Search The Bellwether Review, 2025

< 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.

< Back The Lost Voice Fran Kohler I am on my way to meet my wannabe lover north of Seattle. I am a businessman and it has been a hard, successful day. The night rain is cold and ugly on the interstate and my need to piss pulls the car into the northbound roadside rest. There is a small dark form sitting upright against the wet restroom wall that somehow makes me feel safe, sitting here in my heated car. A tiny, tiny ragged form in a ragged old sleeping bag. I cannot see a face, there are shadows everywhere and, honestly, I don’t really care anyway. A ghost hand lifts a beggar’s cup in my direction. I drop some change in it and turn away. I don’t normally do that, drop change. Looking in the metal mirror bolted to the restroom wall I pause considering the man looking back. “Damn” I think. Outside the wind has picked up and the rain is frighteningly horizontal. Almost loud enough to drown out a hauntingly beautiful song coming from the beggar. The shaking coins in the tin cup are a big band rhythm section. An amazing, wondrous, Billy Holiday voice, overwhelming my senses. It is everywhere in my head. The hard rain is smashing into the beggar, making the sleeping bag heavy with cold. This voice does not belong here in this wasteland. I become afraid and run back to the safety of my heated, car. Driving north again the rhythm of the wipers sound like my coins in the beggar’s tin cup, louder with every swipe. The injustice of the beggar makes me lash out at the radio, what I know to be the truth. I want to blame Trump’s social fruit but that is just a cop-out. I am headed crazy to my wannabe lover and that is a cop-out too. I feel weak. I do not want to cry but I cannot help myself. I cannot get that voice out of my head. I know what I have to do as the car turns south, almost frantically, the wind blowing me sideways, now desperate for an off-ramp to McDonalds. My god, the salvation of McDonalds! There. Over there. Minutes later I am back; the beggar has become smaller—like the storm has been blowing beggar parts away. I grab my umbrella, open it and walk. I see the little vertical pools of water forming where the sleeping bag touches the wall, then down onto the sidewalk. Propping the umbrella as best I can against the rain I carefully set the box of hot food and hot coffee in front of the beggar. Like offerings in front of an altar. But why? Then—BAM!! A single bolt of lightning hits the pavement, causing the asphalt to burst into flames, right in front of me, in front of my car, cleaning the air. But why? I go deaf for a moment. I panic, thinking that I will not hear that voice again. I cannot live without it. Then… There it is again. Singing in the cold rain. I cannot look at this beggar. I dare not but I can… not help myself. The bright overhead light casts a face back at me—a beautiful scarecrow smile of broken teeth and whip-etched skin. She is singing to me, singing for her dinner and I am taken away somewhere far south of here. South of the Mason-Dixon line. It is long ago and I am peaceful. The falling rain is now warm, turning into springtime orange blossoms, dripping from my sleeves. The big, graceful old plantation has a giant old porch filled with happy people eating watermelon and homemade ice cream. A grand piano is there, rolled out of the house for the occasion. Teddy Roosevelt is presenting a Belle to the Ball. Living Blackamores open Duisenberg and Marmon coach doors, offering gloved hands to the Masters of a passing age. Then, that voice! Beautiful like God enraptured with creation fills the early evening magnolia trees. **************** A truck light illuminated the old woman. I saw she was reading a book by Faulkner. As she turned the cold wet page it tore in half. I ran. **************** Standing at the Edge. Soon I would arrive at the palace of my wannabe lover. A smaller palace to be sure, but quite expensive and built in a hurry—located at the very end of an insanely beautiful, manicured spit of land jutting out into Fidalgo Bay with its own drawbridge and moat. It was 2 a.m. dark outside as I pulled up. I waited in the cold rain, at the foot of the condo stairs. I wanted to be critical of the wealth surrounding me, of the yachts, the fine motorcars, the perfection. But I could not. I was weak with age and gravity. I felt trapped by the beauty and complexity of the bizarre feeling coming from my wannabe lover as she eased dramatically past the door, standing radiant and lonely in the driving rain. “Image is everything” I thought to myself as I stepped out of the car and into her arms. I could feel the money demon’s eyes upon me, inviting me to plug into any outlet. I did. It is hard now to recall those first impressions—the private elevator, the perfectly groomed and psychotic dog. Grandma County Kitchen décor in every room with Captain Nemo floor-to-ceiling bay views— screaming at me—run away! Run away quick before I did something crazy. “It’s ok” I said inside my head, “I mean, the whole idea of this meeting is to fall in love, or at least to seal the deal. ” I was too tired to surrender to my morals so I fell into the bed of a very inappropriate stranger. There was a delicious glass of never-ending fine red wine in my hand as I fell victim to my senses. “Fuck it.” I said under my breath. “Just fucking own it .” Days passed. Extreme, possibly undeserved days of leisure fueled with half-truths and gritted teeth. I could see Naked Sirens just off the shore looking back at me through my wannabe lover’s bedroom windows. Magnificent, nubile creatures who came into the house—seducing me with their trident of perpetual world news, expensive takeout food and engaging sex toys of all types. A massive TV in every room, all on the same news channel, 24/7. I found that it was hard to sleep with the lights always on, but my wannabe lover could not sleep with them off. It was not fair of me. My wannabe lover’s face was youthful for the most part and looked like almost the best that money can buy. There was a fear that if the lights went off then things would be different when they came back on. Like turning off the lights was like turning on the night gravity monster. “Touch Ups, love.” I started looking at my face with the power of money transforming it. Not dishonesty, in fact, honesty was a shield for cosmetic indulgence and I could not blame my wannabe lover for seeking the perpetual comfort of physical, mentally therapeutic pampering. After all, she could afford it. But, there was a ghost hole in the kitchen that set alarms off in my head. I was becoming comfortably numb after only 3 days (Or was it a month?) in this illusion. I did not want it to make sense to me. I did not know if I gave a shit or not. I went outside in the cold rain and saw old men and women with their wet dogs and I was beginning to look just like them. Warm bed to warm car, go for a drive, warm restaurant, see the town. In the big Lexus I could not feel the gears change, I could not feel the outside world moving by, I could only feel like I was losing the feel of things, everything. The wide, crack-free street sterility of the town came blasting through the dark and insanely cold, ripping rain all around us…Still…It was a warm fantasy town filled with warm fantasy citizens living in the strange reality of expensive designer drugs. Twinkling eyes and absent faces. The warm smile of my wannabe lover assured me that everything was alright with permanent porcelain masks floating gracelessly upon hidden necklines. And from this perspective, she was right. Even so, something was wrong and it was the wrong of no one under 30 years old living in this town. Not one young person to be seen. Not really because it is too fucking expensive—it is, and that is part of its comforting, disturbingly orderly appeal—but really because the youth of today have no interest in watching stiff walking ghosts become more translucent. I wanted to run like a freezing animal. “Will I be rich?” I ask myself. “Damn right I will.” “Ask me what I would do with it…. Isn’t that really what I am doing up here?” I comforted myself with comforting platitudes—“I’m guilty and I hate myself for it, I loathe myself for it.” I feared becoming a comfortable little ceramic actor on my wannabe lover’s fireplace mantle. I was afraid that I would enjoy fucking myself. When I arrived, my thoughts were about a mysterious broken-toothed beggar singing in the rain. I started freaking myself out when, on drunken day number four of this “indulgence,” I began to forget what the beautiful beggar looked like and how lovely her voice was. What it meant to me. It was becoming a lost voice and I did not want to lose it. In the middle of the night, I fled. It was expected. It was not right and we both knew it was not right. It had to happen and we both knew it but it still hurt and it still does. **************** The bitter salvation of reprise. It is raining really hard on the freeway as I leave Seattle for Portland. It is late at night and I feel safe in my businessman’s car. Hell, it is a Pontiac and they don’t make them like that anymore . I want to hide as I drive by the beggar’s roadside rest. “It’ll be safe to stop here” I think, “after all, this stop is on the southbound side of the road .” I carefully look, there are no beggars in sight. Uneasy I drop the seat and drift off to sleep. Then; then, I hear it again—that voice of warm, easy, honey-filled days. I desire that. Rolling down my window to hear it better the fierce rain and wind bring me back to coldness as the warmth of my car leaves. I want to stay here and wait until she comes back to rest next to me in her rags, in my dry warm car. I will wait here for her until I look like her—ancient and fragile. What is she reading? My very life depends upon knowing. I sit here watching pale figures get out of, and then after a few minutes, back into their warm cars. Some sleep, some drive away. When I woke up, wake up it was and is still raining and I saw her—see her clearly, my beautiful, sensual beggar, there, standing in front of my car. Brilliant. She stood tall, standing elegant in a long, perfectly tailored white raincoat and gloves. A kind of druid hoodie that covered covers her golden brown plantation hair. She stood back, now standing in the street light as it caught her face, sorta catching it like clear water in your hands. The light was bright, shining now on her missing teeth and whip-scarred face—far more lovely than ever before. She smiled a smile at me and I died dying. I wanted to want her love, to give her my car, shelter her from the storm, anything, if only she would sing something for me. The windshield fogged over and she was gone. Author Bio “You’re only given a little spark of madness, and if you lose that—you’re nothing.” - –Robin Williams Francis E. L. Kohler : I returned to PCC when I was in my middle ’60s because I was inspired by my children to start over in life. Honestly, I was clueless but I soon found a direction in the liberal arts thanks to some amazing instructors and brilliant fellow students who saw something in me that I had nearly forgotten I had—a creative imagination. Zackel/rust/stiffler/truax/sairanen/knight/fujita/buswell/hilt/johnson/tangredi/andsomany more with a special shout out to dr.s mitra and postma of pacific u—but mostly to my wonderful, really wonderful children! I intend to audit classes and write as long as I can think. Now, about my little story, “The Lost Voice,” it is a true story filled with real phantoms and demons.

< 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.

< Back Memento Mori Katherine Bryant Joy can be contagious. When you see a broad and toothy smile, eyes squinted and creased at the corners, you can’t help but feel joy yourself. We often find ourselves smiling back at our photographs, feeling overcome with nostalgia, remembering that day fondly, or missing the people or time we are observing. It means even more to catch that momentary laughter, when the subject hasn’t had many reasons to smile. And just as quickly as it comes, the joy will abandon you when you remember that he is dead. In the photo above, we will meet my dad. I say we because I, too, do not know him. He’s pictured here on a sticky, humid day in Houston, Texas. The year is 1989, and he has just become a father—my father. He is in the courtyard of his apartment, a run-down, low-income complex occupied mostly by immigrants. You can see the faded siding, a result of the blazing Texas sun, which is contrasted by nicely manicured landscaping. He has a huge smile, an authentic one that can be seen in every feature of his face. He may even be in mid-laugh. He is shirtless, exposing four tattoos. The one on his shoulder looks like a grave, but it is hard to tell what it actually is. It is in a sketchy prison style and all black. The one on his bicep is the profile of a woman with a spider web. She is my mother. On his bare chest you can see a tank top tan line and two more tattoos. There is a thick and dark scorpion tattoo, and another tattoo he received during one of his many incarcerations. He has dress pants on and a belt to keep them from falling off his small, yet muscular frame. He always insisted on wearing dress pants, even in the intolerable heat and humidity. It was his way of presenting himself as someone to be respected. The unfortunate reality was, as a Vietnamese immigrant he was treated as second class in Texas. His proclivities tended to be unsavory at best, and illegal at worst. With few options as a teenage refugee, no knowledge of the English language, no family, and not enough money to survive, he quit his low-paying, abusive jobs and opted to chase money the easier way—with guns. Along with the dress pants, he was always quite particular about his hair. Here it is thick and dark. It’s nicely styled with an unmistakable ’80s volume. It is impressive for someone with stick-straight, Southeast Asian hair texture. My mom is behind the camera. Perhaps she said or did something humorous to elicit this giant grin. What you cannot see here is the reality of living in poverty and crime. You cannot see the police sirens, the gunshots, the cockroaches, and yelling from the neighbors’ apartment. You can not see his prison record, the thefts he’s committed, his murder trial, the guns, the cocaine, or the violence. Still, with this secondhand knowledge of the tumultuous life led by the man in the photo, to me, at first impression, this photograph is pure joy. It is a priceless moment in time of the person I never got to know. I see a man in love and happy, radiating his pride in being sober, out of jail, and having a new baby girl. You can, in some ways, still see the little boy inside of him. There is a glimpse of the person before the forced family separation, boats, and refugee camps. When we express pure happiness and excitement, it is the closest, as adults, we will get to our younger selves, before trauma, before pain, and before the worries and pressures of the world. In this moment he looks content, and he has nothing but promise and potential ahead of him. He is twenty-four and starting to plan out the life he wants and the life he will create for his family. He is trying to find a way to survive that does not involve crime and gang activity. This photo is now a cherished reminder of the parts of him that were good, and the parts of him that showed love. As writer Susan Lee Sontag muses, “Like a wood fire in a room, photographs—especially those of people … of the vanished past—are incitements to reverie” (16). This is how I choose to see him even after knowing the fate he will meet just after I turn two years old. The truth is, he was not able to fulfill the hopes he had in this snapshot, and his promise was snuffed out prematurely. He was gunned down in broad daylight, a victim of homicidal violence. It was an almost ironically karmic ending to his much too short life. Because he is gone and left me before I had the opportunity to make memories of him, this photo also shows all things lost and things he and we will never become. I see experiences ripped away from me. I see hair that will never turn gray, smile lines that won’t become permanent fixtures of his face and eyes that will never shed a tear at my wedding. Earlier in her writing Sontag states “A beautiful subject can be the object of rueful feelings, because it has aged or decayed or no longer exists. All photographs are memento mori” (15). This sentiment beautifully depicts the pull of negative emotions I experience today, holding his picture in my hands. In some ways, every single photograph we take will become a weapon to inflict pain on those that loved us once we are gone. To see someone on a piece of glossy paper that you will never get to hug, to smell, to hear and know their voice, is its own form of torture. I do not know the sound of the laugh that he’s making in this image. I sometimes can not bring myself to look at it because when I do, suddenly the hole in my heart rips wide open and the feelings of joy I caught by staring at that smile are replaced with tears and a feeling of profound deprivation. The bias I have in glamorizing someone important to me that has passed is not the rule when observing this image. My mother looks upon it and is filled with memories, both beautiful and horrific. The man here to her, is much different than the one I daydream him to be within my imagination. He is the man that abandoned her, that put her in harm’s way, that cheated and lied to her, and disappeared for weeks at a time. He is also the man that loved her the most. He is the man that made her a mother and gave her the gift that saved her life and gave her purpose. She has a familiar but vastly different conflict when the memories of the photograph come flooding back to her. He left her just as much as he left me, but she is both punished and gifted with the shared experiences with him that I do not have. My father used to refer to himself as “fey,” which means doomed or fated to die. He mentioned with frequency he would not be here long, as if to predict the future he knew he would not have. Perhaps this photo was for me, too little to remember the man shown here when it was taken. This photograph is an intentional donation of a laugh I will never hear. He is forever twenty-four, smiling into the sun, my mom making him grin ear to ear. The joy of that humid Texas day in 1989 will live forever through this image, but a photograph is only a moment in time, and eventually, we all must die. Author Bio Katherine Bryant is a full time PCC student in pursuit of an undergraduate in Social Work and then a degree in Law. She greatly enjoys reading and writing, particularly emotionally driven nonfiction. When she’s not studying or writing, she’s running her business in downtown Portland or spending time with her partner and four dogs.

< Back golden (h)our Eleanor Song in my mind we laugh in a glowing field. the sun laughs with us, peeking past a calm horizon as the day ends. the wind smiles and lifts your hair past your ears; you look like you could fly. the willow trees’ branches chase after the wind. each time i visit this scene it changes, flowers wilting with the seasons, but you don’t. i craft you a flower crown of different vines each time, but you laugh identically, like you always do, and even the frogs seem to stop and listen. the greenery around us fluctuates, but the grass stains dotting your dress remain, like they always do, and you’re nature’s proudest work of art in the light. time stops but only for us, the sky still scheduled and so the stars watch over us in a heartbeat; you wish on them. i wish on you. Author Bio 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.

< 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 Two Years Older Sarah Myton Two years older Makes you wiser and bolder and smarter than I’ll ever be. No matter how hard I try To pass you by You’ll always be further than me. In school, I worked so hard to excel Trying—so hard to sell The idea that I was just as good as you I have scars on my knees, just a few, From falling, time after time Trying, to catch up to you I’m Still here, still calling “Wait for me!” I’m still falling. Two years older Makes you more patient, kind and further along in the mind. More studied than I Trying to follow along my Brain develops thinker’s block Maybe we should stop trying to talk at 2 a.m., early in the morning. I guess I should have given you a warning Sometimes I get frustrated When we’ve debated At your beautiful, poised, sophisticated Response to which I have no reply So I ask you—why? Why do you talk to me When you have other places to be And to this you always say, “Because I care.” and he does, every day. Two years older Makes you barely older than me But what makes it a big difference Are the things you can’t see. The things in the distance That you already preach The things that are still, just out of reach. 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 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 .

< Back Twelve Bridges Terra Patrie One is for not looking down because you’re petrified you’re going to fall through to the river below. Two is for crossing back over and peeking out the window because you just can’t help but wonder at how far up you are. Three is for kicking the back of the passenger seat as if that’ll make the car go faster because it’s not moving and OMSI is waiting. Four is for smacking your brother on the head with a plastic dinosaur fossil and trying to throw him out the window so he can swim with the mosasaurs. Five is for groaning about the family vacation you’re being forced to go on and your brother has already started asking, “Are we there yet?” No, shut up! Six is for waking up just as the bright city lights and neon signs start to break through the fog. Seven is for going to championships with your team and the bus is crazy. Eight is for adrenaline crashes and knowing that even though the season is over they’ll always be like family. Nine is for your first time driving in downtown traffic. Ten is for having your dad drive back because you swear you’re never doing that again. Eleven is for catching an early flight because a summer away from here is all you’ve ever dreamed of. Twelve is for offering to take the wheel because the time change still has you wide awake at 1 a.m. and so does the exhilaration that there’s nothing between you and home. Author Bio Terra Patrie tried to write a bio but kept getting distracted writing poems.

< 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.

< Back 1,000,000+ Pieces (Some Lost) Terra Patrie Wouldn’t it be so nice to not have to solve the puzzle of every broken thing you encounter? Skilled at fitting together pieces that once knew each other before ripped to unrecognizable shreds with no diagram and no idea how they looked in the first place. Tasked with returning the Minotaur to man, somehow— perhaps by giving him a little bit of your human soul. So he can ravage that, too. Author Bio Terra Patrie tried to write a bio but kept getting distracted writing poems.