Inscape 2021: Searching for a Brighter Future by Ursuline College

Inscape Searching for a Brighter Future

2021 Edition

A Morning at Ursuline Margaret Birovsek

Inscape 2021 Volume LIII Mission Statement Inscape, Ursuline College’s fine arts annual, provides all students the chance to have their work seen, heard, and recognized. It is a place where imagination is praised and celebrated, and we hope to highlight each contributor’s individuality and differences within our publication. COVID-19 Pandemic As editors of Inscape and individuals impacted by the coronavirus pandemic that shut down the world in March of 2020, we believe that there is hope and that creativity continues to exist even in the most difficult times. The goal of this publication is to spotlight members of Ursuline College’s community and their creations of the past year. The LIII edition of Inscape showcases pieces that document the many transformative moments that this pandemic has offered. The COVID-19 global pandemic has allowed individuals to learn more about themselves, the world, and their future during quarantine. Many opportunities were lost, but many were gained as everyone adapted to working, learning, and growing in isolation. The year 2020 brought with it the chance to create our own “inscapes” from quarantine. An “inscape” is an internal mental landscape shown through works of art. We hope that readers enjoy Ursuline College’s “inscapes” in our publication. Inscape edition LIII is designed as a reflection of the times as we look towards a brighter future. Enjoy, The 2021 Inscape Editorial Team

Ursuline College 2550 Lander Road Pepper Pike, Ohio 44124 (440) 449-4200

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, and staff. The editorial staff reviews all submissions anonymously using a system of blind peer-review. No more than five works may be submitted by an individual. Literary works for Inscape 2022 may be sent to Inscape, c/o the English Department, Ursuline College, 2550 Lander Road, Mullen 338, Pepper Pike, OH 44124 from October 1, 2021 through January 15, 2022. Please submit an electronic copy to katharine.trostel@ursuline.edu with a cover sheet for each work that includes name, phone number, the title of the work, and a short autobiographical sketch. All literary submissions become the property of Inscape and will not be returned. Inscape 2021 is printed on 8.5 x 11-inch paper. Each piece was formatted in Adobe InDesign. Font style for: titles, Freestyle Script; page numbers, Minion Pro; subtitles, Apple Garamond; medium/genre, copy text, Minion Pro. 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. 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 Art

Page 14-15

“Searching for a Better Future”, Ink Drawing, Declan Sarlson; Digitization/Coloration by Haleigh Platt

“I Don’t Belong To Anyone”, Watercolor, Cassidy Way

Page 1

“Identity”, Watercolor, Cassidy Way

“Morning at Ursuline”, Photography, Margaret Birovsek

Page 16-17

Page 2-3 Front Matter Page 4-5

“I Thought I Knew”, Poetry, Lilyka Pickard

“Wear A Mask”, Painting, Claire Donofrio “The Ride”, Poetry, Gabrielle Post Page 18-19

Table of Contents

“Isolation”, Ink Resist Watercolor and Charcoal, Jordan Gidley

Page 6-7

“Can We Do More Than Exist?”, Poetry, Lilyka Pickard

“Trailblazer”, Acrylic Paint and Pouring, Kaitlyn Kirchmeir

“Phases”, Poetry, Haleigh Platt

“The Questions”, Poetry, Malia Ali

“Solitude”, Ink Resist Watercolor and Charcoal, Jordan Gidley

Page 8-9

Page 20-21

“A Lifetime in a Year”, Prose, Haleigh Platt “Race Day”, Prose, Gabrielle Post

“Changing the World”, Painting, Cora Bachelder “Always Chasing Rainbows”, Prose, Sarah Aber

Page 10-11 “House on the Hill”, Brush Ink Pen, Nancy J. Rahn

Page 22-23

“This Is How We Are Living”, Poetry, Lilyka Pickard

“Synaptophysin”, Oil Painting, Mo Mzik

“House in the Field”, Brush Ink Pen and Watercolor, Nancy J. Rahn Page 12-13 “Shared Pain”, Drawing and Mixed Media (Charcoal and Ink), Pam Vickers “Growth in Grief ”, Poetry, Sabryna Kuehls

“Always Chasing Rainbows”, Prose, Sarah Aber

Page 24-25

Page 38-39

“Halloween 2020”, Poetry, Melissa Hladek

“Waiting Collection”, Poetry, Mikaela Schuster

“Intertwined Lines”, Mixed Media Drawing, Sabryna Kuehls

“For You”, Poetry, Ciani A. Kensey

“A Pandemic Year: Reflections Along the Yellow Brick Road”, Prose, UC 401

Page 40-41

Page 26-27

“.budding.”, Poetry and Photography, Evey McKellar

“Trip to the Mall”, Prose, Melissa K. Richmond Page 28-29 “Trip to the Mall”, Prose, Melissa K. Richmond

“Listen to the Bluebells”, Watercolor, Jess Grimm

Page 42-43 High School Writing Contest

“Yin Yang”, Poetry, Malia Ali

“I CAN’T BREATHE”, Poetry, Anijah White (Villa Angela-St. Joseph HS)

Page 30-31

Page 44-45

“At Least I’m Alive”, Watercolor, Cassidy Way

“Limitless Possibilities”, Prose, Ali Senedak (Riverside HS)

“Just Relax”, Prose, Margaret Birovsek Page 32-33 “Just Relax”, Prose, Margaret Birovsek “A Library Unloved”, Prose, Heather Bloeser

“Systemic Lament”, Poetry, Carly Simpson (Mayfield HS) Page 46-47 Contributor Biographies Page 48-49

Page 34-35

Editorial Statement

“Hidden”, Flash Fiction, Breanay Clemons Page 36-37 “Quiet”, Monotype Print, Jordan Gidley “Searching for Michael”, Poetry, Eileen Delaney Kohut

Trailblazer Kaitlyn Kirchmeir 6

The Questions Malia Ali

The Questions of life, only for the imagination. How can you hate someone you love, or rather love someone you hate? How can you continue on, when the envisioned world is out of reach? How can you watch the demise of the world, without speaking justice, mute? Who can be so blind, oblivious to the obvious? How can you step on the backs of others to climb? Questioning the colorist ladder, grasping a peg. Why claim diversity if it’s perversity? How can you change the unchangeable? Reveal the impossible? The inexplicable occurs, you’re stuck. Stuck between a rock and life.

A Lifetime in a Year Haleigh Platt

I never thought I would find myself in a time like this one. Other generations yes, but not me. We’ve

made history: a history full of extremes. Extreme emotions, violence, and uncertainty. It’s hard to expand on a season plagued by a virus, by a split nation where fault is on both sides, by hatred and lies spreading like wildfire. Our society is a contradiction no matter who is behind the wheel; we didn’t know where to turn then and we certainly don’t know where to turn now. “It’s been an interesting year” doesn’t cover it, not even close.

No matter what our individual circumstances have been throughout the year, we have all struggled

and suffered in ways we might have thought unimaginable prior to 2020. No matter the level of pain we have each endured, all of our stories are vital in the narrative of this unprecedented time. This isn’t a place to compare experiences, it’s a place to share and release all of the things we’ve been feeling over the year. I’ve learned many things about myself and the world this year, all through the lens of being isolated. I’ve experienced what it feels like to be broken in more ways than one and to need the will to pick all of those shattered pieces up off the floor and put myself back together. I’ve lost myself in the loss of a best friend, a broken heart, and a drowning spirit. For the first time, I’ve understood what it feels like to be truly separated from the people I love and the toll that takes on mental health. From those broken pieces I’ve learned that I am much stronger than I give myself credit for, that I am more than enough, and that sometimes I have to let go of things that are destructive.

Ever since I was young, I have been soft-spoken and didn’t think I had a voice inside of me worth

sharing with others, but in a year like this, I’ve finally found it. I have opinions that are worth hearing; I am smart and capable of doing anything I put my mind to. I voted in the election, one of utmost importance. 2020 has reinforced what I already know: that society has a cruel nature but there are pockets of good. I’ve learned that through all of the riots, protests, and hate, there is love — love that is much more powerful than any violent act of oppression. Love that is compassion that can heal the tattered canvas of our world. Love is not the opposite of hate, it is the opposite of fear, and I’ve learned that we can’t let fear guide us any longer. We are stronger than a pandemic. We are stronger than the hostility that surrounds us. Most importantly, we are stronger than the oppressor. Justice must be served and healing must begin…and it will.

Race Day Gabrielle Post

The line is pretty straightly painted onto the deep green blades. By the looks of it, it must have been painted a few days ago. The sun is shining, and a slight breeze makes for a perfect day to race. The runners sit on a tarp that has been laid out on the grass a great distance from the line. The tarp prevents the damp morning dew from saturating your bags. It gives you a place to sit as you wait with anticipation. That’s typical, right? The nearby chattering is muffled and irritating to the ears that are used to the pulsating cheers on race day. If you have to use the bathroom, you’ll have to wait. Not because there’s a long line, but because there’s only one that your team can use. Bathrooms have become divided again, not by gender, but for health reasons. As you look around, you can see that each of the runners is wearing a different face mask. Some are hospital masks — the blue and white ones that you only previously remembered your dentists and doctors wearing. Some are gator masks — which we would have previously associated with the winter. Some are mediocre homemade masks — your grandmother made about a hundred of these for your family, friends, and neighbors. Some are just the typical store-bought cloth masks. The lack of coordination resembles the lack of agreement on CDC guidelines. The only time you can take off your mask is while you are running. Think of it as handcuffs for your face. Your mouth has the freedom to move, but others cannot read your lips. # Before the start of each race, we gather in a huddle for a pre-race prayer and some motivational words. In these times, the huddle looks more like there is a tour guide giving a speech about the capitol building, with a bunch of strangers afraid to break the three-to-ten-foot rule. We want to hold each other and touch hands. We long for a connection. The feeling of isolation looms over our team. We walk to the line and it is then that we can strip ourselves of the masks. With the pop of the gun, a sense of normalcy returns. Just for those few moments of running, the wind kisses our lips and cheeks. We feel the freedom that we took for granted all of those years.

House on the Hill Nancy J. Rahn

This Is How We Are Living Lilyka Pickard

This house is not a home. It is empty, Isolated. I haven’t seen my friends in a while. My arms remain vacant, My love unshared. A dream for an introvert? Maybe at first. But not anymore. Now it is long, And we continue to get sick. But we no longer live in fear. And maybe that’s the problem.

House in the Field

Nancy J. Rahn

Shared Pain Pam Vickers

Growth in Grief Sabryna Kuehls

growth in grief, disbelief unseen between, denial and acceptance resistance to change unwanted rearrangements of life grey settles deep inside, hidden underneath with me, Love remains as I hesitate in continuous thoughts memories flood like water this hit me harder, than I could see farther from a dream … I miss you, every day, reminisce, since pain and numbness feel the same as my heart breaks, breaths take me away the unknown place growth takes place, on dark days, my world changed changes flow like music sounds remind me, instrumental quake takes me away from, this pain that rooted deep the visual reminders keep Love that flows within stories told by Rock n Roll Blues Soul, my untold

I Don’t Belong to Anyone Cassidy Way

I Thought I Knew Lilyka Pickard

A homebody, I thought. An introvert, I knew. But I’ve spent too much time inside, Alone with too few people. My heart has never yearned for spontaneity, And now it itches for something. To pack up and leave and travel carelessly? Lay on a beach and dance with friends I just met? But maybe I’ll never change. Play it safe and live contently.

Identity Cassidy Way

Wear a Mask Claire Donofrio

The Ride Gabrielle Post I shouldn’t ride in an elevator with someone like you. Unwilling to rise to the needs of what you’re supposed to do. Each day the numbers increase and your cares for others cease. Convinced, you wake up worshiping the same God, reading the same book. You don’t practice what is preached. My patience with you has been reached. You probably touch everything like a child. You can’t just look. I bet you walk around the store without a mask. It’s not a chore. You light up my life with fury with every button you press. Is it that you’re in a hurry? With all of them glowing, I have stress. It really is an easy task, just put on your mask.

Isolation Jordan Gidley

Can We Do More Than Exist? Lilyka Pickard

Grey and White and Black and Brown. Sitting forward and talking without remembering. Nothing stuck and she felt a little drowsy. But carried on and continued living. Pink and White and Brown and Pink. Curves and skirts and shaggy hair. Eyes of color and smoke in the air. She questioned her choices and thoughts and stares. Was she alive or simply existing? Was she choosing or simply abiding? So many questions, doubts, and stares.

Phases Haleigh Platt She holds the moon in the palm of her hand Its ice-cold glow reflects the deep sorrow in her gaze One that she hides away from the world A soft smile, she doesn’t want to sound the alarm Blue eyes fading to black, after all… Her outlook on life is quite bleak The demeanor she presents is one of mock hope All cracks underneath remain invisible to the naked eye She looks content, she doesn’t want to sound the alarm She holds the moon in the palm of her hand But the moon is known for constant fluctuation Just like her, she just doesn’t know it yet

Solitude Jordan Gidley

Changing the World Cora Bachelder

Always Chasing Rainbows Sarah Aber

You wake up to a rare occurance, the sound of the electricity working. You don’t remember the last time it came on in the morning. It must have been years. At first, you feel grateful, but then you realize that it, like everything else in your life, is a burden. Should you use it to have a shower with actual hot running water or to wash your clothes in the laundry machine instead of by hand? You decide on the laundry; more calories saved that way.

Just another trade off in your new reality. #

For breakfast, you have an apple that you found in the back of the cabinet. It is bruised, its complexion tarnished by age and humidity, but it will have to do. Waiting in the food lines is getting riskier by the day. Your friend Marcos was robbed on the way back home with his, and it wasn’t his first time in this situation either. As you exit your apartment, the building’s sweltering is replaced with the more tolerable heat of the Maracaibo streets. Few people are walking; those who do look like skeletons in all but name, ribs protruding, clothing worn down from being taken apart and handed down again and again. Mentally, too, they have withered away, with no money or food coming in, just living to see if they survive the next day without being another name in the obituaries, dead from starvation, from suicide, from violence.

You are one of the lucky ones who still have a job, even if it doesn’t feel like it. #

On your way to work, to keep your mind away from the drudgery, you count the numbers of the streets: Calle Siete, Calle Ocho. As you get closer to the hospital, you notice the few houses that are still in good condition. You know that it’s because it is the government officials who live there, the only people in this country still eating. Not like you could go up to them and beg them for food; despite their best attempts to cover it up, you know what happens to those who dare say anything about them that isn’t blinding praise. If you aren’t outright shot while the police look in the other direction, you’re whisked away, never to be seen again. It happened to one of your mother’s old friends back from college, three years gone by and not a trace. The people here don’t have to worry about those things as much, since the police know working for them gives them a shiny merit badge and meal ticket. They sacrifice their morality while everyone else slowly dies. # You hear a rustling that seems to come from one of the apartment buildings near the slums. You turn to your right and see it’s the return of the dumpster divers. Just a few years ago, this would have been considered shocking, a habit of only the poorest of the poor. Now it’s just as normal as filling up your car with gas, back when you could still afford a car. This time it seems to be a family. The mother is in her mid-thirties, but her tattered clothing and eternal sunken expression makes her look ten years older. She is joined by a handful of school-age children wearing the familiar sight of hand-me-downs. New clothes are unheard of in these times. Now you just use it until it wears out. Even once that happens, you just stitch them together with another fabric of that sort. Rinse and repeat.

For a moment, you wonder why they aren’t in school; this does not last long. At this point, they are probably better not being in there. You’ve heard stories from colleagues, (when you were sure no one could hear them, lest they risk being the next to be imprisoned) that so many kids now are fainting in class, as they have no food at home and little if any food at school. Then they risk going to one of the city hospitals, which on a good day, has the electricity to compensate for the lack of supplies of even necessary materials such as soap.

Some of them never wake up at all.

You decide it’s best not to think of those things and resume counting the city streets.

Calle Noche.

About 12 minutes later, you finally arrive at the hospital where you work as a receptionist. The place is a shallow shell of its former self, empty of people except for the occasional emergency that always seems to end in the same result—yet another death. It reminds you of things you would rather not recall. Back in your childhood, a time that is nothing more than a hazy dream, when your dad was still alive, things were not like this. You used to visit the Teatro Ballet, especially before Christmas, watching in awe as the actors seemed to move across the stage like magic. Afterward, you would get arepas from one of the street vendors stuffed so full of meat you could barely hold them.

As a child, you thought those days would last forever.

Then came the crash and cancer.

Your father’s cancer was supposed to be survivable, and in most of the world, it was. However, after the economy collapsed and everything changed, the doctors didn’t have the proper equipment to even treat it. This all went to the high-ranking government officials.

Towards the end, the cancer ward didn’t even have electricity.

You got to see your childhood end over the course of a year as you watched your father die a slow and agonizing death from cancer, while all everyone did was watch. You didn’t even get a funeral. No one could afford those now. Besides, there were so many deaths that year no one could keep track. You weren’t the only one. That was the year your friend Carmen’s mother committed suicide, and your cousin, Ernesto, was shot and killed in broad daylight by one of the gangs. The police didn’t even bother to investigate the case.

Now the only proof you ever had of your father’s existence was an obituary clipping on your door. #

You recall your favorite song from your childhood, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows,” from that one Judy Garland movie you cannot remember the name of. Yet despite this, the song always sticks, even after your world changed.

Your childhood self never dreamed your life would turn out like this. In the end, in Venezuela, it always seemed like the rainbow was out of reach.

Synaptophysin Mo Mzik

Halloween 2020 Melissa Hladek

Día de los Muertos, DAILY of the Dead. The Crypt Keeper opened his graveyard, Please stop the spread. Ghosts of people I used to know, The fear inside me continues to grow. Infected Zombies, everywhere, Murder hornets & fires, I’m Scared! Home Alone when the doorbell rings, I can’t answer, I’m in quarantine. Trapped in a Coffin, avoiding the bite, I haven’t seen the sun, I’m pale and white. Fever, chills, and shortness of breath, Fatigue, aches, and even Death. Oh, the Tricks we are asked to do, Learn from home and activate Zoom! Black and blue, a Grueling fight, Guns and protests, what a Scary sight! Killer Clowns are at the polls, Orange face, floppy hair, please go vote to save your Soul! Werewolves howling in my head, A full moon on Halloween, and existential dread. So, put on a Costume and mask your face, For all my Witches are burning at the stake!

Intertwined Lines Sabryna Kuehls

A Pandemic Year: Reflections Along the Yellow Brick Road UC 401

The following piece was written collectively by members of the FA 2020 UC 401 Capstone Seminar: Sydney Adams, Alyssa Allen, Kayla Bentley, Uyen Do, Anna Holdway, Hannah Hottinger, Brooke Mahabir, Alexandria Maxwell, Alex Pescho, and Alexis Waller.

The Covid-19 virus gave me a remarkable awakening. I’m more focused on investing my time in things that are meaningful and not temporary. I coexist in order to maintain an environment which promotes safety and harmony. I have had friends die and go to jail. I always can see hope in the person of Jesus; his plan will prevail. My values haven’t changed drastically but I do look at things a little differently. Being done with nursing school in December, I will be able to make a bigger impact on those around me. I am excited to get a big girl job and I am excited to move out and be 100% independent. I no longer want to waste time accepting half relationships or friendships. I need to get comfortable being with myself and being all that I need. My life as a woman is worth documenting. Hope for the future is the warmth I feel when I think about my friends and family and our futures together. Having someone to celebrate with, to cry with and be in my corner. Thinking about the people who are being fought for and knowing it’s worth it. There is more to being a woman than the way you look and dress — to feel real inside your body and not feel the need to hide from it.

Having the strength to reach out your hand to pull someone up.

Trip to the Mall Melissa K. Richmond

Jack expected the mall to be bustling with people on this chilly November day. But he’d forgotten about the pandemic. He must be the only person in America who could forget. With Lucy gone, he moved through his days in a fog. This morning he’d woken up, looked out at the brown fields below the gathering clouds, and decided to take a drive. He’d go to the mall. Maybe it was silly, but it was something he could do. He set off in his dusty pickup as the cold rain started, spattering the windshield. Inside the mall, empty storefronts lined much of the vaulted interior. Little fountains spurted water and early Christmas decorations hung forlornly from the escalators and staircases. The stores that were in business seemed desperate, with wild sale prices posted in their windows. A few masked people wandered in the cavernous space. He reached in his pocket. Out of dumb luck he had a mask. Lucy had insisted he always keep one with him. Trips to the clinic, doctor visits, hospice nurses. Had to wear a mask for all of it. He hoped the store he wanted was still open. It had some fancy French name. He’d teased Lucy about her love of their products but never begrudged her the expense. She worked so hard. Taking care of his parents, the kids, and managing their vegetable business. He fretted that she might have thought she had to take care of him, too. He didn’t know how he’d gotten through the spring, after Lucy died. Somehow he’d set out the plants and sown the seeds for the tiny organic vegetables coveted by the chefs in the city. He’d bet that the virus would be over by fall, but he’d bet wrong. All his work lay rotting in the fields. Restaurants were barely surviving. Two of their biggest clients had closed for good. He’d tried to sell some of it at the farm market, but most of it was a total loss. What should he plant next year? What would Lucy think? She always had a gut feeling about the newest trends, and found a way to translate that for the farm. Sometimes he thought her ideas were crazy, and they’d argue back and forth. In the end he always did it her way. Because of her intuition, they got in on the baby vegetable craze before anyone else. He did the work, she had the ideas. Now he didn’t know what to do. He smelled the shop before he saw it. A couple of masked customers stood at the counter, so he continued on. He’d just walk the perimeter again. He didn’t want to take a chance on the virus. Maybe he should skip the whole thing, drive back to the farm. The fields lay fallow now. He’d have to plow the wasted vegetables back into the soil. Let them decompose over the winter to enrich next year’s crop. Whatever that would be. Late fall and winter was when he and Lucy had been able to relax. They made plans for the coming year’s crop, but they also went into the city, saw plays, went to restaurants, had their friends over. She did her Christmas shopping at this mall, said she liked all the lights and color. He remembered how they met at college, in their freshman seminar on the environment. His parents made him go to college. They didn’t think they could keep the farm going and he’d better get an education. Lucy was there because that’s what upper class suburban girls did. At least that’s what he thought when he first met her.

He was miserable in college. He hadn’t met anyone else who had grown up on a farm. Everyone except him seemed to fit right in and be from the same background. The classes were hard too, and seemed pointless. He wasn’t sure he could handle the work. So when the professor had asked about the average person’s relationship to the environment, he’d talked about his connection to the land, finally able to contribute. Lucy had been the light of the class. So sparky, asking intelligent questions about everything. He challenged her constantly, and to his surprise, she challenged him. Why couldn’t a farm be organic? Why did so many farmers overuse fertilizers and pesticides? Lucy made him think. Made him consider other possibilities. He and Lucy started to see each other outside of class. When he took her home for Thanksgiving, his mom took him aside. “She’s lovely, Jack. I can see why you like her so much.” She paused. “But if you married, she wouldn’t want to live on the farm, would she? Not that your dad and I expect you to take it over. We know times are changing.” He mulled this over for months. He wanted to marry Lucy, and sensed she felt the same, but what about the farm? She wasn’t a farm girl after all. When he finally proposed, he said they didn’t need to live on the farm. He’d get a desk job. But like always, Lucy surprised him. She said she wanted to live on the farm. They could remake it to work with today’s world. Very idealistic, he’d countered, but then she’d gone on to list countless changes they could make to make the farm viable. First, take advantage of its location, so close to the city. It was the last family farm in the area. People would want to visit, see how a farm worked, buy fresh produce. They should focus on vegetables. People were getting aware of healthy eating. They could host farm dinners, farm tours, connect with chefs in the growing food scene in the city. Before they married, he and Lucy spent their summers on the farm. His mom and dad adored her, and delighted in showing her the ins and outs of farm life. He shook his head, thinking of Lucy’s foresight. His loop around the mall had brought him back to the store, and now it was empty. He walked into a swirl of fragrance. A young woman, dressed all in black including her mask, stood at the counter in the tidy, bright shop. “Very chic,” was what Lucy would have said. And they would have laughed because he always teased that they had plenty of those at the farm. “Can I help you?” she asked. He kept his six foot distance, glancing at the overwhelming array of perfectly arranged tubes, bottles and bars of soap. He’d never find what he wanted. Would he even be able to smell anything through his mask? Maybe he should leave. He felt ill at ease in his worn jeans and his faded blue flannel shirt.

Graphic by Margaret Birovsek

“I’m looking for a lotion my wife likes. I mean liked,” he said. The saleslady seemed not to notice the stumble.

“Do you know what type of lotion it is? Hand cream? Face? All day moisturizer?”

“Oh dear, no,” he said. “But I’d know it if I smelled it.”

“Hmm. Ok. Well, let’s start with these tester creams and see what you think.”

She unscrewed little caps on miniature elegant tubes, one after the other. He kept his mask on even though he couldn’t get more than a hint of each scent. Most of the lotions smelled pretty good. A couple smelled slightly weird. None of them were quite right. “I could look it up in the computer, see what your wife usually buys.” This had not occurred to him. That there’d be a record, a dry, impersonal account of this elusive scent he so wanted to smell again.

“Ok. That’s a good idea.”

With a few keystrokes she found Lucy Haverford in the computer. “She likes the shea butter blend with lavender. Try smelling this, just to be sure.” She handed him a small silvery tube and he held it beneath his nose. To his horror his eyes filled with tears. Even through the mask he recognized the scent. Those afternoons when he’d smoothed this lotion onto Lucy’s hands, massaged it on her temples, trying to help her relax and sleep once the pain medicine kicked in. He’d used it all up after she died, rubbing it onto his hands, trying to fall asleep at night. Some way to have her with him. He nodded, unable to speak. Lucy shimmered before him, done up for a night at the theater, smelling mysterious and heavenly. Out in the field, perfumed with sunblock and sweat. In the kitchen making pies, her hair scented with cinnamon and vanilla. Well, the lavender lotion would have to do. The clerk raised her black eyebrows over her mask but simply said, “Do you want two tubes or one? I see here that she usually buys two.”

“Two then,” he said.

“Anything else? We’ve got some soap with the same scent. She might like that.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take three.” A little bit of Lucy in each of the bathrooms. He paid and made his way out of the mall, and got in the truck. The clouds hung heavy and dark on the western horizon, but out east, where the farm was, the sky was a bit brighter. Maybe he’d plow those fields this afternoon, before the light faded.

Yin Yang Malia Ali

There is always A good to the bad A death for a life An inclusionist for a racist Imagine A utopia, heavenly That would be peaceful Coexisting in harmony Impossible Our reality, a nightmare The world is so hostile Living without diversity There is never No racism No war No death

At Least I’m Alive Cassidy Way

Just Relax Margaret Birovsek

There is stagnant air in the library tonight; it’s odd. Odd because it’s almost finals and the library is close to empty. You would expect everyone to be prepared, right? Then why is it so empty? I know winter break is right around the corner, but this is ridiculous. Finals are always a lot harder than mid-terms. But I suppose I am no better; studying is far from my mind right now. Staring at this blank document makes me want to quit but I need to write this essay to pass. “I really hate this stupid class,” I say, adding some curses for good measure. I sigh as I lean back in my chair. I am surrounded by empty cups of coffee and textbooks colored with bright neon highlighters on the table in front of me. I must have been sitting here for at least an hour already. The harsh glare of the fluorescent lights buzzing above me just adds to my headache. “One last paper. I just have to finish this paper. Then I’ll be done. Then I can sleep,” I mumble, disheartened. I have all the information for this essay, but I just can’t finish it. I’m growing more and more frustrated by the second. Why can’t I just write this stupid paper? I move my mouse on the screen, hoping that reviewing my research will spark something: I’ll probably just get more stressed. My mouse doesn’t move. A loud sputtering noise is unleashed from my computer. My eyes are met with blue, a normally calming color, but now it only fills me with rage. I throw my head back in defeat. I’m tired. There is nothing I can do to save myself from the torment of this essay. I give up. I can’t do this, just give me a bad grade. I don’t care. I do care but... Behind me, whispers escape from the bookshelves; they are unsettling but somehow, they are inviting. It feels so alluring to me. They whisper to me to come and find them. I get up from my desk, a shiver runs down my spine. I begin walking through the bookshelves. I need to walk towards it. Why? Why do I need to? “Come and find me,” the voice calls. It is soothing and soft, but at the same time, holds a disturbing quality. The voice speaks with a whispering echo. The other students don’t seem to notice it, they are so focused on their work. Did they not hear it? I round the corner of each bookshelf, going deeper and deeper into the library. It seems as though I am trapped in a maze. The shelves blend together, the books get more and more obscure. As I move forward, the titles seem to melt, leaving them incomprehensible. I see no walls, only shelves and shelves of books. You think I would be disturbed by this, but the voice grows softer and sweeter as I move forward, calling for me to come closer and closer. I begin to run toward it. Why am I not scared? Shouldn’t I run away? What is making me move? Why do I want to follow the voice? I wonder, but I don’t stop. I have to follow the voice. I have to know why this voice is calling me. I round each corner at a steady pace. The voice grows closer and closer, softer, and sweeter. Rounding the last corner, I see her. She has short black curls that hang from her head like thick pools of ink. She’s wearing a beautiful velvet dress, the same color as the deepest forests. Her eyes shine a bright, light blue like the ocean. Her smile is as sweet as chocolate as she says, “You found me! You need a break, come on.” She speaks to me in a childish tone. Suddenly, she grabs my hand and begins pulling me past the bookshelves, turning and twisting through the maze of books as they appear to melt away and blend into different colors.

What was once the library is now a field covered in flowers of all different colors — yellows, blues, pinks, reds, and purples that go on for miles. She lets me go and dances among the flowers’ petals floating around her. I collapse and I just sit there, trying to grasp what I am seeing. The air fills with scents that would put a flower shop to shame. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She smiles as she turns back to me. “How did we get here? Where are we?” “Huh. We’re in a flower field. You look like you needed a break, so I brought you here.” She looks at me like I have asked a stupid question. It takes me a good second to comprehend what she has just said. “I don’t understand. We were in the library just a second ago.” “Yes, and now we’re here.” “What?” She lets out a sigh. “Come on. Enjoy this,” she says, extending her hand. I hesitate but take her hand. I did need a break, but this is so confusing. She smiles as she pulls me up. She again leads me by the hand, this time to a table and chairs. The table is set with tea and treats I have only seen on Instagram videos and in magazines. My mouth waters just at the sight of it. “You really should relax more. I don’t bite,” she says taking a seat and gesturing that I should do the same. “I just really don’t understand any of this.” “Well, think of me as a friend trying to help.” “A friend would help me finish my essay.” “No, I think a friend would try and help you to calm down first.” I don’t try to argue with her further, she’s right. I do need a break. But I still don’t understand. “You really need to relax more; you won’t get anything done if you stress yourself out,” she says as she pours some more tea for herself and me. “Listen, your health is more important than your grades. Everyone understands.” “But I ...” “But nothing. You need to stop and relax every once and a while. Everything will be okay.” As she says this, the fields melt just as the bookshelves had before. I begin to fall through the fields. I close my eyes for a second. # I am back at my desk in the library. When did I get back here? What happened? My computer is working again and the Word document is up. But there is now a sentence on the page. It reads:

Remember what I said.

A Library Unloved Heather Bloeser

I enter rooms full of knowledge and news, with no one else around. Rows of computers face me, with black, blank screens. Beloved films are filed away, perused by few. It’s no abandoned building; it’s my job. But the emptiness echoes anyway. “Patrons are prohibited past the lobby,” I hear from my boss. “Pickups only.” I think about how limiting that must be for a library. To only order materials from something or someone else, not to seek it yourself. After all, isn’t that part of the fun? To search the shelves for that perfect read? Leafing through pages and scanning the backs of DVDs, waiting for that click in your brain that informs you you’ve just discovered something great? As an employee, I’m lucky; I get to enjoy those little adventures at my leisure while shelving. But for a while, others have only been able to stare from several feet away. I wonder if they miss the fun part, too. My work is filled with two things: books and windows. Glass walls guard me as I glance at those outside. Maybe they’re vulnerable; unable to enter, on the way to another location that will let them travel totally through the building. Maybe I’m vulnerable, to those passing through. I have media and materials around me, but the people aren’t present in the picture. At first, I thought it was fun to work in an almost-empty library. There was endless peace and quiet afforded to me. My co-workers and I managed to find our own little moments of calm. But now I wait for a re-opening, a surge of action like the cliffhanger scene in a favorite book. I’ve entered rooms full of knowledge and news. This time, I want someone around.

Graphic by Margaret Birovsek

Hidden Breanay Clemons I see my sister crying on my bed. Her puffy eyes and red cheeks let me know that she has been crying for a long time. Momma’s framed picture of me in my graduation cap and gown is clutched in her hands tightly. That’s just like her being so dramatic. She is having a hard time dealing with me going off to college in a few weeks. I wish she would just get over it already. Momma and I made a bet that Sydney would find some way to get in my suitcase and go to Georgia Tech with me. Trust me, this wouldn’t be too far off from something Sydney would do. I can’t stand to watch this any longer, so I decide to reveal myself since I am hiding in the bathroom behind the door. Before I open the door, Sydney wipes her eyes and brings out her cellphone. I knew then she was about to go for a social media stroll. A video begins to play from the phone. It’s hard to understand but I hear a recognizable voice. It’s my boyfriend Marquel’s voice. In a low tone, it sounds like he is talking to someone. “How can I help you?” he says sarcastically. A stern voice replies to him but Sydney’s volume is low so I can’t really hear what is being said. I don’t know how she can hear with her volume turned down. I can hear cars in the background, so it sounds like Marquel is in the city. Who is this guy he’s talking to? As voices come from the video, I hope that Sydney raises the volume. She does. The man sounds serious and tells Marquel to give him his license and registration. Oh great, it’s a police officer.

Artwork by Declan Sarlson

I always told Marquel to get his tail lights fixed because he didn’t need to be such an easy target. But he was so thrilled to have his own car; he worked hard for that piece of junk. Momma was so scared for me to ride with him when he first got the car. She said that the junk was bound to stop running at any given moment. I didn’t mind though, my boyfriend had a car, that’s all I cared about. Still, a young black boy with broken taillights is bound to have some run-in with the police. I’m sure Sydney is watching this video from his Instagram Live. Suddenly, I hear another voice that sounds like a female but I can’t tell; it does sound familiar, almost like me. I then hear Momma coming up the stairs. I hope she is coming to kick Sydney out of my room. The video from the phone starts getting louder and I hear a lot of shuffling and commotion. Three gunshots escape Sydney’s phone. The gunshots are rapid and followed by a scream from the unknown female. Sydney drops the phone and begins crying again, but this time hysterically. Momma rushes into the room and picks her up. I quickly open the bathroom door and yell, “Who’s the girl in the video?” A silence fills the room immediately. Momma and Sydney look at me like they are looking at a ghost. At that moment I realize they are.

Quiet

Jordan Gidley

Searching For Michael Eileen Delaney Kohut

I never chased a man the way I chased Michael Delaney, I joke. Even for a Yank, I got pretty pushy at times—let me tell you. Just like that coal miner, I scratched and dug at his meager memory for months (2020 afforded time). From total strangers, I bought and begged information—the existence of which perhaps we both doubted at times. I read baptismal records, death records, and marriage records, handwritten in Latin and English. I changed this, then that, and searched again: drop the 2nd e, change the first to a or u. Giving up. Coming back. Filling in the blanks and between the lines with my imagination, my research. Endless websites. Mormons. DNA tests. Three states & two countries…yielding absolutely nothing. Oh, Michael, your secrets are hidden deep in the past like the dark gold you scraped from the earth’s guts. At first, you were an isolated name without face or dates, plugged into the start of dramatic, romantic but undocumented and unfinished stories collected from Dad and cousins Kevin (OH) and Debbie (CA). Michael was a character in a book that I just couldn’t find. Then in my computer, I found Seamus Walsh’s book, In the Shadows of the Mines.1 With each page and picture, Michael fleshed out within the town and mining folk of Castlecomer. As I read, the book sang to my lonely soul-this is Michael-the hero of my tale. You grew alive toiling a hellish job for your growing family, bonded to a host of steadfast friends, united by the danger of the labor and a demanding Catholic culture. I heard you sing to your babes, hold them in your bruised and blackened hands, call to your wife (Malone?) as she handed over fried egg sandwiches in a sack before you trudged to the mines those cold, dark mornings. You wore your grin like my grandfather’s plaid bow-tie—both jauntily perched beneath bright sky eyes. I know your toe tapped at lively music. I know you knelt each night to pray. I know you spoke your mind, but that your heart embraced loyal friends who embraced you. I know this because I knew your grandson, my grandfather. (And I knew him well.) That back-breaking work barely supported your family, so when your death came (1845?) The future of your oldest son died with you that day in the pit. At the age of twelve, he mined with you, didn’t he? Desperate, young William left everything and everyone he cherished in Kilkenny. Alone, he shipped to Canada, border crossing later to NY and a Civil War that rewarded citizenship if you lived. William’s long-ago lonely departure enabled my father’s good life, his father’s comforts and old age, my son’s and my daughter’s shining lives. All these happy blessings sprung from Michael’s tragic death and William’s going.

For all of this, I am most grateful, Michael. For the journeys of us all are yours, too. Regretfully, I still can’t find you. I leave you now to rest in peace (wherever it is you sleep).

But really, Michael Delaney, how could both your Church and country have so misplaced your life? 1 Walsh,

Joe and Seamus. In the Shadow of the Mines, Edited by Joe O’Neill. Freshford, IR: J & G Print, 1999.

Waiting

Mikaela Schuster It’s the morning of the big day Worry mixes throughout our bodies She’s more anxious than any of us. We arrive at the big campus We say our goodbyes And my brother has a breakdown. The clock counts down to surgery There is a big screen with other patients’ initials I’m handed a pager. The two big operating wooden doors are the enemy They keep her from leaving my side The doors then open. I’m filled with anxiety All I have next to me are the bags we brought And this dumb pager. I sit here in this somewhat comfy chair Writing this poem and waiting for my mom Waiting to see her again.

Still Waiting

I have been sitting in this uncomfortable chair Reading the pager every time it rings I’m waiting to see my mother. I’m the last one left in the waiting room It’s now 4:45 PM and I turn the pager in I’m waiting to see my mother. I’m told to go to the P building I’m handed instructions to get there I’m waiting to see my mother. I see more people in chairs I’m handed another pager I’m waiting to see my mother. The time is now 5:30 I try to distract myself from my thoughts I’m waiting to see my mother. The time now reads 7:15 PM The pager goes off and I get more instructions I’m waiting to see my mother. I almost run down the halls to the H building I’m still carrying our bags I’m waiting to see my mother. I enter the H building and go to her room I’m excited to see her but she isn’t there I’m waiting to see my mother. It’s now 8:45 PM A nurse comes to get me I’m waiting to see my mother. I finally get to see my mother We both cry happy tears I don’t have to wait anymore.

For You Ciani A. Kensey I played myself, thinking I was special to you. What made me feel like I was different? What clue? What reason did you give to me to feel so in tune, especially with you? I played myself, thinking space would maybe change the misunderstanding, But this space that I thought would affect you, affected me. I played myself. Praying to see a future with you, Full of high hopes, but really, I am dead to you. I played myself, To think back on how things used to be. Realizing the ties I hold onto and won’t let go of. Why? Why must I cry for things that I allow to live on and not pass by? It kills me inside for these bridges to burn. I can’t say these bridges are burning for just your actions, But these bridges are burning because I took part in the acceptance of what is present. Knowing deep down I wanted to do otherwise, Thinking I’m making a statement, When actually I put damage to the crime. If I try to slow down and re-evaluate before I retaliate on an unclear mind, Going off feelings instead of both sides. I don’t want this to be an “It is what it is” situation, But it is an “I know what I did” situation... I wish things could go back to how it used to be Before “we did what we did” situation. For you, I played myself.

Listen toJessthe Bluebells Grimm

.budding. Evey McKellar

For a while Life allows Us hidden In repose For a while We remain closed Winter and her quiet Eventually melts Gives way One day Sun pours her warmth through the shadows Something within Starts to unsettle Wishing to burst A thirst For more life Though we haven’t forgotten her cost Though we may still feel lost Something within In awakening defiance Begins to unravel Our shields Our plans And begins a reveal We won’t be enabled To forever remain sealed It is far too important that instead we be healed Healthy water Radiant light The right conditions will heal and invite The within Of beauty, wholeness, and power To pour forth in dignity To rise to life’s hour Be held, dear beloved Let light sing you forth The risk to blossom To unfurl To love Uncurl Is a gift to us all In this brutiful abundant world.

Photo by Evey McKellar

High School Writing Contest “Writing from Quarantine” was a high school writing contest hosted by the English department and Inscape, Ursuline College’s fine arts annual. Students were asked to write about the global pandemic caused by COVID-19 and how it has transformed our world. They were asked to consider the following questions: What did you learn during quarantine—about yourself, about the world, about the future? What realizations did you have? Predict the post-COVID era. What will change and what will stay the same? Reflect on the idea of what was lost and what was gained. What is at stake when everyone is forced to work, learn, and grow in isolation? What was gained by this transformative experience? Inscape recieved over 100 entries from across Northeast Ohio. Inscape’s editorial team selected 15 entries to be submitted to an external panel of judges for review. This year’s winners are: 1st Place: Anijah White, “I CAN’T BREATHE”, Villa Angela-St. Joseph High School 2nd Place: Ali Senedak, “Limitless Possibilities”, Riverside High School 3rd Place: Carly Simpson,“Systemic Lament”, Mayfield High School

Judges

Dr. Adenike Marie Davidson is a Professor of Literature and Gender Studies at Delaware State University. She currently is teaching a class titled Black Girl Literary Magic.

Veronica Colborn is an Assistant Director of Admission at Ursuline College. Her qualifications to judge this writing contest include a Bachelor’s degree in English and an avid love for the written word.

Susie Lebryk-Chao is Division Leader for Humanities at Thomas Jefferson HS for Science and Technology in Alexandria, VA, where she teaches AP English Literature.

I CAN’T BREATHE Anijah White Villa Angela-St. Joseph HS 1st Place

Black girl, no comb in my napped curls My skin glistens like black pearls A shame my beauty is feared in this corrupt world Tragedies I’ve seen as I sit alone with these intros of my soliloquies Black king, no mask, but it’s hard for him to breathe Ignorance spreads faster than Covid-19 Faster than the city of angels burning trees Young teens suffering mentally becoming angels before 19 I pray one day we may be Covid free but sickness of the heart can’t be wiped clean I can’t breathe

LimitlessAli Possibilities Senedak Riverside HS 2nd Place I was born into a world of limitless possibilities. A world with more communication than had ever been seen before in time. Generational and national lines were blurred, with people thousands of miles away being a phone call, email, or text message away. I am a part of a generation connected through radio waves, arguably the most connected generation. But in being the most connected, we became the most secluded. With the world at our fingertips, we lost appreciation for what occupied the space around us. Yes, COVID-19 has brought the world to its proverbial knees. It has taken from and wounded us in many ways. Once absurd scenarios I had read in history books flew off the pages. It had become irresponsible to not stay informed, no matter how negative the news was. But for me and many others, this virus gave us the opportunity to see the world around them for the first time. There were unresolved issues and tensions. There was pain, and there was arguing and fear, but there was also a type of universal experience that we all went through: the loss of normalcy. I found myself thinking a lot about what normalcy meant to me. And I noticed how little I truly appreciated the daily rat race once I no longer had it. I suppose it’s true, what they say, we never knew quite what we had until it was no longer a touch away. All of the things that we lived day to day, taking for granted: meeting strangers, hugs from loved ones, talking for hours over a meal, hand-holding, first dates, weddings, holiday celebrations. We have realized that these were the things that truly brought us happiness, but they were the things we dedicated the least time to, always bogged down with work or school. To me, this virus has shown the flaws in humanity’s values, but it has also shown me the resilience of the human race. I have seen great divides, but I have also seen people work together to build bridges. I have faith that this experience will give the children of my generation a lesson that previous generations have gone without. We are at an age where we will recall this moment in history. We will know where we were when we learned we would not be returning to school the next Monday. We will remember what our favorite type of mask was. We will remember exactly how far we stood from our peers in lunch lines. We will remember weeks of confusion and fear. We will remember months of strife. We will remember struggles and hardships. But we will also remember the value of normalcy. We will hold our good moments close, and treasure them alongside the bad ones. So, yes, COVID-19 is something we will never forget. But for the generation of limitless possibilities, it is the ultimate common ground where we learned the greatest lesson of our time: what it means to be alive.

Systemic Lament Carly Simpson Mayfield HS 3rd Place

To generations ensuing Listen closely and heed this warning We are but pawns made for using Not a qualm about our deaths, impending As long as we still serve our purpose There is no reason to preserve us We already exist in surplus Thousands dead does them no disservice Corruption bleeds into every process Clotting every attempt towards progress Disinformation an overwhelming success What power to change do we possess? While the political climate remains tumultuous Those in power prove themselves useless Their response to our will, impervious We wait and wait for something virtuous How many deaths is too many? How can lives be chosen second to money? What good is a prospering economy When it’s clear we don’t even own our autonomy? The elites all but ask us to die To be martyrs for the sake of their dime Give ourselves to demand and supply It’s imperative that we don’t comply

Contributors In order of appearance

Declan Sarlson was born with Asperger’s Syndrome but was always interested in making art. He is looking to pursue a career in art.

Pam Vickers has always loved using art as an expression and is amazed that she has found a career that allows her to help others do the same. She believes that her art allows others to interpret her work in their own ways.

Margaret Birovsek is a social work major who likes to draw and write.

Sabryna Kuehls is an aspiring art therapist. Art sparks her soul and creates a safe space for emotional expression. Art helps her healing through symbolizing working through her process in coping with grief, loss and mental health. Art has the power to captivate, inspire and heal.

Kaitlyn Kirchmeir is from Mentor, Ohio. She is a first-year counseling and art therapy student in the Master’s program.

Malia Ali is a junior English and education major. She’s simply an iconic individual.

Claire Donofrio is currently getting her Master’s degree in counseling and art therapy. She created this piece in July 2020, after having worked in a grocery store during the coronavirus pandemic. This project was a creative outlet for her.

Haleigh Platt is a senior graphic design major with a minor in English. She enjoys reading, listening to music, singing, and creative projects. She is part of Sigma Tau Delta and Inscape.

Jordan Gidley is a mixed-media artist with a passion for the complexity of human emotion and experience, which led her to the art therapy program here at Ursuline. If you’re interested in following her journey, find her on Instagram @gidley.art.

Gabrielle Post is a senior majoring in English and is in the education 4+1 program. She will be starting graduate school in the summer at Ursuline in the “Education Master Apprenticeship Program.”

Cora Bachelder is an art therapy student. Her favorite medium is paint, but she loves trying out new mediums. Lately, she has been working on making her art eco-friendly to raise awareness for our world.

Nancy J. Rahn is approaching the end of her third year as a member of the Ursuline community. Her favorite things are long distance cycling, hiking with her greyhounds, gardening, and drawing.

Sarah Aber is an English major at Ursuline College.

Lilyka Pickard is passionate about helping others and can be found excessively baking.

Cassidy Way is a third-year art therapy major.

Mo Mzik is an artist seeking truth in social and racial justice, who brings societal issues to the forefront of consciousness. They also indulge in neuroscience to expand understanding of the way humans think, act, and react.

Melissa Hladek MA, ATR-BC, LPCC is an instructor in the Department of Counseling and Art Therapy and the supervisor for the CAT mentorship program. She is an artist, art therapist, and mom of two. Melissa K. Richmond is a fiber artist, plays the banjo and loves to write and read.

Heather Bloeser is a senior psychology and English major at Ursuline. She is part of the Inscape editorial team as well as the Sigma Tau Delta and Psi Chi honor societies. She hopes you like the magazine! Breanay Clemons enjoys reading novels of all kinds that talk about history. She believes that true voices come from books and provide vital information for a blueprint that could change history for the better. Eileen Delaney Kohut is a former writing and study skills tutor as well as an English and Ursuline Studies adjunct professor. She is an alumni with two degrees from UC and high school teaching and administration experience in Cleveland Catholic schools. Mikaela Schuster is a psychology major at Ursuline College. She loves to write, spend time with her family, watch horror movies, and cuddle with her pet hedgehog, Sassi. Ciani Kensey is an undergraduate at Ursuline College from Philadelphia. She is a member of the track and field team as well as the cross-country team at Ursuline. Running has allowed her a space for development and freedom and she is able to clear her thoughts. Jess Grimm is a hardworking artsy gal and mother of two. She has owned her own small side business since 2008 called Artsy Gal Jess. She is a graduate student at Ursuline College.

Evey McKellar is a poet, writer, nursing student, improviser, and ordained minister from Dallas, Texas. She loves cold brew, hikes with her border jack, Scout, and bearing witness to the magic in the mundane and the sacred in the simple.

Editorial Statement Dear Ursuline College, We, the 2021 editorial team, are delighted to bring you the LIII edition of Inscape. We are dedicated and committed to showcasing Ursuline College’s creativity and unity in this publication. This magazine is for everyone — not just for students of the humanities. It is designed to capture the essence of the era and to be shared with Ursuline College and the world. We believe that this version of Inscape will appeal to a wide audience and bring positivity to all of those who have been confined to their homes this past year and impacted by the coronavirus. It is our wish that Ursuline College’s collective creativity is recognized by both the campus and the greater community. We hope that readers see the impact of both the realistic and imaginative documentation of the time and our optimistic strive to move forward! This magazine was created with significant contributions from members of the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society, Epsilon Psi chapter: Haleigh Platt, Gabrielle Post, Malia Ali, and Heather Bloeser.

Editorial Team

Haleigh Platt Editor-in-Chief Head Graphic Designer

Gabrielle Post Literary Editor

Heather Bloeser Literary Editor

Kara Martin Graphic Designer

Declan Sarlson Editor, Illustrator

Margaret Birovsek Editor, Illustrator

Malia Ali Literary Editor

Kat Leeper Literary Editor

Katharine G. Trostel, PhD Faculty Advisor