Editor’s Note As I am writing this, we are in the throes of winter. Although this is not the worst one we have had, many of us likely have similar sentiments of longing for something that seems far off– spring. The sentiment of looking forward to something better prompted the editorial team to choose the theme for our spring/summer issue: Onward. You will find that many of the stories and poems we have chosen to in-
clude in this issue have similar themes of overcoming, or having overcome something difficult.
Ambrosia Literary Review Volume 1, Issue 2: Spring 2019
A well-known quote from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring reads, “All that is gold does not glitter / Not all those who wander are lost” (Book I, Chapter 10). These lines are part of a larger prophecy about Strider, the mysterious
Published by Ambrose University
ranger whom the Hobbits meet at the beginning of their
150 Ambrose Circle SW
journey. It is included in a letter to Frodo from Gandalf as a
Calgary, AB T3H 0L5
way of confirming Strider’s identity. Strider says of these lines, “I am Aragorn, and those verses go with that name.”
Managing Editors
Rachel VanderWoude Julia Kennedy
Senior Editor
Dorothy Bentley
Submissions and Copy Editors
Sarah Joy Jantzen Bradley Heather Mack Rachel VanderWoude Julia Kennedy
Faculty Advisors
Dr. Rita Dirks Dr. Darren Dyck Dr. Jonathan Goossen
Web and Production
Wes Campbell
Design and Layout
Julia Kennedy
To Tolkien, words, and particularly names, hold power and intrinsic meaning. At Ambrosia, we also believe that words hold power and can be used to reveal something about a writer’s identity. The following artwork, short stories, poems, and creative non-fiction reveal something about each author, and therefore, something about humanity: we have the capacity to move forward despite difficulties – and sometimes because of difficulties. We are passionate about the creativity of students and alumni as creativity transforms vulnerability into strength.
Whether you are moving onward in a new semester, onward in a new career path, or onward from struggle or hardship, it is our hope that these literary works will serve not only to encourage you, but also to provide you with hope for what is
Website: ambrose.edu/ambrosia-literary-review E-mail: literaryreview@ambrose.edu Cover Art: Jennifer DeBoer-Vandenbroek
still in store. Julia Kennedy Managing Editor
Prose In Memory of a Tree In Defense of Literature Land Locked
3 8 13
Poetr y Morning Upside Down and In Between Guilt Anger Sticks and Stones The Abbey The Astronaut’s Graduation
Artists Jennifer DeBoer -Vandenbroek Nick Kennedy List of Contributors
2 6 7 7 12 12 15
Cover 17, back cover 16
1
Morning
by Kevin Ferguson
I find myself again in shadowed day, Encased in cloth that holds me where I lay, As thoughts come rushing to my open mind To capture me, or I them as I find. Angels of hope or dragons of fear, they Seek my attention, or get pushed away. I feel the pull, hear the siren calling, And my eyes droop heavy, heavy, falling Back to the realm where the sons and daughters Of night spin spells in the mists and waters To enchant and entice all those who would Pass by on their way through that mystic wood. But no, I must not stay any longer. “Come,” I tell myself. “You must be stronger.” So mustering my strength, I quickly rise Out of serenity, and willing ties. The phantoms flee; only echoes remain. The lethargy breaks at its final strain. The dawn has awoken, and so must I, Yet, my heart does yearn for that world passed by. But though peace and comfort still lie in bed,
I know that I must carry on ahead. So I fold my hands, and upwards I pray: “Dear God, please help me, today is Monday.”
2
Ambrosia
In Memor y of a Tree
by Willow Pawlak
It was just one of those days. The alarm clock tears you from some dream, and all you
“Come to the kitchen. I’ve only just heated some water. Fancy some apple cider?”
can remember is that it was a good dream.
The weight on my shoulders reminded
After I woke up, I struggled through another
me of all the homework waiting in my
day of high school and finally, by some nasty
backpack, but watching Mr. Lichen shuffling
chance, missed the bus, which is how I ended
happily to the back of the house, I felt too
up walking home, into a chill, damp wind,
guilty to not stay. The day hadn’t been going
trying to beat the ever-darkening clouds which
my way up to that point, anyways, and
swirled overhead.
stopping for one mug of apple cider wouldn’t
A fragment of bright orange fluttered in
change much.
the yard ahead. It startled me, causing me to
“Thanks, Mr. Lichen.” I said as he set
stop and stare at the contrast it made against
the steaming mug before me on the table.
the muted greys, greens and browns of the tree
“Oh, oh, it’s my pleasure, always!” He settled
it was tied to. After a couple seconds of staring,
into place across from me. “Now. Seeing as my
I realized its significance.
lot hasn’t changed much, why don’t you tell
Hoping that I had misinterpreted, I
me how yours is going?”
adjusted my path, turning off the sidewalk into
The mug’s heat brought some sensation
Mr. Lichen’s gravel driveway. At the end, I
back into my fingers, which were still feeling
stopped under the carport, using the absence
the effects of walking through wind without
of wind to sort myself out. Then, I rang the
gloves. I looked down at the amber liquid in
doorbell. There were a few seconds where I
my mug. “My life? Well, it’s been going, I
worried that he was out, but then I heard the
guess.”
muffled tramping of feet. The door creaked as
Mr. Lichen nodded, as if he
it opened, and there was Mr. Lichen himself. I
understood. To be fair, he must have been a
raised my hand and accompanied the small
teenager at some point, even though I couldn’t
wave with a hesitant smile. For a moment, all
imagine him any younger.
he did was squint at me. Then, suddenly, his
There was nothing more that I wanted
wrinkled face crumpled even more into a
to say about the matter, so I decided to cut to
broad, gap-toothed smile.
the chase. “Mr. Lichen? What’s with the tape
“I’ve not seen the likes of you in many an afternoon. Come in!” he said. I didn’t bother to point out that it’d been
wrapped around Oli– the oak?” The gleam in Mr. Lichen’s eyes faded. “Ah. That. Well, it seems it’s just old Oliver’s
nearly two years. There was no excuse to not
time. As with people, dogs, cats...nothing lasts
visit a lonely old man who lived just a block
forever.”
away, and I hoped that he wouldn’t bring it up.
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“Oh.” Of course, I knew that trees
3
weren’t immortal. Still, that beautiful old oak
weathered to the grey colour of the bark. A tire
tree had seemed it. With nothing else to say, I
had hung from the end of that rope for many
took a quick sip of cider, scalded my tongue and
childhood summers.
tried to keep a straight face while setting the mug down. “You made some memories with that old
All at once, the wind died, and I decided to sprint up the street before the storm broke loose.
boy, didn’t you?”
“Not as many as you must’ve,” I said
...
quickly. “Uh, no offense, I mean, it’s just that it’s your tree.” Mr. Lichen chuckled, a cracked and merry sound, as he nodded. In silence, we both
“Why care about some tree so much?” Connor asked, without looking away from the flashing colours on his laptop.
sipped our ciders. Once mine was gone, I slowly
“Who says I care?” I asked.
pushed the chair back. “I need to get home. Uh,
“You’re the one who keeps bringing it
thanks, for the cider.” Again, Mr. Lichen said, “My pleasure.” We both stood up and he accompanied me to
up.” “Yeah, well, I mean, it’s the tree we used to play on all the time, and stuff.”
the door. “Thank you for coming. It shows that
“I guess it’s a little sad. Oof!”
you still care about Oliver.”
“What?”
“Oh?” I asked, then gave a short, nervous laugh. “Bye, Mr. Lichen.” Outside, the wind still howled and the
“I lost,” said my computer addict brother. If I could’ve done my homework anywhere else, I would’ve been done already, but I needed the
leaves of Mr. Lichen’s yard full of trees rustled.
other computer. In any case, the real distraction
The menacing clouds had begun spitting. I
was me, talking about that oak tree.
pulled up the hood of my jacket and stayed under the carport, waiting. For what, I wasn’t
totally sure. A break in the wind or something. My eyes strayed to Oliv– the doomed tree. It’s wide, sturdy trunk, twisting knots, and
“I feel like we should do something,” I finally said.
Connor wasn’t paying attention. “What?” “Like, I don’t know, a remembrance or something.”
branches were perfect for climbing. Only the
“Wait. For the tree?”
narrow upper branches were precarious, as I
“It’s crazy.”
found out the hard way, a long time ago. As I
“Yeah,” he said.
thought of this, my hand strayed to my left arm.
I didn’t respond, pretending to be
In addition to the strip of orange plastic, there was a frayed rope decorating the tree, now
4
interested in my assignment and ignoring my brother’s mumbling about his game. Instead, I
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was thinking of my own strange idea, and
Every fall, we’d rake the leaves spread by
getting excited.
Oliver and his neighbours. Winter’s snow
The next thing to do was to get in
meant snow forts, snowmen and snow angels.
contact with all the kids who used to play at
All of a sudden, we weren’t just talking about
Mr. Lichen’s with Connor and me.
the oak, but about all of the trees and all the
...
friends we’d had. Soon, there was as much laughter as speech.
Laura instantly agreed and promised
Samantha walked up to the grey oak
that she, and her brother Alex, would be there.
and gently touched its trunk. “Guess we’ll
Samantha said, “I’ll think about it.” It turns out
never make memories like that again.”
no one else still lived in the area. It was Laura who ended up planning the
No one tried to contradict her. It was true. None of us were kids anymore and we
whole deal, and on a cloudless day just before
were all busy with things like school, jobs, dates
the scheduled demolition, which she’d
and college applications. Still, we’d all found
carefully discovered from Mr. Lichen without
time to make it that day. One last chance to
giving away the surprise, we all gathered under
make memories.
the leafless oak.
“Man,” Alex said, “I haven’t been here in ages.” “It’s hardly changed,” Laura said reverently. The same couldn’t be said for us. We
“Hello, my friends!”
I turned on my heel and saw Mr. Lichen slowly walking towards us, holding a tray full of steaming mugs. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Would you all care for some apple cider?”
were all taller, Alex had a beard coming in already, Laura wore glasses and braces I’d never seen before, and Samantha’s hair was a bright purple. Still, we were all there. Standing
in front of good old Oliver Oak, we began telling nearly every story we could remember. Stories of picnics under the great canopy, books read in the hollow where the trunk split, of climbing contests, and the day I fell and broke my arm. We remembered how, every spring, we would help Mr. Lichen set the tire swing. Every summer, the nearby crab apple tree provided tart fruit to eat on the soft grass.
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5
Upside Down and In-Between
6
by Daniella Jukes
The In Between and Upside Down
I’m tired of playing this awful game
When the outside smiles and the inside frowns
Where everything’s different and yet the same.
When the child screams and the adult laughs
‘Cause I can’t ask for help—I can only complain
But both are cloaked in silence.
And hope that someone’s listening.
Where happy days bring awful nights,
I’m happy to hurt and loath to heal
Or friendly smiles create terrible frights,
For scars and tears will let me feel
Here in the realm of disconnect
A balance, but more importantly
I’m stuck behind the glass.
Some semblance of emotion.
It’s nothing right but nothing’s wrong,
Will you still love me even though
I’m screaming in pain to the happiest song
I’m free, when sadness I’ve let go?
It’s hot and cold, night and day
When healing’s done, and work is through
All trapped within a bottle.
Will I still be the same to you?
I don't want to die or want to live
The inner me no one can know
I simply want this life to give
Her wings are clipped and cannot grow
A break or pause or just a shift
For light and hope cannot be seen
To one side or the other!
In the Upside Down and In Between.
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Guilt
by Julia MacArthur
A twisted finger, crusty, augmented Your nail is cracked and oddly indented Your skin is taught, marred with thirsty trenches Licking the blood from wounds infectious You tower high with petty disdain You warp the truth and jab without shame, Pressing blame where it does not belong
You know you are strong You prey on my weakness, you fill me with fear You make me wish I could disappear Disease and hatred wait in your touch Why do you want to hurt me so much? What is the reason you won’t let me be? What have I done, except to be me? I cower beneath your oppressive mold, You hold me there because you can Yet
I see you’re cut off from the rest of the hand
Anger
by Julia MacArthur
My anger is a fist of clay Right hand rising forcefully upwards Indignation directed at God
Love and hate curled between tight fingers Humiliation lumps in my throat
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7
In Defense of Literature
by Heather Mack
“A good story, just like a good sentence, does more
like clear oral and written communication –
than one job at once. That’s what literature is: a
that’s a story for another day. But, I am going
story that does more than tell a story, a story that
to suggest that you are wrong if you think that
manages to reflect in some way the multilayered
literature has not given me the practical skills
texture of life itself.” – Karen Thompson Walker
to pursue a career in Social Work. For the last three years, I have done nothing but study the
Someone asked me the other day, “What
good is literature, really?” And instead of
their environments, their beliefs, their cultures,
letting me defend my beloved major of choice,
what makes them laugh, what makes them tick.
they continued to remind me of, what they
But, more importantly, I’ve learned that
have deemed, its shortcomings. Literature
studying literature is the best form of therapy
teaches me nothing practical. I won’t learn the
that exists.
mathematical equations which will solve all the
8
way people work, they way they interact with
When I think of literature, I often think
problems of the universe, I’m not on the right
about Aristotle and his Poetics. More recently,
path to becoming a doctor, scientist, or – God
I’ve been researching literary theories that
love them – an engineer. Heck, I’m not even
revolve around trauma (Trauma Theory),
required to take a class called “How to be a
reader-response theories (Wolfgang Iser), and
Good Manager,” which might be handy to have
techniques like Bibliotherapy to heighten my
when my English degree pans out to nothing
understanding of the therapeutic effects of
more than me working at McDonald’s. And
literature. However, for the sake of time, I will
what do I mean I want to pursue a degree in
briefly touch on Aristotle. Aristotle argues that
Social Work or Psychology? “Oh,” they
we emotionally and psychologically identify
continued to chastise, “you are definitely
with characters. Because we do, we experience
pursuing the wrong degree. Come on over to
pity and fear and are moved into a state of
this department. We will teach you everything
catharsis which then allows us to release our
that you need to know.” But, here’s the thing.
own tension. While Aristotle is specifically
English Literature has taught me what I need
referring to theatre, good theatre is really only
to know – to work at McDonald’s or in Social
literature in action. Playwrights like
Work. I’ll grant you I won’t know exactly what
Shakespeare, Aristophanes, and Euripides are a
part of the brain does what, but from the few
few examples: I have been privileged enough
science and psychology courses that I have
to read all three of these playwrights in my
taken thus far, it seems to me that no one does.
literature classes. The key word is that we read
I’m not going to spend this personal essay
their work – we did not solely watch them. We
telling you about the practical skills that I have
analyzed the language and their chosen words,
gained by studying English Literature, things
we discussed setting and landscape, and we
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considered the context in which each
had left home determined to make it on my
playwright wrote. The point is that we
own. I was – more or less – successful. I
considered plays in much the same way that
worked two jobs to get through high school
we considered Geoffrey Chaucer’s The
and while attending university was not an
Canterbury Tales, a series of poems in story
option until I was much older, I knew I would
form, or Janet Lewis’s The Wife of Martin
pursue my degree(s) eventually. Because of my
Guerre, a short novel. Because we study plays in
experiences, books became more than just
much the same way that we study poetry or
words on a piece of paper. As a young child,
novels, the same formula that Aristotle applies
books were a safe place for me to escape to; as
to theatre applies to authors like Jane Austen,
a teenager, they became a way for me to make
Samuel Johnson, or for an example of one of
sense of my world; and as an adult, books were
my personal favorites, Ovid and his
therapeutic. And all of this, of course, brings
Metamorphoses.
me back to Ovid.
By the time they are eighteen years old,
For me, studying Ovid’s Metamorphoses
one in every three women will have
was a form of therapy. Like Aristotle suggests
experienced some sort of sexual assault or
and despite my initial angst upon reading and
harassment. I was not exempt from this
discussing them, I experienced catharsis,
statistic. I was four years old the first time I was
release, and healing while studying the
assaulted and then I was seven the second time.
abduction stories. During the same time that
I remember walking across the street once and
we studied Ovid in school, I was in therapy and
being stopped by a man in his car. He wanted
thus recovery from my own experiences with
my phone number and was disappointed – and
sexual assault. A crucial part to overcoming the
surprised – when I said no. I was thirteen. He
shame that comes along with sexual assault is
was thirty. On top of this, I also experienced a
to voice what happened out loud. I was at the
tumultuous childhood: my parents were
point in my therapy where I had to do that, but
alcoholics and at best, they were neglectful. At
I could not. The words kept getting stuck in my
worst, they were abusive – towards each other
throat. So, to say that the two or three classes
and their children. I remember long nights
we dedicated to the abduction stories was
lying awake praying for the fighting to stop.
difficult is an understatement. By the end of
Sometimes I laid awake wondering if they
my first class, I had to leave school for a few
were coming home at all. To top it off, school
hours. However, upon reflection, I quickly
was not a sanctuary for me either – I was
realized that Ovid offers a unique perspective
bullied by other kids. Trust issues made me
to rape – it is entirely feminine, and he reveals
fear adults and so teachers were not
the women’s perpetrators as barbaric,
confidantes. By the time that I was sixteen, I
regardless that they are gods. Moreover,
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9
the women of his abduction stories –
in her entry – “the small birds are singing, lambs
Proserpina, Ariadne, and Daphne – transform,
bleating, cuckow calling…hens are cackling, flies
by changing themselves physically, from flailing
humming” – are sounds and sights that I
victims to thriving victors. By the end of their
witnessed (Wordsworth 96). It was like Dorothy
stories, they do not identify as rape or abduction
was no longer a figment in my imagination, but
victims: Daphne identifies as the laurel tree,
an old friend standing beside me telling me
Ariadne as a constellation, and Proserpina as the
about her day. Because the travel study brought
“victorious” queen of the underworld – and each
authors to life, I finally understand exactly how
of their transformations symbolize their new
they used their writing as a form of therapy and
identity as a survivor (Ovid. 5.572). It soon
how their own writing acted as a sort of catharsis
became apparent to me that I identified with
for them.
these fictional women. I did not need to be
When I started to consider the authors as
ashamed of my own story or what had
real as their characters, I started to identify with
happened to me. I, too, could undergo a
the authors as well. I sympathized. I felt their
transformation and emerge as a survivor.
pain. While in England, I started to read a
Because I identified with these women, I was
biography about Charles Dickens, another of my
able to release my own tension. By the time I
favourite writers from my youth. Claire
met with my psychologist for my next
Tomalin, writer of Dickens’s story, says that he
appointment, I was able to voice my story
had been observing the world about him
without anxiety or shame.
since he was a child. […] Much of it
I travelled for the first time this year. I
amused him, but more of it upset him:
mean, really travelled. I left the province, I left
the poverty, the hunger, the ignorance,
the continent – I went on the English Literature
and squalor he saw in London, and the
travel study to England. Traveling to England
indifference of the rich and powerful to
helped to demythologize some of my favorite
the condition of the poor and ignorant.
authors. While in England, I had the privilege of
(Tomalin.xlii)
standing in many of the places that some of my
As well as being aware of the discrepancies
favorite authors talk about. For example, the
between the rich and poor within his own
most significant moment of the trip for me
society, Dickens was also subjected to a turbulent
happened at Dove Cottage. I stood in front of
childhood. His father was notoriously terrible
the bench that William and Dorothy
with money and he was constantly gambling it
Wordsworth built together, faced their cottage,
away and leaving him, his siblings, and his
and read a passage from Dorothy’s journal
mother in financially tight situations. Both his
nearly two hundred years to the day later. The
mother and father spent time in debtor’s prison
same sounds and sights that Dorothy describes
for unpaid debts leaving Dickens to live with
10
Ambrosia
family, friends, and acquaintances, and on his
identify with Dickens’s characters, but now that
own to find work. Dickens utilized these
I have walked his footsteps and stood in front
experiences in his writings. Tomlin explains
of the landmarks that he writes about, I find
that “[t]he patterns, structure, and setting of
myself identifying with him more so. No, I will
human lives was the stuff of his novels, and he
not claim to know what it is like to have my
saw the structure and pattern of his own life
parents in jail or to have to raise my siblings on
closely related to place (Tomalin 16). Dickens
my own, but I think that similar to Dickens,
was desperately in love with a woman named
my own personal experiences allow me to
Maria, but the relationship ended. Despite his
cherish and appreciate the written work – and
broken heart, Dickens
myself - on a more intimate level.
“believed that he had felt more
After I graduate, after I spend four years
intensely then than at any time since, so
in the English program, I know that the skills
that even the memory of those intense
that I have acquired and strengthened will
feelings became precious to him, a gold
prove themselves incredibly useful. Literature
standard for love […]. [A]t the same
allows us to look outside of our own pain, our
time, in writing about it in David
own trials and tribulations for just a little while,
Copperfield, [Dickens] allowed David the
and when we come back, we can start to sort
best of all worlds, letting him marry
through some of that mess. Literature has
Dora and then sending her into a
taught me that we are all a mess – and that’s
decline to die young, leaving her
okay. So, if clear communication and empathy
husband heartbroken but also relieved
for another fallen person aren’t enough for
that he has been rescued from his
entrance into a graduate program then I guess
mistake. (Tomlin 46)
McDonald’s will be my go-to job. But, I suspect
Exactly like Aristotle’s theory suggests, Dickens
in a world full of broken people, it might just
used writing as a form of therapy for himself,
be enough to get me through the doors. And I
but he changed the ending for David in much
suspect that Aristotle was on to something long
the same way that he wished he could have
before psychotherapists ever were.
changed the ending for himself. I used to
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11
Sticks and Stones
by Rachel VanderWoude
Sticks and stones may break my bones But words will never hurt me. Yet even though I claim it’s so, ‘Tis words that disconcert me. Sticks and stones may break my skin But tend to heal right over. Cruel words break me within And rarely I recover. Sticks and stones may leave a bruise But that will fade away. Words leave permanent abuse Beneath an “I’m okay.” Exterior me is bluffing, see: “You can’t tear me apart.”
Sticks and stones will break my bones But words will break my heart.
The Abbey
by Daniel Randell
The stone columns rose high overhead, meeting in the middle of the ceiling where divine decoration stretched from one corner to the other. Rich, holy notes filled my ears to overflowing, and I became lost in each word breathed—as if from the mouth of the Father. What could touch me here? Bathed in this hallowed light, I approached the altar with all manner of reverence. Then I felt a drop. Shocking, cold. No sooner had I blinked from the impact of this precipitation, the wind once again howled round my head and I felt the familiar faint footfalls of feet on grass. The monastic rooftop now melted away like molten metal, and the clouds met my gaze—but still, my soul soared within me.
12
Ambrosia
Land Locked
by Erin Clarke
The dark, encompassing blur of a
anyone except him.
murder soared across the unmarred azure
Feet firmly anchored to the ground,
horizon. Underneath, nestled within the startling
beady eyes scanned his surroundings for an
white of a towering birch tree, the black mass
occupation. This limbo had been his existence
within observed with unabashed longing in his
since before the first snowfall, after his fall, and
once bright eyes. Talons clutching his perch to
the extent of his prison was thoroughly and
the point of splintering, he slowly shut his eyes
completely explored. Twice daily, a dish of meat
and craned his neck as far as it would stretch.
dead long enough to make his beak numb would
This high above the ground, with the crisp
be brought to him—but the women in white
spring breeze rustling the leaves encompassing
interested him less than the enclosure did.
his roost, it was easy to recall the sensation of
Today was no exception. Arriving as if on cue,
flight. Of being one with the flock. He conjured
the women in her blindingly bright tunic
the rustling into the beating of wings around
cautiously crept into his enclosure, careful to
him and imagined his comrades beside him.
shut the solid gate behind her. This was nothing
Opening his eyes regretfully after a time, he
new.
realized that the old feelings were now like the
The crow observed with mocking eyes,
flock: gone. Caws ripped from his throat as he
inviting challenge or change. Impulsively, he
was reminded once again of the dead-weight on
bounced forward to slash at her feet. The
his back. For a few, precious moments he had let
resulting shriek and dropping clank were
himself live in the old days, the before. He
enough to send the crow scuttling towards his
cawed again, mournfully this time, as instinctual
choice tree. Skittering up to the lowest branch,
anguish overwhelmed his delicate body.
he smoothed his ruffled feathers and regained
Carefully descending from his perch, he
his composure. Locking eyes with the women
surveyed his compound for any sign of
again, he maintained the connection until she
companionship. The only movement was the
eventually retreated from his domain. Preening
shifting shadows cast by the scarlet mesh
thoughtfully, his sharp mind churned with the
overhead; the foot-long tear in the mesh
events that had just transpired. As focused as he
breaking the pattern above him. The
was on his flight, he had still noticed an almost
encampment of uniform buildings that towered
forgotten sensation: a spark of feeling in his long
ominously over a fourth of his enclosure
dead sides.
remained vacant. He was still alone. What did he
...
expect? The brilliant sky mingled with the gentle breeze provided a cocktail of tantalizing,
The lacuna summer sky arched over the
unanswerable invitations. A day like this was
vast plains that stretched intimidatingly beyond
created for the feathered, for the free. For
what even the crow’s dark, eager eyes could
Ambrosia
13
survey. Talons clutching pale bark tightened
surged towards the compound’s gate. Drawing
their grip as the summer breeze beckoned and
close enough to brush the printed “Lazarus”
pulled at his trembling frame. For better or
brand on the metal, he veered skywards towards
worse he was ready. Following the day that the
the chink in his enclosure’s crimson armour.
semblance of sensation had returned, he trained
Fighting now to propel himself towards the
almost constantly to revive his body. Straining
open gap in the sky, he folded and shot out of
every muscle repetitively, he worked tirelessly
his prison. Becoming more animated as he reac-
to reclaim himself. He had not once been able to
quainted with flight, he soared towards the well-
achieve flight, falling on every attempt. But it
known approaching formation in the sky.
did not matter. It was time. He knew it instinctu-
Meeting him halfway, the murder encir-
ally—without the need for visual confirmation—
cled the crow shrieking their greetings. The
the murder was back.
multitude swarmed, the crow’s enclosure quickly
Slowly, he shut his penitent eyes and
fading into the distance as they traversed as one.
craned his neck as far as it would strain. Gingerly
But, veering off from the deafening throng as
reaching his wings to their full extent, he al-
quickly as he had joined, the crow separated
lowed the familiar longing to fill his heart. He
from the crowd to settle comfortably onto a
was going to be free. With a final shudder, the
stark white poplar. Contentedly, he watched the
crow lunged off his perch. Plummeting, his
flock soar by; frantic, full of discord, and free for
wings stiffly scooped air to level his fall and glide
him to rejoin whenever he desired.
forward. His plunge miraculously broken, he
14
Ambrosia
The Astronaut’s Graduation
by Shonda Kitchen
Take my advice, And follow the trail of a shooting star. It’ll be a brilliant show. And when it digs its rounded grave, On some wounded terra, You'll be glad you were there To mourn it.
And don’t forget to dress warm. It gets a little cold out there In outer space. But most importantly, Don’t forget these words: You mean a lot to me.
Ambrosia
15
List of Contributors Erin Clarke is on a journey, the destination wonderfully unknown. No matter where she wanders, Erin thanks God for her friends, family, and four lovely cats. Jennifer DeBoer-Vandenbroek is an alumna of Calvin College, MI, and Seattle Pacific University, WA, (BFA, ’02). She believes that art should hold the promise of continuation. As a painter, she strives for a balance of realism and mystery, to reflect the realities of the present but also the hopeful anticipation of a bright future. Kevin Ferguson is a lover of poetry and fantasy stories and always has ideas running around in his head that he can't wait to write down. Aside from writing, Kevin is pursuing a degree in psychology at university while using his passion for music to help lead worship at his church. Daniella Jukes is a Behavioral Science student in her third year. She is hoping to study how all forms of art from poetry to painting help us bridge the gap between our experiences and the world around us. Julia Kennedy is an English Literature student at Ambrose University. She is a passionate reader, amateur writer, and a bit of a grammar nerd. In her spare time, she loves exploring Calgary and area with her husband and dog and having conversations with friends over good food. Nick Kennedy enjoys hockey, golf, and making up characters in his free time. He likes making
people laugh and does so full time as a youth pastor in Calgary, Alberta. He is the creative mind behind the Cat and Squirrel comics, which you can find on Instagram. Shonda Kitchen is an English Literature student in her first year at Ambrose University. She fell in love with reading and writing at an early age and has since filled many notebooks with words of her own. After graduation, Shonda would like to publish her own stories in the hopes that they will inspire others to fall in love with words, too. Julia MacArthur is a poet and singer-songwriter who enjoys sharing her love for Jesus. She performs at venues around the city and small towns south of Calgary. You may contact her through her website, www.juliaroarmusic.com. Heather Mack is an English Literature student at Ambrose University in her third year. After graduation, Heather hopes to pursue a graduate degree in counselling and wants to work with survivors of sexual assault. She reads people like a narrative – regardless of where they are in their journey, their story isn’t finished yet. Heather is a creative writer and an avid reader. If she isn’t with a friend (or a stranger) listening to their story, she is off somewhere with her nose in a book: coffee in one hand, and a pen in the other.
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Ambrosia
Willow Pawlak is in her first year of Biology at Ambrose, after twelve years of homeschooling. She has been reading since she could open a book, and writing since she was six. Daniel C. Randell is a student of history and business and an avid reader and writer. He is a lover of English literature, and is both an editor and contributor to the Western Talent & Innovation Review. In his spare time, Daniel enjoys playing music and also maintains a history blog. Rachel VanderWoude is an English Literature major at Ambrose University and hopes to graduate in 2020. She works for the Ambrose Writing Centre as a tutor, ran a magazine of her own, and has a blog (which is updated sporadically at best). Rachel has loved literature and poetry since she was little and is a voracious reader. In her spare time, she might be found playing piano or violin, or else up a tree somewhere enjoying nature.
Ambrosia
17
Recently Published
in the Ambrose Community
Daniel’s Son of Man in Mark: A Redefinition of the Jerusalem Temple and the Formation of a New Covenant Community
Jonson, Shakespeare, and Aristotle on Comedy
By Jonathan Goossen
By Robert S. Snow
Routledge, January 2018
Pickwick Publications, 2016
Summer North ComingWinter North Coming By Dorothy Bentley (author) and Jessica Bromley Bartram (illustrator) Coming Spring 2019 from Fitzhenry and Whiteside