Literary Review AMBROSIA
HOME.
EDITORIALTEAM Ambrosia
ManagingEditor
AlexisKupidy
Submissionand
CopyEditors
MicaelBittle
EstherLawe
ShaunaManson
CordeliaMilner
FacultyAdvisor
Dr.DarrenDyck
Weband
Contents TABLEOF
BackyardDownyWoodpecker
Allan Thacker
ValentineDressedintheColorsof Home
Shiva Seifi
TheGirlIOnceWas
Shiva Seifi
PainisaPointeShoe
Tianna Hardman
UnderHisThumb
Wanda Bitangcol-Yu
SailingOffintotheDirtyLaundry
Wanda Bitangcol-Yu
TheJourneyfor LocusAmoenus
Micael Bittle
DriedRoses.
Kristal Kelly
Chenoo
Basil Hollaway
Jamie’sSketchoftheChenoo BasilHollaway
GreatChromeRome JosiahCullen
Polypropylene JosiahCullen
HaveYou? EstherLawe Painted LucyGraham WhereisHome? EmilyCartwright ItWasWarmer AlexisKupidy Bios
EDITORSNote
Ten years ago, if you asked me what home meant to me, I might have said something like: “home is where the walls of my room are purple, my laundry has been folded for me, and where a hot dinner is waiting for me on the dining table ”To me, home was just a place
The older I became, the more I began to understand that home was less so where I was and it was more so who I was with. In total, I’ve lived in eight houses; eventually, those purple walls that I had loved so dearly didn’t surround my room any longer. What I did have, though, was my family. A mom who still folded my laundry and put it on my bed, a dad who cooked us dinner every night while listening to music in the kitchen, and a sister who both delighted and grieved me in various ways each and every day Home became people
The years continued to go by and I, unfortunately, began to realize what a cruel place the world could be It’s a world where you are let down, abandoned, humiliated, and rejected It's a world where you get hurt and others get hurt by you And after years of fallen tears, empty tissue boxes, and drained cups of tea, I finally understood that there was no place like home I would rather feel hurt within. No other place I would rather cry than in my bed, no other door I would rather slam in teenage fury than my own, and no other shower I would rather blast sad music whilst inside of Home was something that could take all my hurt and hold me tight as I worked through it.
Hurt wasn’t the only thing I experienced at home At home there were also kitchen dance parties, sugar-buzzed movie nights, and dinner times where my family and I were equally out of breath from making jokes at my mom’s expense (she’s fine, don’t worry). Joy, sadness, excitement, frustration, and love were and are found in my home Home isn’t just a place or a person, home is somewhere where I am always free to be imperfectly me I’m blessed to have a home, and people who make it feel that way. It’s often chaotic, but it’s mine, and I wouldn’t have it any other way
Thank you to the Ambrosia team for their hard work and dedication Thank you to Professor Dyck, Ambrosia’s faculty advisor. And a special thank you to all the writers, photographers, and artists who submitted pieces for this edition Without futher ado, please enjoy the Winter 2026 edition of the Ambrosia Literary review
MANAGINGEDITOR
“THEACHEFOR HOMELIVESIN US,THESAFE PLACEWHERE WECANGOAND NOTBE QUESTIONED.”
~MAYA ANGELOU
BackyardDownyWoodpecker
AllanThacker
ValentineDressedintheColorsofHome ShivaSeifi
“EverycornerofIranismyhome
Itsgoodanditsbadbothbelongtome.”-Ferdowsi
Isawhimsittingrightacrossthetablefromme.Istillrememberhiswidebrowneyesinhis unmistakablyPersianface.Whitepeoplecalledhisskintonebrown,eventhoughitwaslight. Thenose,theeyes,theshort,wavyblackhairstyledwithgelandtheblackstubble,itwasall screamingPersiantome.AndIknewIcouldrecognizeaPersianfaceanytimeIsawone.
HischarmandcharismaremindedmeoftheheroesIusedtoreadaboutinShahnameh stories,ashewastall,classicallymasculine,withalionandsunnecklaceonhischest,which madehimlookalmostmythical Iwasawareofhispoliticalviews Inhim,IcouldseeKaveh theblacksmith,raisingaflagandcallingforjusticeinthestreetsforthemanylostlives,or RostamslayingtheWhiteDemontorestoretheKing.Hewastrulyabeauty,amasterpiece thathadbeenbrokenintopiecesbytheverysoilthatraisedhim
Hetoldmehestillhadlashscarsalloverhisback.Hesaidheenjoyedthecompanyofalcohol toomuchtogiveitupforanything,andthatwaswhatmadehimfleehome.Iknewverywell thatundertheIslamicRepublic,thepenaltyfordrinkingwineisforty-eightlashes.Aftertwo arrests,thethirdcanmeandeath Hetoldmehehadanopenfile,buthefledbeforethingsgot ugly.
Itriedtocheerhimup,soIlaughedandtoldhimaboutanexaggeratedGreekhistoryrecord onPersians,saying,“Well,Achaemenidswereknowntobeheavywinedrinkers!So,Iguessit runsinyourblood.”Irememberhimlaughing,buthedidn'tsayanything.Hetookaslowdrag fromthehookahandpassedittome “Idon’tsmoke,”Isaid,smiling.
“What?Why?”
“I’marevolutionarywoman,remember?”
Hesmirked.“Morelikearevolutionaryharemwoman.”
Ashortintroorkickerofthearticlewillgohere. Thispartactsasabridgebetweentheheadlineandthearticleitself.
Ilaughed,andasIstaredattheglasshookah,mychildhoodbackhomestoodinfrontofme
Istillrememberthatnightsowell,whentherewasahookahoneverytableinarestaurant andourfamilyorderedthreehookahs,andacoupleofyoungboys,allcousinsofmy mother,startedsmoking,andmyaunttoldmethatitisnotladylikeforagirltosmoke. Myauntwasclassy;shewastallandslimbutcouldpulloffhighheels.
Shealwaysworeafullfaceofmakeupwithboldlipsticks,withhersix-inch-highheels alwaysmatchingherclothes.Shedidn'twearherhijabproperly,andneverfullycovered herhair
Shetoldmethatherdreamwastobecomeamodel,butunfortunately,shewasinIran livingundertheIslamicRegime,whichdemandedstrictrulesonwomen'swardrobe. Growingupbackhome,Iwatchedmyauntbeingabusedbysocietyforheredgylooks. Eveninprofessionalsettings,noonehiredherforanyjobbecauseofherstyle,soshe endedupmakingherownprivateaccountingcompany.
Irememberthatgrowingup,Iadmiredherforherresistanceandresilience,andIhave neversmokedhookahinmylife,becauseofmyaunt.
“Doyoulikehistory?”hesaid.
“Ithinkyouarereferringtothe1891Tobaccoprotest,”Isaid,“althoughIdonotlikeyour referencebecausethatprotestmadeanentireshiftinpower,sinceitwasthefirststrike, whentheclergydefiedaking,andledpeopleinprotestagainstthemonarch.Youknowthe clergywhodidtheexactsamethingin1979,andruinedourhome?”
Tryingtodefendhimself,hesaid,“IonlymadethatreferencebecauseinmodernPersian history,itwasthefirstprotestledbywomen,andyouareawomanwhocamefrom CalgarytoTorontoalone!Youarrivedthismorningjusttobeatarallytodayandwillbe flyingbacktoCalgarytonightinacoupleofhours.”
Therallywashappeningacrosscontinents,inToronto,LosAngeles,Munich,andincities oftheworldforthosewhocouldnottravel.ItwasaglobalactofsolidarityonFebruary 14th,Valentine’sDay,awayofsendinglovetothosewhohadbeenkilledamonthagoback home.Ilookedathimandrealizedhewasright.Ihadflownacrossprovincesforacountry Inolongerlivedin.Ihadmemorizeditsmyths,defendeditshistory,inheriteditswounds. EveninCanada,mypulsequickenedatthesoundofitsname
HomewasnotwhereIsleptthatnight.
Homewastherally.
Homewasthescarsonhisback.
Homewasmyauntinsix-inchheelsrefusingtodisappear
“Icouldn’tmissthisrally,”Isaid.“Notafterwhathappened.”Thehardestthingisthatin frontofCanadiansIamexpectedtoactlikeI'mfine,asifmyhomelandwereasquietand orderlyasthesnowoutside,untouchedbybloodshedcarriedoutinthenameoffaith.
“Yeah,”hesaidsoftly.“Ican’tunseethevideoscomingfromhometoo.Allthosevoices stuckinmyhead.Howdoyouunseeabodybag?”Hepaused.“Howdoyousleepafter that?”
“Ididn’tshowmyfacefordays,”Isaid.“Ididn’twantpeopletoknowIhadbeencrying.I didn’twanttocryinfrontofthem.Ididn’twanttheirsympathy.Ididn’twanttotranslate mygriefintosomethingdigestible.Somethingsaretooheavytoexplaintothosewhohave neverwatchedtheirhomelandbleed.”
“Well,”hesaidwithahalf-smile,“I’maman,soIdidn’tcry.ButIalsodidn’tshowupforalot ofthings.”
“Really?Youdidn’tcry?You’rethattough?”
Helaughed,surrendering.“Okay.Icriedtoo.”
“Theworstpart,”Isaid,“waspeopleembarrassingmeorlaughingbehindmybackwhenI neededcondolencesthemost.”
Helookedup.“Wait…really?”
“Yeah.Iguessthegoodthingabouthardtimesisthatyoulearnwhoyourfriendsare,and whotheyaren’t”
“That’strue,”hesaid.
Iopenedthemenuandorderedacocktail.Heorderedabeer.Themomentthewaitress walkedaway,hesmiled.
“So,”hesaid,teasing,“youlikealcoholtoo?”
“Notasmuchasyoudo,”Ireplied,laughing Helaughedtoo
“So,what’syourstory?”heasked.“Itoldyoumine.Youhaven’ttoldmeyours.”
Therewasamomentofsilencebetweenus.Istaredatthehookah.Thescentofappleand mint
roseintheair,carryingmebacktoweekendnightsonChamranBoulevardinShiraz, wherepeoplespunthehotcoalsandsetthehookahsinmotion Thereweresomany liningsontheboulevardthatdrivingthroughitfeltlikeinhalingpureoxygenlacedwiththe perfumeofdoubleapplesmoke.BackathomeinShiraz,everyweekendIbeggedmy parentstotakemetoChamranBoulevard,asthecitywouldgatherthere,forithadlotsof treesandmanyrestaurants.IalwayswantedtodrivebyitsoIcouldrolldownthewindow andenjoythecrowd,whileitsscentbecamepartofmyirresistiblechildhoodmemories.
Andnowhewasasking:HowdidIloseallthat?WhathadItradedthemfor?AndIwasn't surehowtoanswerthat Hisquestiondidn’tjustaskforabiography;ittuggedatathreadI hadtriednottopull.IrememberedthatbackhomeinIranevenuniversitiesbreathe politics.Everyfouryearsaftertheelectionwhenpowershifted,sodidpositions.Myfather, aprofessorinShiraz,learnedtosurvivebetweenfactions Ineverlikedmyfatherforwhat heputmethrough,butashisdaughterIhadtosurvivewithhim.
Igrewupmasteringsilence.Ilearnedwhichwordsweresafeandwhichweredangerous.I learnedhowtoshrinkopinionsuntiltheyfitinsidepoliteconversations.Breathingfeltlike negotiation.MywaysoflivinghadtoappealtoIslamicRegimeideology;itwasneverabout mypersonalvalues,andalthoughthisappliestomostIranians,forme,duetomyfather’s position,itwasstricterandmoreintense.
Sometimessocietyaskedtoomuchofme,likethetimeIhadtopretendIdidn'tknowmy ownuncleinpublic,becausehewasanatheistman.So,Icouldn’tshakehishandwithout lookingaroundtomakesurenoonepaidattentiontous.OrwhenIhadtostaysilent duringtheGreenMovementin2009,whenafterstudentprotestslotsofuniversitieswere undertheattackofIRGC,andmanystudentswerearrestedandkilled.
Someofthosestudentsweretakingcourseswithmyfather,andalthoughmyfatherhad takenmetohislecturessometimes,still,Ihadtostaysilent Icouldn’tevenshowanysign ofgrieforcompassion;IhadtoactasifIhadnohumanitywithinme.
InthehouseholdwhereIgrewup,itwasalmostimpossiblefortheHolySpirittodwelland saveone'ssoul,asifChrist'shandscouldneverreachtograbme Inthathouse,faithfelt distant,asifsalvationweresomethingreservedforotherlives,othercountries.Iusedto wonderwhethergracecouldcrossborders.
WhenmyfatherleftIranforasabbaticalinCanada,everythingshifted.InCanada,Ibegan tobemyselfandlivemorevisibly.IpursuedChristopenly.Iworeasmallgoldcrossaround myneck.
Ievengotbaptizedlater.
Thenmyfatherhadtotravelbackhomeformattersrelatedtowork.Amonghiscolleagues, therewasaprofessorthatIknewwhoseinfluenceextendedbeyondlecturehalls.People saidhehadconnections.Somesaidhewasagovernmentspy.Othersloweredtheirvoices whentheyspokeabouthim.Besideshisreputation,Ialsoknewhimandhisfamily personally,andhetoldmeoncethathehadanAmericangreencard.Theironyisthathe hadthatcard,yethisdevotionlayfirmlywithagovernmentthatencouragedpeopleto chant“DownwiththeUSA,”everyyear
Oneafternoon,heshowedmyfathersomethingonhisphone.Itwasaphotoofme.
AselfieIhadpostedonmyprivateInstagrampage,asmallgoldcrossrestingagainstmy collarbone Heheldthescreentowardmyfatherasifpresentingevidence
“YourdaughterseemsveryinvestedinChristianity,”hesaid.
Myfathertriedtodeflect.HesaidIwascopyingHollywoodfashion.Thatmycrosswas trendy,anditmeantnothing Butitdidnothelp,becausenotlongafter,myfatherlosthis positionattheuniversity,andhewasnolongeraprofessor.HedidnotbelieveinJesus,but heboretheconsequencesofmyfaith.Foryears,Iwonderedhowmyselfiepostedinmy privateaccountendeduponthatman'spersonalphone!Foryears,Icarriedthetrauma,the feelingofbeingwatched,asiftherewasnotasinglecorneronthisearthwhereIcouldlive inpeace,andforyears,Ifeltbetrayed
WhenIwasinelementaryschool,welearnedapoemthatsaid:
“EverycornerofIranismyhome. Itsgoodanditsbadbothbelongtome”
Iusedtodrawlittleheartsaroundthewords“Iran”and“home,”butinCanada,afterwhat happened,Ibeganrewritingthelineinmynotebooksrepeatedly.Thistime,insteadof hearts,Iwoulddrawalinethrough“ismyhome”andwrite,“isnotmyhome,”soitlooked like:
EverycornerofIranisnotmyhome.
Ifeltbetrayedbyalovedone.IfeltbetrayedbymyhomebecauseitcouldnotacceptwhoI was.ThisexperiencemademedistantfromthePersiancommunityforyears,asIcouldn’t trustanyonearoundme
“Well,IamaChristian,”Isaid.
“That’sit?”
“Well,that,”Isaid,“andthatIstudyChristianityattheUniversitylevel” “So,it’syourdegree?Wait…areyouamonk?”
“No!”Isaid“DoIlooklikeanuntoyou?I’mnotCatholic.”
Hegrinned.“Idon’tknow…maybeyou’reanuninprogress.” Ilaughed.“Godhelpme.”
Helaughedtoo,butthenhepaused.“Wait!”hesaid,“yourcrimeisworsethanmine.You couldbekilledforthis.”
“Well,”Isaid,“Ididn’tfleeanopencaselikeyoudid.So,Ithinkyoursisstillworse.”
IrememberatimewhenabunchofCanadianChristiansquestionedmyfaithinChrist, andIreferredtotheideaofmartyrdom,somethingthattosomeextentappliestome,to clearlyshowhowdevotedIamtoChrist.TheyquestionedmyintentionoffollowingChrist, andthentheyaskedmethatevenifIhavegivenmylifeforChrist,whatmakesmethink thatIamenoughtoservehim?Theyevenlabeledmeascrazyordesperate.
ThefunnythingaboutChristianslikethatisthattheyaresocomfortableintheirfaiththat theyhaveforgottenthatChristianitybeginswithmartyrdom,withthewillingnesstobear witnessevenuntodeath,followingChristwhogaveuphissafetysothatothersmighthave life.
AnotherfunnythingaboutthesetypesofChristiansisthatiftheyfigureoutyouarefrom theeast,thefirstthingtheythinkofisheresyandtheOrthodoxChurch,theythinkabout ArianismandtheythinkthatyoudonotbelieveintheTrinity,orthatyourformofbeliefin theTrinitymustbetwistedinsomeway.ThoughIhaveneverassociatedmyselfwiththe OrthodoxChurch,forwhateverreasonIamalwaysassociatedbyothers.
AndhowharditistocallCanadahomewhenImustdealwithacrowdlikethis.Iamtoo ChristianforIranians,yettooIranianforChristians
“CheerstoIranbeingourValentinetoday,”hesaidasheliftedhisbeerbottleasifitwerea toastandaprayeratonce.
CheerstoIranbeingourValentinetoday.AndIunderstoodsomethingthen.Valentinesare notalwaysgentle Sometimestheywoundyou Sometimestheybetrayyou Sometimesthey forceyoutoleave.Butyoudonotstoplovingthem.Ihadcrossedoutthewords“ismyhome” somanytimesinmynotebooks.YetonthatFebruarynight,inacityfarfromShiraz, chantingitsnameinthecold,IrealizedIhadnevertrulyerasedit.
Homehadwoundedme.
Homehadbetrayedme
Homehadforgedmeintoexile.
Andstill,homewasmineandbothitsgoodanditsbadbelongedtome.
“Cheers,”Isaid,asIliftedmyglass,andtheyclinkedwhentheytouched.Thebittersweet tasteofthecocktail,itssweetnesstryingtohidethesharpnessofthevodka,waslikemy ownlife;itmightlooksweetfromtheoutside,yettherearepartsthatremainbitteronmy tongue.Iamthe persecutedchildofIran,andstillmyloveforhomestretchesbeyondtheangerofthatbitter betrayal.
IcouldcrywitheverytearthatfallsfromIran’seyes.
Icouldbleedwitheverywound
Icouldgrievewitheverygrief.
Thesedays,IfeelthepainofeverybulletthatpiercesIran’sbody,eventhoughIamfar fromhomeandnoneofthemhastouchedme.AndthatwaswhenIknewIstilllovedit, bitter,butsweet.
Idrankthecocktailfastandsaid,“Ishouldgo;itwasnicemeetingyou!”
“Already?”
“Yeah,I’vegottobeintheairporttwohoursbeforemyflight”
“WillIseeyouagain?”
“Maybe.Youknow,IlikeTorontoalot,maybeI’llvisitagain.”
“Soit’snotgoodbye;I’llseeyouthen.”
AsItookataxitotheairport,stoodinlonglines,andwaitedatthegate,Icouldn’thelp thinkingaboutthelongdayI’dhad.Icouldn’tstopadoringmyvalentinedressedinthe colorsofgreen,whiteandred
AsIfoundmyseatontheairplane,Icheckedmysmartwatchtoputitinairplanemode, andnoticedthatIhadtaken10,672stepsfortheloveofhome.Isatinmyseat,grabbedmy smalljournalfrommybagasIdidn’twanttoforgetanydetail,andIwrote:
Feb.14,2026
Deardiary, Thisyear,IranwasmyValentine…
TheGirlIOnceWas
ShivaSeifi
Location:HaftBarmLakes,FarsProvince,Iran
Date:July8,2016
PainisaPointeShoe TiannaHardman
Abandoned,dusty,tuckedaway
Reminenceofmypotentialondisplay. Tattered,old,withafadinghue, Laughingatme,mypinkpointeshoe
UnderHisThumb WandaBitangcol-Yu
UnderhisthumbistheplaceIcallhome.
Myhomeisheavyandfirm;Icantravelwithinfivekilometresofmyhome.Anyfartheris questionedbyauthority,theauthorityofhim.
Hisauthoritystates,notverballybutimplied,thatanytravelbeyondtheperimeteroffive kilometresisunnecessary,unwarranted,un-desirable.
“Formyprotection,”hesays Ofcourse,thatiswhataffectionlookslike Itlookslike protection,ofcourse.
Evenpasswords–knowingmypasswordspassesforprotection.Whoknowswhenhe mightneedtoseemyphonemessages.See,formyownprotection.
Underhisthumbismyprovision.Provisiontoeat,todress,tolive.Idonotwork,notin theconventionalmode.Myworkisnotwork,accordingtohim,notverballybutimplied. Childrenarenotwork;theyarelivingbreathinghumansthatareexpectedtobecared forbytheirmotherwhilehegoesofftowork.
Heloveswork therefore,Itoo,mustlovemine
“Ido.”“Ido.”Thosefourwordsplacemeheretoday.
Iamhappy.Happyunderhisthumb.
WhereelsewouldIlive?Ihaveneverthoughtofanyplaceotherthanhere.
WhywouldI?
Weddedat23, Thenstraighttoliveunderhisthumb,secureinhiscare.
I’veknownnootherlife,nootheradultlifethanthis.
Asmythreekidsgetolder,notmucholder,butoldenough,theybegintoquestionourlife underhisthumb
Ineverquestionit.
Ienforceit Heisright.Wearewrong.
Apologize Thatistheonlywaytopeace
Peace…let’shaveit,please.
Iamanintelligentgirl yet, Familiaritycanoverruleintelligence.
Tobeintelligentrequirestheactionof“tobe.”Withouttheaction,“intelligent”isjusta word,aconcept,anadjective.
IfIwere“tobe”intelligent,thatrequiresaskingquestions.
Andquestionsareano.
Answersare“no”
Angryface,silentlooks.Mustnotangerwithquestionmarks.Mustnotmakehisthumb thatmuchheavier.
Heavyishisthumb.
WhocareswhatIfeel.Notimetofeel.Mustwashdishes,ironhisshirts.
Bereadywhenheis,inallways,inhisways,always.
Makesurenooneisinhisway,especiallythechildren.
Idon’tthinktheylikelivingunderhisthumb,butwhatcanbedone?
Noonecares.Noonewouldbelieve.Noonewouldact.
Aworkingman?Noonequestions.
Heisdoinghisduty,billsarepaid,foodisprovided
WhenIdostarttoquestion,Icallforhelp.
“Isheslittingyourthroat?”myfatherasksoverthephone.
“Isheslittingyourthroat?”myfatherasksagain.
“No.”
“Thenyoustay,”saysmyfather “Youstay”
Thatnightafterthecall,Iremindmyself, “Idon’tmindthethumb.Ineverdid.”
Mymotherlivedunderthethumbtoo,myfather’sthumb,andnevercomplainedaboutit.
Whycomplainaboutabeautifulhome?
Ahomeisagoodthing
Ahomeisprotection.
Withoutthethumb,ahandcan’tfullyprotectitself,atleastnotsuccessfullywithoutit.
Thefourofuscouldn’tprotectourselveswithouthisthumb,atleastnotsuccessfully withoutit.
ButcouldWElivewithoutit?
“Couldwe?”Iaskmyself.
Couldwelivewithoutit?
Butwhatwouldwedowithoutit?
CouldIgetoverit?Notlivingunderit?Underhisthumb?
CouldIstartover?
ShouldIstarttothinkitover?
“No.”
Ihearthatitissaferlivingunderhisthumb.
Atleast,that’swhathesaystome,notverballybutimplied, Andaffectionlookslikeprotection,doesn’tit,
Under His Thumb?
SailingOffintotheDirtyLaundry WandaBitangcol-Yu
Thereisnosailingoffintothesunset, Onlysailingoffintothedirtylaundry.
Forafterdaysofdatesandgoingtofancyplaces, It’sthedirtylaundrythatwillawaityou
Wait–doesthatmeanthatafterweeks
Andmonthsofsweetlycourting, Therewillbeyearsandyears Ofsourmornings?
Therewillbenightsoflove Laidwithpassionateromance, Butatthefootofthebed, Soiledsocksandunderpants.
Forthatisthejourney
Forloverswhosail
Wherethepersistentprevail.
Hoistthesailandprepare, Forwhenthewindisfair, Gazeupontheken, Ofdirtyunderwear.
TheJourneyforLocusAmoenus MicaelBittle
LocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace. Oftenusedtodefinelandscape, Hasbeenchargedtodefinemyescape. Myroomismyhome AplaceIgotobealone. LocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace.
LocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace. Aplacefilledwithmemories, Somewheretoputmymindatease. Wallsfullofjoyandsadness; Booksandclothesthrownastrewn,causingmadness LocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace.
LocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace. Adornedwithmusicanddecorsobright. Theyserenademegentlyintothatsweetnight. HereIsitincomposition, Writingofmylifelongmission OfLocusAmoenus.Pleasantplace.
It’sbeen10years andIthinkaboutyoustill: thewillowtree andthefrogsinthepond, thesmellofcinnamon andburnttoast.
It’sbeen6years andIthinkaboutyoustill: thesecretlake andflowersinthegarden, thescentoffirewood andrustlingofleaves.
It’sbeen6months andIthinkaboutyoustill: thesoundofbirds andawarmpotoftea, themorningsunrise andbouquetsofdriedroses.
Ithinkaboutyoustill whenIshedatear, andineveryjoy, mymindremembers: Ithinkaboutyoustill.
DriedRoses. KristalKelly
BasilHollaway
Jamie’snewTeslawasnomatchforaFoxCreekblizzard.At-37°C,theworldwasa whitevoiduntiladark,antleredsilhouettesuddenlyappearedinhisheadlights. Jamieslammedonthebrakes,butthecarslid,crashingintothefigureand crushingthefrontofhiscar.Whentheringinginhisearsfaded,Jamiesteppedout intotheragingwindandsnow.Therewasnomoose,nodeer,justanemptyroad andthehowlingofthewind
Jamiedecidedtoabandonhisdeadvehicleandtrekkedtowardhisdestination:his father’sranchhouse;hewasnotfarnow.Everystepthroughtheknee-deepsnow driftsfeltlikepenancefortheyearshe’dspentextratimeinhisofficeindowntown Calgaryratherthanspendingthattimewithhisfamily.AsJamienetworkedand chasedpromotions,heisolatedhimselffromhisfamily.Nowastheranchcameinto sight,Jamie’slawyer’svoiceechoedinhishead:Thecourtdeclaresyourfatheris presumeddead You’veinheritedtheranch
Thehousewasafrozentomb.Jamiefumbledwithhisphonelightsincethepower wasout.Thebeamcutthroughthedarkness,illuminatingroomsheneverthought he’dseeagain.Lookingintothekitchen,herememberedthedayhisfather disownedhimforchoosingalifeandcareerinthecityratherthantakingovertheir family’sranch.Jamieturnedhislightintothelivingroom,andalsorememberedall thestorieshismotherwouldtellhimbythefireplaceasachildbeforeshepassed.
Needingwarmth,Jamiesteppedbackoutside,towardsthewoodshed,toget suppliesforafire.Itwasdarknow,andthewindandfallingsnowstillblewhard.As hewalked,Jamieheardaterriblehowlcutthroughthewind,jaggedandcold Itwas nowolfcry.NowJamiecouldseethesamesilhouettefromearlier;asitcamecloser, hisphonelightlandedonatoweringnightmare.Afamished-lookinghumanfigure stoodbeforehim,skinpulledtightagainststretchedlimbs,withantlerssprouting fromitshead.Itsfacewasaruinofmissingflesh,withnonoseandnolips.Itslong hair,whichwaswhippinginthewind,obscureditsfacejustalittle,yettheeyes wereunmistakable.Itwasthefaceofthemanwhohaddisownedhim,hisfather!
Jamiewashorrifiedandfrozeninshock Hewaslookingatacreaturefromoneof hismother’sstories,somethinghethoughttobejustalegend:aChenoo.Bitterness andisolationhadfrozenhisfather’sheart,drivinghimintothewoodsand transforminghimintoaneight-foot-tallcannibalisticmonster!
TheChenoobellowedwhiletakingastepforward.Jamiesnappedtohissensesand ranbacktothehouse.Onceinside,Jamie’seyesdartedtohisfather’sshotgun abovethefireplacemantle.Buthestopped.Inthatmoment,hesawhisownlife reflectedinthemonsterhisfatherhadbecome.Jamiesawthathewastravelling downthesamepathofselfishnessandisolationthathadalreadywoundedhis relationshipwithhiswifeanddaughter.
Insteadoftheshotgun,Jamiegrabbedawoodenchair,smashingitagainstthefloor.He rippedpagesfromoldbooks,tossingitallintothefireplace,andthenhestrucka match.Astheflamestookhold,thefrost-cakedhorrorfilledthedoorway,itspresence sendingachilldownJamie’sspine.
Jamiestilldidnotreachfortheshotgun;hestoodtherebythegrowingwarmthofthe fireandlookedintotheChenoo'seyes:hisfather’seyes
“Iforgiveyoufather,”Jamiewhispered.Hereachedoutahand,gesturingtheChenooto joinhimbythewarmthofthefire.
UndertheweightofJamie’sgrace,theChenoostartedweeping.Asitcalmedintoasob, itsicyheartmeltedintoslush.Inthatmoment,itsbodyshatteredlikeice,leaving behindashivering,elderlymanhuddledonthefloor:Jamie’sfather.
Jamiekneltdown,wrappinghisfatherinahug,andbroughthimclosertothewarmth ofthefire.Thisfinallyendedtheselfishnessandisolationthathadnearlyconsumed themboth.
GreatChromeRome
JosiahCullen
GreatChromeRome, sitsawaitingthosewhoroam. Goldensunandicyrime, makelongtheway,throughspaceandtime. City'swarmthmeltswaxytears andmoldstheirformtomade-newyears.
Whatisthisplacethatbeatsbacknight?
Thattakesallwrongsandmakesthemright?
OnlybutthefinestplaceIknow, theeternalhome,freefromwoe.
HeresitstheLordofHosts, Father,Son,andHolyGhost.
Three-in-One,sourceofhope, loveandgraceandhomeevoke.
Polypropylene JosiahCullen
Wine-darkpastasauceflowslikemilk andbleedslikehoney,designedtostainour greatestTupperware;Polypropylene. Adullredringaround,frescoedupon, Mom’sbestTupperware;Polypropylene. Thefamilycrest,ourgreatesttapestry, nowsaucy,boastsofaproudandlonghistory ofschoollunches,roadtrips,andfunerals.
Nowitiscrimson,untilitbreaksor islostinsomeraggedybagordarkcave orsomeneglectedlocker. Whenitisfound,itwillbetossed,floating aroundtheGreatPacificGarbagePatch. Holdingtogether,Mom’sfavoriteTupperware isPolypropylene–nowaneternalstain.
Polypropylenewilltrydecay,rot, andrecyclingtoriditsstark,bloodredsaucestain,forever; Whenaquickandtimelyrinsewouldhave savedit.
EstherLawe
“I’madopted”isafunnysentencebecausethosetwoseeminglysimplewordsevokea largespectrumofreactions.
Youcouldgetan:“ohmigosh,I’msosorry!”.
Maybeanawkwardsilence.Anervouslaugh.
Mypersonalfavouriteiswhensomeoneautomaticallysays,“Oh,that’snice!”and thenimmediatelybacktracksandfranticallyrunstheirmouthattemptingto apologizebecause“thattotallycameoutwrong.”Thisisthefunniestforme.Maybe notforthem.
Here’sthething:‘home’isaweirdconceptforme.Notalien,nottaboo,not“let’s walkoneggshellsaroundEstherbecauseshemightbiteifwemention‘family’” It’sjustcomplicated.
Ihavemanyhomes,andeachoneissafe.
Forme,homeisseveralpeople,afewplaces,andonefaith.
Andsometimes,whatwasoncehomeatonepointintimeisnolongerhomenow.
Ihaveahomehere,atschool,butitisfoundwiththepeopleandnottheplace.Ihave ahomethere,inanotherprovince,butitisfoundintheplaceandnotthepeople And Ihaveahomewithbothpeopleandplace.
WhenIwasborn,IwasnotgiventhehomeIwouldhavehad Iwashandedahome completelydifferent.Iwouldnothaveitanyotherway,butpiecesofmyheartstill restinthehomeIhavebyblood.Thisiswhathappenswhensomethingbecomes yourhome.
Evennow,myheartachesformybirthfamily,withwhomIhavenotiestobylaw. TheyareapartofwhatIconstitute‘home’,evenifIdonotlivewiththem.
Inthesamebreath,myadoptivefamilyisalsohome.TheyarewhoIcalleveryweek tolaughandcrywith.TheyarewhoItellmyfunnystoriesto.TheyarewhoItravelto onbreaks.MyfatherhassetthehighestexampleofwhataGodlymanshouldbe, andmymotheraGodlywoman Mysistermaydrivemeupthewall,butsheholds moreofmyheartthansheknows.
Everyonetalksaboutchildhoodfriends,andIhaveonewhostuckwithmethrough thickandthinforsomanyyearsthatevenwehavelostcount.Sheisalsomyhome. Butsometimespeopleforgetaboutthefriendsyoufindlaterinlife:friendswho savedyoufrommorethantheyknow.Friendswhodidn’tevenknowtheimpactthey had,andprobablystilldon’tbecauseyou’veneverreallybeenopenaboutit.
Ihavethemhere,andneveroncehaveIeverquestionedtheirloveandloyalty.AndI havethemthere,agroupofpeopleIneverinamillionyearswouldhaveguessedwould completelychangethecourseofmylife.
AndIhaveher Andit’sbyGod’sgracethatshesteppedthroughthethresholdofmy heartwhenIquitefranklywouldnothavesurvivedwithouther.Afriendshiplikethat comesonlyahandfulofmomentsinalifetime.
Homeisaplace,andhomeismyGod.ButmyGodplacedmeindifferenthomes throughoutmylifesothatIcouldthriveintheplacesIwasplantedin.
IhavehadhomesIhavehadtosaygoodbyeto:homesIneverthoughtwouldclosetheir doorstome Ihavehadhomesthatbecamedustywithdisuseorbrokenwithmisuse, eveniftheloveisstillhangingon.IhavehadhomeswhereIrealizedthatIneededto leave,becausemycandle,whichwastheonlysourceoflight,hadburntout.Andyet, Hewasfaithful.
Homeforme,althoughitisphysicallyoneplacefaraway,ismorethanabuilding.Itis people,peoplewhoholdsomethingprecioustome.Peoplewhoaresomething precioustome
HowmanytimeshaveItakenitforgranted,complainingaboutthecoldwhenmy homewastheonlythingshelteringmefromtherain?
HowmanytimeshaveIignoredmystrongandstablehomebecauseIwasdistractedby ashackinthedistancethatIcouldneverhave,butsimplywantbecauseIdon’thaveit?
Howmanytimeshaveyou?
Painted LucyGraham
Uncutedges,rolledonstreaks,dry-eddrips,andspacklingcreeps; Paintedpuddles,sandedthin;ceilingsstreakedwithmislaidplans. Witheachowner,choicesnew, Witheachlayer,coloursgrew
From“fifteenhundredsquaredfeet,”tomicroslessaswallsgrewdeep. Thecolourslayered,onebyone,thewallsdisplaythetimethat’sspan.
It’stheChestnut,Cashmere,SpringBouquet, AndRosyApple,FunctionalGray. TheAlabaster,CreamCrochet, TheRustyNailsandPeachParfait. It’sCalipso,Thistle,DessertClay, MountainFigandOceanSpray.
Colourschanging,shrinkingin;theliveswerelived,buthiddenthin. Suffocatedbythesewalls,butsimultaneousarethecalls, Thecriesthatharkenbacktowhenthehousewashometootherkin Butstill,adepthofmemoriesconveyed,throughbloches,streaks,anddrips,remains. It’stheseweseeoneachwell-paintedwall:theimperfections. Andstillwe’vemoved,andeachofthesewe’vejuxtaposedwithnovelty
Thelifeweliveisnewtothosewhoplaced,onthick,Palladianbyhand, Thewordsweutterneverheard,orunderstoodbyTulsaTwilightoritsman Themomentsfullofrevelryandtears,unbenouncedtoCushingGreen’squicksweeping strokes.
AndeachnewchangingcharacterandfaceshallneverseethesoftnessilluminatedbyFirst Light’sembrace
Now,sittingsquat,at“fourteenhundred,ninety-nine,pointnine,”thewallsholdmorethan justthisweight. Theyholdthememoriesforgot,byallthat’shiddenunderthatlastcoatofpaint.
WhereisHome?
EmilyCartwright
Whereishomeforthegirlfromeverywhere?
Withsomanyoptions,you’dthinkshe’dhaveherpick Havingbeentosixcountries,visitedeightofCanada’sprovincesandlivedinfour Nottomentiontheeighthousesandthreedormrooms Afterawhile,thenewplacesstarttoaddup Ordoeseachnoveltycanceloutthepastlocation?
She’sdonealotinhertwentyyears,seenalotofplaces Aftertravellingcoasttocoastofhernativecountry,shewentfurther Herlifenowfitswithinthebordersofamapthatspanssixthousandninehundred ninety-eight miles Itwouldtakeawhiletowalkinhershoes,butwhereisherhome? Isitwhereshestartedorwheresheendedup?
Isittheplaceshewasbornorwhereshemostmournedhermovingon?
Shethoughtshewouldmakeiteasyforherselfandpickwhereherparentsreside Thenshewentandstartedcalling“home”placestheyarenot Andherfriendsaresofarscattered,withsomegrowingdimmereachdaythey forgettocall
Nottomentiontheyareasplentifulasstarsinthesky,yetwithnoBFFtomark North Inherlife,peoplemoveandmoveon SoIguessit’ssillytomarkanyoneas“homebase.”
Thenthequestionpersists:whereishomeforthegirlfromeverywhere?Ithink therecomesatimewhensherealizesshedoesn’thaveone Atleast,notinthetypicalsense
Whenrootsrunshallowbutfar,asimplebreezecanleaveherwithoutafoundation Thereisnoplaceorperson,nophysical“home”whenyoulivelikethat Howcouldtherebe,whensheknowsitcouldescapeheratanymomentagain?
No,Ithink,forthegirlfromeverywhere,“home”isafeeling Itisthisprofoundsenseofbelonging,awarmthfeltinhersoul Thereisthisinexplicableconnectiontohersurroundings,despitethatplacenot being“home”Shelooksaroundandknowsinthevastnessoftheuniversethatshe fits
Acatchinhersensesgroundsherandsheiscomfortedbythestrangefamiliarity Noonecanunderstandit,butnoonecantakeitfromhereither.
Groundedinthisfeeling,her“home”becomesthered-sandedbeachesofaredhairedorphanIt’soldsecond-handbookstoresthathousetheworldsthatopened herimagination
AprideofthehistoryofthelandofAcadieandtheschoolsthatplantedfrancophone seedsThebirthplaceoftheRenaissance,artists,andthechurchwhereshefeltthe presenceofGodLookingupatavastopenskywhetheritbeclear,coloured,orstarfreckled
It’swatchingthecowboysintheringwiththeiranimals,thesmellofcattleinthe air.
“Home”isallthesethingsandmanymore It’spartofheridentity,itbuiltherintowhosheis Thisabstractnessthatcollectssouvenirsfromeverywhereshe’severbeen Thefeelingflieswithheronthewindwhenthebreezecomesthrough Shefindsitinplacesshedidn’tthinkitwouldhide Yet,justlikethegirlfromeverywhere,itisn’tconstant.
It'snotamarkedXthatonecanfindandreturnto Shehastochasethefeelinginordertofeelat“home” Sometimesshecan’tfinditandshefeelslikeatruevagabondWanderingaimlessly, knowingshelackswhatcomessoeasilytoothersTheanswertoasimplequestion Whereishome?
ItWasWarmer AlexisKupidy
Imeltedinthesummer. Ittookmeawhile,butIgotthere.Iswear.
ByJunethefrostdrewbackfrommyfingers, AndbyJuly,Ifeltthewarmfluxofbloodcoursingthroughmyveins
Sultryraysofsunshinethawedmyappearance, Andmysmilebegantosoften.
ByAugust,Ilaughedinmelodiesthatweren’tpurpleandblue EventheclothesIworemagicallybecamealighterhue.
Theicethatencasedmyheart, Thatkeptitshutinsideandfrozen, Trickledaway,coaxedbythesummerrain, Andslowlymyfrigidheartbegantobeatagain.
Rosiecheeksbloomedonmyskin, Ibreathedinwarmth,feelingmellowedfromwithin. NowImissthegentlesummerthatoncewasmine, Wasitjusttheweather? Orwasitthefactthatthesnowwassofaraway,itcouldn’tchillmeifittried.
GohomeSeptembersaid,so BacktomywinterhomeIwent.
Theleavesfellandastheydid,wavedmegoodbye, September’sglimmerofsunshinewouldn’tletmeremainevenifItried.
Coldasice,stubborndaughter, Tragicallystuckinthepast, BUTITWASWARMER
ByOctoberthefrostbitecrawledbackontomyfingers Hypothermiawouldhavebeenawarmerwayout.
APULLQUOTEISAN IMPACTFULQUOTETAKEN FROMTHEARTICLE. YOUCANPL ETHE QUOTEYOU ANTTO HIGHLIGHTHERE.
AllanThacker
AllanThackerisanalumniofthebiologyprogramatAmbroseUniversitywho graduatedin2023.Heiscurrentlyestablishinghimselfintheenvironmentalindustry. Asahobby,AllanlovestovisitnaturalareasinandaroundCalgaryandtake photographsofbirdsandinsects.
Shiva Seifi
ShivaSeifiisasecond-yearChristianstudiesstudentatAmbroseUniversity.Livingin themidstoftwocultures,shereflectsonhomethroughexileanddiasporaliterature
TiannaHardman
TiannaisanEnglishmajorwholovesreadingandhasattemptedwriting.
WandaBitangcol-Yu
WandaBitangcol-Yuisathird-yearEnglishLiteratureMajorandBusiness AdministrationMinor.Here’stothinkingover,here’stostartingover,here’stotaking over---understand?
MicaelBittle
MicaelisinherlastsemesterofherEnglishdegreewithplanstobecomeateacher She wastoldthatifshewereafruit,shewouldbeakiwi;shedoesn’tquiteknowwhattodo withthatinformation.
KristalKelly
KristalKellyisamusicstudentwhomovedfromEuropeasachild Herwritingspeaks aboutherexperiencesinIrelandandLatvia.Hergrandmotherwasapoetwhich inspiredhertopursuepoetryforfun.
BasilHollaway
Basilisgraduatingthisyearwithabusinessdegree.Hedescribeshimselfsomewhere betweenafriendlylonewolfandaquietsocialbutterfly WhenBasilisnotstudying,he enjoysexploringhikingtrails,watchingmovies,anddivingintobooks.
JosiahCullen
JosiahCullenisfromCalgary,takingpartinanEnglishdegree.Inhissort-ofthirdyear, withhisvoiceloudandclear:“I’mwaitingforthisyeartobeover!”
EstherLawe
EstherLaweisathirdyearEnglishstudentwhodabblesinwriting,butonlyifitinvolves alargecaramelmacchiato.
LucyGrahamiscurrentlyinherthirdyearofanEnglishdegree.Inhersparetime,she likestohike,cook,andreadpoetrywrittenbypeoplewhodiedlongbeforeshewas born.
Emilyisasecondyearbehaviouralsciencestudentwhohopestogointoacareerthat allowshertohelppeoplefindandnurturetheirstrengthsandpassions.Oneofher greatestpassionsisstorytellinginallformsandhergoalistoonedaypublishanovel.
AlexisKupidy
AlexisKupidyisathirdyearEnglishstudentwithmanyhobbieswhichincludebutare notlimitedtocarpoolkaraoke,organizingherroom,andstressingaboutthingsshe can’tcontrol.
EmilyCartwright
LucyGraham
Summer Sonnet Writing Competition
Do you think poems are great? Do you find structure comforting? Would you like $100?!
If your answer to these three questions or, really, just the last question is YES, then maybe you’d like to participate in the Ambrose University Summer Sonnet Writing Competition. (The $100 goes to the best sonnet submitted.)
Every summer Ambrose students are invited to put pens to paper (or fingers to keys) to write a sonnet on a particular theme. Because sonnet structure requires imbalance (scan the QR code below for some useful thoughts on sonnet structure), imbalance is this year’s theme.
What kinds of things can be in or out of balance? What results when there is imbalance? Why do my family members always refer to me as unbalanced? There’s so much to say!
The deadline for your sonnet submission is the first Friday of the fall semester (aka September 11th). You can email your submission to Dr. Dyck at darren.dyck@ambrose.edu.
“HOMEISNOTWHEREYOUAREBORN; HOMEISWHEREALLYOUR ATTEMPTSTOESCAPECEASE.” ~NAGUIBMAHFOUZ
