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ART ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES Dame Christa Fowles Oil on board 12 x 12 in cover on print edition Farsighted Adam Idris Photograph Everyone Mark Strehlow Ink on paper 16 x 10 in Old Town Portland Early Morning Blake L. Johnson Photograph 20 x 15 in Intrusion Dean Wilson Photograph The Procession Mark Strehlow Ink, charcoal, and pencil on paper 18 x 24 in Kitchen in Blue Christa Fowles Oil on board 24 x 30 in Crickets Mark Strehlow Charcoal and white charcoal on paper 11 x 8 in Grouch LW Woods Stricklin Digital photograph The Dinner Guest Dean Wilson Photograph Eternal Life Addie Berry Screenprint 14 x 11 in Big Step on the Big Stepping Stone Adam Idris Digital photograph Growth Grows from my Fingertips Carter Kohler Digital illustration 11 x 16 in Leaving Home LW Woods Stricklin Digital photograph Hug Dean Wilson Linoleum print on drawing paper 1 x 2 in Gene's Christa Fowles Oil on board 18 x 24 in moonglade Eleanor Song Stickers on paper 6.5 x 8.5 in Brooke Benefits Shane Allison Mixed media collage 9 x 12 in Force Field Shane Allison Magazine page & mixed media 9 x 12 in The Garden Mark Strehlow Ink and oil pastel on paper 20 x 10 in Goose Witch Hannah Lavender Gouache on paper 9.5 x 7.5 in Aerial at City Hall Adam Idris Digital photograph

The Bellwether Review promotes original art and writing cultivated by authors and artists attending PCC. We value showcasing work that expresses a diversity of voice and thought. We encourage a passion for meaningful creation, and provide a platform for students to appreciate art. 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. 2025 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Reader, Welcome to the 2025 edition of The Bellwether Review. Thank you for taking the time of day (or night) to come with us on this jour- ney. From the 140 submissions we received, the editors selected 59 works by 28 individuals to feature in this year’s publication. We are proud to present some of the best of what the PCC Rock Creek community has to offer. While we wish that all submitted work could have a chance to be seen in print, only so many can be accepted. Thank you to all who submitted—without you we would not be here. In this political climate, many organizations dedicated to the arts are losing their federal funding. The fact that this journal exists right now is a privilege. Enjoy the arts, for they are the words and images of the many. And with that, let the journey begin. —2025 Editorial Team Copyright © 2025 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 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 Far Away in a Place Nearby Sarah Myton Where the owl hoots in the morning And the birds sing at night. Fire ravages through cities Leaving them clean and bright. Water is like crystals Falling from the sky, You’ll never feel lost or lonely, But you won’t really know why. The harder you try The more you’ll find, “Lost” is not a state of being, It is a state of mind. How frustrating it was Being happy all the time. It was as if there were a hill You were never allowed to climb. The wind never had A path straight to your heart, Until you dug a hole there, Your sullen piece of art. “If only I could make it To the other side of the world” “There things would be different Nothing would get old” The pain of a small cut, While making lemonade Would not exist there, You would never be afraid. Vanilla would taste Exactly how it smells, And markers would never dry, Never hearing the sound of knells. The ice that forms there Is not so bad, At least it could numb All the pain you’ve had. 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 Peace Machete Moriendi Lenore A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Forever wishing and hoping to wander so It is never content to sit and just be. Must you be so persistent? I plea Onlookers stare in my direction apropos A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Aggravation dresses my face, a marquee Be cool, calm, chill, you got this , breathe slow It is never content to sit and just be. I know just what to do to set us both free Headphones on, full blast, a temporary deathblow A naturally curious mind is stuck with me Content, I lean against the shade of a tree Music cannot be stopped, reverberating, we let go It is never content to sit and just be. You are a peace machete, lacking chivalry Do I relent, has our parlay hit a plateau? A naturally curious mind is stuck with me It is never content to sit and just be. 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.

< Back Amir Nisha Shamik Banerjee Congested footpaths slowed us down that day. The sun, imperious, laughed during noon And mocked our plodding as we made our way To your most-stopped-by marketplace that June. Our bottles had run out of fluid, and though Your lips became deserts, you acted nice To prove “no thirst” (and thought I wouldn’t know). But then, a glass of cane juice helped your lips Like rainfall helps a dry farm, and your eyes Said, “You’ve relieved me” as you took those sips. We reached there. Oh, the bee-like crowd! Its buzz! We muscled through it, feeling every shove. Your right hand was latched to my left. It was Just like a journey through some shrubby grove. Alluring marts and outlets cast their shine Upon your heart whose throbs of boundless glee United with the joyfulness of mine. Taking me to some common trinket store, You browsed through every earring, while in me, The bliss of buying some for you grew more. Located nearby was a small boutique With fair abayas, but your modesty Held your desires. I used that old technique Of drawing your stiff body tenderly Towards the shop (your white cheeks made their change into light claret red). Your action of Examining a cloth, its colours’ range, The fabric’s quality, designs, and prints Appeared as if some craftswoman of love Was painting me with golden-yellow tints. At five, precisely, being too fatigued, We found a seat within the public square. Iced cane juice (once again!); we were relieved! The sky’s expanding ochre touched your hair. Thievishly, as I tried to hold your hand, You hawed and said, “What would the public think?” A pause, and then I said, “I understand.” Your manners! Oh, so Indian and plain That all I did was watch your eyes unblink- ingly, then turn aside and watch again. Sundown. It was your maghrib time. We found A mosque. I stayed outside—my faith did not Permit me in. You entered, sat upon the ground, Postured yourself, and gently checked the knot Of your hijab. Outside the gate, I prayed Too (to your God, but with a different name), “O’ Lord, will You not grace our souls and aid Our clashing fates? Remove religion’s pall?” Then you arrived. “Did she, too, pray the same?” I wondered, but your long hug answered all. Word Meanings Amir Nisha: A marketplace in the region of Aligarh (a place in North India). Maghrib: The sunset Islamic prayer. Abaya: A loose-fitting full-length robe worn by some Muslim women. Hijab: A traditional headscarf covering the hair and neck worn by Muslim women. Author Bio Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. Some of his recent publications include Spelt , Ink Sweat and Tears , St. Austin Review , Modern Reformation , San Antonio Review , The Society of Classical Poets , Third Wednesday , and Amethyst Review , among others. He secured second position in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.

< Back Fucking rip, I kinda liked you Moriendi Lenore Brown doe eyes stare at a ‘Wolf’ in disbelief, she wonders what she did wrong— Panicked fight, blade makes a mess. A lamb watches, ‘Fucking rip, I guess’ ‘Fucking rip, this is a mess to clean.’ She chose the painful way out. Faded red dye, brown eyes adore us both. She doesn’t mind the mess. Devoted brown eyes gaze at a ‘Wolf’, understanding c’est la vie in the cabin. Quick slash, she didn’t suffer. A lamb sighs, ‘Fucking rip, I kinda liked you’ Badges, sirens, my eyes meet a quick slash. A sacrificial Lamb— ‘Fucking rip me’—time passes, scars fade, knowledge gained, tarot read. The cards are flipped, why am I here—tarot read—she sees without knowing how close to the truth she is. ‘Fucking rip, you fascinate me.’ Friends with a badge hidden in plain sight, the truth in our mothers’ graves. A bond I don’t want to shake. ‘Fucking rip, why are you a magnet for death.’ Tricked by a ‘Wolf’, blades meet. His cold grin of proudness ends our bond. Safe, together, two lambs—one with teeth. ‘Fucking rip, I kinda care about you.’ 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.

< Back No Longer Shackled Kristina Landrum Dear Methamphetamine, When I was fourteen, you introduced me to your liquid charm encased in the syringe of euphoria, and I surrendered to your manipulations. The innocent giggles of smoking marijuana or the happy hallucinations of psychedelics soon turned to something white and sparkly, faster, darker. The novelty of experimenting wore off, and the thrill became a means to an end. Your evil intentions caused me heartache and destruction in one form or another. You stole my mother from me, who had also succumbed to the lies of your seduction; you stole my childhood, brutally used me to satisfy your own agenda and stole my hope of ever crawling out of hell. You have done nothing but bring terror and violence into my life and destroyed every relationship that mattered to me. I was blind to your truth, and by the time I figured you out, you had already brought me to my knees, to the point of not caring anymore. Before I realized what was happening, I found myself seeking you out and doing things for you that I never imagined. I committed untold crimes for you, kicking in doors and robbing people to pay you. I shamefully sold my body to any bidder just to feed you, numbly letting creeps play out their fantasies. There were so many times I chose homelessness, so you were my only responsibility. Throughout the years, you disguised yourself with a variety of names: crystal meth, crank, glass, or ice (Nicholas I. Parsons). In 2005, when I was in the midst of another relapse, Methamphetamine was proclaimed by Newsweek magazine as “America’s Most Dangerous Drug” (Jefferson). Arguably, it has become the worst mind-altering substance known to mankind (Parsons). In a needle, in a pipe, or laid out on a mirror, none of it dressed you up to represent anything but death, yet my craving for you was insatiable. The tears I’ve shed over the pain you poured into me could fill a reservoir. Oh yes, I tried to leave you time and time again, but I always crawled back and let you take me for another rollercoaster ride. Each time I gave in to your bullshit, I went deeper and deeper into the pit of despair. Little did I know, that’s exactly where you wanted me. You were an alluring god who successfully controlled every aspect of my life, always laughing as you shattered my self-esteem, my dreams, and my hope of ever escaping you. The sad truth is that from the time I was a little girl, I never knew I had a choice. You had my mom under your thumb even while I was in the womb, so unfortunately, I was born drug-affected and already in the clutches of your perversion and insanity. Never once did I question your twisted authority over my life. Most of the time you were good at killing the pain, comforting me, and loving me through multiple seasons of loneliness. As our relationship continued, there were countless times when I believed you were my only friend, the only thing I had to live for. So often, you seductively took me to the edge of blissful darkness, the brink of death, and I begged you to let me go. But you held on a little bit tighter each time just so you could spare my life once again and keep me all to yourself—plucking at the tattered strings of my mind. You fucked up my head in more ways than I can describe, shattered my heart, and tried to crush my spirit with the violence of your depravity. In 2009, as I was attempting suicide by way of police to get away from your hold over my life, someone bigger than you came along and spared my life. I experienced divine intervention as a new master lifted me out of the pit of desolation. He held me tenderly in His arms, told me all the things that I longed to hear—that I am loveable, valuable, needed, and have a purpose. Slowly, I came out of the fog and discovered your true nature. I was led into a marvelous light filled with forgiveness, compassion, and grace. The sins of my past no longer kept me in chains. I have been promised a new life, real hope, and a future. You see, today I have a new God who loves me better than you. Even though I stayed with you all those years, deep down, I hated you and everything you represented. You are a ruthless monster with no regard for who you destroy, ugly to the core, selfish, disgusting, and full of broken promises. What I find interesting is that you don’t just chase after the poor or the lowest of the low. Nobody is exempt from experiencing your torturous devices. There are countless people in all walks of life who have been ruined by your euphoric illusions, including political leaders. I recently learned of Matt Dorsey, a politician who has faced you publicly. His story has inspired me to believe in the recovery movement on every level, regardless of one’s socioeconomic status. He is open about his twenty-five-year battle with you, and in speaking out, he empowers others by saying, “It’s important for people in early recovery to see there’s a better life on the other side of this” (Heather Knight). Dorsey understands that early recovery support is crucial for ongoing recovery and he advocates for better systems to help others to succeed. If he can face you amongst some of his most judgmental, powerful peers and stand tall, so can I. Most recently, I learned that in Portland, Oregon, my hometown, there are three men in recovery running for City Council. They’re calling for more funding for sobering centers as well as more residential treatment facilities and abstinence-based housing (Knight). Hallelujah! How awesome is it that you have been exposed for the monster you are, and armies are rising up to take you out? Matt is a courageous hero who has opened the door for others in our government to come forward so that the devastation you cause can be addressed differently; people no longer need to hide in shame and hopelessness. This letter is to let you know that I no longer want or need you in my life. Have no doubt, I will join the fight against all that you stand for, but I don’t hate you anymore, nor do I miss the relationship we had. I have been able to move past all the craziness you brought into my world. In fact, I want you to know that I have forgiven you. I forgive you for all the destruction, heartache, and emptiness that you used me to cause for others. I choose not to harbor resentment and hate toward you or because of you. That would only hinder my own recovery. You no longer hold me hostage to your lies, threats of violence, or cravings. I’m proud to say that as of 2025, I have fifteen years of recovery and healing. My addiction to you has finally been broken. You can’t claim me as one of the 106,600 overdose statistics of the methamphetamine crisis plaguing our communities as of 2023 (KFF). I’m not a slave to delivering your brutality anymore. I’m not a slave to your deranged schemes of manipulating others anymore. And more importantly, I’m not a slave to your corrupted thoughts about my own self-worth that imprisoned me for so long. I thank God for the freedom that has finally come into my heart, mind, body, and soul. I can rest in peace that you are no longer the queen occupying the throne of my existence. Author Bio Kristina Landrum : As far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved reading and writing. Books often helped me to escape the dark reality of my household. They allowed me to envision a different life, a different family, a different me. When I learned to write I discovered a sense of control and power over my thoughts and emotions. It helped me express and sort through much trauma, pain, and confusion. I became a kind of “word nerd” in third grade, acing all of my spelling tests and dabbling in poetry. Now my writing is more about healing, advocating, and connecting with others. In the last 15 years I’ve written several program proposals, short stories, and more recently a “goodbye” letter to my addiction. I’m 56, going to college for the first time, and I have renewed her passion for writing … it’s never too late!

< 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 .

LAND ACKNOWLEDGMENT We would like to acknowledge that the home of The Bellwether Review , Portland Community College’s Rock Creek campus, is located on the land of the Atfalati-Kalapuya tribes (also known as Tualatin Kalapuya), who were among the First People living in what we currently call Washington County. In 1855, the Atfalati tribes were forced to sign a treaty relinquishing ownership of their land . Today, the Kalapuya people are members of the Confederated Tribes of the Grande Ronde, located southwest of Washington County. We also want to acknowledge and thank the original stewards of the land throughout the area which PCC serves today, including the Molalla; the Multnomah, Kathlamet, and Clackamas bands of the Chinook; as well as the many other Tribes who have made their homes along the Columbia River. We, the editors, have chosen to include this land acknowledgment as an active commitment to supporting contemporary Indigenous sovereignty by promoting awareness and fostering dialogue as a contribution toward decolonizing the oppression which has resulted from systemic policies of colonization—including genocide, relocation, broken treaties, and assimilation. The Bellwether Review seeks to highlight the diversity of linguistic and artistic expression of student voices on the Rock Creek campus and throughout the PCC community; with this in mind, we want to acknowledge the absence of voices that might otherwise have been thriving today, if it were not for the practices of forced cultural assimilation that leads to the loss of fluency in local Indigenous languages. The last known fluent speaker of Tualatin Northern Kalapuya, Louis Kenoyer ( baxawádas ), died in 1937. Kenoyer’s memoir, My Life: Reminiscences of a Grande Ronde Reservation Childhood , translated into English from Tualatin Northern Kalapuya, is available at the PCC Rock Creek Library. We encourage readers of The Bellwether Review to honor the journal’s connection to the history of the land upon which it is produced by supporting and promoting organizations that are working to cultivate and honor contemporary Indigenous cultures in a variety of ways, such as PCC’s Native Nations Club , Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde , Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians , The NAYA Family Center , Salmon Nation , and the First Nations’ Native Language Immersion Initiative . Learn more about the Kalapuya people by exploring Kalapuyan Tribal History , Pacific University’s Indigenous History of Oregon , and the Five Oaks Museum’s online exhibition, This IS Kalapuyan Land . The Bellwether Review editorial team would like to thank PCC Native Nations Club Coordinator Karry Kelley (Yahooskin/Modoc) and Dr. Blake Hausman (Cherokee Nation), PCC faculty in English and Native American Studies, for advising us on crafting this acknowledgment.

< Back Why I Risked the Strikeout Terra Patrie 1) If you’re afraid of the ball, you’ll never win. 2) Remember you’re on offense, not defense. 3) You’ve got people in the stands you’re playing for. 4) You’ve got people in the dugout you’re playing for. 5) You’ve got yourself you’re playing for. 6) You’d rather go out swinging. Author Bio Terra Patrie tried to write a bio but kept getting distracted writing poems.

< Back Sludge House J. Artemis Mackay this place looks like shit you know it’s going to be great every timber & rigging buzz & clatter amplifier worship carbon copied upon my heart I will lose three of my favorite S-tier teeth by encore until then pay the ferryman $12 at the door, exact change preferred. Author Bio Artemis Mackay (they/them) is a queer, trans writer living near a bridge in Portland. They hold a Master’s Degree in Comparative Social Change from University College Dublin and several DSM-V diagnoses.