Loomings 2020

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Loomings:

The Red Letter Edition

Published by Benedictine College 1020 North 2nd Street Atchison, Kansas 66002 Materials appearing in Loomings may not be reproduced or reprinted without written consent of Benedictine College and the authors of each work.

Writers, poets, and artists contributing to Loomings retain full rights to their work, and need not obtain permission for reproduction.

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OW can you improve on a 50-year-old tradition?

This year, we, the Loomings staff, set for ourselves the challenge of making our creative mark on the history of this beloved magazine. We wanted to create something which would be a pleasure to hold, a joy to read, and a creation that anyone would want in their personal library. We took inspiration from The Notebook of Elbert Hubbard, a gorgeous and unique treasure found in a used book shop. With imaginations aflame, we began the long journey of creating an issue of Loomings which would require all of us, especially Layout Editor, Elizabeth Dutton, to break from the mold we had been given and think outside the box in the creation of this year’s “Red Letter Edition” of Loomings.

ITH the outbreak of COVID-19, the process became infinitely more difficult. There were times when it was unclear if it would be possible to produce this issue of Loomings at all, let alone in our original vision. Thankfully, through the hard work and dedication of all of our staff and the extensive support of the faculty, we powered through a global pandemic to provide our most holistic work yet in order to give our readers a sense of hope and community in these dark times. We are so proud of and thankful for the efforts of everyone involved in this process.

E sincerely wish that our labor of love finds a spot on your shelf, and in your imagination.

General Editors, Alexander Stover & Hannah Maus

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The Editors LEXANDER STOVER GENERAL EDITOR - Alexander is a graduating senior majoring in English and History.

Loomings has been a special part of his college career at Benedictine.

He has been an editor twice now and would probably want to do it again if he wasn’t a senior. He plans to earn his Master’s degree in Medieval Studies next semester, if the world is running again by then. Alexander’s interests include medieval history, manuscripts, fiction, photography, surreal memes, luthiery, and channeling his inner Henry David Thoreau by being a civilly disobedient hermit. He hopes you enjoy the labor of love that is this edition of Loomings.

ANNAH MAUS GENERAL EDITOR - Hannah Maus is a senior at Benedictine College and will be graduating with a degree in English in May. She has been on the Loomings staff for three years now, and will miss it when she leaves BC. Her interests include crocheting oversized blankets and procrastinating ACHEL SEGURA ART EDITOR - Rachel is a junior studying Art Therapy and Graphic Design in the Art Department, and is minoring in Theology and Psychology. Her greatest loves are iced coffee, showtunes, acrylic painting, and finding any way to share beauty with those around her. She believes that one of the greatest things one can do is to share their heart with others through self-expression. This is why she has loved working on this edition of Loomings—in it contains many beautiful creations coming from the minds and hearts of those in our Benedictine community. As the Art Editor, she has had the privilege to manage the studio art and photography submissions, and to work with the other editors to organize the magazine, to create the best new addition to your personal libraries!

ADELINE BRUEGGER POETRY EDITOR - Maddie likes to break rules. So she writes poems. She also hates writing complete. Sentences. Maddie would like you to know that Frost did not want you to choose a road, he just wanted you to know there are many equally good paths. Maddie likes to count 4

her steps in between sidewalk tiles and is still trying to perfect the six-minute egg. On any given day, you can find Maddie taking the long way home. Petting a stray cat. Trying to survive a world pandemic. Listening to music she hates to love. Learning how to embody every word that ends in –ing. She likes to do a lot of things, but Maddie does not like speaking in third person. Maddie would like to know all of you in the first. So say hello, let’s chat sometime about our shoes or perhaps, the different roads it takes to get to where we are going.

OHN TUTTLE PROSE EDITOR - John Tuttle is a Catholic writer and creative. Hailing from a town where Main Street remains brick-paved, he has always had a keen interest in fostering creativity. His short film “The Amazing World of Insects” won 1st place in the youth category of the 2017 SkeenaWild Film Fest. His writing, creative and journalistic, has been featured by outlets such as The University Bookman, The Hill, The Millions, CiRCE Institute, Regina Magazine, Prehistoric Times magazine, Midwest Film Journal, and the University of Notre Dame’s Grotto Network. Additionally, he has had photography published by arts journals like The William & Mary Review, Blue Marble Review, and Honey & Lime. His favorite pastimes are those dedicated to God, family, and friends.

LIZABETH DUTTON LAYOUT EDITOR - A senior majoring in marketing and minoring in art, Elizabeth has enjoyed her time as the layout editor for Loomings. Her favorite hobbies include reading, crafting, and relaxing with friends. After graduation, she hopes to pursue a career in graphic design. She is so appreciative of the experience that being a part of Loomings has given to her; especially for the relationships and the comradery amongst the other editors and the faculty advisors.

ICHAEL STIGMAN FACULTY ADVISOR - Dr. Michael Stigman teaches in the English department and serves as the faculty advisor for Loomings.

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Bridget Weigle

Digital photography 4554 x 2979 px

MariAnne

Don’t Get Me Wrong Ashley Wurtenberger ON’T get me wrong, I like small talk I like to hear about your day For just a moment, To feel a part of it Even just in reliving it With you UT, I don’t just want to hear about the weather, I want to hear how dark clouds Remind you of screened-in porches And splashes of rainfall on the roof.

I want to know Why is it you like the color blue, Because of clear afternoon skies, Because of the color of your mother’s gaze, Because of pale cobalt walls Reached by morning sun When your pajamas matched And cinnamon toast was for breakfast ON’T get me wrong.

I want to know your present But I want to know the past That made it that way, How you hope it forms into Your future.

ORE than anything, I want your scraps of memory.

The ones that stick out like Red paint on blank canvas.

Or little ones, That break the surface of your consciousness Only briefly, Speckles of dust Illuminated by passing rays of light Just for a moment.

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Taste of Summer:

musical composition and videography

Katheleen Leone

IKE work, smoke, lakes, fireflies, front porch songs, love. ~perfect~ But I would not go back.

Unhealthy Obsession

Kendra Stein

Acrylic Paing & Paper Clippings 12 x 12 IN 8

On A September Afternoon Wyatt Iseman

when I die lay me in the casket holding all the things i’ve ever held. the dear and the undear of this sweet and sour life of mine. all the jumbled up junk, bent up chords and wires, the bags of groceries on my front lawn at golden hour, and the stars that could not be held, only beheld.

the air will be sweet and light, warm and calm, and with it, so my soul. union: the heartfelt anthem of my unburdened breath, as i walk onward to be bathed in that golden glory. there will be poems welling up within me like big, fat stinging tears and bursting bubbles of gas. like long, loud sighs of relief and cries of joy amid soul-splitting laughter. all the things once hidden shall come forth bold and new and shining in the light of that golden glory.

it is when I hold these things that i feel lightest, so lay me down with them that i may dream of them as i surrender to that sweet sleep. and i’ll wake up. from one of those naps on one of those days when you rise with enchanted eyes. when all in the world has found its place. and in that moment,

it will be like rapture with angels singing alleluia! alleluia! alleluia! amen.

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Don’t Lose Your Head

Trevor Svoboda

digital art 11 X 17 in

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SLEEP

CATHERINE LONGSTAFF Sleep, a gift I often lack Ah, that this bliss would take me back!

Early to rise, and late to bed I finish my task, but inside, I’m dead.

Nodding off when I want to stay awake I long to create, but what can I make?

Floundering in the sea of weariness Trying to be put together, but man! I’m a mess I cannot stuff one more thing in my head!

Work is wonderful, but first, bed.

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Stars Above The Resting Monks

Alexander Stover digital Photography 2970 x 4485 px

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The Mystery Will McCartney breathe life into words, rounding off their edges and giving them a character that is distinctly mine. but all that is given only life will culminate only in death. the vulgar poet can shock, surprise, and provoke but his words die when he does. yet the canticles of creation, the song of songs, remain as long as there is life, any life, for them to collide with. counted words, restored countless times such is the mystery of Incarnation.

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Life and Death Hannah Maus

cemetery is more lovely than a parking lot.

I would rather see the flowers of mourners than no flowers at all.

I would rather see the backs of gravestones against a blue sky than the backs of a dozen houses.

I would rather see a child bring her small successes to her father’s grave than the gray emptiness and interminable cars.

Trees and bushes grow alongside headstones and silk flowers, cars crawl and people run down the gravel path, Bobby Caldwell provides the soundtrack to daily devastation and acceptance.

Even if I have to witness endless funerals, I like that view much more than a parking lot.

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Tulips

Rachel Pierick

Oil Painting 18 x 24 in

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Digital photography 4608 x 3070 px

Alexander Stover

Ring Box in Walnut and Oak

Talking to a Dead Wife Chuck Osborn

OUR ashes smell of fifty years of campfires, and tonight as you lay piled in an urn that could be a genie’s bottle I imagine your ghost in the smoke watching the youthful us as we camp in freezing Yellowstone on our honeymoon.

Rub a dub dub you filled me with love.

I would only need one wish.

When I fell for your fertile body I didn’t know that your voice would sing to me of green pastures and that the shifting bounce of your hips would lead me beside the still waters.

Tonight as I stir your ashes with my fingers and as tears fall like a desert squall I am pelted with your memories.

Outside, the first snow of the year silently covers scarlet oak leaves and one of your cats just dragged a half-dead dove into our bedroom.

I am so proud that you chose me.

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MESSY PERFECTION FIONA FITZGERALD

shoelaces of my childhood. Saying the meal prayer, my pigmented fingers were intertwined with my sister’s, colored as the jellybeans in my basket. We had dyed eggs the day before, dipping antique teaspoons into cups of water, vinegar, and twenty drops of wash your hands before jumping on the white sofa.

NTRODUCTION It’s early in the morning and I sneak upstairs, thankful for the extra support on the stairs so they don’t squeak like the ones at home. Though I have been staying at Grandma’s house for over a week, I must find the Betty Crocker cookbook, page 87. Sunny-side-up eggs. For the life of me I cannot remember the directions so I must look it up every day. Grandma is still sleeping, and I gently ease the frying pan out of the stack. Since she’s got the special kind, I can forget to coat the pan. The edges of the cooked eggs are less crispy this way so I don’t have to tear gross gristle from the slippery white. Then, plopped in front of Disney Channel my parents do not have, I lap up the creamy yolk the way I promised never to do in front of company.

This is one of the few times I remember my dirty hands being unacceptable, being recalled. I remember years of curious fingers. Peanut butter and honey slathered around from the adventurous effort to make my own sandwich, captured on home video, “but my hands are sticky!” Chalk and lemonade powders caked to my knuckles as our neighborhood stand sets up shop. Marker splotched from blueprinting forts we built from refrigerator boxes. Chocolate smeared from cookies we munched on for our afternoon 3:30 snack, streaking math worksheets and library storybooks. Grease mixed with sawdust from rummaging around in the garage attic and crafting with Dad. Dirt packed under my nails from planting the backyard raspberries I will later devour, returning to Mom with a half-empty ‘Tubberware’ and stained prints, though I claim I

When Grandma was alive, she hosted the best of meals. Each Easter, our family gathered and Dad would sit far from the deviled eggs I had sprinkled with a bit too much paprika. In his childhood, a food fight with rotten eggs on his family’s farm led to a man who prefers his eggs scrambled up like the untied 18

was not guilty.

2.5 µL Forward primer (10 µM stock) 2.5 µL Reverse primer (10 µM stock) 0.2 µL Taq DNA Polymerase (5 units/µL)

11 ETHODS– EXPERIMENT 1 First, 384 plastic pipette tips were hand-placed in boxes. Four (4) pipettes were used to ensure the volumes were accurate to the 0.01 µL. Next, the boxes were autoclaved so they were perfectly disinfected; the black-and-white striped tape on each box indicates 121.0 degrees Celsius under 15.0 psi was maintained for 0.25 hours. Fifteen (15) Eppendorf DNA LoBind 0.5 mL tubes were placed in a fuchsia ice cooler rack. The caps were snapped shut immediately by gloved hands to maintain sterility. Next, the code for each tube was recorded in the researcher’s notebook; this was to ensure each identical miniature clear tube was differentiable after the reactions. The tubes looked like muffin tins, but with each only holding 500 µL, muffin tins for mice down the hall. After 137 minutes of preparing materials and organizing the work station, it was 09:37 AM when pipetting commenced. Each reagent was distributed to each tube: 32.8 µL H2O, double-distilled 5.0 µL 10X Taq buffer with MgCl2 1.0 µL dNTP mix (10 mM each nucleotide) 2.0 µL Template DNA sample (10 ng-500 ng)

For 45 minutes, I am hunched over the 15 tiny tubes, triplicates of five (5) samples, squinting and depositing the clear microdroplets on the tube walls in quadrants so they don’t dare touch the other clear liquids. In order for reactions to run completely correctly, the tips nor these fractional drops can touch; should they do, I must discard the tips, those tubes, and select new sterile supplies. Once all reagents were added, the tubes were immediately recapped and inserted into the spinning mini centrifuge to mix, and then transferred to the cycler, preheated at 95 degrees Celsius, where they were treated for 150 minutes until the light turned green.

NALYSIS This work is tedious, several simple tasks taking hours to complete.

Controlling minuscule volumes of highly specified concentrations (also calculated and measured), formulaic procedures and detailed precautions and cleanliness offered up to the gods of discovery and publications -but I know it is for good reason.

Each step taken to be precise and sterile ensures the findings

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are legitimate and clear. Decades of data and informed decisions are built upon measurements, reactions, results telling the story we think they do. This logical, straightforward thinking I have further developed enables me to contribute to science.

11 My dad is the one who sets the timer. 8 minutes for perfect, gooey chocolate chip cookies.

He has it down to such a science that there’s no need check to see if a toothpick comes out clean.

My parents are opposites. My mother’s cookie dough “recipe” is inexact, breaking the rules of baking where precision allows for rising and identical batches, and it’s perfect that way.

melted it in a Revere Ware pot instead of letting the sun warm it in the white bowl. The stiffened dough allows her to check for eggshells or a screw from the hand mixer which may have wiggled loose. Should the screw sneak into a cookie, my sister will eat it anyway, discarding the metal bit. Bits of the dough disappear as it cools; we all deny snatching scoops, but neither Salmonella nor our mother has scolded us yet.

The remaining dough is baked and sometimes burned when occasionally my father misses the alarm.

Later at night, we would snatch slightly singed cookies from the upper cabinet anyways, as if the mistake would deter us from trying them again. My parents “Add some whole wheat flour or will make another batch, ‘practice some whole oats, about a cup or until we get it right’ they joke. so.” It has to be “or so” because we only use a single measuring 1 1 cup, the white one-cup one.

I’ve learned to pour flours and sugars over the sink, catching the RIAL 2 overflow, and then to raise the cup against the light, checking if it is I’ve been in lab for 187 minutes, about the three-quarters of brown now reheating an inoculation sugar to add next. Betty Crocker’s loop in case a microbe has landed suggestion for 1 tsp. of vanilla on it since I heated it 14 seconds extract is one longer splash; my ago. Selecting Salmonella enterica mother is Elizabeth and while she from the culture tube, I spread it and Betty have similar ingredients, on the slide in a circle with a 5 they have different proportions. mm diameter. After its drying, The chocolate chips, stashed heat fixing, and cooling, I allocate and yet still not quite a full bag a single Crystal Violet dye droplet. left, are dumped in. The dough 60 seconds later, distilled water is sometimes chills, depending on if used to rinse the positive stain off she forgot to thaw the butter and the slide and onto my fingertips.

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I could easily remove it with 70% ethyl alcohol, the ethanol I will later use to decolorize the peptidoglycan layer of the gramnegative bacteria. But I don’t.

In this kitchen-less moment, I’m not wearing gloves and I’m getting messy, with prints stained like the raspberry ones of my wild youth, and speckled with run-off black marker so dark they look like my finger after it has snatched rich chocolate frosting off my mother’s beater. (For quality control, of course.) She adds some more powdered sugar, adjusting it to make stiffer peaks, the plume of confectioner’s sugar making the tips of my dark chocolate hair like my mom’s salt and pepper. Then it’s perfection.

EFLECTION I must hesitate to silence the screaming thought Everything Must Be Precisely Perfect and Planned. I pause because I struggle to accept anything that’s not. The requirements from my scientific academic world have reinforced my self-inflicted constraints.

My stiff-creased mindset fits well on the science shelf, I can’t blame the strict thoughts that regiment areas of my life that don’t need it, like a mock lab report about an ongoing project, purely on a system whose process has allowed humans to progress to find electrons, sequence the entire human genome, go to the moon … and I’m stuck, hoping this tug-of-war, perfect vs. alive, doesn’t rage on forever. I feel have left the ethanol on too long on some things, the color dripping off in my life, revealing a nice bland discontributing image. In theory, it should be easy to brush off the obsession when I know it doesn’t need to be there. I wish it were so simple to add back the messy stains, I know sometimes perfection isn’t necessary but why can’t I understand that?

***** OT CONCLUSION, BEGINNING After lab, I head back to my campus house, my Grandmother’s old home. It’s 3:30, snack time, and there’s a three-quarters-full bag of chocolate chips in the cupboard, and frozen butter I will heat too much over the same stove I learned to cook on. That’s okay, I can cool the dough. Though I’ve got a few more measuring cups now, I still spill some flour on the floor and somehow sprinkle my hair. That’s okay, I can wash it. It’s the afternoon and I’m practicing flipping back to remember page 1, Relax. I’m practicing taking a little breath from precision, getting messy, and being warmed by its perfection

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Elaine Dancing

Overtoun Jenda Jr Graphite Drawing 4 x 7 in

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Shadows Can’t Hear Music Hannah Maus

sang to the shadow across the street, songs of love, of pain, of joy, of hate, played until my fingers swelled and bled and I shook with icy passion.

The shadow hunched ever lower against the white siding.

I sang until my voice grew hoarse, but still the shadow showed no sign of reprieve from its reverie. thought it must be my neighbor, the one who sits on her stoop and smokes, who is there when I leave and when I return.

I had never spoken to her, but I hoped my dim voice would carry enough at least to make her raise her head. thought of calling out to her, to ask why her shoulders hunched with such despair, when a white car drove past.

The headlights illuminated my neighbor’s stoop, and the shadow was revealed: an old grill that looked like a moonshine still and a trash bag full of autumn leaves. sat and drank my beer, rocking in the same rocking chair which rocked me to sleep as an infant, the porch boards creaking under my weight, and considered what it would feel like to die from shock.

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Come A Little Closer

Kendra Stein Digital Art 1688 x 2388 px

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Concupiscence Anna Dalton

VE found Adam and made him eat that nauseating fleshy fruit that shined with a luster, pinker than their new warmed bodies.

Eve’s eyes have turned to mirthful diamond glass and she is giddy she is the first child she is laughing because she has got out from Adam’s bearish armpit.

And when I say I want to be like Eve as I scratch crusts from my child eyes this is what I mean that I cannot breathe under your arm when you Try to make me into your rib.

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Graphite Pencil, 18 x 24 in

Emily Carstens

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Mycroft Holmes

Laugh Track: A One Act Play Tim Osborn

AUGH TRACK demonstrates

a

modern family dynamic of a young single mother, her daughter, and sister. With a relationship that is more friend than family. Gwen must justify her ways to her more traditional sister, Bernadette.

Gwen and Bernadette have differing ideals and Gwen’s daughter, Charlotte, is caught in the middle of their debate on what is best for her.

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Dear Icarus Juliet Mattingly

STEP ONE. STEP FIVE. Pick a girl that looks like the Bring her to your bed. Crush moon. You will know her by her walls in the palm of your her cracks and craters. You hand. If she protests, remind will know her by how she her how much you deserve yearns to reflect your light. this. Remind her how much She will love you the instant you love her. Remind her you you begin to pick up her saved her. broken pieces.

STEP SIX. STEP TWO. Apologize for pushing.

Cradle her face in your Promise to get better. hand. Buy her a bouquet of STEP SEVEN. roses. Kiss her broken places Repeat step five. and dust away her shame.

Reminder her no one has STEP EIGHT. loved her like you. Remind She will stay until she finds her that you are her saviour a reason to leave that makes leaving something she is and light. doing for you. You will feel STEP THREE. utterly broken, but she will Now she trusts you. She skips insist this is for the best. For like a joyful child, smiling in your best. the sun. She feels as if she has begun to heal. She creates art STEP NINE. again. Nurture her trust. It Time will pass. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks, will be useful later. sometimes years. W hen she STEP FOUR. realises that she is the sun, Draw her close to you. Brush full of her own strength and up against her boundaries. power, she will realise what Whisper in her ear how it’s you did to her. What you okay for you to touch her. It stole. won’t be like last time. She’ll relax about the little things. STEP TEN. Run. Hide. Cower.

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The Mouth of Lies

Megan McFadden Graphite 4 x 7 in

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What Is Every Woman But A Moon Named Selene?

Madeline Bruegger

T takes approximately six weeks for your epidermis to shed. I know this because I googled it in the middle of the night, when Selene greeted me with her cratered skin. I wanted to know how long it would take to replace itself – how long it would take for you to no longer linger on me. I cleaned my sheets. The poems fell off the walls. My lips began to feel less dry.

I began to discover that I too have craters, spaces o p e n i n g one by one. And I was left looking at this thing – this empty, drained, drawn out heart – and I thought to myself-

broken astronaut engines that tried to reach her and did and kept coming back because they loved the way she made them see the world. Reach for her and you will land among the stars, but what if you reach and land on your own broken back?

SHE tries to shed this skin.

She shakes around the world, asking for someone to look up and see what fills her tongue.

I began to cry out to her: Why are you traveling the same path again?

SHE never gets asked why and when she does, she does not have a response.

THIS is how we know Selene An education walks the line between a fight with the brain is Selene and that she is a woman - drained, drawn out. and a fight with everything she has ever been told about She sits suspended in a sky that everyone loves to admire herself. from below. But her craters are filled, with flags and 30

MAN discovers a new species of life and names it after himself. Man calls the collective man. Man calls the collective he.

BUT what if we were quiet?

What if we used a collective like we instead of he? What if we pointed to that thing and just listened?

BUT what if that creature lived an entire life before he noticed it? What about that planet or moon that orbited in the same circle before he caught on to its path?

WHAT if I stood in the corner and moved as the room tilted this way and that, broken astronaut engines and empty bottles and half eaten smoked skeletons smashing in on themselves. Flags tangled still whispering this is ours. We have already named her. She need not worry about gravity when she is already floating away.

MAN wonders why he is lonely and then sits in the corner of a room meant only for his naming of another he.

THIS is the time to focus on yourself but I am worried if the rug was pulled out from under my feet, what would I stand for? Only me standing in the corner of the already built room or me floating as a piece of a galaxy that is admired by the way I look through a telescopic lens?

I, beloved passenger, tilt and listen until I find shelter in her cratered skin, peeling away, asking what is my name.

CALL her by her name but do not claim ownership because you called. She existed before man noticed her. Man simply has the loudest voice most of the time.

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Living In The Shadows

Moira Hernon

Film Photography 5 x 7 in 32

But Not Really Jessica Lincoln

QUALITY A free country Based on equal opportunity Liberty and justice for all, we said.

But not really.

So we built up our schools Big and tall Full of people A place for all, we said.

But not really.

So we passed laws Not by teachers, but for teachers Not by students, but for students To fix our education system, we said.

But not really.

So we gave money Patted ourselves on the back This will do it This will solve all our problems, we said.

But not really.

And amidst all our idealistic school-building and law-passing and money-giving We lost all the children All the special, individual, beautiful children All the ones we said we were doing this for.

Because we were doing this all for them.

But not really.

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Digital Art 1144 x 780 px

John Tuttle

Colorful Marketplace

Growth

Fiona Fitzgerald Inspired by Larissa Szporluk’s “Eel”: will remain becoming, in a canyon, allowing the loaded grit water to trickle past a bulge and shape me, becoming like a developing country does in civil war, becoming though the grind, a slate of no reservations, no fear, like staggering through thickets of gummy sludge to find the cave you discover has topaz, bracing your feet against the wall to pull out the good, like bolt cutting out brilliantly blue butterflies

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Acrylic on Canvas 18 x 24 in

Olivia Benz

The Bison’s Farewell

Train to Chicago McKenna Foley

PIRES of industry dotting horizons Corroding machines spinning away for lifetimes Broken down And yet not breaking.

Nature reclaiming what was once its own Rusted metal cuts into ancient landscapes Grids imprinted into reluctant soil.

Underbellies, inner city Outskirts, abandoned.

HADOWS of what was and ideals of what could be Shrines to industry built miles high A shining nucleus orbited by ruin Grizzled ugliness faced with streamlined magnificence

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Depths

Trevor Svoboda

Digital Art 11 x 17 in

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John Tuttle

Digital Photography 6000 x 4000 px

Gazebo

Empty Things Amanda Pugh

HE world is full of empty things And yet how few will truly sing The fresh-plowed field, dirt-combed rows, Whose unsung beauty overflows Onto my blank white notebook page, Empty beyond resisting.

Y pencil carves the sacred in To a blank page with a glory hymn, With trees of color to the height Between the clouds and streams of light, Their branches all but twirling, Sending spiced leaves lifted, swirling.

R perhaps my pencil only brings Out the hidden Fullness in these empty things: Where grasses wave between each blade, There music moves and art is made.

Where sunburst clouds dissolve in blue, A brilliant rainbow in a single hue.

HE space around each veinèd leaf, The time between my heart’s strong beat— There’s mystery in these empty things That’s more than simple man can sing.

In every thing the Maker gives, That is where His poetry lives.

OW every stanza, every verse Paints vibrant colors all diverse On earth’s blank canvas clearly shows An empty field is where life grows, And that the world is but an empty space The Great Poet fills with Himself, his grace.

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Digital Photography 5184 x 3456 px

Mary Beauchamp

Spiderwebs and Sunshine

My Life:

A One Act PLay Tim Osborn Y LIFE shows the most important day in a young woman’s life. Amalia has slipped out of her wedding reception just before her first dance. She is soon greeted by her best friend Rachel. Through a brief discussion of their friendship they explore the effects others have on self identity as well what it means to have hope for a good future.

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Soda Clay 4.5 x 5.5, 2.75 x 3.5, 4 x5 in

Ranae Peterson

Soda Fire Study

Escalva

Fiona Fitzgerald

Estudio en mi casa Estudio en la biblioteca Todos los dias, Todos los fines de semana, no es diferente

My vocabulary is limited Hoy estoy cansada Estoy aburrida Soy aburrida

It reflects my limited lifestyle

Over and over we go over grammar.

Over and over I can’t understand

THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN WORK Deseo aprendar y crecer Pero no soy una estudiante escalva

to the ideasong we have been playing “¿Cuáles son tus planes para tu vida en 5 anos, 10 anos?”

Quiero viven en el momento

I only know the present tense Deseo querer aqui and escarpase la future

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Digital Photography 4967 x 3365 px

Mary Beauchamp

Teacups and Sailboats

Small Steps

Poem by Colette Taccolini Illustration by Anna Restuccia

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Poetry

Katie Berry ETTERING, swooping, naming If love or lament If sex or hatred The infinite feelings of success, Nothing more than gum on the bottom of my shoe The tragic failures of humanity, More than nothing, a beautiful bride in a white dress The man next to me on the train picks his nose I pick the man on the train as my muse For the topic of your poetry matters as much as your college major (so very much) (but also not at all) When one painstakingly puts pen to paper, pushing past possible paranoia to present alliteration Or gives a sense of rhythm Delicately describes the enriching, spine tingling, mouth watering sensations Or even brings you in so that mere ink on paper can make a sound BAM! You have poetry.

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Walter White

Emily Carstens graphite 18 x 24 in

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Self-Diagnosis Wyatt Iseman

have an itch called complacency.

T‘S like the bug bite on my shin. or the pimple on my chin.

I bite it and it blisters.

I scratch it and it scabs. am nervous for what’s next, apprehensive for what’s approaching, panicked for what’s possible have an itch called complacency.

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Musings On the Soul Cecelia Richardson

see a turtle and it appears turtle sharp in my turtle-shaped mind formed to mimic turtle-ness turtle essence in my turtle soul.

I am not a turtle But Aristotle thinks that there must be some turtle in my soul somehow if I can recognize a turtle moss-spotted green in a shallow pond and blinking slowly as if he has just received some turtle-sad news.

Perhaps his pond is drying up or his turtle eggs so fresh and full of turtle babies have just been crushed.

He closes his green-yellow turtle eye slowly so slowly to stop his turtle tears a universe of green-yellow depth hidden by a wrinkled flap of turtle eyelid.

If I can recognize this I am this.

Like recognizes like Aristotle writes Aristotle wrote (he is not writing currently) so everything that I can see

or I can think or I can feel I must somehow already be a turtle hidden inside of me.

I think of it as sharp red lines crimson strings of Fate, perhaps, that criss-cross between the turtle and me.

And everything else that I can be or I can think or I can see a star an ant a humming bee the universe inside of me everything inside of me Conspiracy of thin red threads criss-crossed throughout my heart and head I feel so big I feel so small I don’t feel anything at all.

I see a turtle With sad sad eyes and all connection is a lie.

I cannot be what that thing is I cannot feel his turtle tears I haven’t lived his turtle years I’m choking on a tangled string I’m lost, I can’t find anything And if there’s no connection there Are we all blind? perhaps just me What else does everybody see?

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Hierarchy

Alejandro Gomez

Wood Carving 12 x 12 x 31 in

Am I awake?

Am I asleep?

I pray the lord my soul to keep and squeeze my eyes against the dread I do not know what’s in my head.

Do I exist? And does the world?

Who put the turtle in my soul?

The speckled shell That long, sad blink I do not know what I should think.

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Graphite, 18 x 25 in

Olivia Benz

Inside the Box

How To Ride A Bike Claire Thoemke

CCORDING to wikiHow, learning to ride a bike takes just 12 steps (with pictures).

1. Find a suitable location I was learning how to ride a bike during the summer I turned seven. It was purple with training wheels, Mom’s was yellow with racing handles.

I rode down Third Street with Mom running behind, holding onto the seat. I thought, soon, I’ll do this on my own. Then it was the afternoon of the first day of second grade. I came home to watch a movie with my best friend Maggie on the blue couch with the missing buttons.

It was called “Camp Nowhere” – one of my favorites. I didn’t know where Mary and Christine were, but I usually didn’t. They were probably out doing older sister things.

it crashed. Until Mom collided headfirst, breaking her jaw, tearing her retina, wrecking her face. Until I went to Maggie’s house and didn’t hear anything else. I slept there for a few days; in the room she shared with Lily and Greta where the smoke detector blinked on and off on and off on and off.

3. Put on a helmet Mom said, “A bike helmet saved my life,” later. She couldn’t say anything the day it happened.

4. Go out during the day I visited her in the hospital after an eternity of three days.

She had a net over her face.

Dad asked me what kind of popsicle I thought Mom had had that morning. She opened her mouth to show me a blue tongue. I looked at my shoes.

5. Begin on a flat surface

Grandma came over to stay with me. We made homemade Dad came down the stairs and brownies, but Mom’s taste told us Mom was in an accident. better. Mom always makes the She was supposed to be training ones from the box. I stood on for a triathlon on her yellow the hardwood floor in the living bike. Maggie’s mom, Sheila, room and saw the leaves start was with her. They were biking to fall. Grandma left so Mom and a car parallel parked in could come home. front of them on Washington.

6. Adjust the bike seat I could picture the yellow bike moving until it stopped. Until Mom’s jaw was wired shut, so 2. Wear riding clothing

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she didn’t talk or eat or stay awake. Dad blended food so she could eat. One night he blended ingredients for a cheeseburger, but it smelled too bad to eat. Eventually, Mom started to lose too much weight, so she had to drink Boost. Mary said Boost is supposed to be for old people when they stop eating.

my stuffed koala bear named Mel. Mel flew all over the world, swam the oceans, rescued countless animals, knew many languages. Yet after all of his adventures, he always came home to sleep next to me. I asked for one more one more one more until we both stayed up past our bedtimes.

7. Test the brakes

We learned to help each other.

Mom would know when I needed a hug, I would know when she needed her paints, her work, her sewing. We started making a quilt. Now I use it every night, and I can usually sleep.

I felt sick every day after lunch at school. I started taking medicine so I didn’t have to miss class so much. After Mom could talk again, she read me a book about a squirrel. The squirrel’s friend, Tree, got hurt in a storm and looked different and had bandages on its branches. I don’t think we kept the book.

10. Keep your eyes straight ahead

11. Start pedaling

Mom’s eye still doesn’t shut all the way. I don’t remember how 8. Plant one foot on the ground she used to look. Or how she They stopped telling me when used to be. Mary says she used Mom had a surgery scheduled so to be different, but I’ll never I would be at school when she know how. I never tried to ride left. So I wouldn’t cause a scene. again. Sometimes people will So I wouldn’t feel her leaving ask me why. I will look at my again. shoes.

9. Start gliding

12. Dismount from the bike

Mom’s eye got better. She stopped drinking Boost. She started having more surgeries.

I didn’t sleep. Mary did the laundry for two years. Christine started breaking curfew. Dad kept driving us to school in the morning. At night, Mom started telling me stories about

I might never return to the purple bike, though she has returned to the yellow. Some days I wonder how my kids will learn. Their mom won’t know what to do. But they deserve the chance, right? Perhaps they will learn in twelve steps (with pictures).

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In Hindsight

Bridget Weigle

Digital Art, 1360 x 1700 px

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Speramus Meliora

Jay Wallace

Watercolor and Mixed Media, 12 x 18 In 56

Nostalgia

Fiona Mulholland S nostalgia the enemy Shrouded in disguise Of what was Or might have been Or perhaps what could But most likely will not be Bittersweet Sweetness lured me in Captivated, I entered But bitter was my welcome bitter my stay And my going A residue upon my lips Regret remained Withered memories Faded forgotten and few

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Digital Photography 6000 x 4000 px

John Tuttle

Pastime of Wartime

Goblin

Alexander Stover Digital Photography 4928 x 3264 px

Peeling An Orange Amanda Pugh

In a spongewax desert an oasis of joy, sweet sticky joy dripping from my fingers, my lips, down my chin from jewels—tart, fresh, bursting with hidden goodness each bite sweeter than the last like childhood until its gone and all that’s left are sticky fingers, memories of smiles that linger.

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Digital Photography 2000 x 1500 pX

Lucia Rynda

Country Life

Atchistench Atchedor Tahira Cummings

Your welcoming defilement steals my breath Steam rising from below I cannot escape your lingering scent Robust musk beneath me I inhale and we become one Your potency in my lungs A domestic charm I never asked for Hunk of my beloved home I cannot fight your surrounding warmth A mystical haze Where do you come from, o cryptic fog?

What shall I name you?

¿Cómo te llamas?

ATCHISTENCH ATCHEDOR At last we meet again Encontramos otra vez De bienvenida me robas la respiración El vapor sube de lo bajo Escapar tu aroma persistente es imposible El almizcle robusto debajo de mí Inhalo y estamos junto Tu poder dentro de mis pulmones Un encanto doméstico no deseada Hombre de mi hogar enamorado Tu calor es una batalla Una calima mística ¿De dónde eres, querida niebla críptica?

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Oil Painting 12 x 18 in

Rachel Pierick

Kansas Sunflower Field

Hands

Juliette Mattingly OOK at these hands.

When I was a little girl, These hands would catch fireflies And point at the stars.

My hands hold memories of which my mouth does Not even wish to speak.

These hands, Which have known what is it to wipe a tear from a best friend’s cheek, And carved wounds into my own skin.

Which have traced the outlines of another’s body, And have been fists clenched in outrage.

Which have braided my sister’s hair, And cradled the body of my dead daughter.

Hands which have done so much good, And yet know so much evil.

With these hands, I offer a promise of stories to come.

Of another day, Another sunset, Another joy, Another sorrow.

With these hands, I promise.

I promise I will live and look upward.

I will catch fireflies and point at the stars in awe.

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Everyone’s A Critic: A One Act Play

Written By Cecelia Richardson Directed By Emily Kinneback

N this short play, a panicked secret agent bungles his first case by mistaking a clueless restaurant critique for a senior member of the CIA. Chaos, confusion, and mozzarella sticks ensue. This production was written and staged in less than 24 hours as part of Benedictine’s Round-The-Clock Theatre Festival.

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Hurricane Ordegaard

Overtoun Jenda Jr Graphite 4 x 7 In

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You See God As Light McKenna Foley

IGHT burns, purifies, scalds Illuminates imperfection This same thing Scatters throughout the trees In the afternoon Touching (barely) the blades of grass beneath It filters through curtains in quiet mornings.

You know that you are Just an ant Under the great sun Protected by the atmosphere From the full effect of its rays.

If I knew what it was like To feel all of it I would burn up In an instant Suspended.

Flying.

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Mixed Media 8.5 x 10 IN

Megan McFadden

reaching Into the Darkness

Lost In Translation Catherine Longstaff

There is something that cannot be explained About the beauty of a writer’s own hand.

The way in which they form the letters In their own scrawl is fascinating.

There is something poetic about the way An artist can form words with ink or graphite.

When the poem is typed, Cold, hard, perfection creeps in Black, blocky letters, Branded onto screen, onto paper With the whack of keys.

What is lost in translation?

Will changing the font help?

No, still the letters are too uniform, Too normal

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Mary Beauchamp

Digital Photography 5124 x 3190 px

Bird In Flight

Magdalen

Poetry by McKenna Foley Artwork by Isabella Gumbko

Pain in my head and body as I am Dragged by my hair across the stones.

Suddenly I am left alone, circled by my shame.

Fingers point as I attempt to clothe myself.

Stones in hand, the righteous men clench their fists.

White knuckled.

Someone speaks.

A finger scraping in the dirt stirs the dust I lift my face from this same dust.

My image reflected in His eyes, He says my name.

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2048 x 2732 PX

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Outreach

Juliette Mattingly EEP gash on my forearm – An inkwell for my pen.

And if it scars, Better for it – Maybe the mark will remind me Of who I am – A broken girl drowning In a desperate mouthful of Words, choking on hope love beauty desire And yet ever numb to it all.

What my heart will not lend me, My pen will gladly share in shades of crimson, Spilling soul and blood alike, Just so maybe poorer souls will come And drink me in Like stray cats desperately lapping up milk – Just so maybe someone Reaching Reaching Reaching Will be saved.

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RBBT

Emily Scheltzbaum

Digital Photography 8 x 14 In

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The Contradictories Machine John Ward

HIS grotesque anomaly, This indestructible thing, This nightmare inducing engine is The Contradictories Machine.

Tell it your joyous moments, Let rapture from your face glow, Then weep for your innocence betrayed, The Contradictories Machine.

It breaks down your variant truth, In your certainty sows doubt, It does what it can to break you down, The Contradictories Machine.

It spoils your valiant efforts, Makes fragrant things smell sour; It only agrees when you fail, The Contradictories Machine.

Your clothes will burn like fire, Naked you will be smothered.

Ever existent, but never there, The Contradictories Machine.

Ever asleep, all life it taints, Always awake, ruining dreams, It has no will save when it wants, The Contradictories Machine.

This grotesque anomaly, This indestructible thing, This nightmare inducing engine is The Contradictories Machine.

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Spray Paint on Canvas 12 x 18 in

Jaison Barret

The Planets Beyond

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Bridget Weigle

Digital Photography 5184 x 3456 px

The Awakening

Sedona

Madeline Bruegger Her love is not soft it is the accumulation of a thousand burnt lightning-struck branches reaching for something alive or to be struck again by the light.

She will not apologize for the electricity that runs within her.

The wolf howls in the desert announcing a cry of sisterhood.

They shall cuff her hair behind the ear and whisper listen here Remember your ferocity.

Remember how you ran in the night and the sky flipped in on itself, folded you into star silk, released you to the red rock the spirit led you here back to yourself howl, baby, howl She’s the moon.

She’s fire.

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Eulogy to Notre Dame William McCartney

the dash of the in-between a case study in nonsense (or, limericks) reflection, unnamed the mystery “at the still point of the turning world” * a recognition of religiosity home stretched eulogy to Notre Dame we stood with mouths agape, holding books and coffee and homework, gathered in semicircles around screens that projected fiery fury into our little world, half a world away.

I could feel my heart drop, drop, dropping down, as my eyes searched - in vain. as history collapsed in on itself and I realized this is what it feels like to witness beauty disappear.

how long has She stood there, watching over us, as the tides of men changed, and changed again? how long has She welcomed in both the prideful and the poor gathered them in her vaulted doors, and revealed something, something more? for how many was the sight, all stone and space of towering height, enough to push Man out of shadows and into stained light? we couldn’t look away. until we could. until looking away was all we could do. so the screen went black and we scattered. * From the poem “Burnt Norton”, by T. S. Eliot

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Reniassance

Jay Wallace

Intaligo, Serigraphy, and Mixed Media 12 x 18 In 79

Benedictine Dating Culture

Megan McFadden Ink 4 x 6 IN

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Grounded

Cecelia Richardson I hate rollercoasters.

They parade at theme parks, amusement parks, fairs – constructions of steel and iron in perfect loops and swirls, captivating as dewcovered spiderwebs. To me, they speak a warning – the persistent, oft-unheeded stay away! that flies must feel as they approach an unseen arachnid. Or, perhaps, with their garish colors, it’s more like the vivid don’t touch! of a poisonous frog. The strength of their structure is disguised as a weakness, spider-spun webs of beams in crisscrossing patterns, almost delicate in their apparent fragility, seeming far too thin and brittle to support the hundreds of carts that thunder down their tracks.

but eventually I find myself at Disney World, only twelve years old, all pointy elbows and scabbed-up knees and jittering excitement at the thought of a real rollercoaster ride.

It does not go well.

I have one moment of doubt, as the seatbelt lowers over my lap and I am told to keep my arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times – one moment of wondering whether I have made a mistake, those famous last words, I have a bad feeling about this, the final thought of the fly in the spiderweb, but I don’t have time to dwell on it, because then the cart is moving and I am absolutely certain that I have made a mistake, I The perfect trap. am the fly in the spiderweb, and I am plummeting into I fall for it. Just once, but nothingness, fists tight around once is more than enough. my seatbelt, fingernails in Theme parks are few and far palms in a sweaty too-sharp between amid the pine woods mess, my mother laughing in and shimmering lakes of my the seat beside me, and I am home, so it is years before the completely in the dark, eyes opportunity presents itself, wide, mouth open, frozen in a 81

silent gasp, and I don’t know where I am going, whether the next jerk of the cart will be up or down or left or right or somewhere else entirely, somewhere unexpected, somewhere completely off the track, a new path that begins in open, unsupported air and ends with my closedcasket funeral. My mother notices that I am not sharing her laughter, yells at me over deafening wind: “Scream!

Scream so I know you’re breathing! Scream I know you’re okay!”

twisting, of helplessness – I look at my watch. Look back up. Follow the second hand around as riders rise and fall and thunder back to where they began. The ride is thirty seconds. Forty at most. Forty seconds of speed. I can handle that, right? I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

I can – I don’t do it.

It’s easy to duck out of line. It’s less easy to explain why I duck out of line, to put a name and a definition to the dread that coils in my stomach with each step I take towards that colorful web.

I breathe. I do not scream.

I am not okay.

Years later I have the chance to ride again.

Different theme park, different rollercoaster – a gaudy orange construction boasting three upside-down loops, appropriately named Corkscrew. I stand in line and try to pretend I’m sweating from the sticky midwestern humidity, not from the thought of what I’m about to do. Carts go up, go down, go upside-down, riders scream with delight as I watch and remember that feeling of climbing, of falling, of

The thing is, it’s not the speed that I dislike, or the breakneck turns, or even that exhilarating heart-in-yourmouth feeling of hurtling downwards. I can deal with speed and turns and drops. I can deal with danger.

Worse than the speed, worse than the turns, worse than the drop? Loss of control. Going up up up in a little cart with no walls and no roof and nothing but a thin cloth belt between you and the sky, pressing against shoulders and waist like the fragile ribbons that anchor

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helium balloons between earth and sky, mind blank with panic and with the terrible knowledge of an irrevocable choice –the knowledge that I have tethered myself to this fragile cart with these fragile ribbons, and nothing I can do will save me now. For the next several seconds, I am completely powerless, at the mercy of the mechanics and the engineers who have woven this metallic web, and I have one last horrifying moment to think on my choice as I teeter on the edge, as the front cars gather speed and the riptide of their momentum pulls me along and soon I am cresting the barrier between up and down, and then–

translucent and gone the very instant when I need it most.

Did you know that one of humanity’s most common recurring dreams is of falling?

Hundreds of thousands of people each year dream of dropping from nothing into nothing, hurtling down forever and ever and ever and ever and then they wake up, heart pounding, an instant before hitting the ground.

If you believe in dream symbolism, this means that hundreds and thousands of people each year feel overwhelmed and insecure in their waking life.

I don’t believe in dream symbolism. But then, I don’t dream of falling. My The speed, the breakneck nightmares, when they come, turns, heart-in-my-mouth, are of the dread of that climb, stomach-in-my-mouth, trapped, shackled, stuck, gripping the railing in front unable to move, unable of me as I open my mouth breath, unable to scream. The in a silent screaming gasp, drop never comes, no sharp and above it all, scarier impact to shock me from than the speed, scarier than my sleep. Instead, I wake the turns, scarier than the gradually, confused, dread drop, is the knowledge that lingering in my lungs as I rise anything could happen, I am to meet the day. On these not in control, this carefully mornings, with left-over panic engineered construction of still coiling in my stomach, steel could prove to be no a bottled scream still trapped more substantial than a wisp in my throat, I feel as if I of spider silk, beautiful and am still on that rollercoaster, 83

perpetually waiting for some inevitable drop, trapped between indecision and something infinitely worst.

The problem is, after I didn’t ride that second rollercoaster, after that rejection of helplessness and uncertainty and fear, I didn’t I don’t want to be trapped. I don’t want to give stop panicking. I didn’t stop second-guessing. A moment up control, to tether myself of relief was followed by hours between heaven and earth and trust nothing but a flimsy of regret, of maybe I should cord to save me. I don’t want have and I wish I hadn’t. I to trust anything to save me. sat on a bench. Watched cart Any cord, flimsy or not, can after cart drop through the loops. And I felt – something fray, can splinter, can split, and I know that I’ll never feel else. Heavy. Miserable. Stuck. secure unless I am completely I think perhaps I am not a safe, on the ground, with my creature of this earth. feet firmly planted. Solid.

I think perhaps I am not Comfortable. Controlled. meant to shackle myself to The problem is, after I the ground. rode that first rollercoaster, after that plummet into darkness and uncertainty and fear, I stood up. Stopped shaking. Caught my breath.

My fists loosened, nails leaving small white crescents in my palms, and I felt – something. Light. Elated.

Free.

I think perhaps I am not meant to be in control.

I think I hate rollercoasters.

But I hate being on the ground more.

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See Through the Chaos

Kendra Stein

Acrylic Paint and Mixed Media 12 x 12 In

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...

Madeline Bruegger it would be so much easier if someone would punctuate my life and tell me where the commas become run on sentences that must be put to rest by the undesirable period we confuse the question with the exclamation with the statement that should be what it is i do not capitalize the first word in the beginning of sentences i cannot tell the beginning from the end

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Winners WRITING

The Patricia Hattendorf Nerney Poetry Writing Award: DON’T GET ME WRONG, Ashley Wurtenberger The Thomas Ross Promising Young Writer Award: YOU SEE GOD AS LIGHT, McKenna Foley FINE ART

1st Place: TULIPS, Rachel Perick 2nd Place: SODA FIRE STUDY, Ranae Peterson 3rd Place: SPERAMUS MELIORA, Jay Wallace Honorable Mention: SHERLOCK HOMES, JOHN WATSON, AND MYCROFT HOLMES, Emily Carstens Honorable Mention: HIERARCHY, Alejandro Gomez PHOTOGRAPHY

1st Place: TEACUPS AND SAILBOATS, Mary Beauchamp 2nd Place: SPIDERWEBS AND SUNSHINE, Mary Beauchamp 3rd Place: STARS ABOVE THE RESTING MONKS, Alexander Stover Honorable Mention: LIVING IN THE SHADOWS, Moira Hernon Honorable Mention: RING BOX IN WALNUT AND OAK, Alexander Stover EXTRACATEGORICAL

1st Place: MY LIFE, Timothy Osborn Honorable Mention: LAUGH TRACK, Timothy Osborn Honorable Mention: EVERYONE’S A CRITIC, Cecelia Richardson

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Artist Index Barrett, Jaison Beauchamp, Mary Benz, Olivia Berry, Katie Bruegger, Madeline Carstens, Emily Cummings, Tahira Dalton, Anna Fitzgerald, Fiona Foley, McKenna Gomez, Alejandro Gumbko, Isabelle Hernon, Moira Iseman, Wyatt Jenda Jr., Overtoun Leone, Kathleen Lincoln, Jessica Longstaff, Catherine Mattingly, Juliet Maus, Hannah McCartney, Will McFadden, Megan Mulholland, Fiona Osborn, Chuck Osborn, Timothy Peterson, Ranae Pierick, Rachel Pugh, Amanda Restuccia, Anna Richardson, Cecelia Rynda, Lucia Scheltzbaum, Emily Stein, Kendra Stover, Alexander Svoboda, Trevor Taccolini, Colette Thoemke, Claire Tuttle, John Wallace, Jay Ward, John Weigle, Bridget Wurtenberger, Ashley 88

75 41, 45, 69 36, 52 47 30, 77, 86 26, 48 61 25 18, 35, 44 37, 66, 70 51 70 32 9, 49 22, 65 8 33 11, 68 28, 63, 72 14, 23 13, 78 29, 67, 80 57 17 27, 42 43 15, 62 40, 59 46 50, 64, 81 60 73 8, 24, 85 12, 16, 59 10, 38 46 53 34, 39, 58 56, 79 74 6, 55, 76 7