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rebel
east carolina university
literary &.arts magazine
e.)
ee
gr 4
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6
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*
terme grery
ner ee
staff
editor
Jackie McBride
art director
Kris Hendershott
design
Kris Hendershott
Jackie McBride
Chris Gupton
art judges
Bill Dermody
Scott Eagle
Seo Eo
literary judges
Bill Hallberg
Mel Stanforth
Howard Wornom
gallery photographer
Catherine Walker
faculty advisor
Craig Malmrose
student media staff
Paul Wright
Yvonne Moye
copy editor
Kathryn Fladenmuller
The Rebel is produced for and by the students of East Carolina University.
Offices are located in the Student Publications Building. Volume 40
and its contents are copyrighted 1998 by the Rebel. All rights revert
to the individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents may
not be reproduced by any means, nor may any part be stored in any
information retrieval system without the written permission of the
writer or artist.
> Printed on recycled paper with nonstate funds. we
"EEEEE""_"___ ae " " ""
poetry
aa ITm Leaving W.A. Spivey First Place 4
Family Gathering Jennifer Newman Second Place 20
Poker Face Craig Ramey Third Place 58
Stutter A. Brandon Mise Honorable Mention 70
Brad Wade Puryear Honorable Mention 72
Titled Brendan O'Donnell Honorable Mention 78
creative non-fiction
Pipe Dreams Randall Martoccia First Place 6
Legs Curl Upward Towards the Sky Anonymous/Jenny Second Place 22
Miami Vice Kevin Sterner Third Place 60
fiction
Fool in Search of a Country Song Andy Turner First Place 11
On the Saving Grace of Numbers Mary Carroll-Hackett Second Place 29
Within the Parallax William Stacey Cochran Third Place 62
Resume Pouty Lips Chris Leicht Honorable Mention 74
feature
Sound Vision: An Interview with Chnstopher Janney Jacqueline D. Kellum 32
art gallery
36 Best in Show
38 Ceramics
40 Graphic Design
42 Illustration
44 Metal Design
46 Painting
48 Photography
50 Sculpture
52 Textile Design
54 Wood Design
-ontents 56
Printmaking
four
W. A. Spivey
DonTt ask me to wait.
DonTt ask me to stay.
ITm leaving.
I ripped away
all the layers of protection
that surrounded me, and
stood before you
as vulnerable as a peeled orange.
You...
You squeezed tighter and tighter
until the fluids which kept me
a sphere
of blissful contentment
ran down your arm, and
dripped, drop by drop,
into a disgusting array
of agony
clinging to the floor
of this apartment.
You...
You threw away the pulp, and
all the seeds, except one,
which you left
to dry up and waste away
in the harsh loneliness
of being taken for granted.
DonTt ask me to wait.
DonTt ask me to stay.
I'm leaving.
I'm going to search
for a place to replant
in hopes, with time,
I will once again grow
into an orange,
round and whole.
And maybe,
find someone
who will nurture that fragility.
DonTt ask me to wait.
DonTt ask me to stay.
I'm leaving.
I'm going before I rot
away into oblivion,
alone in a corner,
becoming nothing
more than someone
who once was
very much in love with you.
DonTt ask me to wait.
DonTt ask me to stay.
I'm leaving.
Bs TM FLEpt GRAVE
~ag yatta & GOVERNOR © | ra
o. oi Th a
Bai naess: il,
on, fap # 7
ee
chris cardelli
Pipe Dreams
Randall Martoccia
was in fifth grade when the governor of North Carolina called my mother a parasite. Not
to her face, of course; hell, Governor Hunt didnTt even know my mother. He was referring
to all of the store owners in his state who sold drug paraphernalia, and Mom ran the
largest head shop in Greenville. She knew not to take the words of politicians (especially success-
ful ones) too seriously, and she understood that HuntTs attack was not a personal one, but she
never did forgive him. (A steadfast Democrat, Mom didnTt even vote for Hunt went he ran against
Jesse HelmsT for Senate in 1984.) What bothered her most was all of the attention given to Hunt's
words by the local media. News crews, who know a little about blood-sucking themselves, flocked
to her store, thrust microphones in front to her face, and asked her, oHow does it feel to be called
a parasite...by the governor?�
Mom's shop was called Pipe Dreams. It sat along the main stretch of stores in downtown
Greenville, beside MikeTs Bike Shop and across from HeartTs Delight, an ice cream parlor. Pipe
Dreams was not a dark and seedy place - hard to be dark when two of your walls are plate-glass,
hard to be seedy with a colorful rendering of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland painted on
your door. Mom sold the usual things " posters, tee shirts, masks at Halloween time " but drug
accessories were her main money-maker. When the Drug Paraphernalia Law went into effect on the
first of October, 1981, making the selling of bongs illegal in North Carolina, Mom knew the store
would never survive. She tried hard, but the store had lost its focus and direction. In the final
months, she sold, or attempted to sell, RubikTs cubes, board games, and (what became an emblem
of the storeTs aimlessness) cowboy hats. Sure enough, Pipe Dreams closed down less than a year
after the law went into effect.
She had kept the place running for three years, which is a darn good record for any business in
Greenville that doesnTt sell beer. You see, as much as GreenvilleTs leaders would like you to believe
that the town has a growing professional community blah blah, Greenville is still a college town.
The downtown - or my idea of it - consists of the six or so blocks bisected by Fifth Street and
adjacent to campus. The businesses here have always depended upon the students, but in the late
seventies, before GreenvilleTs first suburban shopping mall, the downtown had a wide variety of
stores. 1 remember an arcade, a sporting goods store, and a kid-friendly book shop all within a
block of each other. Now, thereTs just a wide variety of bars. One, called AlfredoTs II, lies in Pipe
Dream's old spot.
In the late seventies though, downtown Greenville was a rich playground for my friends and
me, and Pipe Dreams was one of our favorite haunts. The bongs lined up on the shelves looked as
harmless as vases, so we ignored them. Instead, we pinched each other with roach clips, yukked
it up over posters of Steve Martin with an arrow through his head or Frank Zappa with his pants
around his ankles, and thumbed through exotically titled magazines - like High Times or Heavy
Metal - looking for a breast or two. Mom let us hang around too. In addition to keeping me within
sight, our presence in the store seemed to amuse customers. I think that gang of ten-year olds
made first-time customers feel more comfortable about being in a (gasp) head shop.
hak ay Sis
We helped to make Pipe Dreams look and feel like a normal store, which was how Mom always
thought about it. As she explained to a campus reporter in 1981, oItTs simply a store and I sell the
things that people request.� Mom, I believe, oversimplified the purpose of Pipe Dreams for that
reporter, but how do you describe things like friendship and camaraderie to a newspaper man?
How could Mom tell him that she cared little about the money Pipe Dreams made? (Fortunately,
Dad was a professor at the university - still is - and made enough money to make up for what
Mom didnTt.) And how could Mom say that the main reason she kept the store going was so she
wouldnTt be lonely in the afternoon? She couldnTt have told him these things without sounding
just as flaky as people expect an operator of a head shop to be. A shopkeeper who's not concerned
with profits, they'd whisper, who heard of such a thing?
Truth is, even when Mom could sell bongs, Pipe Dreams barely broke even. The traffic of cus-
tomers was never busy enough to interrupt (for long) the almost-daily games of Scrabble. When
they did come in, the customers - most of them college students - usually took more of an inter-
est in Mom and Max, her part-time worker, than on any of the inventory. Some customers became
regulars. They'd hang around Pipe Dreams for hours, or long minutes, just taking turns talking and
listening. My friend Liam and I would drop by the store just to listen to the torrent of words. Here,
grownups talked like real people. They censored nothing for us, speaking of sex in the same tones
WiBansiniie'-
(loud) that they used for any other subject. They treated us with respect, something that
teachers and other parents, including LiamTs, failed to do. Best of all, they let us call them by their
first names. Liam and I liked Max most of all; he told the best, dirtiest jokes.
If we liked Max the best, then we liked Beaver second best. Beaver was a dog; his name came
from his stumpy, paddle-like tail and not because, as Max would tell us with a wink, he smelled
like one. Beaver used to sit in Pipe Dreams all day long and stare at the goldfish that Mom kept
in a bowl near the window. All day long, no lie. Mom would lead him out at closing time and
would find him curled up in front of the door when she opened the store in the morning. Beaver
stunk like hell from bathing in the river. His hair was knotty and matted, like a RastafarianTs, and
hung down in front of his eyes. He became Pipe DreamsT biggest attraction. People walking along
the sidewalk would see Beaver through the front window - sitting up on his front paws, looking
into the fishbowl - and would just have to come in and meet him. My friends and I would stop in
just to look at Beaver quietly contemplating the fish. He didnTt bark. He didnTt acknowledge the
gawkers. He just stared. To us, his eyes seemed to hold wisdom. My friends and I knew to respect
that dog, who, according to legend, presided over community meetings of dogs!. Even though
Beaver made our hands stink, we never refused to pet him (once I even brushed the hair out of
his eyes and kissed him on the forehead), and about that smell that stayed on our skin for hours
afterwards, we never complained.
1 The legend goes like this...one foggy morning, Max was walking from somewhere to somewhere else when he saw a group
of dogs in an empty parking lot. Knowing full well the potential danger of a pack of wild dogs, Max decided to take the long
way around them. Looking over his shoulder at them, he noticed one of the dogs and damned if it wasnTt Beaver. He looked
closer at the pack. Six or seven dogs of various breeds and ages were gathered in a tight semi-circle around Beaver, who was
sitting up in his usual way, on his front paws. Stranger still, Beaver, usually so silent, was moving his mouth and muttering
something to the other dogs in a muffled howl. Max knew it was madness to think so, but he swore Beaver was giving that
group of strays a sermon.
eight
chris cardelli
Not that the store was without its scary people.
One winter day (one of those days, oso cold,� we'd
say, othat if you took a leak, your pee would freeze
before it hit the ground.�), Liam and I stopped by
the store to borrow some quarters for the arcade. We
leaned our bikes against the front window, where
we could keep our eyes on them, and walked in.
Max quietly studied his Scrabble letters. Dianne,
one of the regulars, stared deeply into the board,
saying nothing (not even to razz Max for taking so
damn long to lay down a word). Dianne and Max
were world champion talkers; they were almost
never quiet at the same time. The silence spooked
me. Beaver was not in his familiar spot.
I spotted Mom in the rear corner of the store.
She was talking to a pair of older men (older than
the usual customers), who spoke back to her in
whispers. They wore mirrored sunglasses, plaid
shirts, and jeans tight enough on the pant leg to
show a mysterious bulge just above the ankle. From my angle I could see the eyes of one them
behind his shades. While his face was pointed directly at Mom, his eyes danced all over the place.
I figured that the guy was a coke addict (ITd heard that cocaine caused paranoia) and felt
ashamed of my mother for dealing with him. It was the first time I remember feeling that way
about her and Pipe Dreams.
Liam too knew there was something wrong here; that was obvious by the deep interest he
showed in the board game. So we just stood by the door and stared at anything but the two guys,
who mumbled their good-byes (finally) and shuffled past us. Mom walked over to the tableau that
was the four of us, handed me a dozen or so quarters before I had the chance to ask for them, and
took back her place in front of her seven letters. The two guys walked across the street and
jumped into a dark sedan. Max, whose face had seemed ready to burst ever since the men left,
exploded with laughter. Mom and Dianne joined in, leaving Liam and I to nod our heads and smile
blankly. Meanwhile, the dark sedan pulled out of the parking lot and headed up the street. As it
was leaving, I noticed a set of scales, like the ones we used to weigh stuff in science class,
hanging from the rear-view mirror. Mom shook her head and said, oGod, I hate narcs.� Max
showed his agreement by giving the black sedan the finger, two-handed style.
LiamTs parents would never have let him hang out with me if they knew we were spending so
much time at Pipe Dreams, so he never told them. Liam's parents were not unique, as those of
most of my friends disapproved of Mom and her shop; I could see it in their faces. Even though
jr ee ve 1% kee 4 aieneiennian "
the parents in my neighborhood probably supported MomTs right to sell paraphernalia (my neigh-
borhood, across the street from campus, was a liberal one), the parents here did not want their
children near that kind of element. When I went into their homes, they kept an eye on me. When
I acted politely, they were pleasantly surprised - Wow, they probably said to themselves, look at
that boy rise above his family. LiamTs parents were the most suspicious of the lot. Mr. and Mrs.
Todd had already had seven children before Liam, and their ideas of the right way to raise a child
were ingrained. Mrs. Todd, I think, resented the fact that her son spent so much time with me, the
boy whose parents were so wrong. It's a very strange twist then that Mr. and Mrs. Todd were the
last customers of Pipe Dreams.
In the months before Pipe Dreams closed for good, Mom watched as the store shriveled up
around her. As she stopped ordering products to replace the inventory being sold, shelves cleared,
racks lost their shirts, and the display cases emptied. Then she sold the shelves, the racks, and
the display cases themselves (one of the cases going to, of all people, the Greenville Police
Department). What she failed to sell was moved on June 30, 1982 into our living room. Yard sales
followed in the weeks ahead. The heap shrank, sure enough, but was still large enough in
November to threaten our traditional arrangement of the Christmas tree.
Mom got desperate. She had Dad ask his students if they wanted any comic books or T-shirts.
I was told to look out for any potential customers of cowboy hats. Seeing the hats, all dozen of
them stacked one on top of each other in a column in the living room, constantly reminded Mom
of how questionable her business sense was. Although the custom-made hats were nice - suede,
leather band, feather sticking out - cowboy hats were just not fashionable in Greenville in 1982.
Another problem was the price. Mom bought the hats for twenty dollars a piece, and her pride
wouldn't let her drop below that to get rid of them. I told friends about the hats, even had them
tell their parents about them, but I explained to Mom that she shouldnTt get her hopes up:
oGreenville just ainTt cowboy country.�
Then one week before Christmas, we got a phone call. It was Mrs. Todd, Mom said, and sheTs
coming over. Mrs. Todd had never come over to our house before, and I was scared. (Hell, she
rarely even phoned our house, except to tell Liam to come home.) Before I had time to worry, the
front doorbell rang. Mom made me get the door. I opened it and was shocked to see Mrs. Todd and
Mr. Todd and Charlie and Ian and Liam and Andrea and Tobie and Barbara and even Michael Jones,
LiamTs nephew. They'd come for the hats.
Mr. Todd bought all of the hats that day: one for him, one for his wife, one for each of his kids
(even Carrie and Enos, who weren't there), one for Michael Jones, and one for I-donTt-know-who.
Mom and I stood at the front window. She held Mr. ToddTs twenties in her hand, smiled at me, and
felt not a bit like a parasite. We watched the Todds make their way down the street, walking in
single file. oLook,� Mom said, oitTs Papa Duck and Mama Duck and all the little ducks,� and we
laughed at that image of them, even as the last pieces of Pipe Dreams bobbed down Fifth Street
on their heads.
ten
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fool in, ofa
Andy Turner
o matter what you tried, you could bet your ass mud had your name on it in the
parking lot of HankTs GentlemanTs Club. It could have been bone dry for a month or more, but
HankTs would still have deep, black holes filled to the tip-top with thick-ass mud, willing and
waiting to claim your tires or your shoes. My truck landed in one of them holes when I missed
HankTs entrance, flying instead over the curb and into the lot.
My foot splashed down in a mud puddle soon as I stepped out of my truck. I still had on my
steel-toed work boots, so I didnTt give a monkey's ass about getting mud all over them. For a
second before going on, I stared at my breath in the air. It was a little after 11. I could hear
the jukebox wailing soon as I got near the door. Hank fired the DJ a few weeks back for trying
to spy on the girls while they were changing. Hank said damn DJs cost too damn much when
you got a perfectly good jukebox that makes money instead of damn costing money and trying
to sneak a damn peek at the girls. Damn pervert.
About 10 guys were inside, most of them sitting by themselves at tables. Two of the dancers
were sitting together at a table, waiting to go on, sucking on Newports and talking about
George Clooney's ass.
Ed Looney was sitting at the runway with his dollar bills clinched tight in his hands, eyes
intent on the dancer as she was shakinT it every which a way. Ed was always at Hank's, always at
the same seat eyeballing the dancers, always wearing a black shirt and black jeans. Been that
way as long as I had been going to HankTs. I reckon it'd been about five years, shortly after I
got married to Cindy.
I stared at the dancer while she was flopping around. The lights flashed against her shiny
body. Red, purple, then pink. She was wearing two pink tassels across her nipples and had on a
matching G-string. She was older than the rest. Heavy in the ass and big, fat lips. As I stared up
at her lips, she licked them, first the top, then the bottom. I stopped staring.
HankTs was beer only. People turn mean on you when they get liquor in ~em, Hank said. Pain
in the ass to get your liquor license back, Hank said. Just make sure the damn stall door is
closed before you open the bottle, Hank said.
oBlue?�
oYep,� I told Hank, giving a buck and getting a frosty cold Pabst Blue Ribbon and a Mason
jar to pour it in.
oWhat's the story?� he asked, wiping off his hands on his shirt that read, oEvery time I get
my shit together I step in it.�
oNot nothing. Just tickled as shit to be off for the weekend.�
oBoy, you got a gravy job, what you complaining about? The shipyard ainTt shit. You should
try running this place. Horny, drunk bastards.�
oYou're full of it, Hank.�
oSheeit. Last night I caught some twisted son-of-a-bitch trying to squirt off right there at
the runaway. Tried to hide the shit with a copy of goddamned Soldier of Fortune magazine.
Beating off at the damned runway. People used to wouldn't even think about doing something
like that. How would you like someone to come down to the shipyard and slap their pecker nght
where you were working?�
oWell, I ainTt as attractive as you, Hank.�
twelve
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shit
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du got that right, smart ass.�
sipped on my beer and took in HankTs from my spot at the bar. A oGentlemanTs Club.�
shit. Hank calls it that, but youTd be hard pressed to find anyone in Hank's who calls him-
gentleman. Sure as shit ainTt gonna find anyone out there calling them that. The ugly
paint on the wall peeled worse than a burnt sun queen. A handwritten sign over the
sn door said, oIf you donTt work here, keep your butt out of the kitchen. That means you.�
served as bartender and bouncer. HankTs had been here since before I was born. Each year
irls wore less and less. At the same time, HankTs belly got bigger. It was a compromise, you see.
You and the missus getting along any better, Billy?� Hank asked me, slinging a plate of
and a BLT to the old guy at the end of the bar.
Shit. Who knows? I donTt see her anymore to ask her. She works every damn night of the
at the weigh station.�
What you need is some little Billies running around the house. Y'all have to like each
othen.�
Damn if we can afford any kids,� I spat out, downing the rest of my Pabst.
Another one?�
Sure. Cindy won't be home before two anyway.�
It had been that way for six months or more. I worked three to eleven at night, and she
worked from five to two in the morning. I was normally either asleep or passed out by the time
she got home. I went to HankTs a few nights a week, always on Friday. Cindy and I might see
each other for a little while in the morning, but normally I was doing stuff outside and she was
inside cleaning or watching damned Ricki Lake. WeTd stopped screwing. ITd touch her and she'd
kinda twitch up. WouldnTt even bother to tell me she had a headache. Just say, oNaw, my backTs
been acting up again.� What was she doing to her back?
A new girl came on stage. Vicki. SheTd just started at HankTs a few weeks before. It was
always that way. Most of the girls didnTt stay long. They come shake their ass and tits till they
made enough money, and then they take their ass and tits and got the hell out of Hank's. This
girl looked young, couldnTt have been a minute over 18. She reminded me a little of Cindy when
she was that age. Straight brown hair that just nibbled at her ears. Brown eyes the color of
Moonpies. She didnTt look at anyone when she danced, just stared at the floor like the shit
wouldnTt touch her if she didnTt make eye contact. It had already touched her. I thought about
Cindy as I watched this girl dance. I remembered when shit was better. That's what fools do
instead of trying to change anything. When we were in high school, Cindy and I would spend
whole afternoons at her parentsT house with our tongues down each other's throat. One of those
times we jumped in the shower with all of our clothes on, ripping them all off until we were
both naked as newborns. That was our first time. I was so scared her dad was gonna bust in and
chop off my peter. I didnTt know what I was doing. My hair was long then, and the water had
caused all my hair to fall down on my face. I remember trying to push it back, trying to keep up
with what was going on.
EEE "eEerr
Blake Matthews, a 110 percent asshole I knew in high school, walked in and spotted me by the
jukebox. I was trying to make up my mind as to whether I should play Merle Haggard or Patsy Cline.
I decided on Hag. I was in a Hag mood.
oWell, goddamned Billy Riley, I havenTt seen your ugly ass in a while, where have you been
_"-- hiding?� Blake bellowed, slipping his arms around my shoulder, turning up his finger to show off his
college ring.
oT ain't been hiding anywhere, Blake. I just guess you and I donTt play in the same bridge club.�
oGuess not. Listen, you ainTt still pissed at me are you, Billy? That shit happened a long time
ago. High schoolTs long gone, Billy.�
oTTm not worried about you one bit, Blake. You do your thing and I'll do mine.�
Goddamned, Billy. You're not pissed? Billy. Just like some asshole college guy to keep repeating
your name like heTs trying to sell you a credit card or cheat you out of some money. Prick. He and
Cindy went out before she and I got together. Acted like we were part of some sort of damned
dating brotherhood. oYou hit that shit yet?� heTd ask. He was the only son-of-a-bitch I wanted to
hit. He was pissed because Cindy hadn't let him in her pants. At least, thatTs what she told me.
I decided to play pool and pretend like the cue ball was Blake MatthewsT head. I wrote my name
| on the board. No quarters on the table. I heard Blake yell as he pushed past Ed, oShow me them
, titties.� Hank eyed him.
The game ended as the one guy sank in the eight ball. He had a smile that told me he was
gonna kick my ass good in pool.
oRack ~em up, Junior,� he said, extending his hand for me to shake. oMy name is Cooper, but
you can call me Cooper.
Cooper was a skinny guy with long, greasy red hair that dripped of a Rusty Wallace racing
cap. He looked like he was in his early ~30s. He had kind of a young face, but one that looked
like it had some experience behind it. The whole time he talked he rubbed his chest square in the
center. He lit a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth before rubbing chalk on his hands. Chalk was
all over his shirt and pants. He kind of looked like a little girl using makeup for the first time.
oDonTt think ITve seen you in here before,� I told him, chalking my stick.
oFirst time. I live in Carolina. Came up here cause my friend told me he was gonna hook me
up with some action, you know. Shit fell through, so I came here to look at a couple few titties.�
He moved around the table, knocking in three high balls without even looking up at me.
oBesides, this ainTt that far from where I live. My house is right on the border. In fact, I can
piss across my ditch into Virginia. Not that I do - necessarily.� Another high ball dropped in the
corner pocket.
oDamn. Looks like ITm already screwed.�
oDonTt worry, capTn. I'll use Vaseline,� he said, knocking in another ball before missing and
finally letting me go. He had gone on for so long that the cigarette that hung from his lips was
half ash.
I knocked the cue ball off the table and it landed under a chair by the runway. Someone in
the back yelled, oAnother $1 in the jukebox.�
fourteen
oYou need to get laid hitting the ball like that. When I was your age, I was busier than a
cat covering up shit when it came to women. Sure was. Listen, you want me to tell you about
the dream I had last night?�
My mind thought no, but my damned mouth said, oSure.�
oIt was the greatest damned thing I ever dreamt. My buddy and I got us a rocket ship. We
were all drunk and shit, and we blasted right off his porch into outer space. The damn thing was
that we never got to outer space. We kept getting stuck in buildings, and then we'd have to
walk the goddamned rocket to the window and blast back off into fucking space. It was still the
greatest thing. Just riding all over everywhere in that goddamned rocket.�
I just sat there staring at the Cooper, and he looked at me and said, oSure was. Greatest
damned feeling.�
I wondered if the guy ever stopped smiling. He had this satisfied look on his face. Kind of
like the way Boogie, thatTs Cindy and I's dog, looked when he rolled in the grass on his back,
sun burning his belly.
oDamn. I had a crazy dream myself last night. Scared the pure-T shit out of me.�
Cooper looked at me with genuine interest. Then he scratched his balls and said, oOh, yeah?�
oYeah. I saw this figure a long way away in a field pushing a shopping cart. The figure kept
coming closer to me and closer. Finally, it got close enough that I realized it was my dog,
except he didnTt have any fur and he was missing his front two legs. He was carrying his fur and
legs in the shopping cart. All flesh and blood. He ran right over me. DidnTt even stop. The
fucked up thing is my dog really did disappear last week.�
oWhat kind of dog was it?�
oBasset hound.�
oI had a basset hound in my last marriage. The dog sure was a whole lot better than the
woman, I'll tell you that,� he said as he knocked in the eight ball.
sp
oLook, I tell you what. Let me buy you a beer. I feel bad kicking your ass in pool and your
damn furless dog is running over you with shopping carts in your sleep. ThatTs some harsh shit,
partner.�
oThanks, man.�
Cooper got us both beers, and we sat in the back corner. Melanie came onstage to dance.
She ran her hands through her hair before walking up the steps to the runway. The little she
had on was all black.
Blake was getting drunker and ruder. Ed Looney sat beside him, not saying a word, looking
up at Melanie. Blake kept jumping up and down in his seat, knocking into Ed and spilling his
beer all over him. Nothing. Ed was quiet. John Lee Hooker was playing on the jukebox. Boom,
boom, boom, boom. Melanie grabbed hold of the pole, a confident smile jumping off her lips.
She teased a young guy who had leaned in close to the runway, dipping those blonde curls on
his face, tickling his eyeballs.
oHey, Melanie. You and me get together after you get off. What do you think? Sound good,
honey?� Blake yelled up at her.
15
~ =
SBR onanene
sixteen
ae
Nothing.
oYou hear me?�
Still dancing.
oDonTt try to ignore me, slut. I know you hear me.�
It was like something ripped. Ed rose from his seat, giving the meanest look to Blake I had
ever seen one man give another.
oITm trying to look at the titties,� was all he said.
oFuck you, you piece of shit loser. Why donTt you just go home, you ugly fat fuck.�
Hank came over.
oT donTt want no damn fights in my damn bar. You're gonna have to leave,� he told Blake.
oSo, if you just carry it on down the road, there won't be any trouble.�
oT ain't fucking leaving,� Blake screamed, taking a swing at Hank and landing his fist deep in
HankTs rib cage.
He caught Hank off guard and Hank ended up flat on his ass. While Blake was looking down
at Hank, Ed Looney chopped Blake dead in the neck. That son-of-a-bitch fell to the floor hard
right next to Hank. BlakeTs rat head bounced once on the floor like a scoop of mashed potatoes
with gravy. He tried to talk and couldnTt. The back of his head was dripping blood on the floor.
Couldn't get his ass off the floor. If it was one of those cartoons, Blake would have had little
stars rotating around his head. Ed sat back down like nothing happened, with a look that
resembled satisfaction, but it was Ed, so it also resembled not much at all. Someone tried to
help Hank up, but he refused and got up on his own. Hank kicked Blake hard as he could in the
stomach with his cowboy boot. Blake let out a pathetic whimper. He knew he deserved it.
Melanie went outside while all that shit was going on.
For some reason, I followed Melanie out into the cold. She was staring down a mud puddle
when I approached her.
oWhat are you doing out here in the cold? ItTs freezing out here and you're just about naked,�
I pointed out to her in case she didnTt already know.
oIT had to get the hell out of there. That was the third time this week something like that
has happened. I am so sick of that shit.�
oDonTt worry about it. You have Ed in there protecting you,� I told her, trying to get a smile
out of her.
oThatTs not funny. That guy scares the shit out of me. I guess heTs nice enough. Hell, heTs
my best customer,� she said with half a smile.
Something about everything that had happened that night finally got to me. Melanie looked
good, damn good. She had made sure her body hadn't gone to shit; a lot of the customers proba-
bly didnTt care what she looked like, but she had pride, always had. ITd known her since junior
high, since Mrs. WorkmanTs seventh grade class, where all the boys used to snap her bra straps.
Let me tell you, those bras already had enough pressure on them without anybody snapping
the straps. Always liked her, but her and I weren't in the same baseball league. She was the
majors; I was strictly Single A. I wanted her right then. Shit, I wanted somebody. I grabbed her
right by her bare arms and kissed her soft on the lips. She didnTt resist; she kissed me back hard,
rubbing her hands circle-like on my shoulders. We stood there in a muddy strip bar parking lot,
tw
th
Yo
Ce
te
two people trying to suck the poisonous hurt out with their lips. I wondered what the people
thought who drove by.
She was the one who stopped.
oI can't do this, Billy. I know you're married. YouTve got a good, sweet wife. This ain't night.
You know it.� Melanie said, slipping through my hands.
oCindy and I donTt even talk anymore.�
oWhy donTt you talk?�
eo work and sheTs too damn busy watching damned Ricki Lake,� I slurred drunkenly.
oBilly, look. Married men come in her every night, supposedly looking for something they
can't find at home. A lot of the time I donTt think they're really looking at home. If you ain't
talking, then what the hell are you doing here? I mean, Ricki LakeTs fat ass didnTt tell you to
come down here and slobber over other womenTs breasts, did she?�
oI donTt know.�
oI'm going back inside. Look, I know you love your wife, and you know you do too, I hope.
You better figure out what you're doing wrong instead of trying to pass it off on a talk show
host or whoever the hell else.� She walked back in HankTs, pressing her tassel down as it was
about to slip off her nipple.
I'd always believed in that destiny shit. DidnTt think I had a choice. God gave me Cindy and
the shipyard, and thatTs the way it was meant to be. Steel toed boots, a bagged lunch, and mar-
ried at 18. ThatTs the way it was. You know, Cindy and I met for the first time at a party in John
FowlerTs barn. She dropped a ring in the hay and nobody could find it. I came over, halfway
drunk on cheap wine, looked for a second, and there it was right in front me. I put the ring back
on her finger. We went on a date the next weekend and got married about a year and a half later.
I'd always told Cindy that fate brought us together that night. Like she didnTt have anything to
do with it. It wasnTt fate. It was blind ass luck on my part to get Cindy. And I was doing every-
thing I could get to screw my luck up. I had about as much sense as one of those damned
mud puddles.
I went back inside to grab a beer for the road. Blake walked past me without a word on his
way out. Cooper was at the runway watching a new dancer. I nodded his way.
oHey, partner. Hold up,� Cooper said, downing a half bottle of Bud.�You leaving?�
oYeah. Gotta go home and make things right. ITm gonna try and get there before she gets
off work.�
oYou ainTt gonna ever make things right with women, man. Just make them as good as you
can. ThatTs all they're looking for.� He gave me a wink and then went back to the runway.
oOne more Blue, Hank.�
oBe careful on your way home, Billy. Cops sure enough will pull your ass.�
oI know, Hank. Thanks.�
The defrost wasnTt working right in my truck. I couldn't halfway see shit the whole nde
home. Just waited for some asshole deer to try and headbutt my mudflaps. Something did
strike me as funny at the trailer park where you turn off to get to my house. A guy had proposed
to his girlfriend (I guess) on the sign in front of the trailer park: oJanet, I love you. Will you
marry me? Bob.� Good luck, Bob and Janet. You'll need it.
A a RE OT : ee ee
"_ a
It was about 1:30 when I got home. I poured out the rest of my Pabst. I needed to sober up
a bit before Cindy got home. She wasnTt supposed to be home for another half an hour or more.
But her Escort was sure as shit in the driveway. Plus, there was another car on the lawn. What
son-of-a-bitch was there at that time of night? Somebody who drove a black Monte Carlo. A son-
of-a-bitch with a Chevrolet at my house at 1:30 in the goddamned morning. Beat all.
I walked towards my house and damned if my dog didnTt come from round back, barking and
carrying on.
oBoogie, you better calm your little ass down. I donTt want to put a foot in your ass first
thing. Where the hell have you been?�
He came over by my feet and rolled on his back.
oBoogie, who the hell, driving a shitty Chevrolet, is in my house this time of night?� I asked
while I scratched his belly.
Boogie didnTt answer, but a guy wearing a black Dale oThe Intimidator� Earnhardt shirt
walked out the front door of my house. He was a tall bastard with a furry Tom Selleck moustache
growing above his lips " his smiling lips. He was carrying a pair of snake-skin boots in his hands
like they were two puppets.
oYou look like you've had a few,� this Chevrolet guy pointed out to me.
; oBeen up at Hank's.�
oHank's, huh? I haven't been up there in a few years. They got too many chunky women up
there now for me. I guess a lot of guys like those buffet busters, but they ainTt for me, you
know.� He winked at me.
, oGuess so.� I guessed so. oWhy the hell are you at my house?�
oOh, Oh. Just returning your dog. Saw the ad in the paper today. HeTs been hanging around
my house for the last week or so.�
oWhere do you live?�
oT live out near Union Road.�
oThat's close to 10 miles from here. How the hell did my dog get that far from my house?�
oHell if I know. He just showed up.�
This guy told me my dog walked 10 miles to his house. Full of shit. My dog walked like one
of those old people in tennis shoes at the mall. His walking consisted of going from one shady
Spot to another, plopping his ass down and snoozing.
Cindy came outside on the porch with the shirt my mamma gave her for her birthday a few
years back. It said, oVIRGINIA is for lovers.� Her hair was down and she was wearing her glasses.
oHey, Billy. You're home early tonight aren't you?� Cindy said with a little panic in her
voice. Not much though, just a little.
oWell, I was hoping we could talk.�
oI'm gonna take off now,� the Chevrolet guy said.
oThanks for bringing back Boogie, Daryl.�
Daryl? Daryl smiled like a shit-eating dog. In his honor, Boogie took a shit in the bushes.
oYeah, he shit up my whole yard while he was there. Heh, heh.�
eighteen
Good dog.
oYeah, OK. Thanks for bringing back my dog,� I told him, clinching up my fingers in my
jean pockets.
oNo problem, partner.�
oSee you later, Daryl,� Cindy told him, waving her hands like a damned beauty queen in
a parade.
Daryl pulled his Chevrolet off my lawn, the lawn I just mowed that morning. Fucker.
oAren't you glad BoogieTs back?� Cindy asked.
oI am. But why the hell was Daryl here this time of the night returning him?�
oHe called me at the weigh station. ThatTs the number we left in the paper. I figured you'd
want me to get Boogie home as soon as possible. So, I got off early and met him here.�
oWell, why the hell was he carrying his boots in his hands?�
oSaid he didnTt want to get mud all over ~em.�
oThere ain't mud in the yard.�
oWell, thatTs what he said.�
It was getting colder outside. I could see goosebumps on Cindy's arms. Her ears were red.
She was crossing her arms up, grabbing hold to her shoulders. You couldn't read her shirt any-
more. Her hair was wild.
oCindy, You acted like you knew him before tonight.�
oI did. He was one of my brother's friends back in high school.�
oYour brother? Your brother didnTt have any friends in high school. He was on the damn
Academic Quiz Bowl team. That guy looked like an extra from fucking Roadhouse.�
oWell, think what you want to think, but what I said is true.� She stared at the ground like
she was looking for something.
oFuck it.�
I started to accuse her of what I thought she did, but I didnTt. I got in my truck anyway and
drove, hoping - hoping Melanie was still at Hank's.
ee +
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A. mpoe
a "pegsra" a one SP en ee gee:
19
FAMILY GATHERING
Jennifer Newman
It is unnaturally warm for December.
Last night it was cold but this afternoon
It is warm, too warm, I am hot
In my dark turtleneck
And long skirt that brushes against my legs.
We stand in the sun outside the church,
Talking, laughing, rarely mentioning
The real reason we're here.
An organ inside the church moans and sighs
,
« To us through the open door and stained glass windows.
¥
4 Close family (distant relatives) clump up on the grass.
Second cousins I see once or twice a year
. Smile at me and say hello;
j
_ Others donTt speak.
je §.
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as People I've never seen before drive up
f In unfamiliar cars.
Where is the gloom and fog,
The rain and black veils, I wonder.
Only the dark suits of the men,
A few drawn faces,
And the hearse in front of the church
Admit to the seriousness of the occasion.
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My eyes flew past blackbirds poised on streams of telephone wires as I stared out of the window of my
fatherTs ~79 black Peugot. The sun competed with the moon against the sheltering darkness. The mas-
sive cold air made me wish I was back at my house under my blanket on my bed. Earlier this morning
I was awakened by my mother, or was it the sounds of rats ang Mtebither way, the sun
still hadnTt pinkened the horizon and I knew I had to em@ty out my dreams and spend
BelgiumTs shoreline with my father. My older sister always ld me the sounds that I heard gd
room were ghosts. The door that led up to the attic was conve ' Proom. My mom
said it was probably rats or bats that made all of the sounds. Neither idea had scared me too badly,
really. I lived in a historical black and white English cottage that reminded me of a mansion from an
old horror flick. Outside the house were rosebushes that conformed to the houseTs obstinate unique-
ness. The house had exactly fifty-two windows in all, and as a child I was able to see every angle of
the outside world from the inside. My bedroom was one of seven, and I felt dislocated from the rest
of the house when I was in it. I had to climb a small staircase to get up to my room from our bi-level
second floor. If I was at home, I spent a lot of time in my room.
oKristina. Get up now. Your dad is already downstairs eating breakfast,� my mother said in her
soft German accent. I didnTt reply but only rolled over, trying to sink further into my bed.
oKristina.� I rolled over and my sleepy eyes slowly opened and fixed on my motherTs face.
oMom,� I slowly mumbled, oyou look prettier in the morning, when your make-up is still off.�
oWell, you just wait until you are old and wrinkled like me. ITm sure you'll be wearing make-up
too,� she replied. I stared at her eyes, soft and greyish-blue. My momTs eyes seemed to look sad, even
when she was smiling. I wanted to tell her that she wasnTt old or wrinkled, but beautiful. But she
turned her eyes away and walked out of my room and left the door slightly cracked behind her.
I forced my body up and sat in my dimly lit room. My room was dirty all of the time: shoes, books
and toys filled my room. The water pipes began a sort of cranky moaning sound that let me know my
mom was in the shower. I could hear Dad down in the kitchen, probably eating his breakfast of cof-
fee and cigarettes. I opened the Rollaten slightly, cracked my window and reached under my bed for
my cigarettes and Cancer Association lighter. The Rollaten - thatTs what my mother calls it - is a
metal covering on the outside of the window that keeps your room completely black. You can control
it with a strap on the inside; itTs kind of like a super mini-blind or something. I always remained in
bed to smoke a cigarette before actually letting my warm feet touch the cold hardwood floors and
twenty-two
Po �,� al UfwlUur
Anonymous/Jenny
pete sack
twenty-four
stumble to the bathroom. I flipped on my otele� - thatTs what tl
kids called it in my neighborhood - and flipped to the BBC mornif
That became boring so I flipped through the stations. I watched ®
Mighty Mouse; I had already seen the episode a few times so I cont
flip. I found Izzy and Mo on the English cartoon channel and set
remote. I grabbed Meckie the porcupine in one hand and smoked !
rette in the other. I lived in Germany the first few years of my ch
Meckie is a German cartoon that I used to watch. Even though !
years ago, my mom continued to buy me Meckie stuffed animals
keychains, Meckie stickers, Meckie postcards. The pipes slowed do
low-pitch squeak and I threw the cigarette out of my window.
I heard my mom at the bottom of the stairs and I slid out of my
feet warming the cold floor. She yelled up to me, oKristina? Are y0
You better be up. I can hear the tele.� The sound of her words f
in my mind as I tried to think of what to say while putting on !
sweater and black corduroy pants. oCome downstairs and eat break
need your breakfast for energy,� she continued.
oYou know that I canTt eat anything before noon. You know th
didnTt reply. oMom, ITm already practically ready to go. Leave me é
reassured her with a somewhat sarcastic tone.
I was at the age where you slowly detach yourself from your pat
spend most of your thoughts on friends or just begin to keep them
self. I seemed to suffer from listlessness that morning and was to!
out to spend a day with my father. I know what a fusspot my
thought I was, and they told me I complained too much. But afte!
cious cackling, I spewed out complaint after complaint until my md
shoving us out the door with somewhat uneasy eyes. I stared bat
blue eyes and for some reason her uneasiness sent shivers down my
I soon found myself a fidgety passenger staring through the fil
dows of my fatherTs car. I didnTt know why my father, after fourteé
wanted to spend the day with me - alone. I loved my fathel !
remember many jovial days spent with him. But I was a child th
matured we both went our separate ways and our personal v
remained as separate as our lives had become.
Soon as we got out of city traffic my father began to smoke #
ished amounts of cigarettes. I wallowed in a fantasy of cigarette sf
oStop at the next rest,� I asked in my polite daughter tone. we
ued to drive, and after some uneasiness, my father began to Fiddl!
about something or other.
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oSo, how's school going?� he said. I stared ahead at the winding road, waiting for a rest to appear
around every corner.
oO.K.,� I said. I twirled a strand of my hair with my index finger.
oWhat do you mean, 0.K.?� he asked. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead.
oI donTt know, good I guess, just 0.K.!� I said. My legs and arms crossed across my body and the
tone of my voice implied I didnTt want a reply.
oHow about your sister?� He couldn't even ask me a question using her own name. He meant Sabi,
but I couldnTt answer his question.
Sabi is my sister; her real name is Sabina. My mother named her after her sister Sabina. Sabi had a
beautiful name. She was their first child, so they named her after my motherTs family. Sabina
Magdalena was her full name, but I had several nicknames for her, like oSabi� or oMagi�. Sabi and I
were close as children, but one year she just stopped speaking. I remember when I was very young
she would come home from school crying. Sabi said it was the kids making fun of her all the time.
Sabi was a blind tomboy as a child and wore thick dark orange glasses. oCoke-bottle glasses� and
ofour-eyes� were what the kids called her.
oSheTs all right.� I finally replied. I thought about why my sister hated my father so much and if
this had somehow persuaded me to not love my father as much as I could or as much as I should.
oWhat do you mean all right?� he asked. Jesus Christ, it was too early in the morning to answer
those questions, so I ignored him and waited for the rest. I looked out of the window at the hills of
Belgium, which almost seemed to roll along beside us. There were pastures of never-ending cows and
empty pine trees. I let my eyes drift, and the grey blurs of trees drowned my eyes in a dream-like pool.
Cows and grey leafless trees lasted for miles. Fall was almost over, so leaves were dying and decom-
posing, as if the earth were approaching death. My eyes stared out of the window at the moving floor.
After what felt like an hour, but was really only fifteen minutes (the English countryside emptied
out itself so much that little side-road stores even appeared to be out of place), I spotted a store. I
walked up to the counter inside LilithTs Roundabout and grabbed the wooden key chain that spelled
DAME. In LilithTs small bathroom I stared at my lips in the cracked dirty mirror, forming smoke-rings
that disappeared in seconds into the musty air, reeking of urine, Lysol, and smoke. I stare at the small
freckles on my cheeks, my long brown hair falling in strands across my face. In the summer time I
would have a full face of freckles, and I hated them. My mom told me they were beauty marks. At this
point in my life I really didnTt care. Even my light blue eyes were freckled with dark blue spots. After
I had rehabilitated my craving for nicotine and the taste of stale smoke filled my mouth, I took the
final drag and dropped it from my hands; it went ophsst� when it hit the yellow toilet water. I flushed
and ran out to the car.
It took about four hours of driving and incessant chatter to reach the hovercraft that would zip
us across the English Channel to the white, rocky shores of Ostende, Belgium. On the hovercraft I
drank bottles of Cola thatecost a ridiculous two pounds. The salty breeze from the ocean poured
through the small opening of the window; the salt hardened my thin hair. I stared out of the misty
": #e
LO EE OS re.
window at the ocean. My eyes caught view of enormous rocks jutting out from the body of the country
like mangled arms. I leaned against the railing and stared out at the grey choppy waves. I sipped on
my Cola while my dad smoked. My mother always got on me for smelling like smoke, smelling like
booze. I remembered once when she found a pack of cigarettes in my jacket.
oKristina? I washed your Jean jacket for you. Are you missing anything?� she asked in her weird
oT'm-a-mom-and-I-know-everything-you-do-tone�. I was eleven at the time.
oNo, but thanks, you didnTt have to wash it,� I replied.
oKristina? I see you with those kids, who all smoke, I just donTt want them to be a bad influence
on you. They donTt force you to smoke do they? You're not on drugs are you?� My mom always dou-
bled up her questions so that I didnTt have time to even answer the first one.
oNo! Andrea borrowed my jacket at lunch and I guess she left them in the pocket. Of course I don't
smoke mom, God!� This eased her mind a bit and she just stared at me.
oIf your dad found out, you know what he would do,� she warned me.
oWhat? What would he do?� I asked. I loved my mom, but sometimes I think she let my dad influ-
ence her too much, she canTt be herself around him. I feel bad now that I placed the blame on Andrea.
She was my best friend for several years. She and I spent several years fooling around with alcohol and
cigarettes and boys. Andrea became pregnant once and had a miscarriage. Then her family moved when
her dad was re-stationed at another air base. Since my family moved around so much in my life I'm used
to losing friends now.
My thoughts were interrupted when I felt the ocean waves crash against the hovercraftTs bottom.
The once roaring engine was silently purring, letting its passengers know that it was all right to stand
up now and exit this floating machinery and achieve solid ground (which itself seemed to sway as if
you were on a boat floating violently in the ocean).
I had to reorient myself at first, and was soon walking the cobblestone street up to a cafe to eat
breakfast. My hair still felt the icky way it feels after swimming in the salty ocean for hours so that
you canTt even run a finger through it. As I headed for a table close to a window, I was overcome with
the same uneasiness my motherTs eyes had made me feel. I realized that this was the first time that
my father and I had spent time together, and we weren't arguing.
oOrder as many waffles as you want,� said my dad. He had lit up a cigarette. At first I began to
stare at the cigarette, but then I noticed how hard and rough my dad's hands were. His face too had
so many wrinkles, which I hadn't noticed before. He took off his brown leather jacket and wrapped it
around the back of the chair.
A large woman approached our table to take our order. I ordered two Belgium waffles, strawberry
Marmalade and extra powdered sugar. My dad ordered three, with blackberry and oeufs a la coque.
oYou can eat some of my boiled eggs,� he said. He stared at our waitress as she walked away.
oAlright. I love boiled eggs.� I also stared at her. My dad took another puff of his cigarette.
twenty-six
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that your friend?� he asked, letting out smoke and laughter. He
inting at our large waitress. My dad enjoyed making fun of large
He always did that to me. He would smile and point at any
yerson and say oHey, Kristina, is that your friend?�
tah, Dad.� I spit out. oShe does have a rather large butt though.�
along with it and began to laugh. I wanted just one drag from
irette.
dad stopped laughing. oKristina?�
at?� I asked. I looked away from his cigarette to the table.
now things between Sabi and I...� he paused and I watched the
in his blue eyes move back and forth. o...Well, things aren't per-
fo shit, I thought. oI want to talk to you about something, some-
hat happened a long time ago...� he trailed off again. I stared at
shen. I saw my obese friend come around the corner with a big
waffles and oeufs a la coque. I wanted to take one of those oeufs
que and shove it in my fatherTs mouth.
id I don't really feel like talking now. ITm hungry and our food is
. Said. The waitress set our plates on the wooden table.
2alize now that I had ignored my dad since I began to learn to
Wependently of my parents. I wondered if every other kid my age
ing through this same detachment. I tried to still my racing
ts by focusing on the powdered sugar and strawberry marmalade
vered my waffle, not ever once catching my fatherTs eyes. I could
n looking at me for long periods of time, but I never looked up at
never once gave him the chance to explain his real reasons for
g me here. Ignorance - child-like and insidious at the same
prevented me from seeing my father as someone I could talk to.
¥e who wanted to share his personal thoughts with his own flesh
90d, the person whom heTs nurtured and cared for until she
that she didnTt need anyone but herself to take care of her. For
Sake, I acted as if my father was the devil himself there to relin-
nmself to me. When I look back at that day now I see that the
ay have well been me.
~ing that day, and previous and preceding days, I dithered away
onversations with my father and kept all of my shilly-shally
ts away from anyone. I knew that the hesitancy of his conversa-
plied that he wanted to explain to me the reasons my sister was so
ly and why I was so unaware of why she was so unhappy. I was
27
twenty-eight
too young to know those reasons so I never questioned them. The tight squeeze
hand as a child now just withered away and I was left alone to reach new and mols
things. Our waitress, who lifted the plate that I was staring down at interrupted �"�
empty now, and then disappeared.
We decided to walk down to the rocky beaches of the English Channel. Ostende
site for tourists, since the town was nestled alongside beautiful rock beaches. There
shops and friendly people. I took no notice of the people around me, but headed stt@
rocks that overlooked the channel. On clear days you could almost see England tying
balked ocean, desperate to reach the shore. Today, though, marked a day of dissolute
darkness that made me happy.
I remembered a few years back when I went flyfishing with my family and dis
English beaches were covered in dead starfish. I was a child then and my bare feet
stone beach unafraid, until I reached the dead hardened yellow starfish. The ends of I
curled upwards waving at the grey, salty sky. Its composition amazed me, my little ham
the texture, and I threw it as far as my strength would allow back into the sea. Would #
bring it back to life? Would I throw it far enough that its mother might grasp hold of
it back out to sea? No, the little starfish only washed up on the stony beach - its
upward toward the sky.
I had to search for awhile before I found some that day in Ostende. I found Ss?
been smashed up against the rocks. They weren't as beautiful as the ones I had found
Their legs were hard and twisted. The yellow color of the starfish I found in Englam�"�
into brown colors.
I now was as hardened as the starfish seemed to be, so I threw myself into the sea
it was cold that day. My father hadn't been looking, so I had time to float around. Whit
realized I was floating out to sea, he yelled at me to swim back to shore. I slowly
back. The oceanTs waves pushed me back to its shore, and I lay still on the wet stony
body cold and hard - my legs curled upward toward the sky.
I sit now alone, thinking of Sabi a million miles away. She is grown up now; she?
life. I only speak with her about two times a year. I found out the reasons why §
father, I found out why she was afraid - only I am too afraid to admit them. I just @
to care, while I still lie in bed and smoke a cigarette before I get up.
on the
SAVING GRACE
of NUMBERS
Mary Carroll-Hackett
kristen wall
She counted in the dark, each breath, two, three,
four. She had to. ~Cause sometimes they could
slip away, silent, on dream feet, gone into that
cold dark stillness without you ever even know-
ing. Here in the twist of quilt and midnight, she
counted the fear away until daylight burned
through the curtains and everything was safe
again. The older ones she could hear too. Even
through the walls. Four, five, six. The three of
them, their breath, the soft shuttle of their
lungs wove a song, a distant drumbeat that car-
ried her into each morning.
He laughed at her at first. oQuit worrying.�
Then oYou live to worry.� Then his laughter rolled
out like cold winter-tide. oLet it go.� He said.
oLet it go.� He would crash from the night to the
glow of the stove and trundled beneath a stolen
cover, he would sleep, out there. Not here. With
her. But then she didnTt sleep.
What if the catTs whiskers came and stilled
the drum? They said not to let cats near your
babies. Their quick sleek tongues would steal
the breath and carry it off, licking it like milk
drops from the pink and black spotted pads of
29
ee ie -.
their paws. Two had gone so, silent, on catsT paws, out the window to the sea. So she counted until big yellow buses with
solid black numbers carried the three off to school and the ringing laughter of friends. Bright yellow curtains billowed
goodbye to him as he strode to the wharf where he paid their way. The rubber of his boots crunched gravel until the sound
slipped away, unspoken farewell. In the safety of day, she cooked fish, fried potatoes, and bought bread from the corner.
He was quiet when he worked, she knew. Him and his strong arms sprayed with sea salt and those strangled nets it took
mostly two of them to haul in. Quiet when he had something clear to do. Like getting her cross to the big island for the
birthings. And the almost birthings. There was a time it had come and died in the middle of the bay on the way to Hatteras.
Great gray waves had fingered the St. John, his boat, and he had looked confused for a moment on which to save first.
There was still that stain on the deck. The crimson, then rose, then faded to pink birthmark of one who had come and
gone so quickly she never even knew who it was. When he washed the deck as she dozed in that hushed nameless loss, she
knew he was losing his patience. oNo more.� He said. So no more came.
Now she potted blood red geraniums so it looks like the postcards they sold on the mainland, blooms that jutted their
way into your view. She saw her mama now and again over to Rodanthe with its little store and that young man who made
curraghs. A TV crew had come once to see his leather boats, to see the handsome young man who had quit college to
come back and build boats no one would use. But their voices sounded flat, nasal to her and she had come away home.
Later the TV showed them but not them. Showed tight-lipped sea worn faces, called attention to the scraped hard-
ness of their vowels, showed the handsome young man as eccentric. Why would he give up a brilliant career to pursue
this archaic craft? The screen fuzzy with signals from
across the Outer Banks asked. She knew. Sometimes
itTs all you can do to breathe.
She still counted in the dark, only now whispering,
lying still, afraid to shift the feather tick, afraid to
clank the wrought-iron frame, lest he might wake and
leave her there alone in the pounding stillness.
thirty
The girl, first to come, first to breathe, no longer turned blue in her dreams.
counting kept her here and she called her friendsT names out absently in hel�
was the hardest to count, rapid, then slow, then rapid again, each puff from he
chasing sand dollars and clouds across the sky before the rain. Then the son:
hear them separately, their breathing deeper, slower, wind through sea grass, wil
up tufts of sand, even sometimes howling across vast gray-green spaces. The
breathed great trails of steam, cold water and warm air, flecked with foam. His!
sea candy. The baby squalled, short demanding rushes of wind that swirled sand
and running for shelter, she buried his face in her breast, until the storm pas
on she counted, three breaths for each moment, strung together and apart
hovered there again, returning to that hollow space beneath her ribs, breathil
she could breathe.
He slept on beside her, long frame fragrant with salt, cured into his skin �"�
ebbing over her from his arm, his leg. Each rolling breath drawn built up the wal
around her she never heard it, just knew it and him like the white in her bot
clicking spaces in her spine.
Six, seven, eight. The three together and not. Inhaling, exhaling, whispel�"�
t/
'
Come on.� Buoying her, until she washed up in the light. It, they, were one,
kelp, through her womb, and clasping at her lungs. The three stood like stair st®
the bellows, opening and closing her chest, maintaining the rhythm of her heat
night closed in, threatening her with its silent fists.
The alarm then it sounded and reaching out, she rustled blankets until on
turned off the chirping sound that brought on the dayTs work. oGet up! Gel
yellow curtains billowed in and she shivered into her slippers to rise and @
and lunches.
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Concept sketch for ECUTs oSonic Plaza�
an
Imagine a world where your every step causes a note to be play®}r,
your movement through light and sound changes that light and *+,
making you a part of your surroundings and allowing you to come,
this amazing world. vil
You have just entered an interactive world of architecture, ®m
light, and art - the world of Christopher Janney. Or
In the fall of 1998, one of JanneyTs newest creations, oSoniCrk
will be completed in the courtyard of the ECU Joyner Library. It iil
one of the latest of projects for a man whose work defies accul |
complete definition. 4
While he refers to himself as a osound artist,� his work is COM ¢
referred to as Environmental Art, which Janney says means thalie
walk through it, itTs large enough to be on an architectural sca
projects take advantage of the usually pre-existing architectul
incorporates other elements which make of the previously plaify
window, or staircase an interactive performance. 2
These feats are perhaps not unexpected from a man whose %%
and training draw from two very diverse fields. oMy training is as aT
and as a jazz musician, so really all of my work is a combination 0
f
two disciplines.�
After studying piano off and on as a child and playing drumsi¢
his 20Ts, his first degree was a BA in architecture and visual arts ae
University, followed by further musical studies at the Dalcroze Str
{
t cult
ite
Pre;
Music in New York.
oWhen I finished architecture school, I thought, I'm no
a regular architect; but I was still in love with the idea of arch
He was later invited to enroll in a newly created Masters
Environmental Art at The Massachusetts Institute of Technology:
only four students are selected each year.
His masterTs thesis was titled Soundstair: The Nature of Envil
tal/Participatory Art. oIt was an early experience in combining f
architecture. We were given various spaces around MIT to cho®
and one of those was a four-story staircase.�
Sound Visic
An Interview with Christopher Janney
Jacquelit
ee
Aney says he drew inspiration from cartoons, movies, and other pop culture elements to create a fantasy world on
laV"ircase. Each step taken on the stairs would trigger some musical or light effect. Some people participated to the
nd "that they danced on the stairs, he said, making it a great place to opeople watch.�
cofve, finishing the graduate program, Janney founded his studio, called PhenomenArts, Inc.
file he says there is really no such thing as a typical day in his line of work, most days do include some time spent
re, omajor duties of his job - managing, supervising employees, and drafting. However, he makes it a firm rule to set
ome time each day to let himself be creative in his studio, without worrying about the more practical aspects of
onic rk.
. It ile the creative process is, by nature, difficult to define, Janney says that there are certain methods he sometimes
cura help him come up with ideas for a new project, such as using the different aspects of his training to see the
~in a new way. oIf itTs a visual thing...ITll try to look at it as music. If itTs a musical project, I try to imagine it as
s COh of sculpture.�
thatien asked if he has a favorite project in his past work, Janney likens the question to a parent being asked if he or
scal a favorite child. oI love all my children, for very different reasons.� However, he also said, osomeone once asked
»ctul{ were stranded on a desert island with only one of my projects, which would it
plaif{ without really thinking about it, I said ~HeartBeatT.�
2artBeat� is a wireless device which Janney created to be worn by a dancer
ose %erforming, which amplifies the sound of the dancer's heart. Janney said that
as @ind of the human heartbeat ogoes to the core of the soul. Mikhail Baryshnikov,
jon Mcurrently touring ~HeartBeat; says it evokes thoughts and feelings of mortality.�
for any future projects that have yet to be created, Janney says that there are
rumSiof ideas, but they are unrealized right now. oThere are things I have visualized,
rts aticanTt even put into words.�
)ze Ser does he spend a lot of time dwelling on the effect of his work and the legacy
ts to be known for. oI donTt think about what I want to be remembered for.
ot cult very excited doing it right now.� He likens his creative world to being inside
rchitéle, inside of which is a spectrum of both light and sound. oI prefer to stay in
ors Preble.�
ologyidTs oSonic Plaza� will be another of those bubbles in which the real world will
3 something a little different, just for the amount of time it will take a student
F Envi through the plaza and into Joyner Library.
ning "ney won his position as a artist on the plaza design team by entering and
, cho0g the public competition that ECU held to determine who would oversee the
side of the plaza. Most of JanneyTs part of the project was planned to incorpo-
elf into the design elements that already existed. There was a water element
planned, and the clock tower, and the original columns from the old Library.
ueliné
oSound Artist� Christopher Janney
Several ECU students are participating in the creation of oSonic
Plaza,� which was part of JanneyTs plan from the beginning - to make
the plaza an educational opportunity as well as artistic stimulation.
The film department of the North Carolina School of the Arts is
planning a project focusing on oSonic PlazaTs� educational opportunities.
Some of those possibilities include the composition of new music for
the plaza by music majors, or the creation of new sculptures every few
years by art majors.
oT think itTs cool that heTs involved the students,� said Kirk Davis,
who graduated from ECU in May 1997 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in
Art. Davis has been helping to coordinate the other ECU students
involved in the plaza project, and has acted as JanneyTs liaison at ECU.
The other students working on the plaza are: Kevin D. Eichner, Sonya
Smith, Stacey Wilkins, Drew Fairaizl, and Christine Celic.
The students are primarily working on creating the sculptures that
will emerge from the plazaTs clock tower several times a day. These
sculptures will probably include a rooster at sunrise, steam whistles at
noon, a cannon at 5:00 p.m., and either a oMr. Moon� or a joker figure
at midnight. The cannon is ogoing to be a mix of an older cannon with
a laser gun, to kind of show progress,� according to Davis.
Celic, a BFA Art major, is doing the animation for the twelve video
monitors that will surround the clock face. Each time a sculpture
comes out of the clock, it will be accompanied by similarly themed
imagery on the monitors. For instance, when a factory steam whistle
blow at noon, the monitors may show gears, pistons, and other
industrial imagery.
Davis and Celic both agreed that working with Janney has been a
positive experience.
oHeTs patient, heTs full of ideas,� Davis said. oHe's a really creative
guy, heTs not afraid of trying anything.�
thirty-four
Fe hot me
oHe's great,� Celic seconded. oHeTs a teacher at Cooper Unite
he knows how to work with students. When I would get frustrate
was always a big help.�
His teaching position as a visiting professor at the Coopel
School of Architecture, teaching a course called oSound as a Vi
Medium,� means that he has to fly to New York every other we
also spends several days a month traveling in order to keep an ae
all of his projects, but says that he is lucky enough to spend t
majority of his time at home.
Home for Janney is Lexington, Massachusetts, where he has
and a few support staff in close proximity to his residence. His
Terrell Lamb, is a writer who also works at home. They have two ®
Frederick John Lamb Janney, 10, and Lillian Mary Lamb Janney
Janney says that while his children seem to be under the i�"�
that their parents donTt work, due to the large amount of time : 2 ~
able to spend at home, they have shown artistic inclinations 4
interest in his work. They have their own corner of his studio !
to work and play when they are there, but he says he would ne
compel them to study music the way he was compelled, only &
whatever interest they show. oIf I can interest them in art and
thatTs the best foundation.�
The foundations for oSonic Plaza� have long since been la! BS
is only a matter of time until ECU students, on their way to st
the library, will take a journey through a ohyper-reality� to get
Remember that scene in oBig� where Tom Hanks played on the
Remember Disney's oFantasia?� Remember all those cartoons .
watched as a kid, where some cartoon character pulled off a m
and artistic illusion that would be impossible in real life? Well
impossible is getting closer and closer to the possible, and m &
fictional worlds are only one of the many inspirations for the
world of Christopher Janney.
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Ceramics
1 Reflected Signals Jamie Kirkpatrick First Place
2 Exitus Kendra Brock Second Place
3 Teapot Jennifer Mecca Second Place
4 Stacked Jars Amy Evans Third Place
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1 Awakening Osiris Stuart Williams First Place
2 Museum Signage System David Gould Second Place
3 Sting Video Game Packaging Kevin Wynns Third Place
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1 Our Cocoon Trevor Van Meter First Place
2 Watch Your Back Fabian Williams Second Place
3 The Line Up Trevor Van Meter Third Place
4 Sting Illustrations Kevin Wynns Honorable Mention
forty-two
Metal Design
1 Tonight Jeanette Austin First Place
2 Cross Tied Blue/Green Tied Cross
Felicia Szorad Second Place
3 Line Composition Jeanette Austin Third Place
forty-four
Painting and Drawing
1
2
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4
Life In The Eye Brian Buchanan First Place
MalafunsiaTs Forest Jeanette Little Second Place
Search Inside Lee Nisbet Third Place
Self Portrait Brian Buchanan Honorable Mention
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1 Untitled Roberta Haimbaugh First Place
2 Untitled Kristen Wall Second Place
3 Dogwood Roberta Haimbaugh Third Place
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1 Gestural Studies Kevin Eichner First Place
2 SigmundTs Great Fixation Terry Wolfe Second Place
3 Untitled Al Crivelli Third Place
4 Strainer Terry Wolfe Honorable Mention
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1 Untitled Linda OTLeary-Allen First Place
2 Grandma Always Said Idle Hands Were the Devil's Work Melissa Hightower
3 Color Your Own World Cathey Bolton Third Place
fifty-two
Second Place
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Wood Design
1 Untitled Al Crivelli
2 Dining Chair Dan Peoples
3 Blue Cabinet Dan Galante
4
Red Baroque Cabinet
forty-four
First Place
Dan Galante
Second Place
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Printmaking
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Craig Ramey
her cheeks are still damp
from the time spent on them
as paint and grief
drip from her face to the floor
beside her broken glasses
and her shoes. she found her shoes
but where would she go?
she is chained by a band
squeezing tighter every second
refusing to release her
the stakes are too high now
she was tricked by a joker
who bluffed a full house
with a strong hand
she has nothing but hearts again
she must fold again
she must fold
yybum suAemp
Kevin Sterner
In late fall of 1990, while I was attending an art school in Miami, Florida, a friend of mine really
needed a smoke. James thundered around the apartment and flopped down heavily in one of my
big blue chairs. oWhy donTt you smoke? Then I could just bum one from you.� he said.
oJames, you have two feet. Go get your own cigarettes.� I said.
James pleaded, oCTmon, go with me. Please?�
oOh awTright. LetTs go.�
So, with that bit of useless banter we walked down the stairs and onto the street.
Mr. LouTs grocery store was two blocks away, on a corner. There were many streetlights out near
our apartment building which made the block look like a quiet suburb rather than a neighborhood
in the heart of Miami. I was glad that I had remembered to grab my can of mace as we walked out
the door. It bulged in my front pocket, a reminder that I was master of my own fate. No way I
would ever be caught up in a situation where I would be at a disadvantage. No sir, not me. As we
walked, James was unusually quiet. After a few minutes of silence, James mentioned something to
me about not having any money (again) and could he borrow two bucks from me, please?
Suddenly a new model Ford roared toward us and stopped abruptly next to us, parked almost
on the curb. Four men wearing rumpled green army jackets and scruffy beards jumped out and
flashed badges in our faces. They threw us up against the car (light blue metallic paint) and
proceeded to pat us down ever so gently. The man who was in the passenger side took my wallet and
my can of mace. He passed the mace to a buddy and looked at my Pennsylvania driver's license.
oWhat're you guys doinT out here?� the man who grabbed me bellowed.
oWe were gettinT some smokes!� James answered for me. They had him up against the car next
to me, on my right. He looked scared. His eyes were wide open and jittering around in their sockets
and I believe at one point his tongue hung out. I sincerely hoped that I didnTt look that stupid.
The dark-haired man continued, oYou boys tryinT to score somethinT? Huh?� as if we never
answered.
I realized what he asked the first time and said, oWe were going to Mr. LouTs to get him some
cigarettes!� I turned and gestured to James. oWe weren't trying to score anything!� I had my bear-
ings now, even answering the second question before he could yell a third.
oDo you know this guy?� he asked.
Huh? What guy? I thought. He pointed to a man sprawled out on the hood of their car and
looked at me intently, as if trying to catch me in a lie. They pulled a gun from the manTs pants and
cuffed him. The gun glinted in the orange light of the streetlights as the green-jacket men passed
it around to each other with satisfied grunts.
oNo, we don't know him,� I said, flushing with embarrassment. James just kinda stood there
with his teeth in his mouth.
oBe careful out here.� He handed me my wallet and my impotent can of mace, and in a flash
they all got in the car and drove off. Dumbstruck, we watched them go. I think one of us whispered,
oHoly shit.� Then we stumbled to Mr. LouTs and I bought James a pack of smokes.
He still owes me two dollars.
=
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sauol wi}
within the
Parallax
William Stacey Cochran
The hotel is in the phase. There is a three-level
parking deck built into the hotel, and the hotel
rises twenty-two floors above it. The rooms on
the south side of the hotel overlook the roof-top
of the parking deck. On the roof-top, a pool area
has been built. There are four people in and
around the poolTs Jacuzzi. They are seen from
two points-of-view not on a direct line with
themselves. This is the known.
Adjacent to the pool, a woman, Agave
Clytemnestras, 34, twice-divorced, alone,
runs on a treadmill. She notices two of the
four, two women, in a mirror designed for
the nautilus users. Her pace is strong, her
breathing heavy. To Agave, one woman looks
to be wearing a décolleté bikini top; the lower
half of her body is beneath the froth-covered
water of the Jacuzzi. The other wears what
looks like a midriff band bikini top. One of
the women is a brunette, and the other is a
sandy-blonde. She thinks the brunette has
confident, thoughtful eyes. She seems like she
knows her business, Agave thinks.
On one side of a curved reflection in a
glass bong (not too unlike a witch of Agnesi),
which sits on a green méridienne in room
412 level with the roof-top pool, is one
sixty-four
Ventheus Bacchinthias, a twelve-hit-induced SDSU creative writing major who writes very
disturbed fiction about women who have too much sex and feel guilty about it (or sometimes
they get STDs or get pregnant but are generally promiscuous and are, oddly enough, not con-
sidered as such by the male characters in her stories). She rubs her eyes at the reflectionTs
distant image, wondering whether what she sees is really there or not. Ventheus sees a man
and a woman sitting at the corner of the hotel Jacuzzi kissing one another. To Ventheus, the
red-bearded man bears an uncanny resemblance to Vincent Van Gogh. She is intrigued by him
He says something to the other two women, a dull brown haired slutty-looking type and a dirty
blonde; Ventheus is sure they must be lesbians. They laugh, and one says something to the
woman that the red bearded man is with. She says something in return and smiles gracefully.
She's a prude, Ventheus thinks. She turns her television off so as to hear the group better.
Agave ClytemnestraTs, breathing heavily, wearing a sport bra and running shorts, watches
one of the two women rub the back of the other. She hardly notices the man and woman.
Ventheus thinks the manTs red-beard is distinguished looking. She sees that there is a mole
above his left nipple. Agave sees that the brunetteTs hair is wet, and it sticks to her shoulder
blades. The man leans and whispers something in his female friendTs ear, Ventheus notices.
She smiles, sips her chardonnay, then kisses the man lightly on the lips. Oh sheTs subtle
Ventheus thinks. Agave is sure one of the women wears a matinee-length gold necklace. It
drapes unevenly atop her cleavage. She also realizes that they donTt realize sheTs watching
them in the nautilus mirror.
oDo you know any Shakespeare?� Ventheus, stoned, thinks she hears the red-bearded man
ask one of the other two women, the brunette.
oA sonnet,� Agave hears her reply.
Agave watches her rise to her feet. Her partner leans back and straightens the matinee
length gold necklace around her neck. The woman next to the red-bearded man sips h
s her
chardonnay. The man puts his arm around her.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruinTd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which, by and by black night doth take away, oBravo!� The red-bearded man says. He claps his hands. |
DeathTs second self, that seals up all in rest. oI like that,� the woman that he is with says. oVery nice. Very nice.� |
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, oBeautiful,� the other woman says; AgaveTs heart rate is 148. |
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, She finds the two women so close to one another very erotic. The red-bearded man
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, drinks his bourbon; Ventheus lights a joint, watching. The woman inches closer to him.
ConsumTd with that which it was nourishTd by. The night air is cool. The wind whips across the fourth floor, roof-top, pool area. Traffic
This thou perceivTst which makes thy love more strong, can be heard in the adjacent downtown streets. A shipTs foghorn bellows up from the bay.
To love that well which thou must leave ere long:' Agave thinks the red-bearded man looks like an asshole. Look at him trying to seem so |
cool, so macho. He's showing off in front of the other two women. Asshole.
Ventheus turns from the reflection in the bong, takes a deep hit from the head of the
joint, holds it in, then breathes it out slowly. The jointTs paper starts to run. She dabs a
wet finger on it, then places the joint in an ashtray. Next to the ashtray is a photo of
Ventheus and another college-aged female. The girl is wearing a silk camisole; Ventheus
wears a white push-up bra, bikini, and garter belt with garters snapped to a pair of
thigh-high stockings. The girl in the camisole has her hand on VentheusT left breast and
is leaning to kiss her. She has an awkward smile on her face. Ventheus turns from the
photo to the witch of Agnesi reflection on the bong.
65
oSo what is it like,� the woman next to the
red-bearded man asks the Shakespearean brunette;
Agave takes notice of her, oTraveling from city to
city all the time? You must love what you do.�
oOh, I do,� she says. oI think you have to. I
mean, we were in Phoenix earlier this week. Three
nights here. Then up to Denver next week. Were
constantly on the road.�
oMust meet a lot of interesting people?� The
red-bearded guy asks.
The sandy-blonde in the matinee-length
necklace says, oThatTs one word for them. Tell
them about that guy in Houston. The one with
the tattoos. Oh my god, I thought I would die.�
oWe really donTt have time to go out much,�
the Shakespearean brunette says. oWhat with at
least twelve hours at the theater. Then being
bused back and forth between hotels and
shows.�
oHectic schedule?� The woman next to the
red-bearded man asks.
oYou wouldn't believe.�
oTrTs not that bad,� the sandy-blonde interjects.
sixty-six
oOh come on, Amanda,� she says. oWhat about that stretch in June? What was it, like
seventeen days straight? We know about hectic schedules, believe me.�
oBut you're on the stage,� the woman beside the bearded man says, oan actress. The people,
the electricity. That's why you do it, right? The excitement of it all.�
oOh, certainly. There's no feeling quite like it.� She spreads her legs wide, bends her head
all the way to the water, sits back up, shakes out her leg, then pats her thighs down with her
hands; Agave rubs the sweat off her forehead with a hand towel, continues running.
oHow do you feel?� The bearded man asks the woman.
oGood,� she says, okinda hot.�
oMore wine?� he asks.
oIf you would.�
The bearded man reaches in a silver pannier, takes a bottle from the ice, and pours her
another glass. Agave thinks of her first ex-husband. He poured me a glass of wine. It was his
hands. The way he held the wine bottle. The way the bottle dipped and lightly touched the
glass. The sound of touching glass. The shape of his hands. The shade of his skin. The roundness
of his nails. I can't believe I fell in love with a man because of his hands.
grandfather, Ventheus thinks.
Agave slows her pace to a walk, continues to watch the group in the nautilus mirror, and
thinks briefly of changing into her bathing suit and joining them. She sees the two women kiss
each other; she visualizes herself naked in the Jacuzzi, alone with the two women. Then, she
thinks of her first husband. What did I ever see in him, she wonders. The Greek bastard Lousy
lover. Treating our daughter like an animal. Treating me like an animal
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love and respect.
Look at the hairy faced bastard, Agave thinks: she picks up her pace on the treadmill. He
is practically making out with the woman in front of the other two. Doesn't he h
ave any
respect for her. YouTd think heTd have better breeding and manners. God, men are such
chauvinistic bastards.
oI completely envy your lives,� the woman with the red-bearded man says to the two
women. oTravelling from city to city, meeting all kinds of theater people.�
oItTs not all that great,� the brunette says. oSometimes I wish I could just settle down,
keep my feet in one place for a change.�
oLike Sacramento, her dirty-blonde friend says.
oSacramento's nice, the red-bearded man says. oThere's a beautiful little suburb, Rio Linda...�
oWe know Rio Linda,� the two women almost say together. The brunette says, oThereTs a
restaurant, The Ruvaldi, up on Folsom Lake.�
oWe've eaten there,� the woman with the bearded man says; he nods, remembering.
oI think I had...� he looks at his lover, o...what was it...rainbow trout?�
oIt's the best,� the brunette interjects.
oThat is so cool,� her dirty-blonde friend says. oYou guys have been to Rio Linda. That's
too cool.�
AgaveTs heart rate is 156. She steps off the treadmill, puts her hands on her knees. Her
chest heaves. Her lungs ache. Ventheus lights a cigarette and thinks of calling her girlfriend.
She looks at the photograph. She remembers making love to her. Her cries like change on a table,
ringing against the glass of her apartment. Their bodies complimented one another so well.
Agave thinks of her bathing suit in her room. I could slip it on, grab a glass of wine from
the mini-bar. What would they see in me, though. I could just act like I wanted to relax in the
Jacuzzi. If they said something to me, ITd make polite conversation. Just be myself. DonTt act
like ITm interested in them or anything. Just relaxing in the Jacuzzi. God, what I'd give to have
a woman licking my body. Agave feels a wave of hormones flush through her body and thinks
of taking a shower, masturbating.
oYou two seem so happy together,� the dirty-blonde says to the hetero couple. oHow long
have you been together, if you donTt mind my asking?�
oT donTt mind,� the red headed woman says; she looks at her red-bearded lover. oWhat's it
been...eight months...something like that.�
67
oT little over eight months,� the red-bearded
man says.
oHow about you two?� the redhead asks them.
The two women look at each other and smile
like lovers.
oFive years next month,� the brunette says.
oFive years,� the red headed woman says in
awe. oThatTs wonderful.�
oFive years, the man says without too much
expression; he brushes an invisible fly off his chest.
Ventheus is certain she wants to call her girl-
friend. She picks up the receiver and dials the
number. It rings once, then she hangs up. She
stands up, lights a cigarette, and looks at herself
in a mirror. She fingers her eyebrows, then exhales
smoke. She turns away from the mirror. How can |
love a woman, she thinks. I mean I feel wonderful
when itTs just me and her; I feel awesome. I'm just
a fucked up kid. Fucked up. God, I'm so crazy
sometimes. No, donTt tell yourself that. You're not
crazy. Ventheus looks around the room, thinking she
heard something, then begins biting a fingernail.
sixty-eight
Agave thinks of the time her second husband drove her up to Point Loma. I
remember feeling real uncomfortable. HeTd just bought the Volvo and said he wanted
to take me for a drive. I didnTt know what he was up to. Never liked strange places
at night. The sunroof was open. I didnTt know where he was taking me; just trusted
him. He knows where heTs going. Then when we stopped the car and I saw the moon
out over the water. It was huge, amazing; it was margarine yellow, big round, sitting
fat as I've ever seen a moon. I'll never forget what he said: you're worth my life.
He said I was worth his life...And I believed him.
oSo what would you guys say the key to keeping your relationship together is?�
The redhead asks the two women.
oNever taking anything for granted,� the sandy-blonde says. oThe minute you
start taking someone for granted, you know you're in trouble.�
oTrust,� the brunette says. oYou have to build trust.�
oAnd you have to be there,� the sandy-blonde says. oMen, (pardon the
stereotype) seem to have the hardest time just being around.�
oHow do you mean?� the red-bearded man asks.
oWell, showing up on time; being where you're supposed to be, when you're
supposed to be.�
Growing together,� the brunette says. oYou've got to be there to grow together.�
You've got to be able to count on one another,� the sandy-blonde says.
You've got to care about each other no matter what happens, no matter what
other people say.�
Do you get a lot of that,� the red head says, opeople saying things about
you? Talking behind your backs?�
oNot really,� the sandy-blonde says.
sometimes,� the brunette says, obut you canTt listen to it. You just have to be
yourself whether people accept you or not.�
oI think you're right,� the red bearded man says.
SW
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lo
or
Lo
Agave knows she needs a shower. She towels
sweat off her forehead. She feels alone but does
not wallow in it. I am who I am; ITve made my
choices in life. Everyone makes choices in life.
Love is like a hemlock flower, beautiful, white,
and pure, but let it become a part of you, let it
roll inside you, and it will numb your mind to
sleep forever.
Ventheus feels the warm water of the tub in
her bathroom, its sound drowning out all others.
She looks at herself in the wrap-around bathroom
mirror; her black eye shadow smeared, her lips
quivering, her small tits - pale flaps of skin,
nipples pierced. You're afraid; I can taste it in
my mouth. Please stop talking to me. I'm sorry,
please donTt hurt me anymore. No one cares
about you. You're alone in this world.
Agave throws her sweat-towel in the large
hamper at the door of the work-out area. She
looks back once more at the group by the pool.
She hears the brunette say to the couple,
oLove is what you make of it; it can be beautiful
or hideous, comforting or cold, forever or today.
Love is what it is.�
The hotel is in the phase. There is a three-level
parking deck built into the hotel, and the hotel
rises twenty-two floors above it. The rooms on
the south side of the hotel overlook the roof-top
of the parking deck. On the roof-top, a pool has
been built. There are four people in and around
the poolTs Jacuzzi. This is the known.
| Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare
69
stuter
(third row dyslexic daydreamer)
A. Brandon Mise
Simple girl -
Second row.
me, tier three, and simply put - pencil chew
Crack i a nervous knuckle - PO P |
w
Dart an eye...(i glimpsed oa gauche to crossT a you (and to a T.))
From three to Two:
Simple girl, wish i you know
think i you more, tongue mine in bow -
So glimpse you girl in side view sneak
For last one look must i be peek
A-BOO!
Catch you! View cherry chin,
hang fingertip
No. finger chew,
down dip your lip
down dip your lip
and my lip? bit.
Mine shoulder crumble
Wish i you sip,
soft butter bubble
1 pencil tap. Look eye to you -
Scratch you sky at - stretch three from two
Taught taffy neck - reach three from two
Delicious golden apple chew.
Yawn yummy lips, cat kitty nap -
Crack i a pencil post like - S N A p |
*
Hear i you talk? Ear a la mode.
Speak you like dusty pebble road.
Rust rhythm raspy - puppy purr.
mine neck on end: spiked static fur.
seventy
Warm wet whisper wish i was...
wish i you still (put you on pause)
and watch you still, still standing time -
make thoughts mine stutter. (Heart-beat rhyme.)
Look eye you me! Feel you my stare?
Lost long in girl twirled curl climb hair.
Cool candy doll dream, bliss kiss your ear
where warm wished whisper disappear...
lost warm wish whisper, in there, somewhere...
Look you, eye me...
feel you mine stare...
eyes mine decline in shy rewind,
to circle paper's silver bind...
Simple girl, mine wish - you knew
how pen mine stutter dance for you,
For this is you, Two,
and toa T.
From me to you
To Two from three
jeff schuller
te oal Mv
. rorereet FPS) ibrs
.
seventy-two
We walked
through the field of long-stemmed daisies
leading to the lake.
The water
washed the worldTs insanity away
cleansing our souls.
Why canTt I bathe in that lake today,
dear brother?
Wade Puryear
You noticed the rocks
on the distant shore
baking like sea lions in the scolding sun.
With Nick and Tony
you were determined to make it.
Swimming halfway
as if escaping the nearing jaws of certain death
the others turned back.
But Brad you
were the bravest
bursting through the water with
the persistency of a madman
first placed in a padded room.
Fear stormed
through our hearts on the far shore. |
There was no sign
of your water-glistened back.
Finally your figure appeared
out of the blue abyss
and leaped onto the giant rock
that lied waiting in the sun.
The most beautiful light surrounded you
as your victorious V-spread arms
reached for heaven.
I never thought I'd remember you like that,
reaching for the place you
certainly call home now.
I never thought I'd feel
the separation that I felt that day
standing on the fading shoreline.
Now its not as simple.
I canTt just run
down the shoreline to bring you a Camel.
The sand is too hot
The water too high.
But you made the swim.
When no one else could
my brother,
you fought and fought the water
and found the freedom
you always wanted.
Brad, you conquered life.
73
Chris Leicht
derrick cruz
seventy-four
And the rain fell,
I cried
I was alone.
I felt really, really weird.
But why? Everything was as normal as usual. Well, normal for a rainy day. The front walk was
flooded so I had to walk around back through the mud that we call othe driveway� in my
favorite pair of Airwalks " the shiny cherry-red ones that Kathy had gotten so mad at me for
buying because she wanted them but didnTt have any money. The stupid bus was always crowded
when it rained so I tried to hurry to it and forgot my raincoat dad had bought me. Okay, so it
was a yucky day and that was why I felt weird but why the hell was I in bed crying?
oRamie!!�
My name being shreked through the house was enough to make me feel a bit even more
normal. Kathy hardly ever came to me - she would scream my name repeatedly until I finally
made it to her.
oRamie!!�
Again. Again she bellows. Go away, go away, go away with the others. Go away to the...
hmmm...maybe I should start writing this down. ITve decided that ITm going to be a rockTnTroll
star sooner or later. I figure if I write down anything that in some shape or form will resemble a
song lyric, by the time ITm fourteen, I can randomly choose lines to throw into one song. Then I
won't have to be in one of those bands that only sing crappy love songs. Next I'll learn how to
play the guitar - by myself, of course. The only ones who make it are the ones who taught
themselves - thatTll be me too. KathyTs last boyfriend had a guitar. I wonder if I could talk
Kathy into letting me -
oRamie!!�
OK. OK. OK. ITve been under my blankets for the past hour. I wasnTt taking a nap - ITm too
old. I like to open my window and get under the covers when it rains so I can think up great
songs in my head. The rain is very inspirational. I bet that some of the best rockTnTroll stars lis-
ten to the rain for melodies -
oRamie!! I really mean it! Come here!�
Kathy's voice is way too squeaky for her to ever be a star but I better think about that Later.
I check my eyes in the mirror on the way out and try putting my pouty lips on. I look really cool
when I do that. I walk slowly to the stairs but make enough noise so she won't scream at me
again. Casually, I stroll into the kitchen, letting my pouty lips lead.
oWhat's up?� I say leaning my elbows on the counter. Lately ITve been trying to look like ITm
really bored regardless of what's going on. I try this now, keeping the pouty lips.
oRamie!� Kathy just stares at me and I wonder if she just likes saying my name. I mean, it is
kind of fun to say and I haven't gotten bored with hearing it yet, but today may try my patience.
Kathy tosses her lovely light brown locks (I read that in a magazine once and now I love
saying it-locks, locks, locks) over her shoulder and opens her eyes as wide as she can.
75
oRamie, your eyes are puffy. Have you been crying?� Where is this
concern coming from?
oNo,� I answer very short trying to sound bored, remember? oWhy
have you been calling me?�
oT need a favor, sweetie.� Great, sheTs calling me sweetie - that
only means trouble. I keep my bored stance with the pouty lips and
wait for her to go on.
oWell, you know that guy Geoff who has been dyyying to take me
out?� Whatever, Kathy. She pauses to put her hands on her hips and
push them forward. oI told him he could take me to the movies tonight,
but I have to go over to SheilaTs first to get ready, so I need you to tell
dad I had to stay after school and then I went to a movie with the
drama club.� The more she wants out of me the faster she talks because
she thinks ITm going to miss part of what she is saying or get confused
but sheTs the one whoTs confused.
oWhatever,� I say, real bored and push myself from the counter. It's
almost time for Sailor Moon so I stroll towards the television. That's how
to be cool in front of Kathy - bored, pouty lips and strolling.
You'll do it?� She follows me way too eagerly.
oNo.� Short, to the point, but bored.
oWhy not? You have to or I'll tell dad I caught you smoking.� Oh,
sheTs trying to make me miss my favorite show! Serena is already turning
into Sailor Moon - hey! Did she just say smoking? My bored, pouty lips
out the door.
oKathy! They were your cigarettes! I donTt even know how to smoke!
I just put one in my mouth -"
oBackwards!� Sly, very sly.
oShut up! I donTt care! Go out with Geoff that stupid quarterback.�
She is so dumb. Who would want to date a stupid football player,
especially Geoff? He didnTt care about anything important.
oQo0000 - I love you, lilT Ramie!� Squealing, she bends over the
couch to kiss my cheek. Gross. oI promise to hang out with you
tomorrow! Do you want to go to the stables or something?� She's
already walking out the door and I've resumed bored, pouty lips position.
ItTs hard to look bored when I watch Sailor Moon. It's only the best
show on television. Kathy told me it was supposed to be taken off the
air because no one wants to watch a cartoon about school girls who
turn into super heroes. She doesnTt understand anything.
seventy-six
Sailor Moon goes off the air and the Brady Bunch comes on. I'm
already bored with this Friday afternoon. Yep, more rain. Maybe I can
write some more lines or think up more tunes. I walk back upstairs
into KathyTs room. She has the best mirror in the house. ItTs the kind
like you find in the dressing rooms in the stores in the mall - three long
ones with the two that fan out. I can turn right and see the backside
of myself. This is kind of fun. I try out how I look from every angle
possible. I try out my bored stroll up to the mirror. When I get real
close I give my pouty lips - perfect. WhatTs that on Kathy's bed? I stay
in my composure - stroll to the bed. But then I get bored and flop
down. A pink book called Girl? What the hell is this crap? I flip
through a couple of pages - boring. A girl named Cybil shaves her
head. Whatever. I sit up and stare out the window.
Gray, gray, gray. More rain. The leaves sag. They took pretty when
it's sunny out now that they're orange and yellow and red but now they
just look...
Bored. My vision blears. I feel my cheeks getting moist. Why am
I crying?
The phone rings. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my V-neck
sweater and try clearing my throat once just to be safe.
oHello?� No good. I still sound weird.
oRamie...whatTre you doing, sweetheart?�
oDaddy!� My vision immediately clears and I try my throat again.
Better. oAre you on your way home?�
He laughs that dad laugh. oNo, I called to tell you and your sister
I have a dinner meeting. I'll be home late. Is Kathy there?�
oNo, sheTs with the drama club.� I say it without planning. I could
have told him she was on a date and then he would definitely come
home early so he could be here to yell at her - she has two more
months until sheTs sixteen.
oOh. Well, make yourself a little sandwich and I'll bring home my
leftovers for you.�
That's all he says worth listening to. I wonder how bored I sound on
the phone. Dad hangs up and I listen to the rain for a while. Bringing
home the leftovers, not bringing home the bacon. T'tl go write that
down but first I want to call my friend Matt and see if I sound bored
over the phone.
oHello?�
oHello...Is Matt at home?�
oWhat's up, Ramie?!� I knew he had answered but I wanted to see
if heTd recognize my voice - with me sounding so bored.
oDo I sound bored to you?� I twist around on Kathy's bed to stare
at the Girl book.
oWhat?�
oNever mind.� I sigh. No one understands this. I listen to Matt talk
about his new skateboard - Danny Plan B or A. I donTt know. I act
bored and get off the phone.
ITm bored with strolling and looking bored, so I go lie down on my
bed and stare at the ceiling.
I am the most fun person in the whole world. Kathy and Dad
should love hanging out with me. I do fun things and I make them
laugh, so why would Kathy want to go out with Geoff instead of hang
out with me?
My face feels damp again. I roll over and stare into my closet. All
my clothes are hung up very neatly and my shoes are kept in their
original boxes " my stuff is real cool. ThereTs my favorite blue bookbag...
I have an idea.
I don't need to stay here. I can leave. I can take my notebook and
my pens. I'll bring my tape recorder and my walkman and a few blank
tapes and I'll leave. I'll go travel and become a famous rockTnTroll star
and I wonTt come back until ITm famous and have to be driven home in
a limo with my pouty lips and I'll look really, really bored.
I pack everything into my blue bookbag. I put on my favorite
sweatshirt with the hood, and I put on my shiny, cherry red Airwalks. I
put all my money - I've been saving a little bit - in my cool Sailor
Moon change purse.
I walk into Kathy's room. I stroll up to the mirror. Bored. Pouty
Lips. I try to wink - I'll work on that later.
I leave in the rain.
Theyre going to miss me.
I am the most fun person in the whole world.
My face feels moist. My hood feels damp. My feet are cold. My blue
bookbag will repel all water. But what if my notebook gets wet? What
if all my lines that I will use to make the songs that will make me
famous gets wet?
I keep walking. My blue bookbag will protect my notebook.
At the end of our street is a Circle K. I stroll in there, looking
bored, of course. They have these machines that make fake cappuccino
and one of the flavors is French Vanilla - yummy!! I hate coffee, I
mean, sometimes I'll drink it with Kathy because everyone in high
school drinks it, but this French Vanilla stuff is not real coffee. I donTt
know what it is. ItTs super sweet and warm and would be the best
thing to drink right now. French Vanilla...ITll definitely have to put
that word in a song.
I pull out my Sailor Moon change purse, making sure the lady
behind the counter sees it. She probably doesnTt know what that is,
though. She glances down at it but only smiles, waiting for me to
hand her the money. I pay for my drink. I stand looking bored with my
pouty lips.
I stroll back outside and try to finish my French Vanilla, but ITm
getting cold and itTs still raining. ITm also starting to feel very hungry
for leftovers. I wonder what dadTs going to bring home?
I wonder why I'm standing in the rain like an idiot? ITm too old to
stand out here like an idiot, even though I donTt look that dumb
because I still have on my pouty lips. I stroll back towards the sidewalk
and look down the street at my house.
Good-bye stroll.
Good-bye pouty lips.
I run home. I didnTt even make it two blocks. I throw everything in
the dryer. (Of course not my notebook.) I throw everything in the
dryer. I wonder if I should write that down?
I change into new clothes, make my sandwich and sit down in
front of the television.
Resume pouty lips.
I hear dadTs car in the garage.
oHey, Ramie!� My dad is completely dry in spite of the rain. I
guess dads stay that way. oI brought you some cheese fries and a
movie.� Awesome. He walks over and drops the movie on the couch and
puts my cheese fries in the oven to heat up. HeTs good about knowing
what to put in the microwave and what will get soggy in there.
oDad! You got Empire Strikes Back!!� Okay, so ITm excited. He sits
down next to me and puts his arm around me. I smile. ITll resume
pouty lips tomorrow. Maybe I should write that down.
77
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~Titled
Brendan J. O'Donnell
to my first love:
You were camping deep in the woods
and I saw you float like a pixie down a trail
brushing by dew covered leaves
that wet your hair, washed your eyes
moistened your lips, and stained your brown dress.
you were a vision-gift that pleased a king
but you were gone on the night of my return.
this was my first love
to my second love:
You put your arm around my waist.
You spoke the words oHey, Charlie.�
then you looked up and said
oOh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else.�
then I said, with butterfly words
oOh, you can call me charlie, even chuck.�
but you were gone
I screamed for you, that night, I dreamt of you
I told everyone to call me Charlie
and then asked if they had seen you
this was my second love
to my third love:
Let it be known to the world
that for you, I have painted my body green.
except for my fingernails, except for the fingernails
men paint not their fingernails
I paint myself green, knowing full well
that all your camera wires can see.
(yes, I know of your camera wires, for I
was merely pretending to sleep when you put them in)
Since then no female has been allowed inside
and when I watch t.v. I always turn
the channel, eTer a female be shown.
for I would not want my love to become jealous.
I hope the camera wires have shown all the
hours I've spent in the corner looking sad,
hoping you would take pity and come back.
this was my third love
to my fourth love:
you are the one, the fast one, yes, you are the one
the market one, the number one, the undone
the Dunlop, the lopsided, the side of my heart one
the tobacco I won't spit, the lace I won't tie
You're smoke that wonTt spread out
you won't spray doubt, you are my one
won
patna snaseeiNe dea es SASS UREA RTE ETP EE OE ONE NE EC Re sce DE ECE TIENT
.. tee
ner ere hi ate tagged
The text for The Rebel is set in Officina Sans. Headlines were designed
using the following typefaces: Adobe Garamond, Adobe Jenson, Bell Gothic,
Belucian, Bruce OldStyle, Carlotta, Jaeger, Kuenstler Script, Officina Sans,
Washout, and Zurich. The Rebel was designed on.a Macintosh platform with
QuarkXPress 3.32 and is printed on Evergreen white, 80 lb. coated text.
2250 editions were printed on a Shinhara 66I1P two-color press at University
Printing and Graphics, East Carolina University.
2250 covers of The Rebel were hand-pulled on a Vandercook SP-15 Repro Proof
Press by Craig Malmrose, Associate Professor of Communication Arts, using
Franklin Gothic wood type on French Durotone, Newsprint Aged, 80 tb. cover,
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PP LR TGS
Cree ae aban habits : r Seg AY ALTERS ION TST aa
Sean ES AE ETA TAN NTN GEE ESF ER AGIEA
ee a
ee eae
= naan oe ee
