Plains Paradox

PLAINS PARADOX Literary and Arts Journal, Vol. XX, 2022

PLAINS PARADOX

Literary and Arts Journal, Vol. XX, 2022

CREATED FOR STUDENTS

BY STUDENTS

Submission and guidelines: plainsparadox.submittable.com/submit

Plains Paradox STUDENT EDITORS Leni Checkas CJ Echols Anna Lee Ellaina Powers Mandy Scanlon Braxsen Sindelar Best Tardy STUDENT DESIGNERS Jesse Gonzales Anthony ILacqua Spencer Kwiatkowski Callie Meyers Abraham Pacheco Hannah Perez, Agency Lead Nadya Tarkhova ADVISING EDITORS Bethany Daigle Kika Dorsey, PhD Sarah Schantz SPONSORS John Cross Patrick Kelling, PhD W. Blake Welch

Acknowledgements The editors would like to extend their appreciation to the students, administrators, and faculty who have helped to make this publication come to life.

Andy Dorsey President Front Range Community College Aparna Palmer, PhD. Vice President Boulder County Campus Mary Lee Geary Dean of Instruction Boulder County Campus Kathleen Hefley Chair of Liberal Arts, Communication and Design Boulder County Campus

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Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: 1

Autumn in Contoocook Kenley Bonner

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Marissa Flores

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3

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Antelope Canyon Elise Flesher

Tree in Space Brenda Harley

Shiva is Like the Blooming Lotus When the Sun Rises

Observations of

Judi Strahota

Passing Away Jennifer Mares

Egg in a Paper Bag

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Micaela Del Cid

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Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: 2

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Jessie Ludwig

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7

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Deception by the Name of Flossy Katie Doolittle

Marissa Flores

Vexed

Amy Gurrentz

The Bonefire Marin McCallen

Before and After Sonya Almaraz-Tatum

Dino Stuck in a Barbie World Robyn Eubanks

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Toto, We’re not at Sea Level Anymore

Aelda

Khalia Fermon

Robyn Eubanks

All Neon’s Eve Ash Beauchamp

Bleeding Tooth Fungus Victor Prieto

Home of the Night Tashi King-Robinson

Viscera

Erin Chadly

Man’s Struggle

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30

Grace Williams

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Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Three

32

Marissa Flores

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Haunted

Victor Prieto

The Goat Jaz Vera

Cozy Reader Elise Flsher

Old Gods

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Brood X

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Grace Ward

Victor Prieto

I’m Thinking About This Bear Grace Ward

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Bovine Skull in Charcoal

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Death of Summer

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Observations Of

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Delight

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Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Four

Take a Bite

Gretchen Spomer

Ani Hentkowski

Matthew Wenzivsky

Judi Strahota

Amy Gurrentz

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Dear Summer

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Muninn

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Expecting Rain

49

A Timely Exit

Lilia Mortiz

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On Meadowlark Street

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I Get You

54

Dot Voutiritsa

Tanner Johnson

Jack Lemieux

Marissa Flores

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Other Woman Robyn Eubanks

R. Anderson

32" 24" 32"

Madison Ruchel

Robyn Eubanks

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57

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60

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What Was Said Sarah Lee

Depth and Texture Ash Hendrickson

A Broken Clock, Just After Midnight

Victory Feast Kris Jacque

In Case There are More Jack Looney

Native Pinch Bowl

Micaela Del Cid

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Gretchen Spomer

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Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Five

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Rembrandt with Plumed Cap and Lowered Saber

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Jesse Gonzales

Mattias

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Marissa Flores

Boston

Dot Voutiritsa

Elise Flesher

Cat Eating Mouse Kris Jacque

Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: One Marissa Flores

This Will Never End This Will Never End He remembered how he broke his arm—leaping off the third story of a low-income housing apartment complex, not far enough to do the job, but far enough to hurt. His right arm has pins in it and it’s wrapped in a big blue cast. His eyes are pink from crying. His name is David.

He won’t wear socks. Marissa is sharing in group therapy and David keeps rocking back and forth, blanket around his shoulders, saying, “Thiswillneverendthiswillneverendthiswillneverend.”

“David,” I say kindly but firmly, “Marissa is trying to share.”

“Oh,” he says, looking up as if emerging from a deep reverie.

He looks at Marissa. “I’m sorry. Thank you for sharing your story.”

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Plains Paradox

Antelope Canyon

Title

Artist

Elise Flesher

TreesTitle in Space

Artist Brenda Harley

Shiva is Like the Blooming Lotus When the Sun Rises

Jessie Ludwig

Our payals jingle as we float and leap across the floor in bare feet. Our wrists are bent and our palms are steady as the light dawns; extending deft hands to the sky, we separate our fingers like the banyan branches and with our thumbs, we pinch in circles. For completion. For reincarnation.

Smiling faces follow the movement. Perfect unison.

Draped saris swirl and flow. Golden rings and bracelets glimmer, our mandalic skirts swoosh and sway in the zephyr.

In worship—in reverence—we spin. We bow.

We give thanks for the lotus and the hibiscus and frangipani, for the night-flowering jasmine.

Good karma abounds for the bananas and oranges, the mangos. Thanks for the flowers braided into our long, flowing hair. Thanks for the juices pouring out of incrassate, sliced skins.

Rays of light bud and unfurl as the sun and the moon collide. Celestial harmony.

The heavens widen above us like a third eye.

We see the depths of galaxies and wonders. We wrap our arms above our head; the universe is in unison and is complete.

The floor gives way to banty fragments of stars, of constellations, sparkling and shattering: a nebulous detonation. The fiery lights turn to water beneath dancing feet— scintillating and awesome. Fingertips effloresce like empyrean lotus blossoms.

We glide on the ocean as Shiva dances in the sun.

Plains Paradox

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Deception by the Name of Flossy Katie Doolittle

My parents hid the truth about Santa Claus from me until I was a freshman in high school. Most kids figure out the truth on their own sooner than that, but I was a bit too trusting, then too stubborn.

I never left my room on Christmas Eve, never peeked at my presents too soon, and never had any reason to believe that there wasn’t a Santa. Kids would try to tell me that he wasn’t real, but I never believed them. I thought that maybe Santa didn’t visit them because their parents did Santa’s job for him instead, but not my parents.

There’s no way they would take Santa’s job.

But I didn’t feel a deep connection with Santa. Instead, my favorite mythical being was the Tooth Fairy.

One year, I decided to write a note to the Tooth Fairy and ask some questions. To my amazement, she responded. She had tiny handwriting written in sparkly ink and her name was Flossy.

Flossy and I became pen pals, exchanging letters every time I lost a tooth. As I got older, my suspicions about Santa grew but not about Flossy. I had solid proof that she was real—notes written by Flossy herself! One time, she even had a substitute fairy filling in for her named Enamela. (My mom wasn’t around that night, so my dad had to leave the note.) I asked Flossy if Santa was real, and she said, yes, along with the Easter Bunny, leprechauns, and all the other holiday figures. That kept me believing for several more years.

By seventh grade, I began seeing hints that Santa wasn’t real.

One year, while Mom and I were shopping, we came across two Mini Lalaloopsy figures. I was very into those creepy button-eyed dolls as a kid, and since they were becoming hard to find, Mom bought both and told me to forget about them until Christmas. When Christmas came, I got one of those dolls as a gift from Santa and I thought, Oh no, now I’m going to have two of them since my mom also bought the same one, but its twin never came. This only reaffirmed my suspicions, especially since I received the second one from Mom. The next year, my family celebrated Christmas in Arizona with my grandma. I noticed my aunt decorating lids on containers filled with her homemade fudge. The lids were black, and she was writing holiday messages in silver marker and drawing mistletoe with equally bright green and red markers. The next morning the presents from Santa were wrapped in black paper with brightly colored writing.

I was teased at school in the years leading up to high school. It led to me asking Mom and Dad if Santa was real, and they said, “We still believe in Santa.”

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If my parents still believe, then why wouldn’t I? But still, I countered with, “I just don’t want anyone to lie to me.”

I knew that would get them.

A few days later, Mom gave me a letter in one of Flossy’s decorative envelopes. It explained that Santa was more like a feeling or a spirit of Christmas rather than an actual person.

Even though I already knew that Santa wasn’t real, I still cried.

Though, most of that crying was because Mom was also crying, probably more than I was. I appreciated that Mom finally told me, but seriously, I was fourteen.

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Vexed

Title

Artist

Amy Gurrentz

The Bonefire Marin McCallen

Time to pull the blade across the whetstone, to slide it through the throat of every swine.

Catch the blood then cut the flesh from the bone, leave nothing for the flies and worms to dine.

Time to cull the herd and stock the larder, to set the wood and fallow fields ablaze, prepare for the night’s increasing ardor, protect against the shortening of days.

Time to toss the remains upon the fire, to ignite the last remnant of the feast, celebrate and dance ’round autumn’s pyre, remembering the names of our deceased.

With the naming those who are dead return, while in the heart of the fire, the bones burn.

Plains Paradox

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Autumn in Contoocook Kenley Bonner

You arm me with weapons, demanding I dry your tears with pitchforks before the white blanket falls and cools your autumn hue, and your rotting corpse turns to suffocating fungi.

My front yard will soon be a frozen tundra.

You are watching, waiting, a dazzling sight for these green eyes to see.

Every year when the wind picks up and the temp goes down, when the smell of burning oak fills the night air, I know what this means.

You declare war.

When the army of marching lawnmowers invades my ears before the storm, my hands ache in anticipation.

I know the time has come.

A mess that you will make me clean up.

Twirling tears cascade from your canopy— red, orange, green, brown, purple slowly floating like feathers through the crisp October air, landing on the crunching grass below, splattering it with a mess of color.

You are so pretty when you cry.

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Plains Paradox

Title Observations Of

Judi Strahota Artist

Passing TitleAway

Jennifer Artist Mares

Egg in aTitle Paper Bag

Micaela Del Cid Artist

Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Two Marissa Flores Sedated The staff change took longer than I wanted it to, and I’m late making my rounds. It’s still an hour before curfew. Some of the patients are watching Guardians of the Galaxy in the common room, but most have chosen to take their meds and go to bed. I reach for the penlight in my pocket and crack the door open to the first room. I shine the light in on the patient’s eyes.

Her face twists. She sits up in bed and turns on the overhead light. She looks tired and tearful. There’s a big white bandage on her left arm for what I was told were superficial wounds.

“Hi,” I say. “Sorry to wake you up. I’m Dr. Pendanski. I just have some quick questions for you. How’s your wound?”

“It’s fine,” she says. She checked herself in this morning. It’s her first psychiatric hospitalization.

“Can you tell me about the feelings you had that caused you to check in?” Her gaze drops to her lap.

“I guess I just felt really out of control,” she says quietly. “I couldn’t stop with the cutting. And I felt like if I had kept going, I would’ve really hurt myself.”

I nod. “Sure,” I said softly. “Well, I’m glad you came here.

This is a place where people get better.”

Her eyes brim with tears.

“What’s going on?”

“I just really feel like I don’t belong here.”

I understand this. She’s young. There are patients with more extreme behaviors on the unit. People come in not knowing what to expect. I sense that it’s best not to share this with her.

“I know. But you did the right thing to keep yourself safe. Let me just get through the rest of these questions and you can go back to bed.” They’re all short answers. I tick the boxes: no delusions, no hallucinations, no physical problems or concerns. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Just one. How soon can I leave? The other doctor put me on Zyprexa, and I’m already…I just don’t wanna take any medicine. I don’t want to be sedated. I don’t need it. I’m not…” Her voice breaks before she can finish her thought.

“You can check yourself out tomorrow, but that would be against medical advice. We’ll discuss it then. Try to get some sleep for now, okay?”

She clicks the light off and lies down. I pocket my penlight and

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close the door. If I let her check out tomorrow, I am sure she’ll be back in two weeks. I want to tell her how lucky she is that what happened to her happened here in a middle-class college town. That she checked herself into a low-capacity, low-security unit. The food’s good. They have their own rooms. I have seen so much worse.

The low dose of Zyprexa should be beneficial. I don’t agree with my colleagues that medication should be the first line of defense when these patients have the means for other therapies, but sedation is the fastest and most effective route. I close her door and move on to the next room. Eleven more patients to go.

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Before and After Sonya Almaraz-Tatum Cargo la luna como mis secretos legando después.

En la oscuridad noche detrás el día arrastrando pedazos de mí Tú como el sol Necesario y lejos con te mirar Me quedo ciega rota descubierta con amor.

Romper los momentos odio perdida y abandonada la espera de tu muerte que no llega.

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Nervous hands lilies in bundles petals brush against one another creating a luscious scent.

Dark Dalilah in the back corner glancing over gardens.

Sunflowers stand tall inside black containers thoughts into forethoughts lingering.

Pale purple hydrangeas sigh within a vase.

Fingertips glide gently fallen petals a cold breeze felt in the air.

Dino Stuck in a Barbie World Title

Artist

Robyn Eubanks

Toto, We’re Not at Sea Level Anymore

Title

Artist

Robyn Eubanks

All Neon’s Eve

Ash Beauchamp

Something scuttles between their feet—a beetle, a small dog, or even a child, but it’s too dark. The full moon hides behind the clouds as if scared of the dark or perhaps scared of the hooligans who dance and howl with joy dripping from their maws, even when one of the hooligans stops to punch a star-shaped hole on their map.

Corn stalks rustle with laughter, snapping in sync to the whooshing boom of the pumpkin cannon beyond the maze’s perimeter. The autumn wind no doubt carries the boom above the hum of music and festival goers crowd the concession stands. Blue, yellow, and green strobes manage to reach the far end of the maze, where a tractor plowed out the curve of a mustache.

The two of them, clucking like chickens, singing along to “I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys.

“I’m cold,” the person with the short red hair says, “and I can’t see shit.” The redhead is wearing so many layers their form can barely be recognized as humanoid. They have fashioned neon green glow sticks into glasses that limit their eyesight.

“I got a couple of those portable heat things in my pocket,” the girl who is not wholly a girl says. She wears an oversized flannel shirt that once belonged to her dad. But she doesn’t find any spare heat things in her pocket. The heat things are shoved in her gloves because she is always cold. Her native island never dropped below eighty degrees Fahrenheit and this state rests at a nippy thirty in late October.

With ease she tosses the heat things at the redhead before they can protest. One falls to the ground, and is accidentally kicked into the abyss by a passing family.

“Crap. Sorry about that.” They reach out for their companion’s hands to rub them between their own, hoping the single heat thing is enough to warm them both. “I bet Vee has at least ten in her backpack.

And a spare scarf, some mittens, water bottles both hot and cold, the Declaration of Independence—that kid is always prepared.”

“Vee really is,” she says, squeezing their fingers with a small laugh.

“I wonder if she and the others have looped back out already.

Christ, it’s dark.”

Drifting down from above the tallest stalks, a scarecrow approaches. Its burlap head is tucked into a pointed hat. Its fingers, constructed from bound wheat and dead branches, reach toward the trampled earth below the pair.

They kick an ear of corn out of the way and gaze through the neon circles. “It really is.”

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Title Home for the Night

Tashi King-Robinson Artist

Viscera

Erin Chadly

Leave them behind: the brains, the guts, the fetid matter.

Drag out the spleen, the intestines, and every single vessel and vein.

Abandon the nerves, the blood, the effluvious ichor.

Grind up the bones, the lungs, the skin, and all.

Crush the kidneys.

Melt the eyes.

Fold the nails.

Snap the tongue.

Spew all the entrails and ditch them on the side of the road.

We don’t, we won’t need them.

They can’t hold you; they can’t become you.

Burn the lot.

Breathe the acrid smoke.

Dance in the embers of what they see us to be.

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Haunted

Title

Artist

Victor Prieto

The Goat Title

Jaz Artist Vera

Cozy Reader

Title

Artist

Elise Flesher

Aelda

Khalia Fermon The living room was dark. The dusty, sheer curtains were drawn, backlit by the lowering sun. The overhead lights were off, but a lonesome lamp wavered in the corner, casting a dismal shadow on the dusty, old furniture.

Aelda sat atop her pink-floral couch, the silky fabric had grayed on the arms while the sunken center maintained its soft blush. The laugh track from a Golden Girls rerun filled the room, echoing around the pale walls and vaulted ceiling, flickering blue and the occasional white across her face. She laughed along warmly, and her eyes glistened as if she were watching the series for the first time; however, her laughter was cut short at the sound of her doorbell.

She scurried upstairs to the door and swept it open to find Adeline on the doorstep. “Cara mia! Come in, come in!” As Aelda ushered her in, she caught a glimpse of the sunlight accentuating all of her daughter’s loveliest features. Her dark hair waved and spiraled effortlessly, revealing golden strands. Adeline side-stepped into the entranceway and hugged her mother.

“Hi, Ma! How are you doing?”

Aelda pushed the door shut with the heel of her foot while hugging Adeline back, grinning wide. “Oh, I’m so great! I’m watching the girls again! How are you, mia topolina?”

“I’m good, Ma. I thought I’d stop by and help out, maybe make dinner if you’d like.”

“Well, that sounds wonderful, darling! Stay as long as you want.

Stay the night! Stay the week!”

Adeline chuckled, her youthful, green eyes glittered as she pulled away from the long hug, holding her mother at arm’s length. The two made their way to the kitchen, so Adeline could start dinner. Aelda lowered herself onto a chair by the table to watch her daughter flip on every light and slide the tiny window above the sink open. With her hands on her hips and a satisfied exhale, Adeline got to work on her usual routine: mop, disinfect, wash the dishes, cook. Aelda yawned and rose to return to her show as her daughter finished wiping down the counters and began chopping onions for a stew.

Aelda shuffled back down into the living room, the yellow carpet flattened and dark like a dirt path. She pulled off a relatively impressive squat, allowing herself to fall backward onto the flattened pink cushion.

Lost within the episode, Aelda was startled by Adeline’s voice from upstairs. “Dinner’s ready!”

Aelda jumped a little, then scrambled up the stairs. “Goodness, I nearly forgot you were here.”

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The two served up and ate by the TV. Every few weeks, this was their routine, though Aelda always felt as excited as if it were the first visit. Adeline quietly watched The Golden Girls alongside her mother.

Each little punchline had Aelda holding her belly and laughing, which always entertained Adeline. The two exchanged glances to see the other’s reactions. They watched four episodes together, and as the credits of the last episode began rolling, Adeline yawned loudly and stretched, signaling she was ready to go home. Aelda glanced over and hurriedly waved her daughter to sit back down.

“Addie, please stay. I love your company, and I never know when I’ll get to see you again! Where do you need to rush off to anyway?”

“Well, I have to go home, Ma. I have to feed my dog. He’s expecting me.”

“You have a dog?”

“Of course. Charlie.”

Aelda quietly gasped and leaned back, processing this. “You do not!

What kind of dog is he? Since when? Can I meet him? How could you not tell me?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I have told you. Maybe you just forgot, but how about this, next time I visit, I can try to remember to bring him along. Then I won’t have to leave early. Sound okay?”

Aelda’s cheeks reddened at the thought she had forgotten such a thing. She knew it was probably true. She eyed Adeline for a moment before nodding.

“Of course, my baby,” she said. “Just come back soon.” *** Aelda began to rock herself anxiously, pumping her heels up and down while she tucked her arms into her lap. She hated being alone at night.

At night, things got worse. Sometimes she saw looming figures in the darkest corners of her home. Sometimes she was sure she wasn’t alone. Her eyes were glued to the 9:00 p.m. news. She began to panic as wildfires consumed her screen while the reporter read out the arson charges. Aelda lifted her remote in a wobbly hand and, like magic, found her friends again. The television soothed her, and soon she was giggling at herself again. She sniffed around and smelled something delicious. Adeline must be cooking something wonderful up there.

“Smells great, Addie!”

When she didn’t receive a response, she assumed the girl was too focused on her craft, so she brushed it off. An episode of The Golden Girls was playing, and she laughed aloud as the girls argued over whether to keep a pig named Baby. Her breath caught, realizing something

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important was supposed to happen. What was it? Her eyes glanced around the room, searching. Nothing was out of place: the world was dark behind the curtains; her shoes were placed in a neat row by the patio door; the door was shut and locked; and the coffee table in front of the sofa was empty.

She rose to her feet and trotted to the stairs. Step by step, she lunged toward the main floor, peering around again. What was wrong?

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, glaring at the locked front door. Not that. Her gaze drew a thick line across the open plot toward the kitchen.

She squealed and stumbled backward. The window!

The latch had been lifted, and the pane slid all the way open.

A quiet breeze shifted the curtains, the dim indoor light sucked out into the darkness of the sky.

Her heart began racing. She tore her feet from where they were planted and barreled toward the window, slamming the plastic frame shut. She rammed the latch back down and whipped around, listening, waiting. In the idle quietness, a laugh track played on the TV downstairs. Someone must have broken in. Where were they? She slipped her weighty feet toward the staircase leading to her bedroom and peered into the darkness above. No sounds emerged, and her head turned down toward the living room. Shadows danced like mirages, and The Golden Girls played. Oh! My show! She grunted down the five steps and followed her worn-down path back to the couch.

The TV talked at Aelda as she sat there. Gray beings flitted across the screen in thin strips of light, buzzing at her. Cackles and inhuman vocals reverberated around her. Her ears had muted out most of the static, save for some permeating whispers. Her mind was reeling, trying to decipher the code. Then it clicked.

“Someone’s here,” she whispered to herself, eyes glued to the television. She refused to look away. At some point or another, a gloomy gray peeked through the curtains. She realized then how heavy her eyelids felt—her vision stung. She slowly fell to her side and pressed her head into the armrest, closing her eyes. *** An alarming clash of cymbals startled her, and she looked around the room. She was unsure of what time it was. The doorbell rang again. She stood and heaved herself up the stairs to the front entrance, creaking the door open a crack. She found a pretty, young woman standing on the porch, smiling.

“How can I help you?” Aelda asked, her voice shaky.

The girl’s grin sloped a little. She sighed before clearing her throat

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to speak. “I came to spend some time with you. You know, make you dinner, spend the night this time! I’m sorry that I didn’t bring Charlie; it was just too much of a hassle.”

“Excuse me? Spend the night? Charlie? Do I know you?” Aelda gripped the handle of the door, ready to slam it shut. She probed for the dead bolt, prepared to slide it into position.

“It’s me, Adeline.”

Aelda glared at the woman, a deep frown forming. “Adeline. Ha.” The woman shifted her weight between her feet, clearly uncomfortable.

Aelda was confident the woman wanted to be let inside to hurt her, and Charlie was clearly an accomplice. “What the hell do you want?”

The woman lowered her head a little, the dark strands hiding her face. “Ma …” *** Standing in the kitchen, Aelda paused, surveying the shadowy indiscernible objects adorning the towering walls that mocked her.

She stammered, unable to scream, spinning round and round and round. The floor swirled into quicksand, gripping her legs, threatening to yank her down.

“Wh-w-where am I? Where am I? Where am I?” She locked her vision onto an eerie staircase, disappearing into the abyss above. Sinister whispers clambered down her ear canals, speaking in incomprehensible languages. Grotesque shadows stretched above, inching closer, cooing and hissing. Their heads tilted from side to side like curious dogs. The shadows formed two solid beings, phantoms breaking down her soul to devour.

She tugged at her legs frantically. The sand only grew stronger, pulling her down, and blossoming waves of pain began to radiate from her hip. She cried out, immobilized on the ground. The shadow people loomed overhead, reaching down for her. *** “Aelda Barone.”

“Age?” “Sixty-six.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Ha iniziato a urlare e litigare.” Aelda began to feel panic bubble in her chest as she could no longer remember English. She looked up at the nurse with fear.

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*** Aelda flitted her eyelids open to a sterile white ceiling. An annoying alarm beeped by her bedside, seemingly sourced by a computer. She rolled to her right side and was met with excruciating pain. She shouted out, and a petite lady in a nurse’s uniform peeled out from the wall like an apparition, hurrying to her side.

“Please try to lay still. You broke your hip. It is best to let it rest for a little while.”

Aelda glared at the woman, then shifted her gaze to her side. Her hip and leg were tied up in a compression wrap. Both bedside railings jailed her into the mattress. I need to get out of here. She watched the nurse walk away before rolling over, inching her numb toes to the edge.

She vaulted over the railing, smacking face-first onto the cold and sticky tile. Since when could she not walk? She sat up and looked at her legs with horror as they pretzeled over the white-and-yellow spackled tiles.

Her breaths shortened into sharp gasps as she punched her calves, screaming, “Wake up! Wake up!” Two nurses hurried into the room.

They hooked the old woman by her underarms and elbows and laid her back into the bed, imprisoning her once more.

“Let me go!” Aelda yelled. “You need to let me go! Where am I? I want to go home!”

The two nurses exchanged pitying glances before looking at Aelda again. They spoke to her in what sounded like foreign tongues, hissing and whispering. The voices were familiar, a language neighboring something human. Four ladies materialized from a previously invisible wall, performing their skits. A large clipboard hung on a hook on the wall beside her golden friends. Aelda could not make out the words written on the front of the file, reading: PaƗịɛƝƗ Ŋamɛ: ÆlƉƊ ẞarơŊƐ PṛơgƝơẞɨẞ: ĄlzħɛƗmɛṛẞ / ẞữṅƉǒẅƝɛṛẞ She returned to the screen. Four old ladies sat at a round table, laughing. A blur of faces melted into each other, and at some point, strangers sat her in a wheelchair and pushed her between day and night.

One day, a beautiful woman with dark hair walked into her room, carrying a modest bouquet of cala lilies and baby’s breath.

“Hi, Ma.” Aelda studied the woman’s face, admired her gentle curls and the highlights of silver strands. Her eyes seemed a little tired, perhaps sad, but full of life and promise. Her free hand cupped her belly the way pregnant women do.

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“I brought you some flowers! How are you doing today?”

Aelda felt a sense of security in this young woman and waved her to kneel beside the wheelchair. She then whispered into her ear, “I want to go home.”

The woman sweetly smiled at Aelda, though the sadness deepened in her face.

“Cara mia, you are home,” the woman cooed. Aelda sighed with relief, trusting this woman, and glanced around at her recognizable room. Sheer curtains and a glass sliding door glimmered into her sight momentarily. The woman then rapidly morphed into a nurse, shoving pills down Aelda’s throat as she tried to move the hand away.

“Ms. Barone, please take your medicine. Do you remember how afraid you get at night? This will help you!”

Aelda squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed for fear she’d choke. Quickly subdued, she found herself recalling her surroundings: the crusty brown carpet; the skinny lamp in the corner; her favorite pink lounge; and the television. The screen played images of four widowed ladies hugging and talking as a soothing theme song played.

A rerun episode was on, and she hummed along to “Thank you for being a friend.”

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Bleeding Tooth Fungus

Title

Artist

Victor Prieto

Man’s Struggle

Title

Artist

Grace Williams

Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Three

Marissa Flores

You’re in This World Now They stuck a paper sticker on my phone the last time they took it away— the kind that’s really hard to peel off. They emptied the change out of my wallet and placed it in a bag labeled with the exact amount: $0.87. When I was discharged from Mountain Crest Behavioral Health Center last month, I stumbled out into the sunlight with my labeled belongings in a paper bag and started crying. I’d been in and out of hospitals since I was eighteen, and that was the worst yet. I was relieved to be out, but being out meant being thrust back into the world.

I took a Lyft home, and when I got there, I stepped inside to the chaos of dishes in the kitchen sink, rotting food, and the stale, pungent stench of unwashed laundry. I sat on the front steps and smoked, wondering how long it would take me to end up back there.

It took two and a half weeks. I skipped the emergency room and went right to the Crisis Stabilization Unit. I saw myself through the admitting counselor’s eyes: a tall, skinny, Indian guy, mid-twenties, with a quarter gallon Ziplock containing three bright orange pill bottles. I wondered if I was the first person who’d come up to the desk that day to say, without much feeling, “I’m suicidal and I need help.”

The common room is so clean and comfortable. It’s painted light green, and the furniture is orange and blue with soft rounded edges. I pluck a stray thread from my scrubs as I crane my neck up at the TV: Guardians of the Galaxy. The flat screen is a stark contrast to the big box TV at Mountain Crest and the other places. Those TVs stay on all day while patients sit on heavy plastic chairs, expressionless, eyes locked on endless infomercials.

We actually ate a salad for dinner. It was delicious. And there wasn’t a strip search at admission. Amazing.

There are a lot of affluent white kids here. Kids who stressed too much about their classes or cut themselves or threw up or didn’t eat or whatever. It’s hard to feel bad for them. Some of them were really freaked out by David this morning. They haven’t seen shit.

I have a hard time with them, but I remind myself that they’re in the system now—the system of diagnoses, of doctors’ visits, of psych meds that make you gain weight and kill your sex drive and flush your cheeks with acne. For many of them it’s not the last time they’ll see the inside of a psych hospital. They’re probably in it for life.

The doctor calls my name and I hop up to go chat with him. I catch the eye of a girl staring up at the TV screen. She was admitted earlier today. I smile at her, a smile that says, “You’re in this world now.”

Plains Paradox

32

Old Gods Grace Ward

The gnarled wood is ancient.

Branches twisting to the sky, roots clinging to earth, trunk sturdy as stone.

Facing the tree, a curious watcher.

Looking back, a proud face.

Along the rock face hidden in the waterfall, ancient tears flow, ignoring the scrutiny from the watcher.

Cool torrents mirror the sky.

Eroded eyes carve into limestone.

Water dampens the earth.

In the cracking earth lies an engraving: a haggard face.

Millennia spent etching detail in stone.

Guardian of rock is made from ancient red streaks and brown hues stark against the pale sky.

At the base of the formation, the watcher.

Neck craned, cumulus counting, the watcher seeks a view far from earth.

Clouds galivant across the sky, spectrum of emotions on the freckled face.

Fleeting glory, impermanence, but still ancient, their white reminiscent of stone.

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Gazing down, a natural garden blooming from stone.

A swath of pink and white and green surrounding the watcher.

Plants dying and living, in an ancient cycle. The roots hold together the earth hidden in the leaves and flowers, a cheery face enriched by the sky.

Lying in the distance, the skyscraper. And in its inlaid brick stone is a manmade design, a neutral face mimicking the watcher.

Human likeness, plastered to earth, has yet to be ancient.

In every face, from ground to sky— all of them ancient, archaic legends etched in stone.

Seeking is the watcher, each entity rooting them back to earth.

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34

Brood X

Title

Artist

Victor Prieto

I’m Thinking About This Bear

Grace Ward

A bear has been spotted around the neighborhood over the past week.

He is small and brown, how bears look. But he has the roundest ears people have ever seen, and people around here have seen many ears.

The bear is leaving signs of his presence everyday: trash spilled across lawns, scratches covered light posts, leaves piled into makeshift dens. The kind of stuff bears normally do.

The visitor has put the whole town on edge.

The children, they cry, what about the children?

I really don’t think this bear is going to attack anyone. He runs away the second he sees a person. And, again, he has the roundest ears.

Nothing with ears that round would ever attack anybody.

Anyway, Tyler, my neighbor and little cousin, has gotten it into his head that he will find the bear himself.

That’s a dumb idea, I tell him. I am bestowing wisdom that only comes to those with at least two years of high school under their belt.

He shrugs. He is only in the eighth grade, so he is not ready for that level of wisdom. I shrug back.

He has been walking around with his damned jar of honey, sometimes multiple, for the past few days. Tyler always has at least one jar on him. He leaves the other jars around town; he thinks it’s going to attract the bear. So far, the jars have accompanied him to school, the grocery store, and friends’ houses. I don’t think his parents know what he is doing.

What do you plan on doing with this bear once you find it? I ask.

I don’t know, he says. I just know I have to find him.

I’m thinking about this past week: these jars of honey, Tyler and his weird scheme, but mostly, I’m thinking about this round-eared bear.

I’m smoking outside. I know it is a bad habit, and my mom won’t let me smoke in the house. She says she’s worried about the new paint, but we both know she’s worried about me. So, I sit outside on the bench across from my house and take drags from my dad’s Chesterfields. The cigarette does little to warm me on this February night.

Having forgotten my phone inside, too proud and too tired to go back in and grab it, my eyes wander around the street. I see a jar of honey sitting on the ground under a streetlight. I don’t put my cigarette out as I stand up from the bench, my puffy coat rustling against the wood.

I pick up the jar. I put my cigarette in my mouth so I can examine the jar with both hands.

There’s a clamor behind me, the sound of a garbage can being knocked over in the alley. I jog over, too tired to really run.

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36

Then I see.

In the light of another streetlight, I see Tyler and the bear. Tyler is feeding the bear from another jar of honey.

Well, holy shit, I whisper.

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Bovine Skull in Charcoal

Title

Artist

Ani Hentkowski

Death of Summer Matthew Wenzivsky

awoken from a deep slumber agonized by my mother who at that moment was the slaughterer of season killed summer from under my feet punished my tired soul furthermore dragged my cadaver to my prison inside a dark stone building an entrapment of my foreseeable future unfamiliar scripts lace the walls the warden spoke a foreign tongue

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Observations Of

Title

Artist

Judi Strahota

Delight

Title

Artist

Amy Gurrentz

Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Four

Marissa Flores

Lizard Guy I call him Lizard Guy. When he isn’t sedated and sleeping, he’s talking on the phone with his boyfriend about lizards. “Is she sunning on her rock?” he asks. Lizard Guy—I think his name is Alex—is mostly silent during group. This morning Hanna, the social worker, asked us, “Which animal do you think is the happiest?” The first girl said her rabbits were the happiest animals, and then she started crying. Then David started crying. Then everyone was kind of distraught. When it was Lizard Guy’s turn, he told us about the lizards. He has a leopard gecko and a blue-tongued skink.

It lifted everyone’s mood a little. It was a stupid question for the social worker to ask—we’re condescended to enough without having to talk about which animal is the goddamn happiest.

A few hours ago, a social worker brought in a box full of coping mechanisms. He was a funny guy. He had a big tattoo on his arm that said EMPATHY. The box had little doo-dads like Rubik’s cubes and Chinese finger traps. It also had nail polish, which I was surprised to see allowed since some people on the ward might be inclined to chug it.

But no one did.

Lizard Guy and I painted our nails electric blue. I feel better tonight; lying in bed, I admire my nail polish, waiting for a tech to shine a light in my room to make sure I’m still alive.

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42

Other Woman

Robyn Eubanks

32" 24" 32"

Madison Ruchel

“You are an ugly girl,” a classmate at daycare teased as we went down the playground slides together. They do not remember the words they said that day, but my defeated reflection in the mirror does.

Growing up with Disney Princess movies and Barbie dolls, seeing them undergo glorious transformations, I yearned for the same. How does one become as beautiful as they are?

“Keep your hair long,” I was told.

So I did.

During my freshman year of high school, I found my mother’s measuring tape in her sewing kit. I checked my body measurements for the first time: 32"24"32". What could I do to live up to the standards of magazine models?

“Eat less,” I was told.

And so I did.

As my mother and I were walking to a concert, a battered sedan slowed alongside us. A disheveled “gentleman” rolled his window down and asked if we required a ride. We heard many whistles and provocative calls that night. Mom was a beautiful woman. How can I look more like her? How can I look better than her?

“Wear more makeup,” I was told.

And so I did.

“Exercise as much as you can.”

“Do more squats for that ‘Kim K’ look.”

“Try these foreign products for flawless skin.”

“Get some lip fillers.”

“Your eyes are too small.”

“Implants are not too expensive.”

“Lash extensions are the way to go.”

“Padded bras make your chest look so much bigger.”

“Tan more for a summer glow year-round.”

“Strive to look like an influencer.”

“You look so skinny; eat a sandwich.”

“If you weighed ten pounds less, you would be perfect.”

“Cut those calories.”

“Your corset could be tighter.”

“Your hair is too thin.”

“Hair extensions make your hair so much fuller.”

“Bleach your hair like Barbie.”

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44

“No one will want you if you look like that.”

What makes me an ugly girl? How much nipping and tucking must I do until my skin is plastic and my veins flow with silicone? Would that make me a beautiful woman?

I walked into my favorite local coffee shop and sat down, unsuspecting and undercaffeinated. A man sitting next to me scans my body thoroughly, shamelessly.

He leans in, the smell of tobacco on his breath. “You are a beautiful woman.”

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Take a Bite

Gretchen Spomer

Dear Summer Dot Voutiritsa

So long, season of scorching herpes.

Farewell, flaming boomerang.

Frig-off, false ending.

My ample flesh clings to this fake leather couch like fingers to the last sandwich at a Weight Watchers convention.

The pits of my grandma arms pool.

Lethargic at my best.

Squinty-eyed sunshine wrinkles.

The suffocating, slimy scented taste of sunscreen.

Two shivering showers a day.

A home hostage.

Musk-seeking mosquitoes.

The sewery stench of fermented trash.

Swampy trousers.

Hand me a match, so I can burn, burn, burn you.

Parading grocery-getters, camel-toed and aware.

Those shorts.

I can see what you had for dinner.

In the reprieve of night, the moon swoops in like a valiant master, bringing gifts of exuberance: a new space to feel and dream of new hope and old leaves.

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Muninn

Tanner Johnson

Expecting Rain Jack Lemieux

Finn felt the breeze against his arms and legs. Its cool touch relieved him from the sweltering heat of the spring afternoon. Surrounding him was a canopy of roofs intertwined with conifers and maples. The wide leaves of the trees were a vibrant green, growing beautifully after winter’s harsh embrace.

Finn, a small boy, and one prone to the sciences and mathematics of the world, inhaled the view. He was quick and witted beyond his years, though often stumbled when it came to actually speaking, said quick-witted thoughts. His mind danced woeful worlds and wonders he would never have but always longed for. Due to this, his expression towards living was on the side of melancholy.

The window behind Finn flung open. A strawberry-blond boy with rich-caramel skin stepped through. His eyes blazed amber gold and his sideways grin was accompanied by two large bottles of cola. It was Finn’s partner in crime, his brother, and best friend, Lucas.

The roof that Finn, and now Lucas, stood on was a floating glenn.

Their bottles of cold ichor clinked together as the wicked grin spread to Finn’s only slightly paler complexion. The black tiles bent with each of their steps as they began to meander. Carefully walking back and forth, discussing in a way the keepers of secrets do in court, they looked for a throne to enjoy the afternoon’s entertainment. After much consideration in hushed tones, they both decided that the risk was worth the view and plopped down in front of the window they had exited. Their ears now always perked, listening for the creaking of an adult coming up the stairs.

The angled roof lay more gently under the window than anywhere else, and this would be their seat for the show. They were now facing westward, towards towering mountains, whose stone bodies floated higher until they climaxed, scraping the blue sky, cutting the thick, gray, roaring clouds, which began to scream and tumble down the mountain’s eastern slope.

Finn had already made up his mind before his brother had opened the window. He estimated they had a good fifteen to twenty minutes to enjoy their drinks and watch the clouds roll toward them. Lucas took two big pulls of his cola, smacking his lips together and gutturally gasping.

His face glowed red, drunk on sugar, spring heat, and the thick smell of flowers. Finn wanted to feel that warm embrace too. His fifth sip of cola sent a trill of pure cane sugar through his body.

“Spring break always comes right on time,” chirped Lucas. His voice was that of a sixth-grader, no longer sweet and childish, but awkward and in its own spring.

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“It always reminds me that the school year is almost over,” tumbled out of Finn’s mouth listlessly.

“Well…we have a whole week of storm watching and hours of free time before then! I know spring break isn’t summer break, but, I’m sure as heck not complaining,” giggled Lucas. “No, I’m sure as hell!”

Finn turned his head away from the storm clouds to give his older brother a cold stare, which only caused Lucas to laugh harder.

“I wish it was only a long weekend. I miss the books and math puzzles. Don’t you miss playing games during gym? Or…recess?” Finn’s voice wavered. The pressure in the air began to bubble along their arms, fizzing and crackling.

The storm had gathered speed, no longer spilling out but freefalling. A blanket of mustard darkness, out of control, consuming the land in front of it.

Both boys huddled together, preparing for the howling, wet winds to scream through them. The cold on their cola glasses began to cluster and drip down their hands. Finn drank three Lucas-sized pulls of cola.

He realized he may have underestimated the storm.

“I give it ten minutes.”

Stunned, Finn coughed up the last third of his sip and gave his brother another cold glare. His face was hard and deep. Deeper than Finn had ever seen. It held dents and arches. Wrinkles of the future danced across what was now shadowed by the coming storm. “Maybe a little less than ten minutes, but about…yeah, ten minutes.” Lucas’ expression began to crack until his sternness broke. The crooked smile Finn had grown up with returned and so did the warmth to the mood.

Finn was now coming to terms that the rain would be washing over them much sooner than that.

The two of them sipped on their drinks and watched in childish awe as the clouds came closer with every waving breeze. The floral air dampened and began to smell of melted snow and pure energy.

Finn knew that if they were to come into the house in any way wet, they might as well say goodbye to the free week. Damp carpet and mold were Mother’s greatest enemies, and now the storm had come close enough that the spring breeze was cold and rough with its billowing. The first streak of lighting skipped across the sky and crashed down onto the earth. Finn began counting.

A soft wave of stormy air messed Finn’s hair. His brown eyes shot downward in fear. When he looked up, it seemed as if Lucas had matured again. His complexion was calm and sure, his eyes held true to the storm barreling toward him. A second lightning strike shocked Finn from his bewilderment.

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50

Lucas turned to him. His amber eyes glowed with electricity. In a half-yell he declared, “I think this is the last year we may ever do this.”

Stunned, Finn responded, “What makes you say that?” His words were only audible for a split second as the third and fourth lightning strike snaked down onto the earth and thunder followed.

“Four seconds.”

Again, for the third time in his life, he did not recognize his brother. A deep melancholy coated Lucas’ face. One he knew all too well. A sadness floated through the wind, heavy and slow. In the fifth strike of lightning, Finn saw what his brother meant.

“I don’t miss school. I don’t miss my friends or the games. I don’t even miss all the attention. I hate school,” Lucas said as the plasma crashed into the Earth. It was followed by a dooming thunder, one that shook Finn through his bones and into his soul.

“I’m scared of next year. I don’t want to have to ride a different bus or be in a different school. I’m going to miss you,” whispered Lucas.

Even though they could hear the rain, it had not reached them, and yet with all this, Lucas’ face was still streaming with water.

They were tears. Finn recognized the bubbling droplets under his brother’s eyes and began to feel his own tears well up. His heart was full; his brother had expressed the truest love Finn had felt in his short life.

“I don’t want to lose us, our adventures, our secrets, our friendship.

We’re different, but we’re family,” Lucas stated, firm on his demand.

Raising his head higher and stomaching the shame of his tears, his eyes begging for his brother’s response.

“You’re my best and only friend. I don’t think I can lose you,” spilled from Finn’s mouth. The words were small, and it had felt as if he had simply breathed them out. A truth he did not know until just then.

A flash of lightning blinded him, and as the world returned from white, he saw a crooked grin spread from ear to ear across his brother’s face.

Thunder rumbled over and through them. The pitter and patter of raindrops no longer softly sneaking up on them but roaring. Lucas raised his glass, one last sip of cola left. Finn did the same, clinking their bottles together. As they drank, now bonded forever, the rain began to wash over them.

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Plains Paradox

Title A Timely Exit

Lilia Moritz Artist

On Meadowlark Street R. Anderson

Beneath the gazebo,

you hold me in your hazel fortress,

on a street where meadowlarks whistle mudita.

With penumbra of the July evening setting in, the summer heat adopts my skin like an old sink drainboard.

Night papers over the last of light in a poisonous purple, little white smoke opals freckle in and cue an inkling,

lodestar you are that has tutored them each night.

Beneath streetlamps, light caters to your features at the most applauding of angles,

as charcoal edges run marathons through the lines of your face— possibilities’ blueprint.

We commence our footing to the scraping of the pavement as it grinds pinches of dirt and time underfoot.

We negotiate our path down the street to the buttery aroma of the theatre.

Our tickets: the germ cultivating something new from decay.

As we watch the movie premier,

our fingers are a whisker’s itch from rendezvous.

When the picture ends, we make our egress down the street, under the industries’ electric earrings that titillate our odyssey to see ahead,

as the cricket’s shoptalk in a dovetail dialect.

We pass the convention of apartments, the welders daydream shoeboxes

that glamour us with peeks into human sophistry.

Before we’d met, I was plaque on teeth,

an air-quote smile.

Some people crave our tongues like a stick of gum, toss us when the flavors simmered.

Though not all gum sticks…I’d hoped you would.

Here in this night, we live, mad with the off beat infection

that is love.

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I Get You

Title

Artist

Robyn Eubanks

What Was Said Sarah Lee

The columns of pews were velvet-clad soldiers in uniform. I’d always wondered what Meepeline’s funeral would be like and when it would happen, and now, finally, here it was.

I stopped that thought, allowing it to sink away into mental quicksand. After all, above the mortuary doors were foot-high cursive letters of melded steel spelling out, “Of the Dead Say Nothing but Good.”

She’d lived to be one hundred and ninety years old, easily the oldest woman on record. Now that was an accomplishment. News reporters had had a field day with her for fifty years. Every day we expected her to drop like a long-expired horsefly, but she lived until she’d finally gone senile, downing an entire bottle of Mulligan’s Famous Book-scented perfume in one hefty go.

No. I found myself halting the thought again as we all stood. These kinds of thoughts wouldn’t do while commemorating the life of Earth’s oldest woman-to-date.

No one had any idea of her secret, how she’d kept herself alive.

What a feat that was. I suppose that old song was right: “The good die young, but evil keeps on living.”

No! I chided myself once more as the pallbearers—her great-greatgreat-grandsons—trudged forward under the weight of the casket. They set it at the front of the room, and Uncle Guue opened the lid for family members to pay their last regards. Most of her huge family was swathed in black and didn’t see the point in respecting a disrespectful old hag.

I couldn’t let my mind wander in these awful directions. I needed to see Auntie Meepeline in another light.

The ceremony was about to begin. I silenced my brain as two of the eldest grandsons closed the lid on the dried-up, selfish, oversized prune.

The casket looked to be solid gold, except for its platinum trim. Probably wanted to invest her life savings into a gaudy casket for herself so she didn’t leave any inheritance for anyone.

Stop! I told my mind frantically as Uncle Merr, the ceremony officiator, stepped up to the lectern, announced we could be seated, and began to offer grace.

We really must be kind, and if on this day only, so be it, I thought.

Think, Greta. You only knew her for thirty-five years. Think!

Well, Aunt Meepeline worked hard at making maple syrup.

Sometimes, she even shared it! She’d done it in her house with that weird-looking tree that grew out of her floor with a face embedded in the bark, the one she spoke to all the time. Granted, her maple syrup was the 55

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grittiest, most disgusting— Heavens above. Was there really nothing good about Auntie Meepeline? The carved steel words above the entrance flickered in the foreground of my vision, taunting me.

She’d crashed her fifty-thousand-pound tank into Brian’s brandnew shed and stolen the money I left as the Tooth Fairy for my youngest daughter’s last baby tooth. I had to place the money under her pillow again and again and again, seventy nights in a row. After Auntie Meepeline took it all, I’d been driven to deliver the dollar bill directly to my daughter’s faithful hands, promptly dashing that childhood belief by telling her I was actually the Tooth Fairy. We bonded over a mutual hatred that day.

Chill out, I told myself, I’m sure she needed that money to take care of the half-dozen cats she owned. She wouldn’t have needed it to take care of anyone else. Come to think of it, maybe she’d given her inheritance to the cats and her casket was only partially gold. That would have been a kind deed.

Uncle Jiggsollen stepped up to the podium. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “I’m sure we’d all like to say a few words about Great-Great-Great Auntie, uh, Meepling.”

A snort escaped my nostrils. How could someone forget her name?

Though there was some shifting in the audience, no one bothered to correct him.

Jiggsollen continued, “I have spoken to the owner of the mortuary.

Since the funeral was prepaid, he wholeheartedly agreed to ignore the saying on the front of the building for this funeral. I’m sure now we’ll all have much less trouble coming up with final words to share about our, uh, ancient matriarch.”

The congregation seemed to deflate with relief. We were exempt from following an impossible guideline.

Eight-year-old Mynh trundled to the front, being the first to share.

“I didn’t know Grandma Meepeline very well. She never let me in her house because she didn’t want me to touch her weird tree. She did talk to me once, though. I remember she said I couldn’t go in her backyard and get my soccer ball back.” Mynh climbed the steps back down to his parents.

No guilty laughter resounded.

Only applause.

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56

Depth and Texture

Title

Artist

Ash Hendrickson

A Broken Clock, Just After Midnight

Jesse Gonzales

Mattias

Micaela Del Cid

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Boston

Dot Voutiritsa Over-caffeinated, overconfident neuroticism.

Ivy league, townie trash, and catechism.

Slow thinking, unfeeling, and fast livin.

Underwhelmed, undernourished, pill-swillin.

Dispositions of stone, Medusa-cold.

Dehydrated pub-lips, zombie souls.

Bloated and floating bodies in a hurry to go nowhere, like a searing hamster wheel in hell.

A lonely tent of darkness, burdened blue collars stitched with suffocating resentment, the sewery stench of stunted growth, a snuffed-out spirit, a strangled soul.

Like a beige billowy sweater that hides the abuse, the last hug from mother, my moment of truth.

A vicious bad dream.

Life unrealized, no ending.

A constipated one-way street.

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60

Cat Eating Mouse

Kris Jacque

Victory Feast

Kris Jacque

In Case There are More Jack Looney

The landscape is quiet. Dead quiet. The grass is dead; the trees are dead; the air is dead. The sky is a dull gray color. It hasn’t been blue for a long time. Thick black clouds hang above us, but only about two or three of them—clouds of moths. The landscape is mostly soft hills. There are a few large patches of dead moths. Our mother had told us to avoid them, as they would burn the soles off our feet. In front of us, our father’s cabin.

We finally made it.

We were sent here by our mother, whose acidic screams of agony still haunt my mind. If only she would have accompanied us. Maybe then my sister would stop shaking in fear. I need to stop thinking about her.

I need to move on. I push the cabin door open and lead my sister inside.

Moths. Dead ones, too. They’re all over the floor, and they stink.

I don’t care though. All I care about is me and my nine-year-old little sister, who is struggling to hold onto my hand because she’s trembling so hard. I can’t blame her. She’s just scared, and I am too, but again, my only priority is to keep us safe, not to avoid fear.

We’re inside my dad’s cabin. The walls, floors, and furniture are covered in dust. Dust that the moths leave behind. As I look around the room, I see one of the shelves has fallen over. It starts to rustle, and then it tips over, revealing my dad huddled underneath it.

“Daddy!” my sister cries out. He chokes on dust as he stands to greet us, but instead, he rushes us over to the kitchen table and starts pushing us under it.

“Through the trapdoor, quickly,” he tells us in a hurried voice.

He stutters, and his words slur, but his tone is still calm, probably not to upset my sister. There is a trapdoor under the kitchen table with a lock on it. My dad is a paranoid person, but the trapdoor wasn’t his doing.

It leads to the cellar, which was originally where the water heater was stored, before they moved it into the garage. He moves under the table with us and pulls the door upward; it is way too heavy for my sister to open, and I can barely get it to budge on a good day (which today is not).

Inside is a metal step ladder that leads down to the cellar.

“Lisa, go first,” he tells my little sister.

“But why?” she asks him. “Th-they’re gone!” She clings to his arm.

“Now, Lisa!”

Her trembling hand lets go as she climbs down.

His eyes dart toward me. “Now you, quickly, please,” he says shakily.

But instead of following his command, I hug him. Tight. I haven’t seen him in weeks. “W-w-w-w-where—” My words fail me. “Where the 63

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hell were you? Why did you go? Why did you leave?” I try my damnedest to hold back tears. “We were so worried about you! Even—even Momma ...” My efforts are useless, and my cheeks flood with tears. “Momma told you to stay inside, in her house, where it was safe!”

He pushes me out of the hug but holds onto my shoulders. “You really think after all these years I still take orders from her?” A smirk grows across his face. “I thought I was gonna lose my mind spending another minute in that lousy house with the old nagging bit—” I put my hand over his mouth to mute his profanity for my sister.

She divorced him about four years back. We both despise her, as she was an all-around awful person, but due to a court ruling that favors mothers, she got the majority of custody. More tears leak from my eyes.

My dad wipes them away and hushes me.

“Everything is okay, I’m here,” he says, rubbing my shoulders. I’m the oldest of two daughters, but he calms me down like one would a baby.

And it works. “Now, quickly, into the cellar.”

I start to head back down the ladder, slowly, looking up at my dad.

He flips the lock on the door, meaning we won’t be able to come out when it’s shut.

“W-why?” I ask.

“In case there are more,” he replies wearily. “They’re always hungry.”

He drops the trapdoor.

“Wait–!” I cry out, but it’s too late. The trapdoor drops on top of me, but I catch it before it closes all the way. It’s heavy, yet my adrenaline lets me hold it momentarily. I guess it is a good day. I hear a rustling that makes a chill run down my spine; rustling that makes the goosebumps on my arms have chills; rustling I never wish to describe—nor wish upon anyone to hear.

One of the clouds has caught up to us.

Today is not a good day after all. There were more.

I can barely hold the trapdoor open enough to see my dad scramble toward the shelf. The moths fly through the shattered windows on the wall, the shattered windows on the door; and the shattered planks in the ceiling. Swarms of them flood into the room, even from other rooms in the cabin. And the smell, the smell of rotting lemons and eggs, fills my nostrils. The swarm moves toward my dad, but instead of surrounding him, they move through him.

They burn through him, like acid. Little acidic moths.

The shock of seeing my father disintegrate before my eyes makes me dizzy. My mother suffered the same fate, but I’d only heard it. Now I see what she went through. I lose my balance and fall off the ladder to Plains Paradox

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the floor. The trapdoor slams shut.

“Where’s Daddy?” Lisa asks me. She’s still shaking. “Where is he?”

I can’t breathe. My eyes burn. My nostrils burn. My throat burns.

“Where’s Daddy?” My sister’s voice cracks. “Answer me, Maria!”

“Gone,” I croak. “He’s gone.”

My sister doesn’t get the message. “Gone where? There’s moths outside! Where did he go?”

“He’s gone, Lisa.”

My sister slumps her back onto the wall. “Gone, where …?” she mumbles off into thought.

I climb to my feet and head toward the ladder. The trapdoor had slammed shut before any moths got in, which was incredibly lucky. A few have gotten crushed under the weight of the door, and a sickly green liquid oozes out from some of their corpses. Careful not to touch the corpses, but I do try the trapdoor. I don’t know why I do, because I saw my dad lock it, but I do, and wow, it’s locked. I climb back down to look at my surroundings.

I haven’t been down here in a while. I think the only time I ever came down was when my dad first moved in about four years ago. The room is lit by a small lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling. There are four brightly-colored, wooden bookshelves next to the walls. On every single shelf is canned food, except for the last one, which contains big blue water jugs. There is a small shelf hanging above Lisa with a rifle and some bullets on it. My dad is—was—a guns guy.

It’s almost like he was preparing to live down here.

On the wall to my right is a wooden desk made of the same wood as the shelves. I walk toward it and start rifling through the first of two drawers. In the top drawer is a bunch of loose papers, pencils, rubber bands, paperclips, and a journal. I take the journal out and put it on the desk. I flip through it. My dad always wrote in tiny cursive, two of his lines fitting inside of one on the paper. I don’t bother reading through it, except for the last filled page. This handwriting is much bigger than the rest of it, a lot messier too.

And there is … blood … on the paper.

The bottom-right corner of the page is brown. It looks singed and reminds me of the acid from the moths. The blood makes my dizziness worse. All that is scrawled on the page is: They’re coming, the swarm.

There will be more,and they won’t stop.

I put the journal back in the drawer and close it.

I open the bottom drawer, and all it contains is a revolver. Classic gun-man. It looks like it’s gleaming and has a small note tied to the grip.

In case there are more, it reads. But wait, something else is rolling from the 65

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back of the drawer.

A single bullet.

Why? I wonder. Why one? Why not keep this with the rifle?

It doesn’t make sense. One bullet wouldn’t do anything against the moths, and it would be damn near impossible to hit anything ...

Then I get the message.

My chest begins to sting, and more tears start rushing from my eyes. This doesn’t make any sense! My dad is—was—not, Maria!

He wasn’t suicidal.

Just the thought that he’s gone is too much. I fall to my knees and begin to weep on the desk. I don’t care about being strong for Lisa—it’s too much. All of it. First the moths, then Momma, and now— I’m interrupted by Lisa calling my name. At first I think she is going to start nagging me about why I’m crying, but now I can hear the trapdoor rustling. Something’s trying to break through. I stand up to the desk and grab the revolver. Momma didn’t agree with good ol’ gun-man teaching his daughters how to load a revolver—and this was one of the few things she and I ever agreed on—but oh, am I glad he did. I pull the chamber release and slide the single bullet into the cylinder. One bullet isn’t enough to stop a swarm of moths, but in a time like this, it’s better than nothing. I slide the chamber back into the gun, then rush over to Lisa. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears. I place the revolver in her tiny hands, then I grab the rifle on the shelf above her. It’s a single shot rifle, which is unfortunate. I grab a handful of bullets. I’m not sure how many are up there; I can’t exactly see the top of the shelf. I pocket the rest. If I’m even able to fire off more than one. I slide the cartridge chamber back, insert the lone bullet, then pull the lever forward. I move close to Lisa and point the gun at the trapdoor. She points her gun at it too. I notice she forgot to pull the hammer back so I rest my hand on the gun and do it for her. Then I return it to the rifle.

“I love you, Lisa,” sneaks out of my dry mouth.

And the trapdoor erodes with moths.

I pull the trigger.

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66

Native Title Pinch Bowl

Gretchen Artist Spomer

Five Perspectives on a Crisis Stabilization Unit: Five

Marissa Flores

New Sincerity The nurse was cleaning my wounds when a man walked in. I kept my eyes down. I only saw his wing-tipped leather shoes. I groaned and turned away. The alcohol stung. “That’s the doctor,” the nurse explained as the doctor said, “Oh my goodness,” in a voice just dripping with empathy.

Plains Paradox

68

Rembrandt with Plumed Cap and Lowered Saber

Elise Flesher

Owl

Liddia Gilstrap Plains Paradox

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Awards

2021 MAGAZINE AWARDS • “Excellent” Designation: National Council of Teachers of English 2021 REALM Awards • 1st Place: CCHA’s (Community College Humanities Association) “Best Magazine Award” 2021 INDIVIDUAL AWARDS • 1st Place for Photography: Kana Anderson’s “Lost in the Corn Maze” • 1st Place for Poetry: Martha Connelly’s “Laura Swears” • 3rd Place for Poetry: Dinah Bowman’s “The Salmon of Knowledge” 2020 MAGAZINE AWARDS • 1st Place: American Scholastic Press Association • 2nd Place: CCHA’s “Best Magazine Award” 2019 MAGAZINE AWARDS • 1st Place: American Scholastic Press Association 2019 INDIVIDUAL AWARDS • 1st Place for Fiction: JJ Wheeler’s “The Dress” 2018 MAGAZINE AWARDS • 2nd Place: American Scholastic Press Association • 3rd Place: CCHA’s “Best Magazine Award”

2018 INDIVIDUAL AWARDS • 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” To submit and for guidelines visit: plainsparadox.submittable.com/submit