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REBEL76

ee ee

' NOTE ON THE COVER:

The cover is an intaglio print by Matt Smartt. The legend may be
found on the back cover. The print won first prize in the Rebel art contest
this year. Several other works by Smartt appear in this issue of the Rebel.

Printed by National Printing Co.

Copyright ? REBEL '76

Ag Slane

sTatt_

jeff rollins

daniel o'shea. ..

david bosnick |

ART STAFF. .

iaih hie eis published by the
students of East Carolina University.
Offices are located in the Publications
Center on the East Carolina campus.
Inquiries and contributions should be
directed to THE REBEL, Mendenhall
Sudent Center, Rast Carolina
University, Greenville, N.C. 27834.
Copyright ? 1976, East Carolina Univer-
sity Student Government Association.
None of the materials herein may be
reproduced in any form whatsoever
without written permission.

Prizes for the literary-art contest held
this Fall were partially provided by a

_. MANAG. EGITOR

harry hartofelis
douG MANGUM

grant from the North Carolina Council of
the Arts. Winners were: Susan Bittner;
first place prose for "Tyger, Tyger', and
Bob Glover; second place prose for "The
Way It Would Have Been If He Had Not
Died So Suddenly in the Fall." Helena
Woodard, Luke Whisnant, and Richard
Wayne Smith each won honors for their
poems "Ash and Cinder", "Not Crying',
and "At Just Some Gentle Moment"
respectively. Our cover is Matt Smartt's
first place winner, "Blue Print (The
Rhino That Ate Cleveland)." Second
place in art went to Betsy Kurzinger for
her untitled photograph found on page
61.

Sate

Table of CONTENTS

IMATOCUCHION, c .o.n..44 05 ns se ae a
CTALIOTY. ? pa ee i p. 40

LITERARY

The Crayon ane dle Coin... i621. Richard Wayne Simin ......6. 25. = p.4
A Collepe Sivry 02.055 Jetrayolling, b>
LiGot Nien 2 i David Besmice,. 62. ...55. 3 ee. pd
Deserted Nested . kk a eee Bob Glover. .2..4..4.5550......... p, 15
Operating Room .. 2. 6244465 6.44455 Taylor Keone ...00? yess ee Bp: 16
ASME Mien 6. Archie Gosvor, (4... 1 pels
pumcide amd Sylvia Plath. ...-......-. . Palisa Wiles. 63 p. 24
Ts PROGR e335 ii 5. PamailtfooMiies.. 2... Pp. ao
Te Apne iene a L.ME Re@seubers = ......). 33... 2... p. 26
"You area pentle man. 25 0. CeleCapnce. gc po
ey eta Per 6 DUSaMIMENCR. =. 2 p. 22
MBS 0S Thenesa@litlke ...?5 55.09) 455 ,...5 14: p. 34
The Way 4 Would Have Been........ BobGlover? =... 2 8 3 p..3d
Al BAM a David Bostick .....055555.. =. 54 p. 37
AvVGIOR 2.205 565. ee Pamela Wilkow. 0 66255 p. 38
The Climax ot Composition. ....:.. . Theresa?peistt....6.. ... .. p. 39
ame oo Richard ayme Smith... .....:.5... 3 p. 56
A Reminder To Mysell.... 4. che. Jaci SGEVOEEM Dor
The Unsung lbove Sone. :. cv... LE Wosempere 2... p. 58
Mbeny Deel oat llelena y) ootamd ?? 2s) ce poo
Ashamd Cinder.) 4216 Helewa Woodard >... p. 60
Last Unicorn... 20500 3 Thepesa Sperolt. 2...) p. 61
At JustSome Gentle Moment........ Richipa Warne Sit... 4... Pp, 62
How Te Be Oceult ....4. 3.0. Thome liane = ?. ... = ........ p. 63
NobOrvyines 403 200 Luke isan... p.65

illusTRATION

"The Rhine That Ate Cleveland' ..... blatiSmartt 2... ... .... . . Cover
A College Biory. ... ee Tem flolizeaw..4 0... p.o
ASuialitigm:. 3... 2 2 Mati emartl..-.?.6..5,...0.:., vee
Tyger; 15 @or 0 DamielO'Shea.,. ......., p. 29

Ty

Ya

She was a strikingly attractive girl,
with long, fine brown hair, wide ex-
pressive eyes, and a delicate, charming lit-
tle nose. We had just been introduced,
and, as I had sat down at her and her
friend's table, we were now getting to
know each other.

"You work with the Rebel?" she asked,
her hands folded petitly beside a saucer.

"Yes, Ido. What do you think of the
magazine?" I asked, putting down my cof-
fee cup.

"Oh," she smiled, "I never read it. It's
so intellectual!"

I laughed then, and came to find out she
was a remarkably aware girl. Later on I
thought very much about what she had
said.

Subsuming the sometimes un-
compromisable differences in each of our
staff members' esthetics, there has been
one mutually agreed upon principle: that
the Rebel should throw its pince-nez into
the fireplace in order to more clearly see
what the students, their art, and con-
sequently their magazine are all about. It
has been a principle easy to adhere to, for
not surprisingly, we have found in com-
mon voices much uncommon insight. We
have been delightfully reminded time and
again that beauty's hands are not always
clean, and that, often as not, she doesn't
know long words.

It has been said that in a college
magazine there should be opportunity for
works to be published that might be con-
sidered too avant-garde or too con-
troversial by the established magazines. It
is a point. Indeed, a college magazine, fun-
ded by a school organ and not financially
pressured by the opinion of its readership,
can be the platform from which the exotic
land of "New Literature" may be seen.

There are, however, pitfalls in this line
of thinking. Often, editors have been en-

tranced by the macabre or blinded by the
sensational, and, in seeking "something
different," as editors are wont to do, they
often pass over works of merit equal to or
greater than others, though of lesser
ostentation.

We have attempted in this Rebel to
allow the good to be our guide, rather
than the sensational. This staff feels that
'to shock" is a technique valid only in the
exceptional case. Consequently, though
you will find bountiful surprises
throughout the book, we hope they will all
be pleasant and moreover, intriguing.

Our stories spring from home soil.
You'll recognize in "A Small Man" the
land of your grandfathers, as in "A
College Story" you will see rather much of
a reflection of yourselves. The implied
drama in "Tyger, Tyger" and "The Way It
Would Have Been If He Had Not Died So
Suddenly In The Fall" merited them both
as prize winners in the contest we held
this fall, and makes them stories not
quickly forgotten.

The poems you'll find are as ostensibly
diverse as the prose-works. Nearly all are
written in so called "free verse"; treating
a variety of subjects with freshness and
immediacy. The pellucid imagery in 'Ash
and Cinder" and "Not Crying" makes for
fascinating reading, as does the extremely
well-controlled balance/tension in "At
Just Some Gentle Moment."

In nearly all of the poems we have
selected you may detect the search for
constancy, at least, if not sublimity, in our
anxious age. They are young poets, with
the optimism in their new blood in con-
stant interplay with the fear in their new
neuroses. Phillip Miles, in his poem titled
"this poem" speaks crisply of this tension;
"+. MY Words
sprout sudden sweat;
awkward new disease
of the sun.

... my cautious words
creep the hollow darkness
in awe."

These are poems that bring the elemen-
ts of inward existence into the realm of
our consciousness, with striking results.
They are evocative of the nature of our
searching as only poetry can be, giving
scent and sound and near tactile presence
to that in us which we can never know.

This Rebel offers more art for your
study and perusal than has ever been of-
fered before. This staff feels that greater
and greater emphasis should be placed on
the graphic arts in succeeding Rebels. Our
School of Art is a nationally renowned
source of talent, as well as being a
dynamic factor in the curricular life here
at East Carolina. Our cover, Matt Smar-
tt's "The Rhino That Ate Cleveland"
balances superb technique with not a little
humor, achieving, we think, fascinating
results.

The staff of Rebel 76 would like to ex-
press our sincere thanks to the students
and faculty of the School of Art, whose
time energy and talent are apparent on
every page of the magazine. To the
students who submitted stories, poetry
and art goes the appreciation of every
reader of the magazine; without you ar-
tists and writers there would be no
magazine. Rebel 76 also owes a special
debt to Mr. Ovid Pierce and Dr. Erwin
Hester, who lent their support when sup-
port was sorely needed.

Assembling Rebel 76 has been a most
rewarding endeavor for each one of us on
the staff; a project as enriching as
working in the exciting proximity of art
can be. We hope that reading the
magazine will be just as rewarding for
you; not to mention entertaining!

}
/

THE CRAYON AND THE COIN

Feeling old at twenty-six

I pose an air of wisdom

for smaller children

who look at me

as they might stare

at some rude large presence
that walks straight through
their hopscotch world
expressed in crayon

jagged waxy red

on my driveway.

But they gather no interest
in proffered words

which cannot tell them better
how to chase the waiting coin
they throw into a square;
one foot,

one foot,

bend and reach

and take the prize.

No, they will not brook me long
for, if need be,

the crayon and the coin

can be moved,

and a new domain

will be drawn,

unspoiled by those

of a foreign age

who puzzle over games
which urge one

jump,

jump,

where you must.

fHEE

The Scholars

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,

Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines

That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair

To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.

All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say

Did their Catullus walk that way?

WB. Yeats

yy

Sa ica HERBIE 'Scripted

r (y} nal

Story

ollege

My eyes were beginning to stray from my book and
before I realized what I was doing I was simply staring out
the window, watching the headlights from passing cars
raise caravans of shadows from the roadside. The book I
was reading held few delights, with long stretches of
lifelessness enlivened by only occasional moments of
reward. I put the book down.

As usual, my thoughts went to Kathy. She was an odd
girl, I thought. Maybe -- No, why should I call her? Just so
she can tell me, in that infuriating way of hers, as if she
were talking to a stranger almost, that she just couldn't go
out with me? That she was just awfully sorry (there her
voice might tremble just a little) but that she really needed
to stay at home and work?

I went to the cabinet and poured a whiskey. I just can't
figure her out, I thought. But, then again, maybe I can.
The whiskey was a jolt. I poured another and sat down.

I remembered when I had first met her, in
Richmond, at one of those horrible parties
where the North Carolina newly rich and the
Virginia named rich get together to speak oh
so dolefully about the disappearance of the
"old Europe" and how, really there is nowhere
to go now but to South Africa.

Well, as I come from a long, distinguished
line of poor but honest school teachers and
just couldn't remember the last time that I
had been to South Africa, I had stationed
myself quietly by the piano, trying at the
same time to be as unobtrusive yet as "at
home" as possible, when she had come and
asked the pianist to play a piece by Dvorak.
She was a smallish girl, with long, rather
thick brown hair and a pure, fair skin. Light
blue veins were softly visible at the base of
her neck, as they were, I noticed later, at her
slender, nearly tiny wrists. She looked at me
with a humor that made me blush, and
smiling, asked, "Do you like Dvorak?"

"Well, yes, I rather do." was my awkward
reply.

"You do rather?" she smiled, almost
laughing at my uneasiness.

"Uh-huh" I answered, "I thank he kin shur
make up a toon!"

"So do I" she laughed, flashing her bright,
lovely eyes into mine, and then she left.

I had wanted to speak more with her af-
terwards but my friends had had to leave and
I with them. I was really impressed by her.
That was during the summer. Early on, the
next school year, I saw her leaving one of the
art buildings on campus. I was overjoyed. I
caught her attention and we went out that
night, and many nights afterwards. Things
went well for about a year. I would stay at
her apartment for a few days and then we
would move back into mine. I had the best
typewriter and she the best stereo. Funny,
maybe we were attracted to each other by our
differences. Where I was outlandish she was
sensible, where I was moody she was, it
seemed to me, ever even-tempered. I needed
her.

I rose from the chair to pour myself another
drink, a sherry this time, and sat back down.
Now, though, she will hardly speak to me, I
thought. I remember the conversation we had
had two weeks before in the restaurant. She
was wanting to see less of me and I had asked
her why.

"Because you are lying to yourself, Jess."
she had said, "I've been feeling it more

strongly than ever just lately."

"Lying?" the word was particularly un-
pleasant.

"T don't know what it is,' she twirled her
napkin, "but, Jess, it seems like you're not
really looking at things at all rationally,
like... I don't know." She looked down at the
table.

"What do you mean? Not looking at things
rationally!"

"Well, you're so hypersensitive sometimes.
I think maybe you're drinking more... much
more than you used to."

I was hot suddenly, and for some reason,
almost mad at her.

"I really don't know what you mean."

"O.K.," she put the napkin down and braced
her shoulders, "You're stagnating, Jess." It's
obvious, if for no other reason, in that you're
not writing anymore."

That hurt, and she knew it.

"Well," | said, "1 ean t write all the time. I
mean, I'm not some machine that can produce
a specified quota of words a week, you know,
and stagnating! I think that's a hell of a
statement!"

dees...

"Anyway," I said too quickly, "What would
you know about writing, you, who sit ina
studio all day and draw .. . advertisements!"

"Alright," she said firmly, "You can sneer
all you want. You can explain all you want.
That's fine,Tll believe anything you say. May
we please leave?"

I haven't seen her since I left her at her
apartment. When I call... well, I've already
told you about that.

I surveyed my room, a small room in the
second story of an older house that I was ren-
ting. What should I do now? I wondered. I
saw the record player -- no, don't want to
listen to music. My potted plants -- I can work
with them tomorrow afternoon. I could brush
up on my German, nah, my German can wait.

All this was circumlocution and I knew it. I
pulled on my "William Butler Yeats" sweater
and decided that I would spend an evening of
stimulating conversation with some of my
friends. Yes, I thought, just what I need. Once
the sweater was on I looked at myself in the
mirror, sickened at the entire euphemistic
situation and put on a street-jacket instead.

I was going to my favorite bar.

You see, I like to drink. But only around in-
telligent and sensitive people, of course. To
hear erudite conversation that is given the im-

99

Maia

petous of beverages is really a marvellous
way to spend an evening. Sometimes, though,
when the crowd at the Cairo is of the coffee-
drinking sort, I might retire to the adjacent
pool-hall for beer, but only because I feel that
the more educated of our society can benefit
immensely from exposure to people of lesser
erudition and refinement. It is interesting, I
think, that the so-called "simple people" can
hold forth some startlingly profound opinions,
and even more so, with enough beer in me to
expand my definitions, I have heard more
than one ostensibly dull slattern completely
astound me in "unpremeditated art." They are
"diamonds in the rough" so to speak, with a
marvellously naive diction.

So, with my street-jacket on, (I really can't
stand to look like an aesthete) I set out for
the good ol' Cairo. The Cairo is only a short
walk from my apartment, a pleasant little
walk, especially in the autumn when the sun-
sets are so stupendous. It is one of the few
bars in the little college town where I live
where people of intelligence go. I really enjoy
being there when, after a carafe or two, the
table is lit as by lanterns with animated faces,
all proposing or defeating some aspect of the
always polemic subject at hand. It's really
loads of fun. Students from the university
come there, as do the younger professors. The
older professors come there too, but they are
usually looking for some freshman or another
who needs to pass their course, and they are
not very interested in the repartee. The chat-
ter of these old ones reminds one of the sound
of dried and brown leaves blowing down the
street long after Fall has spent her colors.

I walked into the Cairo and surveyed the
situation. There was a table filled with people
that I knew, but they were drinking coffee. I
waved to them as noncommitally as I could
and looked around some more. There was a
booth toward the back where two
homosexuals were almost making out. They
think that they are so cute. Someone who I
had never seen before was sitting at the bar
drinking, but he didn't look too interesting.
Who is that waving? Oh, no, Carol and Joanie.
Can't escape now.

Carol and Joanie are both English majors
and philosophy minors. Both want to be
editors of progressive women's magazines,
and both are terribly boring. They were sit-
ting with three unmistakable grad students in
pedantry.

Let me tell you the oddest thing. One night

this particularly bright guy, who I haven't
seen around here for quite some time for some
reason, accused Carol of being actually afraid
to get pregnant. I thought she would die! She
looked at him with eyes for a second misty,
then cold and hot, oh, what a look she gave
him! She got so angry that she threw a glass
of rose' all over him, and then marched out,
quickly followed by Joanie. The guy begged
his pardon then and left too. Incidents like
that rarely happen here.

So there I was, sitting with Carol and
Joanie and the three grads. I was sitting
beside Joanie and I noticed the tiny glint of a
pierced ear-ring bedded in her flesh. It
irritated me. I drank a beer quickly and or-
dered another.

They were talking about administrative
problems at school, a subject that has always
bored me, so I entertained myself by looking
at the different people who had come to the
Cairo. I saw Theresa and her boy-tfriend, ex-
cuse me, room-mate, sitting at a table. I saw
Carl, who was standing at the bar ordering a
drink. I once took Logic from him and he was
awfully boring. There's Mary retelling for the
hundreth time about her year in Paris, spent
teaching at the Sorbonne. "I had the only
broom-closet with a bath in Paris!" Doug,
english, english, english, was talking with that
guy at the bar who I hadn't seen before. I
took a long drink of my beer.

A tired night at the Cairo, I was afraid. But
it is early yet, I consoled myself, tasting the
bitter, eudsy dregs of my beer. I decided on a
grosser and viler stimulant, a whisky-sour,
and sent the waitress scurrying. Carol and
Joanie and the three wisemen were talking
now about India. Carol said that she thought
that India was a''wonderful, and lovely, and
foolish" country, though she had never been
there, Joanie agreed. I was pressed for an
opinion. Well, I'll confess, I've never done any
extensive thinking on India but I said that I
thought that the Indians were probably
basically happy with their country or else
they would change it. The wise-man who
hadn't drunk hardly any wine at all said that
he agreed with me, and exclaimed "Ecce
homo!" enthusiastically. He had been saying
that all night.

I took a long, stinging swallow and decided
to explore. Good-bye, Carol and Joanie, good-
bye, Thomas, Richard and Harold. Ah, alone
with my whisky-sour, my only comfort in
these the worst of times. I thought at first to

sit at Theresa and her room-mate's table but
then, on noticing the frightening aridity of my
glass I decided that I would speak with Doug,
immenent poet, writer, reviewer and reader,
who graces each English classroom with his
profound and thought-provoking insights into
the geniuses of Shakespeare and Milton,
Dryden and Bacon. He was also a good friend
of Kathy's. I didn't know if I was up to a talk
with him or not, but I couldn't get another
drink without a least saying something to him.
He was still talking with that stranger.

'Hi, Doug," said I, "How are you?"

"Working a lot." he answered. He really
does work hard, which is boring but com-
mendable.

"I don't think I know your friend." I said,
laying the groundwork for an easy and
masterfally camoflauged extrication from the
company of these two gentlemen.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jess, this is Bob, Bob this is
Jess. Jess is one of our most promising
writers. But I must say, Jess, I haven't seen
any of your things out lately."

I almost bit blood from my lip. "Things!" He
should call my work "things?"

"Well, right now, Doug, I'm working on a
longish short story that just may develop into
a novella, but I am yet unsure on how many
sub-plots to entwine." I didn't care how I
sounded, I was enraged. "I am toying with the
idea of coalescing my plots into, into...a
fugue! Yes! A novel worked out into fugal
form!"

"Oh... that sounds fascinating." blandly
mouthed the damned teacher's pet.

Let me tell you. I am really quite proud of
my ability to hold my liquor. I do not get
irrational. I don't curse more often or more
loudly than I usually do, and I don't let petty
things place me in a bad humor, at least for
long. I decided that right then my con-
versation with Doug was not what I needed if
I wanted to enjoy the rest of the evening. He
thinks that I'm drunk, I thought. Well, I'm
not, perhaps I sound a little bibulous, but that
is perfectly in order, and if his delicate sense
of propriety is disturbed by that then we are
speaking of his narrowness, not of mine.

Having convinced myself that I was in the
right I tried to think of some way to enter
back into the conversation with dignity
preserved, and was steeling myself for the
coldest of civility when Doug solved my
problem for me.

"Look!" he said, "There are Carol and

Joanie! I really must speak with them. Excuse
me, will you?" and with that he was off,
carrying his Budweiser that surely must be
warm enough to evaporate by now. I was left
alone with, what was his name?, oh yes, Bob.

"T don't think I've ever seen you here
before, have I, Bob?"

"No. I just arrived from Atlanta where I am
working on my thesis."

"What brings you to our small but lovely
town?"

"Well, 'm doing some research on Thomas
Wolfe. I'm trying to account for some of the
seemingly senseless nuances in his books, at-
tempting to link them with southern life and
perception."

I took an immediate liking to him. Thomas
Wolfe is my literary father. I think of myself
as a reincarnation of Wolfe, of sorts.

Bob was extremely slender, with black hair
of a nondescript length and an uncombed
black beard. He had on utilitarian wire-
rimmed glasses that were safely hooked to
almost ludicrously large ears. I noticed he was
smoking Luckies, and had begun to drink a
martini. With vices like those I knew he was
trustworthy.

"I once knew someone who had spoken with
Wolfe's older brother." I offered. "They said
that his brother wasn't very enlightening.
They said that he thought his brother was the
greatest writer in the whole world but that he
hadn't even read a single book by Wolfe."

"Yes, ve spoken with him myself. "Bob ad-
mitted softly, looking down at the bar. "I
thought he was extremely illuminating,
though. Not in the explicit way that most
people want him to be, but in a subtler and
more truthful way."

Well, the conversation made easy progress
through the night. I slowed down on my
whiskey sours; with stimulating company who
needs to drink? This guy was a scholar in the
real sense of the word, so much so, in fact,
that I was surprised that he drank at all. He
was an immensely interesting person to talk
with; a nice respite from the artistic types
that are too much trouble to talk with for
what they're worth.

It was later on in the night, after a few
more drinks, that Bob began to color his
speech a bit differently. He moved a bit too
easily from the "passion of Wolfe's style" to
''our own passion, like his, nearly in-
containable because of our volatile Southern
blood." he spoke less and less of the ex-

citement of Wolfe's art and increasingly of a
more immediate excitement. He mumbled
something about "tonight" and looked at me
conspiratorily, then moved his eyes back to
home-base, his glass. I decided that I had bet-
ter sober up with a glass of burgundy. Then I
thought, what the heck, I've told fags to get
lost before, and if he isn't a fag then I don't
have anything to worry about, so I ordered
another drink.

Things began to get a little better. He
began to speak about women in exculpatingly
licentious tones, and, after mentioning that
Wolfe was quite a regular with prostitutes, he
wondered aloud about the possibility of fin-
ding one, or a couple, he smiled.

Well, I admit, I had had too much to drink.
I had been drinking orange juice like Florida
was about to roll under the sea and I was
about ready for anything. I had never gone to
a prostitute before, although I had spoken
with many. The idea had always sort of
repulsed me, to tell you the truth. But now,
the more I thought about the idea, the more I
liked it. What if I didn't go? Tomorrow mor-
ning would just be another morning with a
hang-over, with me feeling like I had spoken
too much and had acted like a fool the night
before. It really is sort of a paradox. Here I
am playing the part of a latter-day Byron (I
mean, how else can I make my drinking look
acceptable to all the Dougs at school, all those
bright, industrious people who can write
brilliant theses but for all their brains couldn't
write a decent poem for anything, those
neuroses-less sheep who walk straight down
composition paper lines never wondering if
there might be other ways to go,) and yet
really it is a shame. If they knew the real ex-
tent of my experience then they would know
the extent of my drunkness, and (I winced at
this thought) the real extent of my talent.

"Yes!" I said bravely. "There is a pool-hall
very near here where we are sure to find
some women, or rather someone who can lead
us to some."

"Good, let's go." answered Bob, " 'and
passion, with it's bloody beak, tore at his
heart.

Doug met us at the door, "You're leaving
too?" he asked. "I think I've about had enough
of this place for one night."

"Yes," I said, "we're leaving."

"I guess its home for me," he almost spoke
into his coat, "Ive some reading I need to
finish." He hesitated, "But what the heck,

why don't you two come over for a while? It's
been some time since I've had a chance to
speak with you, Jess. Kathy has asked about
you." Our eyes never met.

Bob was standing at the door, ready to
leave. I felt pulled in two directions. I needed
a drink.

"Thank you anyway,' I replied more coldly
than I wanted. "But we do have other plans."
And that something which made both us ner-
vous quickly disappeared into civility. I had
lost a chance.

"Well, hope you two have a fine old time.
See you later." And he was gone.

It was a short walk to the pool-hall, during
which I fought with all my energies the horrid
moments of licidity that welled up before me.
I'll get some beer at the pool-hall, I promised
myself. It's hard for me to believe that some
people really have sex stone cold sober, but;
I've heard of it being done.

We did finally get there. The pool-hall is
just a short distance from the Cairo, but ina
completely different hemisphere. There were
eight tables, in rows of four, above each hung
low table lamps that were shining a heavy
yellow light on the green felt. Only three of
the tables were being used. Lanky, loose-
jointed blacks were playing around one table
and their thick, mellifluous speech rolled slow
and ignoble into the air. The other two tables
were being used by whites in black cowboy
boots and shirts with the sleeves cut off at the
shoulder. Their's was a speech with less
rhythm; twangy and hard. I bought a beer
and Bob stayed near the door. I went to the
table where the blacks were loosely huddled
and started to talk to one of them that I
knew, then I stopped. He was taking a shot.
Don't disturb him, I told myself. He shot ac-
curately, confidently and the ball went into
the pocket as if it were snapped there by an
invisible rubber-band. Then he made a semi-
circle around the table and bent low over the
green. All his thought went first into angles,
then his concentration shifted to that one spot
where he wanted to make wood hit wood. He
shot, missed, the ball banked awkwardly back
into the middle of the table, he cursed, then
looked up at me.

"Tey, Cliff." | said, "What's going on?
'Not much, not much." He said, adroitly
chalking his cue-stick. "What are you all doin'

tonight?"

"Getting drunk."

"Oh Yeah? that sounds good."

"Cliff," I said, lowering my voice in a way
that must have seemed comical to the other
blacks, '"'a friend and I were kind of looking
for some women and we just don't know
where to find any this late at night, you
know?"

"Yeah," he smiled slightly, and regarding
me with a nearly imperceptable con-
descention, said "I know what you mean. You
need some help?"

I nodded.

"Wait till I finish this game and I'1l take
you on down there."

"O.1K,, good. Thanks; Chik." With that |
went back over to the door and told Bob
what had just transpired. We sat on some
wooden chairs pushed against the battleship
grey walls.

"You're sure you don't want another beer?"
I asked Bob.

"Oh, no, no. I've had enough to drink."

Well, I certainly hadn't had enough. Enough
would make me gently pass out. I wish I was
at home now, I thought, sleeping in my bed.
All this is just too much. Wait a minute!
That's Doug-talk. I'm out here to find
something. It may not be pleasant but its
something that Doug will never see. What
does Doug know about the "sultry streets of
dark desire?" His blood is made of ink. There
is much to learn from these people, I thought,
looking around the pool-hall. I smiled, Kathy
would be aghast. I was about to tell Bob my
views on the subject when a loud stream of in-
vective startled me. Someone had just missed
a shot. I swilled enough to make my head
Swim.

"You ready to go now?" asked Cliff. He was
standing in front of me, tapping the side of his
leg with a barely subdued impatience.

"Yea, let's go."

The moon was out, nearly full, and it shone
quietly, resplendently over the deserted
streets. The darkened store-fronts gave
vacant witness as our three reflections slid
over the windows. In front of us were two
blinking yellow lights, meaning we had two
blocks to walk before we would be out of the
downtown area. All was quiet but for the low
buzz of an occasional neon light and the scuf-
fling of our shoes against the sidewalk.

Cliff walked on purposelessly, taking
naturally long steps in an unconcerned way,
where Bob, who was tall also, took meaningful
direct strides. I was slightly shorter than the
others so I had to walk faster than they to

11

keep up with them. I was on the building side
of the sidewalk and had to concentrate my at-
tention to keep from bumping into the cinder
block and brick walls of the stores.

We left the edge of town and walked into
an area where there were no street lights or
neon signs. The sidewalk was narrow here
and cracked. At places the grass had grown
through the cement enough almost to trip me.
We were in a poorer section of town, one that
I was unfamiliar with, and evidently one that
was mainly populated by blacks, as a car
would pass us, now and then, with an afroed
head in the drivers window.

We passed a church, with it's grass-cracked
pediments, and in the shadows it looked as if
the roof were sagging. For a second I
imagined sweaty, round, black faces with
mouths full of white teeth singing un-
controlled and effusory praises to Jesus, per-
spiration trickling down their necks, slightly
dampening the collars of Sunday night pink
dresses. A breeze moved through the trees,
and high up, the leaves chatted oblivious to
us. We passed a darkened service-station
guarded by two staunch sentinel gas-pumps.
It seemed extremely dark. I didn't know
where we were, but I felt as if I had been
taken too far. I felt as if I had always been
taken too far and would never be able to know
why.

'Hey, Cliff, how much farther are we
going?"

"Not dar. Not far."

We turned onto a street that was bordered
on either side by closely spaced older houses.
There was room between each house only for
its gravel driveway. It wasn't the worst neigh-
borhood that I had seen. Probably, long ago,
this was once a white neighborhood. We
passed a house, nearly invisible in the watery
darkness, with a delicate wood arbor in the
front yard being choked and smothered by
thick, viney weeds.

The houses were without exception unlit, as
though the tenants had gone to bed long ago.
The feeling that many people were sleeping
overwhelmed me, and somehow the breezes
rushing through the trees made the houses all
the quieter and less approachable. We stopped
in front of one of the houses. It was com-
pletely dark. It was the kind of house that one
sees in lower class sections around any small,
southern town. There were steps leading up
from the sidewalk to a porch that ran the
length of the front of the house. The porch

had a wooden floor and a porch-swing hanging
on one side.

"This ts tt. Ulllt Said.

'But it doesn't look like anybody is up." I
looked at the house.

"You think they goin' to wait up all night
for customers?"

I didn't say anything.

We walked up onto the porch. The sound of
our feet on wood seemed terribly loud. A dog
began to bark several houses down. Cliff
knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked
again, more loudly, and we waited.

'"Nobody's at home." I panted, "let's get out
of here." I looked at Bob. He was staring
down at the paint-needy floor of the porch and
didn't utter a word.

"Don't worry," said Cliff, "theyre coming'."

The door opened slightly and from the
crack I could barely discern a dark face. A
whisper of nightgown floated out onto the air.

"Hey, baby," said Cliff, "What you all doin'
tonight?"

"Yaw'l'l want in?" asked a tired voice.

"Yes, maam, we sure do." answered Cliff.

The door closed and through a front win-
dow we could see the soft light of a lamp
shine through a curtain out onto the lawn.
The woman came back to the door and let us
in. She was a black woman, wearing a full-
length yellow sleeping gown. The living room
was like any other, with a small television set
in one corner and pictures of people in
graduation attire and wedding-gowns ador-
ning each surface. There was a mirror sitting
above a bricked-in fire-place where my own
face hovered in my disbelief.

There was a smell of worn carpet and dusty
curtains all through the room.

"They's only two of us here." said the thir-
ty-ish woman. "One of yal's goin' to have to
wait." Bob sat down on the old couch.

'My stomach is bothering me." he said to
Cliff and me, "Guess I've had a little too
much.

The woman led me down a short hallway
and stopped in front of a closed door.

'"She's in there. You just wake her up and
tell her what you want."

'But, but she's asleep?"

"Yea, you just go on in and tell her what
you want." And she walked back down the
hall, pulling her gown tightly around her.

I stood in front of the closed door. Oh, God,
I couldn't. No, I just couldn't. I grabbed the
cold doorknob, turned it, and opened the door

as quietly as possible. With the little bit of
light from the lamp down the hall I could
make out a dark form sleeping on the bed.
The room was soft with sleep. I walked in and
closed the door behind me. The moon was
shining grey through the window. And I could
hear breathing. The room was softly alive
with her breathing. This was too much. I just
couldn't do it.

I walked over to the side of the bed. The
girl smelled sweetly of lilac. She was sleeping
soundly with her mouth slightly open. A tiny
trickle of saliva glinted on her cheek and ran
down into a moist spot on the pillow. I put my
hand lightly on her arm. Her eyes opened sud-
denly, then closed again with a force, then
opened again and looked at me as if I were a
naughty child, or an unpleasant responsibility.

"That woman,' I said, "She told me to come
in here and... 1 shuv up.

The girl rose in the bed, swinging her feet
to the floor.

"O.K." she said,, and motioned me to a
chair.

I sat down in the chair and she began to
take off my shoes.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Jess." She was younger than me.

I looked out the window where the
moonlight was a steady silver, oh sweet moon,
beautiful, calm, holy moon. The girl reached
for my belt and all questions were over-
whelmed, guilt, for the moment, was deluged
in sensation.

Afterwards I put my clothes on and placed
her money on the beareau. I looked at her as
if to say something, but she whispered, "You
get gone now, O.K.?" A glove of moonlight lay
on her shoulder. I left quickly.

I walked blindly through the hallway and
den, crying as I hadn't since I was a child. Bob
was gone. I went out the door and started
towards town going home. Shame came down
over my face in hot washes. A little way down
the street I saw Bob walking. When he heard
my foot-steps he stopped and waited for me.

"I decided that I'd just forget it." he said.
"How was it?"

I loathed him. "You go to hell," I screamed,
"You go to hell you son of a bitch." and I
walked away nearly choking with shame.

A few days afterwards I went to see Doug.
He and I are working together on a book now,
working pretty hard, too. I think Kathy is
going to do the illustrations.

12

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Listen:

Julie Andrews came into my room last
night. She was wearing some faded jeans
and an old peasant blouse. She had peeked
through the door to see that I was alone
and had knocked twice, but I hadn't
heard.

Since my room is nothing but two beds,
a dresser and two desks, she lay down,
elbow bent to keep her sitting up, and
watched me quietly as I finished writing
and sat down next to her.

She is still very beautiful. Her hair is
that soft auburn of Fall and her skin is
clear, without a hint of wrinkles. I told
her that I had loved her as a child and had
thought that she was the most beautiful
woman in the world when she played
Mary Poppins.

She told me that they had made her
wear a padded bra for Mary Poppins.
Something about being more attractive to
the little kids. They were huge, she said,
cupping her two small hands together,
styrofoam, and hot as hell. She still had
them though, in a drawer somewhere.

She laughed when I spoke of my one
theatrical success in the third grade when
I played the Tin Woodman in "The Wizard
of Oz." I wore chains under my oak-tag
armor that I might clink when I walked. I
told her what a smash I was.

As we talked, reclining on the bed, I
asked, and she sang some songs for me,
very soitly, as if she were frightened or
far away. I could only hear the strains. I
wanted desperately to reach out and
stroke her hair. It seemed so soft, almost
shimmering in the one small light from my
desk.

So I did.

She looked at me a very long time as I
moved my hand from her head and asked
me if I, too, were tired.

Last night _

Julie Andrews doesn't make much noise
when she makes love. She holds you
tightly, whispers your name, and mewls
slightly at the end. She is a wonderful,
considerate, exciting lover. She keeps her
eyes closed all the time and sleeps curled
up, her hands, as if in prayer, pushed
under the pillow.

She left this morning, a little before my
ten o'clock class. I was up and about, but
very sleepy. I don't remember her kissing
me goodbye or leaving.

It wasn't until I came back from class,
while making the bed that I found this
small note near the pillow where we'd
been sleeping.

mary poppins loves the tin woodman...

There was a small drawing of an
umbrella and an oil can in the lower left
hand corner. I folded the note and put it
with the books I'd never read.

Someday I would like to look out a
window and see a face so beautiful it
would force me to live.

Tomorrow will be too late.

I will write four notes. Each will start
differently, each will say something
different.

The first to begin, "Nothing is ever
truly serious..."

The second will begin, "Between the
fingertips and tongue lie the only true
answers..."

The third, "There is really no way toa
woman's heart..."

And the fourth and final note will be
the shortest. It will say goodbye and it
will start like this;

Listen:

Julie Andrews came into my room last
mich...

14

_ Dewey Hobson spent most of his younger
years overworking some rocky hill land he
ealled an apple farm. Now, he passes roughly
half of his work-day sitting at the warm end
of a discarded church pew, talking. He talks
to anyone who is willing to sit at the cold end
of the pew or in one of the ragged, rush- -
bottomed straight chairs he owns, and he
talks on any subject. Occasionally, he rises
from his end of the pew, the end nearest the
big oil heater, and ambles to an obsolete _
mechanical cash register, where he receives
compensation from a customer who has ,
removed goods from his shelves or pays off a
salesman who has placed fresh merchandise
neatly on his shelves. Sometimes, if he is en-
thusiastically animating a lengthy bit of local
legend, he keeps his seat and sends the buyer
or seller out the door with a snap of his wrist
and the words, "You can pay me next time,"
or "T'll pay you next time."

rwise unexceptional life. It was to sell _
alf of his no-profit apple farm to an adjoining
apple grower and invest the money in an
unused Woodmen of the World meeting hall;
which he painted, shelved, and stocked with
general merchandise. The emporium enjoys a
healthy profit whether he sweeps the floor or
not, so most of the day is spent in "come on
in's" and '"'see you later's" and whatever
comes to mind in between. - ,

There are several relics of leaner years
around Dewey' s place, and Dewey is always
willing to tell about their uniqueness or local
historical value. The sociable man has found
room enough around the walls to display the
first plow to break land in the valley, a circus
poster dated 1882, old medicine bottles with
directions for curing forgotten diseases, a con-
traption for coring and peeling apples that
Dewey claims his father invented, and a giant

La

an become mildly per-
2s for the intriguing
pair of peate ; aked, cowboy-style
children's boots. He puts it something like
this: "Uh, nope, uh, rather you didn't mess

with them old boots. Guess you couldn't hurt

them none, but I've always been scared they
might get gone out of here sometime or get

put around here where I couldn't find them

and get throwed out. Them boots belonged to

a real man, a real man. Fella name of Shorty

Briley, little bit of a fella, owned them boots.

Was wearing them just before he died. Yessir,
little bit of a fella, but a real man, Shorty. Got
eat alive by a bobcat one night right herein .

the valley. Had them boots on not ten minutes
before he died. Only trace of him we found.
'Course a bobcat ain't none too big, but they
something mean; mean, and this Shorty was
just a runt of a fella. Did you ever hear that
Slory avout Shorty? ... Didnt, huh?... Well
one night there come a big snowstorm. This
valley was sealed off tighter'n a nickel in an
old maid's handkerchief, and out of nowhere
come a bobcat as big as... big as... big as
that oil stove there. Tearing up people's
screens, trying to get in the house to drag off
children, killing farm animals; it was a terror.
So this big cat got tore open and bleeding
somehow. Near as we could figure, a mama
Black Bear must have swatted it to keep it
away from her cubs. So this big cat climbs a
Live Oak right out here beside my store;
going up in there to die. I got out of bed and
come on down here, and this little fella I was
telling you about name of Shorty Briley,
Ne...

Shorty Briley rolled over in the darkness.
He had put out the lamps at 9:00, his regular
bedtime during trapping season, but as the
fires burned down to gray ash and the cabin
grew cold, he lay sleepless; his eyes on the
window. He had thought there would be no
moon, that the night would be as black as a
bear's cave, and he was right, but the dense
fog that came down from Brookshire's Ridge,
the fog that hung up there almost every
night but dipped into the valley only one or
two nights a week, came as a surprise, a help-
ful surprise.

Somewhere in the valley, an animal was
wailing. On a clearer night, the shrill sounds
would have seemed nearer as they echoed
about the hollow, and the screeching would
have shaken the bed and penetrated the soul
of every apple farmer, mill worker, housewife,
and school child in the valley; for these sounds,
these laments from hell, were those of a bob-
cat, the nearest relative of the devil these hill
people could name. Although the sounds were
muffled by the absorbent fog on this night,
they had a certain clarity that would keep a
valley man sleepless with awe.

Shorty knew the cry of a bobcat, and he
also knew the sound of Sheriff Tate's pickup
truck. Later than he had expected it to hap-
pen, he heard the two sounds blend together,
and he saw the truck-lights come misting
through the back room window. A minute or

19

so passed before the truck-door slammed. He
figured the sheriff must be driving slowly
because of the fog.

The engine continued its whine as Shorty
waited for the knock on the oak-plank door.
When it came, it was rough and demanding,
as though the sheriff were using the butt of
his .38 instead of his fist.

Shorty waited until the sheriff knocked a
second time, then he laid back the three
frayed patchwork quilts and lowered his feet
slowly to the floor. It was colder than he
thought it would be. Unhurried by the poun-
ding, he felt around on the chest of drawers
for the matches. The clock in the front room
struck 11:30. He lit the lamp.

As the small man entered the other room of
the rented, two-room shack, the sheriff was
knocking a third time. "Uuuh, uuh," Shorty
bellowed and bent to pick up his boots.

"Shorty, it's Sheriff Tate," the man outside
called back.

"Uuuh," Shorty answered, while pulling the
weather-faded boots onto his small feet. He
knew who it was. He knew who always came
to get him when there was some excitement,
but he wondered why the fat sheriff had
waited so long.

The man outside said no more until Shorty
opened the cumbersome door and held the
lamp out from his chest. "It's Sheriff Tate,"
repeated the fat giant of a man. I thought I
better come out here and get you up. You
been hearin' 'at bobcat squillin over to Ben
Macon's, ain't you?"

Shorty used his free hand to rub his face, as
though he had been asleep for hours. ' 'Eah,"
he answered.

"Sounds like a big one, Shorty. Been scared
up a tree; maybe hurt someways. Anyways,
he's treed. Figured you'd want to be there to
watch us, if we get a shot at him."

Leaving the door three or four feet ajar, an
invitation to the sheriff to come in if he liked,
the small man turned back into the cabin. The
fat man chose to return to the warmth of his
truck-cab. He preferred the odor of a newly lit
cagar and six-month-old plastic upholstery to
that of the musty cabin.

Shorty set the lamp on the mantel. He but-
toned the top three buttons of the long-limbed
underwear suit he wore to bed, put ona
heavy green cotton shirt, and worked his
boots through the legs of small faded
coveralls. He was the only man in the valley
who bought boy's-sized coveralls at Dewey

Hobson's Store, and the men who sat around
the place and told stories usually made jokes
about it when he came in for a new pair.

As the sheriff sounded two long blasts of
the truck's horn the small man put his father's
railroad watch in an upper pocket of the
coveralls. He counted the $820.00 he had
saved from trapping so far that season, cram-
med the billfold into a front thigh pocket; held
a tintype photograph of two of his great-
grandparents up to the light for a moment,
then slid it into the other thigh pocket; wrap-
ped himself in a tattered wool overcoat that
hung nearly to the floor, took a handful of
matches from a box above the black stove,
blew out the lamp, and found his way to the
door by the truck's lights.

As soon as the small man seated himself in
the truck, the fat man asked, '""'How come 'at
old dog of yours ain't howling tonight?
Thought she always got stirred up when there
was a bobcat around."

Shorty took a long look in the direction of
the woodshed and answered bitterly, "Pret-
tygirl run off."

The sheriff jammed the truck in reverse
and dug up the yard as the turned around.
"Hell, 'at old dog never was any good
anyway, the big man said. "So she run off,
huh? Well you better off without her. Get you
a good coon dog now. 'At young bitch of mine
going to throw pups soon. I'll sell you one of
them. A good coon dog got to come out of a
good bitch, if it's going to be any good." The
small man showed no sign of hearing the
words.

As the two men bounced with the holes and
bumps of the old asphalt road, the sheriff
thought of another question. "You going to go
over there with me Sunday to Kileboro to
watch 'em blow up 'at old Chase Hotel?" he
asked.

Shorty hesitated so long that the fat man
looked over at him for an answer. Finally, he
said, " Fah, | reckon so, ui its all right."

The big man looked back at the road and
said, "Ought to really be something to see.
They talk like it'll be heard all over the coun-
ty' miles and miles." He let out a short
mocking laugh, as he continued with, "But I
don't want you to get over there now and
start looking for some little old boomer gal
and go following her off home. If I take you
off, I got to bring you back. Don't want people
saying I got you in trouble." The fat face held
a bold smile as it turned toward Shorty again.

The small man showed no sign of hearing the
words.

Near the sight of the high-pitched cries,
several cars and trucks were parked along the
roadside. Most of them had the two left
wheels on the pavement, making the narrow
road look more like a path. The sheriff parked
his truck in the middle of the pavement,
beside the other vehicles. Now if a car were
to come along at this hour of the night, the
driver would know the sheriff of Kile County
was on important business.

The fat man slammed his door with
authority to announce his arrival. For the
second time that night, he reached under a
canvas in the truck-bed and removed three
large, battery-powered lights and three 12
gauge shotguns. He had not trusted the other
men to watch after these while he went for
Shorty. "County property, boys," he had said.

As the two men approached the crowd of
onlookers, factory men mostly, employees of
the new textile plant that came to Kileboro,
ten miles west, and brought work and
development to the area, the spectators
turned their flashlights and lanterns toward
Shorty and the enormous sheriff. The dogs
stopped their whooping and cocked their ears
to identify the newcomers.

"Don't shoot now, boys. It's me and old
Shorty," the big man called, as he shined a
more powertul light back through the fog and
into their faces. "Any of y'all had a shot at
him yet?" he asked, knowing he would have
heard a shot anywhere in the valley had there
been one.

"Naw," they all answered in unison, and one
man added, "Not yet."

"We going to kill 'at rascal, if we got to
send Shorty running up 'at tree with a sawed
off 12 gauge," joked the sheriff, as he and the
short man neared the group.

The fat man's words brought a roar of
laughter and a couple of "hell yeah" 's from
the crowd, and one young man, a sportily-
dressed example, of the new prosperity coming
to the valley, slapped shorty on the back as a
teasing gesture.

Shorty looked around him at the faces
illuminated by the battery, oil, and gas-
powered lights. Most of them were there, he
figured. Eddie Kile was there, and Melvin
Strayhorn, C.D. Spills, Jason Spills, and Er-

20

nest Tate (the sheriff's fat brother) were
there. Most of them were there; the teasers;
''fun-pokers" and good-time boys who kept
him at Dewey Hobson's Store until 10:00 one
night three weeks ago. Oh, they did not keep
him there by force, but they teased him about
women, his small stature, his tree-climbing
abilities, and never having too much to say,
and a man does not walk away when he is
being teased; not a hill man anyway. That
would be like not going to your traps one day,
just because it was raining or snowing.

In one of his more talkative moments, Shor-
ty put it this way: "It don't matter if a man
gets joked at and teased at' just some dern
fools running their mouths. As long as a man's
got something to be proud of, something like
the best damn hunting dog in an entire coun-
ty, or being real good at his work, make no
difference what they work be, he don't need
to pay no attention to what others say or
think. You take a man being small; now if a
man was a trapper and had to walk ten, fil-
teen mile a day, uphill and down, that man
don't need to be no tall, heavy man; be huf-
fing till bedtime. And as for skinning up a
tree, well what man wouldn't want to climb a
tree, if he was able. And as for being quiet,
well if the other end of being quiet is telling
all them big tales and letting everybody know
what a dern fool you are, well then quiet is
best. At least a man that's being quiet is
using his brains some of the time."

Shorty believed a man could "take most
anything, as long as he had something to be
proud of', but when he came home that night,
that night they "kept" him too long at
Dewey's, and found his dog dead, he felt a
change in his world.

In the yard, under a bright moon, he had
sat beside the dead animal, the "best damn
coon dog in Kile County", and he wished the

bobcat had chewed him instead of his friend. At

least he would have had sense enough to run
away and probably would have come out alive.
Sitting there, he blamed himself and not the
cat. He should not have left the carcasses of
muskrats hanging on the side of the house

~where he skinned them. He should have come

home before dark. He should have locked
Prettygirl in the woodshed at dusk, as he
usually did. And he had said to himself,
"Damn old dog never could leave a bobcat
alone; always smelling around where one had

been, like it was an overgrowed coon."
He had buried the dog that night, and he

o1

had decided not to tell anyone about his loss,
his punishment for hanging around Dewey's
till all hours. He had made up his mind about
something else too; he had decided his world
no longer a fitting place to live and the time
had come for him to do something about it.

Shorty sat for awhile on the cold ground, on
the padding of brown crackling leaves, and
waited to see if any more of them would come.
There was no hurry. When you leave for
good, you are gone a long time. He wanted all
of them to be witnesses, so that when the
story was told around Dewey's on cold nights
like this, there would be many versions and
all of them different. He could wait. One thing
a man who earns his money by trapping
learns is to wait.

While Shorty sat quietly, the dogs barked
themselves into hoarseness, and the bigger
men talked and laughed of other days. It was
time for tale swapping, time away from the
womenfolk, time to tell about other cats that
had enjoyed legend so long that they had
grown to the size of bears, time to tell about
what granddaddy told about, and time to
speculate as to the stories that would come, if
this cat sung his guts out till sunup and got
ripped open by a 12 guage shell."

Finally Shorty was ready. Will Huntley had
'showed up." He had been at Dewey's that
night. He was the one that said he bet Shorty
kept a woman in his cabin, but she was so
ugly he wouldn't let her out of the house.
Shorty was sorry Dewey wasn't there. Dewey
could stretch a story "all different ways."

The small man picked up one of the sheriff's
powerful lights and walked to the base of the
tree. He beamed it among the branches of the
tall White-Oak, but the fog held back the light
to a few yards. The other men stopped talking
to watch him.

After he figured he had studied the
situation over as well as any good valley man
would, Shorty stood in one spot and gazed in-
to the tree. He appeared to be absorbed in
thought.

"What you thinking 'bout doing, Shorty,"
one of the men asked, "going up in there after
'at hell-yun?"

There was no laughter; there was no fun, as
Shorty removed the small, but heavy, worn-
out boots. The other men gathered around
him reverently and tried to quiet their dogs.
They began half-hearted protests of what he

ae The cat's wail rose in both pitch Edits
- volume, as every nerve tuned itself for
the bounce... | oo

was about to do, but Shorty knew not a "man-
jack" among them would hold him back.

"Shorty, you ain't going up 'at tree now, are
you?" asked the sheriff, having sense enough
to realize a man would not take off his boots
to wiggle his toes in the cold dead leaves.
"Shorty, I ain't going to let you go up 'at tree
now, he continued. "Shorty ... Shorty," the
fat man called, as though his voice were
having difficulty penetrating the fog. "Shorty,
I ain't going to let you do 'at."

The small man knew how they really felt,
that not a one of them would trade this new
excitement, not even for his father's railroad
watch. He knew what the sheriff's words
were; just talk, so that if anything happened
to him up there, the bloated hog could say a
thousand times or more, "I tried to stop him. I
tried ever way in the world."

Shorty turned to Jason spills. "Give me 'at
knife in your belt," he said, and Jason looked
down at his stomach, as the small man pulled
the knife from inside the belt and tore away
the leather sheath. Shorty put the blade bet-
ween his teeth.

"Now you ain't going up there, Shorty,"
said the sheriff one more time to be sure
everyone there would have no doubt he was

doing his duty.

Shorty dug his fingers into the rough bark
and brought his legs up to a frog position. His
toes gripped almost as strongly as his small
fingers. He paused for a moment and took in
some deep breaths that were exhaled as soft
erunts, then he began to scale the White-Oak
with the ferocity and power of the animal he
was going after.

When he reached the first limb, he sat on it,
took the blade from between his teeth, and
called in a loud whisper to the men below,
"Turn out t'em lights." The flashlights and
Janterns popped out one by one, like a string
of Christmas lights after one has failed. "Dern
fools,' Shorty said under his breath. He put
the blade back in his teeth and reached for
the next limb. He felt for each branch at just
the right spot, as though he knew where the
next rung in the random ladder would be. The
ground below was quiet, as each man kept a
firm grip on his dog.

Finally, his hand rested on it, the source of
the unending cries. He rubbed the scaly bark
sides of the homemade cage almost as though
he wished to comfort the spotted, reddish-

oe

brown wild thing inside. He made certain,
however, that his hand did not come too near
the steel-wire door in the end. Slowly, he un-
tied the brown hemp rope that secured the
cage to a limb. There was no hurry. If they
wanted the best story of their lives, they
could wait for it.

When the rope was free, he tugged on it to
make certain it was still firmly attached at the
other end. He was a small man, but never-
theless, he wanted it affirmed that the rope
would hold his weight. He was satisfied.

Sitting on the same limb as the cage, Shor-
ty felt for the handle attached to the butt end
of the hollow-log box. He gripped it firmly.
His right hand twisted a short piece of broom
stick that was serving to lock the sliding door
in position.

As he tilted the cage over the limb, he felt
the weight of the animal shift wholely to the
front end. The cage slid a few inches, but his
left arm held it in position. He bent his head
down as near as he dare come to the wire
door and whispered, "Here you go, you red
devil." His right hand gripped a knob on the
top of the door frame. The hand was cold and
the muscles were tight, and when a single
claw curled through a hole in the wire and en-
tered his flesh, the pain was hardly more than
a thorn scratch. As though it were a reflex
from the scratch, his hand yanked the door up
in one smooth motion. Foot after foot of
screaming cat poured from a box too small to
hold it.

The cat's wail rose in both pitch and
volume, as every nerve tuned itself for the
bounce; when it hit, the bones of its legs
tried to tear through the heavy fat layer of its
back, yet its belly only lightly brushed the
ground. No man could hold a dog, and the
bounce was hardly over before the furious cat
cooled its head, decided not to take a stand
against the odds, and vanished as though it
had changed itself into one of the dogs around
it,

Shorty opened his small eyes wide and did
not blink. He wanted at least one faint image
to carry with him, but all he would have to
remember this night by were the sounds.

23

There was one flash of light, but it gave no
image, no picture of the action. It came
seconds after he pulled up to the door, about
the time the cat hit. A single powerful light
came on and was pitched skyward with the
first human cry, but it hit the ground far
away and flashed out. Shorty thought he
knew who was the first to cry out.

Hurriedly, he pulled the cage up to his side,
threw the knife into it, and shoved the door
into position. He lifted the cage by a handle
attached to the top, then grasped the rope
with all the power of his right arm. He
checked the tension again, aimed himself for a
second or two, then swung blindly into the
black air amid the howls of both dogs and men.

He pulled his short legs up to his chest to
correct any error in calculation, and as the
rope swung back the second time, he dropped
his feet onto solid earth. He was standing un-
der a huge Sycamore tree, a good distance
from the disturbance beneath the White-Oak.

Feeling safer now, he paused and listened
again. He knew the cat would be gone, but he
also knew the boys were not as familiar with
the ways of wild things as he, and he smiled
as he heard the "gran' time" they were
having, feeling dogs or other men brush
around their legs, sensations each of them
could later claim for certain was the creature
from hell.

Satisfied, he dropped the cage, felt around
the trunk of the Sycamore until he found a
thin rope tied there, and untied it. He pulled,
jerked, and put his weight on it, until
somewhere up in the Sycamore, the knot in
the other rope, the thick hemp rope, gave
way. The two ropes came down around him.

He groped around the base of the Sycamore
again; this time until his hands touched the
cold leather of a brand new pair of boots. He
worked them on, rolled up his ropes, picked
up his cage, and as lights began appearing un-
der the massive White-Oak and the men
began calling his name, the trapper was off in-
to the woods, the territory he knew so well.

There was only one thing he regreted, as he
found his way in the darkness; he wished
Dewey Hobson had been there. Dewey could
stretch a story "all different ways."

suicide and sylvia plath

we suffer daylight and
summer green,

a smug knowledge
that darkness hides

a cool and welcome release.

the day, a river of light
that blinds,

and trailing like a tear
the sun stumbles,
is guided like a witless child
to the crib of china.

gas last.

deeper breath

and tepid rushes.
death: welcome

the wild western winds.

our dreams once

hissed to us

as snakes.

24

26

en ae

you are a gentle man
of sorts
1 plotted the points of your past
in a series of post cards
pointillism
microdot
needlepoint
breaking point
black star
white orifice
1remember this
from an old tune
that plays tome
in the rhythym of air conditioning
late at night
in a bourgeois neighborhood
with the pages turning
sweat dripping
heart pumping--
breaking

28

PO seStietcenurectredtndntetetetirs
AEP SETHE pene tral AEE AETMETPLEPLEPSETTSETL

Pay 4

ee

Jeff's fingers trembled slightly as he turned
the key to Ellen's apartment. He had entered
this way so many times before, but this time
he felt like an intruder. With a nervous glance
over his shoulder, he pushed the door open
and felt inside for the light switch.

Everything looked the same as he had
remembered, and yet it somehow echoed of
emptiness. "Ellen!" Jeff yelled, surveying the
rooms. "Ellen, are you here?"

He called out again, knowing that he would
get no answer. Ellen was gone. She had left
about four days ago without giving him even
the slightest notice. That wasn't like Ellen at
all, Jeff had kept telling himself. Something
must have gone wrong, but what? Jeff racked
his brain for clues, but his mind was blank.

He had been calling day and night for the
past several days, hoping that during one of
his attempts, she would pick up the receiver
and explain away his fears with one of her
soft, reassuring laughs. Jeff had let the phone
ring and ring, but his efforts were wasted.
There was no Ellen to comfort him.

"TI should have come sooner," Jeff muttered
to himself, angry and perplexed. He glared

around the living room and noticed with a lit-
tle surprise that half-filled glasses still stood
on the coffee table, that the couch pillows
were still lying on the floor, that the ashtrays
were full of stale cigar and cigarette butts.
Nothing had changed since he had left late
Sunday night.

30

"That's not like her," Jeff thought as he
became increasingly aware of the room's
disorder. "She would never leave with this
place in such a mess." He walked quickly over
to the bedroom and looked in.

From the appearance of the crumpled and
entangled sheets, it looked as if someone had
just crawled out from a night of restless sleep.
Jeff's eye took in the half-opened drawers, the
stocking strewn along the carpet, and the spilt
container of bath powder. Kneeling down in-
stinctively, Jeff began to scrape up what he
could. The carpet being a thick shag, his ef-
forts met with little success. "Oh, what the
hell,' he muttered, wiping his hands on his
trousers.

He rose and noticed something very
strange. Jeff walked over to her vanity and
stood in wonder. He looked into the circular
mirror, but only a cracked, shattered image
stared back.

"Now what do you suppose made her do a
thing like that?" He ran his fingers over the
broken glass. He stared and pondered, won-
dering which was the more fragmented -- his
thoughts or the reflection in the mirror.

The phone rang. Jeff jumped and stumbled
in excitement as he ran to the bedstand.
"Ellen!', he shouted into the receiver. '"'Where
have you been? I've been trying to get hold of
you for the past..."

The receiver clicked in his ear. "Ellen!" he
shouted again. The dial tone buzzed harshly.
He slammed the phone down with disgust,
and for the first time felt a twinge of true
fear.

Where was she? This time the question sur-
faced a little more urgently. Jeff thrust his
hand in his pockets and paced back and forth
across the room. Memories of her flowing
blonde hair, her full-moon eyes, her low, soft
laugh violently rushed back and haunted him.
He winced and walked more determinedly
through her four-room apartment. The
miniature grandfather clock marked off thirty
minute intervals, but Jeff was oblivious. He
paced and stalked, feeling out the limits of his
memory and imagination.

Jeff found himself standing in front of her
bookcase. The shelves were filled and over-
flowing with novels, short story anthologies,
and volumes of poetry. Jeff recalled how she
would recline and hide behind those paper-
back covers while he would pore over those
accounts from the office. She would curl up
and read for hours, never moving more than
the fingers necessary to flip through the

3]

pages. He looked now over his shoulder to her
den recliner, half-expecting to see her slight
figure snuggled into the chair's deep cushions.

Letting out a troubled sigh, he turned and
his eye fell on a small leatherbound book
laying on her desk. Jeff picked up the little
volume and noticed that a few pieces of
notebook paper were folded up and stuffed in-
to the middle of the book. The Poems of
Wilham Blake, Jeff read half-aloud as he
examined the book. With some curiosity he
opened the book to the pages harboring the
folded sheets of paper. A short, illustrated
poem caught his attention and he hurriedly
scanned the first stanza's rhythmic lines:

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Jeff's eyes skipped down the page to two un-
derlined verses. "Did he smile his work to
see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"

"Now what in the hell does that mean?"
Jeff frowned and raked his fingers through
his hair. He looked thoughtfully out of the
window at the sinking summer sun and ran
the lines again and again through his mind.

After a few moments he gave up witha
curse. Jeff rediscovered the folded sheets
which had fallen to the floor. Easing on down
to the desk's swivel chair, Jeff leaned back
and let the last fading rays fall on and
illuminate Ellen's hurried, though still neat
handwriting. Jeff read with studied
concentration, taking care to savor and to
absorb Ellen's flowing divergent thoughts.

"Even as I write this," Ellen began, "even
as I scribble out these midnight thoughts,
your cigar smoke lingers in the room, hangs in
my mind. We parted just moments ago and
yet your presence still clouds my world. I
can't seem to escape you -- you seep in
everywhere; your encircling arms and deman-
ding, burning eyes haunt me and leave me no
refuge. You overpower me. You have my love
and own me completely -- too completely, I'm
beginning to think.

"It's 2:00 a.m. now, and everything is
peaceful and quiet; that is, everything except
my thoughts. The night seems oppressive,
strangling; seems a prison to my deepest
desires. And yet, I know it is not the night
that is suffocating me. It is myself and what
I'm letting you do to me.

"What I need is a fresh ocean breeze -- a
breath of air which will free me from the webs
which I have spun myself. I am my own worst

enemy, of that I'm sure. If a new, untested

flame flares up within me, I am the first to ex-

tinquish it. My heart cowers behind my smile
and my deeds; my eyes often belie my
darkest, most secret thought. I laugh in self-
defense, I smile in approval when my heart
says "No." Why? Why doI do this?

"I need the faith in myself to stand in a sit-
ting crowd, to cry in a smiling mob. Why am I
writing these gloomy thoughts? I guess I'm
not so much writing as confessing. My mind is
in a storm -- one thought wells only to batter
another down.

"Tm not happy with myself the way I
am....1 am a clinging vine, a "hanger-on," a
grasper of hollow dreams. I reach out for
what I think is there but my fingers clutch
nothingness. Life is air, disturbed by a few
bolts of lightning, a few rumbles of thunder,
but it is essentially air. I wish I could for once
be a streak of lightning to tear across the sky,
to let the world know me if but for one blind-
ing second. I need to convince myself that I
can indeed break my routine for one brilliant
moment.

"What stirs within me denies expression --
my soul fights against self-explanation. And
yet, somehow, it must make itself known. It
must make itself heard."

Jeff looked up from the page and stared
blankly across the room. What was she trying
to say? That was what he was trying to figure
out. Jeff snatched up the creased sheets again
and resumed reading with a greater intensity
and concentration.

"Little threads of obedience and devotion
and agreement and self-betrayal -- these are
what I wind myself in. These strings are
pulling tighter and tighter, and I begin to feel
the tension, the pain. One by one they must
break. But when? When should my soul ex-
plode into recognition?
Waiting...waiting...waiting...I'm all eyes and
ears to my battling thoughts. I'm on the
threshold but I hesitate to jump.

"Iam but a twig leaning against a pillar,
but even a twig can have mutinous thoughts
and pretensions. Why do I write these things?
You know you have my love -- know you have
me twisted around your slightest whim and
easiest grin. I have been the willing captive.
But perhaps too willing...

"Yes! That's it! I have been a captive in
your world. Your world, understand. At last I
see where my thoughts have been leading me.
Your world is not my world; I have tried, Jeff
-- God knows I have tried -- but I haven't

adapted. I simply have been suftocating in
your world of concrete, of martinis, of cor-
porate handshakes and cold business deals.
Like a candle in a lidded jar, my flame has
been burning lower and lower since our
relationship began. Don't misunderstand me --
the fault is not all yours. You can't help what
you are any more than I can help what I am
tonight.

"A fresh breeze sweeps over me even as I
write these thoughts. It has been so long since
I cleared my lungs! But this is not enough. I
need more. I need to run out into the night, to
look hard at the stars, to fall down in the
grass and breathe in the dew and summer
clover. In fact, that is exactly what I'm going
to do. Who knows, there might be hope for us,
after all."

Jeff's eyes burned as he read these last
words. Was it possible for Ellen to have writ-
ten this? The smiling, submissive Ellen that
he had so often crushed against his body? It
was hard to believe. And what did she mean
by saying "there might be hope for us, after
all?" He had never doubted before. Her words
echoed and re-echoed, whirling, meaninglessly
through his head. Jeff was furious; he felt like
hitting someone, smashing something.

No longer able to control himself, Jeff spun
around and jammed his fist through the win-
dow pane. He stared dumbly down at the
shattered glass on the carpet and then looked
out of the window. It was all-so useless. With
one mechanical motion, he pulled open the
window and leaned out into the night.

The moon peeped half-way from behind the
clouds and sent its scattered beams on the
lawn's trees and shrubs. The darkness was
alive with the chorus of neighborhood crickets
and the sounds of passing cars. Jeff pulled out
a cigar and thoughtfully drew on it at the win-
dow. Ellen's words filtered through his mind.

The phone rang again. Jeff's heart pounded,
but he made a conscious effort to remain calm.

"Ellen!" he said softly into the receiver.
"Ellen, is that you?" Someone seemed to sigh
and pause at the other end of the line.

"Say something, please!" The words came
urgently, but his tone was soft, gentle. A few
moments passed.

Once again the receiver clicked in his ear.
Jeff slowly returned the phone to its hook.
With a slow, tired movement, he removed the
cigar from his mouth and crushed it into an

ashtray.

It was then that he noticed. He looked down
at his moist, now-tingling hand and saw that it
was bleeding.

32

PEN

Fo ey ee Se

-

3
B
i es
f pe
? i,
iy
ee
ig p)
Re
iy
f
4
'i
q

2 '
an)
ay

GLASS

I've seen what spills the day and
chooses sides for a stranger and me.
From the silent call our eyes meet,
we see each other in our glass boxes.

Night takes one side and
I in light,
I see myself in a mirror of black.
Sunken eyes
me in my glass box.
I press my hand to the side
it sweats and slips,
no warmth unmoved.

I've stood burning in parched
summer gardens
and thought I held a jewel in my hand.
I only cast it down
to attend to my work.
I have seen the glass spider web
refuse the fly
strong prison walls shatter in the wind

and cold weapons pressed hard against skin

and melt tored.

34

iO

mee

ry
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'
3
: '
2
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5

'The Way It Would
Have Been H Fle Fad
Not Died So Suddenly
In the Fall

The old man turned from lighting the lamp
and stood before the reflection in the mirror.
He inspected his teeth that were blacker than
reality and noted that his haggard features
were lifeless and lumpy in the flickering light.
Only his eyes had any force, any vitality; two
hurricanes rising out of a dead sea. He gazed
deeply into the storms, then quietly shut his
mind to the pain that swept his life through
his thoughts. He was so very close now.
Another wave of pain washed through his
veins and the reflection contorted into a mask
eroded by the tides of too many days. It was
late winter for him; there was no hope of an
early spring.

He held his palsied hands up to the mirror
thinking how much of his life had passed
directly through them. He supposed those
things had gone the way of the dirt that he
dug nightly from under his fingernails. All
that remained were the jagged outlines of
past pains too stubborn to be forgotten.

He strained to recall the portrait of his life,
but the scenes changed and flowed within the
blink of his mind's eye. As he picked through
the debris of his existence all he found were a
few high points and a few low points; the
scars of his life. For the most part his life was
a gray soup in which floundered his forgotten
promises and compromised dreams.

He placed his hands against the wall and
leaned his burning forehead against the cool
glass to face the face that he knew was living
proof that he would not die alone. When he
was younger the end could not be seen no
matter how hard he tried to visualize it.

Time peels off as easily as paint off an old
house, the beginning and the end stand side
by side. Life exists between the minute that
has just ticked away and the one that is
moving up to take its place.

He saw only the black centers of his eyes
when he felt death's razor-edge slowly
scraping away the scars of his heart and mind,
severing the cords of his life. He was already
in the heart of the hurricane clutching the
essence of his past experience when the lamp
he had lit sputtered its reflection into
darkness.

36

A SS ERT A EE A AEE EP ITEC A EEE AS AS SS I EE RESP ERTS TSE IO SE EE
Ss & sia bal aA ae

This night
to weigh against your sleeping
I bring you
a finger from my writing hand,
the lips of someone always kneeling,
tears of the innocent for the bad
and ice.

Were I to press this gem

to your sleeping palm

I would see you move

once,

fr as if in pain,

i and slide your hand to your eyes.

He I have been trembling in this

' corner of the night, forever,

eM and with the birth of every razor
ul I invent new ways

| | to shade your breast.

For the last,

I willrun my tongue to your ear
and whisper,

as the wind taps at sand

and the sand at sea.

| 37

AVALON

The shell whispers to me;
grains of sand tease my instep.
The wave beckons
Quivering,
A jellyfish sucks salt juice
from my fingertips.
I bury him,
His cries ignored
by mindless sand fiddlers.
A gull,
dives into the shimmering silver swell
And emerges triumphant

with tinsel stringing from his mouth.

The shell sprinkles my palm with sand;
rushes of icy coolness caress me.
The sun,
Drinks the droplets of brine,
Leaving mea saline shell.
The wave holds me,
I submerge into the depthless
blue crystal
of sleep.

38

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REMINDER TO MYSELF

we were passing shadows in the night

scurrying away to the place of least light

hurrying away to the darkness to wrap ourselves away from the world
to satisfy my need to love you

and your physical need for me

the strained conversation gave way to communication without words
but what I wanted to say was never expressed

you pushed the thoughts from my mind

with your senseless ways

laughingly pulled me along from one encounter to the next

and so willingly i was lead

but

you grew tired much sooner than i

and drifted away with the changing tide

the winds blow cold over an angry young girl

calling your name in her sleep

yet, if you come back

she'll be there

offering herself again as sacrifice

to your games in the night.

DIANNE

She was a hurricane by night

a grabbing storm

capricious with its force.

Aloft, she caught and held me like a kite;
her breath exhaled a killing,
wind-charged course:

I sought her eye, a zephyritic scene,

of haleyonic seas

where she could shift with me

where both might claim

some lien,

some symbiotic, trysting, trusting gift.
But no.

The churning mass consumed me whole
So quick so quick

she sucked my brittle frame
subsuming much that clothed

and housed my soul.

Gently, she sighed, then laughed

and became too quickly tame,

At last, released,

I huddled for the dawn.

06

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o9

THE UNSUNG LOVESONG

In return: I give you shoulder for rib,

breast for shoulder, lip for lip.

Our knees touch, locking.

Our faces are suspended as two threads, untieing.
What we move through is not water, air, or earth.
We lie as close as margins

undoing the bright buttons of our lives.

All through the night the air thrums,

moving across us like water, waving.

In dream I turn, and turn again to you,

and knot the edges of our hands

till they are hemmed together evenly.

This is the invisible love-song,

the poem without end.

Undying, the imminent, unmoving dawn.

I lie. I tell you tales

and freeze within my virgin skin.

The ragged edges of our lives, become undone

by my own hand. Indian-giver, liar, brother.

08

61

LAST UNICORN

Before it is too late

we must be careful here today

not to flutter in disbelief

of enchanted creatures like unicorns;
all about they are dying,

submerged ina grave and graying sea.

Despite the stories

one unicorn remains---

old as the wisdom of wizards,
pure as the virgin's lap.

One unicorn remains
dwelling lone in a lilac wood
in a heart of youth

shunning men who dull magic.

We who wander in this age of proofs
frighten her.

But she does exist.

In that land

somewhere behind reasons mask

a fantasy soothes our furrowed brow.
We make ourselves again like children
to trust a forehead's star.

_ / - You held me so clo

ee ee baer

ee

ioe rt-"'" :TCOCOCOC*T*CS

60

63

Be rich! Be famous! Be Occult!

After years of patient study and re-
search I have mapped out the secret path
to occult fame and fortune. It's not as
hard as it looks.

To tell the truth I stumbled into the
business by accident. At a party one night
I was talking about a former wife. A man
standing nearby thought I said former
life. Before I could change the subject I
had recruited my first three disciples.

Another time, talking to the local gar-
den club, I painted such a moving picture
of the spiritual life of wild flowers that
the club president and two portly matrons
in the back of the room spontaneously
began to worship me. As it happens I
know very little about wild flowers, but a
great deal about portly matrons. Within
days this modest organization had worked
out a credo to replace its constitution and
I became psychic advisor to every azalea
bush in a sizeable Southern town.

But it's not necessary to reply on such
lucky breaks. You, too, can find happiness
and success in occultism through the ap-
plication of the few simple rules listed
here.

1. Know Everything. This one is easier
than you think. In occultism the law of
laws is that seeming is believing. You
don't really have to know anything at all.
You just seem to. When the questions get
hard to handle it is always sufficient
merely to smile knowingly and change the
subject.

by Thomas A. Williams

OCCULT

2. Be Subtle. It's the hint you catch
their attention with, not the hammer.

When you're at a party and con-
versation subsides for a minute, make
sure that nearby guests hear the tail end
of a sentence like "Mark my words,
mankind has not yet hear the last of this
Atlantis business." Then, displaying your
mysterious knowing look and your deep
inner tranquility, head out to the kitchen
for a refill while the others wonder at the
strangely omniscient being they have
discovered in their midst.

3. Be Hard to Get. For the rest of the
evening stand apart as though pondering
ineffable and transcendent secrets. Sooner
or later, count on it, someone will sidle up
and timidly ask for advice on some very
personal matter. When that happens,
you're in. Take his hand, gaze com-
passionately into his eyes and murmur,
"The way of truth is the way of peace," or
"Seek and ye shall find." If you ean work
in a few dharma's and karma's so much
the better. A liberal sprinkling of yees and
thees will tone up your talk considerably.

4. Create the Occult Image. Looks are

AT JUST SOME GENTLE MOMENT

At night, generally I am free of her.
She, queen of the night,

used to tire of me, dropping dead
on her southern hostess couch

at only eleven forty-five

just as her band was warming up
for a reckless all-night dance.

But in the coolness of an autumn dawn
when a two mile jog must be run

whenI am vital in my daylight world

or at just some harmless time

she comes at me

like Hitler bombing England

in the negative of an old war photograph
where black is white

and the figures stand or move

in a stark world they never planned.

Habitually I check my watch
trying to out guess the next attack
trying to anticipate the anticipation
of pain.

I try to move in normalcy,
pretending to convalesce in stride
convinced that if one whole day
could rumble on from light to dark
and back again

without the thought,

the heavy sweating fear of her,

or her silent siren's screech,

I would be free,

safe beneath a working truce,
unsigned in blood, but granted.

But then,

at just some gentle moment
she races down at me

as now,

soundless in flight

forcing me to love

that which I would hate

at any saner time.

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65

NOT CRYING

1

I found a line last night. Snow swirled
around the house; a single red light
over the city, and me ina dream:

telephone wires freezing with wind.
Nothing.

2

I knew you in our first snow, then.
I woke up and the sheets were cold;
the poem was gone.

3

At dawn, whatever frost is left
clings hopelessly to concrete curbs.
The parking lots outside scream
into a flare of chrome;

too much sun. Where did you go?

W here is the breeze to take away
this vacuum?

4

Leaving you, shadows

from tobacco fields advance across the road
softly erasing our afternoon

and I, alone,

not crying, but moving away.

important. Most successful occultists
operate at one end of the social scale or
the other. Come on like Bela Lugosi in
white tie and tails or with a Johnny Cash
brand of rustic earnestness.

There is a rare middle ground known as
the Oral Roberts Blend, but it is not
recommended for beginners.

5. Never scratch in public. This always
spoils the effect. It is also essential that
you never be observed sitting on the john.
Remember, you have no merely physical
needs or compulsions. When nature calls,
mysteriously disappear and just as
mysteriously return.

6. Never Underestimate the Will to
Believe. In every man's soul there is a
messiah-shaped blank spot. /t's gust your
size! ,

Smile right, talk right, give an oc-
cassional free benediction and no one will
ever doubt you.

7. Play Up the Great Catastrophe. The
End of the World is Big Business.

For years psychics have busily warned
of impending world-wide catastrophe. Let
it be known that although you presently
live in the city you also maintain a moun-
tain retreat on the west slope of Pike's
Peak, which will be one of the few safe
spots when the North Pole shifts to the
equator.

8. The Ancient Tradition. Mook your
occultism onto the oldest possible source.
Early Egyptian is good, late neolithic even
better.

Keep in mind, however, that the most
respected occult tradition is not the one
which hands ancient truths down from
generation to generation. It's the one
whereby each generation invents brand
new ancient truths of its very own.

No starter kit for psychics would be
complete without some introduction to the
specialized vocabulary of the trade. The
Aura, for instance, is a kind of ultra-violet
halitosis, invisible to all but the psychic

eye. The aura is something like the Em-
peror's new clothes, but with no little boy
to set the record straight. The successful
psychic will always "consult the aura"
before he tells you what you want to hear.

A guru is a guy who teaches you the
tricks of the trade. In this case, me.

But you can't admit that. Consult your
old copies of Life magazine for stories on
famine in India. Clip out a photograph of a
sultably gaunt old fellow with a scragegly
beard. Glue this to a piece of cardboard
and label it "My Guru." Inadvertently ex-
pose it to the view of prospective
followers.

Later on, you can sell them your own
photograph. Autographed.

The akashic record is very important,
since it contains traces of every deed and
utterance ever done or uttered. This
record is preserved eternally on the astral
medium.

If you really believe in the akashic
record perhaps you'd better get into some
other line of work. Or be very, very
careful.

If history teaches anything these days,
it is certainly that the wise man records
as little as possible for posterity.

The deja vu is the sickening feeling that
you ve been this route before, as in wat-
ching old Bonanza re-runs.

One's dharma is his personal path of
spiritual development, revealed by the
psychic to the psychee to the benefit and
profit of at least one of them.

There is much more I could tell you, of
course, but this is enough to get started.
Beyond this point, you have only to
cultivate the proper patter. Spread the
word that you have well-developed alpha
waves, that you meditate for thirty
minutes morning and night, and that you
pray regularly for your petunias.

Know all about sacred mushrooms. But
for God's sake don't eat one.

It could be a sacred toadstool.

64

67

SUSAN bITTNER

has been named to WHO'S WHO in AMERICAN COLLEGES and
UNIVERSITIES. She is a senior at East Carolina, planning to
attend graduate school. Her interests lie in the field of creative
writing, and her talent in prose writing is obvious.

david bosnick

is from Syosset, New York and is now a senior at East Carolina.
He has written poetry of exceptional merit, as well as short stories
and reviews. He combines his literary inclination with a keen
athletic interest.

cele CARNES

is a transfer student, studying anthropology. She writes her
poetry from actual experience, stressing this experience through
brilliant images. This is her publication debut.

Theresa clark

is a senior music major at East Carolina who has been writing
since she was eleven. She describes herself as a writer becoming
more serious in her art, striving particularly for "tighter and more
direct metaphors."

judith ellsworth

is from Alexandria, Virginia. A sophomore, her work was
published in last year's REBEL. She is a special education major
and a dance minor.

ARCHIE GASTOR

is a relatively unknown writer from the Greenville area. He owns
an antique store. This is his publication debut.

bob glover

plays guitar as well as writing poetry, short stories and plays. He
is a junior at East Carolina. He hopes to begin working in Europe
in the not too distant future.

Taylor koonce

is a Vocational Science teacher in North Carolina. A contributing
member of the Poetry Forum, his lyrical ballads were the subject
of a recent article in The NEW EAST magazine.

s. phillip miles

is a senior English major whose poetry has been published in other
North Carolina magazines. His poetry touches upon small terrors
and makes the reader feel a perverse awe. He is an active member
of the Poetry Forum.

WRITERS

jeff rollins

is a sophomore at East Carolina. He has been published previously
in the REBEL, and has done work with other literary magazines
as well as newspaper work.

l.m. ROSENDURG

has been published in the REBEL, and other nationally known

we

-

magazines. She is currently attending Bennington College in Ver- -

mont.

Richard wayne smith

was born in Asheville, N.C. He attended college somewhere in the
Research Triangle and is currently an English instructor in the
Piedmont.

Theresa speight

is a senior at Kast Carolina from Kinston, N.C. whose poetry has
previously appeared in the REBEL, TAR RIVER POETS, and the
BUCCANEER. She describes her poetry as unpredictable and
satirical, with impact as her intention.

luke whisNant

is a freshman at East Carolina. An extremely promising young
poet, he is a member of the Poetry Forum here. His poem, "Not
Crying" won one of the three prizes given for poetry.

Thomas williams

is a professor in the Department of Romance Languages at East

Carolina University and editor of The NEW EAST magazine. He >}
is very interested in North Carolina folklore, especially those >

dealing with the occult.

pamela wilson

is a freshman at East Carolina and a resident of Virginia Beach.
She plans to major in Political Science and has a job working in the
Spanish Embassy in Madrid this August.

helena woodard

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has been writing poetry for two years. She is interested primarily 7

in writing prose. She will complete undergraduate work here this
spring and will begin working toward an MA in English.

beRNIE GENTRY

is a senior printmaking major. His work has appeared in group

shows at the Greenville Art Center, and the Kate Lewis Gallery at |

the Rocky Mount Art Center.

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CRECITS

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aoe lea KS T/ Se), Suicide and Sylvia Plath

Wee) eA Acro/Rhino

BaAve smidgen, . 52) 6 ies 1...(2 5/8" x 912") . Solzhenitsyn I - Image of a Man
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PAW Marty |... cere a ws At (26" x A Ok a aa Rain Tracks IX
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Donald Semawien 2.2.2. w-: Mace? 29 .... Cloister Imagined
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SSUES) in 1(5 ee er ee Eg cee os Automation Yellow
Werrrilolizelaw 22 23 20 ee ree. Tem GO AV ew weal The Present
RAvAMOMd BrOWH, .........-.. aye. 222 ?1715/8 ) .... Wreeked Trolley Fantasy
ermiesaemiry.........-..+.. Ore Ree ieee Cityscape 610
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|

Sant blake

is a senior at East Carolina and will be graduating in the summer
with a B.F.A. in Communications Arts. He plans to continue his

* education on the West Coast, furthering his studies in graphic arts

and film-making.

| (RAYMONd DROWN

graduated from East Carolina in 1972 with a B.S. in Art and
entered graduate school here in the fall of 1974. He is presently
working towards a M.F.A. degree in printmaking with a minor in
painting. He plans to continue "creating intriguing visual
experiences for other people."

lewis cherry

is a senior pursuing a B.F.A. in printmaking. This is his first
appearance in the REBEL.

ray elmore

received a B.F.A. and M.F.A. from Maryland Institute College of
Art and the University of Michigan respectively. He is an
instructor at East Carolina and has had exhibitions at
Pennsylvania's Academy of Fine Arts and the New Hampshire
Art Association. He has much experience in critiques for various
publishers, including Harper and Row, and has served as a judge
in many art exhibits.

brent Funderburk

is a first year graduate student concentrating on paintings and

illustration. He plans to open the first studio on the moon and

develop paint from thin air. The spiral guides the heart to the
heart.

harry hartofelis

is receiving a B.F.A. in Communications Art with a minor in
Design. Upon graduation he plans to return to New York to work.
A fine artistic draftsman, he plans to devote his energies to
graphics.

paul hartley

recieved a B.A. from Texas University and a M.F.A. from East
Carolina. He is now a lecturer at the School of Art, in the depart-
ment of painting and drawing. He has recently been exhibited at

Rental-Sales Gallery at the North Carolina Museum of Art in
Raleigh.

Terry holtzclaw

graduated from East Carolina and is now a first year graduate

| student here. She won honorable mention for the painting
- included in this book.

ARTISTS

betsy kurzinger

is a senior in Communications Art at East Carolina. She is the
founder of the universally respected F.H.B.N. INC. She plans to
head west and become the next star photographer for ROLLING
STONE.

barbara mcphail

is a senior printmaking major with a minor in Painting. She plans
to continue her studies in this field at the graduate level
somewhere in North Carolina.

edward reep

was born in New York and is Artist in Residence at East Carolina.
He has received the Guggenheim Fellowship, served as Chairman
of the Painting Department of California Institute of Art, and is
the author of The Content of Watercolor. His work has appeared
in LIFE, FORTUNE, NEWSWEEK, and ART FPORUDIE
magazines. His collections, awards and special shows have
afforded him national attention.

betsy ross

received a M.A. from East Carolina and is an instructor in the Art
School here. Her work has recently been exhibited at the
Mushroom Gallery, the North Carolina Artists Festival, and at
Gallery II, Western Michigan University.

donald sexAUER

was born in Erie, Pennsylvania, and is currently a distinguished
professor of Art at East Carolina. His teaching experience,
exhibits and other credits are too varied and extensive to be fully
mentioned. He has permanent collections in the Boston Public
Library, the Ithaca College Museum of Art and the New York
Public Library, among many others. He initiated the Small Hand
Press in 1968 and has done several works in series based on the
writings of Nietzche, Melville, and Chaucer.

MATT SMARTT

is a twenty year old junior from Ropewell, Va. majoring in
printmaking with a minor in drawing. His work has appeared in
group shows at the Greenville Art Center, the Kate Lewis Gallery
and the Rocky Mount Center.

dAVE STRIGER

graduated in 1975 from East Carolina and is now a first year
graduate student in design. He has two photographs in the
REBEL.

68

Sa OR

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