Spring 2026: Echoes

The word “echo” has many definitions. In this edition of Inkpot, none of those definitions are lost. An echo can be sound waves bouncing off a surface travelling back to the listener. It can be a repetition of an idea. It can be reminiscent of something else in the assemblage of an outfit. For example, it could be green clothing bringing out the green in someone’s eyes. However, echoes are more than just a mere definition. They are a common experience across the world. The word echo does not do the experience of an echo justice.

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Each piece in this Spring edition has something as simple as a rippling water echo as in “Walkin’ in the Creek” or the chopping sound of a hatchet in “Dinner Guest.” An echo may be a call to an unreconciled past as in “Echo-locutionary Love.” It may be the acoustical assembly of voices inside your head as in the piece “87 Days.” Maybe it bears the resemblance of a swishing hoop as in the piece ‘Shoot’. It may be musical in nature as in “A Slow Decrescendo.” An echo may be something else altogether.

That sound, that moment, that memory, that item, that element, that being, they all carry their own echo; an echo that laments, an echo that smiles, an echo that asks questions, a psychological echo that directs behavior and controls mood, or an echo that simply echoes because someone is there to hear it and feel it. 

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Reading and writing is an echo all its own, separate from all the rest. The words we read become a piece of our mind’s landscape. The stories we write become a piece of our hearts. In all, they continue to impact us heartbeat to heartbeat, page to page, step to step throughout everyday life. This literary echo impacts how we think, feel, and interact; perhaps, changing us for the better. This is the echo that lasts long after the page disintegrates.