Loomings 2019
Loomings The arts allow us to obtain truth in unique ways, and through them we are able to see the time, effort, and passion in the creative works of our peers. In the arts we can truly find beauty and share it with our viewers, listeners, and readers. We can share our thoughts and what we believe in. In the arts, we find a reason to live. In this edition of Loomings, those in the Benedictine College community created works of beauty as individuals and in collaboration with others to share with our readers. We ask you open your minds and hearts to what their pieces have to share. -Lauren Hawkins, General Editor
Cover Photo: EDITORIAL, Digital Photography, 853 x 280, Jacqueline Marko Published by Benedictine College 1020 North 2nd Street Atchison, Kansas 66002 Materials appearing in Loomings may not be reproduced or reprinted without written consent of Benedictine College and the authors of each work. Writers, poets, and artists contributing to Loomings retain full rights to their work, and need not obtain permission for reproduction.
1
About the Editors General Editor: Lauren Hawkins Lauren Hawkins is a senior pursuing a major in English with a minor in History. When she is not reading or writing, you can find her analyzing the sport of figure skating. After her graduation in May of 2019, she plans to work in a library inspiring others with her love for literature. Prose Editor: Karol Arensberg Born and raised in the deep south of Mobile, AL, Karol loves Ed Sheeran, Harry Potter, and random Linguistics trivia. After her three-year-old dreams of being an NFL quarterback were squashed, Karol fell in love with books and has been reading and writing avidly ever since. Inadvertently getting injured in sports, obsessively reading CS Lewis, and masterminding ridiculous shenanigans with friends and four siblings are her favorite activities; in addition, she works at the library and as a writing tutor. She considers her greatest accomplishment to be eating 12 slices of pizza in a pizza eating competition in 7th grade and playing dodgeball afterwards. She is blessed in being able to contribute to Loomings through choosing and editing the prose pieces and proofreading the rest of the magazine. Poetry Editor: Hannah Maus Hannah Maus is a junior pursuing an English degree at Benedictine College. She is involved in the theater and music departments on campus, especially music, as she is in three ensembles. This is her second year as Poetry Editor for Loomings. She is also a (soon to be initiated) member of Sigma Tau Delta and is newly involved in the English Club. Hannah is so excited for everyone to enjoy this magazine, lovingly compiled by her and her compatriots over the course of the school year. Art Editor: Margaret Jones Margaret Jones is a junior at Benedictine College and is majoring in Architecture. She is actively involved with the Art Department on campus and currently serves as the President of Atelier BC—Benedictine’s new architecture club. She plans to attend graduate school to earn her Master’s of Architecture and hopes to one day be a licensed architect working in a firm. She is very passionate about sharing beauty with the world and has thoroughly enjoyed her first year serving as an editor for Loomings. As the Art Editor she manages all of the fine arts and photography submissions, as well as works with the rest of the Loomings team to compile the magazine. She is very excited for our readers to see this issue and to enjoy the beautiful works that are featured inside. Layout Editor: Jessica Yurgelaitis Jessica Yurgelaitis is a senior Art major, minoring in Theology. After graduation, she plans on starting a career in graphic design and hopes to one day become a full time illustrator. Working on Loomings has been a wonderful experience she has been blessed with. Her role on the Loomings team involves designing and organizing the layout of the magazine. Faculty Advisor: Dr. Michael Stigman Michael Stigman is grateful for his twelve years serving as the faculty advisor for Loomings, grateful that the college values its thriving community of artists, grateful for all those who enthusiastically create and contribute to the magazine, and grateful for the talents, dedication, and hard work of the editors of Looomings 2019.
2
About the Cover
EDITORIAL, Digital Photography, 853 x 1280, Jacqueline Marko “I wanted to create a visual environment of a happy, perfectly aligned room, but with a character, who seems a bit off that alignment. I wanted it to be an oddity, a curiosity. The small bit of rug that is tugged up on the edge of the photo -I want it to break the wall and pull you in.� -Jacqueline Marko
3
COLLABORATION PIECE: DEEP IS CALLING Poem: Erin Farrell Photo: 1280 x 941, Joseph Schopp
4
when i was a little girl i threw myself into the deep because i thought i was still light enough to float i sank i think i’ve always thought that the only option was to drown if i cannot float then i will sink and if i sink then i will drown for i left safety on the shore and i am not the one who walks on water i am midas with millstones, casting first stones but he is holding out his hand and he is wading in the deep he is waiting in the deep but i chose to stay i sat at the bottom of swimming pools and let my lungs fill with water that burned like hell and it tasted like poison and i met the face of God in a summer morning’s sunrise and he dripped with the honey that covers my poetry and he was sweeter than the silence i was seeking and when i held out my hand he taught me how to swim and so i swim now and so i am light now because i was never going to drown in light of sinking in in grace of growing older i have learned that deep is calling unto deep and that you are loving from the depths and we must let this sink in and we must swim
5
THE FINAL BOW, Watercolor, 22” x 30”, Margaret Jones 6
COFFEE HOSE Clara Grismer
She’s lippy. Like a bad mug. Always spilling on herself. Maybe if she would shave down all those words there would be savoring and Less splash But alas she says She always says alas the little lipper you sit sipping up her words like fire hydrant hoses snick lish wap but she can’t stop the wash so we can’t fault her for her lips I mean her parents’ genes are not her fault they’re just the way she speaks the lips she has the mouth she gives to sip the coffee of her words drip down again Your shoes are wet.
7
JACK IN THE GREEN Hannah Maus
The streets of C_ in Sussex are the most picturesque in the country. They are more lanes than streets, with cottages hiding behind hazel and holly and ornamented with carefully cultivated climbing ivy. The surrounding countryside is bountiful, and more often an elegant shade of living emerald than any other color. The people are no less beautiful than their surroundings, and are known for their unusual hospitality and kindness – although these qualities also lend themselves to unusual nosiness. For this reason, these lovely folk are prone to excessive gossip and pettiness. Though there are many subjects which enjoy the townspeople’s scrutiny, their favorite by far is Thaddeus Henry Chelmsford. Chelmsford was the master of Fitchburg house, which sits a mile beyond the edge of town, and had lived there since his boyhood. He was adopted at the age of seven, after his parents’ death, by his aunt, Mirabella Chelmsford, who was often described lovingly as “eccentric” or drunkenly as “that batty old loon.” Thaddeus was a handsome, intelligent youth, and a special favorite of almost all the people in C_. He was very adventurous and had a special love for exploring the grounds of his aunt’s manor, although she always warned him to avoid the hedge maze in the garden at all costs. She insisted to anyone who would listen that, though the maze had been and was still known for its exceptional beauty, it had been taken over by “pagan demons” as she called them, and was a source of evil that had haunted her all of her life. She would never describe what she saw, she could often be observed gazing at the maze in terror. Thaddeus never saw what his aunt claimed to see, and never believed it at any moment, except during the witching hour of many nights over the course of his childhood. Thaddeus had a recurring nightmare that a Green Man sat at the edge of his bed. All the Green Man had to do to make young Thaddeus squirm in terror was sit and stare. He never spoke. He never moved. He simply sat at the edge of the bed, staring unblinkingly, with a smile that was both too big for his face and never quite reached his eyes that villainously curled up at the edges, although that should not have been possible for any man. Thaddeus had varying reactions to this apparition, ranging from paralyzing terror, to violent outbursts, to attempts at reason, to blunt dismissals; and though the Green Man never ceased his nocturnal visits, Thaddeus eventually stopped waking at all. The days of young Mr. Chelmsford were as far removed from his disturbing nights as possible. He passed his days in a flurry of battles on pirate ships, safaris in Africa, and tiger hunts in India. If you asked the people of C_, there was never a more delightful boy, or more handsome and courteous man, than Thaddeus Henry Chelmsford, although it could be said that his arrogance increased rapidly with age, and he became something of an incorrigible flirt. His adolescent years were filled less with fantastic games and more with fantastic parties, where he 8
was usually the guest of honor and always the most amenable man in the room to almost any suggestion. When 13 years had passed since his arrival at C_, Thaddeus attended a rather important party, here mentioned only because it changed the course of his life. The party was his marriage to Maria Juana Porreta, a Spanish woman of large fortune and no title. It could be called a sort of arranged marriage, but it was a marriage of much more warmth than would be expected from an arrangement, and a good deal of love. Almost as soon as the wedding bells rang, Thaddeus and his new bride were on their way to India, where Thaddeus had a military commission waiting for him. While they were there, Thaddeus and Maria were far more experimental with native customs than their other British neighbors; this was most likely partly due to his adventurous spirit and partly to her very un-British upbringing. They enjoyed many aspects of their time in India, but most especially enjoyed a drink called bhang. They found that this brewed, milky drink, made from cannabis, was particularly relaxing, and they daily consumed a diluted form in the evening as they watched the sun set over the Ganges River. Thaddeus found married life to be much more to his liking than his unattached youth, especially because he liked the idea of facing the Green Man with someone at his side; however, the Green Man never made an appearance in India. Thaddeus was surprised to find that he strangely missed him. Unfortunately, their time in India was cut short by the death of Mirabella Chelmsford, and this proved to effectively end their period of happiness after 10 years of marriage. Although this death came at a seemingly inopportune time, it could not have happened at a better time for Maria, who was slowly becoming more ill and less lively with each passing day. By the time she and Thaddeus had arrived in England, she was keeping to her room every moment she could, saying that her head hurt far too much for her to make any sort of appearance. The moment she arrived in the house she and Thaddeus were to share, she turned to him with a look of horror and said, “How did she live with this for so long?” Thaddeus was confused; he thought that possibly she meant the house, but that was impossible. The house was impeccable and as beautiful as the day he left it. So, he questioned her meaning. “Do you not see them, mi amor? Los hadas y las otras fuerzas negras?” Thaddeus heart sank like a stone. His worst fear had been realized: his wife was going as crazy as his aunt. He cared for Maria personally throughout her illness, which was too long for her but too short for him, thinking all the time that it was a simple headache and would pass. It did not. Maria’s health slowly declined after her arrival at Fitchburg. Her hallucinations became far more frequent, telling Thaddeus to stay far away from the garden, and especially the maze, as often as his aunt did throughout his childhood. He could hardly go against her wishes even if he wished to do so, as Maria required near constant care that he was more than willing to provide. She started becoming clumsy and dizzy all the time, resulting in multiple falls down the stairs. She was often confused, and eventually stopped speaking altogether after a few verbal mishaps. When the doctor was finally called, all he could offer were his condolences, because there was nothing he could do to stop the Fates from snipping the thread of Maria’s life. After this, Maria and Thaddeus gave up on any sort of pretention or socialization and spent the rest of their days drinking bhang made by the Indian servants who had accompanied them, reading aloud from a number of the old tomes in Fitchburg’s large library, and going for extended walks around the grounds, 9
Thaddeus pushing Maria in a wheelchair, all the while making sure that they stayed away from the garden, on which Maria usually kept a weather eye. Eventually, Maria died. Thaddeus’s grief was beyond words. After her funeral, he shut himself away in their room for days, refusing all food or drink. When he finally came out, all he ever did was drink bhang or absinthe, being reckless about mixing the two, although his staff watched him closely and averted quite a few disasters that would be caused by the mixing of alcohol and bhang. Perhaps it was the effect of the large quantities of these mind-altering drugs, but Thaddeus started to see the Green Man again. First, he came back to his old perch on Thaddeus’s bed; however, he did not stay there as he did before. He started appearing in broad daylight and following Thaddeus everywhere he went, never speaking, but always grinning with that clever look in his eye. Thaddeus was comforted by the sight of his old tormentor, though he gave little reaction when he saw him, for fear of being considered mad. After a length of time in which Thaddeus completely ignored him, the Green Man whispered in his ear. He never said much, but much was never needed for Thaddeus. It only took one sentence to entice him: “Come into the maze with me, my boy.” Most people could say that they would be able to resist such an obvious temptation from a ghostly Green Man, no matter how charming he may be. However, one drowning in grief and severely dependent on alcohol and cannabis, which he consumed almost constantly, was more than happy to follow the last intimately familiar person he had. In any case, going into the garden is a fairly innocuous activity for most people, so it is not at all intuitive to avoid such a place, especially one so beautiful. So, after a particularly rough day of binging wormwood and anise spirits, Thaddeus marched out to the garden, bhang and cane in hand, ready to face anything that the maze had to offer, or so he thought. He was wrong. He marched into the maze with a boldness that can only be produced by intoxication. Immediately after he entered the maze, the Green Man became more than a wisp of an apparition. He became fully corporeal, and although not much had changed about his appearance from his time taunting Thaddeus, there was an air of malice and power about him that Thaddeus had not detected before. As the Green Man stood in front of him, arms open wide in welcome, Thaddeus turned to run out of the maze, but found that he could not find any opening that did not lead further towards the center. After he stopped struggling to find a way out, Thaddeus was led away by the Green Man and escorted by small creatures of the description of Virikas, the chattering horde, their ever-moving mouths stained red with something which seemed to be dried blood. He was led past a countless amount of horrors, from the smallest imp to the largest beast, with many a fuerza negra in between that stared at him hungrily, some even licking their lips in anticipation. Finally, at the center of the maze was an enormous gathering of dancing folk, all of which would have been described as exceptionally beautiful except for their multi-colored skin, vacant grins, and subtle deformities that ranged from slightly bulbous noses to bat’s wings. At this point in the story, not much is known about the events which occurred. The morning following, however, Thaddeus was found hanged and completely drained of blood, and had one been present who could notice the small scrawling on his arm and could read the supposed writing of the mythical fae would grow pale with terror and leave without delay after reading, “It is time for endings ~ Jack in the Green. 10
THE TREE OF LIFE, Digital Photography, 6120 x 4084, Wesley Greer
11
BUKOWSKI
Maddie Bruegger I am sick of reading Collections of Poems about love or loss or luck
Let me tell you about somethingI can make up a disguise and call it the truth and the lie I sit in the shelves wondering if the poem ever ends with anything other than Amen I read Bukowski the other day my mother says He is a scoundrel He is but that doesn’t mean I do not like him Sifting through words without any depth is no longer a work out it is just flailing limbs give me something that is too large for my body my skin is soft like pressed flowers but I have a lot built up underneath it all
12
VENDOR ON 6TH STREET, Digital Photography, 960 x 640, Lara Wallace
13
SESTINA
Elizabeth Heil It's nothing special, just routine: Get up, get dressed, make coffee. Wake up the kids, get them fed, bundle them off to school. After that, he leaves for work, so tell him goodby with love and a kiss. You'd like to think there's meaning in a kiss, but at some point everything becomes routine. You do it to cheer him, though you know it won't work; You'd better put on a second pot of coffee. It was different when you were both in school. Back then just a glance from him could keep you fed. The phone bill's unpaid, the kids must be fed; These things can't be solved with a kiss. You'd think all that shit they taught you in school Should've helped you by now in your daily routine. Education is useless, but thank God for coffee, which gets you through chores and errands and work. You used to like cooking, but now it's just work. Still, husbands and children need to be fed. You're low on potatoes, milk, onions, and coffee. If only groceries could be bought with a kiss. Pick N' Save runs are becoming routine after you pick up the kids from school. Maggie's in tears on the way home from school. Playing nice with the other girls just doesn't work. You tell her it happens, it's just a cosmic routine, but she's sick of the comforting lies that she's fed. You soothe her sobs with hugs and a kiss, and regret it's too late in the day for some coffee. 14
DULCIS COR MARIAE, Sugar Sculpture, 18� x 10�, Anna Moreno Screw sleep. Screw health. You make some fresh coffee While the children suppress new memories of school. When Aaron gets home, you give him a kiss while he rants (again) about some guy at work. You hope he'll be calmer after he's fed, but frustration's become his constant routine. What a kiss can't solve you drown in your coffee: The endless routine, the kids' troubles at school, all the work that you do to keep everyone fed. 15
THERMODYNAMICS Karol Arensberg
0th: The zeroth law of thermodynamics states that heat will flow from a system of higher energy into a system of lower energy until they reach equilibrium. I whisper this to myself as I stand, shuddering, shrouded in snow. I’m cold right now because my tiny, infinitesimal, insignificant body is trying to warm the universe. In the laws of love, I look to the love and grace in my heart and let it flow out to everyone around me, and I take in their pain, until we are an emotional equilibrium of compassion and trust. My best friend, who is far more used to the cold than I, wraps me in a fierce hug in an effort to warm me up—and it warms my heart more than my body—and I think that perhaps she knows the laws of physics, too. 1st: The first is my favourite: that no energy in the universe is created and none is destroyed. Our world is a constant, shifting state of ebb and flow. People, particles, emotions, come and go and are recycled, but they never disappear entirely. Every conceivable facet of the universe is present and living within you, thrumming in your blood to your heartbeat. And every part of you will one day find itself somewhere else, an integral, moving cog. There is a connectedness in everything that we do, everything that we are, tying us irrevocably to the wonder of creation. 2nd: Entropy means that the natural inclination of the universe tends towards disorder. My mom does not think that is a valid reason to not clean the house. Without a constant input of energy, everything falls apart. Room, empires, friendships, me. Order is born from chaos only through work (energy/force applied to a body). It’s utterly exhausting, exerting exerting exerting until you collapse in bed and disorder reigns your subconscious until energy and order are restored. 3rd: We have never been able to reach absolute zero. It is only a theoretical possibility, a far flung “one day”. What would happen if we one day achieved absolute zero? Any and all movement will cease—heat will be non-existent, in total absence. And I wonder if this is how death will be. First, perceptible movement will cease, and heat will flow gradually from body into surroundings, and eventually, the naturally vibrating molecules in my corpse will dissipate into other forms of energy, other forms of life, melding into energy’s first beautiful law, and an absolute zero will fall over the echoes of me. 16
PAPER TREES AND PURPLE HILLS, Watercolor and India Ink, 16” x 20”, Jessica Yurgelaitis
17
PULSING IN EXODUS Alexander Stover The city would die—the flesh charred from the bones, leaving the empire nominally alive. This was the nightmare-scape I lived through. I witnessed the death of that emaciated carcass and fled from the collapse of this giant’s frame. We fled on the great artery with the stubborn ghost hanging over our heads. We fled with our lives in our arms, leaving everything else behind to molder in the maggoty ashes. If I had been deluded still about the fate of the immortal empire, then I could no longer remain so. Only an obliterated spectre remained, shot to the ends of the world. We were some of the infinitesimal fragments propelled by the explosive death throes of Rome. My name no longer had any meaning. In better times it would have meant preferment, power, and prosperity. Now it means nothing or less. A name on a tomb blasted to rubble. I was a man of repute, letters, and influence. That means nothing now. I found only an animal drive to move. My spirit was crushed, mingled with the rubble that would sometimes house it. Wife, child, servants, and house all killed, pillaged, and burned. Only my low cowardice left my life unscathed. The via our caravan traveled went on forever, pulsing from the dying heart out into the thirsty frontiers at the world’s ends. Variously laden, we felt the cold burn of a sun ashamed to show its face. It didn’t want to see this world any more than we did. The bright armor of the few soldiers we had simmered—now a painful white, then a dirty glow, then painful white again. The sounds of their mail chinking softly—it wormed its way into my mind, filling my skull with a foreign pressure. That was my first brush with madness. The sun finally lost its nerve and retreated. Our guide that night was the light of some scanty torches and the wan light of the sallow moon. We decided to bivouac on a relatively sheltered copse, not in view of the still burning Rome; though we could still 18
DON’T TELL ME TO BREATHE, Digital Photography, 4861 x 3456, Margaret Jones
19
see the hostile glow from behind a rise. To me, it seemed as if we hid from an angry corpse that dogged our steps. My hunger presented itself with a sullen rumble. My flight left no time for food. Such excuses did nothing to impress my stomach. Just days before, it was content to bursting from sumptuous feasts. Times were better, and I lived well. None of that matters now. The small fire we made returned my sullen gaze playfully. It taunted me. Sitting there, consuming what gave it birth. The wind took up the fire’s gamboling and shrieked in my ears, stirring it into a feverish dance. It was a persistent squall. When I finally forced myself into recumbency it was still bawling. ◆◆◆ I awoke to the wind screaming urgently in my ears. No, the wind was the same as it was before. Something else had woken me. I began to rouse myself, as the rest of my company was doing. Lucius the soldier was up first. He scanned the area. When he looked my way an arrow violently sprouted from his forehead and din consumed the night. I can’t rightly say what I did, or who survived. All I know is that the arrow’s sower was on horseback— I was shoved bodily aside by the beast— and scrambled my way from the scene in animal terror. Later I would realize that Lucius probably died because he was a threat to the invader. The others might have survived to become slaves. For me, all was darkness. All was flight. The heart in my chest beat me forward ever faster. Finally, I stopped. A cave’s mouth encircled me. I heard the wind still howling out its rowdy chorus, though I noticed the soft dawn-light that appears between absolute night and the dawn. I did not want to re-enter that world that I had come to recognize as alien to me. The cave was inviting and quiet. The walls were covered with a layer of moisture that fed into a soft bed of mossy vegetation. I wanted to lie down and become a sleeper. My head had almost hit the ground when something caught my attention— it was a noise, a sort of whispering. It might be running water I said to myself. My nocturnal flight had taxed my body, and now it demanded attention. Yes... water first, then I could sleep. I followed the sound deeper into the cave and left the softly deceitful light behind. After an indistinguishable amount of time, the cave came to an abrupt narrowing. There was just enough space for me to squeeze myself through to the other side. The noise now was thundering in my mind. I paused to recover my breath, as I noticed I was short of it. The walls here were bare from what I could feel, and the ground harbored no more vegetation. This I could only guess through touch, as no light could reach me. No, there was some light. It was coming through the hole. I knew then that I had only been pretending to debate my course. I pushed myself through the small window in the bowels of that cave. On the other side, the cave widened violently and soared upwards. I saw that the light was coming 20
from above. There was perhaps a hole in the ceiling of the cavern, letting light invade from the surface. On one side I saw the water that had called me there cutting across the floor of the cavern in the form of an underground river. The water was cold, clear and strong. I gorged myself as I never had on water. My head was cleared and my heart slowed itself. I had not realized how fast it was beating or how foggy my thoughts had become. Newly aware, I looked around. I noticed the small mounds scattered around the spacious cavern. Had I stumbled into some animal’s den? My heart began to beat a warning against my ribs. I moved closer. My feet made a rasping sound that frightened me. I was alone, and that scared me. When I was close enough to see by the dim light I saw that the piles were covered in straw. If only I had some fire to burn away that straw. With nothing else to do, I prodded it. No response. It was at least inert. My heart somewhat assuaged, I knelt down to examine it closer. Under the straw was something gleaming, white, smooth. Bones. I didn’t know what I expected, but bones were not the horror that would scare me. Some animal had dragged something down here as animals do. I stood up and aimed a kick at the pile. Under the straw, my foot made contact with something solid and it shot out the other side, trailing straw like a poor man’s comet. I laughed. Nothing to be afraid of. “Nothing to be afraid of ” I screamed in surprise and slipped on the straw. My heart now made siege in my chest, not to gain entrance, but to escape. I reasoned calmly, it was just an echo. But I hadn’t spoken yet. “You still haven’t spoken” My chest became as stone, imprisoning breath and sound. My heart played the traitor and beat in revolt, rushing blood to my ears. I was going insane, that’s all. Now shaking, I stood up. I had to know. The cowardice in me was slave to my need to know. I made my shakey way towards the missile I had sent to the other end of the cavern. The light was interrupted by a rocky outcropping on that end, so my objective was half-shadowed. I probed with my foot, searching. A small noise told me I had found it. Whatever it was must have been fairly small. Heart still traitorously loud, I stooped to pick up the object. It was smooth in my hands but strangely shaped—with odd holes and weird curves. I brought it out to the light and dropped it in horror. It was a human skull. I hurled the thing away from me with all the force in me. In that moment my hands felt soiled, unholy, and I wished to be rid of them, if only there were a knife! This thought was dashed from my brain as I remembered the other mounds. “Why would you drop me? We are friends here are we not?” said the voice again. 21
I began to panic. “Who’s there!?” I demanded. Oh, gods. I knew the voice must belong to whoever, or whatever made these piles. “It’s just us here,” it said. I stilled myself enough to think. If I was going to die then, I’d like to see why. I made my way towards the spot the voice came from. “That’s right. Come, speak with me” it said. “I’m not afraid of you” I whispered. The skull I had thrown was near the spot where I thought the voice came from. I glanced down, wondering if perhaps it was speaking to me. To comfort myself, I picked it up. Staring into its empty sockets and dead grin, I chuckled to myself. Nothing. “Why are you laughing?—HEY!” it said. I had dropped it again. “I just want to talk. I’m trying to help you, really”. I was going insane... I wouldn’t let it happen. I stumbled towards the river to subdue myself in its current. “What are you doing?” it yelled at me. Crack! The cold like a whip. My lungs deflated, my heart cried out against me, and my mind broke apart. ◆◆◆ “You tried the easy way out. There’s no real escape from this place” the same voice says. It’s different now. It echoes around me. I have gone blind, and I feel the hard ground pressing against my face. Something prickly had embedded itself in my face. Stubble. I had been clean shaven when I fled. My wife liked my face smooth. “You brought him down. You shouldn’t have done that” the voice says. Something grasps me from all around. It is hands. Many hands. They feel too thin. Gooseflesh runs up my body where they touch. The hands bring me to my feet. If only I could see them. I’m standing now and the hands release me. I ask the voice what it wants with me. “Oh, I don’t want anything. He does,” it replies. He? I think to myself. Or maybe I say it out loud. A light erupts. I’m not blind after all. I can’t see anything in the glare. No. There is something. A shape. There are more shapes next to it, dark, and 22
weirdly shadowed. They surround me. “Do you see him now?” the voices say. “Him?” I ask. Now I was sure there was more than one speaker in the voice. I turned around, looking intently at the shapes. They must be speaking at the same time. Past one of the shapes I could see that the mounds had gone. I focused on one of them. “Look at him” the voice commands. It’s the skull from earlier. It has its whole body now, and there are several more just like it. I’m surrounded by skeletons, and they all speak in the same voice. “Look!” they shout at me. Their humorless grins split and clatter at me. I turn towards the light. I see that it is the same light I had mistaken for sunlight. The hole where it should be is black. The shape is glowing. It is a man’s shape. A woman’s? No, a man’s. Kneel I feel the word reverberate in my skull, and I obey without thought. The glowing figure reaches out to me. As soon as it touches my forehead my mind fragments again. I see myself through many eyes. I am on fire now. My face is retreating from the flame. I see his face for the first time. It is terrible. There is no mouth, but it wants to consume me. There are no eyes, but it sees me. It burns with a cold heat, like the sun I had fled from. My flesh has almost entirely been flashed from my bones. Now my organs catch fire through my ribcage. The flames travel down my spinal cord like a fuse. I am nothing but bones. He removes his hand and my sight flies to my head; I see him through my own sockets. “Why has this happened to me?” The voice says in concert. I am frightened into silence. I have given you a home I look around at my fellows. They grin back at me. “Welcome home,” we say.
23
COLLABORATION PIECE: COLD EMBRACE Poem: Hannah Maus Music: Kathleen Leone
Scan the QR code with your phone to listen to the audio piece
I need not shout my faith, thrice eloquent Are the quiet trees and the green listening sod. Hushed are the stars whose power is never spent; The hills are mute; yet how they speak of God. -“Silence,� Charles Hanson Towne
You must be ambling idly past a snow drift On a day which can be arbitrarily called clear To hear the syncopated tune of the cardinal cling To the chilled air as he takes a chilled flight. It rings through the trees and across the fallow field, Gaining beauty through its echoes as it comes across your sense. To be out on such a day demonstrates no good sense, Yet the sparkling snow calls some afield, Call some few from sleep to auroral flight Which makes drudging melancholy clear, Makes those clouds from the mellow mind drift While to beauty and bracing you cling.
24
The beauty is woven like ivies which to holly cling In the glistening air in which crystals drift. These little snowfalls appear on days blue and clear, A bluebird day, when it is worst to hunt fowl in the field. It is a day on which I am terribly grateful I may sense, I may hear birds, feel face-stinging wind in my flight. Here would be a crescendo, a soul taking flight, But the goodness here, overwhelming my sense, Does not swell or swoon or range the field. Bird songs to my soul more than music drift And to my memory as children cling, But without vibrato are piercing and clear. These recollections in my heart are white and clear, Steady, through the sudden sullen silences cling To my heart and shake me when I drift Across the median, when I can sense The darkness crowding in, allow a flight From turbulent waters to that steady snowy field. My grandmothers have been poets of the field, Writing poems untrained about the same flight Far better, far before I was alive to sense, And to this matriarchal tradition I helplessly cling. The might of God to them was clear, As too the clamorous beauty along a lonely drift. Of the song so clear in a chilled flight, I inherit the sense Which in this field I allow to cling to my mind’s snow drift.
25
THEOTOKOS, Acyrlic on Canvas, 16” x 20”, Thomas West 26
LOST AT SEA Karol Arensberg
The sea is calling And I must go The sun blisters overhead And the surf crashes low Burning, rocking sand— Glistening, pure, and white It wavers as a mirage Until it dips from my sight. I could never forget the smell Sunscreen, salty, and free Open expanse of white, unmarred canvas And it is calling to me. Waves crash and break over me Rip my grip on the sandy bed
Around me, in me Fling me to the depths
Poised on a precipice
One gust of wind from toppling…
In a life where I cling Desperately to control It is where I am most hopeless That I feel true freedom in my soul Towers of waves buffet me I’m drowned and I’m made clean Give up the struggle surrender your spirit See what none have seen Waves enfold and encompass a lonely soul And I am swallowed by the sea
27
WELCOME, HOME Erin Farrell these good bones make good homes and i’d like for you to stay on the front porch where the cigarettes have worn into the wood and this is good and can you hear the crickets sing? —a melody mixed with cicada screams soaked into smoke that tastes like poetry, like coffee pressed by a hand laced with lilacs and endless summer sun, like lyrics pressed into your head by lips that drip with honey it tastes like time is a funny thing to hold her and to watch her run down old turf, good earth, terrebonne always ever headed home her breath in air in lungs that hold the budding smoke that’s burrowed into jackets—old and blue a couch cushion holding two holding inefficient afternoons and evenings raising glasses in a salute to the final slivers of the summer moon shedding rays on this sweet terrebonne terre meaning terra meaning earth meaning dirt, dug deeply, rich in roots, necessary in the way that we need it, meaning i’d like for you to stay bonne meaning bonum bonum meaning good bone meaning good bone meaning a composite of calcium and collagen, underlining everything in you that moves
28
VASE, Ceramics, 9�, Joseph Schopp
29
THE LOSER HERO Tom Hoopes Sr. When the hallway alarm woke him up and he smelled the smoke, the first thing Alan did was cry. He lay on his back, tears streaming down his face, unaware that he was not in Afghanistan, but Silver Spring, Maryland; that what he smelled was a housefire, not his uniform burning; that he was not Staff Sgt. Alan Sunderland, but just Alan, a tollbooth worker living in the house he grew up in; not on a transport mission but resting up after a humiliating visit from his brother; not in the remains of a Humvee, but in his bed. He bolted up and out of the Humvee that was actually a bed and fell on the stumps of his legs, which he had left in that Humvee years ago. Hitting the floor jolted him awake. “The heater,” he thought. “That idiot left the heater on.” The night before, Alan had welcomed his big brother Devon to his father’s house. Dad had surgery over the summer and never quite recovered. A nurse checked on him three times a week. Alan took care of him at night. Devon had come over for dinner reluctantly. His ex-wife had helped Dad return home from the hospital, but Devon hadn’t. Cheryl and their children had come at Thanksgiving too, but Devon didn’t. She and the kids planned to be back for Christmas, but not him. He was here last night, though. Halfway through dinner, Devon had left the little kitchen table and headed to the basement stairs to use the laundry bathroom. It was their favorite bathroom growing up because it had an electric heater built into the wall. That heater was a fire hazard then. It was in a state of reckless neglect now. “Hey, Dev, don’t use the heater,” Alan had said. Devon hadn’t heard. Their dad had come to life when Devon visited, laughing and joking with his oldest son. Alan repeated, “Devon, don’t use the heater down there.” Devon winked and walked away. Now the house was on fire. Alan grabbed his government-issued prosthetic legs off the table beside his bed, and then the 30
sleeves to put over his stumps. Alan’s room shared a wall with his dad’s room. Outside his door was a hallway to his dad’s bathroom, which was right over the basement bathroom. The fire had done exactly what Alan had feared a fire would do: It lit up the laundry room, crawled up the wall, and shot up the laundry chute. That meant Dad’s bathroom was on fire. And that meant Dad’s room was on fire. With one sleeve on and one sleeve off, Alan crawled quickly out into the hallway, in a sudden panic of worry, leaving his legs behind. Smoke was billowing out of the bathroom. He pushed through the cloud, holding his breath, to find his dad in bed next to a wallpapered wall that was sizzling and popping. A rank chemical smell filled the air. Whatever they made wallpaper out of in the 1970s stank when it burned. His dad was weak, pale, and bloated in the best of circumstances. But his chest was rising and falling still. He was alive. Dad’s wheelchair was against the wall. Alan grabbed it and started to try to pull his dad into it. He quickly decided it was no use. His dad was too big and too limp, the smoke was too thick, and not having legs wasn’t helping. Instead, he pulled his dad’s blanket to the ground, and then dragged his dad’s body down on top of it. He used to give his older brother “sled rides” on a blanket down the hallway to the living room. That made him think of it. Devon would sneak up on their Christmas presents down that hallway as children, Devon had shown off Cheryl’s engagement ring to his mom in that hallway, and Devon had wheeled Mom’s body out of the house down that hallway when she died. Alan had said goodbye to Devon last night there, too. “Later,” Devon had said smirking, “loser hero.” “What?” Alan had asked. “If you screw up and join the army and go overseas, you’re a ‘loser hero,’” Devon had said. “Baseball stadiums cheer for you. And look, you still wear a uniform,” he said, pointing to Alan’s tollbooth jacket on the hook by the door. Alan had looked at his dad, hoping to see indignation at the insult. But Alan’s dad wasn’t listening. Instead, he was painfully pulling himself out of his wheelchair to stand on his own two feet. He wanted to give Devon a hug. Devon winked at Alan over Dad’s shoulder then walked out. Leaving fire in his wake. 31
Alan dragged his dad inch by inch down the hallway now, thinking of his brother, thinking of his toll-taker’s uniform, trying (and failing) to recall the last time his dad had hugged him, and trying to remember what distance from the floor his face needed to be to avoid inhaling the fumes that could kill him. At the end of the hallway, past the living room, he had to make a sharp left turn to get to the front door. That was the hardest part. He strained to get his dad’s entire body around the bend and in front of the door on top of the mat, so he could roll him out once the door was open. He gasped for breath, and suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. That’s not helpful. Tears filled his eyes. That’s not helpful either. What a stupid time to think of his brother. What a stupid time to be seized with jealousy. What a stupid time to think, “If I had a wife I would never let her go. If I had his job and his money, I would move Dad out of here,” which then became, “If I wasn’t a loser I would be more than a toll taker. If I wasn’t a loser I wouldn’t have had to make that second trip and I would still have my legs. If I wasn’t such a loser …” He told his mind to stop, and it did. The dizziness grew in his brain and everything seemed to get really dark momentarily. He reached over his dad to grab the doorknob. The door opened right away — for five inches, into the side of his dad, and then slammed shut. He finished his sentence: “If I wasn’t such a loser I would have remembered that front doors open in.” He worked his body down to where his dad’s feet were and pulled on the blanket again. It didn’t budge. It had somehow wedged itself into the door when he opened it. He tugged at it again and again but it wouldn’t get loose. Then he pulled on his dad’s leg, but only managed to pull his pajama pants halfway off. Next, he grabbed his dad by the ankle and put all his effort into it. Either his dad had grown heavier or Alan had grown weaker, but he could only barely move him. The room went dark again, for longer this time, and Alan knew he was in trouble. He grabbed his dad in a panic and pulled with all his might, practically hyperventilating, sucking the house’s smoke deep into his lungs until he passed out. There the two of them lay, as the fire became visible from the outside, flickering yellow light illuminating billows and waves of smoke. Soon, the whole neighborhood stank from it.
32
BURNED, Digital Photography, 4725 x 3130, Jessica Yurgelaitis The two bodies lay lifeless on the floor, Dad blocking the door and son wet with sweat and passed out from exertion and smoke inhalation. Then Dad woke up. He saw his son at his feet and shuffled three centimeters at a time on his back until he was next to him. “Alan,” he whispered, then, propping himself up on one arm, pawed at the front door knob with his free hand. The blanket wouldn’t let it open, so he pulled the blanket away with a snap and swung the door wide. He couldn’t budge his son’s body toward the doorway, so he pulled Alan onto his chest and did what he did before, shuffled on his back, with his fat, feeble legs and arms pushing at the floor. The air outside was energizing. He edged himself, with his son still on his stomach, out onto the porch, then down two steps to the lawn, inches at a time. Halfway across the lawn, he passed out. Sparks flew into the air, lighting up the trees and the mailbox and the father and son in each other’s arms, unconscious but alive, breathing fresh air at last. 33
FATHER JOSÉ, Graphite, 7” x 10”, Adrienne Polus 34
FATHER GLEESON’S GENERAL ABSOLUTION AT RUE DU BOIS Will McCartney fearful the morrow would greet them with sorrow they marched with hung heads and slackened jaw ‘til Father put on his stole and spoke to the souls of irish soldiers with no strength left to draw they encountered the divine at a wayside shrine on the road to Rue du Bois the very next day, blood mingled with clay and confirmed their greatest of fears cut down in score, such victims of war consoled only by Father’s words ringing clear their lives were the cost, many souls would have been lost if not for the chaplain of the Irish Fusiliers
35
PORCH LIGHT
Rebecca Suhr
Porch light late night. Flies buzz whirr moths meander. But we we stand in silence we Gaze into vacancy and fullness. Your hand reaches out for mine— I grasp it. I touch nothing. I am alone again.
HELEN
Elizabeth Heil Growing, day by day, inside her mother's warm, dark nest, the rigid yet fragile white shell encasing her, born of violence and born to violence, the tiny swan-girl lies, dreaming.
36
MOBILE, Digital Photography, 5899 x 3933, Jacqueline Marko
37
CHEESE: AN ODE Amanda Pugh
Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. -G.K. Chesterton O Cheese! Your stringy, melty goodness brings me to my knees. Your harmonious rhapsodies dance in our mouths and Leave no mysteries, no shred of curiosity, lest we die never having known your grateness. Those whose bodies freeze, and wheeze, and protest with disease, Whene’er they meet with you, O Cheese, are beholden to eternities Of torture apart from your molten magnificence. O Cheese! Your stringy, melty goodness brings me to my knees. Expertly designed and tastefully crafted! O wonder of calcified creation, won’t you seize my senses and please my hungry tongue once again?
38
MY YOUNGER BROTHER, Charcoal & White Chalk, 8.5” x 11”, Miriam Bezy
39
A BOY AND HIS BALL, Digital Photography, 3456 x 5184, Margaret Jones 40
CUL-DE-SAC
Madeline Bruegger
I. The first time I brought you to my lips, I was driving by the river, alone, with 19 years in my backseat and another quickly approaching the passenger-side door. Heading North, the current, West. You were the kind of thrill I needed then like a rollercoaster I never had to get off or a friendship that never seemed to leave. Blue and red lights approached us and I had the sudden instinct to re-buckle my seatbelt and hide in front of you. But he kept driving upstream as we looked down. Perhaps he thought we were kids from the local high school, or better yet, a part of the town after all. II. My aunt walks in the front door and immediately out the back. She is supposed to be in Lawrence working, but I know she is on her way to visit you. My mother lights a new candle, grasps the old candle in her garden-bed hands, approaches the porch, the same circle every time. We don’t have an ashtray in my house, but we do have old candle holders burnt and cavernous and already gone. III. The pen sits perfectly posed between my middle and ring finger as I bring it to my lap. I spill across the page as you fill the space at the end of the line. We touch. You attack the already cracked window, not the sacred page but the margin. I swear I could smell you this morning as I walked up 2nd Street. It was a mixture of Europe and loneliness and everything people love about you - but I was late for class and we no longer spoke. IV. We are sitting on the front steps of the town’s Catholic grade school. He carries you in his back pocket now and I am a child in need of attention and my only desire is to defy you. Him and I both know there is space between us that only a bottle of whiskey occupies. He has holes from you up and down his arm as if every poem I ever tried to write was laid there to rest, couldn’t shake it off, couldn’t find another home. He brings you to his mouth, a spirit of flashing red light and a gray blanket. He was crucified to your penmanship. His father, too, sick because of you, well maybe not you, but your brother. V. The boy who lives in the cul-de-sac across the way met you yesterday leaning against the side of his house. I’m pretty sure he is still in middle school. The next day I see his parents outside yelling at each other. His dad kicks the dog. I sit still on my back porch as the mosquito bites my neck, steals my blood my body so easily spits out. We share the same fence, that boy and I, the same circle every time.
41
SUNFLOWER Amanda Pugh
Thirsting for golden beams, lovesick for the daytime star, Drunk on liquid sunshine, she turns toward him. Painted the color of joy, gold-stained patch in the quilt of the earth, A moon rooted in a field, she reflects her lover’s light. Ah! To be a sunflower! Entwining a battered barbed wire fence, growing wild by the roadside A naked Greek statue, a proud, lovely goddess who stands alone Baring her bold yellow beauty to the harsh green world.
42
STUDY OF THE HUMAN FORM, Charcoal, 22” x 30”, Isabella DeBenedetti 43
COLLABORATION PIECE: PATRIOT Poem: Maddie Breugger Print: 4 x 6, Hannah Smith
44
45
THE FREEZE Nina Carraway The wind-touched chaff Still ripples the standing water Of the irrigation channels. Distant in the ice-pale sky, Clouds still Rise from the power plant. A few birds head toward it, So far they seem barely to move From one emptiness to another. These small movements Belie the stillness in the air, The freeze in your chest The catching of breath That says the world has stopped turning.
46
CLIMBER AT THE STONE QUARRY, Digital Photography, 1280 x 801, Joseph Schopp
47
Awards POETRY AND PROSE
The Patricia Hattendorf Nerney Poetry Award: SUNFLOWER by Amanda Pugh The Sister Scholastica Schuster Fiction Writing Award: “PULSING IN EXODUS” by Alexander Stover The Thomas Ross Award for a Promising Young Writer: COFFEE HOUSE by Clara Grismer
PHOTOGRAPHY:
1st Place: DON’T TELL ME TO BREATHE, Margaret Jones 2nd Place: VENDOR ON 6TH STREET, Lara Wallace 3rd Place: MOBILE, Jacqueline Marko
FINE ART:
1st Place: VASE, Joesph Schopp 2nd Place: THEOTOKOS, Thomas West 3rd Place: DULCIS COR MARIAE, Anna Moreno de Araque
COLLABORATION:
1st Place: DEEP IS CALLING, Erin Farrell and Joseph Schopp
Special thank you to all of our judges: Prose: Sr. Judith Sutera, OSB, Dr. Jamie Blosser, Dr. Matthew Ramsey, Dr. Daphne McConnell Poetry: Sr. Jennifer Halling, OSB, LeighAnna Schesser, Dr. Chuck Osborn, Dr. Eddie Mulholland Fine Art & Photography: Kristy Kreitner, Clare Tapia, Carolyn Olson, 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 Arensberg, Karol 16, 27 Bezy, Miriam 39 Bruegger, Maddie 12, 41, 44 Carraway, Nina 46 DeBenedetti, Isabella 43 Farrell, Erin 5, 28 Greer, Wesley 11 Grismer, Clara 7 Heil, Elizabeth 14, 36
Hoopes Sr., Tom 30 Jones, Margaret 6, 19, 40 Leone, Kathleen 24 Marko, Jacqueline 3, 37 Maus, Hannah 8, 24 McCartney, Will 35 Moreno, Anna 15 Polus, Adrienne 34 Pugh, Amanda 38, 42
48
Schopp, Joseph 4, 29, 47 Smith, Hannah 44 Stover, Alexander 18 Suhr, Rebecca 36 Wallace, Lara 13 West, Thomas 26 Yurgelaitis, Jessica 17, 33