< Back Late Fruit Sarah Myton after Richard Thompson’s Late Fruit (Oil on Canvas, 1989, PCC Rock Creek art collection) In the dark of winter we hide away In the comfort of our homes. We see only the smallest evidence of life and imagine the whole world is at rest. Not until your hard work Is ripe for the picking Do we notice what you’ve done. While we rejoice, Satisfying our hunger, You carry on. The evergreen laugh At the deciduous that never lost its leaves The foliage below Barely holding on, Gives in to the cold But still and steady You carry on. Author Bio Sarah Myton : I am a first-year student at PCC, working on discovering the career path that I want to pursue. This is my first time being published in a journal, but I have really enjoyed writing for a couple of years now. The poems written by me were created during the WR 242 poetry class taught by Dr. Embry. I hope to continue being creative in my future career and to be a light in the world.

< Back Nights Nikolai Neerenberg A graphite-stained sky (minus the moon) Watches my copper-stained fingers Pinching the near immolated corpse of A bay leaf with an inscription to leave the past alone Used seconds later to set a joint alight An inhale forcing my mind into a daze No coughing escapes though Both her and I expect that by now A graphite-stained sky (moon a sliver to the right) Watches as I sit in the ill-fitted back doorway Not knowing that I look up at her The way she looks down upon me In our shared silence There’s an understanding between us It’s gone as we both get distracted By a bat flying through the yard A graphite-stained sky (moon a quarter full) Watches as two twin flames burn down Cord looped around candle sticks Burning and severing I also watch the burn Ignoring that the candle representing me Holds on to the cord for as long as the flame will allow While the one representing [redacted] let go first A graphite-stained sky (moon almost full) Watches my still copper-stained fingers In their continued green-blue glory Painted scenery drying taped to my desk Eyes glance up At clouds that surround her For a second a wish that I could paint them both Blinks through my head A graphite-stained sky (moon finally full) Watches people ask her to recharge their crystals To bring them power that some never return She’s grateful to the ones that do We’re both glad they never ask the same the rest of the month I end up analyzing the almost-forest that surrounds me Attaching to memory the past sea deep greens that could only be viewed Due to her light being brighter than the one on the sidewalk Author Bio Nikolai Neerenberg : I am a queer, feral artist who keeps trying new things and ending up surprised when it works. My writing tends to happen when an idea can’t be conveyed visually, and my visual arts happens due to the inverse. The need to create just seeps into my bones, and I only control the inspiration. My poem, “Nights,” was the result of many late night conversations between me and the moon, as well as the less orthodox approaches I’ve taken to separate myself from my past.

< Back An Ode to My Cat Megan McGrory When I collapse on the couch ready to rest, my cat comes with his tail held high. A cloud of black fur with a squeaky meow and loud purr. He settles by my side, unaware of the joy and comfort he brings. I wrap my arms around his round middle and bury my face in soft fur while he makes biscuits out of the side of the brown, weathered couch. Like a stuffed animal that can love you back. A friend who will never leave. A weighted blanket that chooses to be there. Each purr calms the storm inside me. He lays his head on my arm, and the sun itself cannot compete with the warmth I feel. When he has had his fill, he goes on his way, never knowing the cold hole he leaves between my arms and my heart. My cat is a coward, I will not deny it, and does not seem to have ever been capable of hunting. He eats grass like a cow and his dinner like a pig, but why should that matter? My cat is the best snuggler this anxiety-ridden girl could ask for. Every day, he is excited when I come home. His joyous meows ring through the house and his tail waves a flag to celebrate the return of his human. My spirits rise in turn as I see my fluffy bannerman, excited to begin our daily cuddle session. For many years, he has been my stalwart companion. I would not replace him with another. My knight in cuddly armor. Author Bio Megan McGrory is an avid consumer of media who’s lived in Washington, Alaska, and finally Oregon. She has been writing since before she could technically write, getting her mother to write down her stories for her. Her greatest passion is prose, particularly fantasy and science fiction, though she’s started to dabble in poetry. Aside from writing, Megan loves to read, watch movies and TV, perform on stage, and analyze media through a feminist lens. One of her greatest passions is napping with her cat, Spooky.

< Back Dirt Poor Crescent Holiday I grew up as free and wild as the blackberries, seldom burdening myself with such frivolities as clocks or clothing. I lived in shrimp shells and river bottom muck, rejoicing in fireflies and mosquitoes alike, knowing their brief season heralded the last days of summer. Author Bio Crescent Holiday , who also goes by Brooklyn Shepard, is a resident at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Wilsonville. She takes college courses offered by both PCC and PSU, where she majors in English. She is the mother of a number of children, including Soriyah, Britain, Iliyana, Indigo, Sterling, and Cha’uri—and she has a husband who is the love of her life. Last year, her nonfiction essay “The Whisper of the Rain” was published in The Bellwether Review .

MISSION STATEMENT The Bellwether Review is Portland Community College Rock Creek’s literary magazine. Our mission is to showcase original writing and artwork from both students and artistically inclined folks in the community. We aim to publish a diverse collection of work from a variety of voices. All submissions go through a fair and democratic process to ensure the highest quality of work is selected for publication. The Bellwether Review commemorates the hard work and dedication of all those involved in its creation.

< Back The Ginger Remains Crescent Holiday The first words I spoke to my then-future husband were, “Don’t fall in love with me.” His response was, “I think it’s already too late.” A few hours before, a group of us had converged on the local Shari’s restaurant after our theater troupe’s night of vampire cosplay. We drank bitter coffee like it was the only thing keeping us alive and shoved bites of rapidly cooling food into our mouths between stories of ourselves and highlights of the night’s events. The mood was raucous, and the laughter contagious. Since I was the newcomer of the group, I was the focus of much attention. Amid cacophonous laughter over my regaling of the story of the first time I met someone of a different sexual orientation, I made the flippant comment, “Don’t fall in love with me.” As a recent divorcee at the ripe old age of seventeen, I wasn’t looking to get into another serious relationship, and I certainly didn’t want to be in love. Love was what had gotten me into the last mess and why I had had to move from my tiny hometown in eastern North Carolina to the foreign country of western Oregon. With hair the color of an orange crayon and covered with freckles, he wore a Hawaiian shirt so loud and so ugly that it could probably be seen—and complained about—from space. He topped six feet by several inches and had a lanky build. He was definitely not my type, whatever that was. He petitioned me for months to go out with him for a cup of coffee, and once I agreed, he convinced me to repeat it nearly every subsequent night. I later found out he’d already told his friends he was going to marry me. He was there to bail me out of jail when I was arrested for throwing mashed potatoes at my stepfather. He let me punch his stomach when I cried over my ex-husband being an asshat. Then, he bought me a punching bag and encouraged me to keep up the habit. He convinced me to sign marriage papers “for tax purposes” after our first child was born. He never seemed disappointed or upset when I would “fail” yet another pregnancy test, even if we just had a baby a couple of months old. When our children were all teenagers, and I LOST MY MIND and decided I wanted another baby, he was supportive of me. He told me I was crazy, but he was supportive. When my oldest daughter posted 158 photos of my vagina on Facebook, just because her little brother happened to be exiting it at the time, he was there to keep me from wrecking our car. He held me after the death of our son, Theodore, when I would stop in the middle of a retail store’s aisle and bawl over some baby item I saw. He started planning our routes around stores to avoid the baby section. He held me through all the bumps and bruises, hopes, and hiccups in life. He religiously killed spiders, wiped noses, opened doors, and lifted heavy objects for me—and he still does. He strove to actively be my best friend, and I fell in love with him in moments, over my own strident objections. He wore me down. His journey of falling in love with me not only led to my falling in love with him, but also with myself. Twenty-five years later, we have seven beautiful children and a legacy of love I never imagined I would have. The loud Hawaiian shirts are gone, but the ginger remains. Author Bio Crescent Holiday , who also goes by Brooklyn Shepard, is a resident at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Wilsonville. She takes college courses offered by both PCC and PSU, where she majors in English. She is the mother of a number of children, including Soriyah, Britain, Iliyana, Indigo, Sterling, and Cha’uri—and she has a husband who is the love of her life. Last year, her nonfiction essay “The Whisper of the Rain” was published in The Bellwether Review .

< Back The Man in the Red House Rowan Hartley Archie had lived in the red house for twenty-six years before Evelyn moved in across the street. It had seen the latter half of his marriage, three kids leaving home, four dogs, and as of recent years, the death of his wife. At seventy-three, Archie wasn’t expecting anything or anyone to change his mind. He was old. The only change he was willing to accept was the adoption of his cat, Ladybug, and the perpetual transformation of his garden. The introduction of Evelyn and her husband, Isaac, was at first an unwelcome one. They arrived on a sunny day in February, unusually sunny enough that Archie’s hands were able to stand the biting cold to dig up last year’s lily bulbs. Lilies were poisonous to cats, after all. Isaac and the movers were noisy when they unpacked the trucks, his two-finger point harsh and his voice ringing. Evelyn mostly stood beside him and grimaced apologetically at the workers, sometimes directing, always gentle in her movements. They settled down, though. A week in, they rang his doorbell with a pie and a small orchid plant. Safe for cats , Archie thought to himself. Guess they can’t be too bad. “I hope you like apple,” Evelyn smiled. She had dark hair and rosy cheeks and smelled of flowers. “Thank you very much, I’ll be sure to return the favor,” Archie told her, shaking Isaac’s cold hand. “Oh, there’s no need,” Isaac’s eyes darkened, and he gripped Archie’s hand tightly. “Keep the pie tin,” he grinned as they left, hand tense on the small of Evelyn’s back. # Evelyn and Isaac reminded him of his own relationship with his wife, prior to his retirement, and later, her death. Their routine every weekday morning was the same. The lights came on at seven. Archie knew this because he was up by five-thirty most mornings. In his youth, he had been a sound sleeper, but he was restless now. It worked out well though; he preferred to walk the dogs before anyone else was up and about. Evelyn was always up first. Archie liked to sit in the living room facing the window to watch the sunrise, and he would see her silhouetted in the kitchen. Isaac joined her around seven-thirty, always slipping his hands around her waist and kissing her neck. Sometimes it seemed that Isaac was gripping her arms too tightly. Sometimes Archie thought he saw Evelyn flinch a little when her husband turned towards her. But what did he know—he was old, his eyesight was going, and the dim light could be playing tricks. And anyway, he was no longer in the habit of involving himself with the neighbors, or anyone, really. # Not long after moving in, Isaac and Evelyn threw a housewarming party: open invite to everyone on the block. Archie hadn’t planned on going. He hadn’t interacted with his neighbors in a long time, so long in fact that most of the original inhabitants had moved away. But Ladybug was curious about the noise, and Archie about the smell of cooking food, so he decided to make his way over. “Just for a few minutes,” he told Ladybug, lifting her into his arms. Archie approached the front door, but a sign stating “Party in the back!” redirected him. He approached the back gate, and briefly considered turning around—it was loud, and the voices inside were all young. But before he could make up his mind, the gate swung open. “Oh-em-gee, a cat!” Two women swarmed him. He flinched away, but they persisted. “What a beautiful calico!” one of the women, the taller one, reached her hand towards Ladybug, who headbutted it happily. She always loved new people. “Oh, she’s such an angel,” the first woman said as Ladybug sniffed her hand. “What’s her name?” Archie felt himself relax slightly. “Ladybug… She’s about thirteen months old.” “How precious,” the girls giggled and walked off. Archie breathed a sigh of relief, Ladybug content in his arms. He made his way through the gates. Tables were set up, draped in floral tablecloths and covered with food. He eyed it anxiously; he hadn’t had anything other than his own cooking in a long time, which was barely passable as cooking at all. Does it count as cooking if you don’t use any heat? He had found himself wondering on many occasions. He made his way through the sparse crowd of well-dressed people. For the first time in years, he felt a little ashamed of his worn-in slacks and faded button down. But none of them gave him a second glance. He filled a ceramic plate with cornbread and pulled pork. There were brownies too, decadent on their pretty glass plate. These were the kind of people who took their brownies out of the pan and cut them up. These were the kind of people his wife wanted so desperately to be like, the kind of people that he always resented for making her feel like the life he had built for them wasn’t enough. “Oh, excuse me,” a woman bumped into him, spilling a drink on his arm. “I’m so sorry, let me get you a paper towel.” Archie’s fist clenched instinctively. Ladybug meowed in his arms, and he relaxed. “No worries. Accidents happen,” he said gruffly. He set Ladybug down, looping her leash around his wrist. “I really am sorry,” the woman dabbed at his arm with a napkin. “I’m Noel, by the way. Over there is my husband Leon,” she pointed towards a tall, ginger-haired man, who waved. Archie waved back hesitantly. “Nice to meet you, I’m Archie.” “How do you know the Coopers?” Noel asked. “The Coopers?” “Isaac and Evelyn.” “Oh, I live across the street,” Archie told her. “Ah, you can keep an eye on them now instead of us,” Noel laughed. “We all used to be roommates in college—those two are always getting in trouble.” Archie chuckled. “That’s nice that you’re all still friends,” “It is,” Noel smiled. “Well, I’d better be off. Leon and I are just finishing our rounds before we leave.” They bade their goodbyes. More confident, Archie strolled around the garden, admiring all the places one could plant the perfect rose. Archie was very nearly having a good time when Ladybug started kicking at the grass, a surefire sign she was about to try and use it as her own personal litter box. He picked her up before she could. It was a welcome excuse to leave… Best not to get too talkative with the neighbors. The lot next to Isaac and Evelyn’s home was empty and extended far back into the woods. He took Ladybug and the dogs there on walks sometimes. It was a sandy, grassy playground for them, and he loved to see the wildflowers when they were blooming. But tonight, he wasn’t the only one there. As Ladybug searched for the perfect place to do her business, Archie heard voices. He made his way towards the bushes where the sound was coming from before realizing that he really had no intention of talking to them. It’s not like they were trespassing anymore than he was. Still, something in him was curious. He knelt to tie his shoe and listen for a moment. “I won’t have you running your mouth about our financial business again,” the voice was quiet but harsh. Peering up through the bushes, Archie could make out Isaac and Evelyn. His hands held her wrists so tightly that they looked white. “I’m sorry,” Evelyn’s chin quivered and she looked down, the leaves obscuring the top half of her face. Isaac’s hands let go of Evelyn’s, and Archie almost breathed a sigh of relief, but the ringing sound of a slap caused the breath to catch in his throat. He gasped, and Isaac’s eyes met his through the bushes. He stumbled back, landing on his bottom: surely the grass would stain, but it was no matter. He leapt to his feet. The adrenaline made him feel like a younger man, but he remembered this anxious tightness in his chest, and it wasn’t worth it. Isaac was still staring at him through the bushes. Evelyn clutched her cheek. Archie met Isaac’s eyes, turned slowly, grabbing Ladybug’s leash, and made his way home. # In late March, there was a knock at Archie’s door. Archie looked through the peephole: Evelyn and Isaac, the former holding a plate and looking quite nervous, the latter with a bottle of wine and a boisterous grin. It had been over three weeks since the party, and Archie had barely seen them since. Every time Evelyn walked Isaac to his car in the mornings or accompanied him out while Archie was sitting on his porch, she avoided Archie’s gaze. Isaac always waved. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise that they were here now. He unlocked the door. “Oh, I’m so glad to have caught you,” Evelyn smiled cheerfully. “More pie?” Archie joked. Isaac smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, I wish!” Evelyn chuckled. “Brownies, this time.” Archie accepted the plate graciously. “Wow, are these the same ones you had at the housewarming party? They were delicious.” “Thank you,” Evelyn blushed. “It was my grandmother’s recipe.” Isaac held out the wine. “Not sure if you drink, but this is a great Pinot from my friend’s vineyard down in California.” “Thank you,” Archie balanced the plate in one hand, taking the wine in the other. “Can I invite you in?” The married couple looked at each other, and Isaac held out his hand for Evelyn to go ahead. “Don’t mind the dogs, they’re friendly,” Archie said, nearly tripping over one of his greyhounds, Lila. “I have lemonade and some cookies, if you’re interested? They’re from a box, so don’t get your hopes up about the quality.” “That’s alright,” Isaac said at the same time as Evelyn replied, “Sounds lovely!” “Whatever she wants,” Isaac smiled tightly. Archie made his way to the kitchen, setting the wine down carefully and pouring lemonade for his guests. “Stupid dogs stinking up the place,” he heard Isaac mutter to Evelyn. Archie added ice to the drinks—less for Isaac—and made his way back into the living room. “So, we just wanted to stop to say that we hope you enjoyed the party a few weeks ago,” Evelyn started. “Right, just wanted to swing by,” Isaac added. “We’re trying to get off on the right foot with the neighbors, you know?” “Of course,” Archie folded his hands in his lap. “So, are we? Off on the right foot?” Archie stared at Isaac. “I should think so, do you?” “I agree,” Isaac smiled and sipped his lemonade. “So, beautiful garden you have here. My wife takes an interest in gardening as well, but we’ve never had property with enough light for it.” Archie smiled. Finally something he could talk about. “Well, I’m always happy to give you some pointers. What’s in season, and whatnot. I built a small pond last year as well, if you’re interested in that kind of thing.” “Oh, that would be lovely!” Evelyn exclaimed. “I’m not sure where to start, and I would love some ideas. Say Saturday morning? If that’s okay with you, Isaac.” “Sure,” he relented. At that moment Dory, the Great Dane, licked his hand. “Agh!” “I’m so sorry about that,” Archie said apologetically. Evelyn was stifling a smile. “There’s a washroom down the hall and to the left.” Isaac left the room, lip curled. Archie waited until he heard the bathroom door click closed. “Are you okay?” Archie asked Evelyn after a moment of silence. “Do you need help?” “I want to leave,” Evelyn told him. Her eyes unwaveringly met his. Archie gripped her hands, eyes welling up. “You must try. I knew a woman once… I knew a woman who was being abused by her husband.” Evelyn looked up curiously at him. “She never left,” Archie told her. “She died unhappy. It is… I have a lot of regrets. If there is anything I can do…” At that moment, Isaac opened the bathroom door. Archie quickly released Evelyn’s hands. “We’d best be going. Nice chatting with you, Archie,” Isaac pulled his wife up. Archie hoped he hadn’t seen their touching hands, now that he knew the temper he had. “Sure,” Archie stood awkwardly, brushing imaginary crumbs from his jeans. “I guess I’ll see you on Saturday then.” Evelyn smiled gratefully. Isaac smiled too, his eyes familiarly cold. # Archie’s days were painfully mundane, and he was grateful for the distraction of gardening with Evelyn. They met every Saturday morning at one house or the other, always in the front yard—that was all Isaac allowed. “I don’t want the neighbors to see my wife going somewhere private with another man,” Archie had overheard Isaac say one day when Evelyn asked if she could show Archie the backyard. As soon as he returned from golfing, Evelyn would stand up in a hurry. “He just likes to get his snack when he gets home,” she would tell him. “What was your wife like?” Evelyn asked one day. They were sitting on his porch, taking a break from the hot sun. She had a bruise on her arm the same color as the mango iced tea she brought over. Archie had never tried mangos until now, and he wasn’t sure he liked them. “I’ve seen the pictures in your living room, but you never mention her.” Archie’s hand slipped a little on the condensation of the glass and he set it down quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evelyn flinch at the sudden movement. Ladybug, who was sitting on her lap, stirred, but soon relaxed again. The young cat had taken quite the liking to Evelyn. “She was lovely,” he answered. Suddenly, there was a rock in his throat. “Really lovely. She passed about ten years ago.” “I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “My mom lost my dad a few years ago. It was very hard on her.” Archie nodded. He wrung his hands, popped the knuckle of his thumb. It wasn’t ready; it cracked sharply. “Did you have kids?” “Three,” he forced himself to meet her eyes. “They’re all grown up. I haven’t seen them since the funeral; they live far away.” Evelyn reached over and put her warm hand on his. “I’m sorry, Archie.” Archie looked away. “They have good reason not to see me. I don’t blame them for not visiting.” It was true that he didn’t blame them—in fact, he was thankful for it. His sons had been hotheaded and his daughter had been meek but direct, like her mother. Grown up, with their anger and resentment, he wondered what they could do to him. “My wife loved gardening,” Archie added after a moment. “I let everything grow over after she died. I only started taking care of it again about three years ago.” “Well, it looks beautiful,” Evelyn smiled. “I’m sure she would be very proud.” # Archie was standing on his porch one day, using the door to fan out the house. Evelyn had written down her brownie recipe for him, and he’d tried to make it—disaster. He stomped his foot when Ladybug dashed out without her harness, and scurried into the bushes. “Ladybug,” he cried angrily, letting the door bang shut. She had made it under the thorny raspberry bush and meowed at him happily when he knelt to look at her. She was completely out of reach. Archie took a deep breath and sat back on his knees. This wasn’t the first time she had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. It was fine. He would hang out in the garden with her, and eventually she would come out. He wouldn’t normally be so anxious, but he had recently planted hemlock in his backyard, near the koi pond, and he was nervous about her eating it. “Archie, right?” the voice snapped him back to the present. “It’s Noel! From the party?” He hadn’t heard anyone pull up, but there she was, curly hair tied in a cloud on her head. She and her husband walked over in what could only be described as an enthusiastic trot. “Oh, hello,” Archie stood, shaking hands with the husband. Leo, or Leon… “Leon, nice to officially meet you,” he smiled. “You as well,” Archie looked over their shoulders towards Evelyn’s house. “Plans with the Coopers?” “You could say that,” Noel smiled tightly. “Evelyn has some family in town who Isaac isn’t a fan of, so we’re taking her out to dinner to see them. Don’t mention it to Isaac, alright? I’m sure you’ve seen how he can be.” “Do you mean…” Archie’s voice trailed off. Did they know? They were her friends; they would know, right? His eyes darted between the two. “Evelyn told us she confided in you,” Leon told him affirmatively, clutching his wife’s hand. “We’re glad she has more people in her corner,” Noel smiled. “Well, it was great to see you.” Archie nodded. As they walked away, Ladybug darted out from under the bushes and jumped out at Archie’s legs. He scooped her up. His mind was reeling. Evelyn had people. Why was she talking to him? Did she even need his help at all? As he looked back out towards the Coopers’ house, he could see Evelyn greeting Noel and Leon at the door. From the window, he could see Isaac. He wasn’t sure, but Isaac seemed to be staring right at him. # “I’ve gotten a job,” Evelyn told him one day, red flushing up her neck as she dug in the soft soil. “I told Isaac it was a volunteer position at the community center, but it’s paid. I asked them to send my checks here, if that’s okay?” “Of course,” Archie staked his small hand shovel into the planting bed. “What happens if he finds out?” Evelyn sat back, brushing the hair out of her face with the back of her hand, dirt smudging on her forehead. “I’ll tell him that I didn’t know it was paid. That I must have put my address down wrong.” “You don’t think he’ll come over here asking about the checks?” Archie asked, white eyebrows furrowing together. He was afraid for her, and selfishly, a little afraid for himself. He had seen what Isaac could do to a woman, to his own wife; he knew Isaac had little regard for the elderly and worried that whatever could happen to him would be worse. “I’ve told him that your memory is going,” Evelyn told him sheepishly. “But I don’t think he’ll suspect anything. I just can’t give him any reason to. I’ll have to be good.” Archie looked down at the ground, at the dark dirt and the line of holes and the pale peas in each hole. “If being ‘good’ was enough, you wouldn’t be trying to leave.” # Evelyn proved to be right—Isaac didn’t catch on, and every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Evelyn would bike down to the community center when Isaac left for work, always back by 4:30 to make him dinner. The checks came every two weeks, and Archie religiously stowed them in his living room, tucked between his late wife’s recipe books. Archie was right too though—the abuse didn’t stop. One night, Archie was awoken suddenly. He laid sleepily in his bed, confused, before a loud voice carried across the street and through the open window. He shuffled over, joints creaking. A car had pulled up outside of Evelyn’s home, parked haphazardly on the driveway. The porch light was out; the blinding LED headlights of the car silhouetted what he recognized as the halo of Noel’s curls. He watched, curious, and ashamed at his curiosity. When the door opened, there was no yelling—he could only assume Evelyn had opened it. He watched Noel and her boyfriend grab the shoulders of a figure to support her. The light obscured most everything, but what he saw was tinged in red. Noel and Leon practically carried Evelyn to the car. The doors slammed shut, the engine hummed, and then the street was quiet again. Archie waited. A few minutes passed, and the kitchen light came on. A shadow appeared inside the door, closing it noiselessly. Isaac’s silhouette held a bottle. Archie imagined blood dripping from it, and shuddered. He pictured the bottle cracking on Evelyn’s pale temple, leaving behind bright blood and fizzing beer. He felt the acid rise in his throat, and he gagged. Nothing came up. Ladybug, disturbed by the noise, ran out from her seat at the foot of his bed. He hadn’t thrown up since his kids had the stomach bug back in elementary school—he wouldn’t start now. He swallowed hard and crawled back into bed. # In August, the day arrived that Evelyn planned to leave. It was a Thursday, so hot and muggy that when Archie stepped outside to check for mail, it felt like breathing in honey. Evelyn had gotten her wrist cast off last week. Her bruises from the attack when her friends had to take her to the ER were long healed. The community center was planning an event that week, and for all Isaac knew, that was where Evelyn was. But in reality, she was packing a bag and her important documents, and getting ready to leave. Archie’s wife had left behind an old VW bug in their garage. He had offered it to Evelyn when they first started planning her escape. She’d refused. “This is practically a piece of art,” she had told him. He hadn’t worn her down, but just in case, had taken it to get new plates and transfer the title to her name, and had parked it safely in front of his house once Isaac left for work. Evelyn stopped by around four. Archie knew it was goodbye, and his hands, holding Evelyn’s latest check and a small envelope with a few hundred dollars, shook when he answered the door. Ladybug purred happily by his feet, unaware of the sobriety of the situation. “Thank you, Archie, for everything,” Evelyn said, petting Ladybug. Her voice was confident in a way it hadn’t been until now. “You helped save me. I cannot thank you enough.” “Please,” Archie gripped her hands. “Don’t do that. That story I told you about the woman who was being abused? The one who died? That was my wife. I hurt my wife. I had to help you. I had to.” Evelyn’s shocked face stared back at him, but there was no time to unpack it. Archie pressed the car keys and envelopes into her hands, chest heavy with guilt. “Please, go. Take the car. Let me do this for you.” Evelyn grasped his hands around the keys before finally taking them. As she turned away, decades worth of tears dripped down Archie’s face. He watched through the open door as she packed her bags into the little car. Ladybug meowed at his feet. The car rumbled, the engine turned on. Archie sank to his knees as she drove away. She didn’t wave goodbye. Author Bio A writer from the young age of eleven, Rowan Hartley strives to write thought-provoking, vaguely surrealist works. “The Man in the Red House” is her first published work, and her eventual goal is to publish a book of short stories. Hartley is currently working on earning her Bachelor’s Degree in Public Health. Outside of writing and academics, she enjoys ceramics, long urban hikes in Portland, reviewing movies on Letterboxd, and hanging out with her four cats. You can follow her work on Instagram @superlunaryyyy.

< Back Devil-Damned Shane Allison When my mother speaks of how my father has hurt her over the years, She acts as if each time is the first. As if him being a bastard Is something she never saw in him before. I’m so unhappy. I try so hard to get along with him , she says, As she looks past a set of dusty vertical blinds into a front yard of azaleas. When I dare to utter the word divorce again, she says, No, I’m going to wait, so I can get his money. Like the rest of us, She now waits like a buzzard on a power line To swoop down to fill her belly on my father’s remains. He gets more than one hundred percent now from the VA, Tucking money in Family Dollar bags to stash under the seat Of his truck. I prefer my father when he’s quiet in the house, Hiding from his family as if we don’t know he’s devil-damned. When my mother cries, I wipe her tears with my I Never Liked You Anyway t-shirt. She thinks that if I talk to him, he will listen to me, That maybe by sheer will, He will turn over a new leaf. But talking to my father means a baseball bat to the head. A strike for every tear that has streaked my mother’s face. I can hear her now, don’t say stuff like that about your daddy . And there it is. Flipping on and off like the proverbial light switch. Author Bio Shane Allison was bit by the writing bug at the age of fourteen. He spent a majority of his high school life shying away in the library behind desk cubicles writing bad love poems about boys he had crushes on. He has since gone on to publish many chapbooks of poetry—Black Fag , Ceiling of Mirrors , Cock and Balls , I Want to Fuck a Redneck , Remembered Men and Live Nude Guys —as well as four full-length poetry collections: I Remember (Future Tense Books), Slut Machine (Rebel Satori Press), Sweet Sweat (Hysterical Books), and, most recently, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire Press). He has edited twenty-five anthologies of gay erotica and has written two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done (Simon and Schuster Publishing). Allison’s collage work has graced the pages of Shampoo , Unlikely Stories , Pnpplzine.com, Palavar Arts Magazine , The Southeast Review , South Broadway Review , Postscript Magazine , and a plethora of others. Allison is at work on a new novel and is always at work making a collage here and there.

Home ART POETRY FICTION NONFICTION Thank you for visiting our website. The Bellwether Review is a literary journal that hopes to promote and inspire creativity amongst those not only at Portland Community College Rock Creek but also throughout the broader global community of writers and artists. We hope you take the time to review these great pieces that were sent in to us and selected for publication by our editorial team. Visit our Submissions page if you are interested in having your work considered for publication in a future issue. Email us at bellwetherreview@gmail.com with any questions. LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Reader , First and foremost, thank you for reading this year’s edition of The Bellwether Review . Students who submit their works for publication, as well as those who create the review, spend hundreds of hours working their craft, and we here on the editorial team truly appreciate the efforts that have gone into developing the outstanding works that appear in this year’s journal. One hundred and six works were submitted this year, and each one was reviewed and discussed by the editorial team, as we sought out what makes each piece special—what makes them beautiful—and ultimately selected those that stood out as exemplary to share with you, the readers of the 2024 edition. We here at The Bellwether Review team thank you for taking the time to appreciate the work of these contributing writers and artists, and we especially want to thank all those who contributed works to this edition. And with that, we hope to see you next year. Until then, take care. — The 2024 Editorial Team Copyright © 2024 Portland Community College Portland Community College reserves all rights to the material contained herein for the contributors’ protection. On publication, all rights revert to the respective authors and artists.

< Back That Feeling When Moriendi Lenore The peaceful nights dreams are broken by the banshee wails of your alarm clock; with a swift hand you silence them. The afterimages of a cosmic ballet float away from you as you try to recall your dream, or was it a nightmare? You sigh into the morning light, heart skipping a beat as you feel a cold draft on your foot. You slowly move it back under the safety and warmth of your weighted blanket, if you’re stealthy they won’t notice , you tell yourself. How long has your foot been dangling over the abyss, a tempting snack for what lurks beneath the bed. You wonder if you should check, just in case, for old times sake, that no monsters are there. You carefully peer over the side, eyes lingering on the ground where the light fades into a shadowy unknown. If you step down from your bed, will gnarled hands with long claw-like nails reach out and grab your ankles? # The familiar bell of your cat Jellybean’s collar rings with each bounce up the stairs to greet you and demand breakfast. She waltzes over to you, a loud meow piercing the morning calm. Catching sight of the darkness beneath you, Jellybean dives under the bed. You lean over a bit further, brow furrowed, “Jellybelly?” Jellybean leaps up at you from under the bed, catching you off guard. Collar bell jingling for all to hear her triumph. You jump back, cursing at yourself for being startled so easily. The only true monster that lurks under your bed, you think, is a hungry cat. A shudder moves over your shoulders as you sit up to start the day. Jellybean right on your heels. # You walk into the bathroom, pausing at the closed shower curtain. You should open it. Check behind it. Make certain no serial killers have snuck past the ever vigilant Jellybelly Security System™. You throw the curtain aside, Jellybean hops into the tub, batting at a toy she left behind in the night. You shake your head with a bemused laugh, the moment soon forgotten as you mumble to yourself that you need to have another chat with your roommate about who makes coffee on the weekend. # You head to the kitchen after dressing to fix your coffee and trail snacks to go, and make a hungry cat very happy. Sunday hikes to clear the mind. Jellybean’s large, golden eyes are fixated on the corner of the living room. You go to pet your cat. “You okay Jellybelly? Did you find a bug?” you ask, carefully following her golden-eyed gaze to a seemingly empty corner. The fern you’ve managed to keep alive rests on its perch alone. Jellybean sits in gargoyle protectiveness upon the arm of the chair. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.” You try to dissuade, tapping her on the side. A low growl responds. Her eyes never waver. You brush it off, it’s just silly cat things , you tell yourself. # All your gear packed up and ready to go, you set off on your day hike. You’ve decided to go to a new trail today, this one recommended for a view overlooking a waterfall at the end. This early in the morning, trails can be all but devoid of other humans. You take a deep breath in, the smell of pine intertwined with last night’s rainfall brings a smile to your face. Double checking the map you’ve downloaded, you head off along the dirt trail, thumbs looped on your backpack straps. Bird songs cheer you along toward your goal, the wind moves through the trees above, rustling the branches together in leafy whispers. A part of you feels as though this place can’t possibly be real, how can something so peaceful exist? # The farther down the path you get, the more you begin to notice the birds have become quieter, low profile evergreen bushes stick out onto the once well maintained path. You hike early to avoid the din of other humans, but no noise at all never bodes well. You pause to grab your water bottle, can’t hurt to check the map again , you tell yourself. The whispering of the pines around you grows louder; the wind keeps to its steady course, offset from the whispers you overhear. You scan the tree line. There is something there, you know there must be. You can feel its eyes on you. Replacing your water bottle, you decide this is a hike that can be finished another day. A day with more people around. A day with more boot prints in the slowly drying dirt. You retreat as quickly and calmly as you can back toward your car. Every so often you stop to scan behind you. The eyes feel closer. Everywhere. Just when you think you’ve convinced yourself it’s all in your imagination, that you could have kept going, the birds sing their songs around you again, and you feel like Alice leaving Wonderland, back into the safety of reality. You stare back at the trail, the tree line, was it real ? “You okay?” A fellow hiker comes up behind you, her voice chipper for the early hour. You turn, shoulders jerking ever so much at the appearance of another human. At the sound replacing the whispers of the pines. “How’s the trail today?” She continues, smiling as she adjusts her backpack straps. Shaking your head free of the daze, “uh, it-it was good. A bit overgrown in some areas though…” “Thanks for the heads up! Have a good one!” She whistles and sets off past you down the trail. You follow the sight of her disappearing into the forest. Should you have told her to be careful? That something may be lurking in the trees ready and waiting for a willing soul. You scan the treeline again, then look back toward your car, were you being watched? You ponder a moment more, perhaps you weren’t the only one on the trail this morning after all , you tell yourself. Shaking off the residual feeling you head home. # The next morning, you stare outside the living room window, waiting for the coffee to cool in your mug. It’s a dense, foggy predawn that looms across your yard. The illumination of the solitary lamppost just starting to be at odds with the first rays of light. Condensation swirls above the blades of grass, you furrow your brow as you watch the fog twist and contort into spectral creatures stalking ever closer to their next prized possession. Floating toward you the way steam drifts over a hot drink. Those who watch the watcher. You stare transfixed, the fog a master hypnotist. “Hey, I might be home late tonight, or I might decide to stay in and have a spa night.” Your roommate says, a whirlwind of extroversion on their way out the door. “I’ll text you.” Your reverie broken, the fog returns to its stagnant form. “Yeah, um, be safe out there, have fun.” You take a sip of your coffee, only to find it has gone cold. How long were you standing there in the fog’s dewy grasp? # The day at work goes monotonously slow per usual. Do Mondays offer anything else? Your mind drifts to Jellybean, wondering what she was so intent about yesterday morning. That corner is just a corner. That fern is just a fern. No, that fern is surviving out of spite , you tell yourself, it deserves better . You wonder if your cat would still stare if you moved the plant. You take your lunch, staring at the pine trees outside. The wind has them whispering here as well. Your mind drifts back to the hike, and you find yourself looking up the trail’s history. Just an average run of the mill National Park trail. Shaking your head like a broken etch-a-sketch, you try to remove the thoughts and return to work. The reports are not going to deal with themselves. Back at your simple desk, in your cubicle by the supply room, you open the closest file. The program on your computer prompts you to input data on the new property acquisition. A task you have done so many times that you wonder why it doesn’t haunt your sleep. The office is not as busy today as it normally is, you can’t quite recall why; was there a memo about it? No matter, you think, the lack of chatty coworkers makes your job easier to concentrate on. Not that it requires much to begin with. # Your roommate texts asking if you’re still at work, you glance at the clock— 18:12—those reports were more distracting than you anticipated. At least you weren’t thinking about yesterday. About the whispers on the wind, how they weaved through the pines, how they watched— no, text them back, stop thinking about yesterday , you tell yourself. You let them know you’re coming home now and will even spring for takeout on the way; adding in a joke about how your roommate’s spa night won out in the end. You take one final glance at your typed report on the monitor before turning off your computer. The heading is wrong, you think, staring at the repeated words in the report; ‘Sight without seeing, in golden eyes trust, maliferous melodies are not luck,’ despite staring at the words, no solution comes to you, the header is tomorrow’s problem. You pack your bag and head toward the garage, passing empty desks and dark offices. The office is still at night, you think, still like an early morning hike. # Turning the corner to the north exit, you face a long and gradually darkening hallway. You pause. The flickering of the cheap fluorescent bulbs that buzz overhead burrow into your mind the way maggots devour flesh. The lights at the end of the hallway become a void as they flicker and turn off. The buzzing of the light overhead gnaws on your brain. With each new flicker of the light now furthest away, the void grows closer. The gnawing louder. You know with each blink of the lights a surprise party may await at the end of the line. A line now one moment, one breath, closer to you. Surprises can be fun though… can’t they ? The buzzing vibrates through your body. Why are your feet not moving? You told them to leave. Don’t fail now. Take the other hallway, the other stairway. Move. Do anything but stare at the void , you tell yourself. “You okay?” a maintenance worker asks from behind you, his face betraying his otherwise friendly tone. Was today the day maintenance was doing work? You knew you should have paid more attention to that memo. To any memo. “F-fine. Just forgot about…” you gesture vaguely at the still darkening hallway. “The east exit to the garage is all good to go.” He nods with his head in the direction of the east exit, hand clicking his flashlight on and off several times to quell impatience. You nod and take your leave. The buzzing gone, the void at the end of the line no longer as impenetrably dark and tempting. # The long day has you ready to finally get some rest. You switch off the light in the living room before heading upstairs, the lingering sensation that you aren’t alone in the dark crawls its way across you; the way spiders flee the floods of a cranberry bog, covering your very being with hundreds of tiny legs until it threatens to consume you. You think you hear a faint buzzing sound in the back of your mind. Lurking. You wonder, as Jellybean darts up the staircase past you and into the light of the hallway above; has the dimming of the light revealed a new secret hidden away from sunlights vigilance? An issue to ponder another day, you think, and press forward. The faint creaks of the floor overhead as your roommate gets ready for bed remind you of the light cracking branches of the pines underfoot on your hike… were they branches or bones ? # You hope your dreams are full of sugarplums dancing in your head. You turn off the bedroom light and crawl into bed, relishing the feel of the weighted blanket. Onward move the shadows. A figure looms in the corner of the room. Ignore it. Not real. You tell yourself. You curl your legs up toward you, making certain your feet are safely tucked away this time. You shut your eyes tight, just in case you are wrong. You refuse to know what shape the figure has chosen to take tonight. You don’t wish to know what lurks in the void. What happens if you open your eyes to the darkness beyond? # Your dreams are plagued with shadow. An amalgamation of deep space and sea, both as terrifyingly beautiful as a silent breath between each note of an overture. The buzzing, odious gnaw of a bone orchestra bores into your skull. You try to move, but cannot swim in space. Dark and vast, crushing your lungs free of oxygen. With no souls in sight to ever hear you scream your final regrets. You awake in a cold sweat the next morning, Jellybean curled up beside you. Not how you planned to start your day. The coldness of space leaves your bones chilled. You go through the motions, coffee, work— the hallway on the north end no longer looks the same —home. You hope tonight will be better than the last. You will it to be just a normal Tuesday. Your mind drifts back to your dream throughout the day, or was it a nightmare? # Sitting in your house that evening, laughing at a movie, the hint of someone standing just behind you as the screen darkens for a scene. Your heart freezes for a moment, it’s just been a weird couple days , you tell yourself, it’s only a reflection from something normal, it’s just the fern . Your mind doesn’t buy it, the tiniest of breezes moves against the back of your neck, warmer than the air around you. Warm like breath on your skin. You wait for the screen to cut to a darker scene again, perhaps you can catch a glimpse of what lingers. Just act naturally , you tell yourself, before shaking your head at how stupid you feel you’re being. Jellybean jumps up beside you and stares at the corner of the room again. “Good timing Jellybelly.” You say as you pet her. Jellybean looks past you, behind you. The corner is all consuming. You try to ignore the figure you catch the faintest glimpse of each time the screen goes dark. Of your cat staring in the corner behind you. Not real. You tell yourself. # A creaking floorboard in the room above pulls your attention away. You pause the movie. Was your roommate home tonight? You call out to them with no response. You could have sworn they said they were going to be going out tonight. You look at Jellybean, unwavering. Another creak has you wondering. That isn’t walking, it’s standing. Loitering. Lying in wait. Creeping up the stairs, you call again in question, with no response from your roommate. Probably should have just texted, you think, deciding to go back for your phone. Jellybean hisses and darts past you up the staircase. You look at her, your head tilted to the side as she sits at the top of the stairs, hackles raised. The shuffle of feet dragging on the floor behind you in the living room nearly stops your heart. You grip the railing of the staircase tighter. Knuckles fading to white. The coldness of space in your bones grows. The hum of the fluorescent lights begins to gnaw on your mind, joining a symphony of fear. Lingering mid-staircase, you freeze, don’t turn around , you tell yourself... Author Bio Moriendi Lenore is a Southern California native who moved to Oregon in 2008. They are finishing up their second year at PCC and plan to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies. Their writing tends to focus around all things that go bump in the night; along with variations of folklore and mythology. When not at home with their cat, Schrödinger, working on projects or playing TTRPGs with friends, they are with their dog, Chopper, and can be found hiking around Oregon.