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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

Click to enlarge "The Sparkle of Ramona Falls " David Hurley What it Takes to Live Ian Rule Arthur Arthur took a calming breath and raised the pistol to his head. Candles cast a soft light, filling his living room with a mockingly gentle atmosphere. If it weren’t for the disturbing sounds coming from every direction, it would be easy to relax in the warm embrace of this summer night. Cries for help and heart wrenching calls for mercy gave voice to the false sense of peace. Arthur's sight drifted over to the dead television, and he was momentarily taken aback by his haggard reflection. He briefly thought it would be nice if the flat screen worked, so he could drown out the horrors of the night. Maybe play something funny, like Family Guy or Whose Line is it Anyway? , maybe even one of Sammy’s favorite Disney movies. Anything to push him, so he could get to the business of ending this horror movie turned life. “No,” he muttered. Why should he have it easier than everyone else? The thoughts sickened him, yet they kept hammering away at his broken mind. You don’t deserve to have a happy ending. No one else will, not Sammy, or Jackie. You will die facing the truth, not the lies you have always lived. The truth is lying at your feet, still warm, yet very much dead. The reality is they got it easy, it's the living who truly pay. This shouldn’t be happening. The words ran through Arthur's head over and over again, in an insane jumble of mental pictures and thoughts. The sickness wasn’t here, the town had taken precautions. Only the cities had fallen, God damn it! How had his beloved family become ill? Shaking his head in a vain attempt to banish the images and thoughts, his hand pressed the barrel hard against his ear. The pain briefly cleared his mind. His eyes left the twisted visage of himself and settled on the two bodies lovingly laid side by side in the middle of the room. “I am so sorry,” Arthur’s voice little more than a breathy sigh. “I should have done more, but hopefully I can catch up to you before you get too far.” The finger began to squeeze. A deafening shriek of metal and splintering wood from outside jerked his finger to a stop. Two more massive crashes filled the night. Before the echos had faded, a new sound blasted through the neighborhood. Shock and confusion froze him as the new sound finally broke through his mental barriers. Music. The lyrics were deafening, and the accompanying instruments seemed to shake the house. Unable to fight his curiosity, Arthur lowered the pistol and pushed himself up out of the chair. His legs unsteady, he made his way to the front door and opened it. Total chaos greeted him as he took in the spectacle in the streets. Smoke drifted across the neighborhood, smelling of plastic and cooking meat. Light blazed from the direction of the mountain pass, which was the only access to the town of Greenswick. The music was also coming from there. Other light sources were sweeping through the streets, cutting through the haze in strobe light fashion. These were held by groups of people who appeared to be attacking the rampaging infected with guns and hand weapons, stopping to rescue the few uninfected out in the night. Despite the actions Greenswick had taken, the rabies virus had made its way here. The music smothered everything, and combined with the light, actually seemed to distract the feral beasts from their assault on the healthy. Arthur was incapable of understanding what was happening, and stood on his porch in open-mouthed astonishment. His sudden arrival, unfortunately, attracted the attention of a group of the sick, and they started to climb the steps of his house. Arthur stumbled back with an unheard cry, but his legs tangled, dropping him on his ass. Before the monsters could make it up the stairs, a dark shape leaped into the group with slashing weapons. In a matter of moments the pack was down, and the figure nodded to Arthur before racing off into another pack of infected. Arthur lay there, trying to catch his breath. The insanely loud sounds of Pat Banatar’s “Invincible,” robbing him of the ability to grasp what was going on. This is not happening, his mind kept saying, before continuing on. Am I dead? Or did I finally snap all the way? After all, how else could I have just been saved by Batman? Kyle “You want to tell me what’s going on out there?” Kyle didn’t take his eyes away from the battle down in the streets of Greenswick as he addressed the man next to him. The smoke cut down on visibility, but his vantage point allowed a clear enough view of the fighting below. His voice was mildly exasperated, yet friendly. The two of them stood on top of a massive dump truck turned battle wagon. The dump truck had been picked up on their long and costly retreat from the city. Nothing had remained of civilization as they had trekked across the burned and vacant towns on what may have been a fool's errand. What few people they had come upon had readily agreed to join their seemingly hopeless search for somewhere safe and clean. With nothing but fumes left in the gas tanks, they had reached the edge of the mountain range and the quiet one-horse town of Greenswick. It was here that they would remain, for better or worse. Unfortunately, the infection had beaten them here. But the town hadn’t fallen yet, and Captain Kyle Richards aimed to keep it that way. He’d had plenty of time to work on strategies to combat the diseased monsters. Terrible and deadly though they may be, the infected had little in the way of mental prowess. As long as his soldiers and these civilians fought the rising panic, human ingenuity would and could prevail. The battle for Greenswick would be the crucible that either turned the tide or drowned them all. They both wore sound-suppressing headsets with microphones, which let them hear each other over the blaring sounds of music. The music was one of Kyle's ideas; having noticed that sound was one of the main ways that the infected tracked their victims, he had begun to experiment with ways to rob them of that sense. Creating something that would overpower every other sound was the easiest way. Mixing that with several high powered spotlights at different points caused the unthinking beasts great difficulties focusing on any one target. This was the first time they were using the new tactics, and as they watched the unfolding battle, it appeared to be quite effective. It wasn’t enough, though, to just remove the use of sound. Kyle wanted something that would also give heart to the fighting women and men. Having always loved how music could give inspiration, Kyle figured the emotionally charged songs of the eighties would be perfect for the trial run. In his opinion, nothing fit better than Pat Benatar’s “Invincible,” with its do-or-die lyrics and strong instrumentals. Plus, he fucking loved this song. The two men looked like they could have been brothers. Both were average to the point of improbability. Everything about them was normal: their height, build, facial features, and casual stance. Even the color of their hair and eyes were a basic brown. Nothing about them would stand out in a crowd, and both were perfectly happy with that fact. "I would say," the pause was slight, but noticeable as Kyle's companion searched for words, "our boys are handling the situation rather well.” “Humm.” Lowering his binoculars, Kyle turned to his friend and subordinate, eyes gleaming in the powerful light behind them. “Really, John? You don’t see anything that may strike you as odd?” “Well. I, um,” John responded hesitantly, “may have overheard the men talking about an idea to give hope to the surviving towns folk. I hadn’t stayed to hear what they had planned though.” John finished in a mumble, deliberately not looking at his superior as he answered. “So, you’re telling me that you knew nothing about this?” The humor in Kyle’s voice gave lie to the seriousness that he tried to convey. “Fucking Batman? Who the hell is that, and how did they manage it?” “That would be Marcus, sir. He modified his riot gear with a costume found at our last stop.” John finally looked over at Kyle, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Apparently he figured people seeing a superhero fighting for them might lessen the terror of their situation.” Kyle gave John one last long look then turned back to the clearing of Greenswick. “Well, it does seem to be working. I’m just not sure it fits with the music,” he said with a chuckle. Arthur The next days were a blur to Arthur, as his mind slowly righted itself. A makeshift triage area had been set up in the center of town. At first it was packed beyond belief, but as injuries were cataloged and houses cleared, it slowly emptied out. By the second day Arthur was one of the last in the massive tent. He had been approached multiple times in attempts to relocate him. Every time, he just ignored them as he tried to come to terms with the horrors of this new world. All throughout the time he was in that dark funk, soft music played over a portable speaker system. The songs were varied, but all were from the eighties, with lyrics made to capture the heart and minds of those listening. Arthur grew to hate the uplifting and impassioned shit, and it was that festering anger as much as anything that finally drove him to rejoin the living and leave the temporary hospital. When he ventured out into the still recovering town he found that the inhabitants of Greenswick and their new friends had been busy. Groups were everywhere, clearing wreckage and cleaning the streets and walls. Bullet shells and broken glass had been swept up into piles on every street he passed. Scorch marks and blood decorated shop fronts, their lingering stench still heavy in the air. As he walked, he heard the people talking about the battle and aftermath. The purifying of Greenswick had taken somewhere around 48 hours before it had been assured there were no more infected. While the hunt was going on, groups of both towns folk and the newly arrived soldiers began the sad process of counting and disposing of the dead. Over four hundred souls had been lost, nearly a quarter of the population. When Arthur finally arrived at his house, he found a large red X had been spray painted on the partially open door. Anger and fear warred within him as he made his way up the steps. With shaking hands, Arthur pushed the door fully open and stood there looking into his home of over 20 years. The living room spread out beyond a small entryway. The open floor plan gave a clear view of the room from where he stood at the front door. Muddy tracks crisscrossed the white carpet heading off into the rest of the house. The bodies of his wife and child were gone. The only sign they had been there was the large burgundy stain in the middle of the room. For a little bit, the anger surged back with the absence of his family. How dare these people come into his home and take his loved ones? The anger faded as the feeling of hopelessness settled back. Tears streaking his face, Arthur turned and left the place that would never be his home again. In a daze of loss and anger, he began walking towards the closest group of busy people. As he approached, he could hear them talking about what had happened. Speculating on how the infection had gotten here and what was happening in the rest of the country. When he had asked what had been done with the dead, he was told a massive grave had been dug at the highschool field. The staggering amount of casualties made it impossible to give each victim a private grave. He was assured a fitting marker was being made with all the names of the dead, so no one would be forgotten. The anger that he felt was joined by soul crushing grief. They mixed and began to grow at the thought of his precious wife and daughter laying in some giant hole. They deserved so much better than that. To be discarded like a piece of trash in a landfill sickened him. How dare these people toss his loved ones away, marking it with a stupid plaque and calling it good! Everywhere he looked, people were going about the business of rebuilding the town. A few recognized him and called out greetings or asked him how he was doing. “Dr. Sanders! God, am I glad you made it!” “Dr. Sanders, how are you? I was so worried when I saw you at the hospital tent.” Arthur paid them no mind as he made his way to the high school. His hands kept curling into fists and his jaw was clamped so hard it felt like he might break a tooth. Every greeting sent a new pulse of rage through his psyche. Over it all, the cursed music played softly from randomly placed speaker stands. A torrent of black thoughts filled him, threatening to send him over the edge as he fled down the street. When he got to the field, the grief and rage blinded him to the large crowd of grieving people already there. Staggering to the edge of the freshly piled dirt, Arthur fell to his knees and wept in bitter anguish, all anger leaving him. Yet this offered no release, and he wished only for death. Kyle Kyle sat behind the high school principal's desk. Other than clearing the desk, he had left the room as it had been. Pictures and certificates hung on the wall. Reminders of happier times, times that may never come again. Kyle turned and gazed out the large window overlooking the field where so many now lay buried. Memories of life before the outbreak drifted through his mind, and he didn’t fight them, even though there could be only one outcome to this line of thought. It had been late December and bitterly cold. Kids were out for winter vacation and the stores were swelling with Christmas shoppers. The world had just started to get some kind of normal back after the craziness of the last couple of years, an almost tangible feeling of excitement thick in the air. Laughter and good cheer marking the return of hope, giving Christmas a joy absent for too long. All that was swept away in an orgy of blood and death with the biological attacks. As far as he knew it was never found who released the new and improved rabies virus. Hundreds of malls across the US had been exposed, making the perfect vector to infect millions. The country was mortally wounded within days. Kyle shook his head in a vain attempt to dispel these thoughts. Can we get that back? The question reverberated within. Is there any way to rebuild from this nightmare? One of the reasons he kept all the nicknacks of the previous occupant was to remind him of what they were fighting for. But memories were a two edged sword. What empowers a person to fight all the harder can just as easily cripple them and leave them wishing for death. That, thought Kyle, was the real enemy: lack of the will to survive. The unit had chosen the school as their temporary headquarters, since it was large and unused. No one in the town had voiced any objection. Not only was it available, but it helped to keep his people separate from the townies. Until they fully accepted the unit, it was best to give them their space. His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. Kyle turned back from the window to face the entryway. Lifting a pack of Camel cigarettes, Kyle took one out and lit it. He would miss smoking when there were no more. Knowing they were a terrible habit did little to hinder his desire for the little bastards. “Come in.” Small puffs of smoke chased his words from his mouth. “I got those numbers you wanted. They're as bad as you thought.” John spoke as soon as he had opened the door, never being one to beat around the bush. He continued as he approached the desk and sat in the chair facing Kyle. “Somewhere around a quarter of the population died in the outbreak. It seems the epicenter was the church, as the first reports came from that area, and well, we found something in the basement.” Anger flashed in John’s eyes at this last part. Kyle could understand the feeling. Before arriving here, before they were even a unit, they had fought to save the city where they lived. During the battles to save the city, a lot of the devout hadn’t taken the outbreak well. Either embracing the pandemic as proof of the end times, or using it as an excuse to kill the infidels. Both of which just added to the death toll, either by spreading it, or mass slaughter. “What did you find?” Kyle asked in a monotone voice. “Infected. Tied to chairs and bled out.” John could barely control the rage. “The fuckers probibly tainted the communion wine, or maybe the holy water at the entrance. We will never know for sure—most of the congregation is laying in that grave behind you.” “Shit! How many in the town know about this?” His own rage burned in his gut. “At this time, I don’t think anyone knows for sure.” The heat in his eyes had faded, leaving the same tired and stressed look that everyone had now. “Clean it as well as you can. I think it would be best if this stayed with the unit.” The need for secrets did not sit well, but what other option was there? “That’s what I figured, I already got the ball rolling.” “What the fuck are we going to do? The ferals are only part of the problem. If we can’t give people hope, then the suicide rate will only continue to climb.” Kyle put out his smoke; it wasn’t helping anymore and he didn’t want to waste it. “I’ve been thinking about that,” John gave his commanding officer a serious look. “First off, your crazy idea about the music did some real good. Not only did it work distracting the ferals, it actually did give heart to the survivors.” A smile lit up John’s dour face as he continued. “Not only that, Marcus’ hairbrained idea was so shocking, people are still talking about it. How they had joined the Justice League when they battled alongside The Batman. He’s an honest to God hero to the civilians. “All in all, considering what Greenswick has just gone through, the morale couldn’t be higher.” John paused to pull out a paper and looked at it. “We also have word that a full blown psychiatrist lives in town and has survived. The medics told me that he left the field hospital. We are looking for him now. “No shit! That’s amazing!” Kyle tried not to let the hope from this news get too high. “With his help, we might be able to stop the inevitable collapse in morale. This sense of victory will fade and the reality of our situation will come crashing back with a vengeance.” Sitting up straighter, Kyle spoke. “We need this doctor, John. I want you to use whatever is needed to find this man and bring him to me. ASAP.” “Yes, sir!” With that, John stood up, turned and left, closing the door behind him. Thoughts raced through the officer's mind. Maybe it was a false hope, but at this point any hope counted. If there could be a chance to fight the despair and hopelessness that killed so many, he must take it. Anything to stop a repeat of the tragedy that had befallen the city and forced their exodus. Arthur Arthur had no idea how long he had been laying at the burial site when the gentle shaking roused him from his stupor. After wailing in anguish, he had curled up into a ball and just checked out, his mind taking him to a happy place where everyone was still alive and the world didn’t suck quite so much. The shaking was accompanied by a quiet voice calling his name. As he became aware of his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was how cold and wet he was. He struggled to sit up with a body that didn’t want to obey, and he noticed rain falling on his chilled skin. “Dr. Sanders? Dr. Arthur Sanders? Can you hear me?” Raising his head, Arthur saw a soldier looking down at him, his arm out to give another little shake. The man’s voice was filled with compassion and his eyes conveyed an honest worry. Arthur stared blankly at him, still trying to process the situation. When the man’s hand reached out to him again, Arthur raised his own to ward it off. Getting the message, the man withdrew his hand and stood up. “I am sorry for your loss, Doctor. I truly am, but we need to talk with you. My name is Lt. John Forman, but you can call me John. Would you be able to come with me?” The soldier’s face wore a serious expression, but again his tone was one of understanding and sympathy. Arthur supposed that most likely everyone had suffered similar horrors in this new and terrible world. This thought caused his own grief to flood back in, momentarily blanking his mind and glazing his eyes. “Stay with me, Doctor.” John’s soft voice reached through the pain, and brought him back to the present. He opened his mouth to answer the man, but only a dry croak came out. He coughed and cleared his throat before trying again. “I… I would like to be left alone.” The lifelessness of his voice matched the haunted look in his eyes. “I understand, Doctor. I really do, but it is paramount that we speak with you. Let me help you up and get you something warm to eat and wear.” With this, John thrust out his hand again. Despite the desire to be alone, the real emotion in John’s voice, mixed with the physical discomfort he was feeling, forced Arthur to take the hand and get to his feet. Looking down, Arhtur saw he was soaked and muddy. A lifetime of presenting a professional image won out and he mumbled an agreement. “Thank you Dr. Sanders. Just follow me. We’ll go to the school locker room first, then something to eat,” John politely stated, then turned and began walking. Thirty minutes later, John led Arthur into the waiting room outside the principal's office and asked him to take a seat. He knocked quietly on the door, received a muffled reply and slipped inside, leaving Arthur alone with his misery. Though Arthur was now clean and warm, his insides felt cold and dead. Thoughts as black as a cloud-covered night swirled within him. What was he doing here? For that matter, what were any of them doing here? There wasn’t any point in “carrying on” as John had said while they were getting food. Hopelessness consumed him, leaving nothing but pain and anger. He began to stand up in order to leave, having decided to go back to his house and finish what the arrival of the soldier had interrupted. Wishing nothing more than to end this travesty of life. The door opened and John came out. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The Captain would like to talk with you, Doctor.” The simple, polite quality of John's words caused Arthur to change his mind and see what this was all about. Stepping into the office, he was surprised to see that it looked just like what he would imagine a school official’s work space to look like. The small part of his mind that wasn’t frozen in despair had assumed that this Captain would have turned it into some kind of war room. A man sat behind the desk, striking in his similarity to John, almost as if they were twins. Even the look of humanity and compassion were matched. “Come in, Doctor.” The man’s voice was calm and professional, but not uncaring. “I truly wish we were meeting under other circumstances. Yet, I can think of no one else that I would rather meet in this tragic time.” What little emotion that laced the words were ones of honesty and weariness. “Please have a seat. I have much I need to talk with you about, and time grows short.” Taking a seat, Arthur found the man’s eyes compelled him to look at them. It had been days since he had looked someone in the eyes and surprisingly, it pushed the crushing grief and simmering anger back just a little. “My name is Captain Kyle Richards. I am the leader of the unit that, combined with the heroism of its citizens, defended Greenswick. We have been on the move, looking for a place that hasn’t fallen to the sickness which has destroyed so much of our country.” The man’s piercing eyes held a conviction burdened with tiredness that chipped a little bit more at Arthur’s self-imposed emotional isolation. “I am deeply saddened by your own personal loss, Doctor. I fear that few out there have not been devastated by this virus. It is because of your and everyone else's loss that I desperately need your help.” Kyle leaned forward now, his eyes flashing with intensity. “I’ll be blunt, as I think you have no wish for sugary words. The nightmare we now live in may never end. Even if it can, it will not for a very long time.” Hearing these words from the man behind the desk did little to impact his already defeated spirit. None of this was a surprise to Arthur, not anymore. His naivety about this new world died the second he pulled the trigger on his wife and daughter. Hope lay buried in a mass grave with most of the people he knew and cared for. The only things he had left inside were despair and a muted anger. The words just cemented this position. The soldier continued, “Holding our own against the infected is just not enough. The will to live is dying, and without the will to go on, we can never win.” Sorrow and a trace of fear infused Kyle's voice. “At the beginning, we were in the city. The fighting was beyond description, no one knew what was happening. Just that huge numbers of people had gone mad, attacking everyone in sight.” Arthur couldn’t help but listen, drawn in by the naked emotion. “Through the sacrifice of countless men and women, a section of the city was successfully secured from the infected. Plans were being made to expand the area and for the first time in days, people were able to relax their guard. “While those who were able to fight stayed at the barriers, a different kind of sickness had taken the survivors. A sickness of the spirit. Unknown to us at the walls, the population had begun to give in to despair, and mass suicides and murders decimated those we had tried to protect.” Kyle visibly shuddered. “The fall of the city did not happen at the hands of the ferrals. It happened at the bottom of a pill bottle, or the end of a rope.” Arthur saw pain in the man’s eyes that he knew mirrored his own. This revelation finally cut through Arthur’s mental block, breaking down his walls of grief. In its place the anger surged forward, and he felt his face flush with heat. “Why the fuck are you telling me this shit?!” His voice was low and venomous. Kyle flinched back as if struck. Shock covering his face, he asked. “What?” “I said, why are you telling me this shit?! Why should I give a flying fuck about anyone else, when I have nothing!” The anger now filled him completely, the sorrow and hopelessness driven down deep within him. Spitle flying, Arthur continued. “You come into our town like some kind of gift from God. Music blasting, lights blazing, and fucking idiots in costumes. Gunning and hacking down our loved ones in a Hollywood orgy of violence.” Hate, so strong he could taste it, poured out with his words. “Now you want me to help you? Maybe pity you? Feel sorry for your fucking loss? Well, welcome to the shit show crowd! Your precious city actually got something right for a change. There is no fucking point! There never was, life has always been a lie!” A cold steel gaze met the doctor’s wide, frenzied look. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” It was Arthur’s turn to be stunned with shock. “Are you done, Doctor?” The gaze, if anything, got even more intense. “Yes, Doctor, I need your help. More to the point, I think we can help each other.” Confusion battled the rage as he attempted to process what was just said. “You see Arthur—may I call you Arthur? I wonder if you even heard yourself just now. You claim it has always been a lie—life, that is. You said that with a great amount of passion too.” Kyle’s eyes never wavered from Arthur’s, but the tone changed back to one of calm discussion. “I just wonder why you call out other people, when you are guilty of the same thing? I would think that finding another charlatan would give justification to your own deceit.” Kyle paused to light up a cigarette, then spoke again. “That is neither here nor there, though. What I need from you, and what I can give you, is a reason to continue this shit show of a life. As you so elegantly called it.” Smoke swirled around the space in between them, not unlike the thoughts in Arthur’s mind. “I need people to have emotional motivation. I don’t really care at this point what kind of emotion fuels them, just that it is strong enough to keep them in the fight.” Kyle took another drag and pointed at him. “What you are feeling now, judging by the fire in your eyes, is rage. What you haven’t realized is, there is no room for doubt or hopelessness while that rage fills you. You have a reason to keep going now. A mission, so to speak.” This sent a shiver through Arthur and his rage faltered, the inferno dampening, the snarl easing from his face. Leaning back, Kyle gave Arthur a questioning look as he continued to smoke. “When we came here, I needed something to jump start that emotional response in both your town and my soldiers. I needed passion, heart and soul. Otherwise there would be no chance at a real victory.” Shrugging his shoulders and flashing a sheepish grin as he spoke. “The music I chose and the conduct of one of my men gave that to everyone. Killing the infected isn’t hard. It's the aftermath that is hard. I did my best to give those tools to the people.” Kyle leaned forward suddenly, snubbing out his smoke. “I am not a psychiatrist, I just threw the dice and got a lucky number seven. I may not be able to do that again. Luck is a fickle bitch. But you, Doctor, by your own words, have always peddled lies. With your help, maybe we can make the lie a reality. Or at least as much as it ever was.” Arthur just stared at the man, his mind, desperate to hold on to anything, latched on to the diminishing anger. “You are putting the lives of this town on me? You want me to help you give people false hope? To trick them into giving a shit?” The insanity of this conversation was almost too much. “Whether it be anger or hope doesn’t matter?” “Frankly? No, no it does not. Look at yourself Arthur. You came in here with only one thought: to kill yourelf. Now? I…” “Now I hate you and think you're insane!” Arthur cut Kylie off before he could finish. “Well there is that, to be sure. But, there is something else. As I said, you have a reason to keep going, a mission. That hate can be used to fight me, or it could be used to give this town a shot at surviving.” Kyle stood and gestured for the doctor to join as he looked out over the mud filled hole taking up most of the football field. “The choice is yours Arthur. Do we build something, or do we dig a bigger hole?” Ian Rule (Writer) Ian Rule is an avid golfer that loves any game with miniatures. 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.

Meet the 2022 Editors Click to enlarge "Untitled" Sawyer David Hurley "A man that is afraid of nothing will be caught by something terrible." David Hurley, our Correspondence Editor and Web Designer, 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, hike, and to play table top RPGs on Sundays. Beryl Iverson “You can’t spell culture without cult.” - unknown Beryl Iverson, one of our Special Pages and Script Editors, moved to Portland from eastern Washington about four years ago and has been focused 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 childrens’ shows and play video games. Caroline Jacobs “Dime con quién andas, y te diré quien eres.” - unknown Caroline Jacobs is our Layout Editor for this issue of the Bellwether Review. Eliza Jones “This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.” - "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas," Ursula K. Le Guin Eliza Jones, one of our fiction and nonfiction editors and web designers, 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. Rebecca Loeffler “Trying is a win.” - Tone Walsh Rebecca Loeffler is one of our art editors for this issue of the Bellwether Review. Rebecca is a gluten and dairy free baker that prefers reading to movies. Annika Peters “Creativity is intelligence having fun.” - Albert Einstein Annika Peters, one of our Art and Social Media Editors, is a fiction writer with a passion for flash fiction. However, their true passion lies with visual art. They love dipping their fingers into all kinds of mediums, though their favorites include watercolors, acrylic paint, alcohol based markers and, newly, photography. Sydney Ross “I am tired of knowing nothing and being reminded of it all the time.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald Sydney Ross, one of our Special Pages and Social Media Editors, is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds. Ian Rule “I’ll buy that for a dollar.” - unknown Ian Rule is one of our fiction and nonfiction editors for this issue of the Bellwether Review. He is an avid golfer that loves any game with miniatures. Kacy Walter “If you were me you would do the things that I do.” - The Ice King Kacy Walter is our Poetry Editor for this issue of the Bellwether Review. Kacy is a poet, creative nonfiction writer and dirtbag artist inspired by the discarded and broken things in the world. They are on a lifelong hunt for novelty, hot springs and climbing trees. They’ve walked over 3,000 miles with plans to walk more. All of their favorite pants have safety pins for buttons.

Click to enlarge "Reflecting on the Self" Morgan Belden Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist Luka Russo I see you. Dramatic cadaver queen, no strut, prominent and street-wise behind window graffiti tags like a gala party no one is invited to. Damn, I see you naked corpse zombie, unconcerned while they dress you up in frilly pink garb, laced back corsets welcoming gawking passersby. I see you there, amputated arms make you bite sized and tiny, a swallowable fashionista call it feminine. Still you stand like a dogface soldier saying “go gift my limbs to strangers on the corner, wrap them up tight in pale pastel ribboned boxes and invite everyone inside.” I see you and breathe, One. Two. Three. For the I times I have been catcalled, that two step calamity serenading at dark, for hand-me-down hoodie armor shielding my frame, for freeing one headphone tryna side step that shimmie shake “hey you” boom boom make me “pocket sized” squeezed into pepper spray cans, call it getting home safe. Damn, I see you. To be an unmovable riot watcher. 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. 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.

Browse Works Click to enlarge "Next to the Gateway of India" David Hurley Fiction Non Fiction Poetry Scripts Art Experiencing Loss and Injustice Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth with art by Morgan Belden Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomson with art by Morgan Belden Random Access Memory Tyler Allen with art by Morgan Belden Spring into Summer Heidi Shepard with art by Issac J. Lutz Hennesy David Hurley with art by David Hurley Sex Work is Work Silver Fox with art by Morgan Belden To Have and to Hold Taylor Woodworth with art by Morgan Belden Feeling Trapped or Imprisoned The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull Stephanie Thomsom with art by David Hurley Not the Slightest Inclination Penny Harper with art by Sawyer November Taylor Woodworth with art by Morgan Belden November Sydney Ross with art by Miriam Ridout No Welcome Wagon Luka Russo with art by Morgan Belden The Stone Pig Casey Elder with art by Casey Elder Finding Strength and Survivng 6am Sydney Ross with art by Piper Hutchinson Grief, but make it Sing Luka Russo with art by Angel Lopez Norma Sara Guizzoti with art by Miriam Ridout Ocean Currency Ezra Maloney-Dunn with art by David Hurley Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist Luka Russo with art by Morgan Belden Safety Blanket Angel Lopez with art by Morgan Belden What it Takes to Live Ian Rule with art by David Hurley Discovering and Creating Come Away Heidi Sheppard with art by Morgan Belden Experimental Style Beryl Iverson with art by Angel Lopez guess what? Sydney Ross with art by Morgan Belden There is hope, there is help Sydney Ross with art by Miriam Ridout A Lonely Feat Tricia Dahms with art by David Hurley The Girl Who Glowed Morgan Belden with art by Morgan Belden Ode to the Sandwich David Hurley with art by Morgan Belden Soundless Dance Beryl Iverson with art by Miriam Ridout Surrogate Eliza Jones with art by Morgan Belden

About Us Click to enlarge "To the Skies" Morgan Belden Portland Community College of Portland, Oregon hosts over 60,000 students across four campuses and numerous satellite centers. PCC provides a wide array of certificates, degrees, and programs for its diverse population of full-time and part-time students. Our President, Mark Mitsui, values the educational opportunities PCC, and community colleges in general, can provide to individuals, the community, and society as a whole. Each PCC campus has its own unique literary magazine, and Rock Creek proudly produces The Bellwether Review once a year every Spring term. What was previously called the Rock Creek Review was taken up by Rock Creek’s Editing & Publishing class in 2011. At this time, the students adopted the name Bellwether in honor of Rock Creek’s notable sheep population on our campus’s farm. A bellwether is a reference to the bell worn by the alpha sheep of a flock, though by today’s understanding, it refers to one who leads the way. Our editorial team embraces this ideal as we publish The Bellwether Review: we want to initiate artistic expression and foster creativity at our campus and beyond. PCC Rock Creek campus represents just over a quarter of PCC’s student population. Our campus is green, both physically, as it spans across 260 acres, and sustainably, boasting a Tree Campus USA certification since 2016. With a farm, a beautiful interactive learning garden, and serene walking trails on campus, we appreciate the opportune landscape of Northwest Oregon and work to leave as small of a footprint as we can. Our Mission The Bellwether Review is one of Portland Community College’s literary magazines. Our mission is to promote original art and writing through various mediums of expression cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a wide variety of voices and perspectives - in doing so, we hope to encourage and inspire a passion for meaningful creation. All submissions undergo careful consideration in order to select high quality work for publication. We are thankful for all of the enthusiastic and dedicated students involved in its creation from the writers, artists and editorial team. In this issue, our goal is to provide a platform for students to appreciate art as a tool for individuality, solidarity, accomplishment and community. Land Acknowledgement We would like to acknowledge that the campus that this magazine was written through sits on the traditional village sites of the Multnomah, Kathlamet, Clackamas, bands of the Chinook, Tualatin Kalapuya, Molalla, and many other Tribes who made their homes along the Columbia River. Multnomah is a band of Chinooks that lived in this area. We thank the descendants of these Tribes for being the original stewards and protectors of these lands since time immemorial. We also acknowledge that Portland, OR has the 9th largest Urban Native American population in the U.S. with over 380 federally recognized Tribes represented in the Urban Portland Metropolitan area. We also acknowledge the systemic policies of genocide, relocation, and assimilation that still impact many Indigenous/Native American families today. We are honored by the collective work of many Native Nations, leaders, and families who are demonstrating resilience, resistance, revitalization, healing, and creativity. We are honored to be guests upon these lands. Thank you, and thanks also to our colleagues at the Portland State University Indigenous Nations Studies Program for crafting this acknowledgment. Music Permission Relaxing Chill Music | ARNOR by Alex-Productions | https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCx0_M61F81Nfb-BRXE-SeVA Music promoted by https://www.chosic.com/free-music/all/ Creative Commons CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/ Anchor 1

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