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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.

Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner

Click to enlarge "Escape" Morgan Belden November Taylor Woodworth Shortly after the geese fly south and the Jack O’Lantern smile melts into a grimace, darkness begins to infect. Spreading like fog over a desolate graveyard, the night cloaks the cityscape and I lay sleepless. Between the unfinished tasks of the day and the sound of midnight scraping my name into a lone headstone, I’m afraid the only dream-like state I will inhabit is the all too familiar 4am delirium. My monochromatic days consist of searching for the REM cycle on the washing machine and endless hours of sitcom laugh tracks that giggle at me every time I stumble walking up the stairs. Every hour I sink a little deeper into my memory foam mattress, and hope that the sun will come to rescue me from dusk. 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. 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 "A Pier Near Copenhagen" David Hurley Ocean Currency Ezra Maloney-Dunn When I was little my grandfather had a collection of sand dollars. I would peer above the edge of the table, marveling as he brushed the sand off of his newest acquisition. It wasn’t until I was older (after he had passed) that I learned he had been collecting skeletons. I still pick up sand dollars when I walk on the beach. I handle them gently as the ocean bids farewell to the life it once sustained. David Hurley (Artist) 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.

Photography and Artwork from PCC students. ART It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see. ~Henry David Thoreau Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Throughout the past year, our society as a collective has been going through changes, rough ones especially. There has been a gradient of good and bad; from quick bursts of happiness to heartbroken moments that leave our souls torn. In this issue, we wanted to explore those shades of emotion and showcase that even in times such as these, you can still find the beauty in the gradience of it all. Art and Photography are ways that allow us to express ourselves without the use of words. Sometimes specific emotions we feel cannot be put to pen on paper and instead must come from us another way. These pieces of work showcase this belief and as they always say: a picture is worth a thousand words.

This the Welcome page for Portland Community College's Literary Magazine. Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner Welcome! We are excited to introduce the Spring 2021 edition of The Bellwether Review in an online format for the second time ever. Publishing The Bellwether Review online has given us the opportunity to accept a wider variety of submissions from talented writers and artists outside of Portland Community College. We want our website to provide the opportunity for even more outreach in the coming years as we publish both online and in print. Due to the impacts of COVID-19 this year's submissions were lower than expected, but our enthusiastic editorial team has worked to present the best PCC Rock Creek and the surrounding community has to offer. The editorial team's mission when crafting this year’s Bellwether was to offer readers and present authors a sense of community, solidarity, and encouragement while we are all still working and writing remotely. In the presented work we found common tones of light, medium, and dark so this year’s Bellwether is themed “Gradience.” To us, “Gradience” is a continuous spectrum of meanings without boundaries between one category and another. The Bellwether staff wants to thank all of the submitters for the passion and emotion encased in their writing and art. Our editors appreciate the time and effort necessary to create such pieces, and we want to reciprocate that care throughout the voting, editing, and publishing processes. We hope we’ve communicated a passion for creativity in our magazine and that we can inspire others to create something meaningful. Thank you for taking the time to enjoy this 2021 edition of The Bellwether Review. If you like what you see, consider staying connected with us on Instagram @bellwetherreview. If you’re interested in submitting work for the 2022 edition, the submissions are already open so check out our how to submit page for more information.

Click to enlarge "Night Watch" Morgan Belden No Welcome Wagon Luka Russo That decrepit ashtray is a gatekeeper, silent and knowing watchdog. I have been here before, crying over traphouse children's laughter, trembling with sisters in school chairs reused. Repurposed. We marked calendars with dead friends birthdays, and that bucket of inkless pens: an unwanted triumph. Now my body is a compass for breathing. I, once a shrouded corset, followed it to this entrance. Where cigarettes wrap secrets until they are burned into the air. I inhale and listen. Home. Anywhere I choose to snarl at my demons. 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.

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner The 2021 Bellwether Editors Here are the fabulous people that made this magazine possible! “Create. Not for the money. Not for the fame. Not for the recognition. But for the pure joy of creating something and sharing it.” ― Ernest Barbaric

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 Frigid Blades By Stephanie Thomson 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. Back to top Random-Access Memory Tyler Allen You remember you’re on a beach, the air cool and wet, and you feel a crisp breeze on your face. You know it’s real because you can feel the sand in your hand and you watch as the sand slowly slips between your fingers and back into the beach. The sun sinks beneath the water, turning the sky and water an incalculable number of shades of red, orange, blue, and purple. You can’t remember which beach this is but you know you’re facing westward, maybe California? Oregon? Portugal? Upon turning you see her illuminated, her hair in the red-orange sunset. She calls your name but you pretend not to hear. You can still hear her, but when you turn you’re now at a rooftop bar overlooking the city. The city is lit, and the sun is entirely set. You feel the expensive but mediocre drink getting warmer in your hand. What a waste you think. Here everyone calls you the wrong name and you wonder why. No one seems to know or care, but she keeps introducing you to people whose faces you can’t remember. People from accounting and from business meetings and deals and blah blah blah. You overhear someone talking about not having time to find a real partner anyway. Looking for the exit, you find a half dozen of the staff of this bar in a semicircle smoking and taking bets. “Sorry,” you mumble, and slowly back away. When you turn you are in a doctor’s office, but you don’t want to be here so the walls wash away and refigure. It feels like home. You remember the doors and the walls and the way the light comes through the shades, but something is wrong. You think but you draw a blank. Turning to look out the window you notice the far green and brown horizon as you pass row and row of olive trees. Your hand grips the seat and you notice the white cotton interior is peeling and you pick at it nervously. Then you remember you are on a train in the south of Spain on your way to Italy. You’ve been stressed about this trip for months and you’ve wondered what your catholic mother would say about your plan to skip the Vatican. Sometimes you hear her voice when you fake swear, saying “God bless it,” or “gosh darn it.” You hear a voice in the train car but you don’t know what they’re saying. What year is it? The thought trickles through your mind—why can’t you remember? What is slipping through your fingers? You hear your name again, this time from the other side of your train car. Huh. You think you hear yourself, but the words remain on your tongue. Your name rings out in your ears again but you can’t place where from. You turn behind you and when you do, the world washes away. “Jasmine,” behind you again, you hear a trickle of water, a sink. The kitchen is smaller than you remember. The oven is on and you can hear the TV in the other room. Shinc, shinc, shinc, the sound of your knife as you chop cilantro for tonight’s dinner. No. You know what is going to happen next and you try to fight it. You don’t feel as you slice the end of your finger off. You think it’s adrenaline. You go to wash the cut and notice the water stays clear. Why aren’t I bleeding? you ask yourself. “Janie,” your voice calls out lamely. You see her in the hallway light, and she's nervous as she glides over to you. She bandages you lovingly and kisses you but you pull away. “Janie, why is there no blood?” She doesn’t answer. Instead, you drift away to a white room, your finger still bandaged. Janie and the doctor talk behind the door. Why aren’t they talking to me? The air is cold and you wish you were somewhere else but your body and your mind won’t move. Your hand drifts to the wall as you glide your finger on the rough stucco pattern. The light gust of recycled air turns on above you and a chill runs down your spine. What could take them this long? You try to picture your mother’s face but nothing materializes, then your room, then your bike, but nothing but blackness enters your thoughts. When you put your hand on the hard but soft bed in the doctor’s office, you feel the coarseness of sand as it sinks in. Beyond the door, the voices have now become the sounds of waves. The doctor comes in, but you remember none of the conversations. Something about Random-Access Memory, and the synapse breakdown brought on by sentience. They give you a month if you’re lucky. You are broken, and worse yet, unfixable. Janie has your papers and therefore you have no say in what happens next. This conversation is a formality. You feel if the doctor had a choice he would send you to the scrap heap. You don’t remember the operation but you remember the car ride. Janie looks at you and apologizes for being a bad owner. Her eyes are a crimson shade, and her cheeks wet. What do you say? “I love you,” you hear yourself mumble. A flash. A wave’s crashing descent. You hear your name from behind you. It’s not the name you were given but the name you would have chosen. “Laura!” you hear again. The sand is hot and coarse between your fingers, and the cool beach air smells sweet this time of year. You turn and you see her standing there, waving. When you close your eyes, you just let yours elf listen t o the sound of the waves. Back to top Spring Into Summer Heidi Shepherd I yearn… My body yearns for the first really warm day of spring. To feel the gentle caresses of the sun lavishly covering my flesh with kisses. My body yearns for warm tender breezes to play with my hair licking erotic trails upon my neck. I yearn… For the flora and fauna that spring brings. Vibrant splashes of color, flowers paint upon green lush of the garden. My eyes yearn… To look above and see shiny bright faces of the sunflowers gazing enduringly down upon me. My ears yearn… To hear the delicately vulnerable flutes of the loyal birds spring brings back to us. Of the chatter between crow and blackbirds. My heart yearns… For the chubby little butts of the fuzzy bumblebees sticking out of flowers like Pooh in his honey pot or when they buzz so diligently and happily from smelly fragrant pollinator buds. My soul yearns… For the lazy hot days of summer, for the stillness of the day when you can hear the wings of the hummingbird floating from flower to flower, when the day brings lazy dogs and lazy lounging tan legs that dangle over the arm of a chair, for the cool taste of ice tea and laughter and shouts and babies crying and fans blowing, of sprinklers spraying and all the kids playing. Yes, even I, can now frankly say I miss the days of spring that settle into summer. Back to top Hennesy by 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. Back to top Sex Work Is Work by 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 labour 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 labour 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 trail 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_gV7Jegc/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_LIST&searchResultsType=SingleTab&hitCount=1&searchType=BasicSearchForm¤tPosition=1&docId=GALE%7CA589798939&docType=Essay&sort=Relevance&contentSegment=ZCUC&prodId=PPCJ&pageNum=1&contentSet=GALE%7CA589798939&searchId=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 Back to top Anchor 1 Experiencing Loss & Injustice Anchor 5 Previous Section Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving Next Section Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Table of Contents Loss “Black and Pearly White” Poem by Taylor Woodworth Art by Morgan Belden “Frigid Blades” Fiction by Stephanie Thomsom Art by Morgan Belden “Random Access Memory” Fiction by Tyler Allen Art by Morgan Belden “Spring into Summer” Poem by Heidi Shepherd Art by Issac J Lutz Injustice “Hennesy” Fiction by David Hurley Art by David Hurley “Sex Work is Work” Non Fiction by Silver Fox Art by Morgan Belden “To Have and To Hold” Poem by Taylor Woodworth Art by Piper Hutchinson Anchor 6 Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth When they took my wisdom teeth they extracted miles of fleshy, dirt-covered roots. Roots who latched onto my powers, carried them to their stainless steel grave. The flowers that once paraded their vibrant reds and yellows, lay sleepy and wilting, waiting for the absent sun. I can no longer see ghosts and my voice sits dormant, contemplating why everyone has stopped listening. Each day I pull the shortest straw and each day I’m disappointed. Candy turns to cabernet. Wildflowers turn to wallflowers, and once again I’m homesick for the blissful unknowingness of intact wisdom teeth. I live in a different world now. A world where the first day of school is no longer life or death, but a lonely, moonlit walk is. One where the tooth fairy leaves a different kind of bill under my pillow, and all my teeth are just teeth. Anchor 2 Anchor 3 Anchor 4 Anchor 8 Anchor 9 Anchor 10 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.” Back to top Back to top Anchor 11

Click to enlarge "The Stone Pig" Casey Elder The Stone Pig Casey Elder in the backyard the stone pig plays sentry wisps of smoke drift by on the breeze in the otherwise still night beyond lies the crooked fence bulging with the overgrowth of ivy and aphrodite in the shadow of the big house a hammering on the sauna being built ricochets out into the open air i am looking into the yard where my mother and father were married within the soul of the 70’s from my grandmother’s gardening to my mother’s pruning to mine and my brother’s sometimes sleeping off the drink on the covered swing until the cold crept in the stone pig which nearly toppled me over in moving it sits with all patience, watching Casey Elder (Writer and Artist) Casey Elder was born and raised in Portland, Oregon and has always held a passion for writing and music. He is a student of creative writing at Portland Community College. Besides writing, Casey is an avid Dungeons and Dragons player and combines his interests by being one half of the musical rap group Dungeon Brothers with his real life brother.

Home About Welcome Editors 2021 About The Authors Archive 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner About Portland Community College of Portland, Oregon hosts over 70,000 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. 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. 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. Our Mission Statement The Bellwether Review is Portland Community College Rock Creek’s literary magazine. Our mission is to promote original art, fiction, nonfiction, and many other mediums of expression created by authors and artists, inside and outside of Portland Community College. We value showcasing work that expresses a wide variety of voices and thoughts. Through this, we hope to encourage a passion for meaningful creation. All submissions go through a fair evaluation to select high-quality work for publishing. The Bellwether Review is grateful to all of the enthusiastic, dedicated people involved in its creation—from the writers and artists to the editorial team. After the uncertainty of this last year, we hope the 2021 issue of The Bellwether Review is a bright spot in the lives of both our readers and presented artists. The editorial team wants this year's issue to offer all readers and showcased artists a feeling of community, accomplishment, and solidarity while we are all still learning and writing remotely.

Click to enlarge "Whithering" Morgan Belden The Girl Who Glowed Morgan Belden We knew it was too good to be true when she walked into our class, eyes sparkling, and looked at us with a gaze so full of hope and 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 afterall. 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. Morgan Belden (Writer & 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. I wrote this piece as a short story for my creative writing class (WR241) in the winter term of 2021-22. My focus was on creating a town that felt dead and hopeless–the perfect atmosphere for a heroine to enter. This story became a reflection of my own perception. Like these kids in the crowded classroom, I desperately wanted something to give me life like this girl gave to the town, so I wrote it. The girl may also be seen as the sun. I gave her qualities like floating or her glow as hints towards this. Like the town, sunshine gives me life.