AMBROSIA Fall/Winter 2022
AMBROSIASTAFF
Managing Editor Shonda Tilitzky
Submissions and John Matthew Cabalsa
Copy Editors
FacultyAdvisors
Web and Production
Design and Layout
Shifra Hetherington
Sarah Shentaler
Dr. Rita Dirks
Dr. Darren Dyck
Dr. Jonathan Goossen
Ambrose University
Shonda Tilitzky
Madison Juricic (The Woman Behind the Curtain)
Ambrosia Literary Review
Volume 2, Issue 1: Fall/Winter 2022
Published byAmbrose University
150 Ambrose Circle SW
Calgary,AB T3H 0L5
Website: ambrose.edu/ambrosia-literary-review
E-mail: literaryreview@ambrose.edu
CoverArt: Sarah Ritter
Editor’s Note by
Shonda Tilitzky
The theme for this issue of Ambrosia is “change,” and I think most would agree that we have experienced a lot of change over these last few years. Often that change was unwelcome and uncomfortable, which made it all the more frightening. Fear of the unknown is perhaps one of the most basic and pervasive fears of human life, so it makes sense that we try our best to avoid it – or, at the very least, survive it. But sometimes facing the fear of change is unavoidable and, in fact, necessary. For though these last few years have indeed been frightening, I believe they have also been revealing.
Change can be abrupt. It grips us when we least expect it and whisks us away on a journey we are not ready for. Then, when the dust eventually settles, we begin to see things in a new light. The comforts we take for granted, the beliefs we hold, and the truths we overlook are exposed to many of us in this process, whether we like it or not. But this is not the end of all things, for it is often through change that we gain the opportunity to fix what is broken or make something new. If nothing changes – if no one speaks up – then the untreated wound will fester. It must be cleansed before it can heal.
Any story worth telling involves and requires change. In narrative terms, change is the inciting incident that pushes the plot and characters into motion. There is no journey to Mordor without the One Ring, there is no Hogwarts without the Hogwarts letter, and there is no Spiderman without the radioactive spider. Stories like these are beloved, not just for their fantastical worlds, but because they express the basic human truths of change and the response to change. But beyond that, they also give us the language and understanding to process the change in our own lives (even if that change feels far less magical).
As we journey through this season of Advent, we are reminded of a change that happened many years ago in a land far, far away. If you feel overly familiar with the Nativity story, it can be easy to miss its nuances. True, Mary did not destroy the One Ring, go to Hogwarts, or even become a superhero. She went through the simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary process of pregnancy and birth. Perhaps the most beautiful part about this story is that God did, too. The Nativity story is where the divine and human met in a way that radically changed the world as we knew it. Advent is the time in which we not only remember that change, but anticipate it again in our lives today.
The pieces in this issue of Ambrosia invite you to confront change in all its complexity. The invitation of possibility, the grief of what was lost, the regret of what was done, and the hope of what is yet to come – all these experiences exist within these pages for you to explore. But fear not, dear reader, for change is ever revealing and renewing.
“Caribou” by Sarah Ritter
On Eggshells and Snow
by Shonda Tilitzky
Unlike eggshells, Which scratch and shatter, Snow molds itself to shapes Making room
For the present possibility Of you
No matter what state you’re in. Both are white But only one is pure.
ALetter From an Alternate Future
by Cormeum
[Redacted]
Something feels off, I look around and sure I see humans, but I don’t really see people. Something’s disconnected, separated from reality because maybe we preferred our own. I don’t belong to anything anymore and I think it’s getting to me. I think all of it is getting to me. How do I find community when everyone is just as lost as I am? Maybe we’re together in our lostness but that makes us vulnerable, weak. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel how fragile we all are, I can see the cracks in society start to break us apart and what do we do? We make it comfortable to stay apart. I think we as humans are lacking a common purpose, something to hold us together. We’re a generation that knows exactly what is wrong but is lost to what is right, truly right, if there is such a thing.And no one knows what to do, we’re lacking the naive conviction that brought us to this point. Maybe humanity has exhausted itself finally. It seems we’re just going to lull ourselves to sleep with meaningless instant pleasures. This isn’t the kind of life I want to live and yet, it seems I have no choice. The fire is too far spread not to be engulfed by it. I am not strong enough to resist its glow. Like a stupid moth to the flame we’re heading straight to our demise and it's one of our own making.
I think I’m witnessing a death. The end of an era. The beginning of something sinister and new.And what is humanity to do? Whatever it is, it must be done together, or not at all.
[Redacted]
I Thought!
By Sonia Pal
I thought – I closed my pen
For no more writing poetry
Since your advent had snapped all
That pain the separation pinched
Ecstatic I felt
Got relaxed of the stagnant state and
Felt resurrected as if in the pre-dawn lonely elate
The rippling smile on your lips
As if to dive deep in the depth of your eyes
So was the new sight
As a newborn child blinks its delight
Just like that kid
I tried to open the closed fist
As if to realize the lucky mist
Lo! The same spectacle reappeared
Of which I remained often scared
And often prayed
With folded hands and covered head
To help me better my destiny instead
So has the fist enclasped again
And I have to write a poem again
Once again to realize and requite
The pangs of lovesickness
The pains of separation
How dolefully I invoke “SHIV” again
And feel bemoaned with my single self /sole self
I thought – I closed my pen
THE MISTAKE
ByAlanna Schwartz
I will not make the mistake again. Of following him through rice paddies at night, And teaching the Vietnamese boys to fly their kites during the day. And I will not make the mistake, Of inhaling balloon after balloon, Again and again, on some German boy’s Instagram story.
I will not wriggle into your bed at night (a bed that feels like Styrofoam under sheets) Because I am cold and drunk and alone and freer than I’ve ever been.
I will not think about How I came here with nothing Except my dad’s credit card in my back pocket
To establish myself as a free woman.
I did make the choice to crawl onto the back of the moped, Of a man I do not know, Because I only speak English and Prairie French, But mostly because He “died.” And his dying for no reason lets me make these mistakes, All vibrant and bright, And hanging on, And being afraid, So I can feel a bit more “living.”
ALIST OFTHINGS YOU GAVE TO ME
ByAlanna Schwartz
Cleaning out the bones in my closet
And in the pile marked DO NOT KEEP
Alist of things you gave to me:
Alove for overlapping teeth
Ajournal and a DVD
Adozen meals
Ascar on my knee
Some purple-crusted blood on jeans
Abraid from your hair
The picture of you washing dishes
The song “Wishes for Kisses”
The hurt that we both hid in ellipses…
Between when we touched and stopped talking.
“Light Embrace” by Shonda Tilitzky
The Stranger in The Photo
By Mo Hickman
What do you see
when you look at the picture of you and me?
The one where we're so happy, the one we captioned as “together forever” and never took another together.
We said it would never end but I can't even pretend that it hasn't. It's been years.
Years of silence.
Years of moving, growing, changing.
Years of liking your Instagram photos hoping that just maybe you'd say hello again.
But no.
You go your way. I go mine.
Two paths once so intertwined are now miles apart. And I feel every inch of that distance every time
I look at the stranger in the photo and I wonder if you see a stranger too.
Paintings
by Cormeum
She’s pulling off her paintings And all the brushstrokes of men Are cascading down her Like watercolour on her skin
She’s pulling off her paintings and all the blots of youth Are tearing from her canvas Revealing forgotten truth
She’s pulling off her paintings And I add a layer to mine To build a wall is prettier Than to be nakedly alive.
STEEPED INACID
ByAlanna Schwartz
I’ve got the barrel of the city between my teeth
The ripples of the river slick on my feet
You said “This town is too small for hurt feelings”
But I’m really holding tight to that part of me.
Wasn’t I steeped in acid?
Weren’t you the shiniest teen?
Flicking that lighter in your pocket
Almost lit up when you were nervous.
Remember how you breathed in cold smoke,
Sipping air between my finger and my thumb bone?
Won’t you miss the freeze when you’re not at home?
Won’t I feel sad that I’ve been outgrown?
The Bystander
By Shifra Hetherington
The bystander
Conjured a fever to feel something.
Because, for a period.
There was no punctuation
There was nothing to differentiate.
There was nobody to accentuate.
There was none, and that was life.
Monotony became immutability
And immutability became divinity.
The illness spread, and the bystander Became God.
Always there was a cause and the cause
Was the bystander
But this was too much
Because the people begged for hope
And the bystander couldn’t give them something
That didn’t exist within.
Then, then, then
There was an effect.
Now, the bystander is on the outer rim,
Desperate to fall in,
To gulp and be filled with something
Because the muddled mind mutters: “It’s better than being empty.”
The body wants to disagree to disobey, but the mind does not allow Such foolishness, so the body agrees to obey.
It is better to suffer
Something
Than to feel nothing.
So, to feel
Something the bystander conjured Afever.
“Aurora Over a City” by Shonda Tilitzky
UNTITLED POEM
ByAlanna Schwartz
What if as I’m dying
I finally cling to my body and love it
Look at my fragile hands as I have a million times
And beg that they don’t slip away
Like a ghost leaving in a cartoon
Turning transparent, or to dust motes floating in the light
To appreciate the gift of being embodied
As I turn into a vague thing.
“We’re In This Together” by Sarah Ritter
When the Mountains Used to Breathe
By Shana Hekman
The Creation Myth from a fictional people group called a’Skaleara lan Trarnali (The People Who Live Above), living in a mountain range inspired by the Himalayans.
Back when the mountains used to breath, before there was The People, there were the mountains. The mountains were even taller than they are today, so high they nearly brushed against the heavens when they stretched in the morning, and when they lay down at night they wrapped all the way around the world. But nothing lived on those mountains of old. Not even the tiniest shrub. The mountains were lonely. It is not easy, to be so tall and yet so alone. So one day, they called out to the Maker in the heavens, and they cried, “Give us companions, Lord, for we are lonely!”
And the Maker responded, “Are you not so tall you reach the heavens? Can you not stretch ‘round the world in a single night? How is it you can be lonely? Be proud of your height, and be at peace.”
But the mountains cried again, “No amount of pride can replace a living friend. Give us companions, Lord, for we would rather be as large as the tiniest beetle in these other lands than go another day with no friends.”
And the Lord’s heart was touched by their words, and so he said to them, “Would you truly give up your great size for a friend?”
“Truly, Lord, we would,” the mountains replied.
“Then I will grant your request,” the Maker said.And so he reached down to the mountains, and he pulled shrubs out of their depths, and with the shrubs came gophers, clinging to their roots, and mountain goats, munching on their leaves, and great, white birds, perched on their branches.As soon as the shrubs stopped moving, the birds took off and flew in circles around the mountains, tickling them with their wings, and the gophers burrowed around in their roots and the mountain goats leaped from cliff to cliff, and the mountains laughed with delight at the new and happy sensations.
But still they were lonely, and so they called out to the Maker again, asking for more companions.And the Lord asked them, “Why are you not happy?”
“The birds tickle us with their wings, and the gophers burrow in our roots, and the goats leap from cliff to cliff,” the mountains responded, “But they do not come to us as a people and know us as we wish to be known.”
The Lord understood then, but he said, “Have I not fulfilled your wishes? Be content with your birds and your gophers and your goats, and be at peace.”
But the mountains cried, “We would rather be as large as the tiniest beetle in these other lands than go another day with no friends who know our names as we know ourselves.”
And the Maker’s heart was touched, and so he reached down and took some rocks from the mountains, and breathed his own life into them, and they began to move and talk among themselves. And he gave them to the Mountains and he said, “Here are your People. Care for them, and they will care for you.” And the mountains bowed down in thanks.
Many years passed, and the People lived happily on the mountains, and the mountains lived happily with the People. But one day, the mountains remembered their promise with the Maker, and so they went to Him and said, “Lord, when we asked you for the People, we swore that we would rather be as large as the tiniest beetle in these other lands than go another day with no friends. You have given us friends, Lord, so now it is our turn to fulfill our end of the bargain.”
And the Lord looked on them, and felt compassion, and said, “There is no need to take away your great size. Keep your People and your size. You have proven yourselves worthy.”
But the mountains insisted, “We will keep our bargain, Lord. Let us do this for You.”
And so the Maker said, “Very well. I will take your size. But I will not take it all. You shall still be the tallest mountains in the land, so you may better protect and provide for your People.” He reached down and scooped the tips of the mountains from them, so they became the size they are now.And the mountains were glad to have kept their bargain.
Dear Future, From Now
ByAnnica Creighton
Ahouse before it is sold
Is possibility.
Ahouse someone has left Is haunted.
My internal affairs arranged
Just the way you like it
Space between the wall and bed
For you to tuck the sheets in Afreezer full of ready meals
Afridge with milk
Alight to go on at any time
Soap on the left
You left
My windows dark
And doors locked
Trying to contain
The emptiness inside
Ahouse before it is sold
Is possibility,
Ahouse someone has left Is haunted.
But ask that house
What the goings were for
When the moonlight’s receded and Sunlight wafts through her panes
Perhaps this then is what she’ll have to say “Ahouse – just a house Has no wear. Ahouse that’s a home Has care. I’m thankful for the paint – now starting to flake
For how time has decorated my walls
For your comings that made my hinges squeak
And for the chair where you’re starting to stay. Perhaps the vacancies had a purpose
Ahouse that’s a home gives respite.
This is what this old home has realized
This is a home that’s content.”
Wild Goose (Wild God)
By Barrett Hileman
When you saved Rome with your squawking
Into the sleepy sentries’ears
The approach of the invading Gauls was thwarted.
Did you think then
You would become a venerated symbol of providence
Or were you just scared
By the unsavory smell of human
Appetite for violence?
It’s true you are
Adisruptor
Moving in unexpected fashion
Surprising most of us thoroughly
If we get too close.
When you pecked San Damiano bricks
From the hands of an aspirant saint
The tower of Franciscan order arose.
Did you think when
“Build my church” was properly construed impact would be heightened
Or were you just afraid
That blunt blocks of human enterprise posed
The more appreciable threat?
It’s true you are
Surprising
Swooping in completely unforeseen
Causing most of us to consider
What is in our hands.
When you expressed your displeasure
For my bleary-eyed morning walk
My swift progress paused, undeniably altered.
Do you think now
You can eliminate the unceasing rushing of our times
Or do you just frighten
Those who think they own the world’s pathways
And try to claim what is yours?
It’s true you are
Alarming
Jolting us to sudden attention
Demanding most of us must walk an
Utterly new course.
If I, like you
Knew the times
Incited others to awake
Offered interruptions
Kindled reconsiderations
We might look more closely at said hands
Wave white flags
Clutch less firmly
Think eternal things
Give away what we are holding.
To the Ninth
By Erin Clarke
Not a Grecian Urn, but an ode all the same, I change, but ironically you stay the same, Oh, ever changing changer, I look at you and I’m freer, Paint brush of death and decay, Marks the beginning of a new day, Acontradiction, welcoming with permission, Abreath.Abeat. Nature’s petition. Start. End. No need to pretend. How glorious to join you and descend. How glorious to Fall.
The Turning of the Leaves
By Glendon R. Frank
The leaves have once again begun to turn, The shifting seasons break and bend and blow, And who I am is swallowed by the churn.
I move, yet stand in place, in flux and flow
My limbs reach out for time that rushes past, regressed, To liquid days that toss me to and fro.
One year is forty in this wilderness; My unslaked soul strives for the safety of Egypt’s walls, Of certain food and sanguine lack of stress.
I am Elijah, fed by ravens’haul, Not knowing, when I wake, if I will feed again, Eased not by fires great or voices small.
And as the cold takes hold, my lastAmen, Is not a boast of trust, but faith that sparks like shame, Aseed of hope that I will flee this den.
All is change and all is still the same. The days dance past me as I to the floor adhere; All is changing, stillness is to blame.
I cast my vision out and see my peers, Their lives a mount, the steadily ascending sun; I, the shifting valley of anxious fears.
My winter shadow hates who I’ve become, While summer self looks sagely through the light it’s cast, Knowing growth has only just begun.
My yesteryears of hope, my distant past, Are merely fragments of the vagrant man I’ve been, The homes I’ve lost, the truths I would outlast.
But seeds of truth grow slowly deep within, So though I’m still a sojourn and a stumbling stray, I lean my lonely soul into the wind.
I cross from night into the light of day, And through the vision of the summer solstice glare, I seek the colours for these shades of grey.
Uncertainty still binds me to the snare, But as I watch the leaves again begin to turn, The shifting seasons temper my despair.
Haikus on Change
by John Matthew Cabalsa
Changes come and go.
This is our lives’ebb and flow, Like rushing rivers.
How dreadful it is
When brilliant days turn to storm With grey clouds looming.
And in the tumult, Where now do we find solace, Love, and constancy?
No, not in nature, Nor in our vain, corrupt hearts, For they all shall fade.
Go and seek him out
He who changes not, whose word Endures forever.
Ebb and flow of life, Only one can ease its pain. God is unchanging.
“Autumn” by Sarah Ritter
Contributors
John Matthew Cabalsa
John Matthew Cabalsa is a fifth year double-degree student at Ambrose University pursuing a BSc Biology and BMus Piano. He is the president ofAmbrose University’s Biomedical Club, a music faculty member at Morin Music Studio, and a full-time Christian. He enjoys practicing, composing, and writing memoirs in his free time.
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.
Annica Creighton
Cormeum
For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. That is all.
Glendon R. Frank
Glendon R. Frank is an alumnus ofAmbrose University with aspirations of further studies and eventually becoming a novelist. He currently writes film reviews and discussions over at https://glendonrfrank.wixsite.com/franklyspeaking and can be found at @Frank1ySpeaking on Twitter.
Shana Hekman
Shana Hekman is an English major atAmbrose University. She loves writing, drawing and all things fantasy and mythology.
Shifra Hetherington
Shifra Hetherington wrote one thing. She has written other things as well. Will she write more things? Only time will tell.
Mo Hickman
Mo Hickman is an alumni ofAmbrose University (BTh 2020) and is currently completing a MATS (Master ofArts in Theological Studies) in Christianity and theArts at Regent College in Vancouver, BC.
Barrett Hileman
Barrett Hileman is a multidisciplinary maker of art working primarily in theatrical mediums. His career has centered on the creation of new work, and he has acting, directing, devising, dramaturgy, and coaching credits on a wide variety of productions and events throughout Canada and the United States, including multiple world premieres.
Sonia Pal
Sonia is a professionally trained bilingual teacher and writer from India and currently lives in England. She holds multiple degrees and accreditations, including an MAin English and a BEd. She is a proud mom and housewife. You can find her published works on Amazon under the name Santosh Ram.
Sarah Ritter
Doodling critters ever since she could hold a pencil, Sarah Ritter experiences art as a form of worshiping the Creator God and as a personal outlet two facets that she holds to be inseparable.Allowing her art to express her emotions, she has found it to be an avenue of comfort, connection, and joy. Her art can be found at @Art_SarahRitter on Instagram.
Alanna Schwartz
Alanna Schwartz is an essayist, screenwriter, and social services case manager from Calgary in Treaty 7 Territory. Her most recent project, the award-winning second season of Abracadavers (The Fantasy Network/Amazon Prime), is currently screening at TV and web festivals worldwide. She is in the first year of her MFAin Creative Writing from the University of Guelph where she is completing her first feature-length screenplay.
Shonda Tilitzky
Shonda is in her fifth and last year in the English Literature program atAmbrose University. She has been a contributor and co-editor of Ambrosia for the majority of her degree, and hopes to keep the tradition of Ambrosia alive for future students. Shonda enjoys reading, learning, and writing poetry and prose (not always in that order). She is also a self-proclaimed coffee addict.