Loomings 2013

2 0 1 3 literary and arts magazine

2 0 1 3 literary and arts magazine

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everberating from their source, the sound waves of an echo mirror their origin. The sound itself lives once; it shuttles past us and eludes us. The sound escapes, but an echo captures the sound, holding it out. It is alive twice.

Poetry, too, is “like being alive twice,” as the poet Basho notes. Poetry, and all art as well, pierces human experience and holds it up – on paper, in paint, or in the pixels of a digital photograph – as a mirror to life. Through art we are re-given our vitality, and the existence that enthralls us and escapes us is present again.

Just as an echo is a unique opportunity, a chance to experience some sound again, we, as editors, hope that this edition of Loomings is a unique opportunity to experience art, that is, to experience our own aliveness again.

-Amelia

Cover Art: The World at Your Fingertips, Photograph, Amy Peredo Published by Benedictine College 1020 North 2nd Street Atchison, Kansas 66002 Materials appearing in Loomings may not be reproduced or reprinted without the 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. Cost per copy is $6.00, copies free for students.

Editor-in-chief // Amelia Christ Prose Editor // Emily Becherer Poetry Editor // Emily Ackerman Art Editor // Naomi Popp

Layout Editor // Clare Giesen Advisor // Dr. Michael Stigman

Fall by Vincent Petruccelli We saw when she came alive again when she changed her clothes, Buried deep in the closet of the seasons.

Putting on dark yellows and oranges, with a scarlet scarf thrown causally over some boughs, ignoring her annual green.

These days, we see her when we walk, tasting her crisp breath, her colors that flit in the wind We admire her new dresses of exploding color, horizon wide cheeks dabbed with golden makeup before going out for the night.

But eventually her autumn starts to fray We see hems flying loose in the air threads falling into piles dying to their color. We look away; embarrassed that her beauty is so far from when we first caught her glimpse.

As she sheds dress and petticoat to the raw ground we see her thin arms and bare trunk stark thin her limbs that shiver in the cold.

Days are cut short now; her Nakedness is just another death.

Rapid hearts full of her decline show us that we had a chance to see each leaf bright as birdsong and die in splendor as much as in death itself.

Days are cu short now; her

Nakedness is just another death.

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to see each 2

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as much as

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Human, Drypoint, Rebecca Loomis

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.

Peace and Harmony, Photograph, Amy Peredo

Brumal Nights by Blaise Hockel

I see snowflakes skating gently on the air— glass achenes shattering on pavement.

Warmth in the bowl of my pipe clinched betwixt my fingers an Indian summer sun fading, falling, bleeding out through the pines.

Despair no more on this, your longest night and solstice, sweet soul.

Gorgonizing winter, Freeze me.

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Warmth in the bowl of my pipe

Untitled, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

clinched betwixt my fingers

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Sacred Space by Evan Bradfield A sacred space—my cathedral—is burning.

The ceiling, bright redorangeyellow.

Individual flames crackle, brush against each other.

Once-green tiles held up by bark-covered pillars now flash, dying embers.

I lie flat on my back on the crunchy ground strewn with fallen leaves, old flames, such that only the skeletal black branches are visible over the brownredorange layer.

I look up to see, against a low-hanging October sky, the once mosaic-green ceiling now heated by frenzied movement.

It is fire.

Empires by Maria Heffron Lingering midst the ice-masked streets to see you clearly To force myself to comprehend, To be a fresh-mouthed critic, And I leave you slightly dazed.

I am just.

A foreigner.

What right have I to judge?

But I have walked these mirrored streets, I have tumbled ‘mongst your mottled hills, I have seen your antique Power …and I have felt You fading.

Swift, parted lips roll the tongue of your father, Strong and sure as his columns Made of stone.

Crumbling now.

And you shudder ‘neath the olive-kissed skin As the Hand who persuades your every twitch Taps your spine.

Crosses the ocean to clip your raven waves and Ropes your knees So close together that you can’t run, Can’t kneel, so You just stand still to sulk, and rust, in the warm spring rain.

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Strong and sure as his columns Made of stone. Crumbling now.

And you shudder ‘neath the olive-kissed skin As the Hand who persuades your every twitch Taps your spine.

Crosses the ocean to clip your raven waves and Ropes your knees

skin As the Hand who persuades

Sacred, Acrylic and Transfer, Clare Giesen

your every t wi t c h Taps your spine.

Crosses the ocean to cli p

your raven wave s and

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Carpe Mundum by Ean Henninger

When the Rapture came, only the dreamers were left. And by that, I do mean those of us who were literally dreaming at the time. Also, I don’t mean Rapture in the traditional, Jesus-returning, tribulation-bearing, wailing-and-teethgnashing sense, because apart from the abrupt disappearance of maybe 92 percent of the people on this planet, there was no evidence of anything that could be interpreted as supernatural activity. No aliens, either. The remaining internet users popularized the term in the short span of time after they woke up and before the internet went down, and what had just happened fit the popular description of Raptures well enough that those of us who weren’t evangelical Christians just rolled with it.

After thousands of years of people saying God would come when we least expected it, maybe God finally caught a break—a microsecond lapse when absolutely nobody on Earth was waiting for Him. You might very well count this sort of thing as a win for Christianity, and many people have tried, but in my experience, people have mostly kept believing what they want to believe, and while plenty of them did jump ship for other religions or a lack thereof, it’s all evened out.

This grand event of ours didn’t coincide with December 21st or January 1st or really any date that had previously been predicted to be the end of the world.

It didn’t even turn out to be the end of the world—I mean, we’re still here so far, and the tribulations or whatever are only what might have been reasonably expected given the circumstances. Those circumstances are that on May 4th at 1:03 p.m. GMT, the majority of people up and disappeared

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from the face of the Earth, and only those whose brainwaves were in the unique pattern of activity that we call dreaming remained. Just going off the fact that about two hours of sleep are spent dreaming, that leaves 1/12th of the world population, or about 550,000,000 people—maybe fewer, since Africa and Asia were mostly awake or just asleep in time for the Rapture. Camera footage showed us that it was all but instantaneous, with no visible effects—and no electromagnetic radiation that anyone knows of. It must have been some kind of wave, though, because it hit the Southern Hemisphere first and moved through the Northern seconds later.

It was a Thursday, not that it makes any difference. Okay, it does, because if the Rapture had happened on a Saturday at the same time, the Remainders in a few time zones might have been a lot more numerous—and a lot more hungover. As it was, those time zones did see a bump in slackers and truants and the unemployed.

The zones west of them, where the greatest possible percentage of people had been dreaming, saw the most similar demographic and occupational proportions compared to how things had been before.

REM sleep most commonly occurs close to morning, so this meant the western Americas and Pacific islands retained the most people. Insomniacs in the dream zones did not luck out, though. Neither did graveyard shift workers or college students with erratic sleep schedules.

The fact that everyone left behind shared a key unifying characteristic with an empirical basis was strangely comforting.

It took questions like whether you were a good person or whether you deserved to be left here off the table and replaced them with a simple dichotomy: either you’d been in REM sleep when the wave hit, or you had disappeared from the face of the Earth.

But I find it strangely appropriate that, whatever their pasts, whatever their origins, the dr eam er s held on to their d r e a m s .

whether you deserved to be left here off the table and replaced them with a s i mp l e d i c h o t o m y Everything else was secondary.

Coincidentally, the entirety of the band R.E.M. was left, although an armed loot scuffle killed their bass player a week later. There was a lot of violence in the days following the Rapture, probably having to do with the predictable panic and breakdown of law and order. In places where most of the people had been taken, national borders collapsed. Armies were greatly reduced or disbanded in most cases, though last I heard, what’s left of North Korea was still going at it with China and Japan. In the absence of any greater power, militias and gangs took over for a time, especially in the States, and this even after the assault weapons ban. However, perhaps because the violence was expected, everybody having been primed so well by the movies and books about massive changes to the status quo, the remnants of society got their act together pretty quickly and slowly pushed back out of the dream zones.

There were also a lot of babies. I don’t think anybody expected the babies. But apparently—and I read this in a childcare book, so it’s not just me—when babies do sleep, they drop into REM sleep almost instantly and spend maybe eighty percent of their time there. Nobody knew what to do with all of them at first, but of course we had to do something. It was that or let them die. So everyone pulled together and found solutions, although some people took matters way too seriously and formed these crazy cultish compounds aimed at safeguarding what they saw as the Last Best Hope for humanity’s survival—never mind that we could and did make more of the little buggers.

I could go on in detail about all the ways things changed following the Rapture, but honestly, what I’m most struck by is how much things stayed the same. What I

find most remarkable about this Rapture’s effects—war, religion, babies, and all—is that, in the aftermath of an inexplicable event unprecedented in our experience, the people of Earth showed a terrifically human ability to get over it and get on with life. Yes, there were extreme reactions, but there have always been extremes. By and large, the numerous things that compose our lives have turned out pretty well, and I find it almost heartening to be reminded so thoroughly that people will keep looking to the future and taking the past in stride.

I don’t pretend to assign any meaning to the fact of who was taken and who was not: everyone has the ability to dream, and it seems rather arbitrary that only those who were actually dreaming at the time should be left. But I find it strangely appropriate that, whatever their pasts, whatever their origins, the dreamers held on to their dreams. b

Typhoon, Gelatin Print, Naomi Popp

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David and Samson

by Taryn Dennis

Some days, good one, you will be David.

You will feel as though you could kill yourself a giant, a tyrant, a towering mammoth of a man, with a single flick of your well-timed slingshot, wit, or will.

Some days you will do this, and you will be King.

You will rule these days with patience and wisdom and all kinds of rightness, (until, of course, you fall to that girl on the roof, that gleam of moonlight and pale skin, and things you thought you had mastered, enemies you were so sure you’d conquered by yourself.)

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Other days, restless, you will be Samson (broken and beaten and bald) and you will be asked to pull down the pillars, Mammoths, and you will wonder how-on-God’s-green-earth-could-this-beasked-of-me? and despair.

For how can one so bent, so battered, so beleaguered and besieged, be called upon to conquer.

And you’ll stand there, no slingshot, no army, no hope, and think it folly.

But when the time comes, the strength will be given.

Veins will strain and muscles stretch and tighten and endure and spirit withstand.

And on these days, even more than your David Days, you will be made new.

And you will realize whether giants or lions or scissors, You have been cast as the Victor, wrought in the image of the great Overcomer. v to conquer.

Light Source, Acrylic, Samantha Skubal

And you’ll stand there, no slingshot, no army, no hope, and think it folly.

But when the time comes, the strength will be given.

Veins will s t r a i n and m u s c l e s s t r e t c h and tighten and endure

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Tangles by Kathryn Brown I come back to my room at night, Burdened with so many cares.

My mind is in a cloud of fog, My thoughts are knotted tight.

I run my hand over my head And find more snags there.

I ply my brush with soothing stroke, Snag. Stroke. Snag.

My thoughts unwind, As the strokes grow smoother, As I slowly brush away The tangles in my hair.

Casting a Shadow, Photograph, Catherine McDonough

The World at Your Fingertips, Photograph, Amy Peredo

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Stained Glass 2, Photograph, Madeline Boorigie

Inner Beauty Pageant by Ean Henninger He thinks her posterior superior to her inferior anterior, but her interior’s ulterior to her self ’s exterior.

v

My mind isi

a cloud of fog

#3 Collected Poems: Water Reflection

by Anna McDonald Reflections seen— Bends and twists the world beneath

My thoughts ar

knotted tigh

I run my han

over my hea

And find more snags there

I ply my brush with soothing stroke

Young Monks by E. Mulholland Young monks toddle their way to perfection Dead to the world, their resurrection Consists in looking much the same While being called a strange new name An unaccustomed autograph Destined to cap their epitaph.

Their old self ’s seen as a nonentity They strive to forge a fresh identity And sometimes wonder in their bunk, “Have I the mettle of a monk?”

Young monks grow beards to look like older Saints who lived the holy rule They don their cowls when it gets colder Not ‘cause it’s cold, but ‘cause it’s cool.

They may seem grave, with dire pomposity, But “yes” to God, true generosity Yields lighter hearts and jocular fellows.

They love the Abbot, but they’re Costellos In the abbey when things go kerplunk The probable cause is a young monk.

They work to broaden their ability Which, channeled via vowed stability, Will serve the abbey many years Though not without some silent tears, Perhaps unshed, which shall have slunk Within the soul of a young monk.

Enthusiastic, energetic, They reinvigorate ascetic Walls and bear a springtime greening, Support for older trees o’er leaning That haven’t lost that primal spunk, The aging glint of a once young monk.

Here lies the proof that God is true, His Church, though ancient, ever new.

For Peter’s bark, storm-tossed and worn, Receives fresh planking every morn, Hacked and hewn from sturdy trunks, The sacrifices of young monks…

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(October 2012, watching young monks rake leaves. St. Benedict’s Abbey Church, Atchison, KS)

They work to broaden their ability Which, channeled via vowed stability , Will serve the abbey many years

Untitled, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

Though not without some silent tears, Perhaps unshed, which shall have slunk

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think a thought, And thinking thoughts thoughtfully, I think I thought I’d think thoughts Much more thoughtful than the houghtful thinking thought. If thinking thoughts about thoughtful thoughts Is thoughtful though, I think the thoughts I th n’t that thought thoughtful? That thought must be thoughtful, I think . Since I thought a thoughtful thought, think I’ll th

I Think by David Witherow I think a thought, And thinking thoughts thoughtfully, I think I thought I’d think thoughts Much more thoughtful than the thoughts I think.

Though thinking thoughts thoughtfully Is thought to be thoughtful, I think the thoughts I think Lack the thoughtful thinking thought.

If thinking thoughts about thoughtful thoughts Is thoughtful though, I think the thoughts I think, Thoughtfully thought, ought to be thought thoughtful.

For if thoughtfully thought thoughts are thought about thought, Isn’t that thought thoughtful?

That thought must be thoughtful, I think.

Since I thought a thoughtful thought, I think I’ll think more thoughtfully, (Since thinking a thought about thoughts seems very thoughtful) And since one thoughtful thought ought not be thought, Unless that thought be thought by many thoughts, as thought ought, I think my thoughts thoughtful, As many thoughts I think, thought very thoughtfully, Think my thoughts thoughtful, Just as I thought.

v

#23 Collected Poems: Omniscient Ocean

by Anna McDonald Seas wash in New knowledge As the tides turn 16

thoughts I think . Though thinking thoughts thoughtfully Is thought to be thoughtful, I think the thoughts I think Lack th hink , Thoughtfully thought, ought to be thought thoughtful. For if thoughtfully thought thoughts are thought about thou hink more th oughtfully, ( S i n c e t h i n k i n g a t h o u g h t a b o u t t h o u g h t s s e e m s v e r y t h o u g h t f u l ) And sin

Turning, Digital Painting, Rebecca Loomis

b 17

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(top) Lucky Lady, Photograph, Amy Peredo

Childhood Secrets by Amelia Christ She slips into her giggling ear whorl drumming through her hearing.

Canals as caverns bound by a pinky-promise open sesame.

(top) Crystal, Digital Painting, Rebecca Loomis b (left) Jesus in the Arms of His Mother - Echo of Her Fiat, Graphite, Sister M. Faustina Kenney F.S.G.M. b

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Mud Sculptures, Sabina Marek

The Amputees by Taryn Dennis

There’s something to be said about people who are paid to be nice to you.

The best are magicians with courtesy, slightof-hand sympathizers who are quicker to nod and smile and “mmhmm” their way into your heart than an insurance salesman.

They sell you their empathetic kindness with more fervor than a street vendor, more suggestion than a splinterhead at a carnival.

(Come one, come all! Step right up! Five tries for three dollars! Winner every time!)

Jim sat uncomfortably on a couch in the waiting room of Journey’s Bereavement Center and End of Life Care Facility, mentally preparing himself to meet with a no-doubt painfully nice grief counselor.

Although he considered himself neither bereaved nor on a journey.

The tastefully decorated lounge had a 20

plastic cover strewn haphazardly along the ground, and on the air remained the sharp, lemony twinge of carpet cleaner. The people who on occasion passed by the small waiting area all reacted differently, some with sympathetic smiles, some solemnly looking ahead, avoiding over-sympathizing by disregarding his presence totally- as if that could aid him on his way to feeling normal again.

As if one could feel normal sitting in a waiting room next to this month’s edition of Grief Digest on the end table and “Rainy Day Classics” through the speakers.

As if one could feel normal after losing his limb. That’s what it felt like, anyway.

He could vividly remember the postamputation G.I.’s in their hospital beds, sobbing or yelling, or worst of all –quietly resigning. There is no real way to explain what that’s like, how one moment you

And then there was t h e p h a n t o m i t c h . As if it wasn’t

enough to lose

a limb, as if the are whole and intact, and the next a fundamental part of you is gone. You never thought a void could be so utterly tangible before that moment, and the only language strong enough to convey what privation feels like is unspoken and aching in the eyes of those who have lost.

And then there was the phantom itch. As if it wasn’t enough to lose a limb, as if the absence wasn’t a great enough penance, it would return to haunt you.

Eleanor had been gone for nearly four months, and he still woke up to her rolling over in bed, or heard her voice or her laugh or her irksome little cough she did when she got nervous. It was an itch Jim couldn’t scratch, an itch which, after all the hassles of the funeral and legal matters and her belongings were resolved, had grown to unbearable proportions. She was his amputated limb, and he was left void, not yelling or weeping, but simply lacking.

There is no balm you can rub on a void.

Every so often the kindly looking spectacled woman behind the reception desk would brace herself and look over toward him, smiling slightly before checking her computer screen, the clock, the front entrance, and him again.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she was nervous that one of these times she would look up and find him dead, too. These end of life care people must come to expect it around every corner, like a kindergarten teacher would expect spelling mistakes and sticky fingers.

Jim cleared the small tickle in his dry throat with a barking cough, and she looked over again, chocolaty eyes full of concern masquerading as passivity.

He swore he could hear the bell of a cash register sound somewhere in the distance as she bestowed upon him just the right amount of sympathy to fulfill her job description.

The clock ticked persistently on the

absence wasn’t wall, every third second sounding just a little louder than the others, the kind a great enough of thing that would have driven Eleanor crazy. He felt his patience slipping, every penance, it third second grating on his nerves, nails on would return to a chalkboard.

They had had four kids, he and haunt Eleanor.

The first-born, James, died as a you newborn. Looking at the tiny headstone, their shared name carved into the granite, he had seen with clear eyes his own death.

He had known what he was dealt: that someday a headstone with their name would mark his final resting place, too.

Now he wasn’t so sure. What if he lived forever, just kept going –inexplicably?

What if he saw the end of each of his children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, as he had seen the end of his wife? What if he just kept accumulating more void, losing more limbs forever until eventually he was a massive nothingness?

Maybe Journey’s Bereavement Center and End of Life Care Facility had a miracle treatment for those people, too.

His assigned bereavement counselor, a sandy blond named Tammy, turned the corner into the waiting room just then, sparing him from any further thoughts of his potential immortality. (He figured he’d never really know for sure he wasn’t immortal until he was proven wrong, anyway.) She smiled welcomingly and reached for his hand.

“Hello, Jim, sorry for the wait,” she said between perfectly rouged lips with a tone that said they were old friends and she had missed him. She held his one hand between both of hers like a politician as she shook it firmly, but not forcefully. He grunted in response and lifted himself off the couch to follow her to whatever back room in which their scheduled healing session would take place.

“It’s been a while, Jim,” Tammy 21

noted as they strolled passed a kitchen, bathrooms, and a room lined with art supplies. He felt a little guilty at having “rescheduled” their last two appointments, even though she had attempted her comment to sound non-accusatory. He would have rescheduled this one too, had his youngest not insisted on his going.

He grunted again in reply.

Her sensible heels clacked mutedly on the plastic-covered floors. “How are the kids?”

Jim realized with irritation that here a grunt would not suffice and sighed. “Good as always. Roger and his wife came by last week with their kids.”

She smiled like this was the best news she had heard all day, “And your daughters?”

He sighed again, “Beth and her family are on vacation somewhere south.

Florida, maybe? And Anne is finishing her school year before she and her husband are moving back here.”

This garnered an even bigger smile with a nod as they stepped into her cozy office. A Christmas cactus sat placidly on a shelf and several framed portraits hung on the wall above her desk, which was cluttered but organized.

She motioned for him to sit in one of the two over-stuffed brown leather chairs in the corner and picked up a notebook before continuing, “Jim, that is wonderful.

So you’ll get to spend more time with her?”

He grunted, lowering himself onto the seat.

“Can I get you anything? Water?

Coffee? Tea?” Tammy inquired. He swallowed the urge to decline, feeling that tickle in his throat, and asked for water.

As she got up to retrieve a bottle from the mini-fridge in the corner, Jim studied her for the first time. She was 45 maybe, average height, and he imagined that if you asked, her goal weight was about 20 pounds lighter. She wore an orange top tucked into 22

tan slacks with a cardigan and a floral silk scarf. Around her wrists were a watch and a chain bracelet, and her short hair revealed dangling earrings which had the look of being homemade.

She handed him the bottle and resumed her notebook and seat opposite him, “So Jim,” he held back a wince as she said his name yet again, as if every third time was slightly more aggravating, “Tell me about how you’ve been since the last time I saw you. It was Eleanor’s memorial, right?”

He nodded and cracked the seal of the bottled water as he twisted the lid, “Been fine. Got all the legals worked out. Just paying the bills. Been all fine.”

She nodded knowingly and marked something down on her paper. Her green eyes locked onto his with a surprising lack of docility, “Are you familiar with the stages of grief, Jim?”

Jim set his jaw and shook his head.

She seemed to consider him, eyes slightly narrowed, free hand toying with the sheath end of her scarf –and then continued into an explanation.

“It begins with denial…”

Jim wished his hearing hadn’t stayed.

He began to consider the portraits again, nodding every so often to show he was listening.

“It can be extremely difficult to move past this time if one isn’t open to…”

Tammy’s family was the same sandy blond as herself, except for one little red-haired girl who appeared to be the youngest. Her husband, a burly, blond man with a coppertoned beard had a kindly look, like he might be quick to laugh. Something in his face was recognizable, one of those people you swear you’ve met before, an instant best friend.

After the second picture, the man disappeared. The three children were there, the red-haired youngest losing her

Untitled, Photographs, Madison Mae Myers

chubbiness with age, even the shaggy white dog remained, always sitting on a lap looking like it was about to attempt a getaway. But the husband was gone.

Divorce, no doubt. Maybe he had left her for a younger woman. Maybe he had just decided he was done with Tammy’s extra 20 pounds.

The photographer had tried to make the hole not apparent, had tried to position them all like a normal family, but only succeeded in making the next two pictures feel off-balanced. Tammy’s smile was softer, less earnest than the first two photos.

An uncomfortable silence settled into the room suddenly, and Jim looked to the current Tammy, her crafty earrings bobbing ever so slightly. She had asked him a question.

He cleared his throat, “Pardon?”

“I was just saying that we have a wide variety of group activities available, Jim. I think you could really benefit from a group setting.”

The old man looked at his hands,

gnarled and steady, the skin graying around the rougher callouses. He had heard of their group activities, the grief sharing circles and the widows’ book clubs and the Cooking for One classes and, heaven forbid –the art therapy.

Tammy seemed to be waiting for a response, and they entered into a sort of stalemate, she determined to await his reply and he determined not to give one.

He knew what those classes and groups meant. He knew.

They meant the sharing of feelings and the mutual avoidance of direct eye contact between those in the circle, all knowing the great emptiness and knowing the unspoken truth: that one another’s presence could never satisfy the hungry void. A hundred similarly suffering strangers could not slack the craving.

And for a nominal fee you would all sit around together, gluing Popsicle sticks to cotton balls or making macaroni until you attained inner peace.

Those with the proper certification in 23

comfort would monitor you, asking leading questions and making empathetic facial expressions until someone broke, confessed their sorrow and wept before the jury of their peers. And if the prosecution was really talented they could reduce the whole court to tears, finding everyone guilty of the misery they all shared. All for the turning of a profit.

Jim looked at his counselor and wondered if they secretly worked on commission, if they were paid per tear with bonuses for every embrace.

Tammy’s lip quivered ever so slightly.

She broke her gaze, looking down at the pad of paper in her lap and chewing on that bottom lip, as if she couldn’t help it.

Although she looked nothing like her, it was a distinctly Eleanor expression, and the pain came rushing back in. It was the face she would make when she was on the verge of tears and didn’t know how to avoid it. She made that face during sad movies, when she was too embarrassed to cry. She made that face every year when they would visit James’ headstone for his birthday. She made that face when he was cross with her.

There was that phantom limb, that itch he couldn’t scratch, written on the face of this stranger.

Jim felt desperation welling in him like a tide. He had to get to higher ground, or he would drown in the waves. All he wanted was to get that look off her face, with her floral scarf and bobbing earrings, her features all wrong for the expression he knew so well.

He wanted even to console her, a gut reaction, uninvited and unwelcome.

So instead he stood abruptly. Startled, she looked up, the Eleanor look temporarily gone.

“I need a restroom.”

“Of course,” she fumbled for a moment as if she planned on escorting him, but then thought better of it, “It’s down the 24

hall to your left, just across from the art room and the kitchen.”

Jim excused himself and shuffled down the plastic-covered hallway toward the kitchen. The walls were lined with black and white portraits of the recently deprived, families and widowers and children. The only color in the pictures came from the framed portraits held on a mourner’s lap: their lost loved ones smiling so perfectly, like they were happy to be amputated, to be causing this unfamiliar void.

Eleanor was the color in his life, too.

From her hospital bed she had talked about how wonderful life was, had charmed every nurse and caregiver lucky enough to treat her. Jim would sit beside her bed and fight back the urge to pull them each aside and explain to them their great fortune. He wanted to shout at them all, to demand that they were thankful and understand the gift they were receiving. He wanted them to treat her for free, not because he couldn’t afford the bill, but because her presence was so much more valuable than their bimonthly paychecks.

And sure, they were nice to her. How could you not be nice to one such as her?

But they were nice to her also because she was the buyer and they the salesmen. Their must-have items were sympathy and care and she happened to be in the market.

Jim avoided looking into the craft room entirely, swinging open the door to the bathroom and finding himself face to face with the mirror. He looked into his tense face, his eyes severe and unfamiliar.

The girl at the sandwich shop today had tried to sell him that kindness as well, turkey on rye with a side of optimism. She was a young red-head, nineteen at the most with an eyebrow piercing, one long braid draped over her left shoulder, and a bright tie-dye t-shirt behind her deli apron. She spread the cheerfulness on thick as if she somehow knew he was no longer whole

and was convinced her congeniality would fix that.

So when his order came out wrong, he had lashed out at her and watched her freckled face fall in shame under his harsh words. He said hers was the worst service he had ever seen, that he wouldn’t stand for it. He told her he would complain to her manager and she had single-handedly lost them his business. He watched with a sense of utter glee as she shrank behind the counter. He saw the round green eyes moisten just barely as he turned to leave.

Eleanor would have hated that.

Jim washed his hands and looked at himself again. Would she recognize this look? After fifty years with a person, you come to know their face even better than you know your own, until theirs seems to be more yours than yours is. He hated to think that this storm, the caustic lines in his features, might have been familiar to her while he continually witnessed her sunshine.

She would have scolded him for how he had treated the deli girl.

But then again, he would never have treated the girl that way if Eleanor hadn’t left. What gave her the right to scold? She was the absent one. She would never have to know what losing your face felt like. Deli-girl didn’t know and that nervous spectacled receptionist didn’t know and Tammy in her artsy earrings didn’t know; and no amount of well-executed service could satisfy his emptiness.

He dried his hands and sauntered back down the hall. They had to know he wouldn’t be duped, wouldn’t be caught in their net of retail healing. They had to know he saw through the flashy advertisements.

Eleanor might be gone, but he would not succumb to this buffet therapy.

They didn’t deserve her memory.

Every third step solidified his resolve to tell Tammy what he really thought of this

whole operation.

Every third step his anger grew until it was pure and hot like refined silver, like a disinfected surgical instrument, so much more effective when sterilized with flame.

Jim could hear crying from the office, and tentatively pushed the half-closed door open to see the girl from the deli in his seat, her hands held firmly between her mother’s and tears rolling down her cheeks. He stood in the doorway, suddenly rooted to the spot as they both looked up at him.

Tammy smiled a little sheepishly, but Jim didn't catch it. He was too busy watching the face of Tammy's youngest –first shock, then shame, then sadness again. She bit her lip, like her mom -like Eleanor- and looked at her lap.

Jim had to get away from this place.

He turned and paced off, Tammy's "I'm sorry, Jim..." hanging on the air behind him.

He stopped just short of the plastic coated lobby, staring into a framed picture he had somehow missed before.

It was like the others, black and white save for that picture within a picture of the smiling loved one. Tammy’s smile was tinged with sadness like lemon on the air, with her family all around her and her framed husband in her lap. His laughing eyes shown with the color and joy his family now lacked.

Holding the shaggy white dog was an all too familiar girl, red braided hair and a face full of freckles, remnants of Eleanor in her sad smile.

Jim sunk to his knees beneath the weight of this journey and the knowledge that even if they lived forever, the years eroding the rest of them like giant canyons, they would never be rid of their damn phantom limbs. v

25

Hope by Michaela Pezza The short, sugary, soft sensation of cotton candy dissolving into your taste buds; catching the end of your favorite song on the radio; chasing after a balloon floating away.

Our laughing stops when we catch the balloon.

Landing, after flying; racing, stretching, eyeing the finish line; crossing it to line up for the next race; witnessing a flower bloom to wrinkle away into the sick soil and wait to bloom again.

I hope that one day my taste buds trap the sugar, the song plays again, our laughing echoes on, the race ceases, the flower flourishes, and the soil survives.

Yet, each bloom would not be as breathtaking if the flower’s petals had not died in between.

catching the end

of your favorite s

chasing after a b

Our laughing stop

when we catch th

L a n d i n g,

racing, stretching 26

eyeing the

d

Butterfly Blue, Drypoint Color Monoprint, Clare Giesen

song on the radio;

balloon floating away.

ps

he balloon.

, after f l y i n g ;

g, 27

When I Find You by Miguel Rangel

b

When I find you, it won’t be Forced, but Natural, flowing, smooth, like A song from the practice room of lips and throat, Now flying, long rehearsed, At last set free, this single Night, No more concerned with Intonation, but only, now, With being.

When I find you, it won’t be Artificial, but Fundamental, whole, like The dark and living earth Beneath our feet, Full of promise, Life squirming between our toes, Green and color startling forth Like sparrows through the Air.

Wh en I f i n d you, it won’ t be forced, but n a tural , fl ow i n g, s moot h , l i k e a s o n g f r o m t h e p r a c t i c e r o o with in ton a tion, b ut on ly, n ow, with bein g. Wh en I f i n d you, i t won ’ t b e ar t i f i c i al , b ut fun d am en t a l , w hol e, l i k

28

o m o f l i p s a n d t h r o a t , n ow flyin g, lon g r eh ear s ed, at l as t s et fr ee, t h i s s i n gl e n i gh t , no m o re c on c er n ed ke th e dark a nd living ea r th ben ea th our feet, ful l of promi s e, l i fe s qui r mi n g b et ween our toesg r een a n d c ol o

Colorful Music, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

b 29

Cliffs of Moher, Photograph, Stephanie Trouba

Running Through Fog

by Emily Ackerman

Time moves all too fast Yet all too slow Too fast is my heart fluttering out of control Too slow is that its destination is unknown.

My heart is floating through fog, Thinking it’s free But it’s trapped by the unforeseen, Confused in its direction.

My heart is racing, But to where?

Obscured by murky air, The path remains unseen.

Time moves all

Yet all too slow

Too fast is my h 30

Too slow is tha

Kitchi-gummi Sunrise, Acrylic, Anne Keller

Rain

by Anna McDonald

Piercing green on the trees and ground grow rich.

Standing out alive as a fairy dancing, The darkened trees, become more meaningful and mysterious Brightening and igniting my eyes, the sky and the clean, wet world around me take me to a new peace of mind; a warm cozy shield engulfs my whole being—leaving me peaceful, calm, and rejuvenated beneath the blanket; entreating my soul to the serenity and tranquility of the deserted world just outside my window.

l too fast

w

heart fluttering out of control

at its destination is unknown.

floating

31

Untitled, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

Death’s Rose by Miguel Rangel

It was a bright clear day, the day that Death came to collect Rose’s soul. He appeared behind her as she was sitting on a cliff, overlooking the sea. She was unafraid, dangling her legs over a long drop into the pounding surf that broke and re-formed and broke again on jagged, unfriendly rocks. But there she sat, bright red hair dancing in the wind as she leaned slightly forward, enjoying the brush of the sea-salt breeze on her freckle-dusted face. For a moment, he paused. It wasn’t often that he had to collect someone so in love with life.

With the ease that repetition gives, he whispered to the rock slab she sat upon.

She hardly noticed the slight crack as a fault in the rock seemed to suddenly recognize the strength of gravity. It snapped, and

32

she was thrown from her perch, but not before securing a handhold. Her wide eyes were green, he saw, as he stood and looked down at her. Suddenly she was just like the millions of others he’d seen: frightened, desperate, clutching at the last remnants of existence that he was about to rip away from their scrambling fingers. She was just another human.

“Who are you?”

He was taken aback; dumbfounded.

“I’m . . . I’m Death.”

“Well be a dear and help me up, will you?”

“You want to feel the touch of Death?”

“Well I just looked him in the face, so I don’t see how his touch could be much worse,” she grunted as she brought her elbow up over the edge.

Wordlessly, he reached down and pulled her up. Her face went pale, and she

fell in a heap at his feet.

“Thanks,” she gasped. It took a while for her color to come back.

Death sat down on the rock and looked at her.

“So you’re Death, huh? That must be a sucky job.”

“Aren’t you frightened?”

“Why? I knew you would come sooner or later. Is it time to go?”

He paused. “No. I’ll come back . . . . Later.”

She nodded. “Do you eat? Can I get you something to drink? Play some chess?”

He cocked his head, paused, and disappeared.

The next day, Death returned. Rose was sitting on the beach.

“It’s funny,” she said, not turning around. “I can feel when you get close.”

He sat down next to her. “It tends to happen once I’ve met someone.” The fresh ocean waves rumbled before them, tumbling over one another in their eagerness to get to shore, only to slink back and trip their brothers.

“What did you do with your extra day?”

“Wrote a few letters, watched the sun rise, ate a lot of chocolate.” Her laugh sparkled like a brook in the afternoon sun. “You know,” she continued, “when you came for me yesterday, your presence felt . . . familiar. And then I remembered. When I was six, I got really sick. They took me to the hospital, and I thought I saw your

shadow in the corner. I could almost understand who you were, but my parents said it was just a nightmare, and then the doctors changed my medication and I slept a lot more.”

“I remember,” he said. “I almost took you that night, but it wasn’t yet time.”

She smiled. “Will you dance with me?”

They did not speak, but he held her warm hands, and they danced through the sand and the breeze and the sunlight.

“You’ve always been here, haven’t you?” she murmured as he gently placed her pale body on the white sand, her breath coming shallow and weak, like it had to travel farther than usual.

“Yes.” “Do you ever change? Do you ever . . . get older?”

“I am old as the first sin. But I do not age, and I do not change, anymore.”

“Will it be that way for me?”

“I don’t know. I only take you to the door; I haven’t seen the other side.”

“They say that even you will die, one day.

Does that mean I’ll see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well I hope I do.”

They found her body in the afternoon.

Her lips were turned up in a little smile, as peaceful as if she’d fallen asleep in the arms of an old friend. v

Her laugh s p a r k l e d like a brook in the afternoon sun

33

Single Soldier Regiment

by Michaela Pezza

As I looked up from the table, I watched my little Papa shuffle into the kitchen: four foot, wearing blue jeans and a white shirt both too big, slippers, a white comb over fluffed up in the back, squaredoff glasses, and a shimmering smile. He plopped down in the chair across from me, and I knew what was coming: a story, but I did not mind.

As the delicate man across from me started to speak, the room darkened and grew cloudy. Distant shouts cut across the smoke. Before me, I see an open battlefield, bullets darting across the no man’s land.

Voices scatter and crisscross and fade away . . . The sweet sound of the liberty bell cracks in men’s voices as they scream and flee the scene.

One little Italian soldier, clad in the smallest uniform the army ever made, holds his ground. He clings for dear life to the chilling metal in his arms, jerking forward back forward back forward back in sync with the machine gun. He’s the primary target, the eye of the bull for the enemy to shoot. His hands vibrate convulsively as the trigger does a dance. His right eye is shut in an eternal wink as he peers through the metal ring parallel to his eyes. He refuses to run.

Seventy years later, my Nana yells at him from the other room.

“Lawrence, put ya hearing aids in!”

“Oh, yeah,” my Papa mumbles under his breath.

He stands up, pats his pockets, lifts his hands and shoulders, gives me a shining smile, laughs, and lets his hands fall.

“Now where did I put those?” he mumbles.

When we can’t find the hearing aids 34

anywhere, he quickly curses in Italian.

He waddles down the hall, and I hear the scrape of an opening drawer and the clicks of paper clips being pushed aside. He returns to the kitchen with two hearing aids cupped in his wrinkled palms.

“Now how do I put these in?” he says to himself.

He places the hearing aids in his ear and adjusts the volume. I cringe as a piercing ring proceeds from the devices embedded in his ears, but he looks at me and smiles.

His hearing has been fading for years; his memory is quickly running away like the soldiers he called friends, not even turning around to wave goodbye.

Sometimes he sits there, looking down at the ground or staring off into space in his own world. I wonder if he sees the men in uniforms, scattering all over the field like flies buzzing this way and that. I wonder if he gets the shakes in his hands from holding tight to the violent machines of war. Sometimes I cannot tell if he is sitting in front of me or behind a gun.

Some people roll their eyes when they hear his stories for the umpteenth time. My grandmother sighs and says, “Lawrence, we know.” My family and I laugh at the random and unrelated comments he makes because he cannot hear our conversations.

Though as I looked up from the table and watched my Papa rise, push in his chair, and turn to leave, all I saw was a single soldier regiment slowly shuffling down the hall. v

One little Italian soldier, c l a d i n t h e s m a l l e s t u n i f o r m t h e a r m y e v e r m a d e , holds his ground

(top) Ramshackle, Photograph, Amy Peredo (bottom) The Heart, Charcoal, Rebecca Loomis

35

I drift among the dream the dreamers, high abo

The Star Responds by Ean Henninger Whirling Earth, it is no great thing to be Shining brightly in the sky’s dark vestment, With light that does not warm, a steadfast point Burning endlessly without bearing fruit.

Better to be where you are, a lively Roiling ball of loves and deaths, redolent With signifying and significance, And impossible to take in at once.

I would give you warmth, holding your orbit With great attraction to your wellbeing, But there you could be objective no more, Viewing me as one among a million.

My heat would inevitably warm you, And you would be caught between two suns.

(top) Made to Fly, Acrylic, Rebecca Loomis (bottom) Untitled, Ceramic, Brennan Elias

36

,

,

mers Like the seeds of a dandelion I am swept up by the wind and dri ve the strong defenders and rocks of earth. I am blown about by the ov

Roots, Acrylic and Mixed Media, Samantha Skubal

I Drift Among the Dreamers by Sarah Keling I drift among the dreamers Like the seeds of a dandelion, I am swept up by the wind, And drift among the dreamers, High above the strong defenders and rocks of earth.

I am blown about by the overseers, But am beckoned back to softly whisper ideas into their ears, and dance playfully about their feet.

I scatter across the fields of creators, And guide their nimble fingers; I brush against their stems, And arrange images of kings before their senses.

As I am guided by the swaying breeze, I reach for the stars, Stretching for the horizon, But instead fall peacefully upon a blade of grass, Resting Until again I am swept up by the wind And drift among the dreamers‌ 37

Lucky Duck by Caitlyn Benedict

Looking back on that time, I wonder if I belonged in a child’s book, the kind with colorful pictures and a happy, innocent lesson learned. Perhaps, like that very hungry caterpillar or even that moose that liked to eat muffins a lot.

Perhaps I’m just a lucky duck.

As I speed down the highway, listening to jolly Christmas tunes despite weather hotter than Goldilocks’ hottest bowl of porridge, I see the sign: “Road Closed Ahead.” Being more directionally challenged than most, I simply decide that the sign lied and keep driving so that I won’t have to “recalculate.” So, I journey forward and sing as loudly and horribly as ever until a new sign catches my eye: “Road Closed in ½ Mile.” Naturally, I shrug and trek onward. The sign is obviously wrong. In ½ mile, I see only hills of grass, thrown together like tufts of green yarn, and a curving stretch of pipe cleaner-like highway. With a “look at me, I was right” kind of smirk, I proudly continue my journey until I see the next sign: “Road Closed.” This time, my path is blockaded, barrels in my way, orange everywhere, and a bridge missing half itself. This time, I turn around.

Needing to cross the bridge, I decide to pull a Nancy Drew and sleuth my way into an alternate route. I pursue the nearest possible detour, a narrow, gravel, forgotten about road, looking for someone with directions. Finally, my knight in shining armor trots toward me: a prehistoric, beat up little car, miraculously still functioning.

I guess I didn’t listen to the lesson on “stranger danger” in kindergarten. I wave it down and ask the big-as-the-Big-Bad-Wolf man for directions. “Well, uh, if ya folla me to that barn down yonder, my buddy, Willy,

38

can tell ya better’n I can.” So, of course, I follow. I need directions. At the barn (a rundown, middle of nowhere building, barely standing), three men wait for me. I walk in, sheepishly but smiley, praying to God that I’m not a goner.

A few pages later.

I’m listening to my still jolly Christmas music, past the collapsed bridge and well on my way down the road to civilization.

Upon arriving, I’m chastised for “being dumb.” Perhaps, I shouldn’t have been so lucky, and perhaps, it wasn’t the best idea, but looking back on that time, I see that bad things don’t happen in a child’s book. v

As I speed down the highway listening to jolly Christmas

tunes despite weather hotter than Goldilocks’ hottest

bowl of porridge, I see the sig

“

Road Closed Ahe

Being more directionally chal

than most, I simply decide th sign lied and keep driving so

won’t have to “recalculate.” a

y,

r

gn:

ead

�

llenged

hat the that I

around.

Chicago Skies, Photograph, Amy Peredo

39

Going West has a certain significance that p o s s e s s e s t h e

Driving into sunset; the dark-to-humming-to-faint orange glow

now leaking through the branches of far-off leafless trees

and then hidden by the brightest canopy of white clouds

that somehow measure the length of the sky,

then escaping now as a dazzle of the sun.

Untitled, Ashlyn Frederick Untitled,Photograph, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

40

b

h um a n

spiri t.

Something About Sky by Evan Bradfield The very air is weighted with a tangible color, and yet it is so brilliantly painted any attempt to capture its free beauty would fail; it would simply float up to its origin—the sky.

Atchison, Wichita; eventide in the fall on the Great Plains are the only canvases that contain this evanescent solidity of color in the air.

The red brick is vivid against the blue sky, not the blue of a sweaty summer day but of an anticipated sunset, where the color is so deep it could fill you.

The sunshine was full too, and washed over red bell towers confidently intruding in the great ocean of air that stagnantly and patiently sits above.

Behind these towers clouds amble, moving along on their pilgrimage, charted by some distant unseen wind.

Going West has a certain significance that possesses the human spirit.

Driving into sunset; the dark-to-humming-to-faint orange glow now leaking through the branches of far-off leafless trees and then hidden by the brightest canopy of white clouds that somehow measure the length of the sky, then escaping now as a dazzle of the sun.

Even after the day has had its conclusion, Driving West is not over.

The gas tank is full and spirit ready.

Go forth into that West.

41

Simplicity’s Stream, Colored Charcoal, MaryLouise Woltemath

Laughter by Jessica Scott Sometimes on this earth people come around to make us smile A grin, a show of teeth and happiness that will oftentimes last a while.

They crack a joke and you begin to chuckle You shake and you move ‘til your knees begin to buckle Your cheeks get all rosy, and you slap your thigh You roll on the floor and your voice gets high And then it bursts out with utter delight While you try to contain it with all of your might Your stomach begins to ache, the tears burn through You giggle and you laugh and there’s nothing you can do.

As you calm yourself and start to breathe in the air You cough and gasp without giving a care Laughter is a gift of joy from above A symbol for amusement and a sign of our love.

42

The stripes of his shirt

each a blue river

The Kite by Sally Feldewert I see a child who holds a kite Unfurls the fabric, shakes it out.

He lays it safely on the ground And begins to unroll the spool Carefully, like it is made of Thread, easily broken.

The stripes of his shirt each a blue river Traversing his small frame in a second The same steady blue on the patching of his kite Whose string flows from his hands Winding, without end.

Traversing his small fr

The same steady blue

on the patching of his

Whose string flows fro

Winding, without end.

I see him stand, holding the kite fully prepared.

A gentle toss and the wind catches hold.

The tether pulls taut And the blue stitched fabric meets The gentle white clouds in his vision above.

This way and that it glides With the pull of his fingers guiding.

A flock of birds pass by demanding his attention.

His eyes catch hold Like one of the flight Fallen slightly behind He watches the freedom above him His eyes, hungry and wide.

They flick back and forth, eying The patchwork of feathers, and his own dancing quilt‌ The string at full length In the breeze, the kite flaps Tethered, contained He lets go.

43

Minnesota, Late November

by Vincent Petruccelli

Ground quivering, razed and brown: a boy who has shaved his own head.

Lifeless as the ribbon on a punctured balloon.

Each blade of grass bends to gray.

The fields that bloom and burst summer fruit and crops now lay empty; cold stubbles of corn stalk humbled in the brown frost.

No symphony of being here.

Only one voice in the void, sunset arriving, Rising from the fields, that now are dead further than eye can follow One shivering strain remains, resting in the horizon’s rib cage, color streaked with this it holds, that is the palest pulse of white and red and golden orange all running All colors not of this frozen winter below, but of another world, beckoning me not to chase it or despair but to come home.

44

a punctured balloon. Each blade of grass

bends to g r a y .

The fields that

Poppies 2, Drypoint, Clare Giesen

bloom and b u r s t summer fruit and crops now lay empty; cold stubbles of corn stalk humbled in the brown frost.

45

The hazard of loving dance is that it is not gentle men crowding the room but a flock of cocks

Untitled, Photograph, Ashlyn Frederick

46

b

out in the darkness catch your ear-the sound shows truth the way sight blinds; a regal jay in appearance, not voice:

b e a u t i f u l to l o o k a t

No Dalliance Among Jays

(top) Honey Suckle, Photograph, Madeline Boorigie (bottom) Flowering Cacti Sculpture Detail, Water Based Clay and Paint, Naomi Popp

by Blaise Hockel

The hazard of loving dance is that it is not gentle men crowding the room but a flock of cocks strutting about the barnyard flashing their plumage expecting much, doing little.

Woman, cries out in the darkness catch your ear-the sound shows truth the way sight blinds; a regal jay in appearance, not voice: beautiful to look at sings a sour song beady-eyed egg thief.

47

The Patricia Hattendor f Nerney Poetr y Writing Award Miguel Rangel, When I Find You, p. 28

The Sister Scholastica Schuster Fiction Writing Award Ean Henninger, Carpe Mundum, p. 8

The Thomas Ross Award for a Promising Young Writer Vincent Petruccelli, p. 2, 44

Ar t Awards 1st: Crystal, Digital Painting by Rebecca Loomis (p. 19) 2nd: Jesus in the Arms of His Mother, Pencil Drawing by Sister M. Faustina Kenney F.S.G.M. (p. 18) 3rd: Turning, Digital Painting by Rebecca Loomis (p. 17)

Photography Awards 1st: Colorful Music by Ashlyn Frederick (p. 29 ) 2nd: Untitled by Ashlyn Frederick (p. 46) 3rd: Untitled by Ashlyn Frederick (p. 40) Poetry Judges: Dr. John Bunch, Dr. Chuck Osborn, and Dr. Eddie Mulholland Prose Judges: Sr. Judith Sutera, Dr. Daphne McConnell, Prof. Matt Ramsey, and Miriam O’Hare Art Judges: Prof. Emeritus Michael O'Hare, Kristy Kreitner, Hayleigh Diebolt, Kady Weddle, and Prof. Scott Cox.

Index of Prose & Poetry,

By Author:

Index of Studio Art & Photography,

By Artist:

Ackerman, Emily: 30 Benedict, Caitlyn: 38 Bradfield, Evan: 6, 41 Brown, Kathryn: 12 Christ, Amelia: 19 Dennis, Taryn: 10, 20 Feldewert, Sally: 43 Heffron, Maria: 6 Henninger, Ean: 8, 13, 36 Hockel, Blaise: 4, 47 Keling, Sarah: 37 McDonald, Anna: 13, 16, 31 Mulholland, E.: 14 Petruccelli, Vincent: 2, 44 Pezza, Michaela: 26, 34 Rangel, Miguel: 28, 32 Scott, Jessica: 42 Witherow, David: 16

Boorigie, Madeline: 13, 47 Elias, Brennan: 36 Frederick, Ashlyn: 5, 15, 29, 32, 40, 46 Giesen, Clare: 7, 27, 45 Keller, AnneMarie: 31 Loomis, Rebecca: 3, 17, 19, 35, 36 Marek, Sabina: 20 McDonough, Catherine: 12 Myers, Madison Mae: 23 Peredo, Amy: 4, 12, 19, 35, 36 Popp, Naomi: 9, 47 Sister M. Faustina Kenney F.S.G.M.: 18 Skubal, Samantha: 11, 37 Trouba, Stephanie: 30 Woltemath, MaryLouise: 42

Support for Loomings is made possible by financial donors and readers like you. Consequently, we, the staff of Loomings, would like to express our gratitude to those who have generously supported the production of this magazine, whether financially or by submitting literary and artistic works. In particular, we would like to thank the Benedictine College Foundation: Chairperson Howard Westerman, Jr., Kitty Belden, Mike Easterday, Jim O’Brien, Bob Reintjes, Carol Shomin, and Tom Wessels. Your enthusiasm for the arts is invaluable to us!

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