AMBROSIA
A Feathered Thing
Ambrosia Staff
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
Ambrosia Literary Review
Volume 2, Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2023
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
Table of Contents
Editor’s Note
Shonda Tilitzky
The theme for this issue of Ambrosia is, quite ambitiously, “hope.” It is a concept that often feels vague at best, and unrealistic or naïve at worst. After all, how does one define hope? At least, define hope without going straight for the dictionary. Is it a warm, fuzzy feeling in our hearts? That seems just as vague as the concept of hope. Is it, then, simply child’s play? A fragile thing that is destroyed as we lose our childhood innocence? And if this is so, is it even insulting to mention hope in the face of all the world’s despair?
Emily Dickinson, a nineteenth century poet, had a funny way of expressing what she thought of hope. According to her, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers – / That perches in the soul – / And sings the tune without the words – / And never stops – at all –” (Dickinson lines 1-4). Her poem may not answer our existential questions (poetry rarely purports to do so), but I believe it does express the mysterious aspect of hope. We can hardly imagine hope itself, and here Dickinson suggests that it is a feathered thing that sings and perches, like a little bird, in our souls. Throughout her poem, the hope-bird continues to sing despite sore storms and strange seas. Stranger still, Dickinson finishes with: “Yet – never – in Extremity, / It asked a crumb – of me” (11-12). Here we glimpse hope’s absurdly persistent nature, as it sings and sings for us without ever asking for something in return. In this poem, it seems, hope is not something that is lost, even in the harshest storms. Rather, it keeps singing, however faintly, even if unnoticed and unnourished by our souls. Perhaps that is what makes hope so bold, even offensive. It continues to defy despair against all odds.
I write this editorial on Easter Sunday, on which Christians remember and celebrate Jesus Christ’s resurrection and victory over the powers of sin and darkness. For some, it may be a day that, like hope, is equally difficult to describe or even believe in. Easter Sunday comes after Holy Week, in which we move from darkness to light. We experience the tragedy of Good Friday, the confusion and silence of Holy Saturday, until at last we see that these things are not the end of the story. Though we could not always hear it, the song of feathered hope kept singing underneath it all. So too, in this issue of Ambrosia, do we engage with the movement from darkness to light. I do not promise you, dear reader, a definition of hope. But I do hope that, in these pages, you find space for the silence in which hope’s song can be heard.
Dickinson, Emily. “‘Hope’ Is the Thing with Feathers.” Poetry Foundation, 8 Apr. 2023, https:www.poetryfoundation.org/ poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/.
Drowning in Hope by Anonymous
For some, a feathery thing
Like graceful Angel wings from above.
For some, a stone that’s thrown. Glass into a million little shards.
For me
An endless sea. Ferocious. Turbulent. Beautiful.
Oh to drown in this endless sea.
The
Name
by Cormeum
INT. THE CAVE
HENRY
Do not speak it, do not even utter it under your breath, for saying its name is like a beacon to urge it towards our already tattered bodies.
MIKEY
But why? It’s only three letters...
HENRY
I SAID NEVER SPEAK IT! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen. We have tough odds making it out of this cave as it is.
MIKEY
But its name, it’s...it’s written all over the walls.
HENRY
A simple coercion technique to get fools like us to utter it aloud and summon its starving soul towards us. Now keep quiet, I think this is the way we came.
MIKEY
How bad could it be though? Maybe that thing is just merely misunderstood. Perhaps he’s just lonely?
HENRY
Ack, you’re so naive my little brother. There isn’t a single man who’s made it out of this cave alive. I’m sorry, but we don’t have much hope and all I can say is that we should stay away from any sort of distraction whilst we’re in these walls. It’s true, all my fear of the thing is from theories and tales, but whatever it truly is, it can’t be good. Now hush up, I’m sure we haven’t much further to go.
2 HOURS LATER
HENRY (CONT’D)
Darn it! The flashlight burnt out! I’m sorry but we’ll have to make our way blind now. Take my hand and I’ll feel our way through the dark. I’m sure we haven’t that much further to go.
MIKEY
I can’t stop thinking about its name. What if it’s actually a lifeline?
HENRY
Don’t you dare say it, I CAN GET US OUT OF HERE I SWEAR IT!!
MIKEY
Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I trust you. I’m just scared, and hungry, and I miss Grandma. She’s probably worried sick.
HENRY
It’ll be alright. She knows we’re strong boys. We can handle ourselves and we’ll prove her that! I’m sure we haven’t much further to go.
2 HOURS LATER
HENRY (CONT’D)
Do you feel that brother? The air is getting lighter, we must be getting closer!
Henry trips and falls down an unseen cliff.
HENRY (CONT’D)
Ahhhh! ahhhh! Mikey, help me!
MIKEYY!!!
Henry is unconscious at the bottom of the cliff.
MIKEY
Ahhh! ahh! I don’t know what to do!! Henry??? Henry, are you there??
Mikey, spastic and confused starts sobbing in despair. They were never going to make it out. It was truly hopeless. Why did they think they even stood a chance?
MIKEY (CONT’D) (Thought)
Now I’m all alone with nothing but the fear that Henry is dead and the looming threat of that thing. The name plastered on the walls. That name that seems so tempting, and yet, almost contrived.
Mikey, out of desperation, could only think of one thing to do… utter the thing’s name. He feared for his soul and he sent one prayer out for consolation to his grandmother, in case they didn’t make it out. He took a deep breath... and then another... and finally…
MIKEY (CONT’D) (Whispered)
SOS
END SCENE
They Look To Us
by Ainsley Daumler
They want us to say something
To have something to say
A word of comfort
A reason for hope
A movement of peace
And I just want to sleep.
We look to each other Are any of us okay?
I haven’t seen you
Haven’t heard from you
I hope you’re safe
I look to you
Where else can I go?
Everything I worry about
You know
They look to us, I hope they see
Our upward gaze
Above the billowing sea
Let’s promise them
Let’s promise each other
That we’ll keep looking up
And when we can We’ll look forward again
We’ll speak
We’ll sing We’ll dance we will create again
3:41am by
Dale Ulley
Again, I lie awake, As a faint light convicts
Me of time’s apathetic March.
Again, I try to Put together the broKen pieces of my past
And lure my mind to sleep’s Merciful planes. Why, God? Why me?
Again, I cry
Out
But am met with the Teasing absence of .
Writhing in pain, yet still, Overwhelmed with feeling, Yet numb. Should I give in
To the darkness in and A r o me u n d? Or should I Push on through
Again? God
I thank you. For your grace, In shadows and valleys, Where death’s sly rhetoric
Prowls the mind to take body And Soul. Even when I lose Faith, hope, and patience, you Provide peace undeserved And because of you, I Now finally R
by Dale Ulley
Pandemic
by Ainsley Daumler
We were supposed to change the world
But the world changed on us
And we were left behind to try and clean up
Try and dust ourselves off
Be isolated and afraid and Resilient?
Persistent?
Persistently pushed
Pack it all in Again
Postponed
But we prepared Shifted to an online format
But we Cancelled. Again. The end.
Isolated and afraid and Resilient?
I wish they sold a repellent for hope
Because it crushes me harder with every
CBC broadcast, every live-streamed press conference every emergency alert and tag line for stopping, bending, curving, I’ve flatlined.
The beat is gone.
Wake me up when the nightmare ends
Don’t wake me if it depends
These dark, dark magenta moments will bleed into the rest of my life
So stop stabbing.
Quit poking
Give me the cure or don’t
But quit feeding me the lies that it will all go back to the way it was Normal is gone.
Like a Tuesday in September
Without the memorial
Sing this at my memoriam
“She hoped and it killed her”
Death in a Match with Wit
by Shifra Hetherington
It was late at night when Frank decided that he wanted love. A moment after he made this decision, the phone rang. It wasn’t a cellphone or a wireless phone; it was one of those phones with cables that forced you to sit or stand beside it while you talked to the person on the other end. Certain people felt encumbered by this type of phone. Other people felt trapped, restricted not only in motion but in thought. Frank didn’t think or feel any of these things, so he picked up the receiver and sat on the couch.
“Hello?”
“I have decided that I want to die.”
Frank nodded to himself. Death was so compelling these days.
“I am sorry to hear that you have reached that decision. Is it a sudden one, or rather well thought out?”
“It, it just came to me. As a solution.”
“Ah, blast! The fellow is quite rude, I dare say, coming upon people suddenly like that without ever once announcing his arrival. And only offers one ‘solution,’ at that.” Frank’s fingers twirled around the phone’s cables while the other hand thoughtfully stroked his newly shaven chin.
“I just want to die, okay?”
“If you want to die, why are you talking to me?”
“I called because part of me doesn’t want that, but the other part does. I am split between two options and it’s not an equal split and I still don’t know who’s winning.”
“Well, for now, let’s just focus on the part of you that wants to taste darkness without the piquancy of light. How does that part of you want to die?”
“Oh. Well, I haven’t yet decided that, that portion of the decision.”
“No? Don’t you think that you should have decided the how before deciding the why?” “I haven’t decided either, really. Just that I almost certainly need to die.”
“Ah, but ‘need’ and ‘want’ are two different things. To need something is to require it out of necessity. And I am quite sure that you could live without Death. Therefore, it isn't a need. To want something is to desire something that you lack. But Death, the absence of existence, is already so prevalent in your life (just think of your hair), that wanting more of something you already have in abundance would make you a man characterized by the moral flaw of avarice.”
At this point in the conversation, Frank realized something. He hadn't shuddered. He hadn't taken a deep breath. He hadn't done any of the things one would expect one to do when Death is near. Now, he wasn't one of those superstitious fanatics; he was an intelligent man. However, at that moment, Frank felt Destiny calling to him. He shifted his position on the couch so that he could place his free hand on the armrest and push himself up. In the same motion, he rested the phone on the coffee table. It was mahogany and it was beautiful. His wife had given it to him for one of their wedding anniversaries. He couldn't remember which one. His mind was still sharp; he had just never cared to put aside such trivial details in his memory. It was his wife and the feeling and the beauty that he remembered what did the exact date matter?
There was his wife. Resting, as she always did now. “Your face is radiant,” Frank said. She responded with her customary smile, the one that turned up just one side of her face. “I love you,” he whispered. She gave the same response, except there was now a slightly disapproving look in her eyes. Frank chuckled. “Now what have I done?” He bent his face to softly brush her lips with his own but then stopped. He hadn't done the thing that she wanted. Moving swiftly with accents of leisure, Frank returned to his position on the couch.
“Marvin. You're not going to die. My wife is.” The voice on the other end of the phone was Frank’s best friend. They had met freshmen year of university and pledged allegiance to each other ever since. He knew Frank too well to not know what he meant. But that also meant that he knew Frank liked to explain himself as if everyone else was in the dark and only he had the answers.
“She’s already dead,” Marvin said to humour him.
“I know. To me, she wants me to let her go.”
“Then you can let us both go.” “I won't. Not until you have told me why you want to die. You must convince me with a convincing reason.”
“Life refuses to offer me good things.”
“So, you want to take away one of the good things that it offers me?”
“Oh, bother, Frank. Just ask me how.”
“How?”
“Water. I’ll drown.”
“But you’re an excellent swimmer.”
“I’ll intentionally put myself into a position where my skill is futile.”
“Hm. Marvin, why must you be so smart?”
The moon illuminated Frank’s frame in the dark of the room as he sat there on the couch. Except, it wasn’t the moon itself that did so but the light that it produced. To get at the truth, you must separate things from each other, even if it appears impossible. Then, once the truth is revealed, you must collect the stray parts and connect them. Cohesive. Everything must be cohesive.
“Do you want it to look like an accident?” Frank had his left leg folded over the other, now the right, and back to the left. He was hunched over the phone, smiling wryly to himself.
“I don’t much care as long as it’s a success.”
“A success! Is posthumous fame what you’re looking for?”
“I didn’t call to be toyed with like a puppet doll, Frank.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. And you didn’t call just to tell me that part of you wants to die and part of you doesn’t. Did you? You called to be talked out of your plan (though it isn’t very well thought out). Ah, but that’s just like you. Death has nothing to do with it.”
Marvin was silent for several minutes. Frank was silent as well. The two friends, the young men, now grown old, sat without speaking. It was comforting for them to listen to the steady rhythm of the other’s breath. Consistency. It was just what they needed. It was a necessary thing: to be reminded that love existed and that it existed for them both.
“Can you come with me, Frank? To see me off, so to speak?”
“I could. But have you thought about the resurrection?”
“From the Bible? The Jesus one?”
“No, no. That one’s too complex. I mean the Lazarus one. There’s this man and he died and then he’s brought back to life. It is that Jesus Christ figure who does the resurrecting, but that’s beside the point. What if you’re resurrected like Lazarus?”
“I hardly think that I have to worry about that. Have you seen Christ wandering the earth lately?”
“Well, no, but he always was a mysterious fellow. And he’s not dead, you know. He did rise again, even after they killed him. So, what if I am standing there watching you drown yourself, and then, then, you’re suddenly back up beside me on the dock?”
“I suppose, in that case, I would have been resurrected. It’s the only explanation. But why do I have to be resurrected?”
“It’s historical, and you’re a historian. It just makes sense. And if you’re resurrected that means that you must have a resurrector.”
“I’ll be the resurrector.”
“It can’t be you.”
“Why not? I can save myself.”
“Well, yes. But it wouldn’t be a miracle then, would it? Someone else must sacrifice themself for you. Your ‘self’ cannot sacrifice itself for itself. That’s absurd.”
“I beg your pardon, Frank. I highly disagree. In fact, I will prove it to you.”
“Oh, will you now? How do you propose you’ll do that?”
“Come with me down to the docks. I’ll throw myself into the water and there’ll be a grand struggle. It’ll be me up against the tumultuous waves. I won’t be bested. Oh, no! You’ll be my witness. You’ll see me pull myself back up onto the docks. Death will almost claim me, but I will save myself and I will not die and it will be a miracle. I assure you, Frank.”
“You won’t die?”
“No.”
“I thought that you wanted to die.”
“Goodness, no. The thought sickens me now. How could I have ever succumbed so low as to willingly submit myself to be beaten by Death? He’s not that strong.”
“Psalm 139” by Ainsley Daumler
Umkehrung
by Dale Ulley
Lord,
Thank you,
For the pain, The suffering, And my broken heart.
Thank you for sleepless nights, Where I wrestle and doubt you, Your plan, your faithfulness, your love. It is there where I learn to seek you, Your will, your plan, and your love. As they are.
Shape all my dreams O Lord, when I find rest; When my mind evades sleep no longer. Fill me with hope, your will be done. I lay down my dreamed future At the foot of your throne.
This is the day that The Lord has made. I rejoice!
Thank you, Lord.
God Is
by Shonda Tilitzky
God is a baby, Weak and vulnerable
Speechless and walk-less Entirely dependent
On his mother and father.
God is a child, Learning to walk
Getting lost
Finding wisdom.
God is a man Young and hopeful
Emotional and weary
Set to die
At the hands of those He loves.
Rock Bottom Hope
by Ainsley Daumler
I’ve misunderstood hope as a string dangling from the sky to be hung from. To cling to.
But I’ve realized that my hope is a foundation made of stone. I cannot fall.
I will hit rock bottom and find that my hope was there all along. And until I’ve embraced the hard I won’t feel the intimacy I have been offered by its presence.
When I Look Up to Sky
by Sonia Pal
A dedication to Grandpa. Died on 27th Dec, 2020
When I look up to clouds, I’m reminded of cotton candies that we shared.
When I look at the birds, I’m reminded how, above all the heights, you cared.
When the wind touches me, I’m reminded of your soft gentle hands and their touch on my head.
When I see the colourful rainbow, I’m reminded of our beautiful days spent together.
When I see the shiny stars above at night, I’m reminded of our ‘twinkle, twinkle little star’ singing with actions together.
When I see the full round moon, I’m reminded of you saying “Ladoo.”
When I see the sun over my head, I’m reminded of the warmth of your love.
When the rain pours down slowly
I cry with my silent tears, and I don’t jump now in the puddle.
When it gets dark in the evening
I know you are here to hear
That I really miss you a lot “Baba” And looking up to the sky now isn’t easy.
Remembrance Song
by Shonda Tilitzky
You sing the same song
Over and over again.
About your love of music
You go on and on. But I don't mind at all, For your voice is old and sweet Aged well from all that practice. You do not remember, but your soul does And that’s all you need.
Your stories blend together
Like different strands of yarn So tangled, it’s difficult to separate Truth from fiction.
People keep laughing And trying to correct you
But still I don’t mind, For I know you are making blankets.
You do not know me anymore, But I know you.
You do not remember it, But we love each other.
And so I nod along As I listen to you sing About what you would do If you had an angel's wings.
Blazing Embers
by Shana Hekman
Reignite the spark long destroyed, The ember long tamped down.
Light the flame, make it blaze!
For the life long gone, and once destroyed.
The breath of life, the winds of time, They are one and the same.
One lights a spark, one keeps it on!
For the life long gone, and once destroyed.
So sing this song, light the torch, Of life and light.
Remember the one who started it all,
For the life long gone, and once destroyed.
Ritter
“Aslan” by Sarah
A Tale of Time and Legend
by Shana Hekman
Inspired by the song “White Rose” by Heather Dale
A little princess plays alone in the fields. The sun is hot, baking the earth into a dark crust, while cicadas wail in the tall yellow grasses. The princess spins in circles, watching the pattern her footsteps make in the dusty earth. Her nurse calls her over for a drink of water.
“Auntie,” she asks her nurse. “What comes after the summer?”
Her nurse chuckles, and runs a hand through the princess’ short hair. The strands are so pale that the pounding sun turns them white, slicked against her cheeks and forehead with sweat. “Nothing comes after the summer, little one” she says. “Summer just always is.”
The little princess believes her. It has, after all, never been anything but summer before.
The princess grows a little bigger. Her parents keep her inside most of the time now. It isn’t fitting for a princess to be seen with sun-burnt cheeks and sun-bleached hair. Her hair stays mostly white anyway though. She sneaks out at night to listen as the knights share stories around the fires. It’s cooler at night, cooler even than the stone castle she spends her days in. Her favorite knight, the tall grizzled one with a scar across his left cheek, tells her stories about dragons.
“Aye, we slew the last ones years before you were born, lass,” he tells her. “But they left their mark, the beasts. One slashed me on the face, here, and I’ve never forgotten him since.” He gestures to his cheek. “Don’t you forget him either, you hear me? He was a mighty foe. Worthy of remembering.”
“I can try,” the princess agrees. “But I don’t have anything to remember him by like you do.”
“Ah, well, that’s easily fixed.” The knight takes a pouch from off his waist and opens it. Inside is a single, smooth dragon scale. It reflects the moonlight in scintillating waves of silver and crimson. “I took that off his neck after I slayed him,” The knight says. “Take good care of it for me, will ya?”
The princess runs her fingers along the edge of the scale. There is a thin, welling line of blood on her fingertips when she lifts her hand away. “I will remember him,” she says.
She keeps the scale on a thin cord, tied securely around her neck, so the scale always hangs just over her heart.
In time, the princess becomes a queen. The change is hard at first. Very little has ever changed for the little princess before.
“I never knew how hard it could be,” she confides, once, to her reflection in the mirror. “Doing things differently from how you used to.”
Her reflection says nothing. She places her crown on her head, and she wears it well. Her people come to her for aid, and she listens to them, but there is little she can do.
“More crops die than survive to harvest,” an old farmer begs her. “Please, is there nothing you can do?”
“I’ve found thirteen cattle dead from heat-sickness these past months alone,” a sturdy woman tells her. “If something isn’t done soon, we’ll have no food or milk to feed our children.”
“Maybe the elves could help,” the queen whispers. Her advisors laugh. The knights shake their heads, and look stern. Her reflection only tilts its head as she does. No one agrees with her.
The queen isn’t used to people agreeing with her, though. She asks questions of a world beyond summer as a child, she sneaks out and listens to the knights’ tales as a young princess. The queen is not a person who lets other people make decisions for her.
The queen moves her court. She takes her people, her livestock, and her crops, and she leads them to the elven hills. They build their halls and they settle among the grass, greener grass than many of them had seen in a lifetime. The queen is in her hall, sitting upon her throne when the elves arrive. She asks that they be allowed in.
“This summer is your doing,” she says to the lead elf. He is tall, and staggeringly beautiful. To the queen’s eyes, he moves like a heat-wave above the fields, ever flickering, only partially there.
“The summer is the way it is,” the elf begins, but the queen cuts him off.
“I know,” she says. “I know how things are. I know how it is. I am asking it not to be. I want things to be otherwise.”
The elf hesitates. “Pardon?” he asks, and his tone carries both fear and wonder to the queen’s ears.
“I want more than summer,” the queen says. “I want what is beyond.” She softens her tone, leans forward toward the elf. “It is time for Time to move again.”
The elf is silent for a long time. “Does Legend not satisfy?” he asks. “Is not dragons and elves enough? Must there be Time as well?”
“Time is inevitable,” the queen says.
“The Elven have no place in Time,” the elf says softly.
“And humans have no place in Legends,” the queen returns. “We will all die, and there will be nothing left of us.” She reaches under the bodice of her gown and pulls out her dragon scale. It hangs, spinning, and sending out ripples of crimson light across the room. “Within Time, though, we will remember you. Who here can remember us?”
The elf says nothing more, and merely bows before he departs. The queen sits a long time, alone, looking through the air in her dusty hall and seeing only the sun-scorched fields of her youth.
News of her confrontation with the elf spreads, and all her people come to the queen’s hall. She watches from her throne as they approach, all silent but for their footsteps on the wood. One by one, they place a gleaming red rose at her feet, and depart. Her dragon scale hangs at her chest, the brilliant red matching the pile at her feet. As the hall empties, soundless footsteps take their place, and the elves cross the hall.
“Welcome,” she says softly, but her voice seems to die in her throat. The heat of the sun fills the hall, choking her voice until it is as soundless as the steps of the elves upon the wood. The elves say nothing, and she takes her cue from them.
The lead elf bows his head, and places a single rose of his own on the pile before her. It is sunbleached white as her hair, and it shines faintly in the darkened hall. She looks down on it as the elves rise, and step backward across the hall.
She almost wishes to speak, to say something, a farewell, a thank you, but no words seem appropriate. The elves fade into the sun, the flickering lines of their forms coming apart and breaking into faint illusions which vanish with the sun.
Alone now, the queen picks up the white rose. Its thorns prick her fingers, and there is a thin, welling line of blood on her fingertips when she lifts her hand away.
Outside, the snow begins to fall.
“Caribou Winter” by Sarah Ritter
Chambers of the Heart
by Dale Ulley
My dear heart, who fills all your empty halls?
Do the noblest heroes of age old
Gallop and dance across your great banner’d walls?
Do the orphans and widows hungered and cold
Find their place in your chairs? Who cut in glass, Exalt you, your sun, with prismatic glow?
Long have I pondered, no closer, alas!
Deeper I’ll go, ‘tis worth searching to know!
Up from my seat, yes even I have a place, With many I dance, yet one is enthroned.
Who, O heart, is honoured with ist embrace?
Who, O heart, finds such affection alone?
Careful, do not get lost in the murmur, Crossing the hall to find the heart’s fervor.
“Let Mercy Bloom” by Ainsley Daumler
by Susan Plumridge
cardinals in winter trees
what stands out today wandering close to home sparrows
cats prowl the neighborhood still the sparrows chickadee on the sparrow's perch chickadee song walking up the country road
Birds in Haiku
“Powerhouse” by Sarah Ritter
Butterflies
by Shonda Tilitzky
Love is a privilege –
A great calling –
To a responsibility
Not to be taken lightly. It is not merely That you have butterflies
In your stomach; It is that these butterflies
Are the last of their kind –Endangered –And you are their sanctuary.
“Against Anger (Butterfly)” by Sarah Ritter
Contributors
Cormeum
For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. That is all.
Ainsley Daumler
Ainsley is an actor, musician, playwright and director. She graduated with a degree in theatre from Ambrose in 2017 and is back taking an English course this semester. She wrote in a speech given in a 2017 chapel service that “Hope is a working word, not a wishing word,” and still believes in choosing to hope over despair. She also hopes you choose the same.
Shana Hekman
Shana Hekman is an English major at Ambrose 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.
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 MA in English and a BEd. She is a proud mom and housewife. You can find her published works on Amazon under the name Santosh Ram.
Susan Bonk Plumridge
Susan is a follower of Jesus Christ. She began writing haiku in 2018. Her poetry blog can be found at https://plumbonkers.blogspot.ca
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.
Shonda Tilitzky
Shonda is about to graduate from the English Literature program at Ambrose 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.
Dale Donald Ulley
Dale is a second-and-a-half year English Major fond of good puns, poems, and pizzas (although cheese hurts his stomach). Occasionally you can find him enjoying the poetic works of John Donne, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, or deceased Japanese monks.