Plains Paradox 2018

PLAINS

PARADOX

Literary and Arts Journal, Vol XVI

Cover Art: Family Affair by Courtney Saindon. Mixed Media on Canvas.

PLAINS

PARADOX

Literary and Arts Journal, Vol XVI

DESIGN AND LAYOUT

COVER ART

Kelly Welsh

Family Affair by Courtney Saindon

DESIGN CONSULTANT David Olivares

Uncaptioned photographs are credited to the author.

EDITOR

Sarina Pargas-Vega

VISUAL ART SPONSOR

WRITING SPONSORS

DESIGN SPONSORS

John Cross

Patrick Kelling Kika Dorsey Sarah Landenwich Sarah Schantz

Deborah Craven Blake Welch

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THE KITTEN

JUST DON’T BORE ME

2 A.M. INTIMACY

Haley Wildhirt

Kiley Winkelhake

Vanessa Anderson

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12

COVENANT

REAL COOL

JESTER (JUNGIAN SELF-PORTRAIT)

Michaila Navarre

Courtney Saindon

Vanessa Anderson

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THE END OF MY NFL CAREER

BUILDING BLOCKS

AGAIN IN FIGURE DRAWING

Darcy Trainor

Kait Tonks

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UNWOUND

BIRD BRAINED

IT WAS JUST A KILL BOX

Julia Quirk

Reiley Edmands

Sedona Crouch

Kiley Winkelhake

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ANGLES IN MOTION

KIM

FIGURES

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MY WORLD IS BLUE

WOMANEON

CARDBOARD TREASURE CHEST

Sophia Zanowick

Vanessa Anderson

Sophia Zanowick

Barbara McDaniel

Gage Strickland

Sherie Sampsel

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LONGING ALWAYS AWAITS

EXTREMITIES

GOOD GIRLS GO BAD

Sarah Lee

Creed Guidice

Courtney Saindon

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WOMAN’S GRIEF

MIND ALTERED

SCRATCH BOOK

Sophia Zanowick

Joseph Sellars

Creedence Guidice

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MARROW

SEED IN BLOOM Kerwin Layton

A MEMOIR OF AFGHANISTAN

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THE FRIENDLY SKIES

SELF-PORTRAIT TEXTURE PEN

RED-HEADED DREAM

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FALLING STAR

COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS

DREAM A DESIDERATUM

Robert Barth-Bailey

Joseph Sellars

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CHICAGO, THE MAN

YOU’RE GONNA CARRY THAT WEIGHT

OPPOSITION IN ALL THINGS: AN ABECEDARIAN

Creed Guidice

Miranda Bermudez

Dylan Wilk

Pari Moghadam

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Tiffany Garcia

Brendon Cunningham

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HOT AIR RAINDROPS BALLOONS NOTAN Amberly Stevenson Sherie Sampsel

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THE BEAUTY OF THE SKY

BURLINGTON STREET

Hermione Montrow

Cayden Stice

Brandon Vergara

Gage Strickland

Melanie Gutierrez

62 LEFTOVERS

Reiley Edmands

THE KITTEN Hailey Wildhirt Allison Schultz’s home was a two-bedroom, two-bath suburban paradigm not far from the Feles River: beige siding, a slightly sun-crisped lawn on full display, and a weak excuse for a garden bordering its edges. It was perfectly sized for a small family; in fact, Allison often imagined having a child of her own.

If anything, it would give her an excuse to convert the extra bedroom into a nursery, and more importantly, to remove what David called his “office” supplies, which actually consisted of a decade-old laptop sitting on a card table, surrounded by discarded liquor bottles and Playboy magazines.

But now that David was gone, she didn’t need an excuse to move his things. She could rent a dumpster and chuck out every last one of those godforsaken bottles. She could deep clean the house, get one of those carpet cleaner machines from the local supermarket, finally removing the vomit and urine stains he’d left.

She could get rid of the posters of scantily clad women that hung in the office, the bedroom, the bathroom—there was even one in their living room.

Allison could, but she didn’t.

The beer cans lay where he’d last set them, the remaining stale sips still sloshing at the bottom. The carpet was still spotted with yellowing patches of months-old bile, and the porn still clung to her walls. Allison Schultz’s husband had been dead for five months and three days, and she still couldn’t get rid of his things.

He was still in control.

Allison’s mother didn’t know about the liquor bottles or crusty stains or porn posters, but she did know her daughter was all alone in an empty house. That’s why she had brought over a present for Allison: a kitten, fur black as ink.

“I know it’s not the same as having David,” she’d told her

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JUST DON’T BORE ME Vanessa Anderson Oil and Acrylic on Canvas

daughter. “But I also know you need a companion in that house of yours. Just give it a chance, Ally.”

And Allison had.

She’d never really been a cat person, but she wasn’t opposed to it. She named the kitten Benny, what she’d always wanted to name her son, though David had never let her keep the baby the two times she’d gotten pregnant. She considered it to be a testament to what was now possible without her husband constantly looming over her. That night, Allison began to pick up the bottles.

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Benny was entranced by the glinting glass. He batted the bottles around the office, spilling the few remaining sips. Allison didn’t pay this much mind, not even when Benny began to lap up the spilled liquor. She assumed he was just a curious kitten.

As the kitten was an unexpected gift, Allison had no supplies prepared, and no cat food. Instead, she gave him a bowl of shredded chicken, which she’d made herself, accompanied by a small mound of rice. Benny took one sniff of the meal, however, and turned his nose up at it, mewing distastefully.

Allison laughed. “David didn’t like my cooking much either.”

The kitten just stared at her.

“Fine,” she scoffed. “If you don’t eat this, I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow when I can get you some real cat food.”

Benny mewed again, and with a flick of his tail, he slipped past Allison and toward the liquor cabinet in the kitchen behind her, where David’s stash of Jack Daniel’s, Coors, and Captain Morgan still sat inside, unopened. Allison knew she should throw it out, but like the office, the idea of touching David’s things made her so incredibly uneasy that she’d never been able to. She’d tried once before to empty the cabinet, back when David was still around.

He’d walked in on her pouring out a bottle of whiskey and slapped her so hard that the angry imprint of his hand lingered on her face for a week.

Benny began to paw at the cabinet’s handle, unsuccessful in his attempts to open it. Allison watched him, giggling at the kitten’s antics. Her laughter soon dissipated though, as she realized Benny was not just playfully annoyed, but legitimately angry.

He had started to hiss and snarl and shriek, scratching wildly at the cabinet, still not quite managing to pull back the door.

Allison bent down to the kitten. “Hey, Benny, calm do—” But her sentence was cut short as he swiped his claws at her cheek, peeling her skin in thin strips. Shocked, she brought her fingers up to the scratch, which was just beginning to bleed.

It stung but not because of the superficial wound. It stung because that was the first place David had ever hit her.

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“Bad kitty!” she scolded, and grabbed Benny by the scruff of his neck, carrying him to the laundry room, where she shut him in.

“You can stay there until you learn some manners.”

She ducked into the bathroom and inspected the scratch in the mirror. He’d barely even broken the surface. But as Allison watched the blood dry on her cheekbone, she remembered looking at herself in the same mirror a year prior, when she’d examined the harsh pink print of David’s hand. Over the course of a week, it had turned to a dull purple before it vanished altogether.

She’d dabbed concealer over it each day, effectively avoiding all questions from her mother, her coworkers, and anyone else who refused to mind their own business. David wasn’t a bad man, she’d told herself, he was just frustrated. He’d had too much to drink. She’d brought up the late mortgage payments again.

She’d angered him.

Allison shook her head. Dampening a washcloth, she then wiped away the crusted blood, her fingers remembering exactly how much pressure to apply.

It didn’t feel like David was gone. He was like a shadow—dark, persistent, always following, stalking her every movement.

She still woke some nights blanketed in cold sweat, imagining she’d felt the immense weight of his body pressed on top of hers.

Other nights, there were just nightmares—an endless movie reel of every time he’d slapped, kicked, punched, or thrown her.

By morning, each of her joints radiated with pain, just as they had when he’d pushed her down the stairs three weeks before his death.

Allison rinsed the cloth and draped it over the side of the tub.

She brushed her teeth, changed into sweats and a T-shirt, and crawled into bed, exhausted. The cut on her cheek throbbed in time with the beating of her heart, rhythmically lulling her to sleep.

The hand collided with her face, the weight of four unhappy years of marriage propelling it. She was not stunned anymore, no.

Allison was tolerant; she liked to think she’d made peace with the fact that this was her life. But in reality, a fire raged in her stomach, doubling in size every time David touched her. Her hand would clench shut and she’d dig her nails into her palm, leaving angry half moon marks. And sometimes, she’d bite her lip so hard that she’d taste blood.

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But Allison never dared to display this anger. David was stronger than her, bigger. At five-foot-three, and only a hundred and ten pounds, Allison was dwarfed by David’s bulky six-and-a-half-foot figure. If she even remotely raised her voice with him, he would have flown into a furious frenzy that would have ended with her in the hospital, or worse.

“David…” She’d tried confronting him in the past, why did she think it would be any different this time? “I—I just think that maybe, you could, well, if you felt like it, perhaps you—” “Could pick up this—this—trash?” David thundered, dangerous electricity jumping from his green eyes as he gestured to the filth surrounding him.

“W—well,” Allison stammered, “it is your office. I just think that if you—” “I work every fucking day, Allison! I work every day from nine till five for shit pay that you spend on God knows what, and all I ask is that you keep the house clean. Is that so fucking difficult, Al?” David yelled, punting a half-empty can of Coors towards her, which spilled all around her feet. “Look at that! Look at that fucking garbage! Pick it up!”

Allison quickly kneeled down to staunch the flow of beer, dabbing it with her long skirt. Just as she was about to grab the can, David dug his heel into her side, flipping her onto her back and pushing her down into the carpet. He crouched over her, legs on either side of her, his sour breath causing her to gag.

“Don’t you ever tell me to do your job again, Al. Don’t you fucking dare.” His eyes examined her with animalistic precision, as if he were a hawk and she was his prey, then he began to unzip his jeans as he lowered himself onto her.

But then his eyes softened, and he suddenly looked scared.

“I’m sorry, Al, really, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was sugary sweet, and it made the hair on her neck prickle. And then he was unzipping his jeans again, kissing her neck, putting his full weight on top of her, and all she could do was hold her breath and pray it would be over soon. ***

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Allison woke with a start, but the weight of David didn’t go away.

She could feel something pressing against her chest, and she shrieked, startling Benny, who bounded off the bed.

“Oh, Benny!” she exclaimed, her heart slowing to its normal tempo. “Wait, how did you get out of the laundry room?”

But Benny just stared at her, his beady eyes like lasers in the darkness of the room. In this dim light, their electric green seemed almost human.

“David?”

And in that moment, Allison could have sworn that the cat smirked at her, almost as if he were laughing at her for not realizing sooner.

“David?”

But David didn’t answer. He just sauntered out of the room, his tail flicking goodbye as he turned the corner.

Allison leapt from the bed, slammed the door, and locked it.

She could feel her heart thudding at the base of her throat, her fingers trembling, her palms sweaty. Surely the cat wasn’t David. Surely that was impossible. But the eyes—they were so obviously the same ones that had haunted her dreams for the past five months. And the liquor cabinet, the scratch, those couldn’t just be coincidences.

Shaking, Allison climbed back into bed, pulling the covers to her neck. She scrunched her eyes shut and pleaded for sleep to come. It did not. *** The cat was gone when Allison got out of bed at nine the next morning, but he’d left her a gift: the liquor cabinet had been opened and a shattered whiskey bottle, its contents already lapped up, had been left by the laundry room door. By its side sat a hairball, swimming in a puddle of congealed vomit.

She wiped up the mess, determined to avoid further staining, and proceeded to remove bottles of liquor from the house, including the cases of beer still in the garage, just to be sure. She went to the front lawn, still in her ratty PJs, and emptied every container, the alcohol seeping into the soil. She tossed out the emptied

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containers and returned to the house. She was not going to prolong the inevitable as she had before; she was not going to let David lay a single hand—claw—on her. *** ​ he last time Allison planned a murder had been six months ago, T a couple nights after David raped her. She’d been curled up on the couch dreading David’s return home, watching The Princess Bride, but not paying much attention, until she heard Vizzini utter to The Man in Black, “I can’t compete with you physically.

And you’re no match for my brains.” ​ he battle of wits that ensued, of course, was utterly ridiculous, T ending in Vizzini (who was not actually that smart) being poisoned.

But the message was clear to Allison: yes, she had no chance against David physically, but she could easily outsmart him.

The movie had even told her how. ​ he clicked off the TV and rushed upstairs to the medicine S cabinet. She had some leftover Oxycontin from last year, when her back had been injured in a fender bender. Her hand closed around the translucent orange plastic of the prescription bottle, her fingers trembling. It was no secret that mixing opioids with alcohol was extremely dangerous, and because of David’s longtime alcohol abuse, he was all the more volatile. ​ napping on rubber gloves, Allison ground a handful of pills into S a chalky white dust and mixed it into a pint of beer she had ready for him to take the minute her husband walked in the door.

As she hoped, he’d walked right in and grabbed the beer from her and chugged it before retiring to his alleged office.

Minutes passed, and he called for Allison to bring another.

Gladly, she had. ​ ithin a couple hours, David said he felt dizzy, like the world was W spinning too fast. She told him he was probably just sick.

“Maybe you had a few beers too many,” she said. As he looked up at her, she smirked at him, and then his eyes closed forever. ​“Goodbye, David.” ​She had called his death in immediately.

“I went upstairs to check on my husband, and I think he’s dead,” she told the officer through feigned tears. “He’s always been an

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alcoholic, but tonight I think he took some kinda drug—he told me his friend did it and it made the—buzz? The buzz, I suppose, even better?”

An ambulance had come. Her husband’s body had left. No one had questioned that David OD’d. No one had suspected mousey, petite, sweet Allison of doing anything but being meek and quiet and good. *** But this wasn’t a man; no, this was a cat. There was no need to be careful or call the police or use rubber gloves. Hell, she could probably slit his throat in the yard and none of her oblivious neighbors would even notice. ​ llison had always been a bit squeamish around blood though, A so instead, when the cat came strolling home that night, a smug expression plastered on his face, his tail flicking back and forth, she snatched him up and tossed him into a thirty-gallon Hefty trash bag. He snarled and clawed at first, but soon fell silent as the air in his prison was used up. ​ he Feles River was only a five-minute walk from Allison’s house.

T When she strolled out onto Marler Bridge, which stood a proud fifty feet above the river’s raging currents, she didn’t hesitate a second before chucking the bag into the rushing water below.

Allison stood there for mere moments before turning back to her house. She knew she should feel guilty, she should feel something, but she was too numb, too tired to even feel relieved. *** ​ hen Captain Jordan Smith, a fisherman in Florida, W saw a helpless black kitten struggling to paddle against the Feles River’s swells, he knew he had to do something.

With his net, he scooped the drenched cat into his boat.

The first thing he noticed was the kitten’s eyes. They were green, laser-like, the irises sizzling with electricity. Even more peculiar, though, the cat was smiling—no, smirking. ​ aptain lifted the kitten into his arms and laughed. “Well, aren’t C you a peculiar little fella.” ​ avid laughed too, although it sounded more like a meow. Not at the D peculiarity of himself, no, David laughed because he could already see the shore, and Allison’s perfectly beige house perched upon it.

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2 A.M. INTIMACY Kiley Winkelhake The tenderest moments happen at 2 in the morning, when the world is silent from anxieties and everyday stress.

Stars dance, shimmer in the Capricorn constellation.

You were always a climber.

A shiver inducing midnight breeze.

Dimly lit, mustard-yellow street lights cast shadows from tree leaves, playing together on the bleak pavement.

The sprinklers are doing their lonely task.

We run into the freezing water, unafraid.

When I’m with you, I’m no longer afraid.

Soaking wet and laughing.

I drip in murky ditch water from last month’s rainfall.

We walk side by side, strolling in comfortable silence.

We find the gravel path hidden behind poorly trimmed bushes, on the hunt for a bench to lie on and stargaze.

We end up on abandoned train tracks in a desolate field.

The only sign of life is the lullaby of crickets hiding in the sun-kissed field.

Weeds wind their roots around the rotting wooden tracks.

A fading memory.

I jump around avoiding goat heads.

You continue to look up at the sky.

We follow the tracks that go on for miles and miles.

Nobody knows where they go.

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COVENANT Michaila Navarre Digital Photo

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REAL COOL Courtney Saindon Oil on Canvas

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JESTER (Jungian Self-Portrait) Vanessa Anderson Mixed Media

Julia Quirk

THE END OF MY NFL CAREER

On an unusually warm day in January, my husband and I made the hour-long trek through the mountains to Eldora Mountain Resort. Maciek had been teaching me how to ski, insisting that a qualified professional couldn’t possibly teach me more than he and his collection of YouTube videos could. While we rode the ski lift, he pointed out toddlers, fearless and flexible, barreling down the mountain at least a hundred miles an hour. “You have to SHOO down the mountain! Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!”

That afternoon, Maciek announced that I was ready to graduate from the bunny hill to the big mountain. The holidays had caused my ski pants to shrink, and, as with most sports, it was a struggle to keep my spaghetti-legs beneath me. I also wasn’t feeling particularly brave that day. In fact, looking down from the top, I nearly peed in my ski pants. He accused me of lacking a spine; I accused him of lacking the basic fear humans need to stay alive.

My legs twitched and ached, struggling to keep myself at a brisk crawl while Maciek spun circles and skied backwards, dancing down the mountain. I spent most of the first run in the “snow plow” position, never gaining the momentum needed to perform my “shoos” properly, but somehow, I made it to the bottom.

Without looking back, Maciek skied full speed into the lift line, expecting me to follow.

I scrambled and stomped towards the speeding chair, and plopped my wet behind onto the cold metal.

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“Don’t crash into me,” I reminded him as we got ready to disembark from our chair. I readied my poles, put my feet down, stood up, and glided gracefully off my seat. Then, an unwavering force pulled the heel of my left ski faster and harder than I wanted to go. “FUCKKKK!” I screamed as I felt an explosion in my knee.

I fell to the ground. My legs and skis contorted unnaturally in front of me. The acute pain faded into what felt like an elephant standing on my leg, pinning it to the frigid powder. I stared up at the bright sky, paralyzed partially by fear, partially by pain and partially by the six-foot boards strapped to my feet which had become buried in the snow. The clouds became blurry as my eyes welled with tears. Our skis must have overlapped and the laws of Newtonian physics must have been plotting to kill me by making Maciek glide off the unloading area faster than me.

I yelled for help as Maciek shrunk into the distance.

The doped-up, acne-riddled teenager manning the lift failed to stop it. Snowboarder after snowboarder careened into my neck and shoulders, pulling my infinity scarf tighter and tighter.

As the mangled bodies piled up, I wrapped my arms around my head, sure the next one would surely be my demise.

“What happened?” people yelled, craning their necks and shuffling towards me. They all gathered round, not offering to help, but happy to gawk at the free show.

Maciek bounded back towards me and unclipped me from my skis. We hopped together to a bench nearby. “I don’t think it’s good.” His glove scratched my cheek as he wiped away a snot bubble intermingled with tears. “You looked like an NFL player who could tell their career was over before they hit the ground.”

He was right. I knew that my dreams of becoming the first overweight female who runs a ten-minute mile and has no handeye coordination were over. My multi-million-dollar-contract was circling the drain. There’s a reason there are clauses in NFL cotracts against skiing, you know.

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BUILDING BLOCKS Darcy Trainor Oil on Canvas

AGAIN IN FIGURE My face is covered in my tools, again.

Black powder clings to me like a chimney, again.

Teasing jabs tossed around the room, again.

This cycle is never-ending.

I hate it. I love it.

DRAWING

Kait Tonks

Again, this boiling madness is of my creation, ever so artfully and masterly composed.

Again, I leave my station, for my hands, my tools, are nothing but flexing fists no longer capable of art.

Her back is elegant landmarks of bone and muscle.

Again, I try to capture the valley of her scapula, the gradient tones of her spine.

Again, the black charcoal snaps.

Flecks spray across the page.

When I leave, my fist turns to combs, attempting to weed out the negative.

Praying, no, begging for any positives.

Again, a peer walks next to me, traversing the academic labyrinth for that sweet goal, a crooked cup.

Again, we speak of our art. I jest instead again, my aches unnoticed.

I stand before the canvas, my eyes throb, again.

Again, I lean and contort myself, hoping this will speed the passing of time.

Again, it doesn’t work.

Again, I give in. I cast my stroke and it clicks.

A contour line capturing the shift of bone.

Again, another twist of the medium; a shaded edge appears along her thigh.

Her human form in kneeling grace.

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It’s hard to say which Mother loved more: the Torah, or her creation. The former never left her grasp, while the latter never left her sight. She had sewn it years ago, before my birth. Juicy pomegranates hung between thick leaves. If pride was a sin, my mother was a sinner, but I loved her all the same. She often got lost in the threads, until the hunters with black stitches on red cloth came and pulled her out—pulled me out.

It would have made a fine blanket to keep us warm here, but home was gone. It’s this I’m reminded of as she lies under the waterfall before me, ignorant that she is naked save for the blue gas dissolving her already thin body into something far more holy. Our fingers are intertwined. I know not what flows from her, only that it is beyond my comprehension. Reflected by the pool beneath her is a yellow moon, curled comfortably around her ankles like a dog. When I look up, expecting to see familial stars, I see only ceiling and bright, plastic bulbs.

Reiley Edmands

UN WOUND

BIRD BRAINED Sedona Crouch Charcoal on Paper

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IT WAS JUST A KIll BOX Kiley Winkelhake I. A Beautifully Plain Taxicab.

“Taxi Cab” by Twenty One Pilots Las Vegas was calling, and it was a once in a lifetime opportunity we couldn’t pass up. The band Twenty One Pilots was going to perform, and I scored tickets. The oasis in the desert calls for anyone to live a fleeting moment of luxury and excess at least once in their lifetime. A place I had grown up seeing and hearing about through the distorted, glamorized lens of the mass media. It seems like if you’re from the United States you go to Las Vegas at least once just to have a glimpse at the fantasy of how the top 1% lives. I was drawn to the city of sin at the age of seventeen, a strange time considering legally I couldn’t actually do anything but take photos of the casinos and ride the rollercoaster in New York, New York Resort.

Excitement bubbled inside of me overflowing onto the pleather seats of the beautifully plain taxi cab driving us toward a resort that looked like four gold bars standing up towering over the Las Vegas Strip. Everything was glistening and shimmering, was it all just a mirage? The rain tip taped on the windshield, unusual considering I was in the desert. The Mandalay Bay shined bright, lighting up the gray sky, almost as if it was the sun itself. Hannah, Abby, and I were dropped off at the main entrance the ornate awning. We walked into the Mandalay Bay, where the scent of fake flower air freshener and stale cigarette smoke engulfed us into a cloud of questionable luxury.

II. Sundays Are My Suicide Days.

“Migraine” by Twenty One Pilots The bleak end to a wearisome and disappointing trip to Canton, Michigan, I made one friend - Kathy the Sephora cashier.

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A dream broken, but not destroyed, loneliness had hollowed me out. Audition number two, attempting to follow my dream to work for the Walt Disney Company and each time the rejections chipped away at me more and more. Insecurities reopened the freshly healed scars of self doubt, September a dreary memory, October made it’s chilly entrance, and with fall in full swing, new colors unfolding until the red leaves fell, I sensed the possibility of new beginnings. Falling asleep on Sunday dreaming of a happy monday—a good night’s sleep was all I needed to feel better.

In the morning I awoke with a feeling of emptiness, the sun shining through the opaque white curtains, and I stretched my body out, preparing myself to open up to the world. The soft light warmed my cheeks and made me smile. The light illuminated my pure white hotel bed sheets, made them look pure and give off an angelic quality. The fall colors softly blurred outside my window.

I gazed out a moment longer before I opened my phone to answer whatever messages I didn’t respond to the evening before.

I opened my Snapchat and looked at the news. America’s largest mass shooting. Over fifty dead, four hundred and fifty injured.

After a gunman shot into a crowd of concert goers from the thrifty second floor of the Mandalay Bay. III. A Bullet For Them, a Bullet for You. “Ride” by Twenty One Pilots After his second deployment my heart was filled with hope that Kevin would never have to be go again. President Obama had announced the pulling of troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Kevin was the one person I felt actually cared about me, and him, putting his life on the line everyday, scared me.

Kevin was my favorite cousin in the family and everyone knew it.

We had a better bond than my brother Brian and I ever did.

Kevin was the star child of the family and made everyone proud.

Kevin, the pilot serving his country and protecting American citizens. To me though he was just the dumb seventeen year old guy who broke my uncles car window after a bad trip on marijuana one August evening.

The earrings he brought me back from deployment were round, midnight blue stones, wrapped in blankets of silver, simple in appearance but still alluring to the eye. Mundane in the shadows, as I admired their simple beauty Kevin’s massive hands wrapped

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around my thin wrists and pulled me from the shadows towards the window in Aunt Jodi and Uncle Keith’s quaint country home.

I looked into his blue eyes, identical to his father’s, and questioned his motives.

“Kiley, I want you to put the earrings in the light now.”

I hesitantly extended my small arms into the light, not looking at the earrings. Yet instead I looked into his eyes trying to read him, but he had his militaristic poker face on. I learned to read this face. His eyes began to sparkle with childish excitement and pride, I followed his gaze. He was looking at the earrings which were no longer dark but a vivid deep blue with white stars gleaming in the center of them.

“Star Sapphires,” he said They were stunning, a rare beauty, and I lifted them out of their soft pillowy holder in the box to take a closer look. Yet, when I picked them up I found under them a single silver bullet delicately placed beneath the earrings.

I. We Have All Learned To Kill Our Dreams.

“We Don’t Believe What’s On T.V.” by Twenty One Pilots Our suitcases made loud banging sounds as they skidded across the floor. The sound echoed and hit the vaulted ceiling above, bang, bang, bang. My eyes were drawn upward at the massive, glittering chandeliers reflecting a golden light off the cream white walls that guided us to the main lobby to check in. Ceiling to floor windows framed a view of the crystal blue pool and extravagant garden outside. As we stood in line to get our room key my gaze fell to the floor. Where my rain slick converse—lightly coated in desert dust that had turned to mud—contrasted with the sparkling clean marble floor. After getting checked in we stood in the elevator as we rushed at the speed of light to the thirty second floor where our home was for the next few days. The hallway was dimly lit probably to hide all the flaws that sunlight would easily expose. The hallway was ominous and dark. The only sounds we heard were the suitcases making their monotone thumps on the purple, circular patterned carpet. We entered the room which was a sea of aqua blue from the tinted windows.

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ANGLES IN MOTION Sophia Zanowick Conte’ on Paper

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II. Now I Just Sit In Silence. Sometimes Quiet is Violent.

“Car Radio” by Twenty One Pilots “Mandalay Bay, Mandalay Bay, Mandalay Bay.” Brain screamed into dead silence of my hotel room. The heater makes a monotone hum that buzzes off the cheap faded Manila wallpaper. That could have been me. That could have been me. That could have been me. I was safe in my hotel in Canton, but I was just there. It could have been me, or Hannah, or Abby.

I didn’t want to watch the videos, but I needed to see them to believe the reality of the situation. People being shot. No general target. Stephen Paddocks only intention was to kill, to cause pain and chaos just because. A victim mumbles to a reporter about the incident, “it just was a killbox, it was just a killbox...” Trapped in that stuffy hotel room lost, eyes glazed over. The video that hurt the most was the music artist stopping and running away.

Not telling the crowd anything, just running. The crowd standing in silence. The silence violent.

III. We Turn Our Guns to Fists.

“Guns for Hands” by Twenty One Pilots The dull silver bullet coated in desert dust sat in the plush ivory jewelry box. But, why a bullet?

“I know you don’t believe in guns,” Kevin says, “but I was hoping I could teach you how to shoot, so you know how to protect yourself. I have seen and lived through war.”

Then Kevin urges, “Yes, the world can be beautiful and fascinating, but Kiley it can also be cold and dangerous like this bullet.” ​ is words ring truth, but I rather turn my guns into fists.

H A gun to me is giving up, while a fist is choosing to fight.

“Not today Kev.” I. Who Would You Live for, Who Would You Die For? “Ride” by Twenty One Pilots The venue was sold out. Over seventy thousand people of all ages and different backgrounds, all there to see Twenty One Pilots.

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The massive stadium was a successful science fair volcano about to erupt. I danced and screamed every single word to every song. It was my safe space. At concerts my anxiety goes away, and I can be myself for a couple of hours. The final song began,and the venue was flooded with bright red confetti. My vision distorted by the bright red tissue paper. Confetti fell into my mouth like communion while I sang and laughed. Concerts my personal Sunday church service.

II. I Can Feel Your Breath. I Can Feel My Death.

“Trees” by Twenty One Pilots As confusion turned into horror, screams erupted as people realized it was not confetti cannons coming off too soon, but gunshots firing from the thirty second floor of the Mandalay Bay. Soon, the crowd was coated in red, a dark and thick red.

Men, women, and children all baptized in blood. People dropped like autumn leaves. White t-shirts changing color. Bodies soaked the green grass a messy bleak color. Others lost in shock and adrenaline, frozen or running. The only distinguishable thing, the color red. Red grass, red lips, red shirts, red lights interlaced with blue from the lights of ambulances and police cars. Red eyes from the tears, red cheeks from running, hands red coated in blood.

Everything different shades of red, shades and shades of red.

III. Heard You Say Not Today.

“Not Today” by Twenty One Pilots I looked at his eyes, shocked. He knew that I didn’t believe in guns, yet here he was proposing this idea. I see the fear in his eyes.

I can read him better than his own mother.

“Kiley,” he says, “I have seen good people shot blindly, taken down without any thought. Over in Iraq they don’t care who you are. You are just a target, a number, the more deaths the better.”

I felt sad knowing he was only speaking the truth. I put the star sapphire earrings on as the sun set over the mountain range.

“Kev,” I say, “I don’t plan on going to Iraq. I don’t want to learn how to shoot a gun.”

I keep the bullet in the box.

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KIM

Gage Strickland

FIG

URES

Vanessa Anderson Conte’ on Paper

Your drunken ghost heaves on the railing.

As if you were still young — 50 years ago, maybe, we played ball on the same pier, dodging the pretty women.

I still see your somber ghost in the wilt of a graveyard rose.

Near the worn-white slates and the will-o’-wisps.

You will haunt my headstone too, when I am rot and mud.

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MY WORLD IS

BLUE

Barbara McDaniel “How do you feel about PDA?” he asks.

Holding the phone close to my ear, I smile. “I don’t mind it, within reason.” I like having a man on the line.

This is our first phone call. We know each other’s ages, what we do for work. We’ve seen all the profile pictures.

He’s sixty, older, but not disqualified.

“I’d like to meet you,” he says, his textured voice deep and appealing.

Still smiling, I say, “Well, there’s a chalk art show in LoDo this weekend. We could meet at that.”

It turns out he lives on the same street as the festival. It’s an expensive address. He gives me his building and condo numbers.

“When you turn in, you’ll find a keypad on your left. Enter my code and I’ll let you in. Drive to the top of the garage, and I’ll be there to meet you.”

“Okay, sounds good,” I reply.

“Until Saturday then,” Stephen says. “Take care.

“Take care. Bye!” I hang up and stretch my arms overhead like I’m crossing a finishing line. I have a date! *** Look good, smell good, sound good, I think, driving to meet Stephen. I read that in a dating book after my marriage ended a year and a half ago. A month into our separation, Carl, my ex, met the love of his life. I turn my hybrid onto Stephen’s street in downtown Denver. High-rises line the busy avenue. Driving slowly, I find the address and enter the concrete world of his parking garage. After buzzing his unit, I’m allowed in. I drive up the tight spiral to the top level. He’s standing there, smiling in the bright,

Plains Paradox 26

unnatural light, his hands in his pockets. He’s so tall his head almost touches the low ceiling. His photos don’t do him justice.

I’m reminded of the bronze statue of Zeus I saw in the Athens Archeological Museum. With his barrel chest and short silver beard, Stephen’s a dead ringer for the thunderbolt thrower.

Meeting each other goes well; we make small talk as we navigate the busy street and view four blocks of chalk art. In one scene, the Mona Lisa eats a dripping ice cream cone; in another, figures from the Sistine Chapel sport headphones. We linger over a decaying stairway that opens at my feet. Twisting downward, it leads into a dungeon covered in cobwebs, where rusty chains hang from the walls above a dark pool of blood. The soft chalk seems to melt into the hot asphalt, and I begin to feel dizzy from the heat and the crowd. Escaping the June sun, we make our way to a nearby restaurant for a late lunch of lamb and red wine.

I don’t find any obvious red flags during the meal, and there’s enough chemistry and communication to send a flirty text when I get home.

Me: You could have kissed me.

Him: On the neck, a good place to begin?

Me: Wow — personal favorite! Game on, I think.

We begin dating.

We’ve each told the other we’re looking for a long-term relationship and hope this might be the one.

I start spending time at his place. There’s a photo on the refrigerator of Stephen and Oprah; he’s been on the show twice.

He’s an expert on sexual harassment; he trains large corporations how to comply with anti-harassment regulations, and how to run legally defensible investigations into complaints. He’s a self-made man, who grew up in poverty and grew his business through hard work. As an artist, I get bored with people who are too conventional; I like creatives and don’t mind quirky. You could say I have a weak spot for entrepreneurs, especially successful ones.

His apartment is full of Oriental antiques. The large painted chests with multiple compartments beg to be explored. One afternoon, while Stephen’s in the shower, I give in to my curiosity and let myself snoop. Pulling open a tiny chamber in his bedroom

27 Plains Paradox

WOMANEON Sophia Zanowick Oil on Canvas

Plains Paradox 28

armoire, I find a cluster of cufflinks. Another chamber holds receipts and a business card. I peek into a third and discover a woman’s lipstick. It rolls in the wooden drawer as I open it.

The brass cylinder is heavy. I slide the cap off and twist the base to check the color—the waxy orange bullet has tiny beads of sweat on it. Fully extended, the lipstick begins to droop. I hear the shower turn off as I’m trying to get it back in the tube. I bobble it and—FUCK—it falls, breaking apart. Panicking, I bend to pick everything up and see a dark smudge on the rug. The bathroom door is open, and I have to get out of there—I race to the other bathroom and bury the mess in the wastebasket. The color has bled all over my hands, and it takes a mountain of tissue to wipe them clean. I press on the pile to make it look more normal.

Standing, I face the mirror, and see an orange smear on the front of my shirt. Fuck. I’ve already decided I can’t tell him—I dash to grab my bag in the living room. I always bring extra clothes when I spend the night. I rip my shirt off and throw on another just as Stephen comes out of the bedroom. Shirtless, his wet hair combed back, he strides into the kitchen and opens the fridge.

“This is cold now,” he says as he pulls out a bottle of wine.

“Can I pour you a glass?”

“Yes!” I say. He looks up and smiles at my enthusiasm.

Still worried about the floor, I make a mental note to go back and take care of it. We stay in, have sushi delivered, and watch Evita.

When Stephen gets a call, I leave to check the rug, but the stain is gone. I wonder—did he clean it up? He doesn’t say, and I don’t ask. *** One weekend we go to Devil’s Thumb Ranch resort. We finish the first bottle of champagne before dinner; now we’re two in, and back at our room. I can barely work my iPhone, but I manage to play The Five Satins singing, “In the Still of the Night.” I love it that Stephen likes to dance; my ex never did, and he thought Motown, R&B, and hip-hop were over the top. I grew up outside of Detroit, and my formative years have a Motown soundtrack. At a wedding, my ex once told me, “People feel uncomfortable when you dance.” I spent the rest of the night worrying about what people thought of me—did they think I was slutty and gross? Did they think I was trying to be seductive, or did I look ridiculous?

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Only recently have I figured out he was probably talking about himself.

“Doo-wop, doo-wah,” Stephen sings as he pulls me close, rocking side to side. His shoulder smells like meat and dryer sheets.

“Doo-wop, doo-wah.” He sends me out, spins me around, and reels me in again.

“How did your last marriage end?” I ask, catching my breath.

“What?” he says, his feet still moving.

“I’m just wondering,” I say over the saxophone solo. “We never talk about it.”

“And I don’t want to now,” he says. He throws me out, spins me, and pulls me in again.

I push a hand against his chest, wobble back a step. “Well, we should talk about it sometime. I mean, we’ve both been through it, right, and there’s probably something to learn?”

He’s got me by the wrist. “Don’t go there. I’m not talking about it.

You need to listen.”

His face is armored, and I’m concerned. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I only meant that we should talk about things, that it matters, and we should try to understand—” “You’re not listening!” he says. He holds tighter, steps closer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shrinking. “I only meant—I’m sorry.”

We agree we’re both tired, that it’s time to go to bed.

He’s snoring within minutes, while I lie awake worrying.

Have I ruined everything? I need to be more careful, to curb my curiosity. I always push people too far. The longer I lie there, the more I feel like someone’s sitting on my chest. I fold the kingsize pillow in half to prop myself higher and slow my breathing as much as I can. Next time, I need to remember to pack my inhaler. *** Three months later we’re in St. George, Utah, for the World Senior Games. Stephen’s playing on the U.S. volleyball team. He’s asked me to come as his support; in exchange for cooking and caring for him during the games, he’s taking me to Las Vegas afterward.

Our Airbnb rental has been decorated by a hunting aficionado; animal skins thick with dust are draped over the sofa and on every

Plains Paradox 30

chair. The dust aggravates my asthma and makes my nose and eyes run. In the living room, mounted heads of a big-horn sheep, gazelle, and zebra hang from the walls. I can’t look at them.

The bedside table, where I keep my earplugs, pens, and sketchbook, is covered with a rabbit pelt. Stephen likes to sleep close; he chases me across the mattress every night and asks me to lay on top of him before I leave the bed. I get up dying to be alone.

Before we left, I negotiated my need for time away. “I have to draw every day,” I explained, outlining my plan to visit a coffee shop each morning before he got up. “I’ll be home in time to make breakfast,” I promised.

It wasn’t easy finding a decent cup of coffee; the first place Google Maps sends me is a Denny’s that wants to sell me brown water in a tiny styrofoam cup. Finally in line for a latte, I wonder aloud at the lack of coffee shops in St. George. The woman behind me says, “The church fathers frown upon caffeine.”

I can’t imagine ever letting myself be so controlled. I’m relieved to see the small metal spike in the barista’s ear and the flyer for a PFLAG parade; at least there’s some diversity in this town, I think.

I drink my coffee and draw with my pens for an hour. A labyrinth grows across the page of my sketchbook, the twists and turns lead to disembodied heads with empty eye sockets. The zebra and gazelle make an appearance, then morph into the heads of women. Dark blue hair drips and falls across their faces. Lost in a daydream, I suddenly startle; checking my phone I see it’s time to return to the Serengeti. I’ll have to hustle not to be late; I hope Stephen won’t be mad at me when I get back. *** For three days I’ve watched his games in the large gymnasium.

I’ve grown accustomed to the sounds of squeaky sneakers, whistles, players calling to one another, balls punched and hit.

I sing “Blue, blue, my world is blue” under my breath as I watch the game. We listened to the ‘68 hits on the radio this morning; I haven’t heard it since I was a child in my father’s house.

The local radio station only plays music the church elders have approved; apparently, oldies won’t lead the flocks astray.

I have to pay attention. Stephen sweats a lot and needs me to toss him a towel whenever there’s a break. He’s in the back row,

31 Plains Paradox

CARDBOARD TREASURE CHEST Sherie Sampsel Mixed Media

Plains Paradox 32

left corner, the outsider hitter position. He misses a shot, and the other team wins. His team loses the game, and they’re out of the tournament.

“Say something, take my mind off this,” he demands, as the other players leave the floor. He’s panting, red, and dripping sweat.

Dumbfounded, I can only stare at him.

Later in the room, he reads me the riot act. “You haven’t initiated sex,” he begins, “and you leave for coffee every morning.

You haven’t been open, and I don’t feel supported.”

I feel my cheeks burn, but I let him finish.

“Alright, I hear you. But I have to say I’m really concerned that maybe I can’t please you, because, really—I’m doing everything I can,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m gonna take a minute, because—I don’t know what to say.”

I get up and walk into the bedroom. It feels good to leave him there. My heart is beating fast. I use my inhaler, and the albuterol makes it pound harder. I start to pack. I wish we were going home, but we have reservations in Vegas tonight.

The argument is still going two hours later as we arrive in our suite at Caesars Palace. Despondent, I stare at the floor and say, “This isn’t working.”

“Don’t say that!” he shrieks. He rips the glasses off his face and throws them in my direction. I’m halfway down the hall before I realize I’ve left. I spin around and return; we meet in the doorway.

“If you ever fucking do that again, I am out of here,” I tell him.

We have tickets for Elton John later that evening. Taking refuge in the suite’s large marble bathroom, I feel like a hostage. I want to leave. I put on the tight red dress and high heels he bought for me. I look in the mirror and think, I’m too old for this.

The morning after the concert, Stephen agrees to leave a day early. He calls the airline and makes the arrangements. After the flight, and in the taxi to his place, he wants to make plans for Thanksgiving; he wants our kids to meet.

“We could do it at my place,” he says. “Alan and Julia could come.

“Oh god, I’m just too tired to plan anything now.” I roll my head away from him to look out the dark window.

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I watch the streetlights and empty sidewalks.

We take the elevator to my parked car. Stephen puts my suitcase in the trunk and closes it. The sound echoes through the empty garage. The lights make everything a weird shade of yellow.

“Goodnight,” he sighs, dropping a dead arm across my shoulders, “We’ll talk soon.”

“Goodnight,” I repeat, my head turned, my eyes open. I let him hold me briefly, watch as our shadows slide together on the concrete. Then I open the car door, get in, and close it.

The car seals me in. I start the engine and pull out. The radio is on, low. He’s still so close that when my Prius passes him, his torso looms at me through the window. I don’t wave.

I look straight ahead as I make my way down the familiar tight corkscrew. At the bottom, the heavy metal door lifts, and the world opens like a Faberge egg. I turn the radio up.

Florence Welch reassures me. “The dog days are over.”

Turning into the cool, blue night, I draw a breath, and head for home.

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LONGING ALWAYS AWAITS Sarah Lee All I wanted in the moment I settled stone-like at his bedside for the final time, all I wanted when the dreaded black wheels bore his empty shell away, I wanted it still when I stood motionless in the emerald field smelling of freshly mown riches with stones poking up from it, announcing their cold prisoners six feet beneath— I wanted those solemn days back when he was sick and slipping away.

He didn’t want to talk but I clung to the fragile strands.

But now as I sit in my rocker mending the faded quilt he had always loved, I only want to hear the school bell trill, to listen as the children come out to play.

35 Plains Paradox

EXTREMITIES Creed Guidice Oil and Acrylic on Plywood

Plains Paradox 36

GOOD GIRLS GO BAD 37 Plains Paradox

Courtney Saindon Mixed Media on Canvas

WOMAN’S GRIEF Sophic Zanowick Charcoal on Newspaper

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39 Plains Paradox

Joseph Sellars

ALTERED

Grasped glistening glass within my right hand. Your sweet, dry stench corks hairless nostrils, flooding delusional.

Green to black burning, a yearning to swallow hallucinogenic.

Behind a once calloused hand drowns the charreddreams of I, the child held under the drunken currents of unforgiven consequences.

Shallow sedation of bleached marine mind stimulates psychedelic perception, breathing dead oxygen into blackened lungs.

MIND

SCRATCH

DREAM BOOK Creedence Guidice You share the worst days with the outside world.

Your titanium-white skin, shadows and swirls.

Cadmium cuts and sullen bruises.

Vermilion red sap extracted by pearlescent razor blades.

Raging zigzags, sad gashes— The slow and steady lines where you lost hope.

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MARROW 41 Plains Paradox

Creed Guidice Mixed Media on Plywood

SEED IN BLOOM Kerwin Layton Digital Photo

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A MEMOIR OF

AFGHANISTAN

Brandon Vergara COP (Combat Outpost) Pana is located in the Wardak Province of Afghanistan near the Iranian border. Before we deployed, the veterans described it as similar to America’s Wild West.

Late into the war, much of Afghanistan was not as hostile as the media reported. Soldiers had to be wary wherever they were at all times, but there were “safe zones” as well. Wardak, along with Kunar, were both notorious for still being very much hostile.

“Remember your training” the veterans would tell me. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” were words to live by, so I was told. My company and I deployed to COP Dashe Towp. I wouldn’t truly understand what those veterans had told me until my squad was relocated to COP Pana to help support the local army and a group of special forces. ​ OP Pana was situated at the very end of a small valley. A single C dirt road ran along the outside of the base running into two rock formations that could roughly be called mountains. Another village rested at the top that we had to keep a wary eye on, while the local Afghan Army’s base was a stone throw away from our walls.

When I first reached the compound by helicopter, I was struck by its size. It was roughly square shaped except for the gravel outcropping for the helicopters to land, with two canvas tents that were big enough to fit about ten to fifteen men comfortably.

This was all dominated by a two-story cement structure in the center with machine guns and their respective gunners on top of the roof. You wouldn’t have to be an NFL player to throw a football from one end to the other.

When you’re a soldier, you learn very quickly to assess new terrain as accurately as possible with as much speed as you can muster. Picking up little details when you are in a dangerous situation, adrenaline pumping through your veins, and a heart beating so hard you feel as if the enemy is targeting it specifically

43 Plains Paradox

will very possibly not only save yourself but many times save the lives of your closest friends. So when I say I picked out all this information from the back of the helicopter in a matter of seconds, it is because I was welcomed by the hissing screech of a rocket exploding close enough that I heard shrapnel peppering the now terrifyingly thin metal skin that was protecting me. ​ e ran; we ran hard. Grabbing our individual gear, we bolted to W the safety of the concrete structure as gunfire erupted from the roof. I noticed two trucks parked on a massive hill to my right.

“Fear isn’t our guide,” said the stoic voice of my squad leader, urgent but confident, and it guided me forward.

There isn’t much you can do when receiving indirect fire (rockets, mortars) from an unknown source. If there is overhead cover available, you run for it. If none exists, you drop as low as possible due to the natural physics of explosions. As I made it to cover, I heard the laughter of older men in front of me. Their gear was different, their weapons slung casually in various positions.

These are the special forces men we had come to aid.

“Welcome to COP Pana, boys,” one said. This was punctuated with another rocket landing in our compound, its explosion now muffled within my new haven.

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​

THE FRIENDLY SKIES Miranda Bermudez Digital Photo

I was still new to combat at this point. During my first month at COP Dashe Towp, I did not see any combat. We spent most of that month questioning the lingering American forces that we were replacing about the surrounding area and preparing for a grueling nine months. Pana changed that. Before my feet were even on solid ground, combat became a daily occurrence as we learned just how hostile this new terrain was.

Special forces were there to aid the local army, which had not seen any relief in our shared war against the Taliban for over two years. Their own torn government could not reach them. We were effectively cut off and surrounded by hostile forces and miles of explosives buried in the ground. The enemy would rocket and mortar us every day. Sometimes these barrages would contain as few as three, but one day we recorded as many as twenty-two individual shots thrown our way. Yet, this was my home. *** I​ remember perfectly. I was with another soldier pulling guard duty, and our four-hour shift at the entry control point was just ending as our relief showed up. We shouldered our weapons and walked casually back. I didn’t know the time; eventually, you stopped caring. There were hot days, hotter days, and not-so-hot days 45 Plains Paradox

in the summer. The sun’s position only told me how much visibility I had and how far I could see movement, and I could see extremely far at that moment while the back of my neck burnt under the unforgiving sun. I didn’t hear the accustomed shriek of incoming indirect fire. It landed too close. Miraculously, none of the shrapnel hit me or my buddy, but we certainly sprinted back to the bunker in what I would like to imagine was less than seven or eight seconds. No one gave us a second glance. It was that normal. At this time, I had been there for less than a week, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would not be making it back home alive. There was no way to fight the incoming rounds except to stop them from happening. We had no clue when or where they would land. Eventually, my luck would run out. I reached this conclusion with what I see now as a disturbing calm. I didn’t care about my own life. I only wished I wouldn’t have to see a body bag carry my comrades away. *** ​Almost everyone knows the experience of waking up suddenly, usually to a loud, unexpected noise. There are far fewer who understand waking up unexpectedly to a loud noise and suddenly being filled with dread and wondering who is dead. ​ very explosion startled me, as I wondered whose luck ran out.

E Days went by, every day dealing with the same spark of fear.

If you were not pulling guard outside, you were inside the safety of the bunker. Each soldier would either be sleeping in the bunkbeds that had been there for who knew how long, cleaning weapons, playing cards, or possibly even watching a movie compliments of the men who had packed laptops in their bags.

Four hours on guard, eight off. Hygiene needed to be maintained.

Weapon status was always ready to go. Firefights from the rooftop as we traded bullets with the enemy had become the norm.

Machine gun emplacements would fire at us from several hundred meters away, only to be returned by our more powerful .50 caliber machine guns on the roof. When things got bad, we would call support, and jets would scream low in the sky, dropping bombs on enemy emplacements or making several runs with their 30mm guns, firing over 2000 rounds a minute. Those angry growls of the guns tearing into the enemy and saving our lives were sweeter to us than any angel’s tears. I can count on two separate occasions where the A-10 jet swept in and without a doubt saved my life and those of my comrades.

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*** ​We fought tooth and nail, trading sweat and blood for our very lives and the lives of our loved-ones back home. Some things, however, were not in our control.

It was my turn to pull guard on the roof, and I was very alert.

It was around the early afternoon that we normally took contact from the enemy. There was a casual discussion about favorite movies between myself and my partner, and we laughed and made jokes as we watched our squad leader run to the makeshift wooden bathrooms we had created. The laughter ended quickly as, without warning, he disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.

Screams of “Medic!” and “Man down!” echoed throughout the compound as we watched one giant of a man rushed outside and two more explosions erupted in the open air. Every instinct screamed inside my body to help him, to run down and pull him to safety. But I could not leave my post, and my finger twitched lightly as my eyes darted back and forth across the landscape.

For the next hour the rockets stopped, and the silence tore me apart as I constantly worried about my sergeant. I felt a pain in my stomach that didn’t end and was as sharp as any knife.

When our relief came up, they barely crested the ladder to the roof before they announced that he was going to be fine.

He took a bit of shrapnel but was in no danger and would be shipped out the next day to be treated at a larger base and eventually back home. A ​ weight was lifted from my shoulders, and I breathed a sigh of relief as we shouldered our weapons once again, knowing we would be back in just another eight hours.

I​ thanked every deity in the sky and ground that he was alive and well. Now that I’m home, I continue to pray for the well-being of my brothers I served with and those I do not even know as they continue their service for my sake as a civilian. I rejoice with all my brothers that made it back and mourn those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. I realize I am very fortunate with how many close calls I personally had.

But at that time, my fear rekindled, nothing had changed. In a few more hours I would go back out on guard. There would be another mission. There would be more firefights. More men would get hurt. There would be the constant gnawing of self-worrying about those around me. Only two months had passed, and I had a very long seven months to go.

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SELF-PORTRAIT TEXTURE PEN Tiffany Garcia Pen and Ink on Paper

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RED-HEADED

DREAM

Gage Strickland I’m having another late night talk with the red-headed girl.

This time she’s a mobster’s wife.

She shot a clean hole through her husband’s skull.

I woke up with a headache, and the sun pistol whipped my restless eyes.

And in another dream, Alice taught third grade.

She wore her red hair in a single bun.

She also wrote in perfect Cambria on the white boards, smiled, played music for the kids.

I met her again in a dream about a yoga class.

She was wearing loose athletic clothes and smelled how the color purple tastes.

Her eyes were gray, and I woke up with a bloody nose.

Alice was wearing a long, thin dress in the winter this time. It had wilting yellow roses on it, and she stood— a silhouette against the burning red sun as it screamed down to the glistening black roads and ice, drowning out the noise.

Maybe in a past life, Alice and I watered potted flowers on the balcony of a studio apartment, laughed through the filter of red hair and white sheets.

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FALLING Dylan Wilk

STAR

As I remember you, you make an appearance each night.

I gaze at the stars, enkindle the glinted void.

A bright purple, red, and gold streak tears across, singes the sky, and embers trickle down my memory of your marine eyes, driftwood caught in your current.

As I remember you, the bright burn of your comet slams to earth, wrapped in the shell of a star, where light sings, chars the grassy green knolls, cracks open a crater so deep as if to consume my world whole, a pyre of awe evaporates my thirst.

As I remember you, I see the night I fell.

You and I sat juxtaposed like twilight and dawn.

As I dared to look at you, magnets inside the earth pulled us together atop the hill raised above the city, our own plain, as we swam in each other’s forest.

As I remember you, your dust spreads like pollen across a field of dahlias.

You arrive like Spring but I only show in Fall, when leaves drop into the pool of you.

A bloom of roses carried on vines wraps around my heart like a thorny, plush robe.

As I remember you, I smell jasmine tinged with a coil of smoke as it trails your comet, deepens my crater as I arrived too late to collect the flowers you sprung before the falling star painted in euphoric light, emblazoned the sky, hurdled toward Earth, scorching the meadow of dahlia rose and jasmine.

As I remember you, only fragments of elements of you can be seen: not a moment, a continuation.

I seek the frame of our past, and the photos fade blank.

You’re so pure in nature, and now I’ve lost it all, the memories gone, like comets in the sky.

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COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS 51 Plains Paradox

Robert Barth-Bailey Acrylic on Canvas

STREAM A

DESIDERATUM Joseph Sellars

Smoky mind and voices agreeing, kept tires falling through hidden path. The stream new from this view, drowned voices under a steady flow of melted snow. I pressed my bones into creek bed stones, relaxing into a stately nap. I was climbing through a circle of shadowed faces when from underneath the hum of the streams unceasing downhill drip came a thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum Seasons flew by and the Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum continued, now intertwined with watery whines Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum becoming feverish, gaining beats within meters Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum That thum needs a drum, said one voice, whispering from a gap in the circle of shadowy figures.

Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum It continued. No! Wait! Chirps of warm laughter?

My eyes opened and jumped the creek’s shallow stream into dense greens…

Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum The Laughter harmonizing with Thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum Becoming a shy battle cry and the thum thum thum thum thum thum thum thum Continued underneath the stream’s icy, glee-filled screams.

The battle cry then became a war call flowing into feathery chants.

And here I sit, on the wrong side of the stream finally rousing myself from false dream inside the mind of the mind inside.

The music’s laughter stops but stream does not….

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CHICAGO, THE MAN Pari Moghadam I know that man looming in the subway tunnels, the left foot in front of the right, the stop and go motion – his eyes roving.

Effortlessly, they appear to omit from their minds his undesirable presence, all those upon the platform, gazing firmly set upon the tracks, and the crumpled fast-food bags, the week-old newspapers, the half-crushed coffee cups that always litter them.

Now the rain can wash away in earnest all his prints on muddied ground.

Now the tourist can roam with greater ease up and down the city’s sleepless arteries.

Now the women can take another guiltless look at the thrilling neon, and feel its cool industrial glow.

Now they can all harden their exteriors and amble past the midnight chime, almost like him, without purpose.

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YOU’RE GONNA CARRY THAT WEIGHT Brendon Cunningham Conte’ on Paper

Plains Paradox 54

Melanie Gutierrez

AN ABECEDARIAN OPOSITION IN ALL THINGS:

Adult. The universal secret that adults don’t tell ​

teenagers is that there is always something that isn’t figured out and nothing is quite as it seems.

I thought I knew everything there was to know when I was a teenager. I couldn’t wait to be an adult; to do whatever, whenever I wanted. Everything would be easier and no one would boss me around.

Joke’s on me. The last two decades have brought layer upon layer of responsibility that my teenage mind could never have truly comprehended: College, jobs, car payments, rent, mortgages, bars, church, boyfriends, lovers, marriage, friendships, death, and birth. I thought I’d have it all figured out by now. ​ rave. I’ve been told that I’m brave, that I’m strong B because I’m not afraid of new things and places.

I like that about myself; I like not being afraid.

What I don’t tell anyone is that sometimes I want new things and places because I don’t know how to deal with what I have. ​ ry. I cry when I’m happy. Not the ugly kind of C crying, just the kind that leaves me feeling choked because I’m trying to hold it in. ​ reams. Dreams plague me: sleeping dreams, day D dreams, dreams of a vacation, dreams of a career, childhood dreams. The worst kinds of dreams are the ones I’ve given up.

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​ stablished. A steady job, a comfortable home, a good set of E friends and family, and a strong foundation under my feet make it easier to face the things in life that are not so stable. When pieces of my foundation begin to crumble, it seems as though everything will come crashing down around me. But something I’ve already established is always there to keep me standing. ​ iction. I read fiction more than anything else. I love the chance to F escape my world and be a voyeur in another. Some stories stick with me for years. Back in my own world, misunderstandings and lies create a live stream of fiction that can’t be set aside with the closing of a book. That kind of fiction also sticks around for years. ​ arden. My parents always had a garden. Biting into juicy red G tomatoes, the snap of green beans, and the potent sting of fresh onions in my nose was a staple of my childhood. I was expected to help in the garden, mostly pulling weeds. I hated pulling weeds.

My garden now is reminiscent of a graveyard: a few survivors, but mostly barren and empty. The last time I saw my dad before he died, he was pulling weeds. I would have gladly pulled weeds with him that day. ​ umor. As a young girl, I made up jokes that made no sense.

H Why did the elephant cross the road? Because he was going home. My seven-year-old self would laugh and laugh at herself.

The jokes faded as I got older, and I don’t really tell any these days. Instead, I find myself wondering if it’s okay to laugh at jokes about women, black people, sex, Mexicans, and religion.

Imagination. This gets lost somewhere on the way to being an ​

adult. My friend and I used to play house and office. Now I own a house and work in an office. I wonder what my life would be if I had imagined a few more exciting things for myself. ​ unk. I’ve carted around a plastic bin full of my old grade school J papers and projects for years. Sometimes I pull it out and reminisce about the kimono I made in second grade, or the piece of wood that I whittled and burned my name into on a camping trip when I was twelve. The emotional junk I have carried around for years rivals that of my plastic bin. The people I’ve disappointed weighs heavily on this pile, making it more difficult to purge than the spelling tests from third grade.

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HOT AIR BALLOONS NOTAN 57 Plains Paradox

Sherie Sampsel Cut Paper

Kids. There is nothing in the world that makes me feel more accomplished or more inadequate than raising my kids. The first time they rode a bike without training wheels or tied their shoes on their own were like tiny miracles. Counting to ten, learning letters, and how to help others: parent of the year, right here.

My two-year-old’s temper tantrum at the library was a kick in the parenting gut. Then there was the following forty-five minutes in the parking lot when she was screaming on the floor in the backseat of the car. I sat on the curb, head in my hands, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.

Listen. Most people don’t want advice. They want someone to listen. My dad was deaf, so for him to listen was a lot of work.

Certain friends make being able to listen a lot of work, and my ears hear fine.

More. The more I get to know myself, the more I want for myself.

I always wanted to be a wife and a mom, and I am those things, but those are the roles I am for other people. I like those parts of me. I just want more. I want to be interesting, educated, funny, handy, athletic, kind, strong, loved, missed, understood.

Naptime. Why do kids hate napping? I think I get about three naps a year. The only memory I have from daycare when I was four is the lady making me take a nap. I hated her. I should apologize.

Opinions. I have a lot of these. About religion, abortion, teenage drivers, WWE, cheating spouses, and movie ticket prices.

Some are much stronger than others, and some change with time and experience. Out of self-preservation, I have learned to silence certain opinions around certain people. Sometimes I let the opinion of others carry too much weight in my own life. Other times I wish my opinion held more sway in the lives of others.

Pain. Broken bones, broken hearts, scraped knees, and failed relationships leave their scars. A tumble from a swing when I was one left a scar on my head that my hairstylist sees once in a while.

She is also privy to some of the emotional scars that have left a different kind of mark.

Quality. There are things that are worth paying more for: toilet paper, shampoo and conditioner, paper towels, steak, and hotel rooms. When I was a teenager, one of my church leaders told me to pick better friends. I was offended and angry that he would

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suggest such a thing. It’s been twenty years since then, but those words have stuck with me. I get it now, and sometimes it seems too late.

Radio. My friends and I used to call into the radio stations and dedicate cheesy love songs to our crushes. My stomach would flip flop when the D.J. answered the phone, and when the station played our requests, we squealed in excitement. Every once in a while, I hear one of those old love songs and I can’t help but sing along. The melodies float over me, erasing for just a moment, the heavy years of life.

Solitude. There are days that I relish my solitude. Even a small break from my kid’s constant tugging on my shirt because they need a snack is time I cherish. There is a quiet peace in being alone, in not having to support a friend in crisis or live up to expectations. There are also nights that I cry because the solitude is too much. I am surrounded by family and friends but can’t seem to find where I fit. When a friend doesn’t call, I find myself wishing they would. In my own crisis, sometimes I call; sometimes I want to be alone.

Tomorrow. I had the conversation with my husband about who would raise our kids if we both died. I hate that conversation, but I would hate it even more if that decision was made by someone else. The fear of what may happen tomorrow can be crippling. I combat that fear with preparation. Life insurance and wills are filed away, and road trips, museums, zoos, parks, and swimming pools fill today.

Unexpected. Some of the most meaningful and memorable experiences are the unexpected ones. A friend comes by with a plate of cookies because she was thinking about you. A police officer stops you and your kids while you’re on a walk in the hot summer and gives everyone a popsicle. Your three-year-old tells you you’re the best mom ever. A friendship blooms from tragedy.

I hope I can be someone’s unexpected once in a while.

Variety. Whoever said that variety is the spice of life never had to stand in the cosmetics aisle and make a decision between forty-seven different kinds of body wash; or lotion; or tampons; or hand soap; or salsa; or air fresheners; or potato chips; or eye shadow. But I love variety in people.

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Wet Wipes. These things are a life saver. I keep a pack in my car.

They have rescued my hands from stray boogers, the gross thing on the bottom of my shoe that makes a sticky sound with every step, the slobber from an over-affectionate dog, and the random,“Oh gross, what is that?” moment. They are not as effective on hurt feelings or harsh words. eXercise. Over the years I have tried various forms of it. It’s taken me a while to learn that you should exercise because you love your body, not because you hate it.

Yes. This word has a tendency to get people in trouble. Yes, I’ll try that cigarette. Yes, I’ll have sex with you. Yes, I’ll do more work for the same pay. Yes, I’ll do whatever you ask so I don’t disappoint.

Yes, I’ll put your needs before mine. It’s taken years to learn when enough is enough, or when my adding one more “yes” will be more than I can handle before everything falls apart.

Sometimes a “no” is the best choice.

Zero. There are things I wish I would have done differently, but I have zero true regrets. I wish I would have finished college right after high school, but I’m much better at learning now.

I wish I would have spent more time with my dad, but I make sure to spend quality time with my own kids. I wish I would have been more kind to my parents when I was younger, but now I understand the importance of apologies. I wish I would have learned certain life lessons without as much heartache, but I’ve learned how to forgive. I wouldn’t trade my journey for anything.

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RAINDROPS 61 Plains Paradox

Amberly Stevenson Earthenware

LEFT

OVERS

Reiley Edmands I​ take in the exhaust of the dampened cigarette. This damnable shower, like the countless others I’ve used, hovers a hair’s breadth between too hot and too cold. I would rather use steel wool than a loofah to scrub the sickly-sweet scent of embalming fluid from my skin. It’s not too hard, siphoning blood and stuffing eye sockets like Christmas stockings. I just wish the leftovers wouldn’t get under my fingernails. ​ lumbing the depths of the foreign fridge, I settle on sandwich P meat. I’ve never been much of a cook. God, Em would’ve starved to death with me for a mother; had the fire not gotten her first. I slap my meal down on what seems to be the last plate, which must make what I’m eating the Last Supper. Goldie sits at my feet, begging for scraps. That’s what I call her at least—Mrs. Nanninga’s dog. She’s cute, long blonde fur, and a stupid grin, but I’ve never cared much for animals. As I throw a piece of turkey across the room, the retriever gives chase, only for the meat frisbee to land on the snout of the taxidermied bear.

Another prized possession, to be sure. ​ azily, I skip over to the scientifically stuffed creature, and flick the L edible down to the salivating maw of Goldie below. My eyes are caught in the bear’s marbles. I’m no stranger to the technique, but without the fleshy undertones of human skin, it’s unnerving, even to me. The bear isn’t alone. A badger stands on its hind legs; two foxes snarl at one another; a pair of rabbits mate; there’s even a Bald Eagle, wings spread before an American Flag. Cliché.

Still, I feel the accused before nature’s judicial communion.

I​ can’t imagine why there’s a child’s booster seat in this room, but I find myself leaning back against it. On the walls, I admire the many family photos, and envy their ignorance. Had I been somewhere within those frames, I would not have been so

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arrogant as to take it all for granted. How I wish I could be a part of it all. How I wish Em could be there with me. ​ aking my plate to the sink, I set it atop a quavering mountain T of its forsaken siblings—bowls filled with honeyed porridge and glasses stained by prune juice. Through the window I see the mailman making his rounds. Guess I may as well play the part, now that I’m here, right? I waltz out to the mailbox, exaggerating my movements so as to appear I have every right to do what I’m doing. Miming in this manner is usually enough to avoid any neighborly suspicions. I take the present left to me. It seems the majority of Mrs. Nanninga’s mail has been discontinued at this point, save for the large manilla envelope, stamped in red: OFFICIAL BALLOT ENCLOSED. ​ ack inside, democracy isn’t as exciting to unwrap as I would B have hoped. There is one point of interest, though. This ballot isn’t for Mrs. Nanninga, it’s for her husband, Ralph. I remember him vaguely. Caucasian male, three-hundred-and-three pounds of pure beast, cause of death: stroke. It’s hard to say what the missus died of: simple age or complicated grief. I was the one that handled his journey from man to mannequin five months ago, and hers only a week ago.

I​ sit for a while on the large bed that likely used to accommodate the large man. I don’t expect I’ll actually mail the form, but filling it out provides a moment’s entertainment. I consider using the opportunity to vote for my prefered candidate, but that wouldn’t be fair to old Ralph. Instead, I flip a coin, and draw an X over the heads candidate. I search the premises for a signature that I can forge. It doesn’t take long. I surgically copy his Hancock from one page to the next, and the job is done. ​“Mom, I’m home from school!” ​Oh. Shit. ​ er face rounds the doorframe, and her eyes skewer me. I try to H sprint for the backdoor. ​“Ms. Newbill?” she calls.

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​

THE BEAUTY OF THE SKY Hermione Montrow Digital Photo

I freeze, a deer in headlights. Stammering, I turn and lie “Oh, hello dear. I was just collecting some paperwork for your mother— the door was unlocked.” I need to get out of here. ​ he daughter, whose name I don’t remember, steps into the room.

T We met a week ago at the mortuary. It’d fallen to her, a mere sixteen year old, to handle her mother’s postmortem affairs.

Her expression isn’t angry, nor is it one of surprise at having found an intruder in her home. In fact, she’s smiling. “​ Of course it was unlocked. How about we sit down for lunch?

You cook now, and I’ll make dinner later.”

I​ don’t know what she’s playing at, but at this point I have no choice but to comply. My feet move on their own, and she takes a seat at the table, Goldie’s head in her lap. “​ How about some eggs and sausage?” she asks, but really she’s ordering. ​“Um, I’m not really sure I can manage that.” ​“Don’t be silly, Toni. I have faith in you.” ​

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Lost in the otherworldly kitchen, I spend far too long trying to find the skillet. The girl offers me no assistance. I can feel her scalpel-eyes cutting into my spine, severing nerves. Finally, I unearth the pan from under the sink. Click, click, click, click.

It takes me four tries to light the burner on the old stove.

I accidentally allow a bit of eggshell to fall into the scramble I have going, and fish it out with a fork. As I tend to the now burning eggs, I reflect on what she said when she entered the house. Evidently, she was pretending that her mother was still alive.

Cooking complete, I set the offering before her, atop the plate I ate off of earlier. ​“Coffee too, please.”

I brew a fresh pot and clumsily deliver a steaming mug to the table, causing a little to spill over. The rest of the brown liquid remains, and I watch ashamedly as it circles the rim like molasses. “​ Thanks for the meal.” She pauses. “You don’t have to worry.

I won’t be calling the police.” “​ Thank God.” The breath I’ve been drowning in for minutes escapes my lungs, and I collapse into the chair beside her.

“You know, I really am sorry about your mother. What’s your name, anyways?” ​ he pulls me into a sideways hug. It’s the first time I dare to look S at her. Hazel eyes, like her mother’s, are hidden beneath brown curls. Against my cheek I can feel hers, it’s lax, and I know she’s no longer smiling. “Oh, mine? You can call me Em.”

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BURLINGTON

STREET

Cayden Stice Grasses run long with fever. Large pines sleep in zephyrs.

Parch mows his weedy lawn. Pam picks through her ripened garden.

My dad paints the fascia blue, my mom brushing over the soffits.

My younger self on emerald grass, sipping lemonade, sour as divorce.

Anne and Beth rake up leaves, and their kids hop about like stringless kites.

No larger than a tin bandage box, as the moon is to the blazing red sun.

Families gone from the decades I knew—aged, dispersed, dead, planted.

Houses of old childhood friends, the brick and mortar long destroyed.

Trees I helped my grandpa plant, chopped and sent to burn.

It’s foreign now, like swimming through hot ice.

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