Search The Bellwether Review, 2025

< 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.

< 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 .

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.

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.