Search The Bellwether Review, 2020-2022

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

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.

Click to enlarge "Untitled" Piper Hutchinson 6am Sydney Ross a stranger sat beside me this morning as the sun rose over the damp parking lot, purple clouds reflected in puddles on the pavement like bruises across my skin. silently, we stared out at dark sky as swollen gray waves of exhaustion streamed down my cheeks. bright light peeks from behind the clouds: a new day. my mind twisted into tight knots and all I could think about were your hands: empty, caught constantly grasping you never learned that some things were just too fragile to hold. Sydney Ross (Writer) Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds.

Click to enlarge "Beyond" Morgan Belden Surrogate Eliza Jones The walls of the cave were red stone, smooth and barren. The ground was slanted, stretching down into a darkness the sunlight couldn’t penetrate. Yimha held out her torch, took a deep breath, and then began to walk. Lotok followed a step behind, glancing at the walls like they would close in around them at any moment. “May I ask…You said only children come here. Why?” Her voice echoed in the empty space. Yimha weighed her words. “This place is…in your language, I think I would call it sacred. Children come here on their first voyages.” The sand shifted under their feet, growing more sparse as they traveled down into the earth. Lotok looked around, no doubt trying to see how such a lifeless place could be sacred. “It was the home of the Mother River,” explained Yimha. “Thousands of years ago, it carried my people to the valley. It tunneled through the earth with persistence and strength, and taught us to do the same.” The torchlight flickered, the only motion in the stale air. “It’s gone now,” she said, “but we are still its people.” Lotok looked at her in awe. “Mother River,” she said softly. “That is why you call yourselves River Children! I always thought it was a mistake in translation.” Yimha smiled and shook her head. “No,” she said. “It is our history. This is our valley, even if it is now desert. It is our home even if it is changed. It is said that when voyagers enter this place, they can feel the Mother’s echo.” Yimha had grown up on the voyagers’ tales. They said Mother pushed them, guided them to its heart just like the waters of old. Its hand once sustained and carried this valley, and it still did so for all who knew its history. Mother River flowed through all its Children, like a song never to be forgotten. “Did you voyage here?” asked Lotok. Yimha stumbled, nearly dropping the torch. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet from the trek here, like she was a kid again, traveling through her first dry season on the surface. “No,” she said, regaining her footing. “Voyagers must carry the River in their blood. When I was banished, I was renounced from my bloodline, and thus stripped of the chance to carry the title.” That seemed to stun Lotok into silence. Yimha’s banishment was clearly marked on her neck, but she supposed gauging the age of scars would be a rather useless skill for a highborn to learn. The sand was gone completely now. The bare stone was cool under the wrappings meant to protect her cracked and bleeding feet. They were deep beneath the ground now, the air chill but no less dry than that heated by the sun. It pricked the back of Yimha’s throat and pulled at her skin. “Do your people have places like this?” she asked, wanting suddenly to fill this empty air. “Places sacred to you?” “Not sacred,” Lotok said, “but special, yes. At Kolewott’s base is the Spirit Gardens. On the solstice, those who wish to commune join together and make the trek down.” “Commune,” Yimha repeated. “I don’t know this word.” “Commune is…like communicate,” Lotok said. “Communicate. Do you hear it?” “Communicate,” Yimha repeated, rolling the word on her tongue. “So it is a way of talking?” “Not exactly. Talking is what you do with someone standing in front of you. A spirit attached to you, appearing to you in visible form, you might talk to. Communing is for those spirits who have already left the mountain. We don’t commune through words.” Yimha watched Lotok out of the corner of her eye. She knew the people of the mountain were spiritual in a way that went beyond religion or culture. It was said that Kolewott showed them things unknowable to anyone else. That they could see the dead made flesh and bone again. “Have you ever had a spirit attach to you?” she asked. “No,” said Lotok. “But I know people who have. Parents staying to guard their children, friends not ready to say goodbyes…Eventually, they all make the journey down, but there is no harm in lingering. It means you loved the life you were given.” Yimha considered this. “And when they leave the mountain?” she asked. “Where do they go then?” “I don’t know,” Lotok said. “No one does, except the spirits who are ready, I suppose.” “It’s like a voyage, then,” said Yimha. “Leaving home to go where you are led.” Lotok smiled. “Yes. I suppose it is.” The path before them branched into two, each dark and foreboding. Yimha knew one would lead through the Mother River’s heart and out the other side. The other, she couldn’t say. She didn’t know how it worked for voyagers. Was she supposed to notice some small difference between the two tunnels? Or should she hear something calling out to her, beckoning her home? “Wait,” said Lotok, holding out her hand. “Do you feel that?” Yimha stilled, holding her breath for a moment. She turned her focus inward, to her own body. She became aware of the painful dryness in her throat, the way the bare skin of her arms itched from the lack of moisture, the fact that her feet had finally gone completely numb. Yimha let out the breath. “No,” she said finally. Lotok took a step forward. “It’s like…movement.” Yimha raised her torch, illuminating the same stagnant walls as before. Lotok approached the entrance to the left passage and stopped again, looking up to the ceiling. “It’s this way,” she said. She strode forward confidently, quickly leaving the radius of torchlight and forcing Yimha to scramble after her. When the tunnel branched again, Lotok made the choice without pause. Suddenly, she gasped, whipping her head around to look at something not there. She began to run. Yimha followed, desperate not to lose her in the maze of winding tunnels. “Lotok!” she cried. She could hear laughter bouncing off the unforgiving walls. Yimha was quickly becoming afraid. Her unfeeling feet hit a groove in the stone floor, and she fell forward. Her chin hit the ground hard, cracking her teeth together and sending vibrations up and down her skull. The torch flew forward and landed before her, illuminating a yawning cavern, stretching up and around like an open fist. Yimha pressed her cheek to the cold, unfeeling stone. Her body ached. She tasted blood in her mouth. The air pressed in, leeching the moisture from her veins. She fought the urge to cry. For the first time in years, she felt utterly forsaken. Then came again the laughter. Yimha froze. She looked up once more, and there was Lotok. She was dancing. She leapt about the open space of the cavern, her movements casting distorted shadows on the far walls. She was the only motion in the deadened place. “It’s here!” she cried, laughter still in her voice. “I understand now! It’s still here! The parent guarding its children, watching over its home! It’s still here!” She rushed over and pulled Yimha to her feet, still laughing. “Yimha, do you see this?” she said. “Do you feel it?” Yimha leaned on her shoulder and stared up at the stone walls, the dry desert air. The heart of her valley, the birthright of her people, the ghost of her beautiful Mother. She could feel nothing at all. Eliza Jones (Writer) Eliza Jones is a lifelong writer with a passion for science fiction and fantasy. When she’s not writing, she’s nannying; when she’s not doing that, she’s usually maintaining her Japanese streak on duolingo. 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 About our Authors Some of our Authors have written a small paragraph about themselves so all our readers can learn a bit about them. Ana Ochoa "Ana is currently a student of Spanish and linguistics. They are transferring to Portland State University this year and they hope to complete their education studying abroad in Mexico. Following their education, they would like to use language and writing to create more understanding and empathy between people of different backgrounds and cultures." Angelina Dewar Angelina Dewar is a student at PCC. She is interested in history, mathematics, and the natural sciences. Belen Johnson "Hi, I’m Belen Johnson and I want to be a doctor. I have always enjoyed writing and I love taking inspiration from everything around me. Poetry has always been something that I loved reading and writing. My favorite poets are Maia Mayor, Blythe Baird, and Robert Frost." Danielle Witt Danielle Witt grew up in the Portland Metro area. "Evenings Were my Father's" is a literary narrative essay she completed for her Writing class last term. She is attending PCC to start her journey towards her Master's degree in Gender and Sexuality Counseling. She hopes to open her own practice where she will support LGBTQ+ teens and young adults. Evelyn Isakson "My name is Evelyn Isakson and I am 26 years old. I enjoy the rhythm of poetry, and I like to express myself through this art form. This piece was inspired by an arduous and quite toxic relationship that I allowed myself to endure last year at this time. Writing this piece gave me the confidence I needed to make it through that rough time in my life, and the ability to relate to others who have similar experiences." Ines Rossi y Costa "I came to PCC to complete an Associate's degree, and will transfer to PSU to major in Psychology. I have grown most through grief, and hope to provide people with the tools necessary to go through this challenging journey. Photography and creative writing have helped me tremendously. My poems speak of loss and letting go of fixed outcomes. Creating is giving a voice to what we already know." Lucky Lucky is a queer artist and activist, focusing on creating work that nourishes their community. Themes of their work include the intersection of capitalism, intimacy, and sexuality as it relates to modern relationships and sex work. Through their practice they want to create radically non men spaces for marginalized genders. Their goal is to transcend and transform present realities by rewriting past ones, and writing for future ones. Monica Krause Monica Krause is a student at Portland Community College in her late 30s who is pursuing a degree in Writing. Krause made the decision to return to school after choosing to change careers. Writing has always been an emotional outlet, bringing thoughts and feelings to life. Stella Robertson Stella Robertson is a part-time student and editor for the PCC literary magazine The Pointed Circle. She also works at the second-hand store Village Merchants in SE Portland. Stella's writing is inspired by poets like Matthew Dickman and Sinéad Morrissey, as well as her family and neighborhood.

Finding Strength & Surviving Previous Section Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Next Section Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving Table of Contents “6am” Poem by Sydney Ross Art by Morgan Belden “Grief, but make it Sing” Poem by Luka Russo Art by Angel Lopez “Norma” Poem by Sara Guizzoti Art by Miriam Ridout “Ocean Currency” Poem by Ezra Maloney-Dunn Art by David Hurley “Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist” Poem by Luka Russo Art by Morgan Belden “Safety Blanket” Poem by Angel Lopez Art by Morgan Belden “What it takes to Live” Short story by Ian Rule Art by David Hurley 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 6am Sydney Ross a stranger sat beside me this morning as the sun rose over the damp parking lot, purple clouds reflected in puddles on the pavement like bruises across my skin. silently, we stared out at dark sky as swollen gray waves of exhaustion streamed down my cheeks. bright light peeks from behind the clouds: a new day. my mind twisted into tight knots all I could think about were your hands: empty, caught constantly grasping you never learned that some things were just too fragile to hold. Back to top Grief, but Make it Sing Luka Russo My heart has this hot habit of glaring at me from across the room, pounding on stucco walls it throws drummer boy tantrum fits turning your urn ashes into nail-biting bangs beating like “hey you, remember?’’ and I whisper back, foreign tongue feebly coax it into my ribcage. Telling it to waltz on home. Telling it to stop all that pounding. Telling it that people are staring. Telling it sometimes “goodbye” sounds a lot like “I miss you don't leave.” But my heart is a deaf music conductor trying to keep time and I am a ticketless schmuck. That muffled clamor, that tiny horror show chorus telling me that heaven must be a concert hall with a steep cover charge and no refunds, where everyone whistles unending violin notes, reeling like the last moment I felt happy. That opening night, line around the block happy. That glance up, taste sweet sky sweat dripping down happy. That last look, what your eyes saw before they didn't. Happy. I bet you still look like that. And when there's a rest between songs, those doors swing open, and I hear you shimmie shake “hey you.” Back to top Norma Sara Guizzoti The air chilled my face as I stood staring, unblinking. The ocean mist blends with my tears while sobs echo the pain. Independent and strong, recalling days of warm sunshine I remember my grandmother’s laughter, the way she use to smile, claiming the jackpot from her sons at poker night. Cigarettes, red wine, this was her legacy: nonconforming to standards which she belonged. I look around. Seagulls hover, waves crash into rocks. It is time. Seeking comfort in my sister’s hand I watch as the waves engulf her ashes, blending essence with sea. Turning away, it is done. Back to top 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. Back to top 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. Back to top Safety Blanket Angel She holds me tight at night wrapped around her wrist and bundled in her fist I have soaked up the tears the fears and all the snot that comes from the nightmares that keep her up at night She finds solace in me even though I myself am frayed at the edges and have holes that need patching Back to top What it Takes to Live By 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,” Aurthur’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?” Back to top Anchor 1 Anchor 2 Anchor 3 Anchor 4 Anchor 5 Anchor 6 Anchor 7 Anchor 8 Anchor 9 Anchor 10

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.

Click to enlarge "Untitled" Sawyer Not the Slightest Inclination Penny Harper Anna Margareta Buxtehude glanced nervously out the window of the sitting room as she straightened the cushions on the chairs. Her family was expecting two guests from Hamburg, and her mother had ordered her to make sure the sitting room was ready. While she inspected the shelves for dust, Anna Margareta listened intently for signs of the guests’ arrival. Soon enough, she heard carriage wheels on the cobblestones below and flew to the window to watch. “Are they here?” Anna Margareta’s younger sisters Catrin and Sophia piled into the sitting room, their eyes bright with curiosity. Anna Margareta moved over to make room at the window, and all three girls watched the carriage enter the courtyard and draw to a halt. “Behold! Your bridegroom approaches!” teased Catrin. Anna Margareta blushed furiously but her eyes stayed fixed on the scene below. Anna Margareta’s father Dieterich Buxtehude, a portly man in his late 60s, was waiting in the courtyard to greet their guests. A slim young man alighted from the carriage with a grimace, turned to Buxtehude and made an elaborate bow. “Johann Mattheson at your service, sir!” Buxtehude returned the bow with tolerant amusement. A slightly younger, fairer man descended from the carriage beside Mattheson and also saluted Buxtehude, saying stiffly “Georg Händel. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Herr Buxtehude.” Buxtehude surveyed both young men genially. “You are both very welcome!” He waved his hand at the imposing cathedral behind them, whose twin spires rose far into the sky. “I am looking forward to showing you what St. Mary’s has to offer and to hear what you will make of her organ. Come in, come in! You must need refreshment after your journey.” As the three men crossed the courtyard, Anna Margareta and her sisters retreated from the sitting room into the kitchen. They heard their mother greet the guests and usher them into the sitting room. “Welcome! Please, come and sit down -- my daughter is bringing coffee!” This was the moment that Anna Margareta had been dreading. She knew that her father was actively seeking the man who would succeed him as music director and organist at St. Mary’s, and she knew that both Mattheson and Händel, who were making names for themselves in the Hamburg Opera, were candidates. But she also knew what they did not: fearing for the future of his wife and their three unmarried daughters, and in accordance with guild custom, her father had determined that whoever inherited his position must also marry Anna Margareta, his eldest daughter. Other organists had applied for the position, but none of them had met her father’s expectations. Anna Margareta had not overly concerned herself with the matter at first. As her father’s amanuensis and assistant organ technician, she had learned patience with his ways: when the right candidate appeared, he would know it. She trusted her father’s judgement and she was in no hurry to marry in any case. Anna Margareta’s mother was less patient: her younger daughters Catrin and Sophia could not marry until Anna Margareta married and Mother was anxious to get them all settled. Catrin, who was engaged to a church organist in a nearby town, was philosophical about the delay; Sophia was more critical and seemed to blame Anna Margareta for the constraint of the marriage condition even though it was hardly her fault. In the kitchen, as Sophia finished loading the coffee tray, Catrin regarded Anna Margareta critically, smoothing her hair and straightening her collar. “There, you look very nice,” she said. “Now go and charm those young men. One of them is bound to win!” Anna Margareta carried the tray into the sitting room. Her father was showing the visitors a portrait of his friend Johann Reincken, whom both young men knew as the organist at St. Katherine’s in Hamburg, but as she entered he turned to her. “Ah, there you are! Gentlemen, may I present my eldest daughter Anna Margareta? Grete, this is Johann Mattheson and Georg Händel.” Both men rose and nodded to her; Anna Margareta shyly lowered her eyes as she crossed to the coffee table. She hoped she would not have to speak; a stutter often overcame her when she was nervous, which made conversation painfully difficult. As she poured the coffee, Anna Margareta was grateful to see that the young men seemed already to have forgotten her and were concentrating on her father. She took the opportunity to observe them more closely. Mattheson was the elder by a few years. Dark and slight, he had a restless gaze and an air of discontent. Anna Margareta watched his eyes dart around the room as if he were calculating the value of its contents. As she handed him his cup she wondered whether his restless eyes had already measured and dismissed her as well; he seemed to be skeptical about whether this opportunity was worth his time. Händel was younger – Anna Margareta guessed no older than 18 – and less confident than his friend. He seemed very aware of his purple velvet jacket, tugging at the cuffs and occasionally brushing a lapel. Perhaps the jacket was new, Anna Margareta thought, bought specifically to impress her father. Which amused her because clothing was the last thing that would enter her father’s mind when evaluating a candidate for the organist position. Unless the jacket somehow interfered with Händel’s organ playing, Father would never notice. He looked up at Anna Margareta and smiled as she passed him his cup. “How are things at the Opera?” Buxtehude asked. “Are you doing anything new?” Mattheson spoke first. “I’m writing an opera based on Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ which I hope will be performed next year. So many fine arias for the soprano! Magnificent.” As he went on, Anna Margareta saw her parents share a glint of amusement at the young man’s confidence. “And you, Herr Händel?” Buxtehude inquired. “Oh, I am also writing an opera, about Almira, the Queen of Castile. A courtly drama, nothing like as exciting as Marc Anthony, but I hope it will find favor.” Buxtehude nodded. “We have no opera house here in Lübeck, but there are always opportunities for new liturgical compositions. Perhaps you would find this dull by comparison?” Mattheson seemed to be considering this question, but Händel spoke up right away. “Not at all, Herr Buxtehude! How could such glorious music be dull?” “Yes, of course.” Beneath his genial manner, Buxtehude was studying the two young men carefully. He would never reach a final judgment until he had heard them play, but he was an experienced leader of musicians and well understood how their personalities could affect their performance. He would have their measure soon enough, thought Anna Margareta. Finally, Buxtehude clapped his hands together and rose. “Come! If you’re ready, I’m anxious to introduce you to St. Mary’s.” Mattheson and Händel made their courtesies to Anna Margareta and her mother before following Buxtehude out. “Well?” Anna Margareta’s mother watched her gather up the coffee service; Anna Margareta kept her eyes down. She knew how anxious her mother was to settle the question of Anna Margareta’s marriage, and that she considered both visitors to be highly desirable prospects. Mother herself had lived in St. Mary’s all her life; her father, Franz Tunder, had been Buxtehude’s predecessor, and Tunder had also required Buxtehude to marry his eldest daughter as a condition of inheriting his position. By and large the Buxtehudes’ marriage had been a happy one and Mother could not understand Anna Margareta’s reluctance to follow her example. “Mattheson seems to think very well of himself!” Anna Margareta thumped the cups onto the tray, earning a grimace from her mother. “Händel could hardly get a word in.” But even as she spoke Anna Margareta was considering what she’d seen in Händel’s face. After a moment, she realized what it was: Händel’s distracted and inwardly-focused aspect reminded her of her father. Mother pursed her lips. “If your father thinks they are suitable that’s the end of it. I expect you to look your best at dinner tonight – we must show them how charming you can be. Now finish clearing up.” Charming! Anna Margareta thought resentfully. Surely the visitors would be charmed by pretty Catrin and lively Sophia long before they even noticed plain Anna Margareta – it was awfully hard to be charming when your fear of stuttering kept you in silence. And even if she could speak, what would she say? At home, Anna Margareta and her father could talk easily about music and musicians; he often praised her acute ear and laughed heartily at some of her observations of what the church musicians did when he couldn’t see them. Anna Margareta loved the organ and under her father’s tutelage had become very competent at repairs and maintenance. Perhaps that was too practical to be charming, but it was interesting – wasn’t it? Anna Margareta considered what might be going on in the church at that moment. No doubt her father was in his element, showing off the church’s grand organ to the two visitors and enumerating its dozens of stops and thousands of pipes. He could go on at great length about the acoustics of the church and how the largest 32-foot pipes could make a congregant’s bones vibrate in his body. There was more than one way to communicate God’s power, he would say! But then each young man would take his turn at the organ console. Each would have prepared a piece to try to impress Buxtehude, and Anna Margareta badly wanted to be there to hear for herself what compositions they chose and how well they played. Anna Margareta also wanted to gauge her father’s response to the auditions. Whether Händel and Mattheson knew it or not, Buxtehude would hear every nuance of their performance and would understand precisely what they were capable of; he would also be highly sensitive to how much reverence they expressed in their music. If Buxtehude doubted their priorities – if he thought they were placing personal ambition over the glory of God – they would never succeed him at St. Mary’s regardless of their musical ability. But how was Anna Margareta to hear the auditions? They were none of her business as far as her mother was concerned. Despite a lifetime spent in St. Mary’s, church music didn’t move her mother; managing it was the family business and she did her part well, but she was indifferent to its quality and never understood Anna Margareta’s interest in the organ. Let the men worry about it, she would say: we have a house to keep! Anna Margareta found her sisters upstairs and quietly confided her dilemma. “I must go over to the church to hear them play, but you know Mother won’t allow me.” “Why do you care?” snipped Sophia. “You’ll have to marry one of them anyway!” Catrin eyed Anna Margareta consideringly, then smiled. “Yes, I see. I fell in love with Caspar when I heard him play.” Then she narrowed her eyes at Sophia and added, “Whatever it takes, we’ll do.” A few minutes later, Anna Margareta stood in the hallway until she heard Catrin crying from the kitchen: “Mother! The herring has gone bad! Come see!” and then quietly opened the front door. Anna Margareta slipped into the church and found a place out of sight in one of the side chapels. She arrived just in time to overhear her father inviting Mattheson to take his place at the console. After a long series of warnings about some of the organ’s weaknesses (“the Rückpositiv, alas, has not the power it should have”), Buxtehude retired from the organ loft and sat near the front of the church where he could hear the organ most clearly. After briefly testing the keyboards and pedals, Mattheson launched into one of her father’s own Preludes. Though it was obviously intended as flattery, Anna Margareta had to admit that Mattheson’s choice of this particular composition was deft: she knew how much its prominent pedal work, unique to North Germany, would please Father’s ear. She wished she could see his face: no doubt he understood the compliment, but did he also understand the calculation? Of course he would: Buxtehude’s living depended on the wealthy burgers of the town and he was hardly ignorant of the necessity of pleasing people in positions of power. Mattheson played well, if a little showily, Anna Margareta thought. When the piece was finished, Buxtehude cried “Well done, sir!” in the direction of the organ loft. “You carried that with great skill! Now, Herr Händel, what do you have for me?” A long silence followed. Anna Margareta, still concealed in the chapel, began to feel anxious. But when the music finally began, her anxiety dissolved in a moment. Father’s compositions were often solemn, and Händel’s composition started somewhat solemnly, even tentatively. Notes in the organ’s upper range emerged into the silence of the church; Anna Margareta was drawn along the complex chain of melody and counterpoint in a way that felt deeply familiar. But the piece grew in intensity as Händel seemed to gain confidence; before long, Anna Margareta was so overwhelmed that she had to sit down quickly. The composition – certainly one of Händel’s own – pulled in more and more of the grand organ’s stops until the music reverberated powerfully through the entire cathedral. To Anna Margareta’s ear it spoke not only of power, but also of gratitude for the glory of creation. In contrast to Mattheson’s showy and mannered playing, Händel held back nothing: his passion and skill were exalting. If Father wanted a successor who had surrendered his soul, who understood entirely that his efforts were for the glory of God, surely he had found his man. Anna Margareta could hear no more; she crept out of the church, her heart pounding and her head spinning. What was to be done? If Händel wanted the job, it was his. Could she bear it? Back at the apartment, Mother stood forbiddingly in the doorway. “Where have you been?” she demanded. Mother was fiercely protective of her family’s reputation among the burgers of Lübeck and made sure she knew exactly what her daughters were doing at all times, especially now, when the marriage prospects of all three girls were constantly in her mind. “Checking to be sure Father didn’t need anything,” Anna Margareta lied. Her mother’s furious scowl showed what she thought of that excuse. “Your father can take care of himself, Grete. I need you here, and you need to get ready for supper. Now go!” Anna Margareta fled upstairs. Her sisters were fluttering about the room putting the finishing touches on their own toilettes. “Grete, you look awful!” remarked Sophia with satisfaction. “Mother is in a temper and you’d better get dressed.” Catrin studied Anna Margareta as she crossed to the clothes press to take out her good dress. “What did you think? Did Father like them?” Anna Margareta was still too shaken to answer; she stared helplessly at her reflection in the mirror and wondered how she was going to get through the next few hours. How could she try to charm the two young men from Hamburg? Did she even want to? “Here, let me help you,” Catrin offered kindly. She untied Anna Margareta’s hair and gently drew the brush through it. “You wear it pulled back so tightly! Let’s leave it down, it is very becoming that way.” Sophia snorted, and Anna Margareta felt ashamed and confused. Didn’t she want to look well? She felt a bit like a prize cow at the town fair, fussed over, brushed and shined for the occasion. It felt unnatural, but it was clear that if she was a prize cow, she was meant to win the ribbon whether she wanted to or not. A burst of masculine laughter at the front door signaled the return of Buxtehude and the guests. Buxtehude was jovial; apparently the auditions had been passed, and all that remained was the negotiation of terms. But first, supper! Anna Margareta found herself seated by Händel. Mattheson sat across the table, and she noticed that his gaze turned on her as often as it did on Sophia, who chattered beside him, or Catrin, who sparkled on Händel’s other side. Had some whisper of the marriage condition reached Mattheson’s ears already? He was punctiliously polite, but there was no warmth in his eyes, and Anna Margareta shuddered inwardly and hoped that he returned to Hamburg quickly. Händel seemed to have lost his reticence. “Frau Buxtehude, what a lovely meal! We don’t get fish like these in Hamburg.” Anna Margareta’s mother smiled deprecatingly, but Anna Margareta could tell she was pleased. “Herr Buxtehude, can you tell me more about the Evening Music concerts? How did they start?” Father’s eyes twinkled. “Best ask Frau Buxtehude that question – they were started by her father Franz Tunder, who had this position before me!” Anna Margareta listened closely to the conversations at the table, and tried a few times to work up her courage to join in, but the subject always turned before she could form the words in her mouth. Once she thought Händel might have waited to hear her speak, but when Mattheson laughed loudly at some remark of Sophia’s, his attention turned away, and Anna Margareta did not know whether she was glad or sorry. After supper, the men repaired to Buxtehude’s study while the girls and their mother cleared away. Anna Margareta’s sisters gossiped about the two visitors. “Herr Mattheson is so handsome!” Sophia gushed. “Those dark eyes – so romantic!” Then, mischievously, “Don’t you think he is handsome, Grete? He could hardly keep his eyes off you!” “I quite like Herr Händel,” Catrin said quickly. “He spoke with good sense, at least when Herr Mattheson’s attention was elsewhere. Mother? What did you think?” “Herr Händel has lovely manners,” Mother allowed. “Your father said that he played extremely well.” Pointedly, “Perhaps you could tell us more about that, Grete?” Anna Margareta blushed and concentrated on the washing up. After the girls had been sent upstairs, Anna Margareta paced the room uneasily. What were her father and the visitors saying down there? She knew that her father would be conscientious to a fault in describing the rigors of the position, the stubbornness of the church officials, and the tight-fistedness of the town burgers. Had Händel and Mattheson seen enough of Lübeck to appreciate its charms? It must be different from Hamburg, though both towns were proud of their history as founders of the Hanseatic League. And how would the visitors respond when they understood that accepting the job at St. Mary’s required them to marry Anna Margareta? She slipped into bed and lay uneasily as men’s voices and pipe smoke arose from the study late into the evening. To Anna Margareta’s ear they sounded congenial, though occasionally her father could be heard making an emphatic point. Finally, unsleeping, Anna Margareta heard the two young men ascending to the attic bedroom. She strained to hear: what were they saying? Were they – oh, God! – making fun of her? Perhaps a bit tipsy, and unaware of how their voices carried, the two discussed what they had learned. “The salary is pitiful,” Mattheson complained. “How he must slave to support this household! Scraping up events with the town musicians! I would have thought a man of his position was above busking for his supper.” “I wouldn’t mind,” Händel admitted quietly. “Herr Buxtehude is well-respected in Lübeck, and he seems to enjoy playing the viola da gamba with the town musicians.” Mattheson huffed dismissively. “And Lübeck supports the Evening Music concerts,” Händel continued. “Imagine the possibilities! All of Germany comes every year to hear them. A man could make his name as a composer here – and he wouldn’t have to stay forever.” With a slight edge, Mattheson inquired, “And the daughter? Are you inclined?” There was a pause during which Anna Margareta thought her heart might actually have stopped. “Not very,” confessed Händel finally. “Are you?” “Not in the slightest,” Mattheson clipped out. The emphasis he placed on each word fell like blows on Anna Margareta’s ears. Long after the young men had settled for the night and the attic had fallen silent, she lay awake contemplating the cruelty of Mattheson’s dismissal. Oddly, for a moment she felt more offended for her father than for herself. How could either of these young men refuse one of the most desirable positions in Germany? But this was quickly followed by a deep feeling of shame. Why exactly were they refusing it? Was it the organist position, Lübeck, or herself? Her mother’s voice (“we must show them how charming you can be, Grete!”) rang in her head. Anna Margareta knew that Father would regret only the loss of Händel’s talents for St. Mary’s, but Mother would surely be angry at Anna Margareta for spoiling her chances. In the morning, Anna Margareta arose drearily; not even the aroma of sweet rolls (an unusual treat in the Buxtehude household) arising from the kitchen lightened her mood. Sophia and Catrin eyed Anna Margareta but said nothing; her sleepless night must have shown on her face. Perhaps they too had overheard the conversation in the attic. The three went down together to help their mother with breakfast. In the kitchen, Anna Margareta asked her mother, “What did Father decide?” Mother shook her head angrily. “Neither one wants the job, it seems.” For once, Sophia was silent; the girls laid the table quietly. When the visitors straggled downstairs, they seemed anxious to be gone. Both young men were polite but spoke little, mostly of the journey back to Hamburg. No one raised the question of their staying; a gloom hung over the conversation and everyone seemed relieved when their carriage arrived. Anna Margareta and her parents followed the visitors out into the courtyard, where a driving rain hastened the leavetaking. As Händel made his farewell to her, Anna Margareta steeled herself and said in a rush “Y-y-y-you play very well, Herr Händel.” This earned her a surprised, shy smile and a quick bow before Händel joined Mattheson in the carriage, which departed quickly into the rain. As they returned to the house, Anna Margareta ventured, “Father? Are you disappointed?” Buxtehude surveyed his daughter thoughtfully. “I don’t think they would have been happy here. Mattheson thinks he is meant for greater things, and Händel, it seems, will do what Mattheson tells him.” Anna Margareta nodded and waited for more. After a moment, Buxtehude asked gently, “And you? Are you disappointed?” Anna Margareta shook her head and withdrew, but continued to contemplate the question as she prepared to run an errand for her mother. Was she disappointed? In some sense, certainly: it hurt less to reject than to be rejected. And she was acutely aware of the disappointment of her mother and sisters, who were so anxious for the matter of Anna Margareta’s marriage to be resolved. But for herself? As Anna Margareta put on her cloak to leave the house she realized that what she was feeling was not disappointment, but relief. Not to have to be the wife of the man with the restless calculating eye, who would never stop seeking his own advantage regardless of the cost to others. Not to be handmaiden to the genius of the other: she knew well how her mother’s life had been subsumed in servitude to her father’s genius. The rain had stopped, and a weak April sun glossed the wet cobblestones as Anna Margareta passed down the street. Above all, she was relieved that the decision had been deferred. She might be Buxtehude’s daughter, to be bartered as part of a business deal, but she was still Anna Margareta Buxtehude and for the moment at least, the possibility of grace was still open to her. Penny Harper (Writer) I’ve been preoccupied with the story of Anna Margareta Buxtehude for some time. We know little about her other than the fact that Händel and Mattheson really did visit in 1703 and really did refuse the organist position when it was offered on the condition of marrying her (“neither of us had the slightest inclination” were Mattheson’s words), and that something similar may have happened when Johann Sebastian Bach visited Buxtehude two years later. People often speculate on how unattractive Anna Margareta must have been, which is not a story I like, so I tried to imagine something different. Grateful thanks to Prof. Johnny Zackel for his guidance and the courage to start writing, to my friends Dave, Dave, and Karen for their support, and to my family for making it possible. Oh, and to the PCC library for all the inter-library loans!