Don’t run me over
Sr. Rosaria Perna
Inscape 2026
Volume LVIII
Theme
This year, Inscape embraces the theme of nostalgia. Nostalgia is more than longing for the past; it is the understanding that memories shape identity. It allows us to hold onto what formed us while continuing forward into what will form us next. Within these pages are poems, short stories, and artwork that preserve moments both ordinary and extraordinary, moments that might otherwise fade with time.
As a women-focused college, Ursuline has always been defined by voice: voices discovering themselves, supporting one another, and speaking into the future. This volume honors those voices. It captures a community not ending, but transforming — carried forward through the people who lived, learned, and created here. Inscape’s editorial team invites you to revisit your memories, share in ours, and recognize that while places may change, the meaning they hold endures.
Editorial Statement
We, the 2026 editorial team, are delighted to present the LVIII volume of Inscape. This issue is not only a collection of creative work, but a gathering of memories — a reflection of the moments, voices, and relationships that have shaped our time at Ursuline College. Our goal through this publication is to preserve reminiscence and nostalgia through the stories and memories of the students, alumni, faculty, and staff who make up this community. Each page reflects a piece of who we have been together, incorporating our diversity, our creativity, and our shared experiences. These works capture laughter in hallways, quiet conversations after class, late-night inspiration, and all of the small moments that become meaningful over time. As our campus enters a new era, this volume stands as both a celebration and a remembrance. We invite readers to move through memory — pausing, reflecting, and recognizing the lasting imprint Ursuline leaves on everyone who has called it home.
Ursuline College
2550 Lander Road Pepper Pike, Ohio 44124 (440) 449-4200 | www.ursuline.edu
Inscape, Ursuline College’s fine arts annual, is published every spring. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the staff or Ursuline College. Inscape considers poetry, fiction, plays, autobiographical sketches, essays, reviews, photography, and artwork for publication by students, faculty, staff, and alumni. The editorial staff reviews all submissions anonymously using a system of blind peer-review.
Inscape 2026 is printed on 8.5 x 11-inch paper. Each piece was formatted in Adobe InDesign. Font style for: cover, Varsity; titles, Hello Paris; subtitles, Lora; copy text, Lora.
Inscape 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, and 2012 earned a First Place with Special Merit Award from the American Scholastic Press Association; Inscape 1999, 2002, 2003, and 2006 earned the Most Outstanding College Literary-Art Magazine Award from the American Scholastic Press Association. Inscape 2012, 2013, and 2014 received a First-Class rating and Inscape 2015 received the All-American Award from the Associated Collegiate Press. Inscape 2021 received the Sigma Tau Delta award for an Outstanding Literary Arts Journal.
Ursuline College has published a fine arts annual since the spring of 1945. From this date till 1952, the annual was known as The Review. When the members of Inscape, Ursuline’s literary society, assumed responsibility for the publication of The Review in 1965, they renamed it Inscape. The term “inscape,” coined by English poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, can be described as:
He [Hopkins] looked hard at things until they looked back at him, revealing within the process the mysterious, glorious, and sometimes terrible presence of God who stood behind and within nature. He understood the visual image to be reflexive, both a window on the world and a mirror of the created and creative self. This quality of “inscape” in a particular work was for him the touchstone of good art, what distinguishes inspired art from slick or poorly conceived offerings.
Michael Flecky, SJ
Originally published in America
December 10, 1994
Table of Contents
Cover
Collage of student submissions designed by Haleigh Platt
Page 1
“Don’t Run Me Over”, Drawing, Sr. Rosaria Perna
Pages 2-3
Front Matter
Pages 4-5
Table of Contents
Pages 6-7
“11”, Poem, Anonymous
“Sit With It”, Painting, Giavanna Victor
Pages 8-9
“The Rhythm Beneath Calm”, Poem, Jade Lewis
“Hillside Twilight”, Painting, Thi Trang Tran
Pages 10-11
“Natural Beauty”, Photograph, Ella Kelley
“Mary Jo”, Short Story, Katie Lane
Pages 12-13
“My New Chair”, Poem, Pamela McVay
“Our Path”, Fiber Art, Kayla Kephart
“If These Walls Could Speak”, Mixed Media / Fibers, Sam Utterback
Pages 14-15
“Ladies of the Season”, Digital Art, Michelle Bolwaire
“Hypatia Calimport”, Digital Art, Alivia Rovder
“Seolha Sterlingheart”, Digital Art, Alivia Rovder
Pages 16-19
“The Sea’s Voice”, Collage Poem, Kamila Sabirova
“Lingering Potential”, Mixed Media, Marni Cantor
Pages 20-21
“Awenita”, Poem, Gaby Murphy
“I Have Seen the Rainbow in Your Eyes”, Painting, Thi Trang Tran
Pages 22-23
“The Ladies of the Mysterious Universe”, Digital Art, Ophelia Rockwell
“We Make a Good Team”, Poem, Maddy Ralls
Pages 24-25
“Death is a Girl’s Best Friend”, Poem, Maddy Ralls
“Lessons Written in the Body”, Mixed Media, Natalie McKay
Pages 26-27
“Amor de Mis Amores”, Painting, Savannah Zupan
“Ink & Harmony”, Essay, Haleigh Platt
Pages 28-29
“Pattern Changer”, Painting, Cassidy Gould
“Self Love”, Painting, Sophia Hengst
Pages 30-33
“No Room for Doubt”, Essay, Katelyn Kazee
Pages 34-35
“Exuberance Before Death”, Poem, Kurt Howell
“Alchemy Comes At Night”, Stained Glass, Sarah Glover
Pages 36-37
“A Country That Learned My Name But Not My People”, Poem, Gigi Ramirez
Pages 38-43
“Evening Blossoms”, Painting, Grace Chernow
“Traveling In My Sleep”, Short Story, Kamila Sabirova
“Ethereal Timelessness”, Drawing, Samuel Fisher of Joyous Phantom
“Ootheke”, Drawing, Samuel Fisher of Joyous Phantom
“Eyes Study”, Drawing, Ellen Rose
Pages 44-47
“More Than Honors”, Essay, Kailin Adeen
“Cold Winter’s Night”, Painting, Grace Chernow
Pages 48-49
“Cassette”, Painting, Lindsey Ford
“Gravity”, Poem, Gigi Ramirez
Pages 50-51
“When the Darkness Caught Me”, Poem, Gaby Murphy
“Inhabited”, Painting, Shariah Abdul-Khaliq
Pages 52-53
“Ode to Maddie”, Poem, Sarah Aber
“Liberated Woman”, Painting, Hailey Wiseman
Pages 54-55
“Father”, Poem, Maddy Ralls
“I Got Me”, Drawing, NaLaya English
Pages 56-57
“Rising From the Deep”, Painting, Mila Troca
“Hunting for Greed”, Painting, Sophia Radosevic
Pages 58-59
“Jazz Baby and Sailor Boy”, Painting/Drawing, Amy Grano
“It’s Still Me”, Digital Art, Jaraka Rogers
Pages 60-63
“Ready to Ride”, Photograph, Kamila Sabirova
“Traveling to Chicago in the Devil’s Sprinter Van”, Short Story, Ricky Nance
Pages 64-67
High School Writing Contest
Pages 68-69
“Wide Awake”, Poem, Kurt Howell
“Outlaws”, Print, Oliver Javorsky
“Billie & 8-Ball”, Digital Art, Alivia Rovder
Pages 70-71
Contributors
Pages 72-73
“Yippie!”, Painting, Oliver Javorsky
Thank You from Haleigh Platt
Back Cover
Editorial Team
Anonymous hot tubs and knives upside down horse shoes and cries that was my eleventh year of life.
desperate and hopeless at such a young age constantly feeling like i was on a leash and stuck in a cage a little girl’s dreams should never be to die; for her existing to cease but that was my reality; what made it scary was my raw Fragility the knives were hidden and topics at dinner forbidden that was my eleventh year of life.
Sit With It
Giavanna Victor
The Rhythm Beneath Calm
Jade Lewis
In the quiet of the heart, a whisper loud as thunder, A flutter, a pulse, a silent scream within the chest. Each morning, the heart awakens with a tremble, A dance of anxiety, a rhythm not at rest.
The world says, “Breathe, just breathe,” But the heart, a tempest, cannot quiet its storms. In the moments of stillness, there’s a whisper of guilt, A feeling of unworthiness in the space between heartbeats.
Unseen, unspoken, the anxiety weaves its tale, A tapestry of tension, of fears and hopes intertwined. And in the struggle, there’s a silent strength, A resilience forged in the furnace of the unseen.
The journey is long, and patience is a distant friend, Yet in each heartbeat, there’s a whisper of hope, A reminder that even in the chaos, The heart learns to find its own rhythm, Its own peace.
Hillside Twilight
Thi Trang Tran
Natural Beauty
Ella Kelley
Mary Jo
Katie Lane
Growing up, I found myself attached to certain things. I would pick an object, a babydoll or stuffed animal, and take it everywhere I went. If I found it worthy enough, it was in my hand or nearby for at least three days. When I found the next thing that sparked my interest, I would kindly put the stuffed animal or toy away and say “I love you still, I just want to play with this toy for a few days.” It was a strange thing I did with everything. One time, I had an obsession with a dress. My mom had to beg me to take it off. I still haven’t let go of this obsession. I still carry books and lip-gloss around like it’s my lifeline.
One of my favorite obsessions was nutcrackers. Barbie in the Nutcracker was the best Barbie movie ever made, hands down. I never watched the ballet, only the movie. Mary Jo, my neighbor at the time, knew how much I loved nutcrackers. I loved the intricate threads woven into designs, decked with gems and sequins. I loved the details on the wooden faces. I even liked the strange tufts of white hair that stuck out of their hats.
I would go over to her house and dance with all the nutcrackers, imagining that I was Clara and about to meet a life-size prince. When I was no older than 7 years old, Mary Jo got me the nicest nutcracker I had ever seen. It had a blue vest with gold trim and red gems. Its white hair stuck out the back behind a wooden red hat. It was perfect.
She said, “Now you take care of this nutcracker. It’s very special.”
I asked her why it was so special, other than that it was the most beautiful nutcracker I had ever laid eyes on.
She said, “Because it is filled with my love, Katie.”
That nutcracker, the one I could never name because no name could capture its beauty, has a special spot in the top shelf of my family’s picture case in the living room.
No matter how disheveled it gets.
No matter how unruly its hair becomes.
No matter how many of its red gems fall off.
I will never throw away that beautiful nutcracker.
The nutcracker, gifted to me from someone who loved me and knew me so well. Mary Jo saw all my quirks, and she loved me for it. She made me feel special.
My New Chair
Pamela McVay
My new chair with its curved curved legs, its interlocking woven rectangles, pale pink green brick white gray, running down the back, down the seat, down the front hesitates
with its back to the pink wall, the broken HVAC, the open closet, the half-closed white plastic box filled with satins, ribbons, glass beads, silk scarves ready for the dance that may never come next to the box, the half-open treasured documents unexamined for a quarter century, the drawers with sheet music never practiced, the graceful pale knit torn purple beaded cardigans, dozens of CDs and no player, all under the hat box above the bottle holding the rinse I use every week every week
to clean the humidifier for my piano silent since COVID.
Our Path
Kayla Kephart
If These Walls Could Speak
Sam Utterback
Ladies of the Season
Michelle Bolwaire
Hypatia Calimport
Alivia Rovder
Seolha Sterlingheart
Alivia Rovder
The Sea’s Voice
Kamila Sabirova
Lingering Potential
Marni Cantor
Awenita
Gaby Murphy
I’ll never forget that cold February day, When Cancer won and you passed away.
I hate your absence; I need you here,
Within the silence, I feel you near.
Awenita, I love you so,
I only hoped you could’ve seen me grow. Your love remains within my heart, You are my guiding star, through the dark. Though grief has lingered and your voice has slipped away, I will always remember your beautiful face.
Until we meet again, up in the sky, My heart will forever cry.
I love you, Mom.
I have Seen the Rainbow in Your Eyes
Thi Trang Tran
The Ladies of the Mysterious Universe
Ophelia Rockwell
We Make a Good Team
Maddy Ralls
we make a good team us three, life and death and me the one is waited on the other waits for me
one is achieved by all the other by a few stereotypically one by old, one by new but the sad truth is most waste life away waiting for death each passing day
Death is a Girl’s Best Friend
Maddy Ralls
Death is a girl’s best friend
All we want is peace
This can’t be achieved on earth Unless men learn their place
We don’t care for war
We don’t care to fight
We want olive branches and doves
Not courts who take our rights
All of this to say:
Death may be seen as permanent
But it’s better than men
Telling us what we can and can’t
Lessons Written in the Body
Natalie McKay
Amor de mis Amores
Savannah Zupan
Ink & Harmony
Haleigh Platt
Who are you? I whisper at my reflection in the mirror: a question that I find myself asking quite frequently, yet the answer never comes. Drifting through childhood I felt disconnected from who I was because I didn’t know, or perhaps I didn’t want to find out. Later in life I thought more seriously about who I wanted to be and what I wanted to become; now, to my surprise, my mind produces a response. Many people would associate their identities with the culture and history that came before them; it’s beautiful, but it’s not me. I love my family and the past we share but I haven’t let it shape the person I am; I aspire to be utterly and completely genuine in my own right. I feel that I have broken away from the mold my loved ones have comfortably sat in for so long. I’ve taken my roots and replanted them; I am my own tree and I have my own roots. In this society full of labels and stereotypes, I choose to self-identify and it makes me feel free.
My identity is a diverse jumble of passions and influences, all of which impact me more than words can convey at times. I devote most of my time to music, literature, and art; these passions manifest within me and take shape as my identity. Music has always been a powerful aspect in my life; it’s the driving force behind my emotions and beliefs. Marina’s Love & Fear has taught me how to feel; Melanie Martinez’s K-12 has formed the advocate in me; Nathan Feuerstein’s The Search has given me strength in times of true darkness. I’m deeply connected to the emotions I feel when listening to music; the rhythm and harmony create a visceral reaction in my soul: powerful and irreplaceable. I feel most connected to people I’ve never met: the women and men who create the very words I listen to. Without music, I wouldn’t be half the woman I am today.
As a child, I felt like an outcast around others; there was a difference in me that I could never place but I felt it lingering at all times. I had friends of course, but at the end of the day, I wanted a book much more than a conversation. I express myself through the books I read; they empower and inspire me, creating a fire inside that will never be extinguished. I see myself in all the young women I go on adventures with, growing and evolving with them as I read. I am compassionate like Caraval’s Scarlett Dragna, doing anything for the ones I love despite the risks. I have found my sense of fierceness from Uglies, Tally Youngblood being the face of a revolution. I see myself in the young women from Girls With Sharp Sticks, all of whom fight for what they deserve. The identities of these women have reserved a space in my own, rightfully so.
I am creative by nature, always drawn to colors and art. For as long as I can remember, art has been a consistent part of my life and one that brings me peace when I need it most. I’ve made it the pinnacle of who I am; without art I am nothing. Creativity is more than just paint on canvas or pencil on paper; creativity is a lifestyle and I express it not only through art but also through writing and music. I pour my personality and emotion into the words I write, the graphics I create, and the music I sing. I might not be successful or wealthy yet, but I am self-made.
I am a Creator and an Artist, creating my identity as I go and letting my roots grab hold of the things I love the most. I am one with ink and harmony, with paint and sound. My personal culture is immersed in creativity and imagination; I need these things like I need air to breathe. My identity feels unique and rare, as it should be. I am proud that my roots have found their own soil to grow; after all, I can’t be anyone but the person I was meant to be.
Pattern Changer
Cassidy Gould
Self Love
Sophia Hengst
No Room for Doubt
Katelyn Kazee
I hate my body. I don’t mean I hate my body in the “self-love” or “body-positivity” kind of way. What I mean is I hate the way my body has betrayed me. At 16, my teammates on my high school cheer team and I got an adrenaline rush from throwing sky-high baskets. So it is hard for me to understand why my 20-year-old body is now surgically repaired and scared to perform the same sport it once performed effortlessly. I spent a lifetime building a deep trust between my body and the movements of my sport. Tearing my ACL during my freshman year of college took a hit to the trust I had spent so long building. But I love stunting, and I would do whatever it takes to get it back. That is, until I returned to stunting my sophomore year and almost immediately tore my opposite ACL, snapping my confidence before I had a chance to repair the existing damage. What made me truly hate and lose trust in my body was when I tore my ACL again. I have thought a lot about which is worse: retearing the same one or tearing the other. I have concluded that I would have been better off if it were the same. If it were the same one, I would only have distrust for one of my knees, not my whole body. If it were the same one, I would understand better why this has happened to me. I would have a reason.
Before my freshman year of college, I signed to Ursuline’s STUNT team. I had never played before, but I had experience from cheering in high school, and it wasn’t too different. I was just excited to have a chance to do any kind of cheer at a higher level. There was no cheering or dancing involved, but I didn’t mind. Stunting was always my favorite part of practice when I was in high school. I loved how strong I felt throwing someone over my head. It takes not only strength but trust and a close bond to your teammates to throw a successful stunt. Instead of cheering for another sport on the sideline, you get to be the main event in STUNT. Nine panels of mat are laid out in the middle of the floor, and two teams take opposite sides and perform identical routines in a four-quarter game. There are three different categories of routines, with eight levels that gradually increase in difficulty. After a few weeks of practicing, I was competing against two of my teammates for a position on the mat as a backspot — the person who supports the bases and the flyers from behind the stunt. Eventually, I earned my permanent role as a backspot, and I loved it. I was learning stunts and techniques that I had only ever dreamed of doing. My group had fallen into a rhythm at practice where we could rely on our chemistry to carry us through routines. I was feeling hopeful for my first season until 1 week before our first game, when I hit the mat and lost my season all in one swift moment. My heart broke as my hopes for a successful freshman season quickly turned into talks of surgery, physical therapy, and 9-12 months of recovery.
In the months after, all I could do was sit and watch at practice and games. I watched as my teammates continued to improve, fill my spots, and keep leveling up their stunts without me. At first, I was guilty, and felt like I was letting my team down because my body wasn’t good enough or strong enough. Then I only grew jealous of everyone who had a spot. I was always on the outside looking in, begging for someone to wake me up from a bad dream. But nobody ever came to save me, and I started to get used to rehab and my new spot on the sideline. I completed my mundane knee exercises every day up until my surgery. On March 7th, my mom drove us to the hospital for my procedure. I was nervous walking in, but I truly had no idea what to expect. When I woke up, my leg felt like it weighed 5o pounds heavier and was completely covered with bandages and a brace that locked my leg out straight. By my third day post-operation, I was already sick of living on the couch and relying on my mom to take care of me. Along with being in a lot of pain after the nerve blocks wore off, I hated losing my sense of independence. I begged my mom to let me go back to school so I could see my friends and teammates, until she finally got sick of me asking and actually took me back. It wasn’t until then that I realized how difficult recovery would really be. I thought I wanted to be back on my own, but I quickly learned it is nearly impossible to survive on crutches without any help. I am lucky enough to have had a community that supported me through my recovery, and after six long weeks of crutching around and endless rehab every day, I was learning how to walk again. One thing that I misinterpreted about being off crutches was that I would be able to move around as well as I did before. The first day I walked to class without crutches, I couldn’t believe how tired and out of breath I was, not to mention the fact that walking no longer felt normal. After ACL surgery, you lose most of your muscle mass in the affected leg, so there is a lot more thinking involved when you can’t rely on your strength to carry you. It took months before walking felt normal again. It took many months after that to regain my strength in my knee. I worked on every possible variation of squats, step-ups, and box jumps every day for what felt like forever before my physical therapists and trainers even considered letting me practice again.
In my sophomore year, I got to practice for the first time in 10 months. My hands were shaky as I tightened my shiny new black armor that wrapped around my knee. I had to wear a knee brace to stunt. I felt like I had a brand-new robot knee when I wore it. My gait was like a penguin waddle as I adjusted to the heavy support around my leg. Although the brace was bulky and pinched in some spots, I smiled, looking down at my black cheer shoes, complete with a scuffed UC on each side. I tried to remember the last time I wore them. But it didn’t matter — today was the day.
“Look at you in your shoes!” My coach had a way of always reading my mind.
“I know! It’s been so long. But I’m ready!”
“I’m so excited to see you back in action. We are starting with partner 3 today. Are you okay with that? Do you want to start with 1?” The downside to my clearance happening in January was that our season was only a month away. Easing into practice was hard when the basics were already mastered, and we were now repping out higher-level skills.
“I think I can do 3, I did it last year, right?”
“I know you can do it. Katie is doing her first stunt, if anyone wants to see! I’m sure we all do!” My coach announced that I was backing my first stunt, and everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and faced my group to watch. I felt the pressure of a thousand needles in the back of my neck. I was familiar with the stunt we were doing, but it had been a year since the last time I tried it. Still, I stood sharp in position with my stunt group in front of the rest of the team. The feeling was familiar and terrifying at the same time. It was comforting to stand in the position that I once prayed for. But knowing my teammates stood only a few feet away, waiting to be amazed with the same skill I possessed a year prior, filled me with a doubt that I never had in my abilities. Butterflies danced in my stomach as I marked the stunt with my group. We moved through the motions of the counts with an invisible flyer connecting us to ensure we were all on the same page. What if I wasn’t the same? What if I could never be the same as before? What if I forgot how to do this? What if I drop this girl? These were all the questions flowing through my brain before calling out,
“5. 5 6 7 8. 1, set 3, 5, 7. 1, 3, catch 5 out 7…”
I did it. I did the skill without forgetting or dropping anyone. Everyone clapped and cheered and ran up to give me a big team hug. I was so excited to start stunting again, that I didn’t realize how scared or how low my confidence would be coming back. I figured it was normal to be scared when you came back from an injury, and I hoped that the more I did it, the less scared I would become. The season started in a month, and I couldn’t let nerves or fear stand in my way of getting back on the mat. My coach and my team needed me. More than that, I wanted my spot back, and I pushed the limits as much as I could, putting in extra hours in privates and continuing rehab to get it.
Two weeks after being cleared, I was starting to be placed in some bigger roles on the mat. I still had some restrictions, but was overall making my way up to being in more routines. My best practice after returning was January 23rd. Before being injured my freshman year, I was in almost all the stunting routines. Returning to practice after my injury, I wanted to have the same numbers as I left off with. I knew this was an unrealistic goal, given I was coming off an injury and the season started in just a few weeks. I wanted to make up for lost time and own as many spots as I could when game time came around. I got to have my own spot in 3 different routines this practice. My group was practicing some counts for partner stunt 3, one of the more skilled routines we performed that year. We were hitting skill after skill and moving fast. By this time, I had more confidence in my knee, and I started to get comfortable. Maybe I started taking riskier steps or making riskier saves. All it took was one wrong move before the most familiar feeling came back to haunt me. The world turned black while I followed my flyer to the floor, my leg caving in under me. I only realized what was happening when my coach asked me, “Is it your other leg?” Only then did I see my hand holding my right knee, leaving my scarred left one unharmed. I always relied on my right leg, and all of a sudden, it betrayed me. I sat there, hugging my right knee in shock. When I tried to stand, my brain was used to my right leg receiving all the weight. Everything was so opposite, it didn’t make sense. That leg carried me through not just crutches, but learning how to walk, run, and jump again. I trusted that leg so much, and it completely let me down.
My athletic trainer helped me up and led me to her office. She did the evaluation; she compared it to my opposite knee. She stayed quiet until she called over the other athletic trainer and asked him for a second opinion. He did the evaluation; he compared it to my opposite knee. After he took his turn testing my legs, they stepped away from me and whispered to each other for a few minutes. I lay flat on the table with my hands covering my face. How bad could it be? I got up and walked right after. I learned from the year prior that I did have a high pain tolerance, but I wouldn’t have guessed anything major happened this time. Surely, I would only be out for a couple of days to rest. I started calculating how many practices I might miss and how far behind that would put me. When the two finished talking, my trainer walked over and sat down on the bench next to me. She said that they both got the same read on my ACL. She told me that she didn’t want to believe it herself. A stream of emotions flowed out of me. I started to feel the weight of all the time and effort I put into healing myself, crumbling around me. There was no way it could all be for nothing. She asked me to tell her what I was thinking. All I could say was, “How am I ever supposed to trust my body?”
The months that followed were filled with equal amounts of familiarity and the unknown. It almost felt like not a lot changed; I kept going to the same physical therapist, I kept seeing the same surgeon. Only this time, when I would see them, their eyes echoed with sorrow and pity. They knew how hard I had fought, just to end up all the way back at square one. They tried to assure me multiple times that this wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do anything wrong. It was a fluke, and there was nothing more I could’ve done. These thoughts did not stick with me for very long. I needed a reason, and being a “fluke” would not suffice. I still do not know what the reason for this injury was. Maybe I wasn’t ready to go back, maybe I relied on my right too much, maybe I was still too scared. Whatever the reason may be, I became a part of the 15% of athletes who suffer a second ACL injury within the first two years of returning to sports.
I am now 6 months post-op. Well, the left is 18 months. Whatever I thought I felt or lessons that I thought I learned this time last year, have just come back tenfold. Knowing what to expect this time around was a blessing and a curse. My anxiety was heightened going into surgery, knowing what the other side looked like. But after the rough first couple of weeks, I started to recognize the recovery process and realized that I knew myself better this time around. I’m lucky enough to have a great team of surgeons, athletic trainers, and physical therapists who have supported me throughout my whole journey. They even suggested I start seeing a sports psychologist to improve my confidence and mentality around STUNT. The last few months of my recovery, I have focused on taking care of my body and mind. It is a long and difficult process to reconnect your body and mind as an athlete. Looking from the outside into your team for two years is isolating, and I started to let it affect every other aspect of my life. As student athletes, we are always told to take care of ourselves, but I have never truly understood what that meant until this year. Pushing yourself after an injury is sometimes necessary, but sometimes pushing too hard causes you to break. Although I don’t exactly know why I tore my ACL for a second time, I know that I was scared and under pressure when I came back. I know this time that I need to feel secure and confident coming back. I’m healing my body and my mind because there’s no room to hate it. I’m rebuilding trust in myself because there is no room for doubt.
Exuberance Before Death
Kurt Howell
Exuberance before death,
That’s what it’s called when a tree is about to die. They have one final season, one with overbearing fruit Enough their branches snap, Enough that they die. I had my exuberance. I saw how bright my eyes could look, To have light behind them. I witnessed a smile, entirely real, A laughter I thought would never return. Comfort I’d never experienced, Safety.
That light is gone. I watched as it flickered out. I don’t expect it to return, Not after the way you put it out. My friends like to tell me, “We’ll get that light back in your eyes someday”
As if I didn’t watch as it left, As if I wasn’t the first to witness it, As if I didn’t live the moments that slowly put it out. The people who stomped and doused the light, Were people I let in.
When the person you loved the most tells you, “Seeing the way you loved me, made me realize I never loved you” How are you supposed to keep any flicker of light?
How can you say you never loved me? When you were the one who said it first. How can you say it never mattered? When you looked at me like that. How am I the monster? When you broke me down into pieces to discard. How can you pretend this was nothing? When you wanted a house with me.
Why am I a conversation in your relationship? When this is what you wanted.
Alchemy Comes At Night
Sarah Glover
A Country That Learned My Name but Not My People
Gigi Ramirez
I was raised here, But my house spoke a different geography. One where survival was inherited, And silence was practiced like prayer.
Outside, they taught me to pledge allegiance. Inside, they taught me which stories not to tell.
The island lived in our kitchen–In the way fear disguised itself as humor, Yet love was still loud… Until it needed to be hidden.
Now that same country that taught me its anthem Calls my people violent with steady voices–As if violence has ever had an accent–As if brutality wears that accent at all.
They knock on doors like they’re collecting debt–Families become overdue balances, Children treated like misplaced paperwork.
They say “criminal” and mean disposable. They say “it’s the law” and mean permission to harm.
I watch them take children and call it “order.”
I watch them cage innocence, calling it “protection.”
I watch them kill loudly, Then blame bodies for being in the way.
And I’m supposed to believe this is safety. I’m supposed to believe borders mean more than breath. That a document outweighs a heartbeat. That fear is an acceptable form of governance.
But, I was not raised on forgetting. I was raised by people who crossed oceans, By women who learned to love while afraid, By men who carried whole countries on their backs And still had to show up to work the next morning.
My blood remembers what it means
To be labeled dangerous for existing, For being mixed, For being too much of something This world never cared about understanding. They have always done this–To black bodies, To indigenous ones.
To anyone whose labor was necessary, But whose life was inconvenient.
Scripts change. Uniforms improve. Violence stays familiar.
And still–
I love Loudly.
I love Publicly
With my full mouth and open hands. Because I refuse to let this country decide Which parts of me deserve air.
If loving makes me visible, Let me be seen.
I will not be grateful for my own survival While others are being erased. I will not whisper my truth To make cruelty more comfortable.
I was raised here. This means the fight belongs to me too. This Grief. This Rage. This Hope. They are mine by inheritance.
And if they insist on calling us criminals–Let history remember who built the cages, And who kept choosing love anyway
Evening Blossoms
Grace Chernow
Traveling in my Sleep
Kamila Sabirova
I don’t really dream that much. Most nights it is just black. I close my eyes, give it about ten minutes, fall asleep, and then suddenly it is morning. My mind shuts down completely, which honestly, I do not really mind most of the time. I would rather it be that way than spend half an hour staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. Sometimes the quiet is a relief. But sometimes when I do dream, those ones … stay. They feel like trips. They feel too real and vivid, like I actually went somewhere. It is strange, because I wake up in the same bed, in the same room, but my mind packed a bag without telling me and took off somewhere far, exploring on its own. That is what this one felt like. A journey. Not to a city or a beach or anything, but still a place that I had not intended to go and could not forget after I had come back.
The weird part was, I don’t remember getting there. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I just appeared in it. No sense of going anywhere. Too tired to notice, really. As I looked around, I saw fog everywhere. Thick, heavy fog was all I could see. Everything was gray. I found myself in a place I did not know at all, standing in front of a bent metal sign. The metal letters were rusted and half missing, spelling out something that did not make sense. I could not make out a word, as much as I tried. I could not see much past a few feet ahead, but I heard things. I heard the squeak of a chain and the creak of something turning. Then I heard an eerie tune, like a carousel song that had been slowed down. When I looked up, I finally saw it. A theme park or rather what was left of one. It was difficult to see through the fog, but the outline was there. I started walking, even though my instincts told me not to go in. That’s how dreams work, I guess. You know how dreams skip logic? Yeah, that is how this felt. I did not question how and why I was here.
The ground looked wet, like it had rained earlier and left everything damp. My Converse made that sticky sound you get when you walk on damp concrete. When I turned to my left, I saw a cotton candy stand. It was empty. The glass window in the front was smudged, and the inside was covered in a layer of pink sugar that had turned hard like glass. Too bad. I actually kind of wanted one. The air on the other hand smelled sweet and burnt at the same time, like popcorn that had been left too long in one of those movie theater machines. I kept walking, trying to see more through the fog. The roller coaster tracks hung frozen mid-loop, and the Ferris wheel turned slowly in the wind. The seats creaked now and then.
The whole park looked empty, but it did not feel empty to me. It felt like something was watching. Something or someone was there. I kept walking until I saw a funhouse mirror standing. It showed a bunch of stretched versions of me all bending and wobbling. Then I caught my reflection smiling before I did. Just a second too early. I just stood there, confused, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks or if it was the fog, or I do not know—I was just tired. Either way, the air suddenly felt heavier, and I started to feel uneasy. I started walking faster and ended up at this row of old game booths. The balloons that used to hang from the strings were deflated, some barely holding onto the knots. The teddy bears hanging inside the booths had turned gray with dust. I also saw a popcorn cart lying on its side nearby. The glass was cracked, and the kernels were scattered all over the ground. I bent down to look closer and saw that some had been crushed, like someone had walked through them. They were crushed flat into the pavement. My stomach twisted a little. For a second, I didn’t know if I felt relief that I wasn’t alone, or fear that I actually wasn’t. So, at this point I was pacing around like a crazy person. The fog thickened until I could barely see it.
The music was still playing somewhere behind me, and it was getting louder. Just when I thought it could not get darker, the lights of the Ferris wheel flickered in the distance. I walked toward them. For a moment, I thought I saw someone sitting in one of the carts at the top. But when the wheel turned, the seats were swaying empty. I took a sigh of relief. Suddenly, the carousel in the distance picked up speed and started moving. I tried to focus as hard as I could, but the whole park was spinning faster than my eyes could keep up. It did not help that I have astigmatism. So, I turned and ran, but it did not help much. The pathways behind me seemed to change.
Every turn took me somewhere I had already been. It felt as if the park was looping back on me to the same spots. The paths twisted and curved, but no matter which direction I chose, I ended up at the same spot. I ran until I could not do so and slowed to a walk. There did not seem to be any point. I do not know how long I wandered before I found what looked like an old food court. The tables and chairs were flipped on their sides, and the ground was covered with trays and cups. A few empty cola cans rolled across the floor, making a soft rattling sound, as the wind passed through. The menus still hung behind cracked glass. The words were all faded, and the pictures of food were discolored yellow and brown. I was about to turn and leave, but that is when I saw them again. FOOTPRINTS. So, I followed them without meaning to.
Curiosity kept pulling me deeper. The prints went past the red counters and into a narrow hallway behind the court. The hallway was cold and dark, no visible light passed through. As I started making my way through this narrow space, the walls were lined with old posters that had curled at the edges. I brushed one with my hand, and it crumbled and fell apart. Looks like time for new ones. When I stepped out to the other side, a few feet away, I saw the carousel again. The horses’ paint on their bodies was peeling, showing the wood underneath, looking faded and cracked. I could still see bits of the old designs of gold, blue and red, swirls, and stars painted on their saddles. I walked past, trying not to look. But right as I turned away, one of the horses moved. Just a little bit. A twitch. I told myself it was the wind, but part of me did not believe it. I kept walking and saw the gate again. I ran towards it. And that was when I woke up.
For a while, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to my heartbeat. My chest felt heavy, a strange calm mixed with unease. I kept trying to make sense of it. The more I thought about it, the more it started to make sense in a weird way. It felt both unsettling and rather exciting. Traveling through that dream, as strange as it was, felt like traveling through myself. Scientists say our brains replay and reorganize memories while we sleep, kind of like cleaning out a closet or going through old boxes you forgot about. Maybe that was what my brain was doing and got creative with it, and built a place I could actually walk through. It makes sense in a way. The park felt like a map of my own mind, half lit and half forgotten. Walking through it felt like traveling without moving. The park was not just abandoned. Maybe it was resting. Maybe I was too?
Sometimes travel is not about going anywhere new. Sometimes it is about wandering through strange corners of yourself. I think that park was my curiosity. It was part of me that virtually never rests, even while I am sleeping. It is like two sides of me taking a walk without knowing where they were headed. Perhaps everyone has a place just like that, yet most of us do not walk far enough to discover it. Sometimes you travel without a map, without a suitcase, without ever leaving your bed. You don’t have to board a plane, or pack a bag, or listen to a playlist made for road trips. Sometimes, it is about paying attention to your dreams, your thoughts, or the moments when your mind starts to wander in different places, even if it is just inside your own subconscious.
That dream was a kind of travel too. Even the music that kept playing felt like a reflection of my mind that keeps spinning, running in circles even when I am still. It was my mind’s way of showing me that exploration can happen anywhere. Not just out in the world, but in the quiet spaces inside me, I do not visit often but probably should. It was travel without movement, and discovery without leaving, while it felt just as real as any place I have ever been. Maybe that’s why the dream stayed with me. It felt like my brain had gone on its own kind of journey.
Ethereal Timelessness
Samuel Fisher of Joyous Phantom
Ootheke
Eyes Study
Ellen Rose
Samuel Fisher of Joyous Phantom
More Than Honors
Kailin Adeen
Being an honors student is something I have always been proud of but I did not know how far it could take me. Every year at my high school there is an “Honors College Tour”. The “Honors College Tour” is a 4-day and 3-night trip to other colleges and universities. Specifically designed for honors upperclassmen students, we visited many prestigious schools around the Midwest like Lehigh University, Carnegie Mellon University, University of Pennsylvania, University of Pittsburgh, Villanova University, and even Loyola University Chicago. This trip was almost 10 years ago and still one of my greatest memories to this day. Not because I was able to hang out with my friends but because of the opportunities and motivation it gave me to be great.
Not every honors student could attend this trip so you were basically accepted through application and highest GPA, which I held over a 3.5. There is also an optional college tour for juniors in general, it just takes place during a different time of year. Being chosen to attend the tour was one thing, but learning my friends Nia and Aulyvia were also selected is what made the excitement brew. The trip was in March so the snow was melting but it was still extremely cold. The only “packing for the weather” I could do was bring the essential hat, gloves, and scarf because we still had to be in uniform. Our uniform consisted of white button-down tops, khaki pants, winter boots for the season of course, and our black blazer dapper in gold buttons. It had a blue circle on the chest with the school emblem in white. Over this I wore a few hoodies, my black coat, pink gloves, and a colorful scarf. We had to arrive at our school by 5 am to be on time for the bus. As tired as I was, I woke up with excitement and packed a bunch of snacks including a huge box of cereal because you can never trust hotel breakfast. I got in my mother’s car, she dropped me at school, and then my bags and I headed on our way to the first university. The bus was pretty big and comfortable, like an athlete’s bus that has to travel far distances. There was plenty of room so naturally, I picked the window seat.
Staring out of the window felt magical because I was able to see so many things. While it was freezing outside, the weather fell under both winter and spring. It was weird but regular for Clevelanders. Buses are not speed racers but they move at a good pace. During the drive I saw tons and tons of trees, broken branches, and melting ice.
By the time we hit the rural part of the freeway, nature watching was no longer fun because all you could see were those concrete looking panels. I decided to nap until we arrived at the first school. In the midst of my nap, I was awakened by my teacher yelling at us to use this pitstop as a bathroom and lunch break. We stopped at a rest stop that had both Burger King and Pizza Hut. Pizza is always my go to. It was my go to so much that I ate it the majority of the trip. I eventually threw up from a pizza overload but I was able to recover quickly.
The University of Pennsylvania was our first stop. The campus was filled with green grass, walking paths, and gothic-style buildings that looked like they were directly featured in the Harry Potter movies. The campus itself looked like an entire college town with the benches, lights, and lampposts lined up on opposite sides of the grass. The campus was nice, but I liked the University of Pittsburgh a lot more. The University of Pittsburgh campus felt more lively. As I walked through their big campus fidgeting with my scarf, I noticed more gothic-style buildings made from lots of beige concrete. There were so many buildings and centers dedicated to student success. The university could use more color, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Walking around the University of Pittsburgh felt like an eternity, but it was nothing compared to the campus of Lehigh University. Lehigh University, located in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, was the largest school I walked on throughout the whole trip. The distance between the living quarters and certain food places was a 30-minute walk or at least that’s what it felt like. The tour around the school truly felt like hiking and rock climbing, there were steps to everything. Walking aside, the university was beautiful and the library was to die for. It was built in a circular shape, had high ceilings, and was stories tall. It literally looked like a library Colosseum. Of course, we also attended informational sessions which were boring, but seeing such greatness was motivating because I, too, could be a student sitting in these buildings. After touring schools all day, we finally headed back to the hotel. The bus ride was dark and quiet considering everyone was hungry and tired. For food, we made another pitstop to a plaza that had fast food restaurants. I got a personal pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut again, and called it a day. Arriving at the hotel was easy because we already knew our rooming situations. The only thing my friends and I ever argued about is who would get to shower first. We were all yearning for hot water after being in the cold, wet weather all day long.
This school trip was more than fun, it was a new opportunity to explore the future. Success does not just show up, it is earned. By walking through and learning about each institution, I began to understand the value of ambition. Working hard is what brought me to the “Honors College Tour” in the first place. Despite hard, long, and repetitive assignments, I knew that if I stayed the course, I could make it far. The opportunity led me all the way to my current position, a college senior in my final semester. This high school trip was a lesson about perseverance that was worth learning.
Back then, being an honors student meant I earned incentives. Awards, trips, certificates, and shiny medals helped me thrive to complete assignments and celebrate hard work. As I grew older, I realized that being an honors student was more than prizes. It was about ambition, drive, discipline, and curiosity. Stepping on those college campuses as a teenager gave me hope. The hope that I could learn, grow, and become the best version of myself. Hope is what pushed me to work beyond awards. Believing in possibilities helped me turn my dreams into reality.
Cold Winter’s Night
Grace Chernow
Cassette
Lindsey Ford
Gravity
Gigi Ramirez
I did not fall in love, I drifted. Slowly, unannounced, Like the moon learning the ocean’s name, Pulling the tide in.
Loving you feels ancient, As if my very bones remember you From a life before words, Before rules, Before Permission .
Your hand in mine Is loud, Not reckless. It is steady, A truth that hums instead of screams. And yet the world stares, Asks for explanations, Demands translations For a language older than them.
How do I explain That this is gravity. The air I breathe... Not Rebellion.
When the Darkness Caught Me
Gaby Murphy
The darkness has been chasing me my whole life. It would get close but somehow, I always managed to slip through its hands. But not this day.
The day the darkness caught me I could hear his breath on my shoulder, feel his desperation in my stomach. I tried to run, to cry out, but he was too fast. He caught me.
My body grew stiff. My soul longed for my mother. I saw my innocence slip away, like petals falling off the most delicate flower.
I’ll never forget the day the darkness caught me. His eyes black, voice stern; he tackled me to the cold bedroom floor. He tore into me, bleeding, clawing at my soul.
I’ve been running from the darkness my whole life, until one day, he caught me. He broke me. He stole everything from me. And no one believed me.
Inhabited
Shariah Abdul-Khaliq
Ode to Maddie (2008-2024)
Sarah Aber
It is amazing how fourteen years
Can so quickly pass
How I mistakenly believed
That since you showed almost no signs of age
Even in your teens
That you would live forever
However, it only meant
It would happen all at once
Until August 2024
One month after turning 16
Which very few labs do
And two weeks
After a storm
That seemed to knock out power
To most of the county
But miraculously spared us
It became clear
That you were no longer the dog that pulled us all over the park
That saw delivery trucks as evil
That grabbed food so often
That you had to have someone else watch it
And who got mad at our second lab Candie
When she tried to get into your food
That it was time to let go
Liberated Woman
Hailey Wiseman
Father
Maddy Ralls
A president
A governor
An author
A founding father
My owner
My boss
My flesh
My blood
Devastated by the death of his wife
He sought out a new woman to fulfill his life
His sister-in-law, his slave, a minor — my mother
Miss Sally Hemings
As a child she served his children
And made her way to France
She attended events and grew Physically and intellectually — anew
Determined to stay free
She struck up a deal to her avail: Back to Virginia she would sail
If her children could be freed
He agreed He was desperate, no doubt
She was the third in her family
To end up with this bout
She gave him six children
Myself included
But he was my master
Not an affectionate father
I worked for him
Gave him my labor for free I got nothing in return: No unconditional love
His death bought my freedom
And my mother remained Free in theory — Yet still enslaved
I had one mission in my life
Before they built the white memorials in Washington I wanted to share my mother’s story And pass on our legacy
I exposed and confirmed the story Knowingly
And I published my work “Life Among the Lowly”
So I do not praise my Father I do not try to pass as white And if I could leave one legacy It would be to never give up the equality fight
My father was Thomas Jefferson.
I Got Me
NaLaya English
Rising From The Deep
Mila Troca
Hunting For Greed
Sophia Radosevic
Jazz Baby and Sailor Boy
Amy Grano
It’s Still Me
Jaraka Rogers
Ready to Ride
Kamila Sabirova
Traveling to Chicago in the Devil’s Sprinter Van
Ricky Nance
My cousin Josh was about to get married in Chicago and the whole family was traveling there to join the festivities. Because of all the family members that were going there, we rented a sprinter van so that it could hold all eight of us. I was thinking about how fun it was going to be to hang out with family on the way and I thought the van looked cool. Our family had never taken a sprinter van together before, but everyone thought it would be easier to take one vehicle and travel together. We didn’t know how wrong we were about the vehicle.
The sprinter van was large; it was black on the outside and beige on the inside. It could hold 10 people including 6 captain’s chairs which are big padded leather chairs that swivel. It had a TV, a minifridge, a microwave, and even a bed. The van even had its own satellite and Wi-Fi connection! We were all surprised by how nice the van looked. My dad planned to drive the sprinter van while the rest of us socialized in the back. Everyone met at my house in the morning for the five-hour drive to Chicago. One of the back bench seats was assigned to me before we boarded and my cousin took the other one. We both had pillows we could put behind our back, too. The first sign that the van would be trouble was when we were trying to pack our luggage in the back. Since there were eight of us going for four days there were a lot of bags for a small space. It was like Jenga trying to pack it. Once it was packed, we realized the door was blocked to get to the microwave and fridge, so we had to bring a cooler in the van, too. We packed drinks and snacks for the ride. It wasn’t until we started driving that I learned what a bad seat I got assigned. The back was bumpier than a bumper car on a roller coaster track in the middle of an earthquake! Everyone else didn’t know how bumpy it was at first, but when they sat in the back they found out too!
I prayed to God that we didn’t crash because of how bumpy it was back there. When we took our first pitstop after 2 hours, I got out of the van and into the gas station to eat some food and walk around. When it was time to get back on the van, I immediately changed seats and took a ‘rescue med’ to help me calm down. We then took shifts with seat placements so no one would be stuck just riding in the bumpy part. I stayed in the front because of my anxiety and trauma. I was in a car crash a couple years ago and ever since then, some bumps, sudden turns, and sudden stops have freaked me out. I started to appreciate the scenery of the trip without the bumps. There were trees, other cars, and billboards promoting various things that I cannot remember. The ride was still bumpy but not as bumpy because I sat in the front. When we arrived in Chicago, I thought to myself, “Thank God I’m out of that vehicle!”
When we got to Chicago and checked into our hotel rooms, we got a chance to relax before checking out the rest of the place. The Chicago suburb we were in looked like a small city. It looked like a mix of a city and a town. There were big buildings everywhere, but it was still small. A lot of places were within walking distance and easy to get to without the van. In fact, we had breakfast at the same place in the suburb because it was easy to walk to. It was the perfect weekend for a wedding, with no rain, pleasant temperatures, and the weather was good. Unfortunately, the only way for us to get to certain places was by using the sprinter van.
I got a message that my Chicago family had reserved a private room on the top floor of the hotel for family. As soon as I got the message, I became excited to hang out with my family. The room had a lot of space; we had big tables, chairs, a minifridge, and we even had a TV that we could use to hook up our consoles and play games. The room reminded me of the sprinter van because of all the space and appliances it had but without the bumps! I hung out there a lot during our trip because my games were there and family members met up there. Two of my favorite things are fun and family!
On the day of the wedding, we all got dressed in nice formal clothes. We had to take the sprinter van again (dear Lord, help me). I sat in the front, so that I would not get startled on the drive. We made it there in one piece! The wedding was in an ornate church, and we were surrounded by a lot of family. We were all happy to be there. We were all given signs to celebrate the couple that doubled as fans, which was helpful because the church was so hot. While the ceremony was a little long, the wedding was beautiful.
After the wedding, we went to the reception. The reception was in a different area than the actual wedding, so we again had to get in that bumpy sprinter van. The reception center had multiple receptions happening that day and my family struggled to find our family’s reception room. Once we found it, we all sat at our assigned tables whilst waiting for our food. The steak that was served was harder than a hockey puck. Shortly after we had our food, the reception music began and it felt like my ears were going to explode because of how loud it was, like a rock concert on steroids! In fact, it was so loud that it caused the glass to shatter in some centerpieces. My grandmother said her body was vibrating from the loud bass. My dad asked the DJ to turn it down, but he ignored him. I had to go back to the hotel in a separate vehicle because of the noise since my family wanted to stay longer. But at least I did not have to ride in the sprinter van!
There was a small party the next day at my cousin’s house who had just gotten married. Some parts of the party were inside and other parts were outside. All the family came and we ate good food, played games together, watched a movie, and just had good family time together. I got to talk with the married couple and all the other family members without the noisy music. I was happy to spend time with the family and hang out since I couldn’t stay at the reception. We stayed there for a few hours and played Mario Party which was one of my favorite games! I also played the Spyro games with one of my cousins. At least at this party, there was good food, no loud music, and it was just our family!
I was excited to go home, but not to get back on that sprinter van! I was going to miss hanging out with my family, but I knew I wouldn’t miss riding on the sprinter van. During the ride home, I had to face my fears of spending a long time in that sprinter van again. I learned from the first ride not to go anywhere near the back of the vehicle! I also took a rescue med beforehand to help my nerves. Another thing I thought of to help me get through the bumpy ride was focusing on a game I like. Before I left, I bought a mobile game (remember the days of actually buying mobile games instead of getting them for free with additional payments?) I focused on Dungeon Clawler for the majority of the five-hour car ride back. We arrived home and got off that awful vehicle for the last time. Traveling with family should always be fun, but it’s important to be careful about the method of transportation — or always make sure you’re in the front seat!
High School Writing Contest
For Inscape’s LVIII volume, we asked high school students to write poems, stories, and essays. The students showcased their literary abilities through the creative writing process.
This year, Inscape received over 70 submissions from across the country. Inscape’s editorial team selected 20 entries to be submitted to an internal panel of judges for review. The top three pieces were selected by the esteemed guest judge listed below.
This year’s winners are:
1st Place: “Where Did the Time Go?”, Montgomery Bartlett, Wyoming High School class of 2029
2nd Place: “In Grief’s Shadow”, Luke Fioritto, University School class of 2028
3rd Place: “As Free as a Bird”, Briana Mayberry, Shenango High School class of 2027
We would like to thank our internal judges:
Mimi Pipino: Interim Dean, School of Arts, Sciences, and Professional Studies, Director of the Core Curriculum, Professor of English
Mara Shatat: Librarian, Archivist
Hayley Verdi: Writing Center Coordinator
Celebrity Judge
Avione Lee
Avione Lee is a classically trained engineer with her Ph.D. in Biomedical Engineering. After working as a researcher, she decided to try her hand at writing a middle-grade story that all children would love, one full of adventure and excitement to take their minds off their day. She also answered the call of adventure and left her job to travel around North America in a teeny tiny truck camper with her husband and small children. Her novel, Pied, was further inspired by those travels and is now published by Simon & Schuster with a second book on the way. Find her at: https://www.avionelee.com/
Where Did the Time Go?
Montgomery Bartlett
One day, you wake up
And you aren’t 7 anymore
And your room feels smaller
The stuffed animals on the shelf
Look more like strangers than friends now
The world outside grew
Bigger, louder
But no one hears you like they did back then
The swings rusted now
The chains squeak with
The weight they didn’t used to carry
No one pushes you anymore
You have to push yourself
Harder than you thought you could
The boys still act the same
Immature and mean
Except their words
Don’t just leave bruises on the inside anymore
They leave them on the outside, too
And your dad’s still your dad
But he’s not your hero anymore
More like a man you watch from a distance
Fading into the recliner
With the weight of years of disappointments
Settled on his shoulders
You wonder when he started being so disappointed
Or maybe he never did
And you just didn’t know better back then
Your mom spends hours in the yard
With a pair of gloves and a shovel
Focusing on the house
Instead of her own inner problems
She doesn’t want anyone to know
She is struggling
I think she is afraid of it
You don’t dream about growing up like you used to
Now you just wish you could go back
Back to when happiness wasn’t so hard to find
When it didn’t feel like a battle just to get through the day
The friends you thought you’d have forever drifted away
And the ones that stayed don’t seem to know you anymore
Maybe you don’t even know yourself
The days blur together in a way they didn’t back then
When summer stretched on forever
And the sun didn’t set until you were ready
You wonder why no one told you
That growing up would feel like this
Like losing pieces of yourself along the way
Like trying to hold on to the past
While the future pulls you forward
Like watching the world change
But somehow you’re the one who feels different.
In Grief’s Shadow
Luke Fioritto
When my mother called my brother and I down, her voice wavered like glass on the verge of shattering, jagged but fragile in the stillness. In the kitchen, my mother’s face pale and drawn, carried an expression so remarkable it stilled the questions racing through my mind. My pulse quickened, the air became sharp with unspoken dread. Pale candle wax trickled down the candle sitting on the counter, pressing against the brown stained glass, funneling up a fume of bubbling smoke. The candle brought a tangible odor of sugar and spice, a gaudy, tacky scent. Returning from her quiet stretch of thought, my mother sat down and faced the idea forming in her mind. Eventually, after several choked, slurred attempts, my mother spoke in a brief, cracked voice, with her hand resting on her stomach, bringing upon us the fact that my unborn, soon to be sister, had not made it to the late stages of pregnancy.
I noticed my mother now seated on our granite kitchen counter, and, joining her on the tall counter, I let my small legs dangle above the floor. I remember fidgeting in my seat, my legs too short to touch the ground, swinging back and forth without rhythm. I urged myself to mold into the temperature of the room, finding a way to reason my way to grief. I forced a frown, then a worn posture, until it seemed I had known my unborn sister like we had been inseparable since before birth, when heaven must have put us in this design. The questions in my mind began to bubble like candle wax again, but to not impose more agony on my mother, I subdued my thoughts.
With older eyes and a steadier mind, I would come to know that candle not just as a scent, but as a memory etched into who I was becoming. I noticed a broad, brown paned glass-enclosed candle, sitting centered on the kitchen counter, displaying in cursive font of words that read: Sugar and Spice. I began to tense with worn, drawn eyelids. A rush of emotions and trapped memories flooded back like the warm blood filling my cheeks. A compressed silence no longer weighed on my being, as emotions broke the dam of grief. Tears rolled down the curve of my cheek, accumulating near the edge of my unbarred mouth.
It had taken five years to live the same grief my mother had. With a wave of intensity, I rushed to my mother’s bedside. She knelt, counting her blessings and praying in a hushed, collected tone. When she opened her eyes, realizing her prayer had been successful, she outstretched her arm in accordance with the love of a guardian angel. I held her palm, as nothing needed to be said, as we both began to interconnect our fingers, interlacing our hands like a neat spider’s web. The candle’s glow wavered across the walls of the bedroom, shadows stretching like memories reaching for permanence. Grief had not been an ending, but a characteristic of the fabric woven into who my family was.
As the scent of sugar and spice thinned into the night air, I understood it was more than just wax and wick that had bound me to the past. It was a tether that bound the past to the present and stayed with me in the spaces where silence once barred my understanding. The walls that had felt heavy with ignorance had long ceased to chatter. Now the shadows, also, could disappear. The candle stood before them like a prayer burning steady until the darkness itself gave way to light.
As Free As A Bird
Briana Mayberry
It all began when someone left the window open
The cold breeze warping the curtains
The ambience of white noise
Shadows bouncing off the colorless walls
Toes perched on the windowsill
Body shivers, mustering up courage
To glide through the air
Feathers stand on end from the wind
Second-guessing the decision
A four-chamber heart thumping in her chest
Her mind racing with no rest
A permanent solution
For a momentary condition
One last flight
She spreads her forelimbs
Toes lifting off the surface
Soaring through the opening
Obtaining freedom
Silence replaced by whispers from the wind
Engulfing her senses
Her hair swirled, knotted, and tied like a bird’s nest
Wings taken over by arms
A metamorphosis
The ground comes closer
Reaching the inevitable
Only for a second
Regret sprouts throughout her chest
One last breath
Her eyelids slam shut
Merging with the soft blades of grass
The worries of the past
Kept secret by the zephyr forever
As free as a bird
If only someone had closed the window.
Wide Awake
Kurt Howell
I think of how I memorized the way you sounded waking up, just the two of us still untouched by the world.
The way your head rested on my shoulder, pulling me in closer to fall back asleep in my arms. How those moments were the best part of my day.
Half asleep you’d choose me.
I wish I’d noticed when you stopped choosing me wide awake.
Outlaws
Oliver Javorsky
Billie & 8- Ball
Alivia Rovder
Contributors
Sister Rosaria was a teacher for 41 years. She just recently retired from being an adjunct at Ursuline College. She loves painting, drawing, digital photography, and nature.
Giavanna Victor is an undergraduate art therapy and art & design major and is a bridge student in the counseling and art therapy program. She loves to spend time with friends and family and reads in her free time.
Jade Lewis is an undergraduate art therapy major. She enjoys writing, but doesn’t have the free time. She plans to attend graduate school.
Sr. Trang Tran, OP, is an undergraduate biology major. She enjoys painting, decorating, and handmaking gifts. She plans to attend graduate school for doctoral physical therapy.
Ella Kelley is a junior psychology major and art & design minor. They express their creativity through multiple mediums, including photography, ceramics, and mixed media.
Katie Lane is an undergraduate English major in the 4+1 education bridge program and a track/cross-country athlete. She loves to read, write, run, and spend time with friends and family.
When she’s not teaching or writing poetry, Pamela McVay sometimes sings, dances, and plays music. She is supervised by a huge black tomcat and a small polydactyl calico.
Kayla Kephart is an undergraduate art therapy and art & design major and a graduate counseling & art therapy student. She enjoys being creative and spending time with her friends and family.
Sam Utterback is currently a graduate student in the counseling and art therapy program. She loves to explore mixed media and fiber arts!
Michelle Bolwaire is an undergraduate art and design major. She enjoys drawing and listening to Draft Punk.
Alivia Rovder is an alum of Ursuline College, class of 2025. She enjoys drawing, painting, digital illustration, comic-making, Dungeons & Dragons, photography, poetry, and creative writing. She plans to attend graduate school.
Kamila Sabirova is an undergraduate English major in the 4+1 education bridge program. She enjoys exploring literacy, writing creatively, and hopes to inspire students through her future teaching career.
Marni Cantor is a multimedia artist in the counseling and art therapy master’s program. She is passionate about creating visuals that represent mental health themes that are not only fulfilling for her to make, but meaningful to others as well.
Gaby Murphy is an undergraduate English major. She enjoys listening to music and spending time with her nieces and nephews.
Ophelia Rockwell is an art therapy major who lives for all things creative. Her favorite things to do are drawing, playing piano, spending time outside, and occasionally writing.
Maddy Ralls is studying history, English, and law. She plans to get a PhD in American history. She enjoys spoiling her animals and watching the Patriots on Sundays.
Natalie McKay is an undergraduate majoring in social work and art therapy. She focuses on using mixed media to portray her feelings as well as worldly perspectives.
Savannah Zupan is a counseling and art therapy major.
Haleigh Platt graduated from Ursuline College in 2021. She spends her free time making art, reading, and writing.
Cassidy Gould is a self-taught artist studying to earn her master’s degree in counseling and art therapy at Ursuline College. She finds inspiration from nature, animals, mythology, and mental health awareness.
Sophia Hengst is a graduate student of the Master of Arts in Counseling and Art Therapy program. She is finishing her second year of the program and loves to swim, teach kids how to swim, watch television shows, and listen to podcasts!
Katelyn Kazee is a junior undergraduate English major in the education bridge program. She is on the UC STUNT team.
Kurt Howell is just a guy who writes poetry as a hobby. Sometimes on a typewriter for fun.
Sarah Glover has been a multi-media artist who has been exhibiting since 2002, and discovered stained glass in 2025.
Gigi Ramirez is an undergraduate English and psychology major with a minor in pre-law. She enjoys reading, spending time in nature, and stepping up to a good challenge. She plans to attend law school and become a phenomenal judge.
Grace Chernow is an undergraduate art & design major. She enjoys playing lacrosse and exploring different art styles and mediums.
Samuel Fisher of Joyous Phantom is a Cleveland, OH based artist with a passion for the obscure and as a result, is proud to be an eccentric addition to his local communities.
Ellen Rose is an art therapy major.
Kailin Adeen graduated with an English major and pre-law minor. She enjoys reading, doing makeup, and plans to begin freelance screenwriting after graduation.
Lindsey Ford is completing the counseling and art therapy graduate program at Ursuline College. She is a happy wife and mother of four who is passionate about diversity, inclusion, and human rights.
Shariah Abdul-Khaliq is a graduate counseling and art therapy student and her primary form of art-making is traditional painting.
Sarah Aber graduated from Ursuline College in 2025. She currently lives in Mentor and hopes to be published one day.
Hailey Wiseman is an art therapy major.
NaLaya English is a junior in the undergraduate art therapy program. She enjoys exploring in many different art styles such as painting, drawing, and photography. She would like to help push others to find their own aspirations in life.
Mila Troca is a graduate student majoring in counseling and art therapy. She enjoys plein air watercolor painting and paper quilling crafts. Her goal is to show others the healing power of creative expression.
Sophia Radosevic is a biology major.
Amy Grano is a graduate student at Ursuline College in the Department of Counseling and Art Therapy. She enjoys spending time with her husband, son, and two cats, and hopes to use her knowledge of art as a bridge to healing for future clients.
Jaraka Rogers is a counseling and art therapy major.
Ricky Nance is a neurodiverse undergraduate education major and he is the president of the upcoming Neurodiversity Club. He is outgoing, funny, enthusiastic, and he loves video games, comedy, and equality.
Oliver Javorsky is a counseling and art therapy major.
Yippie!
Oliver Javorsky
Firstly, I want to thank all of the editors past and present who have shaped Inscape into the publication it is today. You should be proud of your accomplishments and take pride in providing Ursuline College with an outlet for all of our creative talent on and off campus. Without our numerous contributors and their various talents, we wouldn’t have Inscape. I would also like to thank Dr. Katharine Trostel; her facilitation and encouragement throughout this process is what pushes us across the finish line. I’ve had the pleasure of working alongside her for almost a decade to put Inscape in your hands.
We are saddened that this will be our last publication as Ursuline College, marking the end of an era. We value every piece that has been submitted over our many years of publishing this magazine. Oddly enough, our editors chose the theme of nostalgia for the 2026 edition of Inscape; I feel this theme is both timely and fitting. In our world full of uncertainty and gloom, we tend to draw into ourselves. Introspection is a powerful tool for the creative mind, without it, art in any form would lack its spark.
I feel I am in a unique position in that I have dedicated years of my life to give our contributors a voice and a space to showcase their creativity. I started my journey at Ursuline as a kid without a clue of where I was and where I wanted to go. Now, an alum of five years, I can say that being a part of this process has cultivated my love for the arts. We are living in a time where the essence of what it is to be human is being eradicated, but we will overcome. We will persevere because what other choice do we have? The ability to create isn’t unique to us, but we can cultivate our creativity in unfathomable ways.
On the darkest days, we are still here creating. We are singing, writing, dancing, constructing, reading, educating…experiencing life in the only way we know how. I want you to go out into this world with many things in mind:
Love is stronger than Fear Compassion overcomes Hate Unity is greater than Division Hope rises above Doubt
Thank you,
