1 st pl A ce : View From VillA morghen by A VA w hite , pA ge 11
p hotogr A phy
1 st pl A ce : J o J o by J e ’Z hon b A ker , pA ge 42
p rose
p rose A w A rd : U ncle b ill by n or A l ey , pA ge 14-15
p oetry
p oetry A w A rd : F irst l A dy by A lice c A mp , pA ge 24
y o U ng w riter A w A rd : g rie F by A lison s impson , pA ge 21
Cover Art by Sarah Zorovich
Published by Benedictine College
1020 N 2nd Street
Atchison, Kansas 66002
Materials appearing in Loomings may not be reproduced or reprinted without written consent from Benedictine College and the original artist/author of each work. Writers, poets, and artists contributing to Loomings retain the full rights to their work and need not obtain permission for reproduction.
a _ LETTER _ from_the_editor
In preparation for this edition of Loomings, the staff worked hard to pick a theme that would act as inspiration for artists of every type. By choosing “Reflections,” the staff hoped that artists would be inspired to see beauty reflected in the unexpected and hidden aspects of our fast-paced everyday lives. Needless to say, we were amazed by the vast range of creativity the Benedictine community submitted.
Art is an expression of beauty, each piece acting as a unique display of how individual artists see the world around them. Every artist has the opportunity to pour a piece of themselves into their work, striving to create a finished product that exhibits the journey and perspective of the artist and the emotions that cannot be described with words alone. We challenge each reader to recognize the distinctive features and perspectives in each selected piece.
We hope that this artwork will inspire you the same way it has inspired us. Each piece has a story to tell, a moment to share, and a unique artist interpretation. We hope you will take the time to recognize the beauty and meaning behind each of these reflections.
Thank you for reading and supporting this edition of Loomings!
General Editor,
INSIDE _
Loomings _ 2024
1st place, View From Villa Morghen by Ava White, page 11
2nd place, Gulia by Sarah Zorovich, page 10
1st place, Jojo by Je’Zhon Baker, page 42
Fine Art Photography Prose Poetry
2nd place, Kansas Sunflowers by Kathryn Pluta, page 40
The Patricia Hattendorf Nerney Poetry Award:
3rd place, Reflections by Emma Kaminski, page 12 Uncle_ Bill
The Thomas Ross Young Writer Award: & grief by Alison Simpson, page 21
3rd place, Modern Antiquity by Jaedyn Salas, page 38 by Nora Ley, pages 14-15 by Alice Camp, page 24 by Alice Camp, page 41
The Sister Scholastica Schuster Prose Award:
the _ TEAM
Michael
Sarah
Zorovich is a junior Art Major with a special interest in oil painting and ceramics. Through her art she strives to depict the soul reflected in the human form. She is passionate about bringing art to the community and has been honored to work with Loomings to showcase the art of the Benedictine student body.
Emma
Lyons is a junior from Northern California studying English with a minor in Psychology. She enjoys spending time with her loved ones, being in nature, and discovering beauty in the little things. She was honored to have served the Benedictine community through Loomings Magazine.
Addison
Zook is a junior Graphic Design Major here at Benedictine College. She has dedicated her life to mastering fine art, design, and sewing. This year she has put her heart and soul into the design and layout of the 2024 edition of Loomings.
Cheyanne
Walt is a junior from St. Louis studying English. She loves reading, writing, drawing, and traveling. Cheyanne loves being a part of the Loomings staff and looks forward to sharing the magazine with the Benedictine community!
Tatiana
Tawney is a junior from Phoenix, Arizona, studying English and Philosophy. She loves all things coffee, music, hiking, mountains, and literature! She has had a blast working as the Prose editor for this year’s edition of Loomings and hopes the magazine provides a little glimpse of beauty for the readers.
Stigman teaches creative writing, literature, and composition. For sixteen years, he has relished his role as faculty advisor for Loomings, and he is grateful to work each year with dedicated student editors like Addison, Cheyanne, Emma, Sarah, and Tatiana! He appreciates so much the college’s steadfast support of the arts at Benedictine College.
Looking Glass_ Caroline Stein photography
Negative_ space
by Mariella Brownsberger
If we could bottle our tears in glass
Liquid diamond would pool in vials
Each drop containing our souls cast
An imprint of these glorious trials
How lucky are we that our hearts burn
With such fierce pain from such fierce love
If we saw not depth in Earth’s turns
We could not yearn for what’s above
We know goodness lives, so we cry
For not feeling its joy as well
But noting darkness in the night
Means you can see the stars as well
You can’t feel cold without discerning
The absence of blessed warmth
You can’t feel lonely without learning
Your love has not yet come forth
If we could bottle our tears in glass
How beautifully would they shimmer
A testament to what has passed
Night’s darkness makes not the stars dimmer
Moon _ Dance
by Edward Koval
Darling receiver of my incandescent love
Won’t you dance with me under the moon?
It shines so brightly in the dark blanket above
You are the only one I love from night until noon
Please come back over my sun, moon, and stars
Let me sing for you Love’s sweet gentle tune
Darling of my life there is no love like ours
Wise, courageous, and beauty beyond compare The ethereal love can’t be from any world of ours!
So lovely you seem, a new kind of fair
Please come finish our dance
Another song without you is something I cannot bear.
My heart, it flutters with every sweet glance
Love of my life, I ask your love in return
Darling receiver of this incandescent love, you alone fill my heart with romance!
Young Love_ Elise Michieli photography
Giulia_ by Sarah Zorovich oil on linen, 40x50cm
View From Villa Morghen_ by Ava White pen and watercolor, 8x10in
Reflections_ by Emma Kaminski acrylic on canvas, 11x13in
Religion
_
by Sophie Kolars
I am afflicted by things I understand maybe too well, Or not well enough at all.
I know the confessors by voice
My shoes score the tile
My shadow is engraved in the dreaded confessional line A soft glow highlights my own indecency
The most painful sins of all Are those perceived as virtuous, A sickening image That is bound to erode Held up up up By you?
Up to heaven it airs I regard you as my Savior yet discard your Mercy.
Uncle_ Bill
by Nora Ley
The sun beat hard on my face, my eyes. I squinted and I sweat. I hate this, my thoughts grumbled, a groan of anger born of discomfort.
But my uncle had broken his foot and needed the help. And I’d been happy to do it before; I was going to do a good deed, and it was going to feel great, and he was going to thank me and say I’m such a good nephew and maybe even pay me, and I’d refuse and he’d insist, and I’d end up taking it just for his sake, and then I’d eat a nice lunch from his fridge and cabinets that was much better than the same old peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese sandwiches that at home, and maybe even lemonade too and dessert.
But the shovel was heavy, and its metal seemed to radiate the heat upward to an even greater degree. I drank the rest of my water bottle dry. I could feel the back of my neck burning. Should’ve worn sunscreen. There was dirt under my nails—I’d made the mistake of turning down my uncle’s offer of gardening gloves—and insects of all kinds buzzed around me, their shrill, sharp wings screaming in my ears all of the sudden, the mosquitos biting my skin so that I’d slap them and miss with a loud smack. Great, I thought. I was going to be covered in bites and itch for days.
Why does he even need to move the garden? He doesn’t. This is ridiculous—why am I here? “So that the soil doesn’t get worn out. And so the plants’ll get more sun now that that maple’s gotten so big over the old spot,” my uncle had said.
But why does he need a garden? He can hardly take care of it now. His foot’s gonna take a long time to heal, and then, he’s getting pretty old…
My uncle was actually my great uncle. He’d just always been so close with my dad that we called him uncle. Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill lived alone. But Dad visited him so much that it wasn’t like he could get lonely. I wondered why Dad did visit him so much. Why when his wife died we’d moved to a house closer to him.
And why didn’t Dad just come do this? Why’d he send me? What, he’d rather not get his hands dirty? Rather not sweat under this horrible sun, rather send his 14-year-old kid to do it?
I was getting a cramp in my shoulders. I put my shovel down and tried to stretch it out. My head turned upward and I accidentally looked right into the sun. “Ah!” I winced aloud. The spot stayed there in my vision for an irritatingly long time.
I picked up the shovel and jammed it hard into the ground. With the swift force, my hands slid and a splinter lodged into my palm. I screamed in frustration. A drop of sweat rolled down my face, and I swiped it off with a dirty hand, spitting.
I’d hardly gotten anywhere with this work. Did he know how big of a job this was? I pictured Uncle Bill sitting inside, foot propped up in his reclining chair, in the air-conditioning with a glass of ice water. A red flash of hatred shuddered fast across my mind, then left me with a blushing shame that I quickly drowned.
My thoughts were uncomfortably quiet for a while as I continued to work.
Dig up the old carrots and tomatoes and whatever there was, keep any old roots, rip up the deep weeds from the ground and fall backward in a spray of damp dirt; accidentally snap a root and have to work even harder to get it up, drag dried leaves to the compost pile, carry the wooden beams from the old garden to the new one, all the way across the yard, to frame it; but first use the back of the hammer to remove the old nails sticking out the bottom, replace any that were too rotted to use again, get the ground ready for where the new vegetable seeds would go.
The worst part was the set of stairs. His yard was in basically two levels; one at the level of the back door and the other accessed by this set of homemade wooden stairs. There were only five steps, but it made the whole process so much more exhausting. I would have to haul the beams down the steps, try not to fall on account of their unwieldy size, then drag my tired body back up to retrieve the next.
Hours passed. I sweat until I grew lightheaded. But at last I finished; I was done. I stood back to look at my work. I breathed out, satisfied. After a few moments of this, I whirled about and marched inside. That
rubbery feeling seized my muscles, and I could tell that they would be stronger the next day.
The screen door rattled shut behind me, and I could have collapsed on the spot. I felt the cool inside air on my slick skin and headed straight to the sink. Once I’d gulped down a good three glasses of water, I entered the living room where my uncle was waiting patiently.
The TV was off, and he had a book turned upside down on the arm of the reclining chair. He just looked at me and said, “You finished?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He nodded. “Well come on in, sit. Relax.”
I did. I don’t know why I was annoyed. But I was. My sweaty skin felt awful on the fabric of the couch. The room was too dark. My eyes took a long time to adjust.
We sat in silence for a long while.
“So,” I broke the empty air. “I moved the wood over. And I got the dirt ready. And the compost and the nails are taken care of…”
He didn’t seem to care. I grew frustrated. My teeth grit together and I stared at my clenched fists. I did all that, and I don’t even get a thank you? Are you kidding me? I spent hours out there—the heat was intolerable! And he doesn’t even—
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I snapped. I could feel the sharpness hurtling from my eyes at the old injured man. He looked back only with confusion and hurt. An open mouth. Pathetic. I felt suddenly sick, like a weight had sunk to my gut, or a cold wave washed over me. I felt my face loosen and go slack. “Oh, Uncle Bill, I’m sor—”
“No, it’s alright.” He shifted in his seat and cringed as his wrapped foot hit a bad position. Were those tears in his eyes? He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Really, I shouldn’t have—”
“Do you know what it feels like to not be able to walk around or even stand?” I was taken aback. Silent for a second. Then, “What?”
“Did you know that I would give anything to go out in the garden? To be out there and feel the sun and sweat from something other than pain and work with my hands in the dirt.” He closed his eyes, spoke more slowly. “It would always get in my fingernails, and I’d be reminded of my quiet mornings with the earth through the rest of the day.” He looked at me with a steady softness. His voice was so quiet. I held my breath to hear him.
“Part—” He restarted, recomposed himself. “Part of the reason I wanted the garden moved was so that I could get to it. I’ll—I’ll have a hard time with those stairs.” He looked suddenly very distant. “I may never climb those stairs again.”
His eyes closed for a long moment. Then his body jerked in a sudden movement that made me jump. His eyes flew open again, looked panicked, were wide and on mine but couldn’t focus. “My Margie died. She’s gone and left me to take care of myself. Well I don’t like doin’ that. I don’t like sittin’ here, doin’ nothin’—I used to do wild, crazy things! I used to climb the bluffs with my friends, swim in the lake and jump off the dock…” He was gesturing about, decades in the past and miles down the road—his injured foot a forgotten dream. “...and play sports—we played every sport there was: baseball, football, tennis—” Suddenly he covered his face in his hands and wept. Muffled, a whisper: “Oh, Margie, what am I anymore?” His hands, wrinkled and fragile and clean of dirt, hid his face a long time. I sat there and waited. I waited, and I stared at him, bent over in his chair, looking broken. I remember thinking just how helpless he looked. Like a little child.
Eventually, he sat himself back up, wiped off his face, sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he said, quiet. He was quiet a long time. Then he folded his hands and looked at me once more. Smiled, painfully.
“Thank you for moving the garden.”
Terracotta_ by Sarah Zorovich oil on linen, 30x40cm
Storming the Night Train_ by Joshua Mansfield music
St or ming the Night T rain
scan to listen
Joshua Mansf ield
The Lovely Helena Comes Ashore_ by Libby Gendreau pen and paper, 9x12in
YOLO_ by Addison Zook paper, 9x13in
Release_ by Emma Moorhead acrylic paint, 9x12in
grief
_ by Alison Simpson
He liked my hair
So I cut it all off
She liked my voice
But she left earth during my song
They both left on different nights
They both left on different nights
Ecstasy of St. Francis_ by Libby Gendreau charcoal, 9x12in
Astra_ Ethan Kopec photography
Pomegranate _
by Candido Palomarez
The jovial red bark
Cut and ripped
To reveal a collection
Picked by fingers
Bit by bit
By bit
By Bit
Scooping
Warping
Tearing
Pounding
Creating more red
Jaw grinding seed
Blood popping
Flowing
But what hasn’t to do with everything?
And so, the mystery fruit of infinite recesses— Infinite seeds sown, hidden to be found—
Lord, this is Thy submitting heart
first _ Lady
by Alice Camp
To be or not to be Was never the question.
I am only allowed to be Be a sister, wife, mother, worker, daughter, friend, Woman.
To be, to be, to be.
slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp_ by Isabella Guzman ceramics, (teapot: 10 3/8” x)
Eve_ by Candido Palomarez charcoal, 18x24in
The Pigrim_ by Mia Kroeter Adobe Illustrator, 13.5x13.5
Wonder_ by Lily Yandow graphite, 18x24in
Sentiment_ by Aubrey Novacek charcoal, 11x14in
Letters
_ by Tatiana Tawney
Gentle fingers softly seal her handwritten heart in the envelope–thin and almost weightless, addressed in scratchy pen–yet not so thin as it sails across the rolling seas to be cherished by the second heart–or is it half of one? that receives the other half in chicken-scratch and misspelled words sprawling across two pages of poured-out soul. And he holds it to his chest and smiles at the words–such a simple vessel for his greatest prize.
Mountain Lake_ by Gus Smith pencil and charcoal
Unwritten _
by Tatiana Tawney
“Why do you love it out here?” The trees rustled and creaked in anticipation of the answer to her question.
“I went to the woods…so that I might live deliberately.” A mischievous smirk flitted around the corners of his mouth.
“That’s Thoreau, not an answer.”
“I know.” That was all he said as he stared past his companion, ahead across the water and over the bluffs, a strange glimmer in his eyes.
She sighed, exhaling frustration. But it wasn’t frustration at him personally, or his stoic, almost cold silence–it was a sort of calm frustration that she couldn’t see what those deep brown eyes were staring at. They gazed over the gray slabs of moss-covered rock and swept over the chasm of the ravine with its faintly roaring waters below. But they did not stop there and continued on, staring at something in the distant horizon–something invisible to everyone except him; something that deepened the dark pools of his eyes and took his voice away; something that held him captive. There was nothing for him to say; yet somehow unspoken words seemed to flow from the brisk wind that wrapped itself around the sunset, swimming within the deep receptivity of his eyes. What does he see? she wondered. She stared out at the ravine, trying to see what it was that flooded his eyes with poetry. The sunset wrapped itself around the horizon with the full glow of the dying day–hues of red and vermilion and scarlet and rose that faded slowly into the deepening breath of night. The breeze whipped through her hair and sent goosebumps traveling across her arms and a shiver spiraling down her neck. The sharp whispers of the pine tickled her ears with a faint promise, and she started. Words, carried by the wind and rustling crisply through the pines, had tickled softly at her mind. Frantically she strained her memory, trying to grasp at the quickly fading poetry that for a brief second had whispered beauty in her ear. But it retreated as quickly as it had come–leaving only the haunting, half-formed vestige of an image, imprinted like a faint photocopy of a Van Gogh. She reached in her pocket for her pen, trying to write what she had only briefly sensed beyond the curtain, but a curious glance from her companion stopped her.
“Why are you writing?”
She stopped, staring at the pen she held in her slightly trembling hand.
“I–” she hesitated, unwilling to tell him how she had caught a flash of inspiration. It seemed so silly to say out loud now. “Why aren’t you writing?” she blurted out without thinking.
“I don’t need to.” He turned toward her and she was suddenly struck by the look in his eyes–words swam back and forth in his gaze and playfully bumped into each other in laughing lines of unwritten verse.
“Look,” he spoke quietly, “I am surrounded by beauty. Why am I trying to force it into my words? I will sit and listen to it–and when it is abundantly clear to me–I will write.”
He turned back to the fading hues of the sunset over the bluffs and she sat back, feeling almost chastened as she stared at the pen in her hand.
Why are you writing?
Papa Raphael_ by Alondra Gomez watercolor, 8x10in
Motley_ by Eileen Bennett ink and paper, 6x6in
Simple_ by Emma Moorhead charcoal, 18x24in
ROVE _ by Eileen Bennett pinhole photography
What _ I Can Say
by Sabrina Vizurraga
Cat got your tongue? ¿Te comieron la lengua los ratones?
Cuando estoy pensando de mi abuelo, de mi familia extranjera, I think of all the words that I do not know. Sometimes they come. Most of the times they go, quietly leaving me without my tongue.
How do I explain I have these ideas, ¿pero no tengo las palabras? Language is ever evolving, ever-expanding, and ever-changing. How can I not expect it to change in a matter of seconds?
When I was a child, Spanish was a repetition of trills and hard rs. It sounded strong, como dos brazen brazos that could throw a good punch. It sounded joyful, como un room lleno de risas, full of laughter. It sounded fast, como getting dizzy from spinning in círculos.
And then, when the trills and the rs turned into words and later sentences, I felt like I had been let in on a beautiful, winsome secret. A door, una puerta grande, had been cracked open and I could finally attune myself to abuelo’s vida and resplendent culture.
Somehow, English and Español married. I am their bastard child, who still clings too closely to English, but waits longingly for Español. I expect him to bring me back my tongue.
I am still waiting for a window, una ventana, in the door para mi placer. But for now, I am happy with what I can hear. Estory contenta with what I can say. Now when I say, “I love you,” I no longer feel limited in my words. I can say, “te amo,” “te quiero,” and, when I am suerte, lucky, I can say un mil frases más
Poor Yorick_ by Emilia Ward charcoal, 18x24in
Modern Antiquity_ Jaedyn Salas photography
How _Do You Praise The_ Lord?
by Jordan Marielle Knowlton
Oh Sun and moon and stars, How do you praise the Lord?
You shine forth your light, through you all catch a glimpse of His glory and gentleness, that is how you praise Him who created you.
Oh Wind, How do you praise the Lord?
You go unseen yet are felt and refresh all who are touched by your gentle breeze. You whisper His name, Him who created you.
Oh Rain and Snow, how do you praise the Lord?
You fall on the heartbroken and on the joyful, bringing life to everything you touch, that is how you praise Him who created you.
Oh Mountains, how do you praise the Lord?
You reach to Him who created you, and point towards the heavens.
Oh Plants, how do you praise the Lord?
You bring color and scent into the world and through your gift bring others life and draw them closer to Him who created you.
Oh Springs of water, how do you praise the Lord?
You bubble forth from the earth and give refreshing water to others, sustaining them and drawing them closer to Him who created you.
Oh Rivers and seas, how do you praise the Lord?
You laugh with your waves and waterfalls, your currents carve pathways, you reflect the heavens and draw us closer to Him who created you.
Oh Creatures of the waters, how do you praise the Lord?
You swim and leap with joy from the waters, showering everything around you with a refreshing spray. This is how you praise Him who created you.
Oh Birds of the air, how do you praise the Lord?
You soar through the air, drawing eyes upward, you sing your songs and praise Him who created you.
Oh Beasts of the earth, how do you praise the Lord?
You crop the grass, you churn the soil, you worry not what the day holds. You care for your young, you run freely. You howl, you whinny, you low, you bleat, you roar, you chirp. All to the glory of Him who created you.
And finally, Man, how do you praise Him who created you?
Kansas Sunflowers_ Kathryn Pluta photography
Alice Camp
Blooming _ by
I walk the tightrope at the edge of the sidewalk, lean in if you Want . Or out, differing consequences. A snail has made a house of the stone walls surrounding True childishness. The towels are hung to dry flapping, making Love to the wind. Tilt and turn windows lean in To the Open street where the left oriented wheels slither down the pavement. Me?
MeI exist between events, in the time spent looking out into the Wide wild world, in the commute
Across cobblestones, in the muzak of the supermarket, The spaces between your lashes when you look to the Sky , the sock neglected between your dresser and the wall. Oh!
To be your favorite color, favorite sound, favorite touch, favorite mouth, Watch it turn sour. Soon shins will battle with an iron desk bar for an hour-fifteen, as
The red dot chases punctuationan elliptical course like the Heavens . I can feel the mushroom garden in my brain Blooming .
JoJo_ Je’Zhon Baker photography
Catharsis_ Sarah Shaneyfelt photography
Detachment_ by Grace Pinson acrylic on canvas, 12x16in
The Late Shift_ Je’Zhon Baker photography
The Music in My Mind_ by Grace Pinson acrylic on canvas, 18x24in
Go
Climb the Mountain You Idiot_by Blake Habersetzer digital art, 17x11in
Moab_ Ethan Kopec photography
Kate Wilken
_On A Washington Autumn by
Ruminations
Love is the green of a spruce tree jutting out into the blue-gray sky vibrant, full of life, crowning the hill’s crest, but unshakeable in entrenched foundations.
Love is the soft pattering of rain on a cool fall day a peaceful staccato, the music punctuating the otherwise quiet stillness or even the unexpected splatter of rain on a face a surprise, but a refreshing delight nonetheless.
Love is the familiar chirp of a migratory bird returning for the season the streak of the dark gray junco like an old friend whose voice you haven’t heard for a while.
Love is the early advent of a winter sun when the world around begins to be frozen tranquility and you turn, arms stretched wide to chase the vestiges of warmth caressing your frosted cheek with gentle whispers of touch.
Love is the crunch of piling leaves on the crispest day of autumn the crinkling, crackling melody of childhood joys unforgotten.
Love is returning to a place long left behind, a home that still fits and feels like one, but differently than before because you’ve moved on and grown up from the you that you were then, yet you can’t help but recognize yesterday’s beauty in today’s autumns.
Contributers _ Autographs
This edition belongs to ________________________________
