Search The Bellwether Review, 2020-2022

Welcome to PCC's Literary Magazine! Here you'll find our most recent digital issues of the Bellwether Review. Bellwether Review 2022 A Search for Meaning This year, we discovered that many of our submissions related to a search for meaning throughout year two of the pandemic. This search manifested in a cycle of experiences, as shown below. Experiencing Loss and Injustice Finding Strength and Surviving Discovering and Creating Finding Strength and Surviving A Cycle Feeling Trapped and Imprisoned Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Finding Strength and Surviving Works Browse our wide array of stories, poetry, and art. View all Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth with art by Morgan Belden Frigid Blades Stephanie Thomsom with art by Morgan Belden The Stone Pig Casey Elder with art by Casey Elder Random Access Memory Tyler Allen with art by Morgan Belden Spring into Summer Heidi Shepherd with art by Issac J. Lutz Hennesy David Hurley with art by David Hurley View all

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Nonfiction A Lonely Feat Tricia Dahms My eyes spring open suddenly, but through my grogginess, I am not sure what woke me. The smell of coffee begins to settle in... Read More Sex Work is Work Silver Fox In 2018, the United States government passed a package of bills called SESTA and FOSTA. SESTA stands for Stop... Read More

Click to enlarge "Yosemite National Park" Miriam Ridout There is hope, there is Help Sydney Ross 2,000 miles from home, thick fog covers the dense evergreen tree line. a mix of mud and rain sloshes beneath my feet; a worn trail of footprints has led me here. snow capped mountains linger in the distant skyline overlooking the St. John’s bridge, grand and complex in its towering height above the Willamette river, whose tinted green waters offer an escape from this beautiful place where I feel so alone stranded so far from home. 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 "Where Will I Go" Morgan Belden 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 yourself listen to the sound of the waves. Tyler Allen (Writer) Tyler Allen was born and raised in small-town Nevada where they learned about blue-collar life and how to avoid rattlesnakes. They enjoy watching movies, reading books, and drinking coffee. They are getting married in the fall and they have a dog they love a lot even if he won’t let them pet him. Tyler enjoys writing stories about little failures and their effects on people, places, and things. They turn 30 next year. Morgan Belden (Artist) I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters.

Poetry 6am Sydney Ross a stranger sat beside me this morning as the sun rose over the damp parking lot... Read More Black and Pearly White Taylor Woodworth When they took my wisdom teeth, they extracted miles of fleshy, dirt-covered roots... Read More Come Away Heidi Shepherd Where have all the romantics gone? Is there a place for us, A place where our faltering words... Read More The Eulogy of a Taxidermied Elk Skull Stephanie Thomsom I wonder if I'll ever be more than a taxidermied skull of an Irish elk. Hanging from a ceiling with fractured... Read More Grief, but Make it Sing Luka Russo My heart has this hot habit, of glaring at me from across the room, pouding on stucco walls It throws drummer boy tantrum fits... Read More guess what? Sydney Ross you are a butterfly and I am a caterpillar awaiting my new life... Read More Norma Sarah Guizzoti The air chilled my face as I stood staring unblinkingly. The ocean mist blends with my tears... Read More November Sydney Ross lonely tuesday mornings come and go... Read More November Taylor Woodworth Shortly after the geese fly south and the Jack O'Lantern smile melts into a grimace... Read More No Welcome Wagon Luka Russo That decrepit ashtray is a gatekeeper, silent and knowing watchdog... Read More Ocean Currency Ezra Maloney-Dunn When I was little my grandfather had a collection of sand dollars. I would peer above... Read More Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist Luka Russo I see you. Dramatic cadaver queen, no strut, prominent and street-wise... Read More Ode to the Sandwich David Hurley Oh sandwich, how lovely you can be... Read More Safety Blanket Angel Lopez She holds me tight at night wrapped around her... Read More Spring into Summer Heidi Shepherd I yearn... My body yearns For the first really warm day of spring... Read More The Stone Pig Casey Elder in the backyard the stone pig plays sentry... Read More There is hope, there is Help Sydney Ross 2,000 miles from home, thick fog covers the dense evergreen tree line. a mix... Read More 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 a satin mask in hidebound... Read More

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

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

Click to enlarge "Internal Garden" Morgan Belden guess what? Sydney Ross you are a butterfly and I am a caterpillar awaiting my new life in metamorphosis. you are the wind swaying through the trees and I am the leaves dancing on the forest floor. you are the moon pulling the waves to the edge of the sand each night and I am the tide blissfully unaware and following your lead. Sydney Ross (Writer) Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds. Morgan Belden (Artist) I'm currently a Sophomore at Portland Community College completing an associates of arts degree. I am an aspiring writer, a collector, and a lover of art. I am also a cat mom of two lovely mixed Siamese sisters.

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

Click to enlarge "Crash in Colorado" Miriam Ridout November Sydney Ross lonely tuesday mornings come and go like leaves blowing softly in the wind, my hair dancing around my neck like a noose threatening to tighten at any given moment. Sydney Ross (Writer) Sydney is an aspiring writer who enjoys poetry, fiction and short stories. She loves cartoons, horror and getting lost in games of all kinds.

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