, ™ an O15) e450 4 FIRST ISSUE FROM GHS ARTISTS magazine! eesAMBUSH! ART 03 ART BY MAKIAH ARVISO Makiah Arviso was able to submit some very impressive and eye- catching art oo RUTH'S HOUSE A short story by Sage Addington detailing the return visit of a failed writer to his ex flance’s abandoned residence. 12 TEACHER FEATURE One of Gallup High's newest teachers, Nona Edelson, submitted two lovely acrylic paintings to Ambush! Art.One of Gallup High's newest teachers, Nona Edelson, submitted twa lovely acrylic paintings to Ambush! Art,Makiah Arviso When } draw it's not considered art until someone is amazed with it; And that's my goal, to have people look at my artwork and say “wow.”Makiah Arviso (continued)ae oS o S S 5 ¢ ° 9 —Ruth's House by Sage Addington Eight years ago | walked out on my fiance, the only person | felt my soul was ever truly connected to. | walked out in love, hurt, and enraged. For years | had been an ametur writer and | finally took the leap of faith of trying to get a novel of mine published; Ultimately | failed. My fiance advised me to give up my dream of becoming a writer and settle for a regular, more reliable job; A job where | would actually be making an income. We argued a few times in the past about which career path | should take, but we had done it so many times and that night it felt like so much more. The publisher called and said he wasn't going to publish my book; It cut me to the core that she had no faith in me and was asking me to give up my dream, but | was also losing faith in me... When | heard my beloved Ruth say that | couldn't be a writer, | also heard the voices of everyone who said | would be a failure. That night | hastily packed a suitcase and left, never coming back. tt was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but what else do you do when you love someone who makes you lose yourself in the worst way? Sadly, the writings | went on to create after | left never made it further than an editor's trashcan. I tortured myself constantly with thoughts of my ex-fiance and after half a year, 7 months, | wanted to return home. It was a phone call that held me back from returning. | was told my beloved Ruth vanished several months after | left the mountains and made my way to the coast. Some said Ruth killed herself, was kidnapped, or ran away; No one knew whereshe was for sure after | left. | didm’t want to come back toa town where she no longer existed, not so soon. It took eight years to gather the courage to come back and take a drive through my hometown of Hemingsworth. When I drove into town | saw the same old stores and the same old restaurants, with the same old people; Lite was continuing as it always had. | know it's been a couple years and that's what can be expected: One member of society goes missing and the entire system doesn't just shut down. | didn't drive around much, because there wasn't much | wanted to see, so | decided to cut to the chase of my visit. | made my way to the residence my lover and | once shared, though Ruth owned it. When it had really set in that | was driving down the road, boarded on each side with hibernating trees, it became exceedingly difficult to breathe; | suppose | was having second thoughts. The last time | had been on this particular road, my heart was broken and my aspirations dangled by a thread. Driving to the home of an old lover hurt coming back just as. much as it did when I was leaving. It began to rain lightly and in an-odd way it was comforting in all my regret. It took a minute longer for the ees to start spreading apart into an empty field; Within a large circle of wees was a low hill with a house sitting on top. | hardly recognized the abandoned building: The windows were busted, graffiti decorated the walls, and the small front porch appeared to be rotting. | pulled up as close to the house as | could get. When we were young, the exterior walls of Ruth's house were a warm blue and thetrim was eggshell white. Now the blue had been covered in years of dust, faded by the sun, worn by the weather, and appeared nearly grey in appearance; The once white windows only had small slivers of peeled paint to reveal the old color; If there were ever a better metaphor for what time does to a person. | took a deep breath and ventured up the creaky steps to the peeling, white front door. My heart pounded when | took hold of the doorknob, | was almost hoping it wouldn't open. | pulled the door open and it popped off one of the hinges, smacking me in the center of my forehead. My head rang like a drum that had just been struck; | squeezed my eyes shut and muttered curse words, proceeding into the house, blindly. When | opened my eyes, my blood ran cold when | realized the interior of the house was not rotted and worn like the outside, in fact, | was sure the house was exactly as | had left it nearly a decade ago. The fireplace comforting a crackling fire within its charred walls. the smell of burning bread, unbroken windows, and fumiture were all as | remembered it. “My eyes are deceiving me,” | breathed, stepping outside of Ruth's house to gather some fresh air. Everything outsidelooked normal. My car was parked outside and the clouds were still teasing the ground with tiny droplets of rain; | suppose | had just hit my head hard enough that it recreated my last memories of the house. | dared to re-enter the battered building and just about fainted when | again entered the same house from eight years ago. “This doesn't make sense,” | popped in and out of the house various times to make sure | wasn’t mistaken. The windows on the inside of the house were fixed, but when | looked outside, they were broken. When | looked at the chimney inside, the smoke from the fire appeared to be going up, but outside it was completely caved in. Inside it smelled like burning bread and out it smelled like rain. “What is happening?” | asked myself out-loud. “George? Is that you?" | heard a beautiful voice that made my world come shattering to pieces. “R-Ruth?” | managed to call out after a moment. It cannot be. | remember Ruth was cooking in the kitchen before our argument, our last conversation. “George, you're not going to believe what | did,” | followed the voice to the kitchen immediately. | saw a woman, facing away, in an over- sized grey sweater with black sweats, her mousy brown hair resting gracefully on her shoulders; She was placing a mostly charred loaf of bread on the stove. | gulped when the figure began to turn around, “The bread is ruined." My eyes met icy blue ones and | felt the color draining from my face. “Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost,” Ruth's perfectly plump lips turned into a frown. Am | seeing a ghost? But how do |explain the building? Did | hit my head and die? “No, I'm fine. Bread?" | panicked and tore my eyes away from Ruth, instead looking at the stove. Why was | pretending to be normal? “You're not thinking about the bread, George?” Ruth tilted her head in confusion. Ruth took off her red oven mitts and began speaking softly, "The publisher called the house phone," | winced when | felt real, actual hands hold mine, “He's not publishing your book.” | knew the blow was coming and it stung a thousand times harder since | was unsuccessful and alone. So, so unsuccessful and alone. “Oh, Ruth,” | let out a painful sigh. “| think you need to give up this fantasy you want to live in,” Ruth's bright eyes softened. It's useless to defend myself against the past, I'm in the future now. There's no point in arguing with ghosts, “| see now, that | am not meant to be a writer,” | admitted in defeat, resting my forehead against Ruth's; | could smell the strawberry scented shampoo she always used... “You can always work at the refinery with my dad,” Ruth suggested. “Can we talk about my options later?” | asked sadly. “I think we should talk about it now,” Ruth insisted; She had always been so persistent, it was one of the many things that made me fall in love with her. | somehow managed to step back in time, would Ruth notice if | acted differently? Do my decisions have consequences?Can | change the timeline? “Honey,” | paused--it felt strange for me to talk to Ruth, she’s been missing for so lang---"! finally admitted | can't write, | think | need some food in my gut or something before | think about my options.” “| ruined the bread, but the rest is done,” Ruth kissed my cheek and let go af my hands to turn back around to the stove, Where she kissed my cheek felt like fire, | felt sad that we were no longer making physical contact; Something was holding me back from throwing my arms around her and frantically apologizing for something that has, but hasn't happened. Beside the black loaf was a pot of what | recognized to be Ruth's beef stew, it smelled great; | haven't eaten beef stew in eight years. Ruth handed me a bow! of stew, carrots, celery, and potatoes bobbing in the broth clearly. “Thank you,” | took what | remembered as my usual seat at the kitchen table. Ruth pulled up her chair next to me and began to eat in silence. “I love you, Ruth,” | thought to myself as | studied the features of the woman | left behind; | never had a chance to make it right and | never found anyone else. | think It's made me too depressed to get my writing anywhere past complaining. | gave up the love of my life for my dream and | ended up loveless and washed out. “God, Ruth! I'm the world’s biggest idiot for picking the pen over you,” | suddenly began speaking desperately; | couldn't control myself. Ruth sat calmly and sipped at her stew, “I just wish you had told me that before |-”Before | what? | was sitting in the kitchen, cabinets smashed in horribly, on a single chair where my spot would be, if there had been a table present. “No, no, no!" | stood up. My hallucination was over in the blink of an eye and | was alone in Ruth's abandoned, vandalized home. | must've stood up too quickly because | got light headed and had to immediately sit back down. Tears were streaming down my face, not waiting for me to realize | was crying. Was this closure? | finally said what | wanted to Ruth since | left. But what now? “My God, I'll never write again or I'll never stop at all.” The end.Nona Edelson Teacher submission Myconos, GreeceNona Edelson (continued) Rendition of Market Street in Philidalphea, PAA Z i ae ele. Ss Ser Shaianaoe a J like to work in a lot of different medians to push myself to become a better artist, but ballpoint ” pen portraits will always be my favorite. } love the challenge of drawing in ink, it's sort of exciting. Jf you mess up, oops, you're stuck with it. Tagine aoFor the longest time] considered painting to be one of my weaknesses, so in the summer of 2016 ) taught myself how to B really paint; Vow t J can't seem to out down the brush.A lot of the pictures } take are of moments that make me stop and think, “Hey, ] want to remember this!"Tyger Livingston i