RISING SOPHOMORE EARNS FIFTH ANNUAL CREATIVE WRITING SCHOLARSHIP

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July 30, 2026

For information on admission to Notre Dame Prep, please click here.

Winning historical fiction essay earns tuition scholarship while highlighting Notre Dame Prep's commitment to nurturing creativity alongside academic excellence.

When David Shorter learned he had been selected as the recipient of the fifth annual Michael J. Kotzan Creative Writing Scholarship Award, the rising Notre Dame Prep sophomore said his first reaction was equal parts excitement and disbelief.

"I was super excited, but also a little shocked," Shorter said. "I knew a good amount of my friends had also submitted pieces, all of whom are incredibly smart and talented people, so I was very pleased to find out I had been picked."

Shorter's historical fiction submission was selected as the top entry among those submitted by members of the Class of 2029, earning him a $5,000 tuition scholarship for his sophomore year and the opportunity to renew the award with additional scholarships through his senior year.

The Michael J. Kotzan Creative Writing Scholarship Award, established in 2022, honors the memory of 2005 NDP graduate Michael J. Kotzan while encouraging and recognizing exceptional young writers at his high school alma mater.

Challenging students to bring history to life

This year's competition, according to Kim Anderson, principal of NDP’s upper school, challenged freshmen to write a historical fiction narrative centered on a real event that occurred before 1975, telling the story through the eyes of a fictional or lesser-known individual who experienced it firsthand.

“We asked students to demonstrate a strong understanding of historical context while creating compelling characters and exploring themes such as courage, resilience, justice and change,” Anderson said. “Entries ranged from 1,500 to 3,000 words, with creativity, character development and storytelling serving as the primary judging criteria.”

The selection committee, comprised of NDP faculty members and members of the Kotzan family, selected Shorter's essay as this year's winning submission.

The annual competition continues to showcase the depth of talent among the school's youngest high school students.

The scholarship challenges students to think creatively while applying the research, writing and critical thinking skills they've developed during their freshman year. Each year, Anderson added, school administrators are impressed not only by the quality of the writing, but by the imagination, preparation and effort students bring to the competition.

Rewarding talent and commitment

The scholarship provides $5,000 toward the recipient's sophomore-year tuition. Students who maintain at least a B-minus average may renew the award with $2,000 scholarships during both their junior and senior years by submitting their strongest creative writing piece from the previous school year for review.

In all, the scholarship can provide recipients with up to $9,000 in tuition assistance while encouraging continued growth as writers throughout their high school careers.

The award honors Michael J. Kotzan, a beloved 2005 NDP graduate who touched countless classmates, teachers and friends during his time at the school. Following Michael's unexpected passing in 2021, his mother, Donna Kotzan, who retired after many years as a Notre Dame Prep teacher and administrator, partnered with the school to establish the scholarship as a lasting tribute to his life and love of writing.

More than just a writer

Although his award-winning essay demonstrates a gift for storytelling, Shorter admits English is not actually his favorite subject.

"Although I love English and enjoy reading and writing, math and science are actually my favorite subjects," he said. "I find the set-in-stone rules and discoveries of our world to be the most interesting to learn about."

Those interests have already shaped his long-term goals.

"Even though I'm just starting high school, my dream is to eventually work as an engineer at NASA," he said. "My dad and cousin are both engineers, and growing up around them completely sparked my love for the field. Because of that, I hope to major in mechanical or aerospace engineering in college."

His interests in engineering and science, coupled with his success in creative writing, reflect the kind of well-rounded academic curiosity Notre Dame Prep strives to cultivate across all disciplines.

Finding a community at NDP

Shorter arrived at Notre Dame Prep for sixth grade after attending Eagle Creek Academy and many of his classmates followed.

"I attended Eagle Creek for elementary school, which actually helped my decision in going to NDP middle school, since 17 of my 19 classmates went to NDP," he said.

Since enrolling, he said the school's welcoming atmosphere has made the transition an easy one.

"So far, my NDP experience has been awesome," Shorter said. "Since I came to the school, I've always felt like it's one big community, and everyone, both students and teachers, have been nothing but friendly and accepting."

Among his favorite aspects of the school are the relationships students develop with faculty members and the many opportunities available beyond the classroom.

"Some of the things I enjoy most are the connections you can build with your teachers, and the extracurricular opportunities that are open to students," he said.

As Shorter prepares for his sophomore year, his scholarship-winning essay serves as another example of the diverse talents found throughout NDP's student body. Whether pursuing engineering, science, literature or the arts, students are encouraged to explore their interests, challenge themselves academically and develop the confidence to share their talents with others.

Shorter's winning essay follows below.

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David Shorter

Mrs. Archer
Creative Writing Scholarship 12 June 2026

The Call of Olympia

The dry, pale soil of the hillside gave way beneath Lykos’ toes, but he didn’t slip. Above him, the afternoon sun beat down on the uneven slopes, painting the twisted trunks of olive trees in sharp shadows. Lykos took a sharp breath, the scent of dust and wild thyme filling his lungs. Below him, the stone houses of his village clustered together under clay-tiled roofs, while the far-off sea shimmered like a faint thread of blue. Right now, his world was narrowed to the frantic bleat of a runaway goat ten paces ahead.

The animal darted between rocks, quick and stubborn. Lykos groaned, pushing harder, and leapt over a low boulder. With one final surge, he lunged and tackled the goat, bringing both of them down in a cloud of summer dust.

“Got you!” Lykos pinned the animal’s shoulders, letting out a breathless laugh.

“Lykos!”

His eight-year-old brother, Kleon, scrambled down the slope, his oversized tunic fluttering. “Theres a man in the square,” Kleon gasped, clutching his chest. “He’s an official from the sacred sanctuary of Olympia. He’s choosing runners for the Olympic Games!”

Lykos sat up straighter. The Olympic Games were held every four years in honour of Zeus, where the greatest athletes in Greece competed for immortal glory, crowned with sacred olive leaves. He tied the goat to a nearby bush and sprinted toward the village with his heart pounding.

The village square was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with farmers, potters, and shepherds. At the center stood the Olympic herald, whose pristine white robes remained untouched by dust.

“I come on behalf of the Hellanodikai, the judges ofOlympia,” the official announced over the murmurs. “The sacred truce has been declared. We are holding a qualifying race on this very ground. The fastest runner will represent this entire valley in the stadion sprint at the Olympic Games.”

An older man shook his head scoffingly. “The games are for trained aristocrats from the great cities. Not boys who spend their days chasing goats.”

The words stung, but the fire in Lykos’ chest burned hotter. He lined up on a rough stretch of earth outside the village alongside boys he had known his whole life, including Nikias, the blacksmith’s strong, muscular son. This was different “than their usual playful sprints; the entire village was watching.

The signal came. Lykos ran.

His stride opened quickly, strong and fast. For a moment, he was flying, ahead of everyone. Then, his foot caught a hidden rut. He went down hard, the dirt rushing up to meet him as pain flashed through his arm and knee. A few people in the crowd laughed, shouting that he ran just like his wild goats. Nikias surged far ahead.

Stung by the embarrassment, Lykos pushed himself right back up and kept running. Each step burned, but he threw his entire body into the sprint. He crossed the finish line second, a mere breath behind Nikias.

The official stepped forward, studying him. “Second place,” he said, impressed. “Even after a fall. That was a strong run, boy, but only the winner journeys to Olypmia.”

Lykos stepped away, the sting of the fall sharp against his skin. He sat on a low stone wall, staring at the ground as blood slowly dried along his arm.

“That looks like it hurts,” a soft voice said.

Lykos looked up. A girl stood before him, balancing a heavy wicker basket of clay cups on her hip. Her dark eyes held a sympathetic crinkle.
 
“I had the race won,” Lykos muttered, trying to hide the wound.

“You were incredibly fast,” she said, setting her basket down carefully. “But the path out there is dangerous if you aren’t looking down.”

Kneeling in front of him, she pulled a damp cloth and a jar of cool water from her basket. Her touch was steady and patient as she wiped away the gray dust and dried blood. Once the scrape was clean, she pressed a cool dock leaf over it to soothe the burn and tied it securely with a strip of hemp wire.

“There,” she said, looking up. “I’m Phoebe. My father potters the clay here.”

“Lykos,” he replied, the tension leaving his shoulders.

Phoebe lifted her basket and offered a warm smile. “Do not give up, Lykos. You really were faster than all of them before you fell.”

When Lykos returned to the square, he found an older man leaning heavily against a stone pillar, watching Nikias celebrate. The old man's right leg was warped and scarred from an old injury, forcing him to shift his weight constantly.

“You're staring at the winner,” the old man said, his voice dry. “Your posture… it's an insult to the gods. You waste half your energy swaying your shoulders. Yet your legs… the hills gave you
 
iron.” He tapped Lykos’ calf with his walking stick. “I am Demeas. I ran in the games forty years ago. Nikias won today, but his lungs are weak. The official stays in our village For one month to oversee training before the Trek to Olympia. If you want to challenge the result, show up at the olive grove tomorrow before the crows wake .”

The silver leafed branches became his sanctuary and his torture. Under Demeas’ watchful, unyielding eye, Lykos learned to reshape the way he moved. The old man taught him that a sprint was more than just an explosion of wild panic, but also a calculated symphony of muscle and breath. Lykos practiced driving his knees high, his thighs cutting through the crisp morning air. He learned to suppress the instinctual sway of his shoulders, channeling every ounce of his momentum forward in a single line.

His feet became calloused, mapped with the textures of the valley. When the midday heat turned the air into a suffocating blanket, he ran until the metallic taste of exhaustion filled his throat. “The hills gave you the raw iron,” Demeas would shout, his walking stick striking the earth in a rhythmic beat that matched Lykos’ pounding heartbeat. “Now we forge the edge.”

“Again,” Demeas would command, and Lykos ran uphill until his legs trembled. “Again.”

Demeas taught him how to place his feet with intention, how to press his toes into the dirt, and how to hold his pace. “You do not win a sprint at the start,” Demeas told him. “You win when the others begin to fail.”
 
One afternoon, sore and tired, Lykos wandered past the local pottery stalls. He stopped when he spotted Phoebe arranging clay cups.

“You’re still practicing,” she said with a warm smile. She reached down, picked up a small shard of broken pottery, and held it out to him. A runner had been sketched onto it in quick, simple lines that mirrored his own wild style. “Maybe I’ll sell it one day when you’re famous.”

Lykos let out a quiet breath of laughter, the heavy exhaustion lifting from his shoulders.

That evening, Lykos and Demeas returned to the training path. They stopped. Sharp stones and jagged fragments of pottery had been deliberately scattered across the lane where Lykos usually practiced his sprints.

“These were placed here intentionally,” Demeas said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Nikias's father is a powerful man in this valley, Lykos. He has placed massive wagers on his son representing us at Olympia. They do not welcome uncertainty. To them, you are uncertainty.”

Instead of resting, Lykos made his way to the market to find Phoebe.

“The final trial is tomorrow,” he breathed out.
 
Her face lit up. She reached down to her wrist, untying a simple braided bracelet made of dark thread, and carefully tied it around Lykos’s wrist. “For luck,” she whispered. “Now, when the entire village watches, at least one person will be watching only you.”

The sun had dipped below the ridge by the time Lykos turned back toward the hills. Twilight was bleeding into deep shadows when he was abruptly intercepted on the lonely path near his home by Nikias’s father and a few burly smiths.

“You have done well to train, boy,” the blacksmith said, tossing a heavy pouch of silver coin at Lykos's feet. “But the gods have already chosen Nikias. It would be… unfortunate if you challenged him tomorrow. Withdraw from the trial.”

Lykos felt his knuckles turn white, leaving the silver on the ground.

“For your own safety,” the man added with a cold smile. “And for your family’s. We know exactly how isolated your mother's house is up on the ridge. We know little Kleon plays there alone.”

The threat lingered heavily in the air. Shaken and trembling with fear for his family, Lykos found Demeas and confessed the threat.
 
Demeas’s eyes turned to flint. "If you lose or withdraw, you are nothing to them, and they can discard you or your family on a whim. But if you win tomorrow in front of the Olympic herald, you become the pride of the polis. The blacksmith cannot touch you without facing a public riot. Your only true safety is victory."

That night, sleep abandoned Lykos entirely. He sat on the threshold of his mother’s stone cottage, watching the moon cast long, ghostly shadows across the slopes. Every rustle of the dry grass made his pulse spike; every distant bark of a guard dog sounded like an approaching ambush. He looked at Kleon, curled up asleep on a woven mat inside, completely oblivious to the shadow hanging over them.

The silver coins the blacksmith had thrown down seemed to gleam in his memory, a tempting escape from the danger. If he ran slowly, his family remained safe, but his soul would be crushed beneath the weight of cowardice. If he ran with everything he had, he was gambling with their lives on a single stretch of dirt. The weight of the choice pressed down on his chest like a leaden breastplate, suffocating him until he reached out and touched the coarse twine of Phoebe's bracelet. It was a fragile reminder that he wasn't just running for himself anymore; he was running to alter the destiny of everyone he loved.

The final morning arrived. The village track was packed to the brim with roaring spectators from all across the valley.
 
Lykos stepped onto the hard-packed dirt. Nikias was greeted with a deafening wave of cheers from the local factions. Lykos ignored the noise, searching the crowd until he found Phoebe. She caught his eye and gave him a wide, encouraging smile.

The two finalists took their places, their bare toes braced into parallel starting grooves cut into the earth. Every muscle in Lykos’s body was taut.

Nikias leaned closer from the next lane, his voice a low hiss. “You should have taken the silver, shepherd. You're risking everything for one moment in the dust.”

Lykos did not respond. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead.

The herald's horn blew, cutting through the roar of the crowd.

The world instantly dissolved into a blur of rushing wind and churning dust. The roar of the village spectators vanished, replaced by the internal metronome of his own gasping breath and the rhythmic, thunderous slap of bare soles against the earth. To his right, Nikias was a force of nature, a mountain of muscle moving with brutal, terrifying efficiency. The hot spray of dirt kicked up from his rival’s heels stung his skin like a tiny spark of fire.

His lungs burned, begging for air, and the muscles in his thighs screamed as a heavy, leaden burning settled into his bones. But the training held. Instead of panicking as Nikias pulled ahead, Lykos anchored himself in the dirt, keeping his posture perfectly aligned, just as Demeas had demanded. He became the wind moving through the olive groves—fluid, unyielding, and waiting for the exact moment the storm would break.

Nikias surged ahead instantly, using his raw power. Lykos kept his pace controlled, resisting the urge to sprint all-out, biding his time as they hit the midway point of the straightaway.

Knowing Nikias might lean in to crowd him if he tried to pass too early, Lykos took a dangerous gamble. He intentionally eased his stride by half a beat, letting Nikias pull ahead by a clear shoulder. Seeing Lykos "falter," Nikias glanced back, a smug smile of victory flashing across his face. Believing the peasant boy had finally yielded to his father's warning, Nikias relaxed his posture to conserve his energy for a graceful finish.

That arrogance was the opening Lykos needed.

With thirty paces left, Lykos dug his toes into the dirt, matching Nikias stride-for-stride in his own lane, and unleashed the explosive uphill sprint he had practiced on the mountain cliffs.

By the time Nikias realized the shadow overlapping his own wasn't a trick of the sun, it was too late. Lykos blew past him like a gust of mountain wind, leaving the blacksmith's son no time to extend an elbow or block his path.
 
Lykos crossed the finish line a full stride ahead, leaving the valley in a stunned, breathless silence before a massive portion of the crowd erupted into cheers. He had used his rival's own arrogance to blind him.

As he tore past the marker, the sheer momentum carried him far into the fields beyond the track before he could finally slow his agonizing pace. Lykos collapsed to his knees, his hands buried deep into the pale, dry soil that had raised him. Sweat dripped from his chin, carving clean channels through the mask of gray dust that covered his face. For a long, suspended second, the valley held its collective breath.

Then, the silence shattered. The shepherds, the weavers, and the farmers poured over the boundaries, a tidal wave of coarse tunics and cheering voices. They lifted him onto their shoulders, transforming the snubbed goat-chaser into the pride of the valley. Across the clearing, the blacksmith stood frozen, his face darkened with defeat, completely powerless against the sudden, ferocious wave of public adoration that now shielded the new champion.

The herald maintained a solemn, formal expression as he placed a local olive wreath upon Lykos’s head, officially naming him the representative for the upcoming Olympic Games.

Away from the suffocating crowds, Demeas met Lykos near the quiet edge of the grove. The old man’s eyes were bright with pride.

“You ran well, Lykos,” he said softly, using his name instead of “boy” for the first time.

When Lykos finally returned to his house to pack for the long trek to Olympia, the hillside remained beautifully unchanged. The olive trees still bent gracefully in the wind. Kleon ran up to meet him, taking his wreath and placing it completely crooked on his own head, loudly declaring that he would help herd the goats while his big brother became a champion of Greece.

Lykos walked past the local market stall and saw Phoebe working alongside her father, surrounded by a crowd of villagers buying pottery painted with quick, beautiful scenes of the landscape.

He came up to her, spotting a particularly popular ceramic piece, showing a boy chasing after a goat.

“Another goat got out!” his mother’s voice called sharply from their stone house, her face bright with relief and pride. “You'd better catch it before it eats the neighbors' trees!”

Phoebe laughed softly, leaning in to give him a quick, gentle kiss on the cheek. “You’d better go, Olympic runner.”

Lykos grinned, dug his toes into the familiar, dry earth, and took off. The hillside welcomed him again, the wind moving through the silver leaves, the stones steady beneath his feet. Only now, his name carried far beyond them, all the way to the sacred proving grounds of Olympia.

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Shorter's comments on his passion for creative writing. . .

"My love for creative writing started back when I was a kid, when I would always get completely lost in books. I remember falling headfirst into the Percy Jackson series, and I was just obsessed with how real the characters and the ancient myths felt. Eventually, I realized how cool it would be to actually build those kinds of worlds myself instead of just reading about them. That childhood obsession is the main reason why I chose the Ancient Greek Olympic Games as my historical event. I wanted to put my own spin on the grit, honor, and crazy stakes of that time period. The best part about writing is that there are no limits. You aren’t boxed in by any reality, so you can create whatever you want. It’s an awesome feeling to put your own unique voice out there and know that the perspective belongs 100% to you."

For information on admission to Notre Dame Prep, please click here.

Comments or questions? mkelly@ndpma.org

About Notre Dame Preparatory School
"At Notre Dame Prep, we inspire our students to become the best versions of themselves. We challenge them through an experience of academic excellence, focused on active, project-based learning. We invite them to explore a world of opportunities beyond the classroom. We guide them as they grow in spirituality within a community strong in its Catholic and Marist identity."

Notre Dame Preparatory School is a private, Catholic, independent, coeducational day school located in Oakland County. Notre Dame Preparatory School's upper school enrolls students in grades nine through twelve and has been named one of the nation's best 50 Catholic high schools (Acton Institute) four times since 2005. Notre Dame Prep's middle and lower schools enroll students in pre-kindergarten through grade eight. All three schools are International Baccalaureate "World Schools." NDP is conducted by the Marist Fathers and Brothers and is accredited by the Independent Schools Association of the Central States and the National Association of Independent Schools. For more on Notre Dame Preparatory School, visit the school’s home page at www.ndpma.org.