Loomings 2016 by Benedictine College

LOOMINGS I

firmly believe that anyone can create; become an artist. Finding the motivation to create is the tricky part, but the result can be breathtaking. While past editions of Loomings have established themes, this edition focused on letting the art speak for itself. Loomings was originally inspired by a novel, which was inspired by the whale. Instead of inviting you to be motivated by a theme, we chose to be inspired by you. The poet, Erin Farrell, perfectly grasped our intentions when writing, â&#x20AC;&#x153;we are art turned artists / attempting to give the world / the beauty we can no longer contain.â&#x20AC;? This edition is about what you could create. Simple, wonderful, art. We hope you enjoy this edition of Loomings, which was inspired by the individual, the artist.

-CARLEIGH GARCIA 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. Cost per copy is $6.00, copies free for students. Published by Benedictine College 1020 North 2nd Street Atchison, Kansas 66002 Cover Art: TEMPEST, 2016, Digital Painting, Claire Peterson

EDITORS

GENERAL EDITOR: CARLEIGH GARCIA

Carleigh Garcia is a Brighton, Colorado native in her sophomore year at Benedictine College. She is currently pursuing a major in English and a minor in Business Administration. After graduating in May 2018, she hopes that her education at Benedictine College, work as General Editor of Loomings, and future publishing internship will equip her with the skills necessary to embark upon a career in book editing.

POETRY EDITOR: LAURA ROMAINE

Laura Romaine is a Senior from the Chicago suburbs studying English and Secondary Education. This is her second year as Poetry Editor of Loomings. Her poetry has appeared in Loomings addition to various essays, short stories, and poems in The Raven Quill, Essai, Aisthesis, The Sigma Tau Delta Review. An avid William Wilberforce enthusiast, she hopes to continue his mission of instilling passion for truth and social justice in the world’s population through the medium of higher and secondary education.

PROSE EDITOR: MICHAELA KINYON

Michaela is a senior studying English and Secondary Education. When not reading or racking her brain over how to make teenagers excited about Shakespeare, you can find her writing or talking about life’s questions with friends. Her strange enthusiasms in life include travelling to unknown places, watching British television, and learning new skills. She is eager to bring the works of many talented writers to light in this year’s Loomings.

ART EDITOR: KATHRYN LENERTZ

Kathryn Lenertz is a junior majoring in Art with a minor in Psychology. This is her first year as the Art Editor for Loomings. Her art, and most notably her photography, has won numerous awards, and most recently, she was a published finalist in the Photographer’s Forum 35th Annual Fall Photography Contest. After graduation, Kathryn hopes to work in the graphic design industry, using her talents to convey the innerworkings of the human condition.

LAYOUT EDITOR: SHANNON BIWER

Shannon, a Junior studying Secondary Art Education, hails from the great state of North Dakota. Through her passion for visual arts, she finds herself in her first year as Loomings Layout Editor. In her continual pursuit to give of the beauty of everday life, Shannon finds herself reveling in the simple activities of watercolor painting, hiking, writing, and reading.

Dr. Michael Stigman, English department, serves as the faculty advisor for Loomings

INDEX PROSE

5 POETRY

16 FINE ART

32 P H OTO G R A P H Y

This edition of Loomings marks the 25th anniversary of two events. One, that Loomings 1991 was dedicated to the poet Robert Bly. And two, that the English department and English Club adopted Mr. Bly. Here is a version of the story, as gathered from Professors Emeriti Sr. Thomasita Homan, OSB and Sr. Deborah Peters, OSB, and supported by photocopies of adoption papers and a copy of Loomings from that year: During a 1990 visit to Benedictine College, Bly, a longtime supporter of the college, had expressed his love for the college and his wish that the English department and English Club would adopt him. This wish was received happily. As Michael Claussen, that year’s general editor, wrote in a letter to Mr. Bly, “While in spirit and love we have already considered you to be a member of our family, it is our wish to make this union public and official. “ With the help of Sr. Ellen Richardson, OSB, an attorney friend, they had papers drawn up and signatures affixed, and in a moment Robert Bly became the adopted son of the English department and English Club. On this particular visit, there’s more history to report: Mr. Bly gave a reading that was to be held in the Student Union. However, according to Sr. Deborah, prior to the reading, she couldn’t find anyone to open the auditorium doors—or any other doors, for that matter. So they made use of the only space available: the exercise room in that building. Mr. Bly later wrote a poem based on the experience, which The New Yorker published in 2006. Naturally, it is titled, “A Poetry Reading at Benedictine College in Atchison, KS,” and the opening reads, “We moved the poetry reading to the Exercise Room/For coziness.”

We wish to dedicate Loomings 2016 to the poet Robert Bly.

PROSE

The Things Your Dad Says Marie Loew A 400-pound gorilla, he says. Tell him that’s what you are, your dad says, pulling you in by your soon-to-be hips, wrapping up your persistent baby fat in his arms, and even at 8 years old, you think it’s strange advice, but when that stupid freckled boy in your class leans across his desk and whispers, F-A-T, you remember the things your dad says, and you tell him, that’s right, I’m a 400-pound gorilla, and freckles looks at you kinda funny, maybe shocked, like he forgot his next move, and when he recovers and snickers, you can see that in some small way, you beat him. Only a 97? he says, holding your report card in his hands, his eyes scanning down and up and down and up, 100, 99, 99, 100, 100, 97, 100, and you can see how his eyes snag on that 97 every time. Why don’t you have a 100 in science, too? your dad says, looking you dead in the eyes, with a smile twitching beneath his mustache, and it’s not an accusation, it’s an appeal to the nature he knows you inherited from him, the nature that made him crumple up an assignment due in five minutes because of one wayward stroke of his pen, the nature that has made you do the very same in schoolrooms 30 years later, so when you hear it, you are crushed, but you recognize the dare. Don’t have too much fun! he says, calling out to you, as he walks backwards, waving goofily, trailing behind your mother who likes to escape these partings more quickly for fear of tears. I paid for fun, but not too much fun, your dad says, and, you’re pretty sure he means that, really, you should have lots and lots of fun, so all week at camp, you remember the things your dad says, and you go swimming in the lake and beat all the boys at tetherball, and in the car ride home on Saturday, you tell him all about your adventures, and you giggle when he furrows his eyebrows in the rearview mirror and grumbles theatrically about the bill he’ll have to pay for your too much fun. You’re my favorite daughter, he says, with a cheesy grin. You play your part in this exchange, you make a big show of it, groaning, rolling your eyes, but failing to hide your identical cheesy grin, But Daaaaaad... I’m your only daughter! you say, and he recites his next line without hesitation: But you’re still my favorite! and from here, sometimes you get a big bear hug, with carpenter hands that gruffly rub your back, or sometimes you poke him in his growing gut and swiftly attack his armpits with little tickling fingers, until he howls with laughter and tickle-fights back, until you are the one, beating the carpet, screaming Uncle! at the top of your lungs, or sometimes you just look at each other. I’m sick and tired of your disrespect, damn it! he says, or rather shouts, spitting out the words so fiercely that saliva gathers in the corners of his mouth, and you become stone

stone, setting your face like flint, shaking on the inside, because you meant no disrespect, and you choose to forget this thing your dad has said, the way he has said it, and you try to remind yourself that disease changes people, that many transplant patients face major depression, in fact, it’s almost like PTSD, and while you thank God for the lungs that saved his life, you conclude that personality must be inextricably linked to the respiratory system, so when the doctors threw away his diseased lungs, they must have thrown away your real dad, too. I’m so proud of you, he says. I’m so sorry I haven’t always been the best father, your dad says, broken, between steady, mechanical puffs of oxygen, as his thin lips begin to tremble like a baby’s, and reaching out a hand, white and papery, to you, his favorite and only daughter. I love you, your dad says, and as he presses his pin-straight eyelashes together, you grasp his hand tighter, the way he used to grasp yours before you crossed a busy street, to make sure he knows that you are there, and slowly you feel his fingers relax and loosen, as you imagine him taking a step, crossing a new street without you, the world collapsing, crumbling around you, leaving you with nothing but the things your dad said.

The Salvage of the Mulciber Ben Sonnek

Whoa, here’s your coin and there’s a chair, Tell ‘em the tale again! “Ahoy Cap’n! We have an inert vessel within range!”

They say no pleas can move a captain’s heart. That may be true, but a word of treasure can certainly move her feet—Rachael Coreanda, captain of the starsweeper Athens, rose from the command chair and crossed the bridge, stopping just behind the crewman who’d hailed her. “An inert craft? An odd find for Sector 66…What do our scans say about it?” Ensign Jack enhanced the scanners to check for the particulars. “She’s named the Mulciber, sir, ID signature 201003151950. Hmm…it says that she’s a travelling forge-ship. We haven’t been hailed yet, nor have our own transmissions been responded to either, sir.” “We’re coming into visual range now, Captain,” called the helmsman. “Initiating backthrust and heaving to—stopping distance 500 yards!” The Athens groaned determinedly as the starfield outside began to slow down. The Mulciber grew onto the bridge’s visual field. She was a sight to behold – triple main engine cluster, single flying bridge, and a colossal boxlike structure that comprised the bow, undoubtedly the main forges. Not too fancy, but it was service-

able for processing slag on route from the mines to Terracentral’s main processing plants. Captain Coreanda searched the ship with her eyes. Only a few dim corridor lights were on, and the bridge was dark. All the escape capsules were gone, but the vessel appeared structurally sound. Interesting. “What records do we have on this vessel, Ensign?” Jack swiped over to a different readout. “The Mulciber is employed by Steele & Olympia Mining Company, seven years of service – all routine, apparently – before she went missing three days ago. She’s just within the statute of limitations for salvage, sir. Do you wish to deploy a boarding party?” Something still felt off. Steele & Olympia…this ship was way off course. “Since we’re within the limits, run a deep-level penetration scan,” Captain Coreanda ordered. “I want to know the ship’s environmental factors.” A few more seconds of manipulating, and Jack was rattling off some more data. “Thermal scans indicate live furnaces and central reactor, but no other signs of habitation. The ship is currently running on emergency power, but atmospheric stabilizers appear to be functioning properly. Oh, and one more thing, sir—gravity settings are default across the vessel, but in the forge room itself it’s set down to 25 percent.” The entire bridge fell silent, more than a few crewmembers casting glances at the ensign and captain. A forge with a low gravity setting—ideal for efficiently transporting and manipulating very heavy metals… Despite the hopeful faces of her subordinates, the captain still felt uneasy. It was too easy. But it was nigh impossible to hold back everyone when treasure was at hand. “Alright,” she said at last, “Bosun Pekug! Select a boarding party and outfit them in scouting armor. I’ll accompany you personally to inspect the cargo. Don’t get your hopes up, though – if the crew are gone, odds are the ore was taken long before we got here. Or something else may be wrong.” “Aw lighten up, Cap’n Corry!” shouted back the bosun (who’d selected his team long ago). “You’ve read too many books in your day. I see a waiting prize, just the turn of fortune that we need!” Oh sing me a song of the starry sea, Of a roaming salvage band, That came across the Mulciber Far from its native land. The cap’n raised her wary eye At its suspicious lull, But the comp’ny crew, they saw and knew, ‘Twas gold inside her hull! Whoa, give ‘im a drink then set it away, And tell ‘em the tale again! The hatch slid open, setting loose half a dozen lightly armored men into the Mulciber’s subsurface corridor. Bosun Pekug nodded once after checking with his portable enviro-reader, but Coreanda forestalled any further advance with a raised hand. The party froze as the captain listened…

Not a sound. Partly on edge and partly relieved, Coreanda waved forward twice. The detachment snapped on their headlamps and moved off down the dim hallway. The captain may have been attached to the old ways, sniffing and listening, but it hadn’t backfired on her yet. Soon they’d made it to the forge sector’s formidable door—an override passcode provided by Pekug removed the locks. He laid his hand on the doorlever and glanced back at the captain. She hesitated, but then nodded approval. With a crunch, the door slid aside and the squad filed onto a walkway, adjusting themselves to the lighter gravity. The Mulciber’s forge was a colossal spectacle – burning furnaces shone eerily across a lifeless scene, filling the hanger-sized bay with a crimson radiance that dully rippled off the metallic floor and walls. Twin cranes were suspended on their guiding tracks across the ceiling girders, and a few sturdy carts were scattered around the workstations and tool racks. But what captivated everyone’s attention were the crates – about a score of industrial-grade containers for transporting valuable cargo. The bosun and the other four men ran (well, practically floated) down the steps towards the stack, leaving Coreanda behind. She was still wary – the thermal scan on her own enviro-reader didn’t appear unusual, but her gut refused to let her go. There had never been a salvage this easy, and she didn’t believe nature would allow such lucky breaks now. She was certain it wouldn’t. “Yahoo!” A crewman practically dove into a crate, coming up again with a buttery-colored brick. “It’s gold, lads! It’s a gold cargo! We’re bringin’ home the money tonight, lads!” As the rest set to work prying open the other containers, the man turned around and held the brick up high for the captain to see, the light from the furnace shining on his face. Then that light went out. Accounts of what he said next are murky, but it was most likely something like this: “AAAAAAAAAA!”

So they clothed themselves with armor-plates And on her decks did slip, Creeping deep into the depths Of long-forgotten ship. And in her forges dank they found The treasure that they sought. Rejoicing, though, did then awake A creature long forgot… Whoa, I’m nae tired if yer awake, So tell ‘em the tale again!

Captain Coreanda had a balcony view of the unfolding drama—the others, less lucky, became part of it. An enormous serpentine life form flowed out of the furnace where it had been hiding, its reverberant hiss mingling with the flames it had just vacated. It was forty, maybe fifty feet in length, as big around as a transport bus, but that didn’t hamper its

easy glide through the lightweight room. Embers sizzled and fell off its blackened skin as its eye-pits locked onto the formerly exultant crewman – who was still screaming. The serpent, possibly awakened by the noise, put a stop to it most efficiently. In an unbelievably fast lunge, it leaped across the floor, swallowing down the screamer in its sucker-like maw. A yelp from another poor witness – the thing slithered over the crates towards the sound. On the way past, though, its coils brushed across Pekug who’d been standing there, shocked into silence. Not about to lose its next meal, the serpent looped its tail about the bosun while at the same time consuming the other annoyance. For a moment, Captain Coreanda was just as stunned as Pekug. The monster’s appearance had overwhelmed her with wonder, fear, shock, helplessness, despair… but as it began devouring her men, all those emotions gave way to anger. Deep, searing anger. Anger with the monster, anger with her men, anger towards herself. She saw red – and not just because of the furnaces. She was captain. These men were her responsibility. And there was no way that this was going to continue. No way in hell! Almost by instinct, Coreanda sprang towards a control panel on the catwalk. The beast was in the center of the room – she smacked a command icon, and holographic claws surrounded her hands, motion controls for the overhead cranes. She reached down and the cranes did likewise, slamming onto the midsection of the serpent. The creature squawked as it was picked up off the floor, but remembering the crewman in its coils, it reached its head around to finish the job. Coreanda snarled, squeezing tight and moving her hands apart. The crane-claws slid across the snake’s slippery skin, pulling the head away and unwrapping the tail from around the bosun. This stretching delivered an unexpected bonus – as Pekug fell into the hands of the survivors below, the serpent, with the crane claw nearing his neck, suddenly opened wide and vomited out its two previous meals. They were too shaken to scream now, but they were still alive! The other three on the floor rushed over to drag them away. The tail slid free from the first crane – sensing this, the monster began to thrash around, blocking the crew’s path back to the catwalk. Seeing this, the captain spun her hand and jabbed it out over and over. The last crane mimicked the movements perfectly, bashing the snake’s head repeatedly into the forge’s wall. The thrashing died down after about the fifth shuddering impact. “Whoa whoa, cap’n! Hold up! It’s had enough!” At the bosun’s cry, Coreanda caught a hold of herself, deactivating the crane to let the limp serpent fall to the ground. She shook her head a few times. “Is…is everyone OK?” Considering his recent brush with potential entrée-ism, Bosun Pekug seemed remarkably jubilant. “Are you kidding, Cap’n? That was fantastic! You and the Athens will be the talk of the salvage industry for ages! Unknown hostile lifeform hiding in a mark, and you engage it and emerge with all of our hands – after some of them had been eaten!” (Two slime-covered privates nodded dumbly.) “It was amazing! Now let’s get out of here before that thing wakes back up. I don’t –“ Captain Coreanda stopped him short. “No, bosun. We’re taking the gold with us – signal the Athens to pull up to a closer hatch. We did not just go through all that just to leave our reward to a monster. Now move!”

A tremendous snake slid from the flames To catch the sorry crew, It caught the bosun in its coils And ate another two. This got the cap’n pretty mad So she grabbed the thing in twain, Squeezed his crewmen out both ends And beat the beastie’s brain! Whoa, take a munch, there, that’s yer lunch, Now tell ‘em the tale again!

Captain Coreanda of the Athens took a seat in her command chair. “Shiplog, mission report: Oversaw the salvage of one forge-ship, the Mulciber, formerly employed by Steele & Olympia. Gained: twenty containers of refined gold from the vessel’s main forges. Cost: two units of scout armor have been lightly corroded, as the crewmembers were nearly eaten – in addition, minor medical and psychiatric aid have needed to be administered to most all members of the scouting party. “Incident report: During salvage, party found one animalistic lifeform that consumed two crewmembers shortly after its encounter. With some swift action, both men were retrieved from the beast, which was then rendered unconscious. Taking advantage of this, salvage crew retrieved the ship’s cargo, making back to the Athens before the creature woke up. We’ve left it alive inside the forge of the Mulciber, leaving a warning signal on the ship’s main transmitter. With luck, that should keep anyone else from so unfortunate an encounter before Terracentral can retrieve it and contain the threat. Captain out.” As she indicated the mainframe to cease recording, Coreanda noticed Bosun Pekug lingering closer than he normally did. She turned to face him, and he raised an eyebrow. “Really, cap’n? You just took our most fantastic salvage adventure of all time and made it sound, well…boring. How is anyone supposed to really feel the danger if you don’t capture it for them somehow?” “What I wrote was true, Pekug,” she replied, “which is more than I can say for whatever you’ll write about the incident. Oh, I saw you, working on something back at your station. Whatever it is, it had better not rhyme.” He smiled.

When the squiggly critter woke again It flew into a rage, But Cap’n and crew had stolen gold, And exited the stage. They say in salvage there’s a loss For every gain to you. Well, if you’re smart you’ll seize the prize And save your bosun too! Whoa, that’s the end, but we’re still here, Tell ‘em a tale again!

Mirage Laura Romaine It is a sunny day. Glittering sands shimmer endlessly across the horizon, trees swaying in the slight breeze. Glorious view. The sun glows down on Perry’s head, turning each strand a molten gold, blending him with the rich landscape. Under his feet, the sand seeps through his calluses, as if to defy the hardship that created barriers to its entry. Perry sits. He never walks when the sun is in front of him. He closes his eyes and waits for the sharp beams to move their touch away from his features. “Peregrine, where do you keep your goods?” The question burns. He can feel it under his fingernails, dark and pressing. He feels it at his back, and almost rises, confusing it for the warmth of the sun. Perry runs his fingertips through the sand to clean them; the sand is fluid. Perry’s hand withdraws before he is even conscious of the movement, the reflex reaction of his nerves responding to ghost pain. “Peregrine, where do you keep your goods?” Perry knew where his goods were hidden. The sand had helped him then. It had been cool in the night, the flames quieted by the gentle wash of moon. He heard the gentle glide of silver, the wide eyes of shock, the pressure building, a little voice silenced and buried. Perry’s neck is warm. The pain recedes. The sun is in the west. He responds in a graceful rise, stepping carefully through the heated sands. Another breeze sweeps by, cooling, and he is granted a moment of lucidity. The trees are gone. The sands sparkle. Perry knew where his goods were hidden. The wind dies in a swirl of sands, leaving him coated in a thin sheen. In the heat, Perry turns to the place where trees were scattered and water reflected sunlight in the distance. He runs from the sun. While it slowly and steadily sinks under the earth, the burn driving him refuses to dissipate. The pound of his feet brings visions, first of dark, cold cells, then of golden curls.

Perry loved gold. He’d left the golden bars behind. The cruel ones could take them. They could take them all. His hands were too rough to handle the rings and bracelets, the stories of families and the souls of friends who gave him their gold in trust, to protect. His eyes were too weak to stand the glow of the gold. He’d burned it all, let the fire drip away each face and word and travelled step. They would find only lumps of metal. They could have it. He had protected and hidden what was really precious. Perry falls. The muscles in his legs quiver and raise a violent revolt against the abuse. Without the distraction of exertion, Perry goes back. He convulses in a spasm of overwhelming stimulation. Each stroke of blade against flesh, each scream stabbing into his mind until he could not distinguish his own voice, each soft plea for release played in endless cycles. Pain was an easy thing to fight. Perry was strong, used to hardship. Instinct alone, bred in each mind like a primeval shield, taught the animal mind to cope against this typical enemy. It fought back in methodical punches against attacks until there was simply no more strength left, and body and mind exhausted into a simple death. Yes, pain and passion alone Perry could have fought. But there was a stronger thing in Perry. It heaved in response to the soft spread of hair between his fingers. It opened the iron gates of his memories when certain names were spoken. Even in the dark depths of pain, it let him see with perfect clarity and comprehension. “Peregrine, where do you keep your goods?” Blood. Burns. Brands. Perry knew where his goods were hidden. “Peregrine, where do you keep your goods?” One by one each home destroyed and cuffs chafed against, his wrists. Blows. Buffets. Brands. Perry knew where his goods were hidden. He had set his face against each fist, but heard in his battered head the soft sweet nothings of contentment, the high pitched music of giggles. They released him eventually. In their minds they had failed. They had not managed to bring Perry’s body to the limit of its endurance. What they did not know was that the fight had cost him dearly; that in exchange for preserving his life he had sacrificed his sanity. Passion and pain alone Perry could have fought, but his mind was tainted with memories of pleasure and of love. Even as his mangled body recuperated, his mind dove deeper into itself, revolving and circling in endless orbits. Perry lies in the sand. The sand is real, the heat is real, but a small still-sentient part of himself is aware he is broken. Swept away in the faulty prison of his own thoughts, he is not even aware of the heavier breeze or the cloak of storm shrouding him from the elements.

The shred of humanity that remained had lusted after a single goal. Do not let them have the gold. The gold was his to protect. It was precious. The broken part could not tell gold from gold. The desires of his mind were crossed and confused and came to rest on thoughts of his living breathing treasure. This, not the metals, was Perry’s precious gold. His gold he was given to hide and protect— And this is how Perry came to bury it. He had left the metal behind, thoroughly purified to mask the telling marks. He had taken the gold, but the human part of him would never steal it away. Reason was left behind in the blood encrusted cells. He had to keep his precious gold away from them. The thing which was most dear to him must never be sullied by their harsh, destructive hands. So he buried it. To keep them from finding it he silenced it and put it deep within the ground. The blood that had fallen was not as his had been, drop by drop, bitter slice by bitter brand. Rather, it came in one great, emptying flood, and was done. Perry sighs. His mouth fills with storm clouds. Such had been the choked breath when his feet led him eastwards, away from his carefully kept treasure. It was a simple reaction, to run from pain. Each step cutting deeper into the rift between preservation and... Perry could not remember what it meant to be a man. Instinct understood this very well. Here, it fights and struggles as more sand falls from the sky and the weight slowly crushes him, even as Perry embraces the end. With one, great, writhing movement, he impales himself into the sand, and just as quickly is covered. When the moon rose that night, the sands shimmered endlessly across the horizon. Yet under one unpretentious dune Perry’s empty body was obscured, and under another, Perry’s small golden-haired child.

Dangling from the Moon Marie Loew I tucked my child into bed and I was dangling from the moon. Fingertips gripped the soft crescent —waxing or waning, I couldn’t say—as I swung, legs flailing in slow-motion, fumbling for a foothold in the illimitable night air. Luminescent beams cascaded down all around me, but without touching me. The beams dodged me, leaving me in a hollow of darkness, though surrounded by light. I was helplessly and immeasurably finite. The world below seemed to me much like an Impressionist painting on the far wall of an art gallery, blurred dots of color, dissolving into liquid, liquid, rivers rushing, whirling, gushing, until water consumed the earth in its hunger, its lust for land. As I dangled, the stars scandalized me with stories of long, long ago, of the ageless chaos, of the repetitious cycle of human ruin. With twinkling eyes, they whispered secrets in my innocent ears. A lady approached me, dazzlingly white, formidable and fantastically beautiful. She was clothed with the sun, and she leapt from star to star, as a child leaps between stepping stones, and her skirts rustled with laughter. At last, she landed in the curve of the moon, flinging me up high, high into the deep blackness, before I sank like a feather, swayingly, into her downy lap. She looked at me, as I might have looked at my own child now sleeping soundly in bed. The lady did not speak, but pointed to the pocket in my skirt with a finger that emitted a sharp beam of light. I reached into my pocket and found my child’s shoelace, which I had forgotten earlier that day to restring through her sneaker. The lace, which at first seemed only crumpled, turned out to be badly knotted. She gestured for me to hand her the lace, but first, I set my fingers to untying, prying at the gnarled lace. Obsessed, I worked my fingers raw, until my blood went falling like rain to the earth. The lace was now 10, 50, 100 feet long, and beneath the lady’s watch, I sweated, frantically pulling and tearing, and then the lace was winding its way about my limbs, like vines on a terrace, around my waist, around my neck. The weight of it pulled me off the moon, and as I fell, its hold around my neck snapped tight, and I hung like a criminal from the gallows, gasping for breath. I thought of my dear child. Just as a blackness closer than the night was descending upon my mind like a fog, a light pierced me, then another, and another. I felt the noose around my neck loosen and disappear, and the wrappings on my limbs unraveled, falling up, until I was once again dangling, holding on to one end of the lace, suspended from the moon, where the lady sat with the lace in her luminous hands. With swift, dexterous movements, she unknotted the lace, and with each knot she undid, I was lowered slowly through the night back to earth. My child rolled over in her bed, and I kissed her little hands, watching the subtle swell and fall of the quilt that covered her tiny figure. I tiptoed to her closet where I found her laceless left sneaker. Rocking silently in the old wooden rocking chair, I threaded the shoelace through each eyelet with swift, dexterous movements, humming almost inaudibly, while the moonlight crowned my hair and danced on my shoulders and my breasts.

POETRY

The Power of Sight Heather Hineline Do you see me? Translucent, wavering Like the glassy fragile film Of a child’s bubble—fragile Like the edge of a cry Drifting away into night Which is hungry, raving and roaring And sucks in with a fierce gulp Never to collapse into saltwater pools, Dripping into silence. I am ephemeral, like a sylph Dwelling in clandestine fields, Tip-toeing like a mantis About the living dryness. Do you see me? I am glass. I am a midnight Long ago which you forgot— Perhaps too tired drunk or choice Stole the sight from your eyes. I am loneliness. I am alone. Maybe you can’t see me for the spinning. My world tilts and turns and gyrates About me: a top of purified plastic magic Spinning spinning spinning me Into nothing. Invisible.

A translucent ghost, half-dead And shoveled out like a grave. Look. Please. Try to refill the grave: Turn translucence opaque. I need you to see me, for I fade Further from possible sight With every moment, like a bubble In the wind, waiting to pop. And if I burst, blood will pour From translucent film, turning It visible, scarlet with accidental Neglect. The climax grows nearer. But if you will look, place Smudged lenses, long forgotten On your face, Acknowledge Suffering, you can love The invisible into Even vague visibility, Deserving or no. Bursts of blood can be Prevented by only one Who chooses To see.

But I am here, like a wind Which only with waning fingers Can brush a sleeping eye. I am here. Look with eyes that see— Look at this hollow Fragile shell and find within

Semantic Satiation Marie Loew When I was seven or so, maybe nine, now big enough to shower on my own, I would lock the door and let the water run til warm. My clothes were dead skin I peeled, shed like sunburn flakes in a pile heaped about my thin ankles— How fresh my nakedness underneath. Long I stared at my little frame while steam rose all around me; I looked and looked so long my face undid itself, the way a word grows unfamiliar, unspells itself before your eyes, or your ears hear a sound they suddenly don’t recognize, strange syllables clashing like cymbals, a song you know you know but you don’t know it that moment: my face in the mirror, not mine, but mine.

Day of Birth Laura Romaine I grew up in a lighter time When clouds weren’t covers for the sun. My thoughts grew slowly one by one When kisses and clasped hands in line Were signs of love and not of lust I grew up in a brighter time When knowledge came from touching leaves By eating honey, chasing bees. When sweet things could be found on vines And God was starlight, not the dust. I grew up in a clearer time When words were meant when they were said One rock could occupy my head And lift me to all thoughts sublime Or lay untouched on earth’s dry crust I grew up in a well-built time When through my body all was right I rose at morning, slept at night My house was huge, with sweet wind chimes My eyes saw silver, not the rust. The grass is rough beneath my feet Love limps without a holy heat Inside’s a wounded, human heart And verses do not end in rhyme.

Veni ad Crucem Christi Bridget Columbini I stumble into the chapel and sit at your feet with a heart full of turmoil. I look at your heart, open out of love for me, and I long. I sit here and I dream to love another, to give the gift of self to another. Yet with this desire, I must wait. For there is none to take my soul. I seek to love. Within myself, my heart is ready, ready to welcome another. I can feel the overwhelming capacity within me to give. Why then, must I sojourn further? Why must I continue searching? What would you have from me? What is your will? Here I am; I come to your heart. To find what I am missing. And at last, gazing upon your cross, I see it. Broken, you died for me. Wounded, you forgave me. Reserving nothing, you gave your all. What did I do to make you love me? I, human, have been betrayed. I, human, have often wept. I, human, remain a sinner. Strong, you held me. Caring, you soothed me. How you love me. But do I love you? Before another, I must pursue you. I do not need to wait for love. In fact, I cannot wait for love! This anguish that I feel, this pain in my soul, is not for man, but for God. So here I am. I come to your feet, weary.

I look at your heart, yearning. True love awaits, inside.

Turtle Margaret McCabe

Here it

a lump of rocky green like a piece of frozen earth that land ed and is now mov ing Slow ly and ever quietly an opal with glaci al swiftness that inches by with ab rupt

sud

den stops A steady block A pause A mo ment to

old day slipping below surface and into the watery night it

has

ved

and the hollow plunk will sound out as

deep

the water feels the weight of its shell a

pod a

porcelain bead that rolls so easily into the disturbed lake whose placid face will be dimpled into infinite smiles engulfing that the swift moving turtle is Gone

Oh, Wait. Margaret McCabe I’m on a rhyme high. Free verse had broken loose and run right out my head— right out my ears, like how everything does during summer vacation, melting away with popsicle consistency in the fervent heat of the moment. But I want to write in free-verse— I want to, I want to; I do— but my brain runs off, searching for words that sound similar in the end.

Where I’m From Olivia Hoopes I am from swans and signets From deep reflections in lily-padded lake I am from backyard bike rides where Emerald green converges into the setting sun I am from birds perching on clotheslines Little crocuses Rain and dirt and busy streets And the dark green ivy that trailed Along the wooden fence I am from St. Mary’s basement And the ancient beauty I learned there I am from nativity sets with 1,000 pieces I am from St. Anthony’s playground And the rocks on Hammonasset Beach I am from the deep, deep quiet of my art desk And the hush of falling snow I am from the strawberry plant I had to leave behind I am a puritan New England plant Transplanted on the sunny prairie Slow to blossom With roots that hold fast.

The Tale They Never Told Erin Farrell there are myths of mermaids in the mighty sea who reel sailors in with their singsong voices and suggestions of love (and maybe something more) and in a quiet horror the storytellers speak of those half-women, half-fish demons latching onto those poor, lusting souls and dragging them to their watery graves as if death is the worst fate a man could face in my fairly few years of life i have learned that to live without love is the worst fate of all so if you called me into the water with a singsong voice, hair billowing and free, i would let the sea fill my lungs and the weight of the world place pressure on my body until all life has left this impermanent resting place and i would do it for you i know you would never ask, but for you i would

Vale la Pena Victoria Masucci Tengo muchas ganas de viajar, No sé a dónde me iré, tal vez al mar. Ya conozco un país pequeño, Se llama Guatemala, el país de mis sueños. Este país está lleno de cosas malas y buenas, No es como un paradíso con reyes y reinas. Basura en la calle y no salimos en la noche, Andamos en Tuk tuk porque no tenemos un coche. Pero hay gente que no puedes encontrar en otro lugar, Son Los Chapines, que tienen ganas de trabajar. La vida acá es más sencilla, Esta vida la voy a hacer la mía. Mentiras la vida es simple, la vida también es dura. Y yo? Yo quiero buscar la cura. Aún que soy una gringa con piel blanca, Lo gritaré hasta tener una voz ronca. Con un corazón palpitante y sangre en mis venas, Vivir en Guatemala, vale la pena.

Worth the Pain Victoria Masucci I have an ache to travel, I don’t know where I’ll go, maybe the sea. I already have been to a little country, A country called Guatemala, the country of my dreams. This country is full of things good and things bad, It’s not a paradise with kings and queens. Trash in the street, and we can’t go out at night, We travel in tuk tuks because we don’t have a car. But there’s people here you can’t find in another place, They are the Chapines, always willing to work. The life here is simpler, And the life that’s lived here is what I’ll make mine. While the life here is simple, it’s also hard, And me? I want to search for the cure. Even though I’m a gringa with white skin, I’ll yell it until my voice is hoarse. With a beating heart and blood in my veins, To live in Guatemala is worth the pain.

lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a painting and youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the artist Erin Farrell we cannot create something we are not there are no tragedies without tragic characters nor forgiveness without the forgiving we create what we know we create art because we are exactly that we are splatter paint masterpieces with angry reds and melancholy blues light yellow hearts and purple soothing souls mixing to create the lows we run from and the highs we are running to we are glass mosaics whether haphazardly stacked or meticulously arranged we shine we are the words that stick in your head long after the pages have ended we are art turned artists attempting to give the world the beauty we can no longer contain we are authors writing one chapter at a time and editing as we go we are sculptors molding lessons from mistakes we are playwrights creating characters and the

filmmakers that bring them to life we are photographers attempting to capture freedom in a frame we are painters whether you paint with acrylics and oils or words or perspiration we are musicians that find balance in basses and creativity in motel bathrooms we are truly something something to be admired something to be sought after we are all our wildest dreams we are something and that is everything something to be sought after we are all our wildest dreams we are something and that is everything

To my Father, on His deathbed Marie Loew Won’t you forgive me if I haven’t cried? Just quiet now, sleep easy, breathe; I know I’ll see you on the other side. Father, have you wept, or have you tried to see how swift the night, how brief? Forgive me, if I haven’t cried. The pain comes in crashing tides, but I cling to one relief: I know I’ll see you on the other side. “Death is the end,” the world lies, but cannot crush the hope beneath, which is why I have not cried. How foolish I would be to think you’d died and drown myself in suffocating grief; I know I’ll see you on the other side. When Christ comes to collect His bride, comes in the night like a thief, it will be as if we never cried: I’ll see you on the other side.

Seashore Song Paul Imgrud I waited, my love, on the gold seashore To see the whirlpools begun by your oar To hear your whisper like you used to before, “Wait for me, oh wait for me, a-lay-a-lay-a-lay.” I saw you, my love, as you sailed away from me In your watercress boat on the star dappled sea With a word on your lips that bid me be free, But your eye beckoned, “Wait for me, oh wait for me, A-lee-a-lee-a-lee.” And oh! how the seagull cries, “Begone! Begone! Wipe the tear from your eyes.” And oh! how the ocean roars, “Go on! Go on! You cannot wait here anymore.” Come back, oh love, from wherever you are I sailed to find you both near and far, Found only lands where you left your scar, That pled, “Wait for me, oh wait for me, A-la-a-la-a-la.” Remember, oh love, how you said my name, Like it healed your heart whenever it came, Unleashing your love that could never be tame To shout, “Wait for me, oh wait for me, A-lay-a-lay-a-lay.” But oh! now the winds do mutter, “Begone! Begone! You can still love another.” But oh! now the clouds forebode, “Go on! Go on! You can’t take the ship she rode.” And oh! how my mind does implore, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Forever leave this shore.” But oh! now does her heart beat ‘cross the sea? “Don’t sigh! Don’t sigh! And wait for me, A-lee-a-lee-a-lee.”

The Horse Michaela Kinyon Look at the surface: smooth lines, hard planes, a masterpiece of geometry and genetics, thick black skin coated with colored silk. A long face ending in velvet lips sheathing ferocious teeth bared when threatened. Liquid eyes, gentle and wild. Pointed ears revolve with danger. Spine curves like a question mark to a tail flown like a battle standard. Flint hooves beneath delicate ankles. Now, strip back the skin, rip and tear it away leaving the rest. Muscles remain: brachiocephalicus, deltoideus, ventral serratus, lateral femoral fascia, trapezius, all contract, flex, extend, glide. Motors that power the magnificence.

The heart, that noble muscle, atriums, ventricles, aorta, never stops, slips, or falters. Pushes through veins and arteries life, blood, courage, vitamins. Slide back, rewind the clock, see everything slither and glide back into place. Bones bend and shape themselves back to form around organs and veins. Muscles push into place and skin folds itself over all. See the power, savage power and strength, clothed over with silk, grace, and beauty.

Rend all of that apart, moving to the bones: hard, white branches held together with cartilage and gristle cradling marrow in their rings. Large skull, long mandible, curved vertebrae, pelvis, patella, fetlock and pastern. Thirty-four ribs sheltering vital signs. Crack them open, cleave them apart, snap and splinter to see whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inside: spleen, colon, stomach, liver, and in its chest a heart.

A War on Feelings Liv Martin There is a war on feelings in this place, the only place that willingly exchanged knives for yellow roses— They act as if freight trains don’t live off fire in their bellies. —Keep it down, rationalize. Diamonds serve as better hearts. Escape the skin that covers your bones though it is, after all, what keeps you from being a skeleton.

Drumming, or Hacking Skins Nick Mitchell Rain pattered, sense in tune, Soused from thunder, in the gloom, Manufactured mist applies And soothes the sundered evening cries; Tightly clasped to the shaft, Wiry members fore and aft, Tap the tapping pad that traps Sounds slipping through his raps. Type spoken on cue, Howled responses flying true, Prophecies were prophesied In the stricken shimmering night; The piloted and pallid crowd, Enlightened by the shaken shroud; Soul meets body, sweat meets cloud, Beaten, battled, and broken browed, Taken down, Rendered down, Tears brought from frenzied frowns, Hands clattered up and around, Bringing rhyme to noiseless sound.

FINE ART

TIME FLIES, Photomontage, 10”x5”, Dr. Dennis Dunleavy

FREDERIC 2, Watercolor,11”x15”, Clare Nacanaynay

LIVING VISION, Acrylic on Canvas Paper ,4”x12”, Monica Deardruff

WHEN WE DANCE, Acrylic ,12”x24”, Marie Orsinger

BROTHER, SISTER, Acrylic,8”x13”, Olivia Hoopes

THE PULL OF MY MOON, Encaustics,5”x7”, Marie Orsinger

A HEART’S HOME, Acrylic,14”x20”, Monica Deardruff

AMELIA FEST 2015, Charcoal and Pastel,12”x18”, Galen Gossman

PICTURE THIS, Woodcut Print, 5.5”x11”, Cassandra Knigge

THE WAY, THE TRUTH, THE LIGHT Acrylic,21”x19”,Meghan Lancaster

PHOTOGRAPHY

TENSION, Digital Photograohy, Trini Crocker

TENSION, Digital Photography, Trini Crocker

STREET MUSICIAN AT PARIS OPERA, Digital Photography, Molly Cromer

IF I WERE A RICH MAN, Digital Photography, Laurence Rossi

BOYHUNT, Digital Photography, Jacqueline Marko

NIGHT DISTORTIONS, Digital Photography, Laurence Rossi

COOKING DECONSTRUCTED, Digital Photography, Trini Crocker

LITTLE QUEENS, Digital Photography, Molly Cromer

INTO THE WOODS, Digital Photography, Andrew Seaton

SEE ME, Digital Photography, Monica Deardruff

FIGHTING WITH GHOSTS, Digital Photography, Jordan Cannella

AWARDS PROSE/POETRY The Patricia Hattendorf Nerney Poetry Award: Marie Loew

The Sister Scholastica Schuster Fiction Writing Award: Marie Loew The Thomas Ross Award for a Promising Young Writer: Olivia Hoopes

VISUAL ARTS 1st: BROTHER, SISTER by Olivia Hoopes 2nd: FREDERIC 2 by Claire Nacanaynay 3rd: THE PULL OF MY MOON by Marie Orsinger Loomings Cover Competition: TEMPEST by Claire Peterson

PHOTOGRAPHY 1st: TENSION by Trini Crocker 2nd: IF I WERE A RICH MAN by Laurence Rossi 3rd: NIGHT DISTORTIONS by Laurence Rossi A special thank you to all of our judges as well: Poetry Judges: Prof. John Bunch, Sr. Barbara Mayer Prof. Eddie Mulholland, and Prof. Chuck Osborn, Prose Judges: Prof. Jamie Blosser, Prof. Daphne McConnell, and Sr. Judith Sutera Art Judges: Kristy Kreitner, Gary Rittermeyer, Katlin Marin, Susan Traffas 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 their artistic works. In particular, we would like to thank the Benedictine College Foundation: Chairperson Howard Westerman, Jr., Kitty Belden, Mike Easterday, Jim Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien, Bob Reintjes, Carol Shomin, and Tom Wessels. Your enthusiasm for the arts is invaluable to us!