Loomings Before there was Benedictine College, there was Loomings. 1968: A year of tragedy, triumph, and in Atchison, Kansas, talent. Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Junior were assassinated, the Tet offensive took place, the first manned spacecraft orbited the moon, and three people from twin colleges merged to form Loomings. Because Al Geritz of St. Benedict’s College, and Sandy Gaussoin and Mary Bailey of Mount St. Scholastica your talent has been displayed in this magazine. Though not without help from Joan Connor, the first editor of Loomings in 1955, Sally S. Flynn, Larry Haug, Constance Klapisz, Gail Angell, Devin McGhee, Mlada A. Voboril, and so many more. Art has been created and valued since the beginning of human existence, and our magazine is proud to say that we were created before the merging of our great college, which has existed for 160 years; maybe the magazine could hope to exist that long, too. The editors of this 50th edition of Loomings would like to thank all of our predecessors for acknowledging and believing in the talent that can be found at Benedictine College. -Carleigh, General Editor Cover printed by the Benedictine College Department of Art, under the supervision of Jay Wallace 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. 1
About the Editors General Editor: Carleigh Garcia
I am a senior at Benedictine College with a major in English, minor in Business Administration, and concentration in Pre-Law. This is my second year as General Editor of Loomings, where I oversee the process of advertising, editing, and producing the magazine along with four other editors. I eventually plan to work for a book publishing house as an editor, and Loomings is a great way to prepare for my future career.
Prose Editor: Alexander Stover
I am a sophomore at Benedictine College with majors in English and History and a minor in Writing. As Prose Editor, I am in charge of the selection of prose pieces, editing, proofreading, and writing small blurbs for advertising the magazine. I plan to teach at the collegiate level in either History or English and hope to publish my own works of fiction and scholarship as well. Loomings looks nice on a resume and grad school application, as well as being a great way to support the arts on campus.
Poetry Editor: Hannah Maus
I am a sophomore at Benedictine College and am majoring in English. I am involved in the theater and music departments here on campus, and I also dabble in film and art. This is the first time I have been involved in Loomings. We have received myriad wonderful submissions, many of which will be available for perusal in the following pages. I am so excited for all of our readers to enjoy this magazine, which has been lovingly compiled by my compatriots and me over the course of this school year.
Art Editor: Moira Hernon
I am a sophomore at Benedictine College and I am majoring in Art and Marketing. This is my first year as an editor of Loomings, where I manage the submissions of the fine arts and photography. One day, I would love to eventually work for an advertisement company.
Layout Editor: Jessica Yurgelaitis
I am a junior at Benedictine College and am majoring in Art with a minor in Theology. I plan on pursuing graphic design after graduating college, so working on Loomings has been a great experience. My role on the Loomings team involved designing the layout of the magazine with the submissions received.
Faculty Advisor: Dr. Michael Stigman
I like words. Here are some: Cher•ish (chĕr´ ĭsh) verb 1. To appreciate, value, and or hold in affectionate regard or as special. Ex: We cherish Benedictine College’s support of the visual and literary arts. Cre•a• tiv• i• ty (krē-ā-tĭv´-ĭ-tē´) noun 1. The ability to bring or process of bringing into existence ideas or forms, or to transform these in original ways. Ex: For fifty years, Loomings has celebrated the creativity of the Benedictine College community. Grat•i•tude (grat´-ĭ-tood´) noun 1. A conscious thankfulness, a state of ready appreciation. Ex: We want to express gratitude to all those who have played a role, at the founding of Loomings and through its many years for their persistent belief in and support of creative expression.
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About the Cover
Celebrating the 50th edition of Loomings and having a desire to honor past editions, the cover was created combining two printing methods: Commercial printing and traditional printmaking. The grayscale portion of the cover pays tribute to the previous editions by showcasing a collage of past covers and was commercially printed along with the rest of the publication. The blue accent/splash color (“Loomings 50�) was hand printed using a process called serigraphy, a traditional method with roots dating back to China, during the Song Dynasty (9601279 AD). The splash or accent color was applied one at a time by hand using pairs of people on separate screens. The application of ink in serigraphy printing is applied thicker than in commercial offset or digital printing, which results in brighter colors. Screen printing is the best option for designs that require a high level of vibrancy and contrast.
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A REAPING Maddie Bruegger
I find myself saying I will always care about people more than they care about me. Better off knowing I gave everything I had and then some. Plucked every daisy in the field and planted more flowers with nothing in return. Love is tilling the field even when the flowers do not grow. I have loved and lost and loved and lost and loved and lost, only to end up with an empty field, but weren’t those occasional flowers beautiful? Remember the time it took to grow those. Remember half those flowers live underground.
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COFFEE TABLE DAISIES, Digital Photography, 4608x3456, Michael Meixner
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GROWTH, Sculptural Ceramics, 17”x12”x21.5”, Joseph Schopp 6
MAJESTY, Plaster Sculpture, 10”x9”x4”, Claire Schroettner
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NOCTURNE PUN’CTURED Margaret McCabe
It is midnight.
The mist outside winds lithely through the air, and in the distance lilts of howling wolves echo in the distant, unknown darkness. Such music! A choir, they are—their wails are intertwining spires of incorporeal desolation. The tall stone face of the castle looms high into the vast expanse of star-speckled sky before the gaping face of the moon—full and bleeding, its pale face breathes down a chill of wind, which rustles and scurries through the space between churning wisps of gloomy clouds and where I stand—its light and breath seep through every crack, every crevice, through the cold stone of the ancient walls, and brimming all that holds it with an unearthly touch. The earth at my feet rustles gently, like gentle claws scraping themselves against the bark of skeleton trees, to the rhythmic beat of the grim aura of the nocturnal air. I stride about the desolate grounds, alone amidst my thoughts and the crisp scent of the evening past. The brooding stature of the castle behind me bears down with wings of ever deepening shadow. A sweep of black—pitched darker than Death—glides down from the looming heights to meet me. It is midnight. Tooth to fang; chest to hollow shell—a grin, a grin. What is there to say to him? All that he asks is a simple, smirking question—my blood. My blood? I gaze up, almost unsteady, into his unholy, undead eyes, and glance into them with my own twisted grin. “No fang-ks.” I say. He doesn’t ‘get’ it. I laugh. He leans forward— I die. It was totally worth it. THE END.
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Repose, Digital Photography, 2400x2392, Claire Nacanaynay
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ART’S SUMMARY Chelle Harrison There’s something magical in art That takes us far away It wraps us up and sings a song To wipe away the day It lifts us out of where we are Time and space are gone And art relieves our consciousness Of what we have and haven’t done Lovingly, it opens wide Our hearts, and then we feel The aching, itching in our soul At last begins to heal But as an artist the torture stays Scratching, tearing up inside, Our desperate minds as we create To try and stay alive.
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COTTON CANDY, Digital Photography, 6016x4016, Wesley Greer
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TO WRITE A STORY Ben Sonnek
If anyone’s asking, a ship just materialized out of some kind of sophisticated hyperspace, which is rather surprising considering that it appears to be composed of some sort of bio-organic material. It would be merely an interesting event if it hadn’t appeared right in the middle of humanity’s spacefleet, which is rather heavily armed at the moment due to the Conflict of Silence at the edge of our frontier territories, and we can’t tell if this gelatinous newcomer is also rigged for battle, so somebody had better do something quick—the Grand Admiral is kinda jumpy. If anyone’s asking, of course there’s a princess in that tower, and she keeps getting all the attention. For my part, I’m worried about the prince in the other tower approximately seven leagues away, but nobody knows in what direction relative to the princess’s tower—everyone knows where that one is. Exploration is no simple matter either; the number of dragons and safe stepping stones changes with every adventurer’s account. The part of the tale that doesn’t change is that the royal pair were imprisoned by the same antagonistic being, at the same time…for the same reason. On a related note, the prince and princess aren’t related. Heh. Ironic choice of words there. If anyone’s asking, that guy is still sitting in the alley, and it’s been three days now so someone had better check up on him. Nobody should be sitting in an alleyway in the first place, but if you have to make an uncomfortable discrimination, this guy is especially not supposed to be there. The power he hides from the world should be enough to raise him higher than the mayor of this city, but who knows how many others would suffer if he just let his abilities loose for five minutes. Consequently he’s got no idea what to do with himself and his “curse” as he calls it, and unless some ballsy passerby with advanced problem-solving skills wanders by, not much is going to change. If anyone’s asking, there is a reason for all the floating books in this library. The reason is inside one of those floating books, but the trouble with their new levitational capabilities is that the library’s organization has basically gone out the window. Also, when I say “the reason is inside one of those floating books”, I mean “the first step in uncovering the reason is inside one of those floating books.” There’s also a reason why I know this. That’s inside a different floating book. Have fun. If anyone’s asking, NO! It’s NOT easy to land a mining skiff on a comet. The scouting drone we sent didn’t do so well; its fragments are probably scattered across Hale-Bopp’s face right now, and that won’t make our landing any easier. I will say that manually piloting this cramped ship ups the ante by a teeth-grinding percentage—couple that to the fact that the comet will soon be leaving Viable Retrieval Distance, and I expect to have a total cardiac failure before the clamping skids touch down. But the minerals and alleged organic chemicals are too much to pass up. If we can pull off this mission successfully, I’ll never have to go int—hold it! We’re—hold on to—[TRANSMISSION LOST] If anyone’s asking, it’s against the law to ask questions. We know what we’re doing, and needless inquiries will slow our societal progress. Your Overseers are good, and that’s all we need to know. Glory to the Overseers. If anyone’s asking, they’re still living in the Great Suburban Wilderness. We’re not sure how they do it, so we assume that someone should be asking how. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but don’t let those clustered houses fool you—these cookie-cutter dwellings are their own 12
islands that occasionally wave at each other. By rights, our couple should have four villages to assist them, but in reality their support comes from a corporation that absentmindedly throws money in their general direction every so often. At any rate, we need someone to figure out how they do it, ‘cause frankly the entire world is stumped, and we need to figure out the secret before we scrap their whole enterprise. If anyone’s asking, the Beast is still squatting at the other end of the bridge, and it doesn’t look like he’s inclined to go away. Use this enchanted spear. They say that the Beast’s vulnerable spot is inside the center mouth-hole, so it’s a good thing you’ve been practicing your throw. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive about your broken arm. Good luck with the direct stab, then. Don’t look at me like that! The reason you even have that singular spear is the same reason that I’m four inches tall. Look, I’d tell you the story—I’ve been trying to forget it myself—but the Beast has little patience for travelers who idle on the other side of the bridge. Oop. He’s making the jump. Have at ‘im! If anyone’s asking, these stories may all be connected. If anyone’s asking, I don’t think it’s a matter of waiting for inspiration. It’s a matter of curiosity. END
DON’T LET IT GET TO YOUR HEAD, Digital Photography, 4x6, Jacqueline Marko 13
UNTITLED, India Ink and Wash, 12”x9”, Matthew Bridge
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HOME, Sculptural Ceramics, 18”x18”x1”, Joseph Schopp
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COFFEE Nina Carraway I do not remember what we did that day. The doing was not, maybe, as important As the sunlight on the small wooden-topped Cafe tables, or the exhilaration Of being out early with my dad, getting coffee. For a few moments the city had caught us up in its buzz and hum. We were citizens of the city, heir to its windy avenues of brick. Had my mother stayed with her parents, Or was she with us, sleeping late? I do not remember, Only that it was the two of us, early morning, At a table by the window warmed by sun, And that I had sugared my coffee and he had not. The cups had crossed in the process of checking out. We each took a sip, then looked at each other, then laughed.
NAPS Nina Carraway I’m not sure when we stopped taking naps together. I know that when I was four, you gave me a kitten To bribe me to stay out of your room at night. I miss the silence and warmth of your presence. Now it seems when I am nearby you cannot stop talking, not to me, But to someone you think you know, someone I have never seen. I remember Distant winter mornings, Rolling over into warmth to bask in your smell. Before I realized There is a point past which no words can reach, Before I wondered who you spoke to when you looked past my eyes. I told you last year that I was tired. You asked what I wanted to do when I came home. I said, we should take naps together. We never did until the end of the summer, after more fighting. It rained one day and the house was full of watered-shadow-blue light. You were resting, I brought you a cup of tea and lay down beside you. It took a long time to rest because you kept talking. My head was on your arm and so you should say things. Finally I asked if I could sleep, and you quieted, for a while. For an hour, I curled my body beside yours and let myself fill again with warmth. 16
ESPRESSO MUG, Ceramics, 4”x3”x2”, Danielle Medina
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THE 1911
Lucy Dahlstrom Good year for good projectiles Aim for the circle; Channel the anger. Breathe in, breathe out. Right hand wrapped around the handle Left hand wrapped around right; Let the feeling of loneliness and frustration out On to the target. Breathe in, breathe out. Feet shoulder width Crouched and ready, Like the tiger you wish you Could be around other people. Breathe in, breathe out. Finger off the trigger Until you’re ready to fire; Finger off the button in your head Until you can lose it without losing the opinions Of people, you wish you didn’t care about it. Breathe in, breathe out. Line up the sights Front one back one on the circle; Your eyes on the prize that you keep Adjusting just to get through the day. Breathe in, breathe out. Gently pull back, Five pounds it only takes five pounds; Firmly hold back It would only take a few words to lose everything. Breathe in, breathe out. Double tap; A hole in my soul fills in, A worry that I can let go; Holes appear in the center of the ring With each hole that appears from thin air. Breathe out. 18
AUTONOMOUS, Conte Chalk on Paper, 8.5”x11”, Laura Krug
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A PIANO CRASHES THROUGH ME DAILY Anna Dalton
Have you ever swallowed a piano whole? I have. Pianos never stay around long, In the polished hidden caverns with slow drips of mirth. A piano crashes through me daily, And maybe that’s the best way to live. I foolishly devour pianos at least once a day, Sometimes twice. I swallow them whole off a bronze spoon, Shuffling the keys in through a chain-linked smile. Have you ever heard a piano crash through levels and levels and levels? I have. Pianos crash through at least once a day, Sometimes twice. The crunch the bang the striking cords. Have you ever seen the remains of a piano? I have. The sleek powerful frame collapsed in splinters and splinters and splinters. I slurp in the destruction with glee. No matter, There will be a new piano come tomorrow. A piano crashes through me daily, And maybe that’s the best way to live.
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SIOG CAORANN, Ink, 5”x5.75”, Margaret McCabe
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UNTITLED, Mixed Media, 11”x17”, Olivia Wagner 22
THE WATCHER Tom Hoopes
The Bridge Watcher waited in the darkness on his bunk. If he moved, the bunk would squeak. But he never moved. He was trained to be still. Trained to wait. Trained to stand all day in the sun on the bridge. Trained to lay deep in sleep all night. But tonight, he was awake.
The dad uncomfortably gripped his seat as the bus rumbled through the Egyptian roadways. He was wearing knee-length cargo shorts and a blue shirt that said “Iowa,” which is where he was from. “Hey, look at that!” he said, pointing to a man leading a long line of camels through the desert. His son glanced out the window but didn’t even turn his head. He was listening to his headphones, but his dad’s remark came between songs. “Camels,” he said. “Yes!” the dad said eagerly. Hearing his son respond to him energized him. “Camels!” His son wore a black shirt with a hideous green and gray skeleton face on it. His shirt said “Mr. Mayhem.” The bus lurched forward. When the wakeup siren sounded, he was the first on his feet. Then he heard the other cots squeaking around him. He would be on the bridge that day, but it wouldn’t be like all the other days. All the other days he just stood. All the other days he never moved. All the other days he only waited. But not today. A woman behind the father and son noisily opened a kabob. The smell of onions and eastern spices burst into the air. “Are you hungry?” asked the dad. His son didn’t hear him over the noise in his headphones, but the tour guide seemed to respond. “Only one more stop before lunchtime!” she said into the sound system. She was a young Egyptian woman with long hair and a British accent. “We will be stopping soon at the famous Al-Tal Bridge. Be sure to see the famous Bridge Watchers. They are Egypt’s answer to the Guards of Buckingham Palace. You won’t see them move a muscle. They have it easier, though: Their faces are entirely covered. But don’t be fooled. These are battle-trained warriors, and the swords at their sides are sharp.” Another father and son sat a few rows up, on the other side of the aisle. These two were from Austria, and the boy was much younger: nine instead of sixteen. The Austrian boy raised his hand. “How can they be watchers if their eyes are covered?” he asked in English. “I was getting to that!” said the guide. “You will see words carved over the bridge in Egyptian Arabic. They say, ‘Watch not with your eyes.’” “They watch with their spirits,” said the Austrian dad. 23
The tour guide looked at him doubtfully. “They wait for their captain’s command,” she corrected. The Iowa dad nudged his son. “Hey, they’re in our book!” he said, pointing to a page in a guidebook. “You want to read about the Bridge Watchers?” The boy had turned off his headphones to hear about lunch. He glanced at the page, but soon pushed it aside. “What do you think we’ll eat?” he asked. Throughout the morning, he waited on the bridge. The time was not right. Not yet. He was trained to stand still. He could practically sleep standing still. The Bridge Watchers perfected a kind of trance. They didn’t even sweat. But today was different. Today he had to force himself not to move. Today, he could feel trails of perspiration trickling past his ears. The tourists filed off the bus and stood behind their guide. She held up a yellow handkerchief to help them pick her out of the crowd of locals and tourists pushing past. The bridge was like an open market, with merchants selling tourist items — Bridge Watcher t-shirts and postcards — along with rugs and scarves and food. The Iowa dad found the Austrian dad and showed him his book. “They have the Bridge Watchers in here,” he said. The Austrian looked uncomprehending. “For your son to read,” explained the dad. “Ah,” he said, and handed it to the boy, who read it voraciously. “Follow me,” said the tour guide. “We will walk right past the Bridge-Watchers so you can get a good look. You are free to take pictures, but please don’t touch them!” They followed her bobbing handkerchief through the throng. An alarm louder than the wakeup siren was ringing in his head. His whole life felt like a crescendo, a slow build climbing to a single moment. This moment. His eyes opened to get used to the light. His hand grabbed his sword. Then he lunged. As they passed the Bridge Watchers, the Iowa dad readied his phone for a selfie. Now he only had to stop his son long enough to get the picture. The 16-year-old was affecting a sullen disinterest in anything except lunch. But this thought and all thought ended when one of the Bridge Watchers pulled his headdress off his face and let out a blood-curdling shriek. He began stabbing passersby methodically, dropping one after the other with deadly aim and practiced precision. The tourists at first looked amused. Anything strange in this strange land seemed like a spectacle put on for them. But then they panicked. One after another they fled or fell, until only the two figures were left: The Bridge Watcher and the boy with the skull t-shirt. He faced the Bridge Watcher expressionless. Nothing in him was capable of processing what was happening. So he only stared. He didn’t even remove his headphones. A shout came from the captain, who had been away at the critical moment, and soon all of the other Bridge Watchers had ripped off their headdresses and had subdued the killer. Women were wailing and men were moaning as they dragged the killer backwards past the bodies of his victims, including the dad from Iowa. At first it was the moment of his glory, the beautiful climax of a life spent waiting. But then, as he was dragged away, he looked up. There before him, like an apparition, stood a boy. The boy’s face was uncaring, unflinching. From his shirt stared the face of a devil, smiling. The Bridge Watcher closed his eyes tight and cried. 24
OVER TIME, Mixed Medium, 8”x11”, Olivia Wagner
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BROTHERS, Intagilo Print, 5”x7”, Rachel Pierick
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KANSAS Olivia Hoopes
To picture Kansas full and glowing all that’s good and golden growing Field and river interlacing Fertile fallow fenced in meadow Overflowing amarillo A harvest moon is tipped blue sky A holy grail On a canvas stretched a mile wide And all the trees and all the flowers nodding through the peaceful hours God’s country And his blessings rain down on my windshield wipers working overtime Water and hail from her brimming eyes storming and falling from her tipsy skies Mother-like she sways me, like the grass out on the prairie I know this earth I crumble will sustain me Treading footpaths across her swollen belly While secret safe within the soil of her earthen womb The seedling flickers, whispers, “soon!” The spark from every July firefly a promise at twilight That darkness will not overcome this night And the flocks of crows that dot her skies Flash and glimmer like freckles That span the sloping bluffs And lie beneath her sleeping eyes So little daughter sleep tight Let your mother rock you like the driftwood on the river And let the chorus of cicadas be your lullaby As secretly outside your window A spider weaves his sticky web To catch good dreams and rain them down upon your sleepy head.
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EDGE OF SILENCE Nina Carraway Past-fence, walking alone, under fields of stars, stars. A hushing, like the sound of their blood, or distant cars. The world grows softer curling in upon the pillow of night. House-lights gleam hard and sharp Like voices, from deep under blackened trees. I turn my back to the windows like hot amber, my face to the soft and living touch of night. The world opens before me in a field, Borrowing the infinity of uncloaked space. Somewhere, a coyote. The sound is impossibly wild and cold. I lie down at the edge of silence. They never look for me out here.
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WONDER, Digital Photography, 1862x1242, Wesley Greer
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THE WINTER OF THE MIND Hannah Maus
I cannot remember precisely when the world became gray. There was once a whirlwind of color surrounding me, encompassing me in light and beauty. I remember trees of such a rich emerald that I wondered why people dealt with cold stones whose color paled in comparison with the living, ephemeral, incomparable beauty around me. I remember skies of such an astonishing, ever-changing cerulean that I could always and sometimes did stare in wonder until the sun’s setting at the prismatic horizon caused an eruption of color, and finally faded to black. Even in such darkness, I remember the agonizing fascination with which I observed the heavenly lights as they danced across the sky; and it was a true dance. Their movements, while constrained to a single sphere, were more like a dance than any I have ever seen or experienced. Most of all, I remember the color of emotion: the terror caused by a chorus of howling that made me run into the house, shrieking and giggling as the dewy grass stuck to my feet; the warmth of affection caused by mother’s suppressed laughter as she explained coyotes to a frightened little girl and enveloped her daughter in a hug that protected her from all evil while in her embrace. Of course, I knew the color was dimming. Instead of being transported to a higher realm of being by the beauty surrounding me, I coldly cataloged it as quickly as I could, and moved on. I no longer marveled at the life I had been given. I still found beauty, and loved it. I said that it was all the more beautiful for its rarity. Winter came, and the gray crept in. What was the worst part? I loved the gray. I loved the dark. I wished for overcast days rather than the cerulean skies of the summer of my childhood. This was the mature beauty, what all beauty culminated in. It was the beauty of intelligence, of reason, of the adulthood for which I had yearned. Brilliance was childish. Uniformity was beauty. Perfection was the only acceptable option. I would say that I forgot to look for color, but that would not be true. The truth was that I had succumbed to the dark world and, after living in it and loving it for so long, I began to believe that darkness was light, sparsity was plenty, and gray was the most beautiful “color” to ever exist. I almost forgot that color even existed. If the gray encroached, I no longer noticed, but if I did, I sung its praises. I became willingly blind. One day, I looked up and saw the cold, gray perfection. If I had any emotion left in my body, I would have said that I hated it. Instead, I felt only boredom and a distant contempt. Gray was not the color of intelligence. It presented no challenge to my mind. It had no theory to discuss, no diversity to observe. It had a parasitic plumbic premise that had to be held and cherished as it drank the contents of the heart, dimming the vision while its poison turned its host as gray and lifeless as itself. As it hated itself, so it made its host hate itself and anything like it. It is still gray, but spring is coming. Every once in a while, I get a glimpse of color. A single emerald leaf catches my eye. A steel blue eye captures my fancy. A fancy violet dress, a red cheek, a yellow rose, a brown field tinted with the faint green that promises new life. The coyote’s howl and his legendary reason for it. A golden monstrance with a center that is the source of all beauty. If flitting hope can be trusted, summer will follow the spring, and bring with it the light that will never fade. 30
ANONYMOUS, Digital Photography, 4x6, Jacqueline Marko
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MAGDALENE’S LAMENT Kate Caughron
“My heart is empty, empty as this grave, As cold as stone, deprived of Love’s fierce fire. Nothing, no one can warm or fill me save The Lord, who once did pull me from the mire. Soon, like this garden overgrown with weeds, My virtue, choked by ivies of despair And twisting vines of vice and vile deeds, Will rot and fall away without His care. The lilies of the field die in the drought That comes after the rains, and so will I, In this dark dryness of my soul, without The water whoso drinks shall never die. Here comes the gardener; but where is mine?” “Mary! See here I am, forever thine.”
ON PUSHKIN Margaret McCabe
The human heart— intangible— floating— embers faintly beating into eternity.
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SOLACE, Watercolor Pencil, 15”x22”, Chelle Harrison
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PILGRIM’S CRY Kate Caughron
O sacrum convivium in quo Christus sumitur I’m hungry but I don’t want to eat. Food can’t fill me; friends, family can’t. I know. I’ve tried before. Still I want. Somehow when I receive life becomes sweet. Recollitur memoria passionis eius Sometimes I despair and want to die. Pain presses on my heart, relentless; But He descended into our mess. I bend over His pierced feet and cry. Mens impletur gratia Grace is God-with-us, living, breathing, Pulsing with every beat of His Heart Giving us strength to make a fresh start, To reject lies that stop our believing. Et futurae gloriae nobis pignus datur No matter the pain and the hunger, He always brings me heavenly peace, A taste of joy that will never cease. I am still weak, but I go home stronger. Alleluia!
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CIRCLE MIRROR TRANSFORMATION, Digital Photography, 3760x2507, Laurence Rossi
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THE DAY I MISTOOK THE THUNDER FOR MY GROWLING STOMACH Maddie Bruegger
I am reminded my body can only hold so much light. Tell that to the sunburn peppering my chest & belly. You say yes to the light so much that it engulfs your body in red. I, the red, the tarnish over the silver, the messy in the dead of night. Lightning bugs guiding the way, I never know if light is natural or predatory. Bioluminescence, light attracting prey, food for an empty stomach. Kneeling, no one questions a growling stomach in a room full of the hungry. Everything is hunger. Isn’t that why we value the things we do? Satisfaction guaranteed, but will this get me out of bed in the morning? Stomachs growl while eyes are closed with no one awake to hear. When I say growl, I mean a please feed me. Nourishment and satisfaction are not synonymous. I am nourished by humanity. I am satisfied by the light. Hurry, please, fill this stomach of mine. 36
I WILL FOLLOW, Digital Photography, 640x632, Lydia Hornbaker
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JOY AND SORROW, Acrylic on Canvas, 11”x14”, Chelle Harrison
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NANA MARIA Olivia Hoopes
She was born in Mexico and she was slender Graceful, most at home among her books She painted yaks beneath a desert sun My mother was a seamstress who read Nietzsche She liked her towels white, not black or blue My father grew up on a mountain, he was stocky And played saxophone in an Arizona jazz band A true prison guard’s son, He smoked a pipe And played the blues Most at home among his flutes and his bassoons Most people said they’d never fit together They’d be over before they even had begun But when you grow up on a mountain You come to grow acquainted with the sun He held her higher than the deepest canyon She crooned him lower than the deepest desert song She had a mind to paint the sunset And so he had a mind to be her sun He sat outside and watched the desert lightening She stayed indoors and prayed for desert rain She could be harsh, he could be surly They still broke even in the end And all the stars and the stalactites Couldn’t span the distance of their love Truth is some folks never leave the desert Because they can hear voices in the wind She had a hunger for the ocean But he was listening for the wind Now he hears her whisper in the willow We used to climb outside their house I hear her patter in the raindrops I see her laughing on the tide You can’t imagine how the desert rained The night she died.
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PLUMBER Ben Sonnek
I’m a plumber. Wrench, headlamp, cord, resin, treated animal skin, climbing rope—these are my tools. The wrench is a nice one, too, a hefty Craftsperson model from the time before the Triple Volcanic Eruption. It belonged to the last plumber—all we have left of him, actually. The job wouldn’t be so difficult if I weren’t leaving all this color. Rolling hills and meadows— green. Random little flowery things—yellow and red. Villages of beaten paths and synth-block bricks—tanny-brown. Sky—blue and white, obviously. I suppose you might get some purple and orange hues out of a good sunset. It’s a lot of color. Down where I’m going, into the Underneath, it’s all black. Even with my headlamp, all black. Black, black, black. Better get going before I think about it too much. The one part of the Underneath we can see up here, the one part we allow, appropriately has no color of its own. It looks like a solid grey brick with a door in it. The grey is called concrete. Man-made, but a rock in its own right. Certainly feels like it when you scrape your elbow; the elbow-scraping happens a lot, going through such a narrow doorway. Can’t forget to close said door behind me. It’s made of metal. Goodbye color. On to my job. Headlamp on—the light cuts a path down the dark flight of stairs. In spite of how insistently they creak, I never engage them in conversation no matter how badly I want to talk to somebody. The talky stairs lead me to a large chamber of broken glass and warped, dirty panels. They used to be white. The chamber also used to be taller, but now the ceiling is barely six feet tall. It was once the top floor. Many other floors are stacked under this one, less broken and squashed. Haven’t been to all of those floors, though. I have a shortcut. Right in the middle of the dark chamber, I’ve got to pry apart a couple of metallic doors with the handle of my wrench, then with my hands, then—don’t lean forward or down you go! The shaft is deep, running all the way to the ground floor. There used to be a cart of sorts that ran up and down at the push of a button; I think its components are built into our town hall. Without that cart, though, I’ve got to sling the rope through the old pulley overhead. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Another thing to remember is to steadily swing off the ledge before rappelling down—keeps you from spinning. Good thing there’s a lot of things to remember in a plumber’s job, otherwise you’d get to thinking about other things. Less pleasant things. Going down. Hand under hand. Compared to the top floor, the bottom level is a cathedral. I’m in the Underneath. Down here there are a few intact windows, some furniture shards that couldn’t be bothered for salvage, and remnants of fuzzy carpet—like synthetic mold. I must leave through the main entrance; the leak is that way. I think I can hear the faint gurgle from here. I step across the building’s threshold, from concrete to asphalt. Here you can see it all. The tower I came down is the straightest one; all the other high-rise buildings are leaning at drunken angles. Not many windows are left—the gaps in the skeletal tower structures gape in the form of a million mouths and eye sockets, a cubist collage of skull fragments. They were called skyscrapers once. The only sky they scrape now is a dark overcast layer of hardened soil, a few 40
roots scraggling down like fossils of lightning and rain. Where I’m standing, it is hard to believe the cracked, heaving asphalt was once a road for millions of self-propelled vehicles. And yes, it is all black. Black roots, black windows, black tower frames, black exposed girders, black hunks of stone and dirt, black vehicle fragments, black walkways, black puddles, black smell in the air. All your headlamp does, paradoxically enough, is illuminate more blackness. Only two things break the black: my skin, reduced to a fishbelly hue in the glow, and the silvery pipes. The pipes come from my town above. They penetrate the layer of soil, clinging to sturdier “sky”-scrapers as they reach down into the Underneath. The pipes run to the ancient water mains. I’m a plumber. My job is to fix the pipes. There’s an energetic trickle sneaking through one of the larger asphalt cracks; the leak must be that way. It’s a bit of a trek, hiking toward the source of the problem. As one climbs across jagged chunks of road, like broken ice on a thawing river, you can’t help but think of the green meadows around your village. The hills are held up by this desiccated civilization. These two terrains couldn’t be in more contrast—green soft folds in the sun versus the jagged edges of ombric nightmare shards, honed by the light of my lamp. Brr. The trickling noise is stronger, but it’s making me shiver. The water is coming out of that doorway. This squat structure was once a convenient trading post of sorts—only one story, glassed in on three of its four sides. Might’ve sold fuel. Despite its faded yet garish paint job, it matches the surrounding towers down here with its glistening shards and dusty shroud. A couple of pipes from above snake in through the gaps to suck more life out of this place. They duck behind a counter. Back there I’ll find the leak. Escaping water greets me with its drawn-out hiss as I round the corner. To me it’s a friendly noise—a hiss is a relatively minor leak. I’ve held arguments with bubbling, gurgling, and vomiting noises before. Probably won’t need the wrench. The patch is a pretty quick deal; first, use some cord to bind the pipes together as closely and firmly as you can. Coat the cured animal skin with resin, then wrap and squeeze it tightly around the leak. Check for other leaks, then wrap a whole lot more cord around the patch. Keep checking for more leaks. Yep, that’s a problem fixed. Not a tough one, this—I think I recognize my handiwork on a couple other pipes too, and those are still here… A scratch. A scuttle? A dry hiss. Shouldn’t have paused; pausing makes you think. Makes you think the one thought you’re trying to avoid—and tightens your grip on your wrench. They say that other things live in the Underneath. END
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EZEKIEL 13:14 Erin Farrell
These are more than white-washed walls. This is a tomb. It is death, desolation, decay that we have chosen to protect. You walk by every day, and every day I make these walls more magnificent to remind You that You don’t need to check in. You, walking with the sinners. You, with muddy feet and dirty robes. You, sometimes alone, but never lonely. I do not need Your help. I am doing just fine. My walls are starting to touch the stars. I have statues and buttresses and all the other facades of a financially fueled stability. Look at how okay I am. Stop waving. Stop smiling. Look, I am okay. The outside takes so much from the inside. I am smaller now. I stand on a stool to meet Your eyes through a window I don’t think You need to see. Inside: black walls, black floors, black, brittle bones. No one has seen me in years. A day comes in which You ring the bell. You write with fire and flame. You are coming for me, and I am hiding in shame. White hot ash descends around my senses and I am overwhelmed by the glory of Your presence. You stopped to look at me and I couldn’t say a word. 42
CHERRY TREE ON A RAINY DAY, Digital Photography, 4752x3168, Michael Meixner You smiled. With eyes that have known me for centuries prior, You watch as I open the door that separates me from nothing. Lazarus, did you feel the same? Did it burn like this? Did you feel the pain? Reconciliation is more Latin roots than I could ever remember. But You are the same—My King and My Defender. If this is life, then I have missed it. If this is love, then I could kiss it. Caked in dust. No longer a slave, but free. With two words, I stand up and leave: “Come, my dear. Follow me.” 43
REDEMPTION, Digital Photography, 3008x2000, Joseph Schopp
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GRAVEL
Kate Caughron The shoreline stretches farther than my sight Where jostling and pulverized, made round, Rocks that the rain and salt spray pound, Are worn, rubbed smooth, with others fitted tight. My heart shrinks back, constricted by cold fright And frozen feet unhardened now have found Their heavy weight upon this rugged ground Too much to bear one step but long for light. Entombed alive, enshrouded by the night, Wrapped by the wind, and living, hunger-bound My voice repeating Satan’s taunt is drowned; My words and warmth are stripped by gusty might. The futile fight forgotten, weak will caves Allowing life to slip beneath the waves.
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Sea and Space Olivia Hoopes
“What if sea and space were to trade place?” We stood there side by side The surf washing over our bare feet Underneath that star-spangled Alabama sky We talked about what if: The sea was a field of stars And there was a waving ocean in the sky Then we could walk for miles on the sandy beach Reach out and hold a cold star Hold your breath and plunge into the Milky Way Curl into the sickle moon like a midnight rocking chair Lick your lips and savor the taste of space While you gaze at the glow of heavenly lights Beaming at you from light-years away Collect constellations and hang them on your window pane Gaze up to the sky and wonder at the tide Washing endlessly- just out of reach A heavenly beach An ocean in the air Vast, a dark blue mystery, lapping beneath gulls’ backs soaring Across the distant foaming sea Catch the spray raining salt on your upturned face And wonder what it’d be like to be To be awash in that stormy sky The flipped sunrise a distant memory of day From the inky blackness of your silent galaxy.
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BOAT, Gouache, 3”x4.5”, Danielle Medina
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AWARDS WRITING
The Thomas Ross Award for a Promising Young Writer: MAGDALENE’S LAMENT by Kate Caughron The Sister Scholastica Schuster Fiction Writing Award: TO WRITE A STORY by Ben Sonnek The Patricia Hattendorf Nerney Poetry Award: EDGE OF SILENCE by Nina Carraway
FINE ART
1st Place: Autonomous, Laura Krug 2nd Place: Joy and Sorrow, Chelle Harrison 3rd Place: Brothers, Rachel Pierick Honorable Mention: Solace, Chelle Harrison Honorable Mention: Hidden Dreams, Chelle Harrison
PHOTOGRAPHY
1st Place: Repose, Claire Nacanaynay 2nd Place: Don’t Let it Get to Your Head, Jacqueline Marko 3rd Place: I Will Follow, Lydia Hornbaker Honorable Mention: Cotton Candy, Wesley Greer Honorable Mention: Untitled, Olivia Wagner Special thank you to all of our judges: Prose: Dr. Matthew Ramsey, Dr. Daphne McConnell, Sr. Judith Sutera, OSB; Dr. Jamie Blosser Poetry: LeighAnna Schesser, Sr. Barbara Mayer, OSB; Dr. Chuck Osborn, Dr. Eddie Mulholland Photography: Carlyn Olson, Kathryn Lenertz, Alexander Vu Visual Art: Clare Tapia, Kristy Kreitner, Katherine Friend Publication of Loomings each year is made possible by the generous support of Benedictine College. We are grateful for their continuing support of artistic expression. Their enthusiasm for the arts is invaluable to us!
ARTIST INDEX Bridge, Matthew 14 Bruegger, Maddie 4, 36 Carraway, Nina 16, 28 Caughron, Kate 32, 34, 45 Dahlstrom, Lucy 18 Dalton, Anna 20 Farrell, Erin 42 Greer, Wesley 11, 29 Harrison, Chelle 10, 33, 38
Hoopes, Olivia 27, 39, 46 Hoopes, Tom 23 Hornbaker, Lydia 37 Krug, Laura 19 Marko, Jacqueline 13, 31 Maus, Hannah 30 McCabe, Margaret 8, 21, 32 Medina, Danielle 17, 47 Meixner, Michael 5, 43
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Nacanaynay, Claire 9 Pierick, Rachel 26 Rossi, Laurence 35 Schopp, Joseph 6, 15, 44 Schroettner, Claire 7 Sonnek, Ben 12, 40 Wagner, Olivia 22, 25