anchor 2 Anchor 3 Anchor 4 Anchor 5 Anchor 6 Anchor 7 Anchor 8 Anchor 9 Anchor 10 Anchor 12 Anchor 11

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