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