AMBROSIA EDITORIAL TEAM
MANAGING
EDITOR
Shifra Hetherington
SUBMISSION AND COPY EDITORS
Alexsana Butt
Emily Eisses
Lucy Graham
Luke Goossen
Madeleine Goossen
Sarah Shentaler
FACULTY ADVISORS
Dr. Darren Dyck
Dr. Jonathan Goossen
Ambrose University WEB AND PRODUCTION
DESIGN AND LAYOUT
Judah Isaacs Bhutia
Jared Weiss
Ambrosia Literary Review Volume 3, Issue 1: Fall 2023
Published by Ambrose University 150 Ambrose Circle SW Calgary, AB T3H 0L5
Website: ambrose.edu/ambrosia-literary-review E-mail: literaryreview@ambrose.edu
Cover Art: Jared Weiss
Alexsana
EDITOR’S NOTE
Shifra Hetherington
We envisage often; one could say we do it every day. We form ideas, opinions, and beliefs before we have even gathered evidence to prove they are truthful or beneficial. We hope for ‘such and such’ to occur and imagine the future before it arrives, picturing events, situations, and encounters without knowing how they will go. We create visions of reality in our minds that do not exist and may never come to pass. If they do, we fancy ourselves prophets: the modern-day seer who manifests things into being. If they do not, we shake our heads, disappointed at the other who has let us down. This ‘other’ may be the world itself, another person, or a version of ourselves that we disembody to lessen the pain of having dashed our own expectations. However, regardless of a positive or negative outcome, we continually thrust ourselves, or are thrust by something outside of ourselves, toward fulfilling certain expectations.
When we meet ‘the one’ (an expectation in and of itself), we expect the pyrotechnics of love to suddenly appear, enlightening the arms in which we will knowingly fall and thus become ever blind to the banality of the world. We expect that eating healthily and exercising regularly will prolong our life. We expect that what doesn’t kill makes us stronger, or hotter, depending on whether you’re referencing Nietszche
or Lu Kala. Yet, we cannot guarantee any of these things. It is true that expectations are inevitable, but our choices do not follow a formula wherein X + Y = Z. Thus, we may never achieve the ‘Z’ that we expect to get.
As you begin to read, you may expect the creative written work that you encounter to look a certain way. However, your own expectations will most likely be subverted. What artist makes the same art when given the same prompt? Consequently, consider the following pages as abstract paintings in a gallery: you, the peruser, have to decipher how the artist’s work interprets the theme. Enjoy the game.
“We, this forward-looking, over-thinking conglomerate collective called humanity, are unreliable narrators writing our futures like we’re God, posing as omniscient whilst we dance round the masquerade ball. These games we play with time are expectations.”
Shifra Hetherington
A COMMON EXPECTATION
Shana Hekman
On his first day of manhood, Prince Lucien was read the fortunes of his future bride and learned she was to be a commoner.
“Which commoner?” he asked.
“We do not know, your highness,” the soothsayers replied. “Perhaps we could decree that all commoners with eligible daughters bring them to the castle to be presented to you?”
“Or I could go search for them myself,” said the prince, and set off on his journey that afternoon. He took with him his Royal Advisor, and Connie, his favourite guard, and the only one to make him laugh both on and off duty.
First, they travelled to the seaside, to find the fisherman who lived along the coast.
“My daughter would make a perfect bride for your highness,” the poor fisherman said, bobbing up and down in a bow. “She has selkie blood from her mother’s side. And on mine,” he added with a wink.
The girl stood silently behind her father, her gaze fixed on her patched and wrinkled skirt where her fists clenched in the worn fabric.
“Selkie blood?” The advisor scoffed. “This is the coast. Every family on this shore has selkie blood somewhere in their history.”
“Ah, but our family has it closer than most! My great-grandmother on my aunt’s side was a selkie—I swear it on her seal pelt!” He pointed to a thin grey rag draped over the doorway.
The prince exchanged an uncomfortable look with his guard. “Fascinating. Well, I thank you for your hospitality, but“
The door slammed open behind them, the prince, the advisor, and his guard all spinning to look at who was barging in. It was a tall young man, dripping wet. He had dark hair so long that the prince would have thought he was a woman, were it not for the fact that he was nearly naked, with only a dark grey pelt wrapped about his waist.
“Nual!” the girl cried when she saw the man.
“You can’t marry the prince, Beth!” the man cried. “I love you, and I want to marry you!”
“I’ve only ever wanted to marry you, Nual!” the girl cried, leaping past the prince to fling herself into his arms.
The prince and his guard exchanged significant looks, and only just managed not to burst into laughter.
“Let us know when you have some fresher selkie blood in your family,” the prince told the fisherman. “Perhaps our children might marry someday.”
Next they travelled into the forest, where magical creatures were said to roam, and met a poor woodcutter.
“You would love my daughter, Prince Lucien,” the woodcutter said, smiling a gap toothed grin. “She is very soft and industrious.”
The prince thought this was a strange set of adjectives but agreed to follow the woodcutter to his home.
“Here is my beautiful daughter,” the woodcutter announced, holding up a scraggly calico cat.
The prince stared, nonplussed. “That’s a cat,” he said. He could hear his guard giggling softly behind him.
“Ah, my poor daughter is under a dreadful enchantment,” the woodcutter said sorrowfully. “She shall only be restored to humanity on her wedding day.”
The cat, tired of being held, hissed and swatted at the old man’s wrist, diving down under the table.
The woodcutter chuckled nervously. “So, when shall we hold the wedding?”
The prince very carefully did not meet his guard’s eyes, for fear of bursting out in laughter. “No, thank you,” he said.
After meeting and rejecting another three ‘enchanted’ creatures, a farmer’s adopted mouse, and a young lady cursed never to set foot out of her tower, Prince Lucien returned to the castle with his entourage empty-handed and dejected.
They were met with a row of guards and swords, and the prince looked around with bewilderment. “What’s this all about?” he asked.
“Connie is under arrest,” the captain of the guard replied. “We discovered that he faked his papers when enlisting! Or should I say, she faked her papers!”
Shocked, the prince turned to look at his guard, and found Connie taking off his helmet, revealing a smooth and feminine face.
“Yes, I am a girl,” Connie said. “But the guard wouldn’t let me join if I was just some poor merchant’s daughter! I’ve always been good with a sword, and all I ever wanted to do was protect this realm. Please, you must believe me!” She spread her arms beseechingly, a pleading expression on her face.
“But you’re under arrest - “ the captain repeated. The prince cut him off with an upraised hand, and moved to take Connie’s hands in his own.
“What’s your real name then?” he asked her,
“Cecille,” she answered slowly.
“You’re the only guard who’s ever made me laugh, Cecille,” the prince said solemnly. “Did you know that the royal consort is traditionally appointed as lead general of the guards?”
“I did,” Cecille answered, a slow grin spreading over her face.
The royal advisor sputtered in shock. “A female general? Never“
“Traditionally,” the prince interrupted louder, “the customs do not specify the gender of the royal consort required to be General.” He squeezed Cecille’s hands and added in a lower voice, “it has been quite a few generations since there was a queen-consort, however.”
The advisor sputtered himself into silence, and the guards looked around nervously.
“So, are we arresting her?” one of them whispered in a loud voice to the captain.
“No,” the prince commanded. “You are going to go and tell my father and mother that I have found my bride. A merchant’s daughter.” He squeezed Cecille’s hands once more, and then let go.
“And your new royal General,” Cecille added gleefully. “Go on now. March!”
The End to this nonsense
AWAIT, AWAKEN
John Matthew Cabalsa
A calling awaits— A calling from the highest Is awaiting me.
What is this calling? Who is it who calls me now? Why is He calling?
“Awaken,” says He, That is, He who calls me now: “Up from thy slumber;”
“I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name; thou art ever mine.”
“Thy calling is this: To be the light for all those Who dwell in despair.”
Why must I be thus: A light for all people who Dwell in deep despair?
Are not all dismayed, Distraught, and discomfited By despair’s dark shadow?
Know, I do, that this Calling is bequeathed to all Who profess the Lord.
Expect I any Other than this great calling? No, and may it never be so.
Now, then, it is time to awaken to God’s calling And thus
DECEITFUL DRAUGHT APH
At some point, in the buried portion of my mind, After one and one and half a time, A little whisper came to tease me With a sudden reprise Of old longings.
It teased so knowingly(But I fought!)
It sent shivers, quick rivers Of aimless thought Down my spine.
‘Twas endless pineing, fighting, sighing, chidingDesiring bottled draught.
It mocked,‘Drink me And my lot.’
(What's the point? Perhaps a hope. Here, the long awaited time - )
‘There!’
A weak spot In my mind.
It taunted, ‘Test your luck.’
Defeated, I took the cup.
EXPECTATIVA
She haunted the parts of my heart that hardly are recalled.
Haunting, bubbling, snickering to those wispy, buried hopes.
Urging, prompting, BEGGING them to run, explode, reveal Themselves to the surface.
REVEAL Themselves to another.
And on the surface, those outside waters, She Hides in plain sight. Waiting for me to not ignore
Her haunting, taunting standards… Standards I had once set. And in the end, She wins in vainthose wispy hopes are shot.
The haunts of brutal Expectativa are silenced once again.
HOLDING TENSION
Alexsana Butt
Until I was nine, my family lived in a house just beside the church that my Dad preached at every Sunday. The church and its attached garden acted as my front yard, and a small graveyard, scattered with wobbly and disorganized tombstones, acted as my backyard. I loved the graveyard. It was surrounded by a line of poplars that would bend and sway dramatically in the summer winds, a canopy of leaves fluttering overtop. I remember the way the dandelions and clover fought their way inward, spreading like wildfire through the graves. I loved the fake flowers that clustered around old gravesites and the fresh and fragrant bouquets that lined the newer ones. I liked sitting by the bigger tombstones on the far-left side. In the summer, they were warm to lean against, sheltering me from the wind gusts that would rush through the trees. Some of the tombstones were lined and studded with different coloured plastic gems. Despite several lectures to stop, I would pick at them, adding new colours and shapes to my hidden collection. I liked to sit by those tombstones, watching the small white butterflies flitter and flap from one dandelion to the other. The graveyard was busy and teeming with life, and it was my home.
I don’t know whether my understanding of death was very profound or grounded in reality, but I do know that I wasn’t afraid of it. Death felt normal, even mundane. A funeral would be held in my backyard graveyard nearly every month, and I would show up, sneaking through the perimeter of poplars, attempting to listen to the liturgy. A small group of darkly clothed grievers huddled around the opening in the earth. I saw the sad faces and the slumped shoulders. I saw the
weight that they seemed to carry as they all watched the casket fall beneath the earth. Seeing their grief moved me, but it didn’t make me afraid. In those moments of clarity, remembering what my backyard was really for, I also remembered the life and beauty that I simultaneously felt there. I remembered the small white butterflies and the creeping dandelions. I learned to hold two feelings in tension: the reality of death and the persistence of life.
On the other side of the house, adjacent to the church, was our family’s garden. I don’t know how big it actually was, but to me it felt huge. To me, it was the biggest garden that ever existed. My favourite time of the year was the spring because that’s when we planted the garden. I would shuffle down each row of the garden with my oversized rain boots, repeatedly inserting one finger into the soil while my older sister followed behind, carefully dropping seeds. We grew everything in that garden: carrots, potatoes, green beans, squash, cucumbers, and red, yellow, and orange raspberries. The raspberries were my favourite. I used to hide in those bushes for hours, only leaving when my fingers were sticky and sufficiently stained red.
I don’t know if I ever fully realized why we grew such a big garden or why we all stressed over the quantity of the harvest every year. But I do remember how hard my family worked to ensure that the garden was healthy. I saw the weight that my mom carried, working tirelessly to feed our big family and ensure that we were healthy. I saw the stress and the fear and the late nights spent canning and freezing every last bit of that garden. In those moments, seeing my family struggle and feeling their pain, I don’t think I was afraid. I remembered each day spent in the garden, surrounded by my family, surrounded by life. I remembered the sweetness of the berries, and the soft hum of the honey bees. In the garden, I experienced abundance. I learned to hold these two feelings in tension: the reality of scarcity and the truth of abundant life.
I MET THE OLD ME ON THE ROAD TO BROOKS
Glendon Frank
I met the old me on the road to Brooks. He couldn’t see me as I passed him by, But I saw clear and tried to catch his eye, Haunted by the distant way he looked.
I called him afterward to say “Hello.” And for a moment, heard him say back, “Hi! …I’m not available at quite this time, But if you leave a message at the tone…”
I listen but can never interrupt. His words go on, unhearing, and unchanged; He stumbles o’er the phrase I’d rearrange, The patterns in him that I would disrupt.
It dawns on me that I am not this kid. The man of four-years past is now a child, With contradictions still unreconciled; Beliefs, now writ in stone, can’t be unsaid.
This recording’s a testament of time, But that child won’t know just what I say; That letter’s sent to Me of another day. After the beep, I give a long reply.
This is the only way I can reach out. I leave him messages he cannot hear To be discovered by a future self Who looks, in curiosity, for me.
I can only know in retrospect, And only speak into a not-yet past. I can’t advise the wand’ring boy of then, Can’t give him comfort in his fading hours; Nor can I know with certainty of soul, What man will hear, or how he’ll disagree, Or what he’ll wish that he had done today. I only hear myself in time reversedList’ning closely to these words rehearsed, Recalling old beliefs with shocked dismay, And try to sift through all of the debris
Left by a lost young man with unsure goals Who built up distant dreams outside his power
Only to learn, fail, and start again, Hoping, this time I will break the cast, Heal the wound, and finally disinfect The curse that keeps that past from seeing me. And yet I still become that future self
My present slips into a long-past year
And passing him, by Brooks, I try to shout—
My message is recorded for the tone, Rendered not as speech, but as a poem
My future finds etched in iambic stone.
I say “tag” and think of how I’ve grown In this temporal game of telephone And keep on walking – lonely, not alone.
Glendon Frank
IN THE TUMTUM TREE
Karlie Korthuis
In this tree, there are two hands I cling to, Two hands in the hands of that ridiculous rabbit.
He bursts through the hedge at any given moment, Leaving whim and wabe in his wake, And, of course: Me, Barely holding on to the bough.
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready, but this time I will be.
And so I wait, expectantly, Arms to the arm, flesh and flora, Eyes to the painted leaves.
Painted leaves, Pigmented decay, And then the frost that whispers: “Rest now, Child of the Air.”
Perhaps for a moment. The candle is burning lower now— —the rustle! Could it be?
And I’ve missed him, Again.
He will be back. I hope he will be back. Late to some previous engagement I suppose.
Karlie Korthuis
The flame grows smaller still, But I crawl to my feet and lift it higher, A brass casket in my foliaged cathedral, Golden viridian.
To stand here on the edge, Waiting, listening, Toes on the precipice, To stand here, waiting to feel it prompt me forward: The desire to jump, the twin of the rabbit.
The rustle.
Or perhaps they are not so alike. Perhaps it is not the desire to jump, Autonomous lantern-wielder,
Perhaps it is the desire to fall.
Karlie
Sarah Ritter
PANDORA
Karlie Korthuis
The girl, Crafted from sky and clay, Veins of seafoam and bones of earth,
How could you be anything but Divine in miniature?
Mad Pandora, Frantic Pandora, Replicate expectancy, Limbs painted with dust, You must have known something, To turn naivety to cunning, Maleficence to kindness.
To the girl, Crafted from sky and clay, Veins of seafoam and bones of earth,
Sister long-exiled from my heart, I forgive you.
SOURCES SAFARI
E.E.E.
I am going on an adventure To find a primate. Wait—no. A primary source.
“Are you there?” I look around a store: Jstor.
I search the world wide. I search and search The world wide Web.
It appears that the sort of source I am looking for Has gone extinct.
I will try the library. Is the primate lurking in the stalks? The main stacks I mean.
Maybe what I am looking for is not here. I will check Amazon.
I forgot. I am too poor To visit the Amazon. I will check a dark cave.
No luck with the database. Can it be that the primate I am seeking Is a mythical creature?
Aha! I see you hiding there. In the archives where you thought No one would find you.
Now I can add you to My Works Sighted.
STAIN ON THE WALL
Julia MacArthur
There’s a stain on the wall in the Foods room at the high school. A strawberry hurled in frustration, Or a cherry, The centre clear with an outward spiralling splatter. Listless, dripping star.
Faultless fruit! Was it rotten?
Polluted?
I could clean it off, This witness of imperfection. A white wall shows every flaw.
THE CHECKLIST
Shifra Hetherington
Swear you’ll always be there for me.
Break your promise.
Clarify what you meant by ‘there.’
Ensure you pass peacefully in the comfort of a pillow’s softness. Watch you die with a smile on my face.
Freudian slip.
Watch you die with a smile on your face.
Check your bag.
I packed you a coat
For when it gets cold Down there in that circle.
THE PURSUED RABBIT
Erin Clarke
As the grinning wolf chases the rabbit into the briar patch, his steamy breath calls after the gasping rabbit: “You should be thanking me. Think of how much more precious your days basking in the sun will feel now. Think of how much more alive you are because now you know your days are numbered.”
As the doctor reads the prognosis and a family will never be the same, illness unfeelingly speaks over the sobs: “You should be thanking me. Think of how much more precious your days basking in the sun will feel now. Think of how much more alive you are because now you know your days are numbered.”
As the city burns and the people are torn into exile, Babylon calls out over the wails: “You should be thanking me. Think of how much more precious your days basking in the sun will feel now. Think of how much more alive you are because now you know your days are numbered.”
A shadow looms over your shoulder as you read and death whispers silently: “You should be thanking me. Think of how much more precious your days basking in the sun will feel now. Think of how much more alive you are because now you know your days are numbered.”
Dear one, death is a liar. I am sorry for the horrors of your generation. Turn and say to the shadow that cringes away from light: “I will not thank you. When I was a child, innocent and without scarcity, my days in the sun were infinitely precious. I was perfectly alive and never had to watch over my shoulder. Yes, I know more now. But every glorious moment I have experienced is in spite of you. Do not pretend to be the grand author of the storylines you unravel.”
WAIT
Ryan Levi
I sit and wait.
Unsure of what’s to come.
Unhurried in a storm of hurry…
At odds with all that is around me As it screams
More, more, more…
Yet… A gentle whisper, Drowning out all other voices:
Be still and know.
I sit and wait.
More sure than I have ever been, Resting in the still small voice calling me home.
Alexsana Butt
I wanted to play around with the concept of God being present in the natural and local world. What kind of cultural shift would happen if we began to see God like the patriarchs did in the Torah, if we began to see God in native Canadian grasses, in a common Albertan bird species, in plants and animals unnoticed and neglected by us? I wonder if God would begin to feel closer to us if we saw him in the ordinary? Perhaps, simultaneously, he would begin to feel more extraordinary, as we start seeing a touch of the divine in the countless details of the created world, actively re-enchanting it.
The Plains Garter Snake is known for its creative and “shrewd” survival techniques. Though this subspecies of garter snake is venomous, it very rarely uses its venom. Instead, it prefers to writhe around, twisting and thrashing to escape its predator. Like God, this snake is known for being “slow to anger” (Exod. 34:6).
God brings about the possibility of a “third way.” In God’s kingdom, neither violence, nor passivity are condoned. Rather, the wisdom or “shrewdness” of God allows for a third way to respond to conflict.
I had started to take some pictures of unassuming things, small things that the untrained eye would discard as not important or ugly, but a careful, noticing eye would see beauty in them.
Ardita Fishta
Ardita Fishta
Every tradition needs a beginning. In April 2022, at the Humanities Year-End Barbecue, at the Goossen homestead, a summer sonnetwriting competition was proposed—nothing grandiose, nothing to deter would-be poets from trying their hands. The theme was simple, concrete, unassuming: ants. (Is it possible the homestead was infested? Surely not.)
If “sonnet” is an inexplicable concept to you, the term designates a 14line poem written in iambic pentameter (it goes duh DUH, duh DUH, duh DUH, duh DUH, duh DUH 14 times). Does that sound, just a little, like ants … marching? Who can say.
Sonnets are extraordinarily hard to write well, which is no doubt one reason why the form continues to entice poets 700 years after its conception. A sonnet writer must consider not simply syllables per line and rhythm, but rhyme, structure, governing metaphors, symbolic language, imagery, and more, all while staying on topic, on theme. Ants, remember. Beyond all that, beyond checking off the requisite boxes, beyond following all the sonnet rules, the poem just needs to work; it needs to produce an emotional effect—in the poet, at the very least, but in the reader, too.
To write a sonnet is to take language and bind it, harness it—its power; it is to bring order to chaos—an idea, surely, an ant would appreciate (if it could appreciate). There is beauty in bringing order to chaos; there is even beauty in trying to. Below are some valiant attempts.
- Dr. Darren Dyck
“ANT WISDOM”
Alexsana Butt
It seems like men hold tight to their power
To work alone, bearing their souls to none.
“Dominants is key” they say, but shower
In grief, not even depend-ant on one.
They tower over those in tunnelled hill.
With pity, though, we ants look down on them.
The lives of men are desolate and dull,
But ants flourish like flowers to a stem,
Like stem to the soil, and soil to the rain,
Reliant on each other. Reli-ant
On strength, not assumed in the small. In vain
The big toil, and in arrogance they plant.
Undone by their pride, lonely men suffer.
Success, instead, is reaped by the lover.
“GO TO THE ANT” Luke
Goossen
Go to the ant, thou sluggard; if thou be wise,
And imitate his long and patient toil.
He suffers long, but reaps at last his prize
While you doze gormless still on untilled soil.
You pleasure-seekers, know that Aesop tells
Of Ant, who gathered in his store of grain
While Grasshopper, who danced when times were swell
Found himself cold and hungry in the rain.
And even tell the Greeks of how the ants
Came swift to Psyche's aid in time of need
Dividing out the seeds of many plants -
Through partnership opposing Venus' greed.
From ants one lesson more my sister'd preach:
To show queens reverence in my deeds and speech.
“IT ANT OVER TILL THE FOOT COME DOWN”
Shifra Hetherington
It never ends this marching on, yet they
Do say it shall a sacrifice suffice.
For whom? For what? And why? I starve to pay
With life of mine this debt of mine, a price
No longer worth the toil of my timed years.
Oh, just is it for me to be a cog
In a colony that daily stabs shears
Like sharp pincers across my back to flog
The expendable worker I am just?
No, no, and yet I continue to work
Against my will to live for more than dust
Lest nothing waits for me beyond this murk.
Thus still the scent of Death does linger near
As sun pales on fleshy white and I fear—
“PHANTOM ANTS”
Darren Dyck
“This sonnet was written in light of the notion that Homer, in at least a few of his epic similes (which compare warriors to various natural phenomena), wrote about ants.Turnsout,hedidnot.Bees,waves,wind,cattle,deer,butsadly,noants.”
For all its labours, and the antebellum
Pride of Achilles, Homer’s antique poem
Out-anthems men, sings rage the sum Of glory, and scales minor tyrants down.
Bowed down in blood (theirs, their antagonists’), They raise, re-shuffle old antipathies, And, kids and wives their antes, persist
In play like radiant gods transfixed by burning flies.
And the gods, meaner, while the time, antrums butterflied, Spectating, anticipating stratagems,
As Americans at antic games, deep fried Mars bars dripping down their pliant limbs.
Meanwhile, ants, mounting figures from an unseen world, Sound Homer’s tenor, untouched by their similitude.
“QUEEN ANNE THE ANT”
Silvia Todea
Queen Anne Therese sat sad, serene, and bored, Impatient for her lover’s wingéd touch; She waited hungrily upon her lord,
Although she knew he wouldn’t give her much.
Alas, that flying sperm was not her love,
A simple chore, a bore, and nothing more; She watched the female ants from up above, And felt her thorax shaken to its core.
While drones would perish after one sad tryst, Endurance was the female worker’s life; It was this passion Anne could not resist— This was the cause of her internal strife.
The dance of ants below gave her a thrill; Her caller came, now it was time to kill.
“THE MYRMIDONS”
Shonda Tilitzky
It all began with one man’s loneliness; On plague-ridden Aegina, he did pray.
The son of Zeus, a man called Aeacus
Requested friends like him – like sons of clay.
The strong and noble movers of terra,
The ants who work with single-minded will, Unseen, thus spared by raging Hera, Were seen by Zeus and transformed by his skill.
They rose in loyalty to Aeacus, With armour black and bodies durable.
An army duty-bound in faithfulness
To serve their kings in wars most terrible.
With Brilliant Achilles, star of dawn, The Myrmidons shall fight ‘till Troy is gone.
“THIS ONE IN LINE” Shana Hekman
The signal comes, and this one lives to hear
The ants: they swarm as one with one shared mind.
This one will work as one with all its kind;
The hive survives when these all work for years.
For some, they shoulder great green leaves to bear,
The leaf-cutters with jaws so strong to grind.
The army ants, they march while others hide.
To each their own, all return to lair.
The work goes on, but now the earth is shaking.
This one goes on in step with all the rest.
Vibrate, a shake, a step all out aligning
The line falters, this one adrift and stressed.
Where the comrades? Where the whole? The line is breaking...
The foot descends and all is known is rest.
Dr. Stephanie Studzinski
Before the utopia and the happily ever after, an irresponsible act of imaginative license establishes silence in an empty corridor where there is only Homespun Arun.
Dr. Stephanie Studzinski
BIOs
Ryan Levi
Ryan Levi serves as an Associate Pastor while also pursuing his Masters of Divinity through Ambrose Seminary. He lives in Hinton, Alberta with his wife, four kids, three dogs, cat, and bunny.
Sarah Ritter
Sarah Ritter is a wildlife artist who experiments with watercolour, sketch, and digital artworks. You can find more of her works at https://sarahritter.ca/.
E.E.E.
Anonymous author is a third year student at Ambrose university. Besides writing papers, she likes to visit her family, go on walks, sing, and share food and conversation with friends.
APH
APH is a third year (should be fourth year – but that’s a story for another time) English Literature student who enjoys writing melodramatic poetry and spending time with her eccentric friends and family.
Karlie Korthius
Karlie Korthuis is a 4th-year English student with a passion for interpretive illustration, character design, the works of Dickinson, and composing and hoarding thousands of niche spotify playlists she will never listen to. You can witness her creative endeavours and whatever sort of media she is currently captivated by within her art Instagram account: @sleepydreamelf.
Glendon Frank
Glendon Frank graduated from Ambrose University in 2021 with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature. He continues to write to this day in his professional life, in his film blog Frankly Speaking, and in his growing other creative pursuits.
Julia MacArthur
Julia MacArthur lives in Okotoks. She enjoys studying God’s Word, gathering with loved ones, singing, and the outdoors.
John Matthew Cabalsa
John Matthew Cabalsa is a graduating double-degree student at Ambrose University in BSc Biology and BMus Piano, hoping to get into medical school. He enjoys practicing, composing, and writing memoirs in his free time. But, most importantly, he is a full-time Christian.
Shifra Hetherington
Shifra Hetherington is a girl who adores words, loves to read, and, if she could be an expert in anything, it would be grammar. The omniscient narrator says that’s all you need to know.
Ardita Fishta
Ardita Fishta is a local artist living in Surrey, BC. She likes to paint with acrylics and lose herself in the brushstrokes and combinations of colour. She also loves taking pictures of beautiful landscapes in all seasons, and she has developed an “eye” for photography.
Shana Hekman
Shana Hekman is an English major at Ambrose University. She loves writing while listening to music.
Erin Clarke
Erin is working towards a Bachelor of Theology with minors in English and Theatre. She is grateful for everyone who has supported her along the way and hopes you have a good day.
Alexsana Butt
Alexsana is in the last year of her Christian Studies degree (but is a wannabe English student now and then). She is a part-time artist and loves bird watching, movie watching, and book watching (reading?).
Dr. Stephanie Studzinski
Elucious is the artistic nom de guerre of Dr. Stephanie Studzinski who teaches in the English Department and whose work was featured in the Ambrose Gallery in Fall 2023.
