Plains Paradox 2020 by Plains Paradox

Literary and Arts Journal, Vol. XVIII

PLAINS PARADOX

PLAINS PARADOX Literary and Arts Journal, Vol. XVIII

CREATED BY STUDENTS FOR STUDENTS

Submission and guidelines: plainsparadox.submittable.com/submit

CREDITS DESIGN & LAYOUT

VIOLET RAMIREZ

ART DIRECTION

VIOLET RAMIREZ

STUDENT EDITORS

KIM ADAM BETHANY DAIGLE JORDAN EKART ADRIENNE SCRIBNER KARA VANSTEAL EMILY MOORE

ADVISING EDITORS

KIKA DORSEY SARAH SCHANTZ DANIEL STANIFORTH

SPONSORS

JOHN CROSS PATRICK KELLING BLAKE WELCH

COVER ART

BLUE ORANGE BY ROBYN EUBANKS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We, the student editors, would like to express our gratitude toward the people whose support and appreciation for the arts made this publication possible. Andy Dorsey

President of Front Range Community College

Dr. Elena Sandoval-Lucero

Vice President of Boulder County Campus

Mary Lee Geary Dean of Instruction

Kathleen Hefley

Chair of the Arts and Letters Department

CONTENTS 1

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS Gabriel “Deacon” Kaufman

BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS FADE Katja Klingberg

SENSES Kim Adam

THE NIGHT SHIFT Emily Moore

LIMB WALK Blaze Zitney

WOLFMEN Charley Peritz

CHAOTIC PIECES Gretchen Spomer

UNTITLED Kyle Cushing

DEJAME SABER Taylor N. Johnson

FRANZ MARC MASTER STUDY Annika Lahr

THE DESCENT Emily Moore

MOUNTED DEER HEAD Natalia Anthony

MONSTER IN THE GARDEN Kim Adam

DISMISSED Ariella Chipps

NOTHING HAPPENED Sarah Doughty

DEALING WITH STRESS Lucy Roper

SOMETHING SILLY THIS WAY COMES Emily Moore

THE BRINK Annika Lahr

THE MIRROR Jessica Checkas

POTENTIAL Tomasik Nosal

TENSION AND HARMONY Ivy Favier

AN EXERCISE IN TRUST JJ Wheeler

FALLEN ANGELS Mikhaela Christine

BRUISED Aedan Lynch

THE SWEET LIFE Athena Andree

VOTES FOR WOMEN Robyn Eubanks

ODE TO FRANKY Taylor N. Johnson

FLOWERS OF RADIANCE Gretchen Spomer

PINK CITY DREAMS Emily M0ore

MASTER COPY OF DEGASâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; DANCERS IN BLUE Kim Adam

MY LOVER FITS INTO THE AIR Sophia Cole

REAL SOUL OF THE MATTER Blake Goodwin

MUSCULAR STUDY ONTO DEGAS Kim Adam

ITEM #27 Ash Beauchamp

THIN LINE Sam Horn

STRENGTH AND BALANCE Kim Adam

ENDURANCE Kim Adam

SUNSET Ivy Favier

SPRING 1978 BY ANDREW WYETH Diego Woodward

WHITSUNDYING Carmine Denis

MAROON BELLS REINTERPRETED Adrienne Scribner

PIECES OF HER Athena Andree

COMING HOME Kim Adam

PRAY MORE Leni Checkas

107 HANDHELD TOOL Robyn Eubanks

98 Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;M IN POSITION ON SOIL Sophia Cole

100 ALMOST A FROG Lucy Roper

101 WHEN I WOKE UP, I FOUND Diego Woodward

103 BIOS

107 AWARDS

GABRIEL “DEACON” KAUFMAN

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

There was a light dusting of frost on the windows of the Cleveland Home for the Criminally Insane. Drifts of snow roosted in between the bars, melting down onto the grass below. It was not just the windows that had been powdered; the entire complex was coated, down to the stone lions that watched over the entrance. Across the street, the shopping center was freckled with glass bulbs of green and red, blinking to herald the time of year. Danny watched them flicker as he leaned on the windowsill of his room. The repeated emergence of their glow fueled the ideas that swam in his head. Danny turned from the window and scampered over to the door. After fifteen minutes, it swung open, and Jackson, the orderly, lumbered in. Danny knew that Jackson, being the young rookie amongst the staff, hated mornings. As such, Danny developed a particular routine guaranteed to annoy him. Danny grinned from ear to ear, as he always did, and Jackson responded with his usual withering scowl. “Good morning,” Danny chirped. “Another lovely day.” “Shut up,” Jackson said. Danny nodded and stepped out of the room, Jackson approaching from behind to place his Frankenstein’s monster hands on Danny’s shoulders. The orderly shoved Danny out of his cell and slammed the door, prompting a beep from the attached card reader. Danny shot a glare at the little metal box; it was his worst enemy. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he stuck his tongue out at it too. Today he did this in front of Jackson as he wanted to show the world he was in a daredevil mood, but his rebellious act earned him little more than a second push from the burly orderly.

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As the two strode along, Danny made sure to wave to all of his compatriots. In Room 115, was Walter Simmons, who thought for all the world that he, a forty-year-old accountant from Akron, was in fact, a smallmouth bass. Walter had attacked two fishermen whilst swimming in Turkeyfoot Lake, capsizing their boat and earning him a modest yet practical padded room at the Cleveland Home. As Danny passed his door, he saw Walter performing his usual morning routine, thrashing around on the floor and gasping for air, each dramatic breath punctuated with a throaty bellow. “Morning, Walter,” Danny said. “Looking good today!” Walter roared with anguish and flopped against his door, leaving it to rattle like a desert snake. “Lively one, that Walter,” Danny commented, but Jackson muscled him along. Next door, in Room 117, was George Georgeson. A bald, Scrooge-faced necrophiliac who’d been bagged while attempting to marry John Adams, which in most circumstances would’ve been fine, except for the fact that Mr. Adams was buried in a national cemetery and very much decomposed. Georgeson was quite polite, and Danny enjoyed playing Cranium with him. Three doors down, in Room 123, was Tucker Van Harrison, the disgraced graphic novel artist who, after years of deadlines, snapped and began believing that every person he met was a character from the worlds he wrote and illustrated. This led to him throwing a hobo, whom he thought was a deadly supervillain, out the window of a speeding subway train. He also thought Danny was a schoolgirl, but apparently, she had good fashion sense, so Danny went along with it. The two waved to one another as Danny passed, Tucker’s head bruised, which was likely the result of several nights spent bashing his head against the door. Finally, in Room 130, there was Danny’s girlfriend, Anastasia Vanderbilt, only daughter of an esteemed family out of Pittsburgh. Anastasia was admitted for dressing up as, and pretending to be, her long-deceased brother. She had first confessed her feelings for Danny when she cornered Plains Paradox, 2

him in the mess hall. It had all gone uphill from there. Danny made sure to stop at the door of her cell, resisting Jackson’s attempts to prod him along as he smiled at his paramour. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Danny called. “Silence, you fool,” Anastasia yelled back. “I can not trade pleasantries with you in front of the orderlies. It just isn’t proper.” “Love you too,” Danny called. “Jackson, isn’t she just stunning?” Jackson elbowed Danny in the back and forced him down the hallway into the Main Hall, which was a cavernous area clotted with round wooden tables. Jackson released his vice grip, and Danny frolicked about, pacing the length of the room to stretch his legs before taking a seat at the largest table. He waited while orderlies escorted the other patients into the hall. Once they were released, each patient joined Danny at his seat. Tucker Van Harrison ran his fingers through his oil-slick hair as he sat, gripping the rounded edges of the table and shivering. Anastasia and Georgeson bickered as they sat about whether or not it would be considered proper to help your partner put their rouge on if they were dead. Walter had to be carried by two orderlies, screaming all the way. Finally, a cream-haired lady with twig fingers and a clean-shaven young man whose lip slightly drooped joined the ensemble. These were Sasha Goldhill and Bruno De Luca. Sasha was an arsonist, who claimed dragons had in fact committed the crimes, whereas Bruno had only robbed a bank, though he swore he’d been coerced by aliens to do so via a mind-melding anal probe since the aliens were trapped on Earth and required five hundred stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills in order to power their ship. Once these two sat down, Danny cleared his throat and began to speak. “So,” he began, “that special time of year has come again, and as such, I thought I’d give you all a gift.” The other patients gawked at Danny, who turned to face each member of his enraptured audience.

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“Anyone curious as to what I got you?” Danny asked. “Ooh, a bicycle!” Tucker began. “Hm, close,” Danny admitted, “but no cigar.” “But you love bicycles, Shella,” Tucker whined. “His name ain’t Shella,” Sasha reminded Tucker. “It’s Danny.” Tucker formed his counterargument with a loud moan and began to beat his head against the table until Anastasia and George restrained him. Bruno procured a cigarette, which he had stolen from an orderly’s back pocket and placed it in his mouth. He had no lighter, so he pretended to smoke before speaking up. “Come on, why don’t you tell us about the freakin’ gift, and get on with it,” Bruno growled. “I don’t have all day.” “We’re breaking out, ditching this popsicle stand, rising up the chimney,” Danny said. “Leaving for good, understood?” The assembly looked over their shoulders out of fear that one of the staff had overheard, but the orderlies were all bumming smokes off of one another or helping themselves to the carefully arranged cups of pills meant for the patients. There was a nurse in the hall, Shirley, but she was shuddering in the corner, scarred for life after Danny put Walter in her office, and he had tried to eat her fingers. Relieved, the patients huddled back around Danny as he prepared his proposal. “Well, I’ll be,” said Sasha. “Breaking out huh, that would be somethin’ else. I reckon we could break out with a dragon.” “Dragons don’t exist, Sasha,” Anastasia commented. “They’re just a whimsical construct of the weak-minded lower class.” “They do exist,” Sasha countered. “If they didn’t, then I wouldn’t have seen one.” “I gotta throw my hat in with Anastasia here,” Bruno said. “Lemme tell ya, aliens are real, but dragons, fuhgeddaboudit.” “Aliens ain’t real,” Sasha commented. “Bout as real as Tucker’s self-esteem.” Plains Paradox, 4

“If they weren’t real,” Bruno began, “then they wouldn’t have been able ta stick a ten-meter piece of metal up my ass.” Danny cleared his throat and turned every head back to him. Once he had everyone’s attention, he spoke again. “Please, listen up,” he demanded. “I already know how we’re going to break out. In fact, I’ve known for the last two months. Everything has been set up, and all you need to do is listen.” Everyone turned their ears to heed Danny’s words, even Walter, who was in the process of floundering across the table. “Tonight the orderlies will hold their Fortieth Annual Holiday Party in the lobby, and as such, they’ll be blasting music throughout the entire building,” Danny explained. “One of the songs they’ll play is ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ which will come on at midnight.” Danny nodded at the intercoms that hung from wires like mummified bats, gazing down at the patients. The intercoms were the thing that went bump in the night, in that they either fell and broke on the floor or shouted prerecorded reminders for exercise classes at 1:00 a.m., sending the patients into fearful frenzies. Danny had been watching them for several days ever since he’d overheard Eric and Derrek, the scummy twin orderlies who worked the night shifts, discussing plans for the holiday party. “When that song comes on, the third time the word Santa is sung, Frankie, the technician, will unlock my room and hand me a keycard,” Danny explained. “I paid him off with my candy cane collection the staff let me keep in my room.” “What about the orderlies?” George questioned. “Two words, spiked eggnog,” Danny said. “Don’t worry about the orderlies. I’ll let everyone out of their rooms as quiet as a mouse, and we’ll skedaddle out the back. It’s a straight shot to the park from there.” The other patients murmured in agreement. Danny, pleased at the feedback, took a deep bow. He was ecstatic; more than ecstatic. He was feeling downright jolly. For that Plains Paradox, 5

moment, he was the master of his fate. That is, until the staff returned from their smoke break, and Jackson grabbed Danny by the shoulders to forcefully escort him back to Room 112. With a flick of his meaty hands, Jackson tossed Danny onto the floor and shut the door. Danny winced when he hit the tiles, but it was the wince of a genius who had concocted the most masterful escape plan of the century. No one had ever tried to escape the Cleveland Home; he would make the newspapers for all of five months. He wished his grandparents could see him now, and his reminiscing shot him back in time to before he had ever set foot in the ward. Danny was born in Santa Claus, Indiana, the only son of two poets who ditched their son and hightailed it to Vermont. It was either him or the front page of a literary magazine. As such, young Danny was raised by his grandparents, who instilled within him a love for Christmas, all things red, green, and heavily-commercialized. When Danny turned ten, his grandparents had made plans to take him to Holiday World, a theme-park wonderland whose tantalizing brochure, displaying the Santa Claus Land Railroad in all its glory, Danny salivated over to this day. But alas, it was not to be. While at a parade in his hometown, an older boy told Danny that Christmas spirit was kid stuff and that he should take the hint and grow up. Danny had accepted this alternate opinion and, as most do, had then provided his own counterargument. Unfortunately for the older boy, Dannyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s counterargument took the form of him pushing his peer in front of a parade float. Nobody caught him in this act, but it began Dannyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spree of Yuletide crime that included his attack on the headquarters of Individuals Against Santa Related Imagery. This last caper led to his arrest and subsequent commitment to the Cleveland Home, though his capture did not come without resistance from Dannyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grandmother, who had fought off ten policemen with her cane before she was subdued. Plains Paradox, 6

Danny had been at the Cleveland Home for the Criminally Insane for several years but retained the desire to visit Holiday World, however faint his dreams of escape became. He’d been waiting for so long that the fire had almost gone out. Until today, when the seed had finally sprouted into what Danny hoped would be his magnum opus. Danny grinned to himself and flopped backward onto the floor. Once sprawled, he lay staring at the ceiling. Dancing elves crawled from the gaps in the padded walls and frolicked about. Danny attempted to swat them, but being imaginary, they had the upper hand. After a while, he let them be and immersed himself in their jamboree as the sun began to set. Danny rose from his voluntary coma, then brushed himself off and shot a glance at the reindeer-themed analog clock on the wall, which informed him that it was thirty minutes to midnight. Danny’s excitement shot down through his legs, and he was barely able to stagger over to his door. He peeked out the window to find the halls empty, and he heard the final notes of “Silver Bells” as they rang from the speakers. Silence provided a meager encore, and Danny chewed his lip. Many years of sleepless Yule nights had fortified his patience. While the mechanic wasn’t quite as magical as St. Nick, Danny was more than prepared to wait for an overweight fifty-two-year-old in the middle of the night. The first notes of “Santa Claus Iis Coming to Town” burst forth as the speakers sprang to life. Danny had to bite his tongue to restrain the laughter that rose in his throat. He counted as the word Santa was sung once, then twice. On the third warbling note, a stubble-wracked, greasy face thrust from the darkness, and the door clicked open. Frankie, the mechanic, strode forth and shoved a keycard into Danny’s palm. “Alright crazy, you’re outta here,” Frankie said. “And hey, that candy cane collection better be in there.” “All yours, my good man.” Danny smiled, gesturing to the gift-wrapped boxes of candy canes neatly stacked near Plains Paradox, 7

the window of the room. “Happy Holidays.” Frankie grunted, and Danny shoved past him to dash across the hall. He stopped at 113 to release Sasha, who rubbed her eyes and peered at Danny. “Would’ve been cooler if we’d used a dragon,” Sasha said as she yawned. Danny ran down to 115 and freed Walter, who wriggled into the hallway and choked with approval. Danny nodded to Sasha, who scooped Walter up and hobbled after Danny, who had already broken George out and was opening 118. Bruno stumbled out, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks, pal,” Bruno said. “After dis, youse ever need a favor, you come to me and me only, capiche?” Danny gave Bruno a hearty thumbs-up before the droopy-lipped delinquent turned and sped off, George Georgeson falling in close behind. Sasha struggled with the thrashing Walter, so Danny helped her carry him for a few paces before leaving her side to open 123. Tucker, caught in the middle of smashing his head into the door, fell flat on his face. Danny helped him to his feet and pointed to Sasha and Walter. “Give them a hand, will you?” Danny directed. Tucker shuffled over to Sasha and cradled Walter’s head in his jittery hands. W, with Danny leading the way, as the four labored down the hall. Danny screeched to a halt in front of 130, which he unlocked to find Anastasia reading in bed. Danny motioned to the door, but Anastasia raised one of her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “You must be genuinely delusional if you think I’m going to join you and your carnival of freaks on the lam. M, my reputation’s already damaged as it is,” Anastasia said. “Besides, Tolstoy here is just starting to get good, so you can just hightail it on your own.” “I’ll write you every day.” Danny smiled. “I promise.” “You better,” Anastasia continued, “for your sake.” Danny blew her a kiss and would’ve received one back had Tucker not called at him from the hall. Leaping through the door, Danny rejoined the rest of his gang of Plains Paradox, 8

misfits just as they burst from the patient’s quarters into the lobby. The three maneuvered Walter around the plastic evergreens and hanging streamers that infested the area, prompting shouts from the orderlies, surprised and very much under the influence of rum-enhanced eggnog. Danny grabbed an empty chair and joined Sasha and Tucker as they heaved Walter up the main stairs, the group stopping near the top. “Hold your horses,” Danny hissed, handing the chair to Tucker. “Break this window, and we’ll dump Walter into the lake.” Sasha held Walter as Tucker bashed the chair against the window, the glass shattering after four attempts. The soft whistle of a morning breeze blew in through the gap to mingle with the 1940’s singer crooning over the intercom. The window was right above the lake, and with a grunt, Danny and Sasha heaved Walter out. A splash confirmed they had hit the target, and Danny watched as Walter writhed his way through the murky water. “Godspeed, you magnificent fish of a man,” Danny cried. “We’ll miss you!” Danny turned to face Tucker and Sasha, who, after carrying a two- hundred- and forty-pound fish-man up several flights of stairs, were sweating profusely. Tucker let the chair drop to his side, and the three crept down to the first-floor visitor’s wing, which was packed with empty couches and unused desks, but not an orderly in sight. The monstrous oak doors of the back entrance materialized, and Danny flicked his keycard against the reader to send them groaning open. He staggered down the steps and barely managed to wave farewell as Tucker and Sasha ditched him, ducking into the thicket of shrubs surrounding the park. Steam billowed from Danny’s mouth as he exhaled, slumping down onto the pavement to wait. Soon, an echoing grumble pieced Danny’s ears, and he leapt out into the street to halt a moped. The driver cursed at Danny through the folds of his scarf and threw mitten-clad hands up into the air, but Danny candidly socked him in the back of the neck. The driver didn’t budge Plains Paradox, 9

and instead cursed with even more intensity, so Danny employed a vicious football tackle to knock the man off his scooter, then he peeled himself off his victim and hopped onto the moped. After a pause, he got back off and helped the driver to his feet, dusting him off and patting the frazzled roadster’s head. With that, he clambered back aboard the scooter and, laying a finger aside his nose, gave the driver a nod before speeding off. “Sorry to leave you like this, buddy,” Danny echoed, “but I have a date with some Christmas spirit!” Soon, all that was left of his presence was a disgruntled driver and the sound of Danny’s laughter, which hung in the air like an ornament. Before long, “The Man Who Just Had to Be Home for the Holidays” hit the headlines. The papers wrote about Danny for months, especially taking notice of how all the orderlies at the Cleveland Home for the Criminally Insane were heavily intoxicated at the time of his escape. The manhunt went on for almost a year before finally grinding to a halt. Danny’s infamous Cheshire smile never again reared its head in Cleveland, let alone in Ohio. Nobody knows what happened to him. Most folks think that he just fell off the face of the earth. Of course, if one were smart, they would pay a visit to a little house, hidden behind some evergreens on the edge of Walnut Circle, which lies just outside of Santa Claus, Indiana.

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SENSES

Kim Adam

LIMB WALK

Blaze Zitney

CHAOTIC PIECES

Gretchen Spomer

KATJA KLINGBERG

BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS FADE

sunrises that start the day and warm the sky clouds and rain and light fluffy snow early morning fog grass with dew the smell of wet asphalt and grass sunsets behind the mountains creating fiery skies mint tooth paste dental floss tooth picks growing trees covered in moss real laughter and smiles filling my thoughts soft lips bubblegum gloss chipped nails arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a loss side smirks open flames cupcakes the smell of baking chocolate ticks and tocks of the clocks melodies birds chirping grass hoppers rubbing their legs rosy cheeks light freckles across a nose fine lines surround the eyes large grins with lots of teeth the feeling and sound of a cats purr still skies quiet nights full moons starry eyes milky ways calloused hands butterflies destroying guts smiling eyes lipstick gone fireworks raging oceans calm lakes restless midnights early mornings tea and sweets swimming swinging sledding and hot chocolate stuck at home simple gold long nails t-shirts fuzzy socks fluffy pillows warm beds grilled cheese melting candles charcoal pencils paints messy hands unkempt hair barefaced oversized tops buttons loud music playing in the car singing along pretty flowers thornless rose warm blood oozing from my soul freshly cut hair face masks music festivals costumes beautiful lies spoken words hidden truth spared feelings fake smiles gray skies dark nights no sun rise no sun sets broken mirrors bleeding slits black eyes empty chest shaking hands dry mouth hang nails hold your tongue nails on a chalkboard hoarded screams fathers tears pain and fears ripped skin bruised ribs drowning lungs lost socks sunken shoes flat tires empty tank cold skin never dry frozen hair ice chunks lost eyes memories fade long nights short days cold sweats stomachaches migraines broken minds loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end

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THE NIGHT SHIFT

Emily Moore

WOLFMEN

CHARLEY PERITZ

The needles of the conifers rustled in the cold, Norwegian wind, giving a silent applause as the clouds parted like curtains to reveal the show of winter’s first snow. In the daytime people cut logs, gathered furs, and jarred preserves for the winter. Children helped but mostly giggled and played when no eyes were looking. The sun soon vanished behind the trees. A howl pierced the night, and the frosted tips of green grass crunched beneath the wolfman’s feet. Another full moon; another night of tests and trials. Townspeople shuttered their doors as he thundered by. Fathers hid their trembling children beneath fur coats while mothers stood guard by barricaded doors, sharpened pitchforks and crackling torches at the ready. Every family worried, how will I defend myself against him, if he chooses my home tonight? Every month, should a clear night shed the full moon’s glow onto the village, the wolfman doth appear. O, through the night he howls: clawing, snarling, ravaging, rampaging, wooden fences torn asunder, chickens mangled, the bones tossed back into the coops. He’d sniff at every door; should thee be untainted of heart, he’d leave thee be, slinking off, but if thee be a sinner, your flesh he will devour! — or so the grandmothers said, probably to scare the children into doing chores. That’s what it was, for generations: a folktale. But for the past three months the children weren’t the only frightened ones. The first moon the wolfman attacked was tragic: old man Askeladden’s home. The door ripped from its hinges; he and his wife consumed, entrails splattered onto the walls. His son Håkon was the first to discover the scene because he wanted to make sure his parents were alright after the night’s screams. Ever since, Håkon barred his Plains Paradox, 16

doors and windows whenever the fingers of dusk reached for the earth, and he resigned to sit in his bedroom all night, weeping from terror and from the loss of his kin. The second moon of the wolfman’s assault called for a village gathering, in front of Märta’s, the elder’s, home. But soon it devolved into rabid finger-pointing. Everyone screeching wounded, accusative cries that leapt to the tops of the highest pines. In the end the townspeople decided it was Klara, that witch of a girl, with her constant questions and head held high. So they set upon her like dogs and left her corpse to the carnivores needing fat to survive the long winter looming ahead. But that telltale howl sounded the third full moon and the villagers knew then it hadn’t been their Klara after all. Everyone slammed their doors shut upon hearing those monstrous paws beating the ground once more. This time it was Märta they found mutilated, her blood soaking into the snow in the center of town; they brought both their silver crosses and pendants of Mjöllnir to honor her passing, setting her upon the funeral pyre—whether she belonged to Heaven, Valhalla, or Hel was not their decision. Before they could begin cremating, Leif, son of Märta, whipped his pitchfork to Håkon’s throat, since he was the closest—hands trembling, enraged tears pouring down his face. But Hanna, sister of Klara, pulled him away, accusing him of the murder for his own benefit. “She kept you from power because she knew you weren’t ready!” she cried. “But you couldn’t wait any longer.” To silence her Leif thrust his pitchfork through Hanna’s chest, and from there, it melted into madness; Hanna’s friends and family threw themselves at Leif, tackling and beating him, but Leif’s wife and sons threw themselves to Hanna’s company and did the same. Outraged at the show of violence, the rest of the townspeople threw rocks at the killers, because any one of them could be the wolfman who’d come back for their families the next moon. Håkon fled to the woods but accusations yowled behind him: “You coward! Weakling! You couldn’t protect your Plains Paradox, 17

family, man of pity!” When he turned back to look at the mob he tripped and tumbled down the hill, needles and snow pounding into his skin. He hoped Heaven was real, for he knew he wouldn’t be dying a warrior’s death as his skull slammed the ground. By the time the fourth moon came the conifers whispered amongst themselves. The village silent. There were no howls or scratches or screams. Only the snow fell, wrapping the empty homes and buildings in a white blanket where the pawprints of wolves formed in the absence of people.

Plains Paradox, 18

UNTITLED

Kyle Cushing

TAYLOR N. JOHNSON

DEJAME SABER

There are days when the mother tongue curls in cruel consonants replaced by soft subtleties Has dicho la verdad? He dicho la verdad? I believe I believe I have When you and I are exposed to the wind we are eroded down to the truth Our granite teeth and marble bodies (you a Venus I a knockoff David) turning to carbon back to stardust Let us remain fluid Habia una vez without sentiment when the melody rang unanswered Los idiomas pegados a las orejas sin significado

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THE DESCENT

Emily Moore

MONSTERS IN THE GARDEN

Kim Adam

SARAH DOUGHTY

NOTHING HAPPENED

It was mid-morning in early November at Vanguard Preparatory School in Farmers Branch, Texas. Outside, the puffy clouds drifted in the sky, one shaped like a snowman. Despite this, I was hell-bent on having a snow day. Throughout the morning I kept wishing for snow, envisioning what it would be like to see the small white flakes falling from the sky and hearing the announcement that we all got to go home. By early afternoon there were dark, heavy clouds overhead that I could see out the window. There wasn’t any particular reason I wanted to leave. I just thought it would be fun to get the day off. During lunch, as we ate in our classroom, an idea struck me. I called over my friends Augie, Nathan, and David. “Hey guys,” I whispered, “we should try and make it snow.” Augie raised an eyebrow, while Nathan and David looked puzzled. “There’s only a five percent chance of snow today,” Augie said, “My dad said not to get my hopes up.” “I read online that all it takes to perform magic is belief,” I explained. “The more people you have, and the stronger everyone’s belief is, the more likely it is to happen.” Nathan rolled his eyes, but the others leaned in closer. “So do we have to do anything, or are we just supposed to believe it’s going to snow when it’s clearly not?” Augie asked. Augie had blond hair, blue eyes, and a lisp. He enjoyed drawing and painting realistic artwork of animals in his spare time. Despite being an artist, his main interests were science and dinosaurs. His dream was to be a paleontologist. “Well, I also read that action makes things more likely to happen,” I added, “so how about we put our hands on the window and imagine that it’s

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snowing?” I walked over to a seven-foot-tall door that was essentially just a window with a black frame and a bar across the middle. I placed my hands on the cold glass. Augie, Nathan, and David did the same, the four of us close together, but not crammed. “How long is this gonna take?” Nathan asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “Just picture it snowing and believe that it should happen, and it should work.” Nathan had a bowl cut the same color as his chocolate brown eyes, and was kind of a weirdo. He listened to metal bands like Breaking Benjamin and Tool despite only being in sixth grade. He loved to show people this trick where he could make his eyes vibrate from side to side, almost as if his eyes were having a seizure. Nobody knew how he did it, and he couldn’t even explain it himself. Known to be a troublemaker at school, he frequently got in-school suspension for fighting other students that made fun of his bowl cut or his taste in music. For about five minutes, we all stood there with our hands on the window. The sky remained unchanged, no snow fell from the sky. Nothing happened. “This is stupid!” David said, shaking his head so that his bleached-tipped brown hair swung from side to side. He and Augie got along really well—they even shared a first name; although, Augie went by a shortened version of his middle name, August. David claimed to smoke weed, though looking back, I don’t think he even knew much about it or had actually tried it. This is my suspicion since he always described what weed was like in vague terms, and I have since learned the pipe he always described was a meth pipe due to him pantomiming holding the lighter under it. David was more of a mutual friend of mine and Augie’s. We usually reenacted Star Wars or Harry Potter together on the playground. “Maybe we don’t have enough people?” I replied. Augie broke away from the door, and I thought he’d given up. Instead, he went around to the other kids in the classroom and explained what we were trying to do. He Plains Paradox, 24

came back with eight other students that he’d managed to recruit to help us. Minus two kids, we now had the collective power of the entire class to help make “magic.” David, Nathan, Augie, the other kids, and I all crowded around the window. At this point, the teacher, Ms. Carrie, came over and asked what we were doing. Ms. Carrie was about five-three with shoulder-length, curly blond hair. She always dressed in earth tones like green, brown, and blue. “We’re trying to make it snow!” I informed her. This seemed to amuse her. She said that it wasn’t even supposed to rain let alone snow and walked back to her desk. She was acting like we were the weird ones, when she was the one who made a kid named Bennett write a eulogy and host a funeral for a leaf he’d accidentally knocked off one of her plants. There were plants hanging from the ceiling, resting on her desk, and even on the bookshelves. There were brightly colored posters on the walls, and despite the outside being freezing, the classroom was stifling hot. I turned back to the window. I stared as hard as I could out the window and willed it to snow. I imagined my friends cheering me on for getting them out of school— even Ms. Carrie would thank me for giving her the day off. I imagined my dad coming to pick me up in his old, silver Mercedes and taking me home, to make a snowman together. I imagined standing outside on our decaying, wooden porch with my tongue out in order to catch the small flakes that were slowly drifting down from the heavy gray clouds, nature’s confetti. Again, nothing happened. “It’s not working,” I announced, “which means some people aren’t believing hard enough. You have to believe that it’s going to snow if you want it to work. See the clouds, how dark they are? Picture the snow starting to fall from them. Believe it will happen. You have to believe!” I saw several kids press their hands more firmly into the glass as they closed their eyes. Still the sky remained unchanged, and after a few more minutes I was about to give up when suddenly the clouds unveiled a miracle. “Guys! I saw a snowflake!” I gasped. The kids who had Plains Paradox, 25

their eyes open looked at me skeptically. The kids whose eyes had been closed opened them, but they seemed to be straining to see what I saw. For a moment I wondered if, in myw yearning to get out of school, I had imagined the singular prism of frozen water floating down from the clouds. There was an instant where I thought I had made a fool of myself, that it wasn’t going to snow, and that I would let all of my classmates down. Then I remembered that in order for the magic to work, I had to believe. “Don’t give up.” I encouraged my classmates, “It’s not snowing hard enough yet!” “I don’t see any snow,” David complained. “Yeah, I don’t see anyth—” another classmate stopped, as the snow started falling harder. “See?” I cheered. “It worked!” The kids who had been straining to see the snow suddenly broke into smiles. Augie high-fived me, and a few other students pumped their fists into the air. David had a look of bewilderment on his face. Nathan turned to Ms. Carrie. “Do we get to go home?” he asked. She shrugged. She didn’t even acknowledge that her class did magic to make it snow. Despite Ms. Carrie’s indifference, most of the kids in my class believed that what we had done was actual magic. Snow falling from the sky! A few were skeptical and wrote the phenomenon off as coincidence, but the majority were impressed. For the record, it’s very unusual that it would snow in Texas that early in November, let alone in Texas of all places. Lunch ended, and we had to continue with class until the teachers were sure the snow would stick. After about ten minutes of math, the principal, Mrs. Rosalind, came into the classroom. “Everyone,” she said, “I have an announcement.” We held our breath in anticipation, our eyes flickering toward the window that was now framed in a winter wonderland. “Y’all get to go home for the day!” she finally said. Plains Paradox, 26

Not only did we get to go home that day, but we also got the next day off as well because the roads became covered in slush and ice. There were many wrecks in Dallas when it only rained, and many more when it snowed. Along with everyone being happy that we got a day and a half off of school, most of the kids in my class had come to believe that I could do magic. They also told kids in other classes what we had done, and my reputation gained an interesting flair—most of the students in the elementary school believed I was a witch. This resulted in people asking me for advice, and they would avoid getting on my bad side at all costs. This snow day not only made my classmates believe in magic, but reinforced my belief that the impossible is sometimes possible. I spent the time I had off school playing in the snow, of which there was more than is common for Texas according to the snowfall records I have checked online today. I built a small snowman in the backyard, and my dad and I baked a gingerbread cake. This snow day not only made my classmates believe in magic, but reinforced my belief that the impossible is sometimes possible. I had lost faith in God when I was about four, after suffering abuse at the hands of my parents, which I didn’t even recognize was abuse until I became an adult. According to weather records about snowfall in Texas, it’s been years it snowed in the state. However, according to iweathernet.com it was such a small amount of snow that it couldn’t even be measured. It snowed the following November, but it wasn’t for another five years that it did so again. I have since had other experiences that can’t quite be explained by logic; most of them were good experiences that ultimately brought me joy. Many of these incidents involved precognition, such as dreaming of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in Utah several years before I visited or even knew about the MTC. Some involved hearing a disembodied voice that accurately informed me of peoples’ character, such as whether they were untrustworthy and would steal from me. Despite how odd it may sound, some involved making other things that were Plains Paradox, 27

seemingly impossible happen such as writing things down in a book I wanted people to do, and theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d do it within the same day, even if it was out of character. One time I wrote that my friend would buy weed to share with me even though he was out of money. Within an hour of me writing that down he found twenty dollars on the ground and did indeed buy weed to share with me. There have also been other times when I felt I could affect the weather, such as when I stood out in a thunderstorm and willed it to rain harder, and it instantly started raining harder, or when I wanted it to snow while working my previous job so I could get the day off. Sometimes I wonder if these things that have happened to me are God answering my prayers, or if I just innately hold some sort of power or knowledge that not everyone has access to. Either way, this experience along with the others has given me confidence that I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t otherwise have.

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SOMETHING SILLY THIS WAY COMES

Emily Moore

THE MIRROR

JESSICA CHECKAS

Tall pane of silver, reflecting sun-yellow walls, a little girl pasted it with stickers: sparkling ponies, puffy ladybugs. The stickers fade and peel, and the shining glass can see, the walls are painted blue, a shelf of well read books, sketches on the walls. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d drawn shimmering scales, flashing golden eyes, guarding treasure. Every delicate wing lined in careful strokes of ink. But soon there will be boxes, the bookshelf gone, only the mirror left behind, to watch an empty wall.

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FRANZ MARC MASTER STUDY

Annika Lahr

NATALIA ANTHONY

MOUNTED DEER HEAD

Twirl and twist little thing in the yellow feverish light of your father’s lamp, swinging in his arms with your baby blue blanket and listening to my song. Darling, there are deer outside our cabin window. I know, yes they are looking at our mounted deer head. Watch me stoke our fire, we’ve got enough wood to last all winter. There is rabbit and mashed potatoes for dinner. Isn’t it a lovely night here with just the three of us? The snow will bury us, but that’s nothing to worry about. We can play board games and dance within our warm wood walls. The snow from your father’s boots melts as soon as he walks in. I’ll read you a book while he skins the rabbit, just you and me for awhile. Which book do you want to read? Okay, the Runaway Bunny, good choice. The deer have been watching us all this time, they must be cold out there. No, I don’t think they mind, It’s the natural order of things, dear. Oh dear. Come here. I’ll make sure to drain the bath, so the ducks don’t drown. You look sweet under that avalanche of blankets. Give me a goodnight kiss, sweet dreams. Oh dear, forget about them. They’ve gone. I’m sure they’ve left. Alright, alright, I’ll check. Yes, they are gone, nothing to be bothered about. Goodnight.

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Look at the blush glittering across the morning snow. I’ll stretch up your little tummy to see. No, but listen, there’s just as much in here as out there. Ducks, bunnies, horses, and deer. Shhhh! Honey, you have to stop this. There are millions of them in the world. We’ve got only light and warmth here. Will you sing for me? I want for the white broth of your voice to fill us both up. To the woods, in a few minutes, with bloody loins on his back. Shifting back to our little cabin. You’ll grind up the meat in your mouth, so yummy. It’ll have been a good day then. Your father’s feet will be sore, feeling like lead, his teeth aching, cold witches cursing him. He will want to sit with just me by our fire. I’ll twirl a finger over his tired hair, kiss his red and blue ears. I love him so much. He loves me too, more than anything else. I love you more than anything else, though. Red pajamas over your silly head. It’s time for bed. No, no books tonight. Know we’ve got love for you in this house.

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Awake, little thing? Lift your arms and warm up. The fire wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take. There is a strangeness starting. Your father need not know, but you do, that when I lifted my head this morning I looked out our kitchen window to see the orange sun, to see that orange, but I saw nature reverse. Grass was melting; snow was growing. My own self recoiling at things that rubbed against me. Eyes over hands that entered. Exhale no better, worms sang warbling tunes from my tongue. And though it may soon lurk in the corners of your room, we will celebrate this day. Come down with me, and we can play, and your father will fill our bellies once more. I can breathe, though look and you can see that the grass is still melting and the snow still growing. Maybe you are enough; you chortle at the morning sun, and I feel I can breathe. Out hunting. It takes time. He will follow our chimney smoke. Well, then he will just follow the moon. I see them, yes. They do lurk, but deer are spirits of intuition and care, so please, take comfort. Sweet child, the ivory lamp is dying, burning bluer by the day.

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Project your shadow on our wood walls. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll watch again, like for the first time. Your toes blur into tracing letters when you tumble against the light. I see the words forming. Your movements were wind. It calls and causes frostbite at my fingertips. Superficial for now, I can pretend that your song cast the tips white. You must realize that our cabin is turning, is beaming white. Yes. And in the same pattern, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll wake to rotten fingers stroking your cheek. Where once I could play that a song blessed them white. The hardness will be undeniable. Your father will cast them aside. Sing for me, in that way you do, before my hair thins out. Little thing, come sit on my lap, like a rabbit being skinned I can see your insides.

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DISMISSED

Ariella Chipps

DEALING WITH STRESS

Lucy Roper

THE BRINK

Annika Lahr

POTENTIAL

TOMASIK NOSAL

You have come across this crudely discarded, crumpled, piece of paper on the ground. You can see that there are words spread across the white canvas but can’t make anything out. You pick it up, begin to unfold it, curious to understand why it has been cast aside with no real effort to get it into a trash can. Maybe you have stumbled across a love letter chiseled to be elegant and dreamy, presented here to paint the world with someone’s devotion through eloquent elegance. Although the paper is wadded up in the hallway so you discard that idea and make another attempt to grasp the pandora’s box presented before you. What if you have come across a personal diary entry and are about to discover a stranger’s emotional journey through a couple of weeks? An individual lurking in the past while trying to step forward into a new chapter of their life. They wouldn’t have left it in the hallway, if that was the case. You do not know what you are handling. A student brushes past your shoulder, and you realize need to head to class. You fold up the piece of paper and slide it into your right jean pocket as you walk past the school library to your classroom beyond. As you are nearing your morning class, you can’t stop thinking about the piece of paper in your pocket. What is it about? The couple words you made out earlier remind you slightly of a short story. However instead of describing scenarios, it uses the second person which is something you are struggling to relate to. At any rate you shrug it off because it’s time to put your mind on Algebra. Math has never been your strongest subject, but this professor teaches it in a way that makes it easy for you to understand. You are normally excited for this class, but this piece of paper has seared its way into your thoughts. Your right pocket tingles with a daunting premonition of possibility. You are dumbfounded with the details that lie within the

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tiny document. Could it be someone’s attempt of a reminder to themselves, and that is why it’s in second person. If someone has lost a note to themselves, it is your duty to return it to the proper source. You get to the classroom and take your usual seat on the right side of the room, second row from the back. As you take off your backpack and prepare to sit down,you slide your right hand into your pocket and remove the crinkly sheet. You sit down and tuck your hands into your lap, hiding the mystery from the world. You stare at the heavily wrinkled and folded piece of paper clenched in your fingers. As you unfold this oafishly pressed boat, your eyes are eager to uncover the secrecy it may hold. As the ridges and mountains fall you realize, that this document is stapled and contains multiple sheets. You could be in possession of someone’s last will and testament. You imagine a rich old man who has left behind an assortment of luxurious possessions. A family is huddled around a lawyer to hear what they have been bequeathed. A small child clutched in the lap of their mother cries out, but their shriek is ignored because the judge is about to read off who has recieved the family mansion. An upset grunt reverberates through the gathered crowd as the mansion is to be sold. The mother stands with a twisted face as she turns to leave, child limply hanging from her arms. You bring yourself back; the paper is smoothed out now. You wonder if you’re building the potential up too much for what these contents could be. The ending might not even be worth it. It might not clear anything up. It could just talk in circles, confusing you even more. The words on the page refuse to align with your sight; they blur and wiggle about even when you squint or rub your eyes. You can’t put the words together. As you stare at the document wishing you could calm your mind a bit to be able to then read the words when voice from the front of the classroom interrupts your attempt to do just this. “Good morning, class.”

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You look toward the professor standing in front of the whiteboard, unloading their light green shoulder bag onto a nearby desk. The mysterious document will have to wait. With a sigh you refold the piece of paper and slide it back into your right jean pocket. “Sorry, I’m a couple minutes late,” the professor says. “The bus broke down, and we had to wait for a new one. Let us start, shall we? Today we are going to learn about functions.” For the next hour and fifteen minutes, your mind is preoccupied with the contents of your pocket, and you are unable to take anything away from today’s lesson. As your classmates around you leap out of their seats to leave, you remain seated. Is this document more distracting than it’s worth? You haven’t read any of it, and it’s already disrupting you from your day. Your hand itches to pull it out again. You get up to leave and head toward the door. “No backpack today, Luna?” the professor asks as you walk past. You realize you left your backpack at your seat and jog back to get it. You sigh as you grab the violet Northface and put it on. “Thank you, Professor Smith,” you say as you near the front of the room. “Today has been a weird day. It feels like a Thursday even though it’s Monday. The lesson went in one ear and out the other.” “I have the slideshow uploaded online if you need to look through it again,” the professor replies. “Is something wrong?” “There was a document in the hallway, and it has become flustering.” “Sounds interesting,” the professor chimes in. “Mind if I see it?” You take the small square from your pocket and hand it over. You both stare dauntingly at it. Slowly the professor unfolds it and begins to read aloud. The professor reads the entirety of the document. A moment of silence follows interrupted by the professor stating, “Weird piece.” Plains Paradox, 41

“Yeah it was,” you say as a smirk runs across your face. “Still not entirely sure what it is about.” The professor nods in agreement. After a few seconds the professor says, “Kind of weird the only person with a name is the main character. Everyone else seems so generic. And the dialogue is limited making the story hard to figure out. You agree?” “Yeah.” you respond. “There aren’t many characters in it.” “What are your thoughts on the professor in the writing?” “You’re better,” you respond. The professor smiles. “I thought the professor was the only relatable character.” They say as they step back behind their desk. You let out a chuckle, unsure of how to respond. You notice a student walk in and head to a chair. “Guess it’s almost time for class,” the professor states, looking at the clock on the wall. “It was nice talking, Luna. If you can’t get these notes from a classmate, let me know, and I’ll let you copy mine.” You thank the professor and tell them they can have the piece of writing. Having finished the composition, you are not as satisfied as you thought you would be. This document has taken up a big part of your day now, and as you exit the classroom you feel as if you left a part of you with the professor.

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TENSION AND HARMONY

Ivy Favier

MIKHAELA CHRISTINE

FALLEN ANGELS

We smoke cigarettes in the parking lot behind the main cathedral. It’s cold. Our breath billows from our lips into the air like burning myrrh. We bury the butts in the snow and go inside, down the stairs to the church basement. We carry candles into the dark room and fill it with a flickering iridescence, and all the old books and bibles on the dusty shelves illuminate. Cobwebs curtain the high corners of the room and boxes below are filled with discarded candelabras and incense holders. This is our hideaway, the place we go when the holy people have gone to sleep and only us fallen angels remain awake, waiting for the witching hour. We gather in a circle in the far-right corner of the room and sit on broken floorboards, next to a box that holds a set of fine bone china from the 1930’s—tea cups with matching saucers all painted with different delicate flowers and a picture of Mary in the center cradling a newborn Jesus. There are five of us girls and five cups and saucers in the set. Hope always uses the one with the yellow jessamine that adorns the Mother Divine with a golden halo, whereas Rose insists on the cup full of her namesake, both the thorny flower and immaculate virgin of a woman that none of us will ever be. Maggie has claim to the magnolias because she likes the alliteration of it and has always fancied herself a poet, while Bethany takes the violets because they remind her of the way her garden looked back home before her mom died, and she was left alone with her father who started dating another woman almost right away. I settle with the cup of peonies that has a chip on the rim and I have to hold it backward or I run the risk of slicing my lips. Bethany pours stolen communion wine into our cups, along with a drop of liquid from what she calls her “vial of visions, ” and we drown our Plains Paradox, 44

flowers, drinking, laughing, and reveling in our secrets, in the thrill that no one knows we are here to begin our ritual. He comes to us now, revealing himself in the faces of the old porcelain plates. He didn’t appear to us at first, but after the fifth time we drank from the cups, the images started to distort themselves. The features of Mary, once so soft and warm are now dark and sharpened like a gargoyle while the baby Jesus wrapped in red cloth, has started to beat like a heart, serves as the Beast’s dinner. We join hands, recite the words that Bethany taught us. After all, she was the one who was lucky enough to meet him first. “Prince of Darkness, we yearn to serve you, we call upon you with our spell. Our minds, bodies, and souls are caverns for you to dwell. In return for our loyalty, please save us from this hell.” Hope falls back, beginning to seize— rattling the walls— and we know by the look in her eyes that he is in her now. Yes—she must have purged all that is holy to let him in, and now, he is in all of us. Our muscles tense, and our bones shake to possess powers not of this world. We wake in our beds as sunlight stabs through the winter gloom. We dress in our plaid blazers and skirts, then meet in the dining hall for breakfast though none of us are hungry. We are all thin. We don’t eat much anymore now that the Prince of Darkness lives within us, plus we are totally hot. We wear eyeliner and lipstick even though we aren’t supposed to, and some of us stuff our bras with paper towels. Hope has always been the smartest, but she also has hair the color of hellfire and pouty lips of the same hue. Rose has the most luscious dark chocolate locks that reach all the way down to a butt that pronounces itself like a shelf and sticks out almost as far as her DD chest. Maggie’s complexion is pale as snow, but it lays out a light canvas for her impossibly green eyes along with the bubblegumcolored blush she wears every day without fail. Of course, there’s Bethany who is the knock-out blond with synthetic black lashes that stretch all the way to the moon, framing Plains Paradox, 45

her mesmerizing sapphire eyes. We are all a little jealous of her, of her cheekbones that cut through her face and become even more pronounced the gaunter she becomes. I sport a black pixie cut, and I also have my father’s natural tan, at least that’s what my mother used to tell me, but I’ve never met him. Jesus wouldn’t want us to tempt the men, but we see how they look at us, and we like it anyway; we don’t care how he feels. There aren’t any boys our age here—only priests, teachers, and janitors. But the boys’ school is only two miles down the road, so sometimes we sneak out to meet them halfway at the abandoned fitness club. We go to smoke weed and talk shit about the nuns, but mostly to make-out with the guys. The boys don’t have their bodies policed, and are celebrated for being strong, athletic, or healthy looking. They don’t face the same scrutiny, the constant feeling of being watched and judged. They aren’t to be reprimanded for hiking a skirt up just one inch too high or showing too much shoulder, like the time Sister Prudence walked in on me changing and saw the belly-ring Bethany installed for me with a thumb tack. She nearly ripped it out, then made me write a fifteen-page essay titled, “Why Inciting Lust is a Sin.” Bethany has been here since eighth grade. The rest of us have been here since freshman year, except Hope, who joined us as a sophomore and has only been here for the last five months. Her family isn’t Catholic, but after she was booted from three different public high schools for bad behavior, her mother sent her to us, away from the home where her stepdad had been sneaking into her room at night since she was eleven. We found each other by chance. All of us sent here for one reason or another. Some of our parents don’t want us, and some of us are labeled “troubled,” but we all came here against our will. Our last names are close in the alphabet, so they arranged for us to sit together in classes. It Plains Paradox, 46

didn’t take long for us to find solace in how much we had in common. Still, we are stuck going to church for two hours every morning and reconciling once a week, though we do our best to commit as many sins as possible the rest of the time to please Our New Father Who Art in Hell. The ritual of going to the basement at night began months ago. We didn’t expect the Devil to find us down there, but in retrospect, it makes sense. No one goes down there anymore, not the nuns, not the priests, no one but us and the holy abandoned artifacts of St. Valentine’s School for Girls. We pray to The Dark Lord, and he answers every time, unlike God who only answers the good girls. We ask him to guide us. He tells us that the nuns are trying to oppress us, that we need to get rid of them, especially Sister Prudence and Sister Donahue who have been taking Bethany into the confessionals to beat her with their rulers after making her hitch up her skirt. Bethany says she has a solution, a poison that will take care of them. We scream profanities in the hallway and they flock to us like vultures, grabbing our ears with fingers like talons and pulling us into their nest. We are in the headmaster’s office. The ceilings are high and the walls are made of old gray stones. He sits before us at his desk, surrounded by the women clothed in black from head to toe, only their old wrinkled faces exposed. They slap our wrists with rulers until the pain resonates throughout our bodies like a Sunday morning organ. When the nuns turn away to deliberate our punishments, we trust Bethany to do the dirty work, but I am shocked when she pulls out her vial of visions and drops a much larger dose than we have ever taken into the nun’s tea. After they reach their verdict—clean the cafeteria for two months—we head to class where we recite Bible verses. Plains Paradox, 47

Peter 5:8: “Be alert and of sober mind, your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” It seems like most of the time these days, we are all exhausted. We retire to our rooms to sleep, to play among our dreams in our own personal Garden of Eden where we lay atop rocks in a fiery ocean, singing siren songs to help Daddy lure more wayward souls. We are pulled from our rest and called to the gymnasium, the headmaster is standing tall on his podium, his figure looming over us like a shadow. “I’ve called the students here this morning to inform you that Sister Donahue and Sister Prudence have passed away due to sudden and brutal heart attacks. As it is suspicious that two of our Sisters have passed at the same time in this manner. It is unclear if foul play was involved at this time. Hold your Bibles close girls; don’t leave any room for the Devil to get in.” We have classes all day, and there is a silence more silent than usual in our midst, as though the bones of the building know what we have done. The groans of the wornout pipes sound like we imagine the nuns’ sounded as they took their last breaths. The flickering light bulbs that line the halls in desperate search for electricity remind us of their tired hearts working so hard to fight the poison they ingested. As night falls and a bitter winter frost creeps over our windows, it is almost time to see him again. We take extra care of our appearance tonight, preening and primping every lash, every hair on our heads; we want to impress him. I file my nails to perfection and borrow some of Maggie’s blush, hoping that maybe I’ll stand out tonight over Bethany. I want him to give me special privileges or maybe an extra sign that I’m doing a good job, that he’s proud of me. We drink our stash of wine mixed with Bethany’s tincture, light candles, recite our vows, and wait for him to come. Soon he is with us once again. We know when we feel Plains Paradox, 48

that pang in our abdomens. It burns, but it means he’s close. We know he’s proud by the gargoyle’s grin on the saucers tonight, but he tells us that the headmaster will be looking into us. After all, we are the baddest girls in school. We must be careful, stay elusive. We are called to the headmaster’s office again. Before we make our way there, we practice our innocent faces in the mirror, and then hold hands as we skip down the hallway like usual. Again, we sit in a row before a jury of nuns, this time they’re wiping their tears with red and blue handkerchiefs. The headmaster clears his throat and stares into our souls, “Ladies, don’t you find it a little strange that Sister Donahue and Sister Prudence died shortly after our meeting? They both were in good health before that.” We each take our turn talking, assuring different excuses, different reasons why we could never do such a horrible thing. We’re holy girls, girls of God. He still looks suspicious, but he has no proof. There are no cameras in an old school like this, only watchful nuns which we have learned to evade so easily, and now there are two less. “We will be launching an investigation with the help of local homicide detectives. So, girls, if you had something to do with this, you will be caught.” We twirl our hair and use our ditzy voices, then walk to the east bathroom, the one where all the sinks are leaky and the windows are cracked, allowing pale winter light to shine inside. We check our makeup in the mirrors and notice how sickly we all appear, our eyes sunken and bloodshot, our skin translucent and gray. Working for the Devil is no easy job, but we know it’s worth it for the rewards. Rose found a twenty-dollar bill in the parking lot the other day and was able to score us an eighth of pot. She said that the top of Andrew Jackson’s head had horns drawn on, a sign that Daddy wants us to have fun, unlike her own dad who used to lock her in her room while he had a good time with whatever lady of the night. But he not only rewards us, he takes care of us, like when Maggie noticed her period was Plains Paradox, 49

late because we are all synced up, and she didn’t bleed with the rest of us. She’d done much more than make out with Luke in September, and she begged our new Father to help her during a ritual in the basement, and five days later she miscarried a thousand clotted rubies and we helped her clean it all up. Detectives scour the acres of the property in their heavy wool winter coats, leaving cigarette butts on their trail. They bring in forensic teams, analysts, and anyone who can assist them in uncovering the true nature of the two fallen nuns’ mysterious deaths. They question girl after girl—Lyla, the teacher’s pet and biggest prude in school who is waiting to have her first kiss until after she’s married. Even Caroline, the new girl with weird crooked teeth who is always wandering around alone. The detectives take notice of our group and our ragged appearances. “Are you young ladies ill?” they ask us. We lie, tell them it’s a cold that must be going around. After all, it’s -12 degrees outside, but Daddy tells us that we have made an impression and to be careful. He talks to us telepathically now, not just when we are in the basement taking sacrilegious sacraments. It is harder to sneak into the basement tonight with the patrol cars outside, so we have to skip our usual smoking routine and tiptoe straight downstairs. We join hands, and Bethany pours her visions once again, calling on our father. The others take their sips and wait, but I don’t touch my chipped peony teacup. Instead, I remember that we are drinking the same potion that killed the nuns, and I’m frightened by the amount Bethany poured this time. She must’ve poured half of it into the nuns’ tea, a two-month supply for the five of us, but tonight she unloaded a similar amount into our cups. I’m stunned that we can kiss death and still escape him, but maybe Daddy likes it that way— likes that the veil to his world is becoming thinner. I take a Plains Paradox, 50

small sip and wait to ask him myself. But soon, the others begin to cough, ribbons of blood pouring from their lips, their eyes rolling back as they shake more than they ever have. “Tonight is the night,” says Bethany with a shallow breath, tossing her empty vial to her side. “But he wouldn’t want us to die so young. He wouldn’t betray us like our real fathers did,” I say, smashing my cup as I crawl toward the staircase, realizing that my breath is starting to escape me, and I can feel my spirit draining from my body. “Help!” I scream, clawing at the wooden stairs in an attempt to climb up. I look back and see the others lying in our broken circle, and I can feel my body getting heavier, as though my blood were made of titanium. I sink down into the floor and feel myself fade. I wake up alone, my right arm attached to a half-full IV drip, my left handcuffed to a hospital bed. A bouquet of peonies has been placed on a table across the room, along with a card, but even squinting as hard as I can, I can’t make out whom it’s from. I can only read the clock on the wall above, which reads 5:15 p.m. It doesn’t take long for the room to become dark, only lit by what is left of the evening in the window. I can barely reach for the remote to turn on the little bedside T.V. Breaking News: Four of five of the Catholic School teens suspected of committing a double murder have been reported dead after ingesting a large dose of Datura Stramonium otherwise known as “Devil’s Trumpets,” a deadly flower which commonly grows near pastures and roadsides. Autopsy reports showed signs of acute poisoning that spanned over a period of many months, followed by a large dose that may have resulted in heart failure. Lead investigator Gabriel Arkeson says the deadly flower was found growing in a field nearby St. Valentine’s School for Girls. Updates will be provided as soon as we have more information. Plains Paradox, 51

THE SWEET LIFE

Athena Andree

TAYLOR N. JOHNSON

ODE TO FRANKY

See Franky’s a good guy and Franky likes to kiss guys. I’ve seen a cold sore on his upper lip, swollen. I think Franky wants to be a woman. He wears makeup and tights on the highdays, purple lipstick and wings to line his eyes. “So I can fly,” he tells all his friends. Franky parties with shots, bathroom bumps, poppers, and psychos. He always gets too fucked up and makes a scene. Someone save Franky again. Franky’s painfully well endowed, so he’s never fallen in love. But I think I love Franky. On the low days I paint her nails as she coughs a melody.

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PINK CITY DREAMS

Emily Moore

SOPHIA COLE

MY LOVER FITS INTO THE AIR

The space around him wraps around his hips and thighs as if wherever he is, he is meant to be. Like the world around him is prepared to cover all surfaces of him, smoothly, solidly. He is cradled. I’m lying on his stomach. I wonder how the space around me is fitting to the back of my knees or the small of my back. I don’t feel cradled. He is looking at me and I pretend not to notice, but I’m afraid he’s too close. He might see the white spots on my skin from scratching off scabs before they have a chance to heal. He asks me to be still. His hand on the softest part of my body, under my chin. He is crying. He says he can see me from any age. The space cradles us.

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AN EXERCISE IN TRUST

JJ Wheeler

BRUISED

AEDAN LYNCH

Warm blood ran down his chin as another man entered his cell. The floor lit for a moment in a blazing cone, and David scrunched his eyes against it. Through the dim blur he saw a shadow, tall in relief against the outer bright. The moment ended as abruptly as it had begun; the light faded and the figure of the other man became visible. Thankfully, the first man stepped away, and even better there was no desultory kick, as occurred whenever the first man had left him before. He sagged against the straps bound to his wrists, rudely chafing his tenderized skin even further, but it was such relief to be removed from his tormentor he barely took notice. After a second of breathless rest, he heaved his chin up—he yelped with pain briefly before contenting—himself with a dull groan to take the measure of the second visitor to his cell. His first and most intimate acquaintance, whom he referred to in his mind as “that bastard” or “the torturer” was plainly dressed, in a battered shirt and pants. His eyes were dark enough to blend into the shadows, and his hair was just as black. His hands, now hung loosely at his sides, bore no indication of the use to which they had just been put. His face was composed and utterly expressionless. The newcomer, in contrast, was smiling slightly—that incongruous smile was the first thing David had noticed about him. His skin was tanned, although even in the shadowed cell it couldn’t quite hide the spread of freckles on his nose and cheeks. He wore a gray sweater and tan pants with cargo pockets. His smooth blond hair fell down to his ears, parted in a neat and scholarly fashion high above his forehead. His green eyes were warm, twinkling even in the darkness. They flicked as he looked over David, not carelessly like the first man whenever he stepped back to observe his handiwork, but almost caringly. He even met David’s eyes for a few seconds before turning to the

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first man to nod, a smooth dip of his head. The first man left the room; David shut his eyes to avoid the light this time. When the brightness faded, he opened them to the new man stepping closer to scrutinize him. The image brought to mind a shopper inspecting a piece of furniture in a clearance store. David favored him with a glance before giving in to his spine’s protest. Then he resigned to looking back at the concrete, featureless save the black spatters of his blood, his neck now limp. A soft click from the other end of the room and the burning light returned. He squeezed his ragged eyes closed and heard something scrape across the floor, but he kept his sight blinkered. The red glow seeped through his eyelids, letting him know the door was still open. Another click and the red glow faded away. “It’s okay. You can open your eyes now,” a soft voice told him. David had intended to, but the sheer novelty of hearing a human voice here had briefly immobilized him before he managed to peer out from under his swollen brows. The other man, the new one, was sitting on a metal chair, only an arm’s length away. The man’s green eyes were even more intense this close. “Are you capable of speech?” David started to tell the man how bizarre this question was, but then the pain in his jaw pulsed, bursting like erupting magma across his face. But he pushed words out anyways, one by one. “What—the—hell.” “Good.” the other man responded. “Now then, you are David Ingerrman, correct?” David sucked a breath in through his lips. He tried to say and spat back at him. “S—screw off—” only for his next words to vanish into a blizzard of pain. He jerked forward, the straps scraping against his wrists. When the static wash of agony receded, a new epicentre for the dull throbbing surfaced in his back, just below his shoulder blades. Damn, his torturer must still be in the room, behind him.

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“You are David Ingerrman, correct?” The new questioner asked again, this time with a smile, as if his defiance was an amusing distraction from a tedious day’s work. In that second, David wanted nothing more than to break from his restraints and punch the man’s smiling mouth, but it passed and self-preservation reasserted itself. “Yes.” It took less energy and cost less pain to let out that single word than the last. “Of course.” the interrogator seemed unmoved by his submission, like they were merely exchanging formalities. His hands, folded in his lap, went to search the pocket of his khaki pants to withdraw a piece of paper. In a quick, clearlypracticed motion, he unfolded it to its full size and glanced down at it. “You live in apartment number 23, at the intersection of 78th Street and Roddet Way?” There was no point in refuting this; the man was only confirming some drop of information in a sea of records. “Yes.” This time the word came out almost painlessly, shadowed by a weak throb in his cheeks. You inhabited this apartment along with a woman named Linda Teller?” David could feel a deep throbbing in his wrists. It synchronized perfectly with the ache his jaw suffered to even open his mouth. Why would these people bother putting him through all this agony just to check a few records? He didn’t care for the government, but he never thought it was cruel and petty enough for this exercise in sadism. “Yes.” “What was your relationship with Linda Teller?” He wasn’t sure how to answer, but the fear that a prolonged silence might be cause for them to strike him again prompted him to give them the bland truth they desired as quickly as he could. “She’s my girlfriend.” “Your relationship was romantic in nature, then?” Again, he didn’t know how to answer that. It was such a ridiculous question for a smiling man with bright green eyes to ask him deep in a cell. Why would anyone want to Plains Paradox, 59

know? It wasn’t like they had anything special. It was just an ordinary relationship, nothing more. It wasn’t important. They didn’t need to know about her. “None of your business.” He said, his pride in the defiant words eclipsed immediately when the pain crashed over him again. This time he yelled, a wordless cry of torment, and that only made him hurt more, because it forced his battered jaw to open too wide. He returned his wide eyes to the interrogator, who had ceased to smile and looked resigned now. “I assure you, David, the question is important. Please provide a complete answer. Was your relationship with Linda Teller romantic in nature?” David couldn’t even consider the question, as it took all his focus just to keep upright and not slump against the straps again. “No,” he started. “It was, but… not anymore.” The calm smile returned to his questioner’s face. “How many times have you struck Linda Teller?” What the hell? What sort of twisted question was that? Did Linda say something? Was that what this was all about? Who would she have told? John or Cory wouldn’t have gone to the police over it, and he hadn’t thought Linda and Jane were even talking anymore. But even then, why would she? “How many times have you struck Linda Teller?” The question came again, in the exact same cadence as before and without impatience, but David did feel a hand rest against his side. He blanked with fear, but after a second had passed, the touch lifted and no pain came. He realized it was a warning, no, a reminder that he should not take his time with his answers. But what could he say? Anything, he decided. He should say anything, and quickly. “Never.” And agony exploded inside him again. He tried to scream, but the pain burst again, and then again, his bleeding flesh shuddering with each strike. He retched and wheezed through the pain. The interrogator watched, his expression still resigned but his smile never fading from his Plains Paradox, 60

eyes. He let David hang there, let the wreckage of his body sink in, before he asked again. “How many times have you struck Linda Teller?” It wasn’t worth it. David’s mouth was a warm mess of blood, his legs dangling twigs of meat and his chest was a furnace of agony. He might as well just say it. It didn’t matter, it couldn’t, shouldn’t, not to these people. “I—I don’t—know.” His interrogator held up his hand, prompting the blows to stop. The man looked away from him for the first time, and then he shook his head, the movement tired and disappointed. When the interrogator looked back at him David saw the smile had finally disappeared from his eyes. “Do you know why you are here?” “No.” He said before he could stop himself. He braced for the pain so far as he could, in his mind, not his body, but the hand came up again and once more paused the torturer’s rain of vicious strikes. “You are here, David Ingerrman, at City Hills District Station, to confess.” Through the strange statement, David grasped one thing, and only one, that mattered. There was a way out. All he had to do was confess, whatever that would mean, and it would end. “To—to what?” The interrogator’s eyes were hard and cold, and his mouth had thinned to a pressed line. He looked more like a teacher on the verge of a reprimand than a man responsible for extracting words from beaten humans. David hoped it would be easy, that it was some little crime he had done and thought nothing of. He could, he would even confess to hitting Linda if that was what he wanted, confess to that evening when she had said those things to which he had no answer, and he slapped her across the face—he could confess to that. Just to make it end. “To living, David. To having lived in brutish ignorance, and to living that life in defiance of decency. To your petty teenage vandalism of schools, to your use of prohibited epithets and slurs, to your crimes against Linda Teller. Plains Paradox, 61

Everything. Confess to living a life where you committed crimes.” “You just listed everything illegal I’ve ever done. Why do you need me to confess?” His interrogator stepped in close, bending down to look David eye to eye. He could feel the other man, the torturer, behind him, a looming presence like a cliff blocking out the sun. His interrogator spoke to him softly but not gently. “It’s not about that, David. It doesn’t matter what I know, what we know. What matters is what you know. You did all of this, in spite of decency and the law, because decency is the law, but you never thought about your crimes until you were dragged into a cell. You didn’t see anything wrong with your actions, with your behavior, and that, David, is what you need to confess to.” David sucked in a hot, aching breath, trying to summon the air he needed to respond. “That—doesn’t—make—any—sense, you’re in here hitting me because—” “Because you were able to do these things. Because—” the interrogator looked down at the sheet of paper still in his hand— “because you saw the bruising on your girlfriend’s cheek after you struck her and did not flinch or feel pain. The act alone is enough, but your mindset is the true crime. Confess that somebody else suffered because you lived, David. That is what you are here to do.” David looked at the other man’s hard, bright eyes. Reflected within them he saw himself, lazy, sad, and angry, laying around on his old couch in front of his television while Linda stood a ghost at the edge of his sight. He thought of laughing at the fools on the news, talking about rights and obligations and pretending to govern for people like him. The interrogator stood and walked to the door in three brisk strides. David imagined the beating, the broken agonies, and beyond that saw the shock in Linda’s eyes, and her cheek beginning to purple, His interrogator looked back over his shoulder, not at David but at the torturer behind him. “You may—” Plains Paradox, 62

“Wait!” David wheezed, and the interrogator paused, his gaze switching swiftly over to David as he hung from his wrists. “I confess.” These words came from his throat hard as a sharp stone. “I confess to willful destruction of property,” David said, “and I confess that I did so out of spite and ignorance. I confess to the use of prohibited words with the intent to degrade and denigrate. And—and I confess to gender crimes, to physically assaulting a woman. I confess to violating the decency laws.” The interrogator had turned to study David, as carefully as he had before. The words hung in the air between the three of them. Then the interrogator returned to his unadorned chair. The smile had returned to both his eyes and mouth. “Very good, David. Very good. Are you willing to complete this confession in full?” David blinked and felt the fist against his face, and thought of his bruised cheeks. “Yes,” he said, the word now familiar. “Excellent. You will need to authenticate and sign a transcript as per the 2028 Human Decency law, but we can worry about that later.” He looked to the torturer, now superfluous. “Release the subject,” he said. Before David could comprehend what was about to happen, there was a yank on his straps, then they were gone, and he was collapsing to the floor, but the interrogator caught him, and held him just above the hard surface. “There you are,” the man said. “It’s a lot, I know. Accepting that you did so much wrong is hard. But it’s okay. You understand now. You know it was wrong, don’t you, David?” David was dizzy, but the pain was already growing more and more distant, like a car driving away from him into a dense fog. “Yes,” he said once more. “I understand.” It hurt to stand. He was glad, so glad to crumble into repose, his fresh-filled glass in hand. The screen glared at him and he flinched from instinct. The water swayed at the Plains Paradox, 63

jerk. He wanted to recoil from a hand reached to steady him, but it was absent. Recorded chatter only made the empty room larger. To twist without pain, he swiveled his whole torso atop his hips, surveying desolation. The lights were out. It was safer, more comfortable that way. The oncewelcoming doors were empty tooâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;no hand would open them but his trembling own. Never, never again. He had seen to that. FINIS

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VOTES FOR WOMEN

Robyn Eubanks

FLOWERS OF RADIANCE

Gretchen Spomer

MASTER COPY OF DEGASâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; DANCERS IN BLUE

Kim Adam

BLAKE GOODWIN

REAL SOUL OF THE MATTER

When Officer Azar responded to a call regarding potential arson at the Coles’ residence, he drove without sirens and stopped for coffee along the way. He turned onto Martin Street and flicked on the wipers to clear away the last remnants of the weather from Good Friday. The crick in his back flared up for the first time since he had woken up on his brother’s couch that morning, when he noticed there was no snow to greet him from outside the back window. Seeing three inches of snow melt away by Easter seemed terribly appropriate, in his opinion. Now, if the Reverend’s lavish home were to catch fire, it would be a great cause for concern, but according to dispatch, the nature of the call sounded so absurd the local fire department didn’t so much as bat an eye. If chalking it all up to a prank call was good enough for the hose-draggers, it was good enough for the P.D. But someone had to look into these things. Azar pondered all this as his patrol car rolled over damp asphalt. A steeple peeked out from behind the bristlecone pines, and he slowed to a crawl looking for a pale blue Volkswagen Beetle with a caved-in rear bumper among the front parking spots. He saw no such vehicle, and continued on, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Azar turned right onto Highway 66 and stomped on the gas, cruising on the empty road, listening to the engine rev. On his right he saw a series of houses, which stood alone on their own lots, far apart from one another. He turned off the highway, and coasted to a stop in front of a tall, iron gate. He idled in the car for a moment, then it began to swing open and he drove on, down the winding road in awe of the massive homes he passed on either side. The decadent manors seemed to stare at him from their lots with their looming brick facades, their bright green lawns already Plains Paradox, 68

lush for egg hunts. He drove up to the very last house in the neighborhood, which boasted a long brick driveway, leading to a three-tiered fountain, which he parked next to as he gazed at the Cole’s house. He had heard it was luxurious, fitting for a reverend, but this seemed like an understatement as his eyes traced the marble pillars before him, which stretched up three floors. He shut off the car and stepped out, smoothing over the wrinkles in his shirt with sweaty palms. He wiped his mouth again, climbing a series of large, stone steps leading up to a large red door. The crick in his back flared again as he rang the doorbell and waited for a moment, examining the architecture. Crown molding decorated the space above the door and windows, which were so large they were almost otherworldly. All the drapes were closed. The door opened, and a woman stood there in a white sundress with floral print, and a smile that was too white. She looked at Azar with an unwavering gaze and said, “Happy Resurrection Sunday. How may I help you, officer?” “You must be Mrs. Coles,” Azar said. “My name is Officer Azar. May I come in?” “Monica will do fine,” she said. “May I ask what this is regarding?” “I know this is inconvenient for Easter Sunday, Mrs. Coles, but I’m responding to a call we got this morning that was rather crazy,” Azar said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth again. “I wasn’t sure I’d even find you home. Almost waited until church was out to stop by.” Monica Coles stared at the officer and her grin began to waver at the corners of her mouth. She tapped the door with red nails, her other hand resting on her hip. Azar smiled and wiped his lips. “Ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to have some troublesome children at home this morning, would you? You see, we got a call about a fire, but as you can see, not a spark in sight.” “Monica will do fine,” she said again, making way for Azar. “Please, do come in.”

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Azar stepped inside, and Mrs. Coles shut the door behind him. They passed beneath a crystal chandelier. The heels of their shoes clicked on the tile floor; each one echoing in the spacious foyer. She led him through a hallway decorated with crucifixes of various sizes and colors, into a room with two couches, both tan leather with not a single scuff on them. A painting of Jesus washing his disciple’s feet hung on a wall to the left, whereas a family portrait was centered above a brick fireplace: the grinning Reverend Coles and his wife dressed in their finest evening wear, and on either side of them, little twin girls wearing lavender-colored tutus, their hair pulled into tight buns, their lips pulled back into gaptoothed smiles. Azar’s eyes lingered on the girls’ twinkling eyes. His chest felt heavy. “You have a lovely home,” he said. “Now, don’t tell me the Reverend is home too, otherwise the Easter service is going to have a bit of a hiccup. Those are two lovely ballerinas I see up there.” Azar pointed to the family portrait. “The Reverend is tending to his flock as planned,” Mrs. Coles said. “He will be home very soon. Service should be about over by now. The twins, however, had to stay home today. I’m afraid they’ve been somewhat ill lately. Shame, they’ll have to miss the Easter festivities. Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” Azar sat upright on the couch, his lower back still aching from nights without a bed. He wiped his mouth as the captured gazes of the Coles family towered over him from above the hearth. This couch felt softer than his brother’s and he pictured himself sinking into it. He looked up at the family mural, imagined he were on the opposite side of the frame, and pictured himself walking through a screen door with little holes poked through the bottom, taking his place at a kitchen table, laying on a bed that has grown half cold. The Reverend’s smile began to feel judgmental; his gaze mocking. Footsteps big and small echoed from the foyer, and Azar turned to face Mrs. Coles and her daughters. The distinct odor of shit wafted into the room. Azar’s jaw Plains Paradox, 70

dropped. The twins stood on either side of their mother, two sets of twinkling blue eyes staring out from shit-smeared faces; blonde hair trimmed short in jagged, uneven strands; tutus wet and stained with what looked and smelled like urine. “Jesus Chri—” Azar started, then caught himself. “What’s the matter?” Mrs. Coles asked, her mouth agape and eyes wide. “What on earth did they do to themselves?” Azar asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, then keeping it there to block his nose. “I’m sorry, Officer. They insist on wearing their tutus. They were supposed to perform in the Easter recital at church, and simply refused to wear anything else.” “But they look—” “Sick, yes,” Mrs. Coles interrupted. “As I said, they’ve been ill. The flu, I suspect.” Mrs. Coles sat on the other couch across from Azar, and the twins sat on either side of her, so close their hips were almost joined. She began stroking their hair and shoulders, her glossy red nails smearing the still soft shit. “My poor little ballerinas,” she said. “They’re simply heartbroken to miss the recital, and the Reverend loves to watch them dance. But he insisted they stay home. Wouldn’t want them to get sick on stage, or get anyone else sick, for that matter.” “Mrs. Coles,” Azar started. “Monica will do fine.” “Monica,” Azar said, “do you smell something foul?” Monica Coles lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” Azar stared at her for a moment. “Right,” he said from behind his sleeve again. “Of course not. Say, Monica, do you think I could have a moment to speak with the twins alone?” “I suppose that would be alright. The Reverend will be home soon. He’ll also want to discuss any abuses of the telephone lines. He has no patience for nonsense like that.”

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Mrs. Coles stood and smoothed the front of her dress, leaving thin lines of feces down the floral pattern, then left Azar alone with the twins. They sat in silence, examining one another. The girls still wore smiles, and Azar lowered his sleeve. “My name is Tony,” Azar said with shallow breath. “What are your names?” The twins looked at one another and said their names at the same time. Azar interpreted “Sophie” and “Olivia” from the two tangled words. “Alright, Sophie and Olivia. Which one of you called 911?” “I did,” Sophie said. “No, me,” Olivia cut in. “You always do this,” Sophie said. The girls spoke, one following the other, with little to no gaps between thoughts. They chuckled as they played off one another, licking the stubs of their growing adult teeth with their tongues. “Why are you so filthy?” Azar asked. “Don’t call us that,” Sophie began. “You sound like New Daddy,” Olivia finished. “Why do you say that?” Azar asked. “He’s shiny and new like a Ken doll,” Sophie said. “Our Old Daddy smelled like smoke and coughed a lot. Like this.” Sophie held her closed fist to her mouth and let out three exaggerated gags. Azar leaned back on the sofa, watching the girls fidget side-to-side and kick their ballerina slippers, this time using their tongues to feel around for more loose teeth, something Azar used to watch his own daughter do, something he used to do as a kid too. Now he just probed around to identify a new cavity. “Do you remember the nice woman from the phone today when you called?” Azar asked. The girls nodded, their chins shining with drool. “Her name is Jennifer. She’s a nice lady, and loves Easter too,” Azar said. “Tell me, girls, why did you tell Jennifer that your—um—New Daddy was going to burn the house down?” Plains Paradox, 72

The twins’ eyes met a space behind Azar’s head, and their smiles faded. “Better ask New Daddy,” they said together. Azar turned and stood to greet the Reverend, who stood just inside the room, wearing a soft blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. His hair was slicked back with mousse, and his smile was polished and straight—a Ken doll indeed. “Officer, thank you so much for working on Resurrection Day,” the Reverend said, extending a perfectly manicured hand to Azar, who almost flinched from the softness of the other man’s skin. “I’m sure you’d much rather be at home with your family.” Azar’s chest felt heavy again, and he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. Mrs. Coles entered the room behind the Reverend and led the girls away, holding their shit-smeared hands in her own, as if they were just as clean and smooth as her husband’s hands. “Thank you, dear,” the Reverend said with a smile. “Bye-bye Tony,” the twins said, looking back at the officer, but the twinkle in their eyes was gone, their lips rolled inward into lipless frowns. Officer Azar was alone with The Reverend. The Reverend took a seat on Azar’s couch, urging him to do the same with an open palm. “It’s a real mess, isn’t it?” the Reverend said, staring at the couch where the twins previously sat. The leather was still damp from their bottoms, and the smell lingered in the room. “What’s all this about, Reverend?” Azar asked, eyes locked on him. “Please, call me Phil.” “Alright Phil, what’s going on with your daughters?” Phil crossed his legs and sat back on the couch, averting his eyes from Azar’s. “This room here, Tony,” Phil said, turning his palms up and out toward the walls, “is my counseling room. You see, being the leader of such a large congregation of people means more than just standing up and spewing my guts once a week, like I did this morning. Heavens, the people of this town have greater patience than Plains Paradox, 73

I. Short winded I am not.” The Reverend’s eyes met Azar’s again, and he took a breath to continue his thought. “When members of the flock need guidance, at times we sit down here, just like you and I are doing, and we get down to the real soul of the matter. No punches pulled. Real spiritual workshopping kind of stuff. Am I making sense here?” “I suppose.” “Good,” Phil said, eyebrows raised. “Now, I hope we can approach this conversation with the same level of Godgiven honesty.” Azar wiped his mouth and leaned onto his knees, looking the Reverend in the eye. “Please, explain to me what is going on here, Reverend.” “Phil will do fine,” he replied, matching Azar’s posture, but just a tad more upright. “For starters, I should reassure you that I am not going to burn the house down.” “How reassuring.” “Do you believe in the Devil, Officer?” “What kind of question is that?” “An important one. Lord above, maybe the most important one I could ask. Well, second most.” “Go on,” Azar said, leaning away from the Reverend. “I’ve been doing this a long time, young man. A long time. Guiding people, counseling them. It seems to me sometimes the Enemy taunts and tempts and taunts some more—some people day and night. And at the end of it all, they either lean into God’s word—or they break beneath the weight of Satan’s lies.” “I suppose that makes sense.” “Sophie and Olivia are not mine. I adopted them four years ago when I married Monica. Their father was burned to death in a house fire. According to the fire department, he fell asleep smoking.” Azar wiped his mouth. “Dear Lord,” he said. “I thank the Lord every day that Monica wasn’t home. She was at her sister’s house for the night. As for the girls, they made it out in time somehow. But they have some Plains Paradox, 74

issues.” “The—excrement,” Azar said, shifting in his seat again as his back twisted into a knot. The Reverend smiled and folded his hands in his lap. That same judgmental, knowing smile as in the family mural above. “This happens each year. You see, their father had a—how should I say it? A demon ruling over his life. He loved those girls in a way no father ever should. Their appearance—hair cut short, the feces, the urine—all deterrents of the foulest kind.” “Don’t they know their father is dead?” Azar asked. The Reverend crossed his legs again. “Some scars truly run deep,” he said. They sat in silence for a moment, then the Reverend asked, “Is everything alright, Officer?” Then the other man wiped his mouth as Azar knew he often did. Azar felt his face grow warm, and his eyes met the floor. “Sorry, just a habit.” “I know the kind,” the Reverend said. “I’ve been doing this a long time.” “I can imagine,” Azar said, returning his gaze to the Reverend. “And?” “Haven’t been sleeping well,” Azar said. “You really know how to read body language, don’t you Phil? You should join the force and help us rattle the bad guys downtown.” “Yes, well. The Devil is in the details. No pun intended,” the Reverend said, standing to his feet. “Will that be all?” The Reverend led Officer Azar into the foyer. Together they walked onto the porch. The ground was dry, baked in the Easter sun. The clouds were cotton balls overhead, and spaced almost as far apart as the various mansions in the neighborhood. “I’ll be praying for you, Officer, never forget that,” the Reverend said. “Thank you, Phil.” “You never answered my question,” the Reverend Plains Paradox, 75

said, his knowing grin revealing itself again. “What’s that?” Azar asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Do you believe in the Devil?” the Reverend said, extending his hand. Azar looked at it, trying to decipher his next move. He appeared to want to shake hands and say farewell, and yet he’d just bated him back into the very conversation he’d dodged before. Azar stared at the Reverend, at his smile that now seemed too polished; too white. “Do I think there’s an evil force dedicated to the temptation, corruption, and destruction of mankind?” Azar asked before he shook the Reverend’s hand, because the man had still not withdrawn the offer. “That’s right,” the Reverend said. Azar squeezed the Reverend’s hand in his. This time his palm felt clammy and slick, then hot and scaly. He looked the Reverend in the eye and said, “I’m not sure mankind needs the help.” The Reverend’s smile fell away, and Azar broke away. He climbed into his patrol car and watched the house grow small in his rearview mirror as he drove away. It seemed no matter how much ground he covered, he could still see the red door. Azar sat on his brother’s porch with a glass of Tin Cup whiskey and a cigarette, watching the moon beams reflect off the evening dew. He pondered the events of the morning. He scanned the occasional late-night cars that drove by, but his wife’s blue Volkswagen was nowhere to be found. The distinct horn and sirens of a fire engine blared through the night. Azar closed his eyes, pictured how the Coles’ house would look in flames; marble pillars stained black with smoke; fire spilling out of every broken window; a red door resting half open; a three-tier fountain with no water, and around it, two ballerinas dancing.

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MUSCULAR STUDY ONTO DEGAS

Kim Adam

SAM HORN

THIN LINE

Your red baked brick holds rotten wood shingles. As if paint was whipped upon those pillars, new bricks are slid in, squeezed to fit in where a man lost control and contorted your clay columns, but this darker red suits you. Vintage pumps with rotary dials, white paint laced with rust cupped in dents and gashes. The adjacent counter cocked to one side, wondering when it might be used. Barred windows cover shattered glass. The same spider occupies his web, and he hasn’t looked happier. A silhouette, grime in the shape of a fridge, sits plastered against the wall. Stains of glass-bottled coke linger around drains where crushed zots once lay. But this Pollock of food remnants caramelized on the floor keeps the air sweet. Dandelions with the color of petroleum sprout between kiltered concrete. My feet brush their spined geometry, glass and gravel crunch below. The white hands of this building cling to an eroded cliff’s edge, and it’s time I kick them away.

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ENDURANCE

Kim Adam

DIEGO WOODWARD

SPRING 1978 BY ANDREW WYETH

Fields of dark green, Save for the occasional brown patch, Witness a man watching time pass. Rosy pigment clings to his cold cheeks As he grips the Earth And sees the yellow sky darken and return again. If the fields choose to nudge him with a breeze, It will feel cool running between his lips. The spring trudges along the grass: Indifferent to the hair that thins Until it joins the brown patches In their insignificant exceptions To the dark green standard. Indifferent to the skin That turns to sand And takes shelter in the ground beneath. The fields theorize: He might hope to be an immovable object To Springâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unstoppable force. They know heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a stubborn rock to a stream. He must know this too. The grass is brown on occasion, The sky stays yellow, And the man stays still Until the ground And his hips Cannot be told apart. The spring never slows But his mind does, Until it is still as the safe ground.

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MAROON BELLS REINTERPRETED

Adrienne Scribner

COMING HOME

Kim Adam

ITEM #27

ASH BEAUCHAMP

It is a sublime kind of torment, this door, free standing upon its pedestal made of worldly materials. Plain wood and PVC pipes, nailed together and painted seashell white in an attempt to be made presentable for everyone who would make the pilgrimage. They payed ten dollars at the door and got an unassuming paper band on their wrist that would allow them an audience with such an ethereal object. But none of them are you. This door sings to you, wants you with the ardor of a forsaken lover. The geometric shapes precisely carved into the otherwise unblemished slab of thick onyx radiate heat, drawing you closer with intimate susurrations of promises you cannot understand. Triangles overlap and twist in an arrangement that violate Pythagorean laws, deliberately folded into coalescing circles that ripple across the doorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s otherwise still expanse. Two golden serpents are frozen on either side, bent like rivers, with their tails caught between serrated fangs. Their long bodies are smooth, as if bare hands have wasted away any pattern once inlaid onto their coarse breadth. The doorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gravity pulls at your feet, tugs on your hand to reach out and touch its viscous surface, to burn with its payload of secrets new and old. Secrets whispered among two primitive humanoids in the low-hanging and sweltering caverns of modern-day eastern France. Secrets kept by the mother you never met. Secrets exchanged solely through thought perilously close to the gnawing edge of the Observable Universe. It demands you to touch. You do not. The curator has explicitly forbidden you, and everyone else, from doing so. There is no protective barrier around the door. No velvet ropes hanging from unsteady posts, no glass cases, no security guards, no biometric

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scanners, or motion activated cameras that would indicate anyone getting too close. The door merely stands five feet away from you, thrumming with a force that demands nothing short of your complete attention. The words Item #27 is all that accompanies the artifact, handwritten in black marker on a marble slab in front of the pedestal. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the only objective description you can ascribe to it amidst the thrashing of your addled thoughts. The door expects action. It forces reflection yet rejects opinion. There are no hinges to indicate its ability to swing open or closed. The absence of locks and handles dictate your inability to walk through it, giving you pause, making you reconsider whether or not the monolith before you truly is a door. The people you came here with have moved on hours ago. The phone in your pocket vibrates, but you hardly feel it against your leg. In fact, you hardly feel anything aside from the headache that worms its way to your ears and down your neck, settling into your shoulder. It is due punishment for your inaction. You will the snakes to bite down on their tails and the pain sharpens, blooming hot, shoving you away. You cannot control what you see; you cannot alter it in any way; you can only observe and describe. But youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve transgressed against a presence unfathomable and unknowable with your wish to change it. A wish and a will unacceptable in the large, echoing walls of the exhibit.

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STRENGTH AND BALANCE

Kim Adam

SUNSET

Ivy Favier

CARMINE DENIS

WHITSUNDYING

The psychiatrist asked me how it feels like when she comes back I heard how does it feel when she comes back home? She’s wandered a lot she’s a stray who comes at night like she meant to but I don’t know how to answer the question I say I’m scared and I can’t sleep but really she’s got death behind her or beneath and she tells me all about it and how smooth it was when she reached it which is maybe why there’s a pure white light between or behind her teeth and she doesn’t cast any shadow Then there’s the one who’s never stared at death she comes in early in the morning the psychiatrist tells me I’m scared of losing control which is why I don’t sleep (there’s no me there’s no we there’s a light with no shadows only) She tried to grab my hand tried to introduce me to death but I never knew how to react when meeting someone new so I just spat out shadow I think that death watches over me but how do I explain this The psychiatrist gave me meds that make me puke and faint but the door’s invisible door’s locked so she’s away at night always she’s still a stray and I can sleep I sleep again I take my pills I miss the light between her teeth

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PIECES OF HER

Athena Andree

LENI CHECKAS

PRAY MORE

From his pickup in the Old Cantina’s parking lot, the farmer watched the red sunset pooling on the horizon until the scene was interrupted by thousands of grasshopper silhouettes springing against the darkening sky. He got out of his truck and stalked inside. “The usual, Tucker?” the bartender asked as the farmer pressed his way up to the bar. “Yeah, beer me, Juan. What’s up tonight?” He indicated the swarm of people., women of various ages wearing combinations of western clothing: boots, buckles, cowpoke hats, and blue jeans. They occupied the bar stools, pool tables, and nearly every available chair. A few men in overalls clustered in the corner by the overhead television watching the stock market. “What’s with the crowd?” Juan laughe. “Protesters. These here ladies are all Gals Against Systemic Pollution. They tell me they’ve been complaining down at the Capital. Something about toxic food supply or some such nonsense causing our crop problems.” Tucker pulled down the brim of his baseball cap. “Bugs don’t mind eating my ‘toxic’ crops. Hell, maybe the ladies could talk directly to them bugs. Better use of their time instead of wasting our tax money and councilmen’s meetings.” Juan hooked a handled mug under the spout of the white Miller tab and pulled the lever. His head bounced to the beat; his movements reflected in the rounded mirror, distorted by the shelves of liquor. The song faded on the overhead system, and a new one started—a woman sang about going out after midnight. A few of the protestors whooped. Some even looked around the bar at the few men. “They get all dressed up and come enjoy our ‘little country bumpkin ways’ before heading back to their city lives,” Tucker said. “They don’t get it, do they? It’s always something with farming. Drought, changing tastes, oil drilling. Nothing to do with that

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GMO jabber. No amount of protesting’s going to change what the good Lord hands us. Maybe they should try praying.” Juan sloshed the beer in front of Tucker. “Well, I don’t mind the business, or say, the company neither.” He winked and cocked his head in the direction of a blond and brunette sitting a few bar stools down. The two women appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation, each one gesticulating dramatically. “Fish in a barrel.” Tucker raised his glass. “Much obliged.” He lumbered toward the ladies. The blond in the fringed western outfit looked at Tucker after he stood next to them for two minutes. “Can we help you, cowboy?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Well, now, maybe. I hear you ladies are in town to help us poor farm folk out.” The brunette gave the blond an eye roll and sighed. “Alright, yeah. We sort of are,” she said, setting aside her wine glass and smoothing out her jeans with the palms of her hands. “Now, I get that farmers work hard.” Tucker scoffed. “I do. And, I get you all don’t like us, but your farming practices, well, they affect all of us: you during application and us during consumption. You know?” “Ain’t nothing a sensible farmer can’t handle if done right. Plus, that other stuff is just nonsense ways of saying you don’t want us to make any money.” “Not really fair,” said the blonde. “Okay, what about explaining the grasshoppers?” asked the brunette. “They don’t swarm this bad when there’s plenty of rain and vegetation.” She slumped further into her stool. “These grasshoppers act more like a stampede, like they’re being rounded up.” “Ha!” said the blond, “like the poisonous weed killer.” Tucker sipped his beer and rolled his eyes. “That was a joke,” said the blonde. “None of the current problem makes sense. Seriously, the only good explanation is farming practices. Poisoned crops making the grasshoppers move in odd ways Plains Paradox, 90

to look for non-toxic space. I can see from the way you’re shaking your head that you aren’t listening, but I don’t hear any good explanations either. If you farmers would just work with us—” She stood up—in Tucker’s face—but sagged back under his glare. Tucker looked down at the women. “Don’t want no trouble here. Just wondering if you ladies want a drink.” “Gail, I told you this plan wouldn’t work. We’ll have to hope we’ve done enough down at the capital,” said the blond. “Just relax and finish your drink. No persuading this one.” “Oh, I can be persuaded of certain things.” Tucker looked them both up and down. “But not about this antifarming hokum.” Gail crossed her arms and sneered. “We aren’t against farmers or farming. There’s just a lot of unexplained facts that started with GMO seeds. Seriously, if all of the crop problems aren’t from pesticides, what do you think is causing the bug swarm?” Tucker took a long sip from his frosted mug. “Well, now, my ex-wife used to watch all them old science fiction movies about every kind of giant thing coming down from outer space. Giant spiders, giant ants, hell, even a giant woman. Bug swarm from outer space—I’m pretty sure that about covers things now, doesn’t it?” Gale smirked. “I suppose your wife wasn’t far off.” She scanned Tucker the way he’d done to them. “We’re all foreigners on this planet, aren’t we, Cyn?” Cyn smiled. “My girl knows things.” They bumped fists. Cyn’s fringe jiggled. Tucker leaned on the bar, facing Cyn, “It’s all right if you don’t know a lot, cutie. I’m not asking for much.” Cyn frowned. “My name’s not cutie, and I think you’ve asked for far too much.” The women grabbed their drinks, locked arms, and merged into the crowd of dancers. A song chanted about a batter swinging. Tucker straddled one of the emptied bar stools.

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“Chased them off, huh?” Juan said, slapping another beer on the counter for Tucker. “Lesbians,” Tucker said, “I guarantee it.” “Yeah, right,” Juan swiped his mustache, “Want to make the usual bet?” “First off, you always lose. Second, my wife left with all the money—you know, just in case luck looks your way.” “Hey, my bars full tonight, so—” Juan shrugged. “And, third, I can get—” but both men stopped talking as a woman hopped onto the empty stool next to Tucker. She pushed back her hair and let it curl around her thin waist. Laying her elbows on the bar top, she pressed her palms together. Her legs were long, and neither man could stop staring as she crossed and uncrossed them several times. Juan gulped. Tucker swiped his stubbled upper lip. “Pretty dry in these parts,” she said, posing on the stool. Tucker leaned in and elbowed Juan. “Oh, hey, yeah. Beer? On the house.” The woman pressed her lips out to make a point. The corners of her mouth lifted. “Sounds perfect.” Tucker scratched his head with his cap, “Most women don’t like beer.” The woman maintained the pointed smirk. She stared at Tucker with wide eyes. “I’m not like most women,” she said. Her eyebrows twitched. Juan rushed back with the beer and set it in front of the woman, “So, what’s your name?” Before she could answer, Tucker leaned toward Juan, “Remember what we were talking about. Let’s just say we have ourselves a deal.” Juan scowled, “Fine, bro. Whatever.” He headed toward the other end of the bar. The woman downed the full 20-ounce mug of beer without pausing for a breath, then licked her red lips with a long, thin tongue. She crossed and uncrossed her long legs again. “I hear you farmers are having problems,” she said. “I might have a solution for you.” Plains Paradox, 92

Tucker leaned away. “Not you too.” She tapped the bar next to her empty glass, and Juan placed a second beer and flashed a half grin at Tucker. “Not up for an easy way to get rid of your pests?” she asked. “Not if you’re selling me something,” Tucker said, “like bullshit about how to run my farm.” Then he sipped his beer. “I was thinking more along the lines of sex.” Her eyebrows twitched again. Tucker sat up straighter on the stool. “I mean, of course,” she said. “Reproductive control.” Tucker leaned in close, twirled three curls of her hair back, and whispered in her ear. She threw back her head and laughed. “Aren’t you darling! I could eat you up. Meet me outside in two minutes? Need to freshen up.” The woman’s retreating figure silhouetted against the red open sign in the window as she drifted toward the bathrooms. Tucker paid his tab. “You’ll owe me this back, Juan,” he said. “Doubt it, bro,” Juan said as he pocketed the money. “You haven’t succeeded yet.” “Pert near enough,” Tucker said as he straightened and tucked his wallet into a back pocket. Tucker waited at the steering wheel inside his truck, tapping his thumbs along to the stridulating night sounds. The woman appeared outside his window. He jumped out and pinned her to the side of the truck bed. “Not here,” the woman said, looking around nervously. “Don’t you have a place? Somewhere more private?” “Yeah, sure,” Tucker said, helping her into the passenger side before springing back into the driver’s seat and peeling out of the dusty parking lot. Tucker pulled up to a stop sign near a faded brick building with a high bell tower and a steepled sign labeled “Presbyterian” at the top. He chuckled. “Waste of our money. That thing’s lit up so you Plains Paradox, 93

could see it from outer space.” “Uh huh,” the woman answered. A directed light pointed out the words: “He is listening. Pray more.” Tucker revved his engine and grasshoppers leapt in the air as he rolled away from the stop sign. They passed the boarded-up stores downtown interlaced with a couple of still-functioning businesses, like the small barber shop with its red-and-white pole twirling and the gas station with the picture of the smiling local rodeo queen, Shirika Brown in the window. Then they passed the open Walmart marking the end of town; the parking lot was filled with Winnebagos, dented cars, and station wagons. The woman looked out the window as they left the paved road where the High Plains Township water tower had a spray-painted, neon green “Sucks” beneath its original lettering. Tucker pulled into a dirt driveway with half-dead trees on either side of a foreclosure sign. They passed acres of still-standing corn stalks until they reached a barn with peeling paint. Tucker parked, then hustled the woman out of the car and through the front door of his double wide trailer. He pushed her up against the door as he closed it. She forced open his shirt as they stumbled past the twoseater couch. His baseball cap fell, covering a rip in the striped seat cushion. As they reached the bedroom, Tucker pressed her into the door frame, stroking her legs with his hands. With their mouths seared together, they hit the bed in a lock-lipped clutch, jostling the nightstand where the lamp wobbled. “You aren’t into anything too kinky, are you?” Tucker asked between kisses. The woman tilted her head back as his lips grazed her neck. “No,” she said with a small smile, “I’m more of a traditional girl.” Tucker worked her arms over her head and slipped her dress off. Heat mounted in the room. Legs rubbing together, they rolled around in the bed. He flipped her over into a dog-style position, and she swiped her hair off her back. He unzipped his fly. Their breathing grew heavy. Plains Paradox, 94

Tucker thrust several times, then finished. She moaned loudly and rolled away. He dropped to the pillow, mussing his own hair, and sighed. “The trouble with farmers is that you never know what you’re getting into.” She turned onto her side and rubbed her belly. “Can’t complete the job.” “Hey, look, no need to insult a guy. It’s been a rough summer. Got a lot on my mind. He’ll come back in a second.” Tucker gestured down at his naked member. The woman pushed herself back, then up into a squatting position, her arms bent under her long thighs. “No need for that.” “Well, I’m mighty obliged and all.” Tucker sat up, leaned against the headboard, and turned on a nightstand light. The woman’s hair started to become earthy. Tucker rubbed his eyes. Her folded arms and hands melded into slim tibial spines. Her torso elongated, each leg separating into two sets, her already pointed face still narrowing. She groaned. Her mouth and nose pushed outward into tiny lips while her eyes bulged into glassy green orbs. Her abdomen extended further, bending distinctly at the middle. Her eyebrows arched out into antennae, while her skin adjusted to emerald. Then she shook her large praying mantis body. “What the hell?” “What, darling?” she asked, her voice now a series of chitters. “Goddamn,” Tucker said, wriggling away off the bed and ripping one of the Playmate posters. “What’s going on here? What kind of craziness is this?” The praying mantis swayed her head back and forth, then pounced. They struggled; the praying mantis pinned Tucker back onto the bed. She sniffed him, her antennae working up and down his body with her tibial spines. “You’ll make a better provider for our offspring than you were for your daughter.”

“You must have slipped me something!” Tucker said. Plains Paradox, 95

“I must be dreaming.” “No, darling,” she said as she mounted him to the bed, “it’s just that since you’ve had your pleasure, I need to take care of mine.” Her chin swiveled as she spoke. “Pregnancies can be hard on us ladies, you know? I’m going to need lots of nutrition. Those little bugs out there just aren’t going to be enough for me now, too much work to herd.” “What the hell are you doing?” Tucker screamed, struggling beneath the grasp of her multiple extremities. A breeze rattled the posters on the wall and carried along with it the sounds of bugs. “Well, darling,” she said. Her walking hairs inched up his chest then her tibial spines clasped his neck. Her antennae twitched. “It’s all part of my tradition.” His screams added to the night sounds. She gnashed at his neck until his legs stopped moving. All was quiet again. Then she devoured his head.

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HANDHELD TOOL

Robyn Eubanks

SOPHIA COLE

I’M IN POSITION ON SOIL

It finds its way between my toes and into the wrinkles of my elbows. Stubbly toads orbit me. A blooming is hanging over them. Shifting into names that I whisper in my sleep, they possess a magical sensitivity. Naked and yawning I lend my hands out. They say hello with the palm of their eye then turn their faces up to the sky with such probity. “Do you remember when I called out to you?” The shouts settle into the hollow bones of birds. Petrichor emanates from the dry grass, grass full like the open flesh on the back of my ankles, open from tiny fish flirting with the current I stand against. We thought very hard of going up and going away. I follow by their side to the surface of the water. Through the wind, through the quiet, they cry. The air surrounds me. The toad holds its breath tightly. We are the inmost of the trees and kissing deer. My clay-colored, motherless friend disinhibits the stillness in an amiable way. I forgot he’s the cause of the light, the warmth. He reminds us that what goes up must always come down. The toads feel neutral about him. I know I shouldn’t say but I’d like to tell them

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that what they are feeling is everything they should feel. I wait in an ambit of wood, with soot in my own cocoon. We dream of somewhere where this hold fills our ear, lungs, as far as this body of water expands, where what is ours is what we desire. I swaddled the toads in seaweed and said goodnight. I can hardly stay afloat from their weight in the small of my elbow. Their shouts can still be heard all the way to the coldest muscles on the bottom of the ground.

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ALMOST A FROG

Lucy Roper

DIEGO WOODWARD

WHEN I WOKE UP, I FOUND

a relentless, merciless, forever expanding wildfire an angry mutt I dreamed of someday taming a drug that put me in blissful ignorance a vine that grew to entrap every other plant within its reach a fog I wanted to either dissipate or engulf me One day you surrendered without cause, a cloud of smoke in the distance a well trained dog that stays and follows at my command a prescribed pill I take once a day without trouble a pretty potted petunia that sits at my bedside table a calm breath of fresh air But you came into view again, over the hill, a spark threatening to reignite your flame your leash looking ready to come loose a relapse, just around the corner your vines extending their reach again your sweet air making me hyperventilate You surrendered without cause, yet when I woke up I found your faint but forever present stain in my blood

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PURPOSE STATEMENT Plains Paradox is Front Range Community College, Boulder County Campusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; literary and visual arts journal. It is a student-run, multi-disciplinary publication that showcases the finest student writing and visual art produced within the academic year. To submit and see submission guidelines, go to: plainsparadox.submittable.com/submit If you are interested in learning about more BCC writing, music, visual art, and design events join BCC Creatives at: facebook.com/frccbccart/

BIOS Natalia Anthony is a Colorado student, part-time worker, and artist. She is currently living in Iceland for just one semester at the LungA art school. She has chosen the pursuit of possibilities before she begins the pursuit of a degree. Next semester she hopes she will enter Colorado Film School with that knowledge. Ash Beauchamp is a second-year student at FRCC with plans to change the world. Some of her hobbies include being geeky, chasing after her cat, and pretending to be good at video games while wrangling Eldritch abominations through her writing. Jessica Checkas is a concurrent student, both a senior in high school and a sophomore at FRCC, who is working towards an AA in English. In the fall of 2021, she is planning on transferring to a four-year college. In her free time, she works on fantasy stories and poetry with her writing partner, Lily—a wire hair fox terrier. Leni Checkas is the published author of “Alone,” a fictional short story that explores the darker side of human nature through the eyes of a neglected foster child. She is an active member of SCBWI and RMFW. Checkas and her family live in Longmont, Colorado, Plains Paradox, 103

where they attempt to reduce their carbon footprint while perpetually increasing their adopted paw prints. Mikhaela Christine is a writer and artist who grew up in the southwest desert region of Colorado. When she isn’t dreaming up her next fiction piece or painting pop art on canvases, you can find her exploring new corners of the world in search of inspiration. She is currently a student at FRCC and plans to transfer to the University of Colorado in the fall. Sophia Cole just returned from a three-month program in Iceland, studying film. She enjoys visual arts and has recently gained a curiosity in writing “monologues” that she plans to make into short films. Cole enjoys her small life in Longmont, she finds inspiration through her own life. Carmine Denis was born in 1998. Although she’s French and started writing poetry in her native language, she has been writing exclusively in English since 2018, much to the confusion of her friends and family. She’s studying comparative literature in Paris. Sarah Doughty is twenty-four and has been passionate about writing since she was eight-years-old. She is currently attending FRCC Boulder, majoring in English, and will transfer to CU in the fall. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and playing video games. Blake Goodwin was born in Oceanside, California. He made the executive decision at age six to relocate to Longmont because the traffic in SoCal was abhorrent and also because his parents had already decided to move. Now twenty-two, he has made the executive Plains Paradox, 104

decision to write stories and stay up until the early morning hours listening to music with lots of guitars and screaming. Sam Horn is pursuing a music engineering degree at a currently undecided four-year institution. His exploration of poetry started in Professor Dorsey’s poetry class and has recently expanded into songwriting. His hobbies include playing music, woodworking, and cooking. Taylor N. Johnson is a first-year student at FRCC. He is currently pursuing a major in Sociology. In his free time, he enjoys reading, writing, and deciphering lyrics. Gabriel “Deacon” Kaufman is a fiction writer who lives in a nondescript townhouse in Longmont, Colorado and attends classes at FRCC. He primarily focuses on writing absurdist-comedy, though on occasion he will take a wild gamble and write a regular comedy. Deacon has harassed college literary magazine Plains Paradox with a plethora of submission requests and will be doing so again in the near future. Kaufman also heads a Creative Writing Group within Grey Havens Philosophy, a literature and philosophy focused nonprofit organization of which he is a senior member. When not writing, Kaufman walks dogs at the Humane Society, reads incessantly, and confuses his fellow writers with strange hypotheticals. Katja Klingberg has found a love for writing to release the words that are trapped within her head. Aedan Lynch is a senior at the Temple Grandin School in Boulder. Although Temple Grandin is a high school, Plains Paradox, 105

he takes classes at FRCC to fulfill his love of writing. He has liked writing for a long time, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a great joy to see one of his pieces published! Some of his other interests include Hawaiian sunsets, miniatures painting, and tortoises. Tomasik Nosal is a business student at FRCC. He is graduating in May and will possibly return for other associate degrees. He enjoys being active in the community and getting to know others. He enjoyed writing as a kid and recently got into writing again. Charley Peritz is currently in his second semester at FRCC. He plans to eventually transfer to a four-year university and major in either Art History or Studio Art. When heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not sketching, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dreaming up countless stories he plans to someday release in the interactive form of video games. Diego Woodward is a student in his second semester at FRCC. He plans on transferring to CU in the fall and won the school spelling bee in fifth grade.

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AWARDS 2019: Magazines 1st Place, Top Scoring Magazines- American Scholastic Press Association

Literary 1st Place, Best Short Story- JJ Wheeler, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Dressâ&#x20AC;?

2018: Magazines 2nd Place, Top Scoring Magazines- American Scholastic Press Association 3rd Place, Best Magazine- CCHA Southwest Division Literary

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Literary 1st Place, Creative Nonfiction- Kiley Winkelhake, “It was Just a Kill Box” 3rd Place, Best Short Story- Barbara McDaniel, “My World is Blue” 1st Place, Best Short Story- Hailey Wildhirt, “The Kitten” 3rd Place, Best Poem- Kiley Winkelhake, “2AM Intimacy”

Artwork 2nd Place, Best Artwork- Sophia Zanowick, “Women’s Grief” 3rd Place, Best Artwork- Sophia Zanowick, “Angles in Motion”

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