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ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES 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. Addie Berry : This piece I did is of one of my favorite artists, Jeff Buckley. The title is based on one of my favorite songs off of his album, Grace. I made this in a screen printing class here at PCC. The silhouette I used is from a photo that David Ghar took of Buckley in 1994. The photo attached is of me and my cat Albert :) Christa Fowles : I came to painting as a way to visually express the way that I see the world and the mystery and wonder that is always present. In my current work there is an attempt to get at the sense of flow and the feeling of being outside time, even in something as simple as cooking, serving and enjoying a meal. There is much that is ancient and very human in these rituals, and my hope is to capture a glimmer of this in my work. Adam Idris : See the Meet the Editors page for a fun and zany bio!! You’ll have a funtastic time!!! Blake L. Johnson is a Portland-based photographer whose artistic focus is black-and-white street photography. Working with a monochrome camera, he captures the raw textures and striking contrasts of city life. Blake has a special interest in photographing people within their environments, as well as highlighting the wabi-sabi characteristics—the beauty found in imperfection and transience—of the urban landscape. The photograph “Old Town Portland Early Morning” was created during an Introduction to Digital Photography course at PCC. Blake wandered the streets of Old Town in the quiet hours before the city fully woke, drawn to the soft morning light revealing the worn textures and shifting shadows of the neighborhood. Carter Kohler is a Portland, OR-based artist who believes in the significance of radical kindness and compassion in the changing landscape of social networks in the twenty-first century. His work reflects on moments of growth and change, often inspired by personal experiences of hardship, resilience, and loss. Hannah Lavender is an illustrator. Mark Strehlow is an multi-disciplinary artist with a focus on sculpture, painting and drawing. His work touches on themes of the body, identity, and social tensions, and often draws on already established symbols to create juxtaposition between history and modernity. He is currently a student in Portland, Oregon. Native Portlander Eleanor Song is a second-year PCC student majoring in political science. She is a former National Student Poets Program semifinalist and has been published by Stepping Stone Publishing (but most of her work exists in a single notes app file, not backed up). Outside of writing, Eleanor is a photographer, legislative staffer, and proud cat mom. You can find her talking to strangers on the blue line, getting lost on hiking trails, and lighting candles that smell like sugar. A home health caregiver and ESOL teacher at PCC Hillsboro Center, Woods Stricklin is just beginning learning how to use a digital camera. Born in Texas, raised in Nebraska, an Oregonian since July 4, 2001, he believes we are all artists. Dean Wilson is a multidisciplinary artist based in Canby, Oregon, whose creative work spans both photography and the written word. His photograph "Quiet Time" was featured in Fifty Years, Fifty Artists: A Celebration of the West , and his work has been exhibited at Northview Gallery and Blue Sky: Oregon Center for the Photographic Arts. His images have also appeared in Uncommon , a publication by the Portland Photographers Forum, as well as The Bellwether Review . Dean’s poetry and prose have been published in the Lewis and Clark Review , Alchemy Magazine, and The Bellwether Review . Driven by a lifelong need to create, he approaches his art with a spirit of exploration—often blending visual storytelling with reflective narrative. Refusing to be confined by style or subject, Dean embraces both photography and writing as open-ended conversations with the world around him.

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.

The Bellwether Review 2020 Art Poetry Fiction Groundswell Archive Best Essay Winner

HISTORY OF THE BELLWETHER REVIEW The Bellwether Review got its start in 1996. Originally dubbed The Rock Creek Review , the journal used to be staffed by Rock Creek faculty members. The Rock Creek Review was renamed The Bellwether Review in 2011 with the inception of the Advanced Creative Writing, Editing, and Publishing course. Former editors chose the name The Bellwether Review to symbolize the artistic drive of writers and artists. A “bellwether” is the leader of a flock of sheep—a sheep who wears a bell to signal the best direction for the entire herd. Today, the term more commonly refers to any person who takes initiative and sets trends. We believe those whose work is published in The Bellwether Review are leading the way for artistic expression.

< 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 .