Plains Paradox 2023

X O 3 2 AD0 , 2 I X . X l ARo , V Pl a n r u o s J t NSr Id A n y a Ar La r e t i L P

X O 3 2 AD0 , 2 I X . X l ARo , V Pl a n r u o s J t NSr Id A n y a Ar La r e t i L P

X O 3 2 AD0 , 2 I X . X l ARo , V l a Pn r u o s J CREATED BY STUDENTS t NSr FOR STUDENTS I d A n y a A r L a r e t i P L submission and guidelines: plainsparadox.submittable.com/submit

COVER ART [Robyn Eubanks] DESIGN AND LAYOUT [Caroline Behnke] [Winni Damon] [Alyssa Martinez] CREDITS STUDENT EDITORS [Cora Eastman] [CJ Echols] [Alissa Kuster] [Anna Lee] [Sage Mongeon] [Jade Rhodes] [Mandy Scanlon] ART DIRECTION [Sarah Enochson] ADVISING EDITORS [Kika Dorsey, PhD] [Sarah Schantz] SPONSORS [Makenzie Davis] [Patrick Kelling, PhD] [W. Blake Welch]

We would like to thank the academy of faculty, administration, and students whose dedicated support ensured the creation of this year’s edition of Plains Paradox. COLLEEN SIMPSON, EdD 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, ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Communication and Design Boulder County Campus

THE CANNIBAL’S COOKBOOK [Beck Mitchell] 2 FLAGPOLE [Esther Shipsey] 7 ANXIOUS IN ALABAMA WRITING [Catie Hummer] 10 how to translate the word: worth [Ellaina Powers] 11 disability's power [Sarah Lee] 13 CHILDSPLAY [Sebastian Montes de Oca] 14 FAIR AND SQUARE [Eben Ormston] 17 THE MACGUFFIN MUFFIN [Sarah Lee] 19 paper skin [Ellaina Powers] 23 LAUNDRY LAZE [Caroline Kappel] 24 DON'T LET YOUR FATHER IN THE KITCHEN [Leni Checkas] 27 IN PRAISE OF POLLUTION, PART 1 [Esther Shipsey] 33

ABUNDANT 37 [Bee Schineller] LONGING 38 [Greta Richardson] RUIN 40 [Grace Ward] MY ENDLESS OBLIVION 41 [Raelynne Baucom] dead mouse on the patio 43 [Dakota Schulte] TRANSPLANT 45 [Beck Mitchell] THE BEACH 50 [Elsa Kaariainen] BRICK WALLS AND BINGO GAMES 53 [Caroline Kappel] DOLL FACE 55 [Sarah Ringoen] BAILE DE LOS BRILLANTES 56 [Catie Hummer] SAM 58 [Julian Hanes] pink nikes in the backseat 65 [Ellaina Powers]

ANATOMY STUDY RT [Elise Flesher] 1 AUTUMN CURIOSITY A [Sage Mongeon] 6 DINER BLUE [Stella Todd] 8 THE TWELVE ZODIACS OF JAPAN [Ian Palmer] 9 MAN WITH GLASSES [Kris Jacque] 12 THE BRIDGE IS OBVIOUSLY COLLAPSING 15 [Laura Quann] DREAM LOGIC [Morgan Salerno] 16 BATHROOM AT NIGHT [Kris Jacque] 21 JUST DISAPPEAR [Joyleah Cabaccang] 22 FIGURE MOVEMENT [Jaz Vera] 25 PINCH POT FROG [Cora Eastman] 26 BEARDED MAN [Kris Jacque] 30 INSPIRED BY THE FEAR OF BEING AVERAGE 31 [Suellen Jumes]

UNTITLED 32 [Max Dings] FLOWERS SGRAFFITO 35 [Cora Eastman] BELLA RECLINED 36 [Sage Mongeon] WANDERLUST 1 39 [Jennifer Mares] GOING NOWHERE 42 [Beau Parham] 44 RAMEN BOWL [Jenna Grover] SELF PORTRAIT 48 [Jessica Pettingill] AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING 49 AND EVER SHALL BE [Robyn Eubanks] NOTAN FACES 52 [Jessica Pettingill] END OF CHILDLIKE FAITH 54 [Robyn Eubanks] LIGHT CAN BE BOTH 57 A PARTICLE AND A WAVE [Rise Keller] PEDESTAL 63 [Kris Jacque] THE GLARE 64 [Jordan Barnes]

ANATOMY STUDY [Elise Flesher]

THE CANNIBAL’S COOKBOOK [Beck Mitchell] Eating for a Better World Welcome to The Cannibal’s Cookbook official website! Whether you heard about us through social media, late-night television, or our Super Bowl ads, we’re glad you found our little corner of the Internet. This site is dedicated to informing you on the latest news relating to the worldwide phenomenon known as the cannibal lifestyle. Come here for recipes, home decor, crafts, and more; and a thank you from us all for spending your time to support the cause.1 Mission Statement We would like to start by thoroughly disputing the image cultivated by popular media of the depraved, savage man-eater. Contrary to public perception, the consumption of human flesh is the bare minimum to becoming a cannibal. Rather, cannibals as a movement are devoted to the sentiment that in an age of pollution and rabid consumerism, cremation and burial only provide needless litter. The power to change this starts with you! How so, you may ask? Here’s a list to get you started: • Donate to our charity, Eating to Live: Every penny counts, especially when it comes to spreading our message. Our charity is always in need of extra support. There’s no cap on donation amounts, so spare us some change if you want to see us grow. • Purchase our merchandise: This is the #1 way you can help support our cause. Be it posters, clothing, or food products, all are ethically sourced and locally produced.2 • Participate in the movement: Surprise your loved one with a special meal, make your friend a grieving gift from the recently departed, or simply spread the word about our movement. Keep reading for more details. Overview The following sections serve as a brief overview addressing potential solutions to mainstream culture’s systemic wastefulness. Keep in mind that these are a few suggestions on what you could do. The Cannibal’s Cookbook highly encourages your own creative and practical uses of the human body. If you intend to sell using our methods, be sure to advertise under our brand store. 1 This website is funded by the American Anthropophagite Association (AAA) in partnership with the American meat-packing board. 2 Several states have banned the consumption and use of human carcasses. If you are unsure whether the activities mentioned are legal in your state, check our Legal tab for more information and help. PLAINS 2 paradox

After all, a strong movement cannot be built without consolidation.3 Before you participate in any of the activities listed below, it is of utmost importance that you know how to properly acquire, disinfect, dismantle, and store a human carcass. We recommend first timers watch this video. For more information, please utilize the Help tab or give us a call at: 1-202-555-0180. Finding a Use for the Skeleton in Your Closet This section is dedicated to handy, everyday uses involving the bedrock of the body: bones! • Cranium: Skulls can make excellent soup or cereal bowls, so long as you plug up the orbitals with putty. These look particularly great at Halloween parties. • Carved mandible: This bone works as an accompanying spoon. • Teeth and other small bones: Create dazzling jewelry or fun fridge magnets for kids if attached to a magnetic strip. • Ribcage: When properly modified, makes for an aesthetic plant pot or laundry basket cover. • Other creative ideas: Going for a climb or in need of a walking aid? Why not try coupling together a humerus, femur, and tibia for a sturdy hiking stick or walking cane? Short of a paperweight? A pair of kneecaps will surely do. For the musically inclined, check out our Instrument section to see how you can make a harp from a pair of hips and strung hair. As a final tip, phalanxes (the tip of your finger for laymen) can be carved to a point and used as toothpicks in a pinch; great for removing bits of glazed liver or fried tendons. Speaking of— Recipes: Eat Your Heart Out The Cannibal Cookbook’s founders, the AAA, have long considered human meat to be the superior substitute to animal products. We believe that industrial farming practices have never been more inhumane, pollutive, and wasteful than they are now. However, it’s also never been easier to boycott the meat industry with a simple diet switch. Recent peer-review studies have discovered that cannibalistic consumption is notable for its increased health benefits, anti-aging properties, and immunity-boosting capabilities.4 3 Failure to comply with our policy will result in a cease and desist. 4 Citation needed 3 PLAINS paradox

We won’t call it the solution to your dietary problems, but it can’t hurt to try. After all, when you put good stuff in, you get good stuff out. We prioritize health, safety, and speed with our meals, so please refer to your butcher cuts before cooking any dish with human meat. Check out our Store for those. Let’s begin with: 1. Honey Glazed Oblique A similar recipe to the classic honey-glazed salmon, strip your carcass of choice of their two external obliques, and cut into thin strips. Make sure to avoid the edges of the muscle, as these are generally tougher and less flavorful. Then, place the strips in bands across a preheated and oiled pan. Screaming hot. Cook for 3 min., then flip and repeat the process. This will develop a delicious crust. Add garlic and a dribble of cerebral fluid to the pan and cook for another minute. Baste the strips with a mix of lemon sauce and abdominal fat and call it a meal. For an extra bit of chew, we recommend a side of fried ear cartilage. 2. Meat Loaf A cherished dish among the cannibal community, so many variations of this classic plate exist, but only one is for us. Prepare a loaf pan with melted butter and stir together a mix of onions, celery, and spinal disks for 5 min. Then add a sauce of your choice (mashed oculars, spleen, and a hint of tomato if you want to keep in theme). Next, in a large bowl, combine a mixture of bread crumbs, eggs, and ground muscle. Press into a loaf, brush with a ketchup mixture, and bake for 45 min. Brush the remaining blend and cook for another 15-20 min. Let it cool for 16. Garnish with a sprinkle of scalp flakes, and enjoy! 3. Bloody Mary The same as a regular Bloody Mary, only replaced with distilled blood instead of four ounces of tomato juice. Embellish with a hint of tongue clippings. Adds a metallic but enjoyable aftertaste. Skin is In Our penultimate section is dedicated to the fashion and utility of human organs. • Intestines: They can provide a suitable but temporary pipe liner for damaged sinks or toilets. • Bladders: When properly dried and preserved, bladders can be used as recyclable water pouches for longer hikes or road trips. Just bury them when done, and they will decompose on their own. Remember, leave no trace! PLAINS 4 paradox

• Stomach, Lungs, and Kidneys: All three can be re-purposed into eco- friendly wallets, purses, or handbags that are sure to make for exciting party conversations. Make sure to mention where you got them from! • Skin: Dermal tissue has proven to be one of the most popular organs in regional polls. Shirts, hoodies, gloves, hats, you name it, nothing is more comfortable than one’s own skin. Though often viewed as mildly insensitive, skin clothing serves as a great reminder that the human body was built for reusability. Warning! The one organ that The Cannibal’s Cookbook has no current utility for is the brain. Consumption of this organ is heavily discouraged and may lead to the development of Kuru: a disease that causes irreversible nervous system damage and eventual death. Unfortunately, this means that the best thing to do with a brain is to throw it out. Preferably in a plastic bag to keep animals out of your dumpster. Keep away from children at all costs!5 Ending Notes And there you have it, a brief introduction to the cannibal lifestyle. As stated before, we’re always seeking new and creative uses for the body. If you’d like a chance to share your ideas and have them published, send us an email, and we may feature your clever creations in our sister magazine, Off the Menu. We thank you for reading till the end. Hopefully it has convinced you that our way of living is not only more green, but is also stylish, fun, and healthy. The path towards sustainability cannot be won by disorderly movements or corrupt politicians, but by caring individuals like yourself and the vote you carry with you in your wallet. And remember: Stop wasting; start tasting! 5 This notice is required under FDA safety regulations. 5 PLAINS paradox

AUTUMN CURIOSITY [Sage Mongeon]

FLAGPOLE [Esther Shipsey] I smell bread and asphalt cooling. Midsummer, 5:45 PM. Kind of afternoon makes you forget some sunsets end by now, midday downtown swelter toned down to the temperature of skin. Scored the last bagel sandwich. Kicking down to the rendezvous, Emma’s scooping me any minute. I light up. There’s an old man, bent back, wobbly-legged. I know the script but can’t stick to it. This close to Denver Rescue Mission that costs me. I don’t mind the giving; it’s the need I can’t take. “Scuse me,” I hear, and I’ve got a little pang of the Other Discomfort, the fear that’s a mirror. “Scuse me, miss, I don’t mean to bother you, I just need a few dollars, you know, few … a few dollars, get me sumna eat, can you spare? Please, miss? Just a dollar or—” And I hand him like seven, my singles, flush with tips. He thanks me like I hung the sun, calls me an angel. The haze cracks, splits, bangs, flashes; you felt it. I’m already facing the sound, and see the man shoot off the concrete as if struck from inside. Electric gut-shot. A ripcord top popping off tarmac. He lands, whirls back round to me. “Vietnam!” He cries like the place is strangling him. I notice his embroidered veteran hat. He is Black. I put it together. “Those are fireworks, sir. I think they’re testing them.” He looks down, left, right, back, forth, disbelieving. “It’s the Fourth of July, sir. You’re in Denver, Colorado. It’s 2017.” He faces me again. “I don’t like it when they do that!” I offer a cigarette. Give him four. He acts like I’m his birthday, daughter, and graduation. When I ask where he’s sleeping, he jabs two fingers downward, hard. “Here. The street.” Stupid question. When he turns, the flag on his back is bleached to sunshine, coral, and sky. 7 PLAINS paradox

DINER BLUE [Stella Todd]

THE TWELVE ZODIACS OF JAPAN [Ian Palmer]

ANXIOUS IN ALABAMA [Catie Hummer] (A lakeside view, but as you’re losing it) Everything and everyone can simply fuck right off. The sun beats down in absolute persistence, an aggravated assault. Deafening scents of fresh lilacs, and sunscreen, and fish poop, and algae gather as a ghost, triangulated to tease and titillate my tongue. God, the air is thick today, pressure threatening to pop me like a pimple. I’m gasping, my head out the window of a car going ninety… except I’m still on solid ground. Splashing sounds send me back toward the cedar trees, fresh-cut “grass” stabbing the bottoms of my bare feet. A bright, oversized shade waves me into its shelter. All I can think is how the straps of my royal blue bikini are scratchy, and I need it to stop itching, stop them digging into my shoulders. To outsiders, cypresses sway in a breeze; the sun is a welcome sight. I unhook the clasp of my bra and lie flat on my naked back. Focus. Breathe. I run my fingers across my microfiber towel, let my mind wander, imagine the hot pink color peeking from my arylide yellow umbrella. Strategically distanced from the water, I also imagine the beach entrance, timing my fanciful waves with the swish swish swish in my ears. Lavish powder sky trails the retreating storm clouds. See? That’s not so bad. Not so bad. PLAINS 10 paradox

how to translate the word: worth [Ellaina Powers] Hushed words in unfamiliar bedrooms have become the world’s spoken love language; we learn what each other tastes like instead of what our middle names are, how many freckles are on our thighs instead of how many siblings we have back at home, where we bruise the most, instead of all the places in which our feet have touched the earth. Their inflections and dialect are foreign, puzzles my brain can’t solve, but I’m treated like I’m native to it and belittled when I refuse to use that tongue, when I don’t let them shut and lock the door, when I go home early and don’t drink what’s in the cup. Sometimes I finish it just to see if I can find any connection at the bottom, if the alcohol in my system will make their greed taste any better. It never does. I’m alone in a room full of people swallowing each other down without chewing and I’m starving for something other than skin and sweat and latex. But nobody understands me when I ask, where’s the way out? They just watch and wait until I stumble into a dark corner wearing all of my clothes, dust collecting under my collar and worth deteriorating with every ignored glance, blaming my own loneliness on me because I won’t let them whisper foreign words in my ear. 11 PLAINS paradox

MAN WITH GLASSES [Kris Jacque]

disability’s power [Sarah Lee] their condescending tone is the root of the problem. they don’t understand. they don’t get eye fatigue from reading tedium, grow cold as they wait hours for their bus ride home, scatter possessions trying to find bus tickets. they can work a fast food joint for $9.30/hour, handle chick-fil-a pandemonium without familiar panic surfacing, without worrying they’ll do it wrong: can’t find the carrots can’t keep up, not fast enough can’t remember—two ounces or three can’t read the reminder can’t locate rebekah to ask can’t trust the managers anyway register buttons blur, seek respite in the quiet breakroom. only dare to take two minutes, lest they discover —“you aren’t getting paid just to stand there”— —“you really need to work on your speed”— can’t discern the exit can’t hit escape can’t quell the anxiety; too expensive to keep, not worth staying. can’t argue. energy sapped. panic persists. 13 PLAINS paradox

CHILDSPLAY [Sebastian Montes de Oca] Sitting on the little brick bridge the boy leaves his legs to dangle watching leaves slip across the mirror seeing the night clearer than ever. As he plays with the stars with the dip of a toe he ripples space. PLAINS 14 paradox

THE BRIDGE IS OBVIOUSLY COLLAPSING [Laura Quann]

DREAM LOGIC [Morgan Salerno]

FAIR AND SQUARE [Eben Ormston] Mister Thompson was a big, tall, bald, formidable man who would not be duped, and the proud owner of his town’s main-street general store. He pressed his big hands flat on his counter mat, leaned his big body forward, and through his small, oval, wire-rimmed glasses, scowled down at the young boy. He jutted his jaw, pressed his tongue to his teeth, and said, “No.” Though momentarily checked, the boy would accept no defeat, and his fleeting look of surprise resolved to one of strength, courage, and determination. Bracing himself against Mister Thompson’s display case, his dirty hands smudging the glass, his nose barely clearing the top, the boy gathered himself, looked back at Mister Thompson, and delivered. “Okay, Mister Thompson. Hold on. Wudya say I’ll sweep the floors, stock your shelves, and tidy up, and then,” the boy waved his hand at the target of his delight, arrayed in the case before him, “I get some candy.” He let that sink in. “Pretty good, huh? Customers will like it. And I’ll wear one of your aprons, too. It’ll make me look official . . . for your customers. See? Wudya say? Fair and square, Mister Thompson?” “I hear you trying,” Mister Thompson said at length. “So, first, get your paws off my glass.” He reached across the case with a cloth and wiped away the boy’s prints. “Second, aren’t you supposed to be in school? Finally, you aren’t big enough to hold a broom, and any apron I have is bigger than you—you’ll be tripping everywhere and crashing into everything.” “Will not!” said the boy. “It’s summer, Mister Thompson, and I’m plenty big and strong.” The boy stepped back, stood straight, pulled up his t-shirt sleeve, bent his elbow, and made a muscle. “See? And there ain’t no dust bunny ever did survive me. Hell, Mister Thompson,” the boy swept his hand back, “look, they’re already running. They know what whuppin’ my broom’s gonna give ’em.” Mister Thompson’s eyes looked left, paused, looked right, paused, and returned to the boy. “No dust bunnies in my store,” he said. “Sure there are, Mister Thompson! Sure there are. Your glasses ain’t working right. I see ’em. Your customers see ’em. And your customers are talking, too.” Mister Thompson blinked. How’s this? he thought. Customers talking? The implications could be serious. He weighed the boy’s report carefully and scanned his store again—fresh foods displayed appetizingly, dry goods stacked neatly, magazines arranged categorically, and the candy—yes, the candy. This ship is shipshape, he concluded. The boy had returned to the case, his fists clenched at his chest, his mouth making a small "o", and his eyes wide open, waiting, and expecting. With one finger raised, Mister Thompson held the boy at bay. 17 PLAINS paradox

If customers were talking and criticizing my store, I’d know it, Mister Thompson’s logic continued, and I have many satisfied customers. So, if customers are happy and I have nothing to worry about, then, well . . . why this little! Mister Thompson’s focus returned to the boy, and he prepared to deliver a thunderous reprimand when a new thought came to his mind—one that stopped him cold and nearly made him guffaw. Mister Thompson closed his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest, and shook his head slowly from side to side. I’ll be, this little swabbie almost got my goat. Nearly breached my walls. Almost took me lock, stock, and … With his scowl a thing of the past, Mister Thompson raised his chin and said to the boy, “Okay, young man, you had me going there. Takes pluck to try what you did, and I like that. Therefore, I accept your offer, and you have a deal. So, go on back and wash up. And I mean clean. Then get the apron, grab the broom, and start out front.” “Awright! Yes sir, Mister Thompson,” the boy exclaimed. “That’s the way, sir.” The boy snapped a sharp salute and shot his hand out for a shake. Never off-guard, Mister Thompson returned the salute, but then he saw the boy’s hand and the dirt. He looked back to the boy’s face, but without further hesitation, extended his to meet the boy’s. On tiptoes, the boy reached over, grasped Mister Thompson’s hand, and shook it enthusiastically. “Sir, you’ll be mighty glad you did this,” the boy continued. “Yes, sir, you will be. Name’s Johnnie, sir.” “Fine, fine,” Mister Thompson said with a spreading smile, “Nice to meet you, Johnnie.” Taking back his hand and wiping it clean, he nodded to the back of the store and said, “Get going.” But Johnnie was already gone, tearing past the stacks and tables of goods for sale, and seeming to bust with pride and joy that comes from a successful negotiation, honest work, and the promise of a princely payment in candy. “And,” Mister Thompson called after Johnnie, “respect your elders, and don’t cuss.” For good measure, he added a bellowing, “And, be careful!” Lordy, he chuckled to himself, that boy’s going places. The screen door opened, the bell jingled, and in stepped a customer. Mister Thompson looked up, straightened up, adjusted his glasses, squinted against the glare of the sunlight off his perfectly polished floor, smiled, and said, “Good morning, ma’am.” PLAINS 18 paradox

THE MACGUFFIN MUFFIN [Sarah Lee] We sit in a cracked booth beneath the wan glow of an oddly hot hanging lamp. The cafe is questionable. I use one of the napkins to wipe away the thin layer of grime coating our wooden table. Ethan notices. “Yeah. Nasty.” I nod, and then spot the golden muffin on a plate in the middle of the table. It’s stale and probably as gross as the tabletop. It looks as if it’s made of metallic- gold dough, which is simultaneously disturbing and astounding. There’s a sign next to the muffin, which reads: “EAT IF YOU DARE.” “What’s so great about that muffin?” I ask Ethan, who is disinterested and reading his menu. In fact, I’m not sure he heard me. He says he probably wants to try the steak because that sounds amazing, and it’s been a year since he has had it. I think that sounds good too, but I find my eyes unable to be torn from the muffin. “I kind of want to eat it,” I tell him in a whisper. He laughs. “Then you should get a steak, too. I’m not sharing mine.” “No, not the steak—” I point to the weird muffin, shining under the glow of that eerie heat lamp “—that muffin!” Ethan looks up and sees the muffin for the first time. He looks closely at it and warns me, “I don’t think you should. There’s something about that thing—it’s probably been sitting there for weeks.” “You think it would make us sick?” I ask him just as the waiter approaches our table. Ethan orders his lemonade. Taken by surprise, I realize I haven’t even looked to see what kind of drink I want. I’ve been too busy ogling the muffin. I order lemonade too. When the waiter leaves, Ethan puts his hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at him. “Are you okay?” he asks. “We can go if you don’t feel good. I’m going to have to take my steak to go if we do that, so you’ll have to wait for a few minutes, but you can wait in the car.” I realize that my vision is swimming, as if that muffin has zapped all of my energy with its magnetic force. I realize how badly I want to eat it. “I’m fine, Ethan. We can stay here,” I tell him, but I appreciate how much my big brother cares about me. He nods and pushes away his menu. “You’re sure you want the steak then?” I ask him, smiling. He says he is absolutely sure, and then, his eyes fall on the muffin again. “I kind of want to eat it too, now.” He says slowly, “Do you think it’s okay? Maybe we should split it, and then we can stop thinking about it.” 19 PLAINS paradox

I can’t help drooling as I nod, spellbound by the gleaming pastry. Ethan takes a knife from within his folded napkin and slices the muffin in half. It’s buttery and hot inside, steaming as if fresh from the bakery. Now we both are attached to the idea of it, even though we have no clue why. He breaks off a corner and is about to taste it when the waiter returns. Ethan drops the crumb and orders his steak. Once again, I am pulled from my muffin-revelry, and I order a classic burger and fries. (Hold the onions. Gross.) When we finish talking to the waiter and turn back, the muffin is gone. Sitting in its place is a note: “YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE.” I gasp, and Ethan does too. We whirl around, looking for a person, but no one is in sight who could have left the note. Neither of us even know what the point of the muffin was, but now, we both want it desperately. We stand up just in time to see a scrawny woman at the table next to us gulp down our muffin in a single swallow. A gut-wrenching feeling of horror and rage pulls Ethan and I back into our seats. We are speechless. But a second later, in a burst of light and commotion, a yellow glow surrounds the lady. When the light dims, she is a moth. Ethan squashes the muffin crumb beneath his shoe. There is a spark, then it fizzes and goes out. I’m glad we didn’t eat that muffin; that was close. PLAINS 20 paradox

BATHROOM AT NIGHT [Kris Jacque]

JUST DISAPPEAR [Joyleah Cabaccang]

paper skin [Ellaina Powers] I grew up in a household where I was taught to fear my own skin, where I was taught to fear boys because all they wanted was to get under it, where love and sex were interchangeable terms. One letter off, it’s where I built my asymmetrical foundation of romance. The ground I have grown up on is crooked, tripping and throwing me into the arms of boys with hungry mouths and greedy hands. I read them my poetry from behind a screen, and they fall in love with the fantasy of me moaning their name like it’s the greatest title I’ve ever come up with. I write them a few lines anyway, even though I know our characters dancing on the page will be the closest we ever get without touching. Calloused hands on my thighs, tracing my hips, eating their way up my torso, running their fingers over my body and pretending like the tension in my muscles is from anticipation, like my hesitancy is to just build the moment. And when our mouths meet and their teeth dig in I remember my childhood bedroom, the tilted walls pinned with my scribbled fantasies of love, and how the ink was soaked right into the paint. Four letters are thrusted into three, and I’ll go home wishing I could peel my teenage skin off and replace it with my adolescence, before shoulders were distracting, when poetry was just poetry and not something to fill in the cracks. 23 PLAINS paradox

LAUNDRY LAZE [Caroline Kappel] Cleaning, folding, putting away—it’s an endless cycle that dirties itself. With my washing machine, I’m happy to live large in my little apartment and let my laundry laze. Sweaters stake their claims on the chair by my desk. Jeans usually drape from one of the drawers on my dresser. I like the way it looks. The ends of my pants and shirt hems carry mud, leaves, blood. Try as I might, the stains seep seep seep into my skin. It’s okay though because I scrub scrub scrub and run another load. But my pants are starting to shrink. Everything is. Nothing fits anymore. The dryer is broken and so I squeeze squeeze squeeze. PLAINS 24 paradox

FIGURE MOVEMENT [Jaz Vera]

PINCH POT FROG [Cora Eastman]

DON’T LET YOUR FATHER IN THE KITCHEN [Leni Checkas] As a classic housewife who raised eleven children, my mom got little rest except when she was sick. Even then, she had to put up with my dad’s braggadocio about how he never got ill. In his words, he had too good a liver, which had something to do with ingesting oodles of cayenne pepper—the vilest spice known to kid-dom. In our household, it was assumed “the girls,” Margaret, Susan, and I, picked up on domestic chores whenever Mom was unavailable. During a particularly bad flu season, both Mom and Margaret were flattened, and Susan and I were set up to make the entire dinner one night. At the time, I couldn’t have been more than nine years old with a strong base of insecurity, which my siblings often reinforced with frequent reminders about my early cooking failures—I suppose I shouldn’t have tried cooking before I even learned fractions, so I’d understand the difference between a ¼ teaspoon and a ¼ cup of salt. Given my trepidation about being infinitely teased from my innocent past failures, I ran to my mother’s sick bed at every single step of the cooking process to reaffirm what I had to do to make mashed potatoes. “Peel the potatoes,” she said. I ran and did that. “Rinse them off,” she said. I raced back after completing that too. By the time the potatoes were on the blue and orange flame to boil, Dad had arrived home from work. I rushed to Mom to ask for the next step before he even got out of his Pinto. After telling me to reduce the heat once the water boiled, Mom’s fevered hand stopped me. “Most importantly, don’t let your father in the kitchen. He’ll try, I know he will, because I’m sick. But don’t let him near the food, or the spice rack, until everything’s on the table.” I was an overwhelmed child with an impossible mission. My fear worsened as my dad entered their bedroom. He had a notorious temper that was unpredictably triggered. No one told him what to do or they were backhanded, hard, for their sass. “What’s going on here?” Dad boomed. While Mom filled him in on her condition, I squeezed between him and the ever-present crib, strategizing to keep him out of the kitchen. I darted down our short hallway which was wallpapered with mock-Victorian images and veered into our utilitarian kitchen/dining room, where our thirty-year- old silver appliances were squarely laid out. While I stared at the pot to make sure it didn’t overflow as little bubbles escaped to the surface, Susan busied herself with 27 PLAINS paradox

DON’T LET YOUR FATHER IN THE KITCHEN the main course of rump roast to go with my mashed potatoes. The steam in the kitchen weighed heavy on me. I leaned away from the stove toward the counter where Susan stood closer to the spice rack. I shared our mission with her. Just as I completed my sentence, her eyes widened. Dad landed in the kitchen, now changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a flannel. “Looks like your mother’s down for the count. Doesn’t have a good liver like me.” He patted his prominent belly. “So, what can I do to get dinner ready?” Strike one. The potatoes had just started a slow boil, so I turned my attention toward them in an attempt to outmaneuver the enemy. I had to guard my station. Susan didn’t move a muscle to do anything with the roast as it browned on the electric skillet. It would appear her tactic was much more strategic because mine only brought the enemy closer. “Oh, mashed potatoes,” Dad said. “I can help there.” Strike two. My heart thumped so loud it pulsed in my ears. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my potato boiling post long enough to ask Mom the next step. I’d have to wing it and pray that I wouldn’t abuse the cups-versus-teaspoon rule again. Fractions were still confusing. As I fretted over math, Dad encroached. Susan came to my rescue, suavely saying that we had everything under control; we had promised Mom to take care of dinner. Phew, that bought us a few minutes because, fortunately, Dad left to check on the other starving children in the household, the ones that weren’t down with the stomach bug, that is. Counterstrike: the enemy retreated. I zipped in to see Mom about the next steps. As I rounded the baby brig, Mom startled awake. Her wig was off, and her natural hair that possessed two beautiful wings of silver, one on each side of her head, was ruffled. Given the ragged state of Mom in her homemade pajamas long before bedtime, I attempted to remember as much as I could so I wouldn’t have to return and bother her. Among other details, Mom finished with, “Once cooked, mash potatoes with butter, salt, and a ¼ cup of milk at a time.” My head swarmed with the mention of a ¼ cup and salt so close together. But I braced myself. I could do this. I rushed back. Susan was way ahead of me, which made me fumble with the mashed potato-making utensils. Dad advanced into the boxy kitchen, passing the red tea cart loaded down with paper grocery bags, just as I poured the steaming potatoes into a strainer in the sink. PLAINS 28 paradox

He mumbled to himself as he opened our dilapidated fridge, something about helping. I burned a finger putting the potatoes back in the pan on the stove. I located the hand masher to defend my dish, just in case. As I moved to get the milk, Dad had the plastic jug in hand and hustled my way. Before I could even form words, Dad had pushed me aside. I pressed out my hand like a crossing guard. The milk glugged into the pot until the full gallon was almost gone. “No!” That one word discharged in a distorted, slow-motion, lip-contorted movement, and it was as shrill as a whistle. “What have you done?” I howled. “Mom said not more than a ¼ cup of milk at a time.” I should have been proud of myself for remembering the correct fractions, but I was too distracted by the terrible mistake of letting Dad take charge. The pan flowed with way more than required. The incident of the salt brownies of three years earlier reared its ghostly head. Dad glared at me for my sass; I glared at the drowned chunks of potato. “Well, if you don’t want to do it,” Dad snarled, “why didn’t you just say so?” He yanked the masher from my drooping hand. He pressed it into the milk mush, suddenly realizing the potatoes were outflanked. Strike three! It was an ambush; I never saw it coming. I knew right then why Mom had said to not let Dad in the kitchen. He ruined my side dish and wasted what must have been at least a dozen potatoes, a gallon of milk, and over half an hour of my time. I started to cry. In one of his more genial moments, Dad said, “Don’t worry. I can fix this.” His engineering mind took over. He poured what little was left of the milk into the pot. “Hand me the cayenne pepper. We’re making potato soup!” Susan and I exchanged frightened looks. Defeated, I tripped over to the spice rack as she forked the completed roast onto a platter. I couldn’t watch after I handed that hot spice over to Dad. Resigned to my P.O.W. status, I set out the silverware and dishes for each of the thirteen chairs around the wooden table. Never before that day had I tasted warm cayenne milk soup. I glared across the table at Dad, who sipped his vile concoction and patted his liver. Everyone else glared at me. 29 PLAINS paradox

BEARDED MAN [Kris Jacque]

INSPIRED BY THE FEAR OF BEING AVERAGE [Suellen Jumes]

UNTITLED [Max Dings]

IN PRAISE OF POLLUTION, PART I [Esther Shipsey] this lay-low land is a chemical brawl it’ll get in your lungs ere you leave plastic humidifier; grape dimetapp sticks to the skin in ways some people pay for I used to lie sleepless under sodium lamplight brass in pesticide sky always more shine’n I could stomach aluminum blinds with pinholes for string over the dust cake gray screens with the cracks for the spiders silent as a bad fight slipping on silk between those heavy brown molecules suspended plastic crop cover looks like moonlight and water long thin shiny and above all young country songs wobbled over carried on waves through my window in between motes my body just big enough—a channel 102.5 was a licked 9-volt in my blood through my growing bones to one log flume fingertip perched on the stump of my blue radio’s tin ear all night 33 PLAINS paradox

IN PRAISE OF POLLUTION, PART I for years I slept backward— head at the foot I have carried many voices in my day George & Josh and Alan & Tim and Johnny & Hank and Hank & Toby & many more like that & so tell me if my body’s still enough for music PLAINS 34 paradox

FLOWERS SGRAFFITO [Cora Eastman]

BELLA RECLINED [Sage Mongeon]

ABUNDANT [Bee Schineller] for longer than any human. much water and see what a full life it had. Some conquer existence or a strike of lightning. When cut down look at the rings can live forever or die from beetles or too much sun or too grandiose. Its limbs, larger than any human limb and heavier, for recreation, and the tree will look after itself, becoming that thickens as the tree develops the characteristics necessary leaves sprout desperately to catch light and water the trunk protect itself and a strong structure to support branches; the trees create a hardened exterior so that it may ground is green from chlorophyll, and as it grows call a sapling, the growth we can see above the ΘΘΘΘ nutrients from its ashes. begin to spread and blossom into what we ΘΘΘΘΘΘΘ the ground that has filled with is fascinating. From a seed, cells ΘABUNDANTΘ so that future trees may sprout from The growth of trees ΘΘΘΘΘΘΘ the tree chooses to let itself burn in the fire ΘΘΘΘ a pinecone is designed to open with heat, and home to dig through the soil with their roots; trees and do the legwork—taking them to a new any human can pick up the seeds dropped by the and then seeds will be deposited elsewhere; that pollen will be spread for their health, attract many creatures of the world, hoping alone, they produce flowers and fruits to Even though trees have no way to spread The spread of trees is endless. 37 PLAINS paradox

LONGING [Greta Richardson] I long to be a little frog on a lily pad No worries No thoughts Or perhaps a toadstool sitting contentedly on the forest floor No pain No fear Maybe a lizard sunning myself on a warm rock It would be nice to relax sometime PLAINS 38 paradox

WANDERLUST 1 [Jennifer Mares]

RUIN [Grace Ward] The area was quiet. A plain field filled with dry, golden grass. Dying. The corn harvest had come and gone. There was nothing left to grow. To the west. An old barn looms. The rotted wood bleached by the sun. Holes in the places where the planks buckled from the weight of neglect. Leaving nothing but a jagged opening. A toothy maw. Beckoning you closer. Closer. The wind. Its whispering voice. Inside. The landscape was barren. The sickle and spade stripped away. The sty mud turned stale. Dusty. The structure a shell. A mausoleum. PLAINS 40 paradox

MY ENDLESS OBLIVION [Raelynne Baucom] I walk through the vast coldness of space, letting it seep into the depths of my bones. A sense of emptiness courses through my veins, ever increasing. The words—“disgrace,” “disappointment,” and “dishonor”—play over and over in my head as I wade through the Milky Way. I kick the stars that litter my path. They glitter like gemstones as they tumble down the sheets of black. I’m silenced by the memory of my queen, spitting in my face, telling me that I won’t ever be worthy enough. I shake out the rage storming my head and start back down the path I traveled. The sound of my steps suck back into the endless abyss. I turn toward the scent of something sweet, yet unfamiliar. A small planet hangs in the distance; rings hug its golden body. I weave through a dense field of asteroids toward it. The scent of decaying fruit grows stronger with each step. I reach through the swirling rings to caress its smooth surface. It pulses as if to flinch away. In my palm, sure enough, I feel the planet’s heartbeat speeding up as I bring it closer to my face. My queen would love to add this mysterious creature to her collection. I swallow back the acid rising in my throat. She doesn’t deserve this, she doesn’t deserve her kingdom, she doesn’t deserve me. I sink my teeth into the delicate creature. I savor the feeling of warm blood dribbling down my face as I consume the prize my queen never deserved. 41 PLAINS paradox

GOING NOWHERE [Beau Parham]

dead mouse on the patio [Dakota Schulte] thought about how strangely unfair it is to the mouse how i felt about how it might be more shocking or strange to stand next to the carcass of a cat, deer, or human how disturbed i might be but the soggy mouse that lay down and died on the patio another saturday afternoon was only a nuisance vermin people crouch down and weep when Tom gets the ghost knocked out of him but Jerry’s nothing but fertilizer for the zinnias when spring comes in maybe it’s for the best, though—that no one gives a damn about a mouse he was free to do as he pleased to roam or fuck or tear up someone’s brand new trim wasn’t ever caged up and sold like his cousin the hamster who grew fat and diabetic and was probably squeezed to death by some grubby, sadistic kid hell, i bet he was freer than me never had to shave his legs, get an oil change, or pretend he liked his stupid relatives never cared to be liked by anyone never got his teeth fixed, or wedgied a thong between his asscheeks now what i wouldn’t give to be a mouse a nuisance vermin living it up hard and dying fast my rotting tail on some idiot’s stupid patio—that’s how i wanna be a satisfied loner, happy, friendless fuck, nothing to long for, no one to pray for menace to society you won’t mourn for my death you might even rejoice in it but you’ll never rid of me i’ll be a hole in your wall in the winter then i’ll be your flowers in the spring 43 PLAINS paradox

RAMEN BOWL [Jenna Grover]

TRANSPLANT [Beck Mitchell] I know my house is alive. I can hear it breathing at night. Unassuming by the nature of its construction and the shape of its chambers, it draws no particular interest. A stranger to the markers of sentience would easily miss the subtle flutter of the window shades or the way a room might expand and contract throughout the day. Recently, a foul odor has been gathering from the storm drain, and the boards of this old dwelling now rut and scrape against another. The signs of starvation are hard to ignore. Poor darling. The further back you wander into my house, the more apparent these signs become. The air here is warm and stale yet carries no smell. I call these the “deep rooms.” Enter with caution. The AC to my left sputters and gasps and pumps out a draft. I imagine my bronchial tubes share a similar whisper. But the deep rooms are not the lungs of my house; no, they are the stomach. Here, salty water dribbles down from a pale roof to form a shallow reservoir. Photos and parcels disappear into these murky waters, swallowed by the floor. Flaked walls give way to the bones underneath. In times of desperation, I recall, the human body has been known to digest itself. Nothing should be less comforting than a stomach. From birth till death you are imparted with a fear of this assimilative organ, of becoming trapped between its walls. And yet, I find there is cozy stillness to these rooms. It’s an intrusive urge of mine to slip my arms between the floorboards and see if they come back whole. For now though, I’ll use them to gather what partially-dissolved scraps of furniture I can and haul them away. Ahead lies a web of halls. I think of these as veins. People commute through them to tour the body, bringing along all sorts of tagalong germs and diseases. I clamber over the crest of a stairwell toward two large window panels. Clear and pristine, they give way to a perfect reality of the world outside. They do not distort their own perception by capturing light or processing color like human eyes would. They can only allow the world to exist as it is. But is that really seeing? Sometimes people trick themselves into believing bad things can be good. I think my house hates having eyes. I think my house hates me for giving it eyes that cannot imagine. Inside the room with the vacant windows sits a desk mired in computer equipment and other unnoteworthy items. One might assume the office serves as the consciousness of a house, a place where information beamed in through ephemeral waves are captured and encoded. Printers act like a tongue, regurgitating thoughts into language that's messy and inconcise. The computers stand in for the brain, a reticular to intelligence, morals, and contradictions. But this analogy sells a house short. 45 PLAINS paradox

The brain, the manifestation of the self and being, cannot be contained to a single room. A house can still curse and spit once its printer has been removed, ink tossed to the gutter. A house’s foundations can still spread and grow even when the computer's cord is cut. A house can dread and mourn while its rooms remain locked from their veins. I can only guess what purpose the office serves, but it would be unwise to compare my own biology. I feel no regret in lobotomizing my house, coaching its jumbled pieces into beige boxes. I pile them up with the rest in the living room, the heart of the house, nestled deep between hallways, which is now overrun with crumpled luggage and veiled furniture. Everything has been packed except for my bed. The moving man won't arrive till tomorrow, and I’d rather sleep in my room than risk the floor. Evening approaches, and I find myself with the disquieting notion that these will be my last moments in this house. For seven years it allowed me to live in safety. Inside this hospitable ecosystem of concrete and steel, I have never feared the elements. I was expected to be a temporary inhabitant, but my mere presence turned into a cataclysmic force. This house, like a delicate cave painting, had dissolved from the carbon in the tourist’s breath. Our breath. The walls, once a glistening white, now take to the dried and still look of a cadaver. Dust gathers in the sockets and pores of the carpet. A cyst of indoor mold grows near the corner of a doorway, multiplying, multiplying. Cancer. The thought crosses my mind: I have gutted this body, gathered up all the desirable parts, and packaged it for a transplant. The house howls in agreement. I reflexively retort. A house does not need furniture. It does not need electricity or running water or heating. A house can live without organs. A house can live without people. The sun has set, yet still, I stare at these walls. A house can do that to you, steal time, make you see things that aren't there. It can open the curtains while you sleep and unlock the doors when you're away. A house can hate you. Despise you. It can feel fear; fear that you've left it with a hollow, useless shell. Yet despite this crippling disdain, a house must still stand proud. It’s been built to do so. Even when the excavators come to snap its roots. I stumble down the hall, past the office, the windows, and the deep rooms beyond that. Down a flight of stairs, a lonely mattress rests against the side of an expansive room. Carpet dents mark the spots where furniture used to sit. Tack holes for posters. I never quite knew what function the bedroom served in a house's anatomy. Stomachs digest food, and veins link bones, but the bedroom serves only to provide a place of refuge for germs and poxes. Perhaps it's an organ that humans have not yet grown. I slip into bed to rest my woes, but sleep PLAINS 46 paradox

will not come easy. The house has grown restless and hungry. All I have left is hope, hope that this abode will spare me for one more night. Because I know, every room in a house can become a mouth. 47 PLAINS paradox

SELF PORTRAIT [Jessica Pettingill]

AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING AND EVER SHALL BE [Robyn Eubanks]

THE BEACH [Elsa Kaariainen] The seasons are changing, but the wind by the sea always feels the same. Many beaches are aligned one after the other, but I get the feeling the one before me is the one from my childhood. The horizon holds the memory of my presence. I step onto the sand and walk toward the sea. Beneath my feet I sense the uncountable number of crushed rocks, granulated by waves for millions of years. The sand is decorated with seashells and plastic bottle caps. I avoided coming to the beach during the summer, as the scenery is filled with crowds of noise and bustling. Now, with my fall cardigan and the silent surroundings, I feel a space for my deepest thoughts. Off in the distance, I see two children scooping sand into the shape of a castle. One of them finds a strand of seaweed, and he gets up to chase the younger one with it. I haven’t come to the beach since I was a child because I find there’s nothing left to do here as a grown-up. I can only enjoy the scenery, inspecting an image from the past. On my way to the shore, I collect seashells with shades of white and purple. The waves are trying to swallow the sand, calling for my body as I come toward them. The water is cold, covering me up to my knees. Holding the seashells in my hand, I dunk to rinse off the wet sand. A wave hits my thighs, and I lose my grip. I swear at the sea’s playfulness, but I let the shells swim far beneath its rich body. The hem of my shorts is soaked, and the flesh of my legs is numb. I look back into the distance where the children play, and their parents enjoy lunch on a cloudy day. Trudging through the sand again, I only think of the summers I used to spend here with my sister. Those days, I wanted to be nothing but careless and stupid. My sister loved the sea, and any time she had on her hands, she would walk an hour to the closest beach near our house. I didn’t understand her obsession with soaking her body in water, the sand infesting her clothes and shoes, but as a younger sibling, I followed her anywhere she went. The beach bustled with crowds of people. As soon as we put our towels down, my sister took me by the hand to take a dip. I felt the strength of the wave pulling my body farther from the shore. I had my eyes on my sister as she dipped beneath the surface, expecting a wave to take her with it. It was then that my sister said that if she was given the ability to breathe underwater, she’d live in the ocean. I asked whether she’d be afraid of a sea creature capturing her. She only shrugged at my question with a smirk on her face. Her hair swung with the wind, her gaze to the eternal horizon of her home. One night, my sister decided to make a trip to the beach, although it was past curfew. I pointed to the pitch-black darkness outside, but that didn’t convince PLAINS 50 paradox

her to stay. She told me not to tell our parents, and I complied. My sister snuck through the window, which I closed as quietly as possible. I watched every step she took. I watched until she was out of sight. That was the last time I ever saw her. With my shoes back on my feet, I feel the sand grind between my toes. My soaked shorts chill the skin underneath. I walk up the steep sidewalk farther from the beach and the sea: my sister’s home. 51 PLAINS paradox

NOTAN FACES [Jessica Pettingill]

BRICK WALLS AND BINGO GAMES [Caroline Kappel] Desperation pools at my fingertips. The words that lie under my tongue refuse to spill, but the bingo balls click-clack against each other, spinning round and round. Brick red and stumbling, and I can’t leave this room. The letters, the numbers, the blower. The sounds devastate the corners of my brain. Maybe the tipping causes the dripping of these feelings that can’t be explained. 53 PLAINS paradox

END OF CHILDLIKE FAITH [Robyn Eubanks]

DOLL FACE [Sarah Ringoen] Porcelain faces shatter with fake smiles that bend, contort. The serene egg shell is poreless, painless, crushable. Fragility displays itself proudly in the moonlight. These smooth things that catch light and hold it, polish it, soften it for those around. They lay down buttered heads; the half of it, the half truth festers into lies. They whisper nothing but honey. Their mouths drip at the corners with rotten teeth and a smooth shell. You can never know a round thing. I envy those sharp things, those without dishonesty and not smoothing the light but instead reflecting it, never fearing the truth but taking the whole of it. A sharp thing knows its power. Razor edges cut boldly just as the mirror presents its image without fearing offense. To be a sharp thing is powerful and poignant. Pungent aroma. Punch to the gut. To be a round thing is never to be seen, never to be known. 55 PLAINS paradox

BAILE DE LOS BRILLANTES [Catie Hummer] (Based on A Dance With Death by Frida Kahlo) A spasm set off up my spine, Do I, maybe, know her? Her skin gleams a restrained sienna, despite steel skies. A red rebozo wrapped from one arm to the other, sage silk clutching her chest, grasping unlike a corset. Green swirls down to her calves and back up to her fingers as she steps and twirls in her baile folklórico. Another flash of red, crimson, leads my gaze upward to her hickory crown, braided with scarlet silk ribbon, fresh flowers like gems, flashy in pink and purple. She is their holder, like their own nutritious soil. I’m dumb, astounded, and my mind takes over my mouth. How can one person encompass the soil and sun? The tickle on my bones, of creeping vines, eases me, but hesitations in her movements confess her nerves. I grew up among these plants; they feel like home, and I know how frightening they must appear to be if you’re used to bright, open blossoms. So I take the first step and make my way toward her. I feel her eyes calculate my calcium content, and now I am the damsel, in need of her saving. She fights the trace of a smile from her lips, and I melt. “I don’t know how to dance, but would you like a partner?” Leading herself to me with her manicured finger, she laces them among mine and sets off in baile. PLAINS 56 paradox

LIGHT CAN BE BOTH A PARTICLE AND A WAVE [Rise Keller]

SAM [Julian Hanes] I met Sam for the first time in sixth grade. We sat in a circle on the basketball court while the gym teacher taught us how to play Knockout. With an innocent look, Sam raised his hand. Mr. Tipple, fooled by the middle-schooler’s face, called on him. Sam gripped his crisscrossed legs and rocked with joy. Wearing a rebellious smile, he stated, “I'm going to call you Mr. Nipple!” The class erupted. I laughed with them while Mr. Tipple struggled to calm everyone down. n I met Sam five years later at Sandstone Rehabilitation Center. I stared at, but didn’t listen to, the forever-unstill amphetamine addict, Ren. Her stories never got anywhere, but still she chatted on and on in a way that reminded me of a squirrel. My attention shifted to the stocky kid in the hallway, violently shaking a vending machine. Once I was confident it was him, I bolted out of the room and into the hall, interrupting Ren's ceaseless rant. I was hesitant to go in for a hug, so I didn't. He spoke first, pointing a finger at me. “Wait … Julian?” He laughed an honest laugh. “You fucking bastard!” “What the fuck are you doing here?” Sam laughed again, this time at himself. “I don't know, man, you know." His attention came back to me. “I didn't know you were a fellow sinner.” One of the counselors opened the door to the room, beckoning me to come back. n I met Sam two years later on the twentieth floor of the Sakari Square Apartments. I sat in a kid-sized plastic chair as Sam preached from his spot on the mattress. The smell of our friend Tristan’s cigarette traveled from the balcony into the tiny apartment. “… and that's why the system tries to make you go to college, man. Then you never get a chance to think about the shit they're doing.” As my eyes dilated, Tristan’s paintings morphed into rainbow splatter art on the wall. “I’m telling you; the system is set up against people like us.” I nodded. Tristan walked back into the room to grab another cigarette. From the window, you could see the city: Coors Field, CenturyLink Tower, the endless LIGHT CAN BE BOTH A PARTICLE flow of traffic on the street. I felt like I knew something the people below didn't, AND A WAVElike I was a part of some grand revolution. n PLAINS 58 paradox

I met up with Sam during the summer of our nineteenth year. Before seeing him, I picked up the rest of the crew in Bessie, my scratched-up, gray minivan. Staisha and Lexi piled into the back, along with a kid I’d never met. Rather than introduce himself, he confessed he was tripping on mushrooms. Will turned to me from the passenger seat. He looked uncomfortable with the situation. I acknowledged my friend by handing over our bottle of Jameson. We arrived drunk, but we didn’t stand out. The Hill was tinted orange from streetlamps, shop fronts, and neon movie theater signs. The crowds of college students conglomerated upon the scene were dressed for sex. Men wore tight-fitting clothes and shirtless jackets. The women dressed in push-up bras and low-rise booty shorts. I was dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a white-dotted dress shirt over it because of an interview I had earlier that day. We found our friend lying on the piss-stained sidewalk in front of an abandoned shop front. He looked up at us with the eyes of a beggar. “Sam!” We were all happy to see him, but not like this. He hugged Staisha to the ground. “Staisha! My queen!” Finally, he noticed me. He sat up, struggling to open his eyes fully. “Julian?! You rat bastard!” We hadn't seen each other in a year. “How you doing, brother?!” “Julian! Julian, you know … you know I told them about you.” He gave a sedated smile. “I told them of your hippie ways, you fucking …” We knew he was glad to see me. The drunkenness of everything gave The Hill a whimsical randomness. When Sam did stand, he was the leader as we ventured into this realm. “Julian! We have to see Boomer. That man is my fucking father! We must see him!” Stumbling down the street, we passed a college kid screaming about being the million-dollar man; a girl, making out with someone, her eyes crossed; and a large group of frat boys chanting for books outside of a closed bookstore. We joined the chant before falling into C & C’s Piercings. The place smelled of vape smoke but bled warmth and safety. A bigger man, whose shirt was unbuttoned toward the collar, yelled, “Ah, my friends! Welcome!” The girls went to hug him. Sam and I checked out the assortment of pipes behind glass counters. The shop had hundreds—every color, shape, and size— scattered around and stacked on top of each other. There were some shaped like Gandalf and another displayed a Batman sticker with hypnotic swirls for eyes. I brought a long, blue one up to the counter. “Boomer, how are you?” “Oh, yes, very good, my friend! How are you doing?” I started to tell him a tipsy tale of my travels when Sam butted in. “Boomer! You fucking beautiful beast!” The man smiled. “You know, I tell everyone about you … Your fucking aura … You beautiful …” 59 PLAINS paradox

He laughed and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Yes, Sam, I know. Now, what can I get you tonight?” “Get me … cigarettes.” Boomer, hospitable as ever, sold me the pipe at a quarter of the price and gave Sam a free pack of American Spirits. We were interrupted by a loud swarm of college girls laughing, singing, and greeting everyone in the store. “Boomer! Bestie! I want the other nipple pierced!” As we left, he gave us a sly smile before disappearing to the back. When the girls left, we decided to call it a night. I made the moral decision to take Sam, Will, and Mushroom Kid home. Will and I stood on either side of Sam, arms under his shoulders, holding him upright, and pushing him toward the car. He was reluctant to come with us as his legs flipped back and forth in an impression of a walk. The people we passed instinctively got out of our way. When I saw his eyes darting around, I knew something was coming. Sam reanimated, lunging out of our arms as a group of drunken, skipping sorority girls passed us. He pointed at them and shouted, “You fucking sluts! You whores!” Mushroom Kid walked back to Bessie alone as Will and I tried to get control of Sam. He ran away from us and started pissing on one of the trees behind the gas station. Will gave up and headed back to the minivan. Sam was my problem now. “Once you’re done, we're leaving.” He looked at me with a wild smile as he continued to pee. “Ha! Julian, you know … you're a … you're a good guy, a real good boy!” Sam looked right at me and chuckled. “You're going to heaven, man.” Something about his sarcasm excited me. The thrill of the hunt, I guess. He zipped himself up and took off. I ran after him, both of us laughing. He jumped onto a parked black Jeep and laid on top of it. I leaned against the side, out of breath. “Goddamn, Sam.” I caught my breath and joined him on the roof. “Julian! Pleasant of you to join me,'' he said, as though he'd been waiting for me at a high-class restaurant. I responded in my best Nordic accent. “Sam! We must go! You must follow me! For Valhalla awaits!” I was still drunk. “Julian, you're lying to me.” “Okay, you're right. I was lying. We are not going to Valhalla.” “Julian, you gotta stop thinking so much. There's nothing, man. It doesn't matter.” “I disagree with you.” I thought about the memories of the last year without him, like finding purpose on the road, and wishing he could’ve had my luck. I sat PLAINS 60 paradox

up, staring at the street, leaving Sam lying to my right. “Julian, you and I can see! Most of these animals can’t fucking see!” I stayed silent as Sam laughed. “You don't need to try, man. We're doomed. Just drink!” I watched an older man cross the street. “I gotta take you home.” “No, fuck you,” he said. I turned so he could see my eyes. “You care about your friends, though, the people that love you, don't you?” I looked at him. He looked to the sky and the stars. “Who do you think I am, man?” There was a shared moment of understanding. In both of us there was something—or a lack of something—that brought us to each other. Maybe it was a shy loneliness or moral superiority or a degree of dissatisfaction; it was certainly pity in ourselves and one another. We could justify anything in this pity. We were the victims. We had what the world didn’t want. “Well, I love you and my friends who are waiting in the van. Will you let me take them home?” Without any playfulness, we got down from the car, and walked to the minivan in a scene now starkly sober. I dropped Sam off first. He didn't say a word. n I met Sam for the last time in the NCAR parking lot. The evening began when I saw him running out of a liquor store with a stolen bottle of rum. I tried to stop him from pouring that same rum onto a billiards table. I attempted to explain that the same bottle of Bacardi was lost for a moment, not hidden from him. That’s when he threatened me. “No, man! I’m fucking serious. Pull over, and I’ll kick your ass!” Toward the end of the night, Bessie packed with friends, Sam told me he wanted to be dropped off at NCAR. Without knowing why, I obliged. When we arrived, he couldn't find his phone. We dug through pockets, jackets, snow pants, and beanies leftover from a hike. He started deluding himself into thinking we were hiding it from him. Staisha and Lexi couldn't take his aggression anymore. They walked away to sit down on the cold pavement. After a bit more searching, he followed the girls outside, unable to handle knowing they were talking about him. I started driving circles around the parking lot, barely dodging lampposts. I watched them yell at each other: Staisha, pointing a finger an inch away from his face; Lexi, turning away, only to come back in anger when Sam spoke. “… so, what are they fighting about?” Will asked from the passenger seat, trying to understand what was going on. 61 PLAINS paradox

“I don't know, man. It's sad.” I continued watching, almost unaware of my surroundings. “You know, there is a part of him that’s good, and, naturally, you want to root for that side. It seems like they’re still rooting for it.” As the girls walked back, Lexi shook her head while Staisha sobbed and screamed before punching Sam in the chest. “Don’t you see what you do to the people who love you?!” Once the girls were inside, I pushed a button to close the automatic sliding door. “I love you, Sam,” I uttered without looking at him. I pressed hard on the gas. He tried to grab the door handle and run alongside Bessie. I sped up, swerved. Through the rearview mirror, I saw him and his half-empty bottle of Bacardi crash onto the street. When we were safely away, I spoke. “I think that’s the last time I’ll ever see him.” The only response I got was quiet weeping coming from the back of the minivan. PLAINS 62 paradox

PEDESTAL [Kris Jacque]

THE GLARE [Jordan Barnes]

pink nikes in the backseat [Ellaina Powers] Junior year of high school was defined by a pair of strawberry pink Nikes, my best friend’s borrowed camera, cartoons after dark, and those three words: I had sex. She told me this over lunch one day, after the homecoming assembly had ended, and the baby fat in her cheeks had pulled up into a triumphant grin. Told me about the car and the parking lot, and the way his mouth clamped onto her neck, leeching her of her innocence and replacing it with a blurry green smudge she proudly presented like a participation award. If she hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed it. Sixteen years old, a year and a half away from graduating and she was moving on without me. She’d already taken off her cap and gown and exposed herself to the first boy who paid attention, who still watched cartoons after getting home from school, who had no idea how to unclasp a bra or how to even leave a hickey. I watched her pull down the collar of her shirt to show off the stain left from that boy’s mouth, and I swallowed down the sour taste it all left on my tongue, pretending like the PB&J was enough to cover it up, like I didn’t notice the scuff marks on her pink Nikes. 65 PLAINS paradox

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2022 Magazine Awards n 2nd Place: American Scholastic Press Association 2021 Magazine Awards n “Excellent” Designation: National Council of Teachers of English 2021 REALM Awards n 1st Place: CCHA’s (Community College Humanities ARDS Association) “Best Magazine Award” 2021 Individual Awards W n 1st Place for Photography: Kana Anderson’s “Lost in the Corn Maze” A n 1st Place for Poetry: Martha Connelly’s “Laura Swears” n 3rd Place for Poetry: Dinah Bowman’s “The Salmon of Knowledge” 2020 Magazine Awards n 1st Place: American Scholastic Press Association n 2nd Place: CCHA’s “Best Magazine Award” 2019 Magazine Awards n 1st Place: American Scholastic Press Association 2019 Individual Awards n 1st Place for Fiction: JJ Wheeler’s “The Dress” 2018 Magazine Awards n 2nd Place: American Scholastic Press Association n 3rd Place: CCHA’s “Best Magazine Award” 2018 Individual Awards n 1st Place, Creative Nonfiction- Kiley Winkelhake, “It was Just a Kill Box” n 3rd Place, Best Short Story- Barbara McDaniel, “My World is Blue” n 1st Place, Best Short Story- Hailey Wildhirt, “The Kitten” n 3rd Place, Best Poem- Kiley Winkelhake, “2AM Intimacy” Artwork n 2nd Place, Best Artwork- Sophia Zanowick, “Women’s Grief” n 3rd Place, Best Artwork- Sophia Zanowick, “Angles in Motion” 67 PLAINS paradox