AMBROSIA EDITORIAL TEAM
WEB AND PRODUCTION
Shifra Hetherington
SUBMISSION AND COPY EDITORS
Lucy Graham
Luke Goossen
Esther Lawe
Rafael Baillie
FACULTY ADVISORS MANAGING EDITOR
Dr. Darren Dyck
Dr. Jonathan Goossen
Ambrose University
DESIGN AND LAYOUT
Judah Isaacs Bhutia
Ambrosia Literary Review Volume 4, Issue 1: Fall 2024
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: NASA
Kaili Blackwell
Liam McCallaghan
Shifra Hetherington
Kaili Blackwell
Silvia Todea
BROKEN CLOCKS
Karlie Korthuis
ENDLINGS: PART
Shana Hekman
GOODBYE’S OVER BREAKFAST
Kaili Blackwell
Liam McCallaghan
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Karlie Korthuis
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Colleen Jantzen
Derek Cook HARV
J. Paul Cooper
SONNETS
Darren Dyck
BIRTH OF A MONSTER
Shana Hekman
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Silvia Todea
Shonda Tilitzky
CROSSWORD
Nathan Snow
Shifra Hetherington
Darren Dyck
Nathan Snow
Esther Lawe NICK
Silvia Todea
EDITOR’S NOTE
Shifra Hetherington
“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known” (1 Corinthians 13:12, KJV).
There is some debate among commentators regarding the precise meaning of the above verse. However, we can rest in at least one consensus: Paul’s phrase “through a glass, darkly” refers to something enigmatic, something obscured or undefined like an object seen in a far off mirror or one that appears to stand far behind a mirror itself. When we look through mirrors, these looking glasses, we perceive objects imperfectly because we are looking through an imperfect medium. Similarly, human beings are limited in vision, in speech, in understanding, that is, our knowledge of the future, of divine intent, is not full of meaning. Our worldview is akin to looking at something or contemplating something that we cannot fully see or comprehend because it is slightly obscured. This reality is very different from that of looking at or thinking of things “face to face.” Of course, as Christians, we believe that our present condition, in which our human limitations conceal from us the fullness of things, is temporary: “then shall
I know even as also I am known.” One day, we shall know even the mysteries of ourselves as our Creator has always known them.
To be published in this issue, one did not have to submit something that directly relates to this theme of an obscured vision of reality, or to the idea that we will someday experience that ‘one day.’ However, because our reality as it is now is imperfect, there is a sense that everything we create has a tinge of mystery to it. Consequently, though some works may not connect as obviously with the established theme (or perhaps may not seem to connect at all), I encourage you, dear reader, to search for obscurity, an action that will, in a somewhat contradictory fashion, present you with more meaning than before.
Please enjoy the following works of imperfect artistry depicting the imperfect.
“Through the Looking Glass” by
Karlie Korthuis
A FOOL WITH A HEART
Liam McCallaghan
A fool with a heart, A fool with a brain, Yet they both suffer the same.
A LOVE UNMADE
Shifra Hetherington
There is a boy I know That I'd like to know, But I think he's occupied.
She's got blond hair, A cute style, smile, and study bible, Two necklaces, Accessorized earrings, Rings on every finger, And now he's prone to linger When he talks to her like He's a sponge and she's water.
Or maybe she's the domestic type, Not that I'm not.
I've heard her talk twice About politics and theology, Reasonably, When she could gush about Reality TV like it's real:
I guess she's a keeper.
This one, any boy'll treat her To a good time And a long time,
But it's this one boy, The one I want, that she wants To turn into a man,
And I'm all for that plan
But wish it could happen
With him and me
Because I don't want to see Them become a we, an us, and a one.
I wish he was done With her like a good meal That he can never eat again Cause he's allergic.
Oh well.
Scraping off leftovers
To do the dishes
Water will drain down the sink
When there's no stopper, But I guess No one's going to stop her From soaking him
With those quirks that he likes To think he likes.
Fine. We all like things, But that doesn't mean forever.
I like that for real fare
There's a castle in the air
My dream pilot flies to, But up close it's a gravestone in lieu Of scorched feelings because Cold, nonliving things have no heat, Have no ability to repeat Criminal offences because They have no ability to start because Initiation comes before resuscitation.
Because. Listen.
There is a boy I know That I'd like to know
As a man as a person as mine But can't, it seems, So understand It's bland, bland, bland Out here in this world Of him and me
That's actually an R.I.P. To a love that was never made Because of a heart raid With blonde waves, indie favs, And a watermelon coffee daze.
A QUESTION FOR MY MOTHER
Kaili Blackwell
When you say you love me is it because of what you see? Or is it only for everything you expect me to become? - I am more than your projections
A SUNNY DAY
Silvia Todea
I try to be a minimalist To cut down unnecessary noise I don’t multitask well, or handle information overload
Very well, it’s just a species feature that I can’t see or hear what my dog does— We filter things. We all do it.
I could make a bust out of my head’s impression in the sand if I wasn’t clutching little grains in my holey hands—I realized long ago that holding the ocean won’t work, though it could easily eat me.
Every person is an icon I won’t click Lest I overheat.
Infinity’s a frankly absurd word, flying beyond what we could ever be. Just looking at the sky for too long makes me dizzy.
From within a bubble wrap cabin I hear you muffling something I can sort of halfway see.
Silvia Todea
When the palace of padding rips, A single sunbeam causes burns of the third degree—
But when the sun is suddenly holding everything, the couch, the TV, the you, the me
It holds it all. It’s not so small.
We sing a silly riddle: Behold! Be Held! We model the mold to meld.
Silvia Todea
BROKEN CLOCKS
Karlie Korthuis
Why are broken clocks so frightening?
Is it the notion that time—
The thing that binds us—
Can be frozen?
To know that something can infect the old adage tempus edax rerum
So that there is a greater devourer
Consuming the cadences Of heartbeats?
Our transience
Known with our fear and expectancy
Bows to a higher unknown god.
Karlie
ENDLINGS: PART ONE
Shana Hekman
The light of the eternal dawn pierced Ada's eyes as soon as the rolling lid of the pod peeled back, even before she'd had a chance to open her eyes. She winced, rubbing at her face as she sat up, squinting into the bright-dark lines of the room beyond. “Chi? What time is it?”
Chi chimed brightly, almost before Ada was done speaking. “Good morning, Ada! The time is currently 3:52 AM by the local ship clock. The system year is 2752, day seven of month Dekta. How was your sleep?”
“Grueling,” Ada said with a yawn. Visions of wrenches and wiring and mainframe data danced before her eyes. “Power levels?”
“Currently at approximately eighty-eight percent,” Chi said. “Will that be satisfactory?”
“It better be,” Ada muttered under her breath. She slid out of the pod, shivering as her bare feet hit the cool metal floor. “Make sure the suits are prepped, Chi,” she said. “I'm going to grab a nutribar and get started.”
“An optimal pod refresh schedule should include a shower as well,” Chi advised. “The gel used for stabilization must be properly rinsed or you may develop a reaction to it and be ineligible for intubation again.”
Ada hesitated. “The power levels—”
“The power levels should be unaffected as long as your shower does not exceed forty-one minutes and twenty-seven seconds,” Chi said.
Ada huffed out a short laugh. “Well, in that case…”
She showered quickly and efficiently, taking as little time in the communal stalls as possible. The row of vacant stalls felt almost hauntingly empty. She put on the first clean jumpsuit she found, rolling up the overlarge sleeves to her elbows. Her shoes were right where she'd left them, beside the stool under the counter. She dragged the stool out so she could use the sink, standing on her tiptoes to eye her reflection in the mirror. She tugged curiously at her locks of brown hair, which now extended past her waist. “Chi,” she called. “Why does my hair grow, but not me?”
“The explanation for pod intubation mechanics is somewhat long and complex,” Chi said. “I can upload that information into your next session if you'd like?”
“Don't bother,” Ada brushed it off. “It's not that important.” She pulled her hair back with one hand and groped towards the inset crew baskets beside her with the other. “Chi, do you know where I left the scissors?”
“Many parents hide scissors from their twelve-year-old children so as to avoid them cutting their hair in a fit of teenage rebellion.” Chi's voice issued cheerfully from the speaker inset in the corner of the ceiling. Ada stuck her tongue out in its direction.
“Chi! You know I'm not really twelve anymore. Tell me!”
The speakers crackled in Chi's imitation of a laugh. “That was my way of informing you that you had left the scissors in Mistress Augusta’s drawer, little one.”
A wave of mixed emotions crashed over Ada. For a second, she froze, one hand still holding her hair in a loose ponytail behind her head, the other supporting her weight on the wall of baskets beside her. I'm not actually twelve, she reminded herself sternly. I will not cry. Not now. She breathed until the pickling in her eyes faded into impotent heat, and she could palm open her mother’s drawer without falling apart. “I'm going to need so much therapy when all this is over,” she mumbled.
“I could upload a therapist series into your next—” Chi started to offer.
“No,” Ada said quickly. “Not like that. It's fine. I'm fine. I can handle it for as long as I need to.”
“If you say so, Ada,” Chi said gently.
The scissors were sitting on top of a pile of assorted toiletries, and she scooped them out as quickly as possible to avoid lingering. “I'm fine,” she repeated grimly, and sliced through her hair with ruthless abandon. With her hair now swaying free at her ears, she coiled the loose ponytail around her wrist and tossed it into the covered basket on the end of the counter, where it joined seven other locks of the same shade and length. No point in wasting power on disposal if it wouldn't bother anyone while it sat. The scissors she threw down on the counter for now. She would find a
new spot for them later. Maybe.
“Alright, Chi,” she said, snagging a nutribar from the dispenser in the hall and stuffing half of it in her mouth while she spoke. “Checklist time. What's the rundown?”
“Battery reserves are draining at a rate of thirty units per daycycle,” Chi replied promptly. “That is approximately fourteen percent faster than last runtime. All systems are functioning normally except for shields, navigation, acceleration, and atmospheric thrusters. Raw material reserves are at approximately forty-seven percent. Material printers are running at seventy-two percent efficiency.”
“Have you tried the radio yet?” Ada turned down the chromepaneled hall leading to the cockpit. Her footsteps echoed hauntingly down the strangely empty hall.
“All radio frequencies have been hailed to no effect,” Chi answered. “There has been no sign of activity during the last downtime. Have you tried your personal comm yet?”
Ada wrinkled her nose and shoved the last chunk of nutribar in her mouth instead of replying. The sensors beeped as they registered her approach, but the cockpit doors caught halfway open, crunching on debris lodged in the track. She slammed the doors open the rest of the way with her hip and slid into the nearest chair, spinning it idly while the hovers creaked and struggled to engage.
“Ada?” Chi prompted as the silence stretched on.
“Mebjroakfj,” she mumbled from around her mouthful.
“Ada,” Chi chided.
Ada swallowed and sighed, screwing her face up in protest. “It's so quiet, Chi,” she said, hating the childish whine in her voice, but unable to help it.
“I know, Ada,” Chi said softly. “You can skip this run if you'd like. The likelihood of a response is less than two percent, so—”
“No, I'm fine. I'll do it,” Ada snapped. Somehow, Chi's sympathetic tone was worse than her whining.
“Ada—”
“It's fine.”
Chi fell blessedly silent, and Aja closed her eyes, focusing on the implants she knew were tucked away against her skull. There was a soft chime inside her head as she connected. The sound of no contacts found. No people to connect to.
She choked back the lump in her throat and opened her eyes. “Nothing,” she said shortly. “There’s nobody here.” She jabbed at the console display, poking the button repeatedly until the display screens unfolded. “How’re the repairs we did last time holding up?”
“The patches on the fuel tank and tubing systems seem to be holding up well,” Chi said, sounding as relieved as Ada felt to be moving on to a different topic. “There is a twenty percent chance
of leakage on the starboard reservoir, if you would like to go over that again with a new welding job.”
“If I got time,” Ada said distractedly, opening up layers of blueprints on the display before her until the screen looked like a jumbled mass of coloured lines. “If the physical structures are doing alright, it might be time to start looking into the computer systems though. See what’s going on with the wiring in there.” She looked up at the speakers as she spoke, even though Chi didn’t actually have anything important there to make eye contact with. Sometimes she thought about putting a pair of googly eyes up there just so she could feel like she was talking to another person. “Can you tell if the programs are alright, or will they need to be redone as well?”
“I cannot access my own programming,” Chi said apologetically. “They will have to be run before I can diagnose any problems.”
“That’s fine,” Ada sighed. “I expected as much.” She zoomed in on the wiring blueprint, eyeing how the coloured cords overlapped and divided at the corners. “Where’s the access again?”
It was outside, of course. Everything important seemed to be accessed from out there. Ada sighed and went to go find a working suit.
“Remember to turn on your suit comm,” Chi advised as Ada activated the airlock.
“I got it, Mom,” Ada called sarcastically. She rolled her eyes as she slammed her fist down on the button, closing the airlock door behind her. “I’ve only done this, what, a couple hundred times by
now?” she continued as the timer clicked on.
“Eighty percent of casualties in space occur when habituation to schedules occurs,” Chi replied calmly.
Ada scowled, but turned on her suit comm.
The wiring access port was located halfway between the airlock door and the nose of the ship. Ada clung to the handles evenly spaced along the metal paneling, straining to reach the next handhold with her too-short arms. The tether would bring her back to the airlock if she slipped, but she didn’t want to have to make this ‘walk’ again. “Chi,” she groaned after her fingers only barely managed to reach the next handle, for the millionth time. “Can’t we set the pod to let me grow a little next time?”
“Growth while in a state of suspended stasis is ill-advised,” Chi said. “The confines of the pod and stabilization gel can result in damage to growing limbs and dangerously restrict your joints. Side-effects could include temporary or permanent paralysis, broken bones, damaged—”
“Alright, alright, I get it!” Ada hastily cut Chi off. “No growing, fine. I’ll just be too short to reach these handles forever.” She instinctively kicked her legs as she floated forward through the gravity-less void of space, though the movement did little to support her forward motion. The access port was just two handholds ahead, and she strained to grasp and pull herself forward as quickly as possible. There was a wrench hooked onto the belt of her suit, and she used it to pry open the paneling and frowned down at the tangle of wires inside.
She’d looked at the diagrams of the wiring in past cycles, and it had appeared nothing more than tangled nonsense to her. Now, her hand curled confidently around a mass of yellow and red cords, sorting the frayed ends out from the knotted tangle and matching them to their mates in pairs. The wires were truly in an awful state, with disconnected ends contorted and wrapped around bundles in completely the wrong sections. She wondered how the damage had occurred. The outer hull of the ship had appeared to be intact, so the wiring must have been maliciously destroyed from the inside. There was no access large enough from the interior to destroy all the wires. This was the work of multiple people, all hacking and slashing and melting the wires from five or six different places within the ship, leaving scorch marks on the paneling and buckling the metal over the holes until there was no way the wires would ever be able to be repaired from the inside.
Ada shivered, closing her fist around a long purple wire, mostly undamaged. She bit her lip, focusing her mind on the sharp twinge of pain, and not the desperate, consuming anger and sorrow which threatened to overwhelm her senses. Implanted ‘memories’ from her past years of sleep rose up in her mind, and she found her hands moving almost by instinct, grouping wires in one hand and roughly connecting them in groups, leaving them hooked together before coming back with the welding tool to solder them in one piece. Chi remained silent as she worked. The only sounds in Ada’s ears were the crackle and hiss of the oxygen feed from her suit, the endless static from radio waves screaming silently into the darkness of space. She clicked her tongue as she snapped the access panel back in place, a mimicry of the sound the metal should have made as it melded back against the side of the ship.
“That’s the wires done,” she said, breaking the cloud of silence
which had settled over her as she worked. “Now I should see what I can do about the programs.” She tucked her tools back into her belt and strained to turn herself around to grasp the handles again, hauling herself back to the airlock.
“You should see to your own personal care first,” Chi advised. “You have been outside the ship for four hours and thirty-six minutes.”
“I just need some water, and I’ll be fine,” Ada protested.
“Personal care,” Chi insisted, and Ada had to comply. She stored her suit in the closet next to the airlock, knowing she would forget where she’d left it and search all over the ship the next time she needed it anyway, and used the personal facilities before picking up another nutribar and a bottle of water on her way back up to the cockpit.
“Have you tested the programs yet?” she asked as she chased down the last bite of nutribar with a gulp of water. It tasted fresh and faintly sweet on her tongue, delightfully cooled to just a few degrees below room temperature. It was good that the water tanks and recyclers hadn’t been damaged; even if she was able to repair them, she had no idea how they could have been refilled, motionless in the dead stillness of space.
“They just finished running now,” Chi reported. “Navigation systems are functioning normally, but the local files for maps and locations are corrupted. Long-distance communication, engines, and shields are all down, and movement cannot be attempted until all physical and digital structures are repaired as well.”
“Long-distance communication is definitely our top priority,” Ada mused, pulling up the relevant files on the display screens in front of her. “Engines and movement after that, of course.”
“I would also advise moving map data to a high level of priority,” Chi advised. “Movement will be difficult to attempt without a higher level of understanding what is around us than eyes can see.”
Ada squinted at the jumbled mass of code on the screen, familiar words laid out in lines of what may as well have been sheer nonsense. “Chi, I don’t know where to start,” she said, rising worry making her voice high-pitched and shaky. “It all looks so confusing! How can I even tell what’s wrong?”
“Take a deep breath,” Chi said, coming instantly to her aid. “Close the screen—it’s okay, you can open it again later. Close it for now. Focus on your breathing.”
Ada took in a shaky breath, screwing her eyes closed and pulling her knees up to her chest. “Chi, I don’t know what to do.”
“You’ve spent years learning exactly how to handle this. Just let the thoughts come to you.”
Hot tears filled Ada’s eyes, and she scrubbed roughly at them with the back of her hand. “Chi, I want a hug,” she sobbed. “I want my mom. I want my mom to hug me!”
“I know, Ada.” Chi said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry she’s not here to hug you right now.”
Ada pressed her face against the back of her knees and sobbed, letting the tears flow. Her hands tightened into fists, pulling her legs tightly up against her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, pretending it was someone else standing behind her, someone else giving her a warm and loving embrace.
But there was no one else there. It was just her, alone.
Her chest heaving with ragged breaths, she wiped her eyes and tried to focus back on the screen in front of her. “I’m sorry, Chi,” she whispered. “I’ll get back to work now.”
“It’s okay to be sad, Ada,” Chi said gently. “I’m sorry I cannot hug you right now.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” Ada reached out to bring up the display again and paused, looking at her hands hovering over the screen. Her long fingers, skinny and stretched out against the holographic shimmer of the display. The scar on the back of her hand, from falling on a broken chair when she was very young. “I’m glad you’re here to talk to me,” she said suddenly. “That helps a lot.”
Chi was uncharacteristically silent before answering. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Taking another deep breath, Ada turned her attention back to the screen. She brought up the display for the maps, then after a bit of digging through the system, the long-distance communication. She looked again at the strings of code, and pointedly did not think of how strange and confusing they looked, how unintelligible the words, and just let her mind empty. Unbidden, the collected knowledge rose up in her mind, the information fed directly to her
brain over decades and decades of cryo-sleep. She knew what the code meant; she understood how it was supposed to look, and after a brief scan of both the programs, could see all the places where it was garbled and broken. “The map data looks simpler to correct,” she said after a few minutes of examination. “I think all I need to do for that is update it from a backup. It might be a little out of date but no worse than our current isolation would have caused anyway. I can do that first, and then take a better look at the communication programs. I think we’re missing some of the equipment it's trying to use, and I might need to repair a bunch of physical structures before I can even attempt to go over the code again.”
“I do not believe the backups were damaged,” Chi confirmed. “That would be a sensible course of action. I am very proud of you, Ada, for being able to assimilate the information and analyze it so quickly.”
Heat burned Ada’s cheeks. “Chi!” she protested. Flustered, she searched for words, but could find nothing more meaningful than a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure, Ada. I know your parents would feel the same if they could see you today.”
“That would mean a lot of things are different,” Ada murmured softly. She stared quietly past the display for a moment, wishing for the potential future that she could picture in her mind. She shook herself back to awareness with a sigh and turned her attention back to the screens. “Let me just restore the maps quickly, and then we can get started on the rest.”
END OF PART ONE
TO BE CONTINUED
GOODBYE’S OVER BREAKFAST
Kaili Blackwell
That Waffle House sign still flickers in my dreamsyellow neon bleeding through rain-streaked windows, that burnt-out letter U a void where you should have been.
I was only thirteen when you chose that place to tell me I had to become the man of the house.
Plastic booth. Coffee gone cold. Your suitcase waiting in the car.
Who tells their son goodbye forever over waffles?
Who makes a child carry the weight of a family between bites of pancakes? The syrup turned bitter in my mouth.
I now watch my daughter sleeping, her nightlight casting gentle shadows nothing like that harsh neon glare that has tattooed itself behind my eyes.
I want to give her everything you never thought to give usbut your abandonment lives in me. A yellow warning sign constantly blinks: not good enough, not good enough.
How can I expect myself to be a good father when all I recall of fatherhood is an empty booth in a twenty-four-hour diner. the endless buzz of a sign that keeps burning long after you drove away.
Sometimes I catch myself searching for your face in my mirror, but all I see is that yellow light, teaching me everything I refuse to bea lesson learned past my bedtime about expectations left unmet; over cooling coffee and promises gone cold
HARV 137 J. Paul Cooper
There was nothing unusual about how Gerald’s workday began; he went to his locker, put on his orange and yellow highvisibility vest, and completed the daily safety checklist on Forklift 7. But when he turned on the computer tablet mounted on his forklift, he was surprised to find a message waiting for him, “Report to Boardroom 2 at 3:30 PM.” He wondered why they wanted to see him in the boardroom; he hadn’t been late for a shift in two years, he was up to date on his annual safety training, and there were no complaints about his productivity.
Boardroom 2, where the meeting was scheduled, was neutral ground between management and workers, with a door at one end opening to the warehouse, and a door at the other end opening to the administrative section. Although Gerald was curious, there was no reason to worry, the meeting would probably entail a safety video or an update on the annual cost-of-living increase. The year before they had received a 1.5 raise, not a huge amount, but better than nothing.
The day proceeded as usual; Gerald and the other three Order Pickers, Alex, Janice, and Sandra, drove through the aisles placing items from shelves onto pallets, building loads. Completed loads were wrapped in transparent plastic by machines and moved to loading doors by automated forklifts.
Although many tasks were automated, picking orders was still a human task; if UPC labels were ripped and couldn’t be scanned, the product codes had to be entered manually using the computer
tablets. And so far, robots didn’t have the dexterity to handle small, fragile packages without damaging them.
While Gerald and his human co-workers continued to pick orders, four new robots arrived. No one paid much attention to the new machines, as they stood in charging stations. The robots would probably be assigned to the far end of the warehouse, where boxes were sorted on conveyor belts.
Parking his forklift near the lunchroom, Gerald paused for a moment, staring at the new arrivals. Were they waiting? Did they sense the passage of time? How long would a robot wait until it became irritated? Could it become bored by repetitive tasks? Gerald shrugged. He didn’t have time to think about questions he couldn’t answer; he only had fifteen minutes before the buzzer announced his coffee break was over.
Gerald entered the lunchroom and took a seat at a table next to Alex. Moments later, as Alex described his audacious plans to solve the world’s problems, Gerald was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. In a corner of the lunchroom, a robot waited passively in its charging station. After the shift ended, it would clean the lunchroom, the administrative offices, and all the bathrooms. Gerald wondered…was it listening to Alex’s monologue? Did it resent cleaning toilets soiled by humans? More questions that couldn’t be answered.
As scheduled, a half-hour before the end of his shift, Gerald walked to Boardroom 2 entering through the warehouse door. As he took a seat at the table, Alex and the other two pickers also arrived.
A smiling Face appeared on a large monitor mounted on the wall at the end of the conference table. “Thank you for joining me. We have some important issues to discuss. Let me begin by making
it perfectly clear that the company appreciates all your years of hard work.”
“Are we being laid-off?” Janice asked. “If this is about the pay increase,” Alex said, “I’ll gladly give it up to keep my job.”
“The decision has already been made,” replied the Face. Hearing the robots leaving their charging stations, Gerald and the other Order Pickers turned to watch the new machines walk toward the four parked forklifts. One with HARV137 written across its back made its way to Forklift 7.
“Those machines are taking our jobs!” Alex yelled. He stared at the robots driving the forklifts toward the picking aisles.
“Picking orders,” the Face replied, “is a repetitive task that can cause repetitive strain injuries. The company is giving you the freedom to find more interesting, safer opportunities. I will provide you with a list of government sponsored retraining programs to help you make the transition.”
“And what if we can’t make the transition?” asked Gerald.
The face tilted to one side. “I can’t answer hypothetical questions.”
“You can’t treat us like this,” Janice said. “We’ve given the company years of our lives.”
“And the company is making every effort to show its appreciation for your dedication,” the Face replied, “on the table before you are copies of generous severance packages.”
“Why aren’t we talking to a human being?” Sandra demanded.
“Because,” the Face replied, “decisions always have an impact on the lives of employees; someone has just bought a house, another is expecting a child, a daughter has just started university, a son participates in minor hockey… I’m not
J. Paul Cooper |
overwhelmed by a sense of false guilt, so the company relies on me to make logical, necessary choices. I make decisions based on facts, not emotions.”
“You are not an ‘I’; you are an ‘it,’” Sandra said.
The Face frowned. “Anti-AI discrimination is not tolerated by the company.”
Sandra laughed. “Why should I care what the company wants? I won’t be working for the company after today!”
“If you’re laid off,” replied the Face, “you receive a severance package, and your medical and dental benefits will continue for six months while you’re searching for alternative employment. If you’re fired, you don’t get anything.”
Sandra glanced at the other Order Pickers. Alex shrugged. “You can’t win.”
Sandra looked back at the Face. “My apologies. It was an unintended outburst caused by emotional stress and the shock of losing my job.”
“Apology accepted,” replied the Face. “Don’t let it happen again, or there will be consequences.”
“What will the Shipping Supervisor do?” Alex asked. “He’s our boss, and there won’t be any humans left to supervise.”
“I will be monitoring warehouse operations,” replied the Face. “He was informed of the change in his status earlier today.”
“When does our ‘change in status’ take effect?” asked Gerald.
“Immediately,” answered the Face.
“So, all we have to do is clear out our lockers,” Janice said.
“Security is taking care of that as we speak,” replied the Face. “Your personal effects will be placed in labelled boxes, waiting for you at the main entrance.”
A few minutes later Gerald and the other former Order
J. Paul Cooper | 26
Pickers stood in the employee parking lot. He looked at the three people who had been his co-workers. “Robots are driving our forklifts, robots emptied our lockers, and smiling AI just told us our jobs have ended.”
“So, I guess that’s the robot apocalypse,” Alex said.
Janice shook her head. “More like a digital invasion. They took over without even firing a shot.”
Sandra forced a smile. “Well, we’ve known each other for at least six years. Let’s have one last meal together before we go home.”
“That’s a good idea,” Janice agreed.
“Does anyone know of a restaurant where the servers are still human?” asked Gerald.
The four remained silent.
I AM LIAM’S AUTISM
Kaili Blackwell
I am his morning routine, His homework timer, His guide through the maze of life’s choicesWhat to eat, what to wear, When to speak, when to stay silent. But I am more than that too.
I gift him focus, intelligence, driveI am his superpower. He is a magnificent whale, while I am his fins slicing through deep waters, I am his mighty tail propelling him forward, I am his protective blubber keeping him warm,
yet he still resents me. He dreams of swimming with guppies, but we do not belong in their tank. I struggle to read their darting signals, their flickering expressions, heir hidden meanings.
How does a fifteen-year-old navigate such narrow waters? When is laughter invitation, when is it mockery? When is silence comfortable, when is it wrong? So many unwritten rules, so many expectations. They dance like sunlight on waves, always just out of reach. He wants to shed me like old skin, Become small, ordinary, accepted. But I am not his cage.
I am Liam's Autism, I make him different, I make him extraordinary. Let the guppies stare
At our magnificent size, Our graceful solitude, Our powerful purpose.
We will swim these waters together, In depths they dare not explore. Together we are Different, defiant, divine.
I ASK, WHAT IS HELL?
Liam McCallaghan
I ask, what is hell? Is it that we fail to love? Or a loveless void?
LOVE
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
I never thought that Love could live in me: My soul a spineless, sunken, sordid flea. My heart was twisted, rotten, ash-made greed. My mind a hole - dark, deep, dominion freed. And Love was not that sickened, saddened girl. Nor was it man: demented, dark, impure. It couldn’t be obsession tainted whims. Or self proclaiming, “I will pay my sins.”
But Love was Light that flooded all my life: Love heard my nightmares and ne’erending strife.
Gave comfort, wisdom, sound advice to cope. Renewed, refreshed, and reaped a newfound hope. A touch, a breath, one step of faith on water: Undeserving, I became a daughter.
RAIN
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Him and I swayed through the night, As the clouds above us rolled.
With thunderous music and beautiful light, The storm flirted, pushed, and pulled.
Pulled and pushed by cheeky wind ‘Cross towering trees and stones, We danced and dipped and swayed away All worries and unknowns.
And in their jealousy
Those towering ladies ruffled their delicate leaves. And those glittering stones on the ground alone Wished for such felicity.
Then empty clouds dispersed the stars Across the darkened sky. As shimm’ring torrents faded to dusk, Giving way for sad goodbyes.
Faint and quiet, he dropped my hand When moonbeams came to shine.
And so till next time, I will miss you. Rain, oh Rain, of mine.
SELKIE
Karlie Korthuis
A child sits along the wind-shaped coast And asks her mother about the Selkies below.
“Beneath the glassy waves,” her mother begins, “Swim the grey-skinned Fair Folk. They are brought forth into the sea And remain there for a time, But soon start to wish to join humanity on the surface.
While creatures like Mermaids and Fae May go through miraculous transformation, The Selkies are fated for the grotesque. With sharp stones and jagged shells, The Selkies skin themselves alive, Wrapping their mutilated bodies in their bloodied sheddings.
Now, there is a misconception Of the grey-skinned Fair Folk.
Some will tell you that the Selkies do this for love, Flaying their visage into something familiar So that their hidden skins are found And their lives bound To the man who claimed them.
But the Selkie is not tearing her flesh apart, Limbs heaving in agony, To experience the love of a person. It is also not to become human, For it is clear that humanity was inside all along, Buried beneath sleek silver pelts And fins speckled with salt. Why does she feel the need to shed the outside to prove what is already there?
Could she not keep both parts of herself?
For the Selkies,
Karlie Korthuis
Who crawl up the bank
Fingernails clawed into the sand, Blood in their eyes, Cries in their throats, It is for the one thing they are always denied:
Not to be human, But only to pass as one.
SNOW
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Back when the leaves were buds that grew, All I could think about was you.
Back when the sky was full of rain, Of storm, of lightning, I in vain Remembered you: your eyes, your laugh; How you complete my other half.
And when the sun was violent rays, I pleaded long for better days. The heat scorched scars into my heart. And all that time we were apart, I longed for your sweet, chilled embrace, For your sharp kisses on my face.
Then as the leaves did end their fall, As nature heeded your soft call, As all those wings began their flight, As days became bereft of light, I realized, soon, you’ll come and grow, And I’ll still love you when you go.
But then you came and then you went. The joy I felt was freely spent. Your visit quick, short, as I feared. You parted and you disappeared. Now you are so, so far away. Oh how I wish that you could stay.
THE WAY
Colleen Jantzen
Looking back
It all seemed so clear
Easy even
To follow the plan
So I
Did the right things
Said the right things
Sang the right things
Read the right things
Prayed the right things
Thought the right things
Watched the right things
Listened to the right things
3 points
7 habits
10 steps
The Right Things
We all agreed (Right?)
Peering ahead though
Not
So Much
Oh Light the path
Bright One Light the path For me
Step by step and Hold my hand
Light the path For me
Lights To My North
By Judah Bhutia
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
Derek Cook
in the beginning you came to us tongue-tied as a stammering moses you moved not in the courts of the eloquent but babbled incoherently so they thought you were drunk
but some did listen then knowing there are many languages spoken still among the unschooled rough on the streets
and how is it we hear you now in those stilted words of woundedness, fluent among the damaged, tongues swollen with the grief of all that is precious, torn and squandered, clenching their souls at the dull edge of pain where beauty begins and those who can still hear look up:
they have heard you babbling in their own tongues like fire murmuring blessed, blessed, blessed are you.
WHAT IS MARRIAGE?
Wanda Bitangcol
A contract of two wills, For that which binds is bound within. None can reinforce its terms, Not one without, not one within, But two—two wills that come to terms.
ELECTRICITY SONNETS
An Introduction
Darren Dyck
In April 2022, at the Humanities Year-End Barbecue, at the Goossen homestead, the Ambrose Humanities summer sonnetwriting competition was first proposed. The theme that year was simple, concrete, unassuming: ants. In the spring of 2023, a new theme was announced, this time in the Snow family room: electricity! (Is it possible there was talk of the endless electrical work performed by Dr. Snow in order to get his hot tub to finally work? Perhaps.)
If “sonnet” is an inexplicable concept to you, the term designates a 14-line 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 the throbbing of an electrical transformer?
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. Electricity, 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 light to darkness. There is obviously beauty in bringing light to darkness; there is even beauty in trying to. Below are some illuminating attempts.
BIRTH OF A MONSTER
Shana Hekman
To bind a sinewed hand to fleshless bone
A choice of muscle, limb, or nerve to build
My head a fevered shell, all dark, alone
A flesh of alabaster ivory to guild
A legacy of thought and genius undefined
To create flesh of flesh and bone of earth
The greatest call for man of scientific mind
Have I made resurrection, or another birth?
The last parts found, the body all assembled
It lacks but one design, the spark of life
I place each limb just so, my hands a-tremble
My greatest achievement, my future strife
The lights all spark and crack, my moment has arrived
Electricity shot through every vein, it screams, "I'm alive!"
BURNT OUT
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
One day, somehow, something switched in my heart: A yellow wire began to glitch; began To hitch; began to unstitch. Unstitch apart Other wires that fixed, fizzed, fired and ran Along the skel’ton framework of my mind. My thoughts then hung my hope with one red cord; Unsoldered, shocked, singed, scorched, and tore; then twined With yellow tape to distract from all the gore. And I remained tormented there alone. Hung only by that crimson thread and tape. Wondering to myself: Who will now atone? Is this electrocution my set fate?
Yet, there appeared a Light besides my strife, That reignited hope for love and life.
“FROM HIS LOOK WILL I STEAL, BUT THERE HE’LL STEAL”
Shifra Hetherington
From his look will I steal, but there he’ll steal
Mine int’rest for the better thief is he:
This man with eyes — what eyes! — that do reveal The late unprotected pulse within me, Not yet undone but moribund as it, With the rhythm of a lie, tries to beat.
O, silly girl at silly feat, make quit
The maxim of next interactions sweet: Tremble not if once caught in a look full strange, Nor wonder “if ‘twas mine eye or mind’s eye”
That through an airy tunnel did arrange Love sparks to fly between you and Mr. Guy. If thievery begins a relation, So begins the end of affiliation.
HOME RENOVATIONS
Darren Dyck
A man called Roy, who’s dead and buried, or His boy—one Ron or Shawn—or maybe Marge, His relict-wife, has threatened spark of war— Not with alarums but a covert charge Of alternating circuitry: HOT WIRE!
Inaptly pig-tailed, sirenic menace, Denuded of dry-wall (a modest attire), Tempting to touch that it might condemn us To fire. But the line to this inferno Isn’t laid with ill intent. The Tomas didn’t Know us; they’re just people, found on Facebook, Who lived in our house—a family, you know, With a dad they lost, who, once existent, Enlivened a home—a spark God gave, and took.
LUTHER
Esther Lawe
The blasting arc from nature once did sound
Like tinsel in the sky, will pierce the air
Occasion feels the beat to touch the ground
From looks that one can see, it seems quite fair
Yet underneath the face of pretty colour
The tinsel that is fair is also sharp And pilgrimers that spy this beauty wonder May come to know reality as stark
And one specific innocent alone
Traversed the road despite the gath’ring cloud
This tinsel struck the ground, through sky had flown And struck with fear, the man cried out aloud:
“Pray, spare my life, my God, and I will pledge, To be a monk, and never will I gledge!”
NICK THE ELECTRICIAN
Silvia Todea
The electrician Nick, he went to school
To understand the way electrons flow
He thought that it would be so very cool
To know what we mere mortals do not know
Like eels, he holds together different wires Like Zeus, they spit out electricity And of this dangerous work he never tires Cuz once again, he’s not like you or me
Instead, he’s got the gods all envious And in a way, he’s every Night Owl’s muse
Gives light at night just like Prometheus And powers all the things we like to use
So everyone, let’s raise a toast to Nick Remember him with every switch you flick
THE DRIVER
Silvia Todea
Your body’s an electric vehicle
All nerves that make your muscles move around
And H2O, of which you’re mostly full, Gives lightning a great way to get to ground
One day the eel that lives up in the sky
Sent lightning shocks right through me, unprovoked “Some free convulsive therapy!” I cried I must admit to you that I was stoked
I flopped like salmon on the soft cement
My thoughts in fireworks I’d never seen I felt my heart turn off and on again
A factory reset, a brand-new screen
And when I woke I felt my heartstrings pull
My body a new type of vehicle
THE PULSE
Shonda Tilitzky
Electricity is like that strange gift Prometheus gave to humanity: Enlightening our minds, our eyes, to lift Our souls and claim that rationality So peculiar to ourselves. A flash of Brill’ance, and we can disobey the night. Messages of hate – and also of love –Some to shock, some to soothe – oh what delight In the speed of light. A tap, a zap, and We can conjure the images of us. They say if you see lightning, do not stand Beneath the tree; find shelter, and lose trust. Still, the heart’s small, shocking pulse beats onward Though we, electrified clay, run wayward.
HISTORY FACULTY CROSSWORD
Nathan Snow
This is a puzzle in appreciation for the History Faculty of Ambrose University. Each professor has a hint that relates to their area of specialty. Good luck! 17Across is likely _________ [45A]. I would say 27-Across is probably ________ [15A]. There's a good chance that 48-Across is _________ [44D]. And 64 could be ________ [69A].
Go to the end of the magazine for the solved crossword
BIOs
Arianna Padron-Hernandez
Arianna Padron-Hernandez is in her final year of her Bachelor of Arts in English Literature. She is a great fan of the works of Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, and most recently the sonnets of Charlotte Turner Smith. Arianna spends her free time writing poetry, reading, baking, and hanging out with her eccentric friends and family.
Colleen Jantzen
Colleen Jantzen is a poet, preacher, chaplain, mentor, and caregiver who typically writes on themes like the natural world, grief and memory, and calling the church to be kinder.
Darren Dyck
Darren Dyck has been given only two sentences by the managing editor of Ambrosia to say who he is; to quote Tom Bombadil: “Don’t you know my name yet? That’s the only answer.”
Derek Cook
Derek Cook serves as the Director of the Canadian Poverty Institute at Ambrose University. Originally from Waterloo County in Ontario, he has made his home in Calgary for the past 30 years along with his wonderful wife and daughter.
Esther Lawe
Esther Lawe is a second year Ambrose English student minoring in dance. She has an addiction to mini highland cows and will always take a coffee. She loves to write in ways that inspire imagination and provoke thought.
J. Paul Cooper
J. Paul Cooper's short stories, articles and essays have been published in literary journals, anthologies, magazines and newspapers. His screenplay, "A Sure Thing," advanced to the quarterfinals in the 2024 Final Draft/Big Break screenwriting competition.
Kaili Blackwell
Kaili Blackwell is a third-year English undergraduate student who grew up in Utah before relocating to Canada after her younger brother's autism diagnosis. She plans to pursue a degree in Education after completing her current studies at Ambrose University.
Karlie Korthuis
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.
Liam McCallaghan
Liam McCallaghan is a third year Ambrose History student who loves philosophy, the book of Ecclesiastes, and Tolkien. He wants to create worlds where ideas can be explored and stories told.
Nathan Snow
Nathan made a puzzle. It was fun to make, and it should be even more fun to complete. If you can’t solve it, either because it is impossible or simply too challenging to complete, then Nathan didn’t make it. It was Luke. Luke Goossen made it. It would be best if you blamed Luke. Luke did it. It was not Nathan. It was Luke.
Shifra Hetherington
Shifra Hetherington is in her final year at Ambrose, graduating in the spring with a BA in English and a minor in dance. Apart from editing, she reads profusely, writes sporadically (whenever her muse decides to strike her with creative inspiration), and perambulates often.
Shana Hekman
Shana Hekman is an English major at Ambrose University. She loves writing while listening to music.
Silvia Todea
Silvia Todea is a writer, editor, and Ambrose alum who is devoted to the 3 Rs of reading, running, and (w)riting.
Shonda Tilitzky
Shonda is an alumna of Ambrose University, with a BA in English Literature and a minor in Christian Studies. She is passionate about all things literature and theology related, and relishes the connections between the two disciplines. She is a writer, editor, wife, and coffee enthusiast. Shonda writes about her musings at https://shondatilitzky.substack.com/.
Wanda Bitangcol
WandaBitangcolisawriterinlove—inlovewith,andinspiredby,the beautyoftheminutiaeoftheeveryday.
HISTORY FACULTY CROSSWORD [SOLVED]
Nathan Snow
Nathan Snow