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|The REBEL
East Carolina UniversityTs
Literary-Art Magazine
STAFF
r
Robert Glover
Editor
Daniel OTShea
Art Director
Luke Whisnant
Associate Editor
Katherine Blackburn Murphy
Business Manager
Susan Hull
Circulation Manager/
Proof Reading
Alice Leary
Secretary
THE REBEL is published by the stu-
dents 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
Student Center, East Carolina Univer-
sity, Greenville, N. C. 27834. Copy-
right © 1977, East Carolina University
Student Government Association. All
rights revert to the individual authors
and artists, from whom_ permission
must be obtained to reproduce any of
the materials contained in this issue.
y,
Note On The Cover
This yearTs cover is by Dale Verzaal.
oBirds #3� is illustrated in watercolor,
colored pencils, and pastels. Dale is a
graduate student in Communication
Arts with a minor in painting. After
graduating from ECU in 1973 with a
BFA degree in Communication Arts,
he went to work as an illustrator for
Graphicsgroup, Inc. in Atlanta. While
employed there, Dale did illustrations
for Arrow Shirts, Dr. Pepper, McDon-
aldTs, and National Geographic. Dale
has also done several cover illustrations
for The New East Magazine. As a
graduate studio assistant, Dale should
finish his MasterTs this year at East
Carolina.
CONTENTS
r
Creole -\omom sjiadavel-\e)
Through the Crystal
Dixie Cup ....5.; Archie Gaster
Midnight 620.005.0555 S. Phillip Miles
OW ev-MolestleleMe)ar-W w(-\aerciealere)
Breaking ....2.053. Jeff Rollins ...
Chrysalis. 4.05 065665. S. Phillip Miles
A Gift Refused ....... Jeff Rollins ...
bight Haiku 5... os a
Brick Hunting ........ Jeff Rollins ...
Exit at El Sepulcro ... Robert Glover
Saran © 1-1 9-0 wo) |(-\ a
eoceeeeee
eocoeee ee
WRITERST CONTENTS
The Rabbit King .... . David Gerrard
_Shoeshine Chair ..... Molly Petty ...
SOIN ois la Luke Whisnant .......
The Attendant ....... David Bosnick
eec5eee eee
eoeeeveee
eoeoeoeeee
eec5eeee ee
eceoceoeeeee
eoeoeeeeee
eoeeoeeee
eoeoeae ee
The Digs (.. 3) ee cs Gene Hollar . . 20.5...
Portrait oo. 6 ee, Sue Aydelette .........
is o{-10)01 (0) 6 (fe) |) Ae Cele Carnes ..........
The Rain is Not
Stopping... 3.5.66). G. RK. Bryant .. 2. ...53.
Surting 3 02s Walter H. Johnson ....
Least Expecting ...... Allison Thompson .....
Takeover .......60.5. Molly Petty: ....2...4...
Composition in Red ..
Allison Thompson
eee ee
Coexistence ......... S. Phillip Miles ........
The Girl with a
Packsack
Full of Kazoos ..... Terry Davis on... 55s
Lamina 2. es; \Y, FeVaa etc a\(->.¢1 0\e(") aun
Wheat Field T......... Leigh Myers .........;
Glass Falling ......... aim Kittrell . 2... ees
Manikin .ossaeeseca Allison Thompson .....
Shadow 5 oes. 4555 Sally Brett 2.2 ....43553
ShuckinT i006 ses ens Bill Harrington ........
Afternoon in
Late May ...:.3.; Luke Whisnant ......
LOOM Oh iesciccaieds Sue Aydelette ........
An Account of Events Surrounding a
Certain Day :
in 1922 ose ccivens dim Barnes 5... 62.0
{© Ye (-s Cole. 0s oh (00) (0) 0 MIPIM g�,�-1 0-101 01-1 01-112) (0 Ean
Morning. 2.66.56 |5Xe) of -) 4 an ©] (0), | an
Border State
Churchyard ...... Eugene A. Brunelle ...
For Theresa: .....;;. defi Rollins .........
Meat noe eas Peter Makuck .......
WritersT Biographies ... 2.65.3. s aii
mB Onl] oO
reas
14
19
yAU)
Zi
22
26
27
28
45 "
47
49
51
52
53
54
55
56
61
62
62
67.
69
7
74
75
76
77
78
~
co
ARTISTST CONTENTS
Birds #3 ...:.... Dale Verzaal .....,..
Birds #3 .......: | BY: (a Vi 7 |
Moondance ..... Lewis Cherry .......
Hunting
Instinct ..... .. Laura Jackson ......
Untitled .....:. Johnny Hamilton ....
illustration ..... | DY-V0\(2 im @ te) 0\-- ee
Untitled ....... Roger Kamereen ....
illustration ..... atclepaateyare| Brown ....
OM ic-acelerzel
Mano cc John Morris ........
_ illustration ..... | BY Ve\(-) it © he) 9-7. ae
Clinging
Reptiles ...... Luellen Vernon .....
Untitled ........ George Brett .....:.
Untitled .-..2... OY-f0) g¢(- 8) ¢-1 |
Untitled ........ George Brett .......
Midnight
Daydream #2 . H.A. Giles .........
Untitled ........ George Brett .......
Untitled ..2...., HL A. Giles... 605...
Untitled. ........ TE. Austin 2... 2 is.
Untitled .....,.:. 5-1-1 a OM goo (YAY.
Untitied ........ H. A. Giles ......:..
Celestial
Shipwreck .... H. A. Giles .........
Untitled .....08. Tok. Aust) . 32...
Untitled .: +. .2.. D. Coler 5.
Moondance ..... Lewis Cherry .......
Birds #7... 4.4%. Dale Verzaal ........
I Met That
Little Man .... Raymond Brown
Billiard King .... Richard Fennell
Mr. America .... David McDowell
Trained Ram ... Matt Smartt ........
Untitled: ..-..... TE. Austin. . 32:25;
Untitled ........ | 5-3-1 a wa sore (3-7 Al
i elcoyactalu ate
oe (10-1 ¢-\- DY 01 -) © hs) 0-7
illustration ...... Fred Channey ......
Untitled .......; Ed Midaett .......:.
Untitled ......,; Johnny Hamilton ....
illustration ...... Matt Smartt. ......%;
lwo Jima #6 =.... HA. Giles ........;
ArtistsT Biographies
eeoeceer ere eee wee ee we ee
cover
inside cover
|
13
~14
18
4s)
KS
RRR
3/7
37
38
39
76
back cover
50
eo)
60
6A
70
INTRODUCTION
r
As is usual with a publication of this nature,
tel 1 -Mu el WM ol 1-10 cat-lelemel et-leter-ScM elm ose lene iitar-vele!
point-of-view during the production of this issue
of the Rebel. Our main concern this year has been
to offer the Rebel as a public art form and thereby
establish a greater sense of communication and
involvement within the university community. The
magazine received a great deal of individual input
from many interested students before it went into
final production in an effort to offer the students of
East Carolina University a quality publication
involved with the literary and visual arts. We
Flat see}elere mm comr-l|(olttmr-\ Mee\-eelel-) e-Me) a telMbleluctessiay
community, including all students, faculty, alumni
FVeveU el (se-tcjtzre Miele) ole) ac-tacMr-le Me) eyeleyaablelintieCoWer-1i
rete) te MUU 0M delice oy ae)(-\el Mile ey ce(-) an Coll ey cey-Yel(-10)
foreyealeeleterl nem actclaceyercn
We believe artists are a vital, integral part of
society and their works function as agents for
cultural development, as well as merely creating a
space where there was not one. We feel it is
bles) oy-4 e181 ce) ay ablo("selar-lal-jcca com ot-lU-i-lemelele(-ian (oye
their work and it is their responsibility to make
proper use of such outlets, even at the risk of
attempting to act professionally in an amateur __
environment. We also realize that for some students
the Rebel as an art form will always be disappoint-
ing. But for those who take the time to look and
read their way through this issue they should see
that these selections, individually and collectively,
ro (-X1-y av Me onto) ecarel acta leleye Wm detclelsireyic-yelrell (o)ac-remm co)
them by hasty and unenlightened critics. We were
often reminded of a quote from the late Louis
Armstrong: oIf you arenTt making mistakes you
arenTt learning,� and above all, this publication
represents a learning experience on every front. "
The Rebel is particularly grateful to some
local merchants who made our literature and art
contests possible this year. Tom Haines, owner of
the Attic, established the 1st Annual Attic Awards
by presenting two lst place plaques and $150.00
in prize money. Art and Camera contributed a
$50.00 gift certificate and Silkscreens Unlimited
Forey eis glolbli-xe Wt-Wn,Y40H 00 Mol 9 -Yol ail oloy del l-1e I Coy ar-lat
awards. The Ist place Attic Award for literature
and $75.00 went to Allison Thompson for oLeast
Expecting.� A second place prize of $50.00 went
to Sue Adylette for oLoom,� and third place with
$25.00 went to Molly Petty for oShoeshine Chair.�
The 1st place Attic Award for art and $100.00 went
to Dale Verzaal for oBirds " 7.� A second place
prize of $75.00 went to John Morris for
oO Wretched Man,� and third place with $50.00
1-40] an Col DY ofe) ¢-1 afm @xe) (1 an (o) ama ©) olela(-ce amas Wat ¢- :
were four honorable mentions in art, each receiving
a $25.00 prize: Matt Smartt for oTrained Ram� "
SCe\Wpneteyare ls Bit e\uvererels s)coltue ts (oye M\y (iam Wotan Blae(-
Man� " H. A. Giles for oCelestial Shipwreck� "
Roxanne Reep for a copper bowl, (not shown in
magazine) oContainer #1.�
The EditorTs thanks are gratefully extended to
Bill Bass " chairperson of Illumina, the art
exhibition committee as a whole, Joyner Library
Valois ecole siete oleeetelemeyam\y(tele(teletclllnsyibte(-teyt
Center for making the 2nd Annual Rebel Art
- Show a public event. The majority of the SGA
legislatorTs and the entire SGA executive council
should be heralded for being aware of this
publication as a communicative art form and
consequently allowing it to grow with financial
support. I also wish to thank this yearsT staff, all
involved artists and supporters, and the printer,
Theo. Davis Sons, Inc. of Zebulon, whose
qualities of expertise and patience are visually evident.
a
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Johnny Hamilton
SHOESHINE CHAIR
It leans still
threaded to the side of an unpainted house
by webs of summer spiders.
Cotton sacs fill gaps between the slats
and wood has swollen around the nails,
handmade nails, rectangular and rusty
they barely hold the wooden footrest
or secure four legs splayed under
the weight of a massive back.
The rough and grainy pine of the chair
never painted or stained appears
solid, a
sunbleached survivor of the saturday rituals
to town, barber shop, the tobacco farmers
doling out a dime a shine.
Dare to sit among the webs
and notice despite careful construction
it is not a comfortable chair.
Molly Petty
ee ee
ve.. They ike O alia a cop sittingT right over tele ly ite: ~when
"you come across dates bridge youTd better ee in youre ane | a ra
oA éet ofrom an Bungie station. AY avererely out
n Saturday nights i in small towns, , and
rand the hard, grimy men bak oak heve(=se the faintly up ns
ights.
I think: ThereTs no way to ever know. But Seth
could have stopped there for gas that night. He
could have eaten here, in this very booth, on this
same seat. I decided that he did. The waitress comes
and | tell her, otwo cheeseburgers, small Dr. Pepper.�
When I finish eating itTs almost 8:00. I pay
the one-armed man at the cash register and leave
two dimes on my table. Outside, the wind has
picked up; my car radio mentions otonightTs expected
low, 28 degrees.�
I take the four-lane boulevard through town,
heading west. Nothing has changed since the last time
I made this trip. I pass the Post Office and the volun-
teer fire department. A long line of cars are parked in
front of a tremendous white house with blazing flood-
lights: the funeral home. The huge front door is open;
two men and a woman in heavy winter coats are stand-
ing on the porch.
And now I am thinking of my mother: of how
her face drained out of focus when the State Patrol-
man called. How she forced herself into SethTs
funeral, somehow accepting the heavy finality of a
closed casket. And how my father held us and cried,
and told us, oItTs alright to cry, go ahead and cry,
let it out.� He paid for the funeral in monthly install-
ments, and sold SethTs twisted blue Camaro to the
city salvage company.
As the boulevard narrows to two lanes I pass a
sign that reads NOW LEAVING BURLESVILLE.
The streetlights give out just past the city line and
I push my headlights off and bump across the railroad
tracks in nothing but first-quarter moonlight. I can
see clear maybe half a mile down the tracks and
right at the horizon thereTs a tiny green signal flare,
right between the converging lanes of dark pines.
Then ITm in the dark. I pull my lights back on,
and wind through the gears until ITm taking
curves at 50 and hitting 75 on the straights. No one
taught me to drive like this. ItTs just the way to
drive the last stretch when youTre going home; that
last 15 miles you know every bump and crack in
the pavement and if thereTs ever a time to let it out,
thatTs it. | never saw Seth turn his Camero loose
except on those last few miles. He was always careful
with that car.
I soar around another corner and pass an old
Dodge pickup. It only takes a moment for the truck
headlights to shrink into pinpoints in my rearview.
I'm getting near the cut-off now. Highway 211
dead-ends into 95 just before you get to our house.
Slowing down for the turn I have to wonder what
was going through his head. 211 runs east through
nothing but pure swampland.
And nobody understood that. oWhere was he
going?� SethTs girlfriend asked me after the funeral.
oHe was coming home from.the concert in Rock-
ingham,� I said. oNext thing we knew they had
found his car.�
She already knew all that. She asked me again
where he had been going on 211, and I told her that
I didnTt know.
oThereTs nothing out there for twenty miles,�
she said. oWhy didnTt he just go on home?�
I couldnTt say anything.
oWas there really a sixpack of beer in the car?�
oYes.� ItTs under my bed, now, gathering dust"
an unopened six of Bud that I took out of the back
seat. We live in a dry county. You canTt even buy
beer.
After the turn I have seven miles to go. I slip
one of SethTs tapes"a ZZ Top"into my 8-track.
Clouds have cut off the moon and itTs really dark
now, this far out in the country. The land is flat with
dense scrub and an occasional pine. I almost run
over a family of possums trying to cross the road.
And then I pick up the sign in my headlights
and before ITm close enough to read it the pedal is
floored and ITm doing 85 or 90 and screaming towards
what the State Patrolman called othe worst curve in
Benson County.� ItTs not so much a sharp turn, but
the pavement is banked the wrong way and thereTs
no railing between the road and the line of trees
where Seth ended up.
And I take it. I cut across the double yellow line
and take the inside lane with the tires just wailing. For
just an instant it looks like I wonTt make it, but I cut
it hard and come out of the slide and then ITm past
_the curve, fishtailing down the straight and gradually
slowing down. Seth never got this far.
I stop the car, turn around and head back
towards the place my brother died: a twist on the
map that I'll never know.
ENT THT TILT TPN To x
THE ATTENDANT
l am the last man
the woman shall ever see.
The doectoris sone
peeling his gloves like skin
and his skin like gloves.
I am left to watch the monitor
blinking out her soft struggle.
She is electicity:
ent OVel.
my mouth hollows to a kiss
and I turn away.
I am watching the beatings of
both our hearts,
There is so much I cannot do.
y,
David Bosnick
IT
12
KEROUACTS BIRTHDAY
the interior leaves run a trance to dancers
there will be nihilistic mills on the milky way
every dog must have its dog
feints forward to search sins for satisfaction
still she can be simply splayed
take my answer to her question
| gave her a stick to balance herself with
but she thought i would use it to beat her
so she held it between her legs
hoping to take sons and searing grace from
cold hands in the morning
fancy felt time in a tempest once
depilatory dreams of uneven leaves
seams in the sole of dry riding tempests
shakes to be born without dreams
she fancied craning shoulders of a horse
leaning for balance between the tempest
and broken arms of acquiescence
leaning once for pleasure now for leaves
drunk reeling and low slumped avatars
wait the advance of dreams from the ash cup
gulp of the answer lies kelped with the dawn
Gene Flollar
os
Roger Kamereen
3
ts Se
= 6: 2 oO)
ep) aD OS
ee:
oo > = 0
= 4. 6
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Se ey
E252
Se EES.
7 @)
day. §
~Then play a Hank Williams!�
The woman turns back to the grill,
forces bubbling steam from a patty of
half-frozen meat, then peels three slices of
heese from a saucer in the ice pack.
The young man presses number
ifteen, watches the spinning mechanism,
listens to its hum. He sings along with
osay heyyy, good looking . . . whaaat you
got cooking ....�
On the crest of a broad ridge, across
the river from the cafe, a gray water
tower, circumscribed by black letters
that announce oSadalia Falls Mills�,
during cool October:
sunsets to warm her slow muscles on
thick concrete slab, before the night air °
gets a bite at her. ee |
The dogTs master, a boy of eleven,
is auburn-haired, husky, thickly-muscled,
like his older brother. The boyTs new
friend, David, perches beside him. David
is frail, olive-complexioned, with small
black eyes lost in deep cavities that
appear strangely smutted.
The two friends have just seated
themselves. The larger boy peers down at
the cafe through a pair of cardboard
binoculars. He says, oThatTs DannyTs
car. He got it after he got on at the mill.
Just about everybody that gets on at the
mill gets a new car. They got any mills
in Newport News?�
16
The frail boy was frightened by the
climb. He has not looked down and will
not look now to pick from the darkening
landscape a 1953 black Ford. He will
look only at his new friendTs face. In a
quietly challenging manner, he answers,
oThey got a shipyard in Newport News
biggerTn any mill.�
oYou ever see that shipyard from up
this high?�
oNo.
oYou want to see DannyTs new car
through these binoculars?�
No.
Yoon t scated up here, are your
The small eyes close; the sharp dark
face distorts; tears run from the smutted
cavities.
oOh, Lord, I reckon | better get you
down from up here. Why didnTt you tell
me you was scared?�
The part-collie bitch licks at the last
of the dark boyTs tears. Relieved of her
exertion, she stretches her fat neck
across the frail boyTs lap and lets go a
sigh.
oBoy, ITm glad you was able to get
down from up there. You had me scared
to death too. You want to do something
else?�
The owhat� was sullen, vengeful,
yet sincerely curious.
oWe can go down to the river and
watch the dye run in. Come on; I know
you'll like that.� The husky boy rises and
motions to his new friend. oCome on;
just follow me. LadybegoodTll go with
us. Come on, Ladybegood.�
The dye is violet, sensuous deep
violet, speckled with the flaming reds
and yellows of maple leaves and subdued
by the browns of oaks. The sharp face
brightens; the dark eyes widen; his new
friend smiles.
oThey run at least three or four
colors out almost every day. Sometimes
moreTn that"right about dark. We can
come here all the time. See where some
greenTs been put out already and run
down the river yonder? There'll probably
be more colors, but it'll be too dark to
see them. LetTs go, anyway; I want to
ride by the cafe and see if DannyTll buy
me a hot dog. Come on: I'll bet heTll
buy you one too.�
Ladybegood trots behind the bicycles
for a while, then turns into the woods,
slows to her natural pace, and follows a
familiar trail toward home.
The cafe is empty; the music is loud
"a spirited bluegrass piece without
vocal. The two boys sit on tall wooden
bar stools and watch the revolving beer
clock, a brassy imitation of a gold pocket
watch. The music ends; the larger boy
pounds the bar with an empty beer can.
A womanTs voice comes from the
back room. oWho in the hell is that on a
Tuesday?�
More music. The woman appears in
an archway, buttoning the top button
or her umiormn. Oh! ... Phiip Lee!
Philip Lee! . . . what you doinT in here?�
o?'m looking for my brother,
Danny.�
oDenay! on! Danny Well
Danny ainTt in here, Philip Lee. Danny
was in here awhile ago, but he left. |
think he must of gone up through the
village. ProbTbly . . . probTbly on some
little girlTs porch courtinT by now. You
better gTon home now fore the mosqui-
toes get you, Philip Lee . . . WhoTs at
boy you got with you?�
oDavid.�
oDonTt you know betterTn be bringinT
no little boys in here with you? DonTt you
bring nobody like him in here with you
from now on; you hear me?�
oDavidTs from Newport News. He
aint nO.
oIT donTt care where heTs from; donTt
you be bringinT him in here no more.
What was you thinking of, Philip Lee?
YouTre old enough to know betterTn Tat.
Now get Tim out of here.�
Philip Lee nudges David toward
the glass door.
oY'all ought not be wandering
around after dark no way. Some Tem
mosquitoes carries diseases.�
David is first through the door. The
woman calls Phillip Lee back into the
cafe. She motions for him to lean across
the counter. Her nose wrinkling into a
smile, she whispers, oYou come in here
tTmar and I'll fix you a hot dog and give
you a grape. But donTt you ever bring
~at boy back in here. I donTt mind,
myself, but Mr. Thompson would have a
fit. You come back tTmar now, okay?�
Philip Lee and David look the black
Ford over carefully. oI know itTs DannyTs.
Danny ainTt off walking when heTs got
a car.� Philip Lee climbs on his bicycle,
then looks back at the glass door. oJ
wouldnTt even take no hot dog from that
old liar. Danny would of bought us
something if sheTd of told me where he
went. Somebody might of come by
and he went off with Tem.�
David wants to go home, but his
new friend easily convinces him to ride up
the hill and through the village, along
the new row of mill-owned, clapboard
houses. oYou ainTt got to go home Tcause
she told you to. She canTt tell us what to
do.
The streetlights, bare bulbs that dip
from wires at irregular intervals, wash the
wooden porch chairs and potted ferns
with gray over gray. Withering blue
petunias and curious yellow dogs
give up their hue to the smoky
shadow. oI should of known better
than to listen to her. AinTt nobody
going to be setting on the porch with
the mosquitoes rising.�
The boys coast back down the hill
to the cafe. Philip Lee leaves his bicycle
at the roadside and creeps across the
gravel lot. He peeps through the door:
the cafe is empty. The mosquitoes buzz
around the place in an October frenzy.
Philip Lee takes a flashlight from
the back-porch shelf. He crosses the
yard in darkness, then presses the red
button. He kneels and aims the beam
into LadybegoodTs shelter: her brown
eyes sparkle. A lone mosquito circles
in front of the light, then ducks inside
the doghouse. Philip LeeTs feet feel the
chill of the October dew; he races back
to the house.
He changes into his pajamas, spreads
a quilt near the oil heater, and watches
the Texaco Men dance and sing. He
laughs as Milton Berle enters the studio
from the rear, dressed in womenTs
clothes, pursing his lips. Milton Berle
keeps him laughing, makes him too
alert for sleep.
His mother calls from the kitchen,
oPhilip, have you sprayed Philip LeeTs
room yet?�
His father answers, oNo.
His mother calls, oWell, you better
do it; I want him in bed soon.�
His father stretches out a yawn, then
says, Son, get me the DDT.�
Philip Lee brings his father the
pump-sprayer from the back-porch
shelf. oCan I spray it tonight?� the boy
asks.
His father answers, oNo, you better
let me. Your mama wouldnTt like it.�
99
Milton Berle ends. Philip Lee is
kissed tenderly by his mother, pecked
at by his father, then sent to his room.
He leaves the door cracked; the crack
allows the odor to escape and fresh air
to enter. He hears his mother talking:
oPhilip, you know that family
that moved into one of Willie Dunnin-
gerTs houses last week"theyTre dark-
skinned people with waxy-looking hair.
Well, Philip Lee spent the afternoon
playing with their boy. ITve been thinking
all evening of ways we can discourage
him without just forbidding him from
running around with that boy. You know
I donTt mind for myself, but people
around here will look for any reason
to talk. You remember what we did
that time when Danny...�
E/
John Morris
MIDNIGHT
go on.
rail away
Caustic witch.
a lurking eye,
keen as a knife,
probes the night
with red senses.
lured to the wound
like a stubborn
demon,
the double axe
falls and falls.
the sinew snaps
in tough surprise.
midnight is
a stale triad.
black void.
creeping voice.
kettle eye.
ay
S. Phillip Miles
19
THE SOUND OF A HARP-STRING BREAKING
othe sound of a harp-string
breaking�
the near microscopic furze
under a leaf,
onearly all the mass of an atom is concentrated in the nucleus,
which occupies only a trillionth the volume of an atom,�
melody-less rain at three a.m.
these things tend to thrill one.
Any experience
that takes one to the limits
of his sensibility,
(Let the blood sluicing
from a calfTs jugular
onto my brotherTs bare belly,
March morning gusts blasting
a pier over the Atlantic, |
and the certain coming of an
aresteia of mornings;
all hideous beauty saved by
a sense of drama,
the dramatic urge being the bodyTs
for the soul,
and vice versa,
be my singing.)
intuitively convincing one
of manTs not having quite evolved
beyond his need for deep chant,
something to be awed by,
must be sought, be the salt
of our days.
A nose incensed by gods
still seeks their scent.
Jeff Rollins
20
CHRYSALIS
within this season
| have wintered.
hard against a low sun
that jealous,
gnaws at my hoard of
summer heat.
these moon-pale nights,
while i curl like an insect
behind dull panes.
sleeping deep as the year
shuts down a dying heart.
the land
flat beyond my
silk-heat windows
whites and fades
in a single blossom.
i feel the weather grow
more desperate.
now pouring over my
bones like a madman,
poking my cold flesh
in fixed despair.
this season probes the
soft underbelly of my
late sleep,
feels the quickening,
and grieves.
S. Phillip Miles
ai
Ze
ec A Gift Refused
by Jeff Rollins
Low hills covered with November
sere grass gently undulated past the
windows in only slightly varying
monotony. Bare oaks, elms and maples
interspersed their smoke-grey limbs with
the dull green of pine and fur. It was
difficult for James to tell if the sky was
indeed grey, or if that color was suggested
rather by the tinting in the bus windows.
He could not read at sixty miles an hour
so the young man had to content himself
with the images the moving bus had to
offer.
Directly across the aisle, two pro-
vocatively dressed black women spoke
softly. Occasionally, one would sigh with
resignation and humor, oOh, good God
ATMighty.� James had no idea of what
could have conjured such exclamation.
The poor travel in perverse luxury,
he noticed. In the back of the bus a rough-
eared, old-seeming man lay on the double
seat drinking whiskey from a plastic
bottle. He was swearing to himself, or
rather to someone not with him, answer-
ing for good some long dead argument.
Two seats in front of James an elephan-
titic, and flatulent, old woman languor-
ously delected a piece of cold fried
chicken.
Oh, it was all so ignoble! he thought.
How disgusting were these people! It
seemed that their dinginess had begun to
sink into his coat, his spirit. Underneath
the unpleasant feeling these people
produced in him there ached the bitter
disillusionment of the night before with
Mary, and subsuming all, (Goddamn
these grey windows, this nauseating ride)
was a terror he had once thought he
could contain. A sharp breeze of dark
birds winced from a tree, then settled
again, invisible.
He could see Mary coming out onto
the patio with two tiny glasses of Kahlua,
as she did so often. They would have just
eaten and he would be waiting outside
while she straightened up. Handing him
a glass, she would then kick her shoes off
onto the grey, square tiles, curl up in a
deck chair and sip the liquer. How lan-
guorously they had spoken those long
summer nights! She was much older than
he and had taught him much. oAh,
Proust!� she would coo, much as if the
author reminded her of even balmier
evenings.
He had been deeply affected by her
grace, and until last night, the young man
had sought to save himself as she did,
with the religion of house plants and
poetry, the continuous searching for the
ointeresting,� the odelightful.� Even the
oshocking� was admitted into this house
if it wore a tasteful suit. New books? He
had eaten them like so many hors-
doeuvres, but they had only sharpened
his hunger. Several times, at dinner, when
the others were gaily chattering, his cup
had rattled too much against the saucer
when he had set it down, and he had felt
a deep rage and then a sadness. Still, if
he could only learn the way to consciously
avoid his fear, to construct a safety net
of opinions and attitudes, to send his
thoughts no deeper than those required by
the conversation at hand, then perhaps
life might not be so insufferable.
It would be then that he would
notice his glass empty, Mary would walk
inside to get another, and he would stare
at the darkening leaves thinking about
ProustTs marvelous style.
Between the small town in which he
attended the university and the small
town in which his family had lived since
his thrice-great grand-father had moved
there, he had a three hour layover in the
capital of the state.
The station was of moderate size.
The middle and largest part was the
waiting area, lined with temporary ren-
tal lockers, pay telephones, pay tele-
visions, ticket booths and baggage check
counters. A small gift shop adjoining the
waiting area advertised pocket watches
for $4.00. Golden baroque statuettes of
the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Build-
ing, and the Taj Mahal filled one of the
shelves, another was laden with True
Confessions, Detective Story, and Teen
magazines.
He walked into the thickly scented
bathroom and nearly tripped over an
old drunk sleeping on the floor. The man
was wrapped in a heavy black wool
overcoat and had a scarf around his
head. He had drooled on the grey lino-
leum. James looked at him with disgust,
then fascination, and then with a horrid
feeling too personal to be merely pity.
He walked into the cafeteria, chose a
corner table and sat down with a cup of
coffee. He had just taken a book from
his satchel when a very corpulent woman
holding a bag brimming with groceries
noisily and with much effort entered
from the coldness outside and wedged
herself into the seat opposite him. She
sat wheezing, and for a few seconds
simply tried to compose herself. Her
inflated black hair had been disturbed by
the wind to the point that the teased
hair had broken through in several wispy
eruptions, falling in strands from the
23
24
blue plastic pin with which one would
have imagined she had tried to contain it.
Her lipstick was very red and overly
applied, reminding James of lips drawn
in red crayon by some elementary-school
student in parody of a particularly fat and
disliked aunt. She looked at James.
oI donTt believe I know you,� he said,
with what he hoped was noblesse oblige.
The big woman jerked her head back
with laughter.
oNo, honey, I donTt believe you do.�
She settled the bag of groceries into the
seat beside her. He could see that she
wasnTt a traveler; the groceries proved
that.
oAlways, always it hits me when
I'm busy,� the heavily breathing woman
continued, onever when ITm ready.
Sheesh! My kids are gonna go crazy if
they donTt get their animal crackers.�
She began to struggle out of her coat. The
cafeteria wasnTt at all crowded and as ©
if to forestall JamesTs question the woman
asked one herself.
oWhat are ya readinT?�
oAlbert Camus,� he said flatly.
oOh, well, never heard of him myself.
I donTt really read that much, except the
ReaderTs Digest.�
James saw a dirty little blond boy
with a sack of papers run his fingers
through the change slots in the row of
telephones. He remembered the whiskered
man sleeping in the bathroom. Mary
crying. Who is this stupid woman anyway?
he wondered, and why did she have to
sit here?
oHey, I tell you what,� the woman
interjected, owould you like a danish? ITm
famished myself, havenTt touched a thing
since lunch. ITm really proud of myself,
lost five pounds last week.�
oNo, thank you,� responded James,
little caring what the woman did now.
oTl be back in a jif,� and the large
woman went to the counter for her pastry.
He had called Mary yesterday morn-
ing to ask her to join him for some tennis
before lunch.
oNo, James, not today, just not
today.� She had sounded as if she had
been crying, her voice was weak and her
attention seemed elsewhere. He had
resolved to visit her that night.
When he turned into her driveway
he became immediately apprehensive.
Every light in the house was on, all the
blinds were wide open, and, though the
night was an especially chilly one, the
windows were all open. He walked quickly
into the house. Mary, her face buried
in her folded arms, sat at the kitchen
table in her nightgown crying softly. He
touched her, oMary.� She made no
response.
And then he saw the glass and pot-
tery laying in shards and splinters all over
the carpet. He rushed through the house.
The bathroom mirror had been shattered
and the tap was gushing, there was a
spatter of rusty blood on the porcelain.
In her study, her typewriter and papers
lay scattered over the floor, and a Johns
original that had been given her looked as if
it had been ripped by broken glass. He
ran to the kitchen. She was still crying.
oMary, ITm going to call the police.�
She coughed, looked up at him, and
in a voice as controlled as an electric
current said, oNo, James, thereTs really no
reason to call the police.� She began to
whimper, oIt was me.� Breaking again,
~loot so mad. -Leotildm t stand i, You
donTt understand. I had to get out, needed
fresh air. And then I cut myself, and,
oh, James, ITm so afraid.� She dropped
her head back into her arms, oITm so
alraicd,, oh, Goa, lm so airaid.
oHere we are. A danish for me and
a bagel for you. I hope you like pump-
ernickel.�
Thank sou; but | said | didnTt care
for anything.�
oDonTt be so grouchy, you look thin.
A bagel never hurt anybody.� James had
little patience for the garrulous woman
and her cliches. She must have sensed the
way he felt. oOkay, okay, lemme explain,�
she resumed. oThis is gonna sound crazy,
I know, youTre gonna think ITm a weirdo,
but itTs the truth.� She took a deep breath.
oThereTs this power, this force, this, well
[ donTt really know what it is, but every
once in a while it grabs me, and I mean
grabs me, and directs me to someone.�
oAnd this someone is me, right?�
oYessiree. But hereTs the good part.
I,"well, not me, but the force,"can give
you anything you want.� The young
man countenanced his disbelief. oItTs the
truth, really!� The woman settled back
into her seat and smiling said, oAnd you,
-kiddo, are the lucky winner this time.�
She began to eat the pastry.
oAnd just what, if you'll pardon my
skepticism, does my heartTs desire cost?�
The woman took a slurp of coffee,
oNot a dime, kiddo, itTs absolutely for
free. No strings attached.�
At this the young man was silent and
looked down onto the table-top. Of what
strange gospel could such an unlikely
apostle be? Something in him thought, the
woman is obviously deluded; yet, very
deep within him he craved to believe her.
The brisk doctor had said after
examining Mary, oShe has had what lay-
men call a nervous breakdown. Uncon-
scious conflicts eventually do manifest
themselves somehow or another. She has
some sort of anxiety neuroses. I imagine
the psychotherapist will recommend
lengthy treatment.� She had fallen
through the safety nets. Her gods had
deserted her. Friends, poetry, books,
music, all of that conscious control
evinced in her grace had not sufficed;
matches dropped in a well. Literature, the
arts are only man giving his ignorance
humble melody. Art is a light, but she. had
mistaken it for that which must be
illuminated.
oWhadaya say, sweetie, what will it
be?� James looked away from her. He felt
broken, had felt broken for a long time,
like the pieces of glass and pottery scat-
tered on MaryTs carpet. Could this mod-
ern-day slovenly version of a Breugelian
peasant woman actually be able to make
a wholeness out of these pieces? He
watched the lady mash crumbs onto her
fork. Or perhaps that wasnTt it at all.
Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, Confu-
cianism and all the other philosophies of
man might only resemble insignificant
little shoots growing in the direction of
some fathomlessly vital sun.
He was surprised that this woman
had so easily already commanded his
credence. Perhaps that was part of the
force. The worry he might have felt at
finding in himself such gullibility, though,
was displaced by profound and excited
anticipation. Elements in him were already
stirring that even in his most arduous
introspection he had never considered.
oTt can be anything?� he asked. oAni-
mal, vegetable, mineral or other?�
oAnything, sweetie. You want a Mer-
cedes, itTs yours. The ~Love of Your Life?T
You oor i
The young man stared at the
scratched formica. oI am lost,� he uttered
so low that the heavy lady could hardly
hear him. oI have nothing on which I can
base a true and perfect belief.�
oWhat does that have to do with
anything?� asked the woman, who had by
now taken a hand-mirror out of her
pocketbook and was engrossed in
coating her lips with their fifth layer of
Wax.
oTam torturously uncertain.�
oPoor baby!�
oT cannot even enjoy my Welt-
SelmmenZ. |
oYou should be a specialist.�
oIT could stand the absurd, the tragic
if only I knew why. Or even if ~whyT is
a relevant question.�
oPoor thing, Dovel co io church: ©
The young man was silent.
oSo you want to know why?� cheer-
fully piped the lady, gaily rubbing her
hands together. oWell, first time ITve ever
been asked for that one.� The student did
not speak. oJust say the word, and in a
split second you'll know why the sun
rises, why the waves rush to shore and all
that stuff, and your poor, little heart can
rest.�
But the young manTs expression had
changed. He looked into her eyes for a
second, pretended to check his wrist-
watch, and although he had an hour yet
before his departure time, said, oITm
sorry, itTs time for me to go. Thank you
so much for the offer anyway.� He
picked up his book, hurriedly placed it in
the satchel with the others and left the
amazed woman. Outside the cafeteria he
walked slowly among the ignoble people
and curiously felt that the life of the
graceless, night-journeying strangers
was somehow the only life he could know.
29
26
FIGHT HAIKU
r
Grandmom
dusting the windowsill"
a ladybug.
Sharol E. Boyd
Early morning screams:
The solitary tractor
followed by seagulls
Molly Petty
The withered petal
Beneath the antique vase
A brown reflection
Vicki Jo Wells
Night sky:
a dark pine at the fieldTs edge
aircraft lights drifting
Luke Whisnant
caged by black branches
a restless yellow ochre"
springtime song.
Sue Aydelette
Under the bridge"
palms treading the concrete"
chicken wire
Michael F. Parker
Dew outlines the lake
boys, trousers rolled, long arched sticks
White swans sail away
Molly Petty
The moon I look at
is the same circle in Japan;
where is my haiku?
David Bosnick
BRICK HUNTING
If you are young
gather old bricks,
the weak ones will have crumbled,
the strong will still be strong.
If one has clinging to it
an antique spiderTs web,
the dusty ruins of a
dirt-dobber colony,
or the papery, grey
flower of a wasp-nest,
that good brick is strong
enough to do small jobs
and will serve as well
your greater purposes.
Look for bricks that were
once the walls of noble homes,
of which important gates, fences
and walkways were constructed,
not for their glory, but rather
because their history is deserved.
Seek as well those fashioned
for simpler hearth and sill,
those with edges honed by
pots or hinges
or by the abrasions of
many steps;
men make well what
they use themselves.
If you are young
gather old bricks,
the strength of earlier houses
can uphold your own.
Jeff Rollins
27
4 # 4 ~ E E ' :
4 Wi a oa
Raa a os * Las : a ~ :
ee,
hi ~ mi a eins «
ne S's agian nin oR ses 3
slant on sanennanerathronn manna oehuteue tenet ot ence
by Robert Glover
o*There must be some kindTa way outa here,T I watched a bead of sweat trickle
said the Joker to the Thief, _ through the tumbled swatch of hair
othereTs too much confusion, hanging limply in my face. I crouched,
I canTt get no relief .. .T� still and silent, holding my breath as it
(solo Biv Evel) reached the end of the longest wet strand
ato Mel Utele Mm el-csiccvelamelSTLY-ValeCemmclerclacsatetel
, , the light into colorful slivers before it
28
became a tear of mud on my dust-caked
feet. My head reared and my eyes
squinted through the dry scrubble out
across the baked beige earth. There was
no sign of any life. The heat rose slowly
in a haze so thick that all was obscure
beyond a short distance. I was sure they
were searching for me somewhere deep
in the obscurity. I waited in the sweltering
heat of noon; the only safe pocket of
time in the desert.
The afternoon had stretched into
dullness when two men and three horses
weaved their way through the heat. |
struggled with numb legs as their shim-
mering images grew crisper, clearer;
I stood cursing their relentlessness. A
moment of silence split thickly between
us. I felt a twinge of defeat as they nudged
toward me. My breath came in hot blasts
as my tongue ran blindly over the layers
of anguish that had dried in my mouth,
and played frantically with the shredded
skin of my lips. A sound like a green
limb breaking ran through my body with
every surge of blood through my veins.
My last curse died in my mind as | fell to
the ground clutching my knees to my
chest.
The hot leather saddle over which I
was flung tore at my searing skin and
salt from the horseTs belly peppered my
blistered face. A single image welled and
submerged in my brain: a woman was
eating. A withered old woman with
a mushy toothless face and very little
hair. She was wrapped in rags and ate
out of a garbage can, scraping the sides
over and over again with a stick. The
single image remained an island as we
traveled sluggishly toward El Sepulcro.
It was unclear to me how her actions
related to me; was I supposed to admire
her efforts? Nothing balances confusion
quite as well as more confusion. These
were my thoughts, my only thoughts, and
even these ceased as we rode into the
prisonTs quadrangle bathed in the hell-
hot glow of sunset.
I awoke in a cell under a pastel shaft
of light that cut the darkness and illumi-
nated a small crude cross chiseled in a
stone of the cell wall. Some previous
prisonerTs last minute attempt to quell a
rising sense of mortality. Religion was
vain like that. As a small child I had
learned to avoid such queer experiences.
As the stale scent of the old church
drifted through the cold desert night I
heard my leather shoes squeaking loudly.
I moved across the worn wooden floor
and hid in the shadow of the pulpit. A
soft quiet embraced me as I crept up to
the altar and opened the wooden box.
It was there, lying in the box just like
Alan had said. A gold cup flickered in
the candle light and small bits of soft
yellow light danced on the red velvet
lining. I quickly closed the lid and went
up the aisle with my treasure. Just think
what Alan will say now when I show him
what ITve got! ItTs got to be worth more
than all his petty junk. HeTll be shocked
that I really did it! HeTll be so jealous!
The door swung suddenly open, break-
ing my thoughts of grandeur, and a tall
dark figure loomed in the frame of light.
His calm voice sliced through my stormy
excitement and confusion ran out from
every shadow.
oMy son, thatTs not the communion
cup you have there, is it?� My chin
cowered on my chest. The draped figure
folded to the floor and a sinewy hand
stroked the black hood from a gray head;
I stared into the face of asperity.
oDo you realize you have stolen
from our Gracious Heavenly Father?�
oNo I didnTt,� I cried with sudden
pleading grief. oPlease donTt hurt me.
Please!� Fear was shaking my every
word. oI found it! On that table up
there on the stage!�
oNow, now, my son,� he said chuck-
ling. oNo one is going to hurt you. This
is the LordTs house.� His arms stretched
toward me like black wings.
_ oHe wonTt catch me!� I screamed.
The box hit the Father in the face and he
recoiled in pain. The gold cup clattered
onto the floor and rolled into the
shadows of the pews as I ran out the door
into the safe arms of a lazy afternoon.
I sent a handful of dust billowing
2g
30
through the shaft of light as my fatherTs
voice echoed in the shallow cell.
oYou have disgraced this family
beyond belief with this new little stunt of
yours. ITve tried to be patient with you.
God, how ITve tried! No one, absolutely
no one, has tried as hard as I have to
understand you. What have you got to
say for yourself this time?�
I mumbled out a jumbled onothing�
and retreated behind my dull eyes to my
secret room where no one could get me.
| was Safe.
oNothing! Nothing!! Do you hear
that, Wilma? Nothing. The thief has
nothing to say.�
oThief! My mother reproached.
Tes only acne
oThe thief never has anything to say,
do you boy?�
oJohn, have you lost your mind?�
My motherTs eyes blazed as she stared
at my fatherTs twisted face.
oTins is tne last straw, Wilma. The
boyTs getting to be a serious problem and
itTs time we took some action to. curb
such troublesome behavior.�
oWell, calling my son a ~thiefT will
solue everything, won't it?� A silence
laced with gloom pressed against the
walls of the room.
oHeTs got to learn the difference
between right and wrong.�
oOh? And I suppose you can teach
him the difference?�
oIT know what ITm doing.�
odonTt think you do. You canTt
punish him if he didnTt steal anything.�
oHeTs as close to being a thief as he
can get, Wilma. A common petty thief!�
oOh, John,� she whispered desper-
ately, owhat are you saying?�
oWhat on earth are you saying!
He knew that cup wasnTt his to take. ItTs
not a game any longer and he must
redizetaat now 1 cant believe
"ENOUGH, JOFIN- ENOUGH!!!�
She jumped from her chair, shouting
furiously. Her knitting fell absently onto
the floor and the bright yellow knot of
wool trailed out of sight under the couch.
I watched the dust settling in the ensuing
silence. 3
oYou and I, John, and only you and
I, are responsible for Johnny, and we
will make the decision concerning what
will be done in this matter later. That is
iia, Jom
oCareful, Wilma,� he gave my
mother a hard cold look.
oFINAL!� My motherTs voice shot
through his hollow warning. She turned
toward me, her eyes glinting in victory:
oGo up to your room now, son. We will
discuss this problem with you later.�
oYes, mother,� I cried with glee as
I raced past my father and bolted up the
stairs under the veil of my motherTs
reprieve. My fatherTs heels clicked sharply
as he strode from the house. I watched
him from my room, going into the night
with his gray cloak flapping.
I pressed my face against the rough
stone and peered through the small slash
in the wall of the cell. The view was a
narrow strip: the top half a bright blue
ebbing into another white-hot morning;
the bottom half brown and cracked like
a disrupted puzzle. There was nothing
more.
Two men pushed into my dark cell
in a flood of light. They began to shackle
my ankles with lead cuffs heated by the
sun and joined by a heavy iron chain.
It was peculiar that there was no rust. No
moisture, no rust, I thought as my ankles
swelled. One of the men leaned close to
my face. I stared back, expressionless. |
was looking into the depths of his foul-
smelling mouth, through the rotting
gaps in his teeth when he shouted the
word oPeeg� and spat into my face. As
the wad left his curled lips, I tried to
divide the distance in halves so it
wouldnTt reach me. I stared blankly
ahead as the spittle ran down the bridge
of my nose. Their hands jerked me to
my feet and shoved me through the door
of the cell. I stumbled in a flurry of dust.
A bubble of pain burst in my right side.
They grabbed the chain between the
cuffs and drug me through the dirt. I
surrendered to the cool peace of my room
as dirt filled my ears.
I awoke with a current of pain pounding
through my body. I was bound upright
in a wooden chair sitting before a table.
A small dark man sat reading a sheaf of
papers; the table trembled as he read.
We were alone in the barren office. He
removed his glasses and dug his fingers
against his closed eyelids. His pudgy
hands swept over his high forehead and
flattened his sparse black hair. His eyes,
heavy and red with fatigue, skipped
over my face searching for the answer
to his tacit question. I smiled at him
broadly. He returned a weighty sigh and
spoke in English.
oWhat is your name, senor?�
we elereiet)
oDo you know why you are a
prisoner, Juan?�
Our words leaned flatly against the
bare walls. I searched for the answer. The
heat had erased my memory, but I was
sure he knew why.
oIT donTt remember. ItTs been so long
Siice 1
oSo long since you what, Juan?�
oT donTt know. ITve tried to remem-
ber, I want to remember, but I canTt. I
just Cant.
The manTs patience broke over me
like a wave.
oYou killed someone didnTt you,
Juan?�
oI"I donTt "�
oYou killed someone three days ago
in Guadalajara, didnTt you Juan? ThatTs
what you wonTt remember, isnTt it?
Answer me, Juan! You killed a woman!
IsnTt that right!�
A womanTs face flashed through
my mind. A smile danced at the edge of
her lips as her image dissolved into a
gray mist. | had become bored with the
manTs aimless voice. oIf I did, I donTt
remember.� My pain renewed itself as I
traced the lines in the cracked plaster
just over his glistening head.
He returned his glasses to his face
and glanced over the papers on the desk
before he spoke again.
oJuan, you are charged with
murder. I have read the evidence against
you and if you have anything to say in
your behalf, say it now before I pass
sentence on you.�
There was nothing to say. oNothing,�
I mumbled. We stared at each other
across the desk, but I no longer saw him
or heard him. My fatherTs voice called
from the dusty corners of the room:
oWell, what have you got to say for your-
self this time?� Nothing, nothing at all.
oJuan, you are hereby sentenced"�
The rope was cutting into my arms and
chest o"to hang by the neck until
dead"� I gently blew on the strands of
hemp that had broken and jutted in
every direction from the heavy coil of
rope o"for the crime of murder.� |
always got to sit on the yellow stool
when mother cut my hair. oSentence
will be executed"� her touch was like
air around my ears and her voice sooth-
ing, caressing o"at sunrise tomorrow.�
I gently blew a part in the downy hairs of
her loving arms.
The afternoon sun broke through
the narrow vent and spilled into the cell.
The tin roof stretched loudly in the heat.
The blue-green sparkle of the flies flashed
as they passed back and forth through the
gash of sunlight. Dull blue-green balls
pulsated like bullets through my
memory.
I had not realized her thighs were
so large and lumpy, pitted with fat and
covered in blue-green bruises, until her
hand raised the hem of her crumpled
dress and unconsciously scratched at
the back of her bare thigh. Her idle
words knocked at the window as she
stood staring through the grease-laden
panes. I was preparing to leave Guada-
lajara when she had barged into my
room, demanding to know what I was
doing. Her dark and sombre mood
drenched the joyous commotion of my
packing. My happiness sat in a dark
corner like a deserted dog, while her eyes
furtively searched the almost empty
drawers and bureau top for some remains
of herself. She used to leave things in the
room as symbols of her possession, her
Jewelry, pieces of clothing, and the sharp
bite of her scent. These had long since
vanished; sent away with the trash more
than likely. She moved about the room
like her words, her long fingers like thin
brown snakes fondling my remains"bits
and pieces of me not yet packed or use-
less things waiting to be scrounged by the
landlord when I left. She infected every-
thing she touched with her pain. She
looked at me from a distance as her
31
SEIT
32
aimless hand sent a shell sculpture
shattering against the floor. It had been
the last gift from my mother. The girl
turned her shallow sorrow toward me,
and fleeting delight darted through her
eyes when she recognized the depth of
my grief. My heart crackled like burning
straw and her smile ripped through my
patience like a thrown rock. As she was
staring at her triumph, I moved behind
her noiselessly and gouged her neck with
a broken glass. The wound was ragged
and red, her cold blood gushed and
sputted as she wheeled in terror. Her
mouth was open and raw. A scream
gargled in her throat and her face
exploded with shock as I heaved her
through the window.
The sun poured through the jagged
window and lapped at my face with its
warm tongue. I bent to watch the white
shells floating like islands in a bright
red sea. My reflection smiled back at
me. Her blood dripped from my finger-
tips as I gathered the broken pieces and
dropped them out of the window where
they fell like ashes, circling and spiraling
until they rested on her mangled body.
A crowd was gathering beneath my
window, shrieking and shouting, pointing
up to my window. My head began to
throb and ache as if stones were pushing
their way through the veins of my temples.
My vision narrowed as I walked into
my room and quietly shut the door.
The sun had not yet risen when the
priest entered my cell with two other
men, his robe swirling in the dirt before
me. He hovered above me, his fingers
running randomly over the foreign
words. His bland voice rolled through
my mind like wooden barrels until I
screamed at him in a wave of rage. He
left with an air of piety that lingered at
the door after he was gone.
The two men led me through the
prisonTs maze of cell blocks and nameless
buildings before they left me in a small
room. There was no meal, no cigar"
there was nothing; a small shred of life
all but lost to the vacuum that sur-
rounded it and made it something.
A guard entered wearing a sad smile
and told me that it was time. I laughed.
His tired and dirty uniform was already
darkening with patches of fresh sweat as
he bolted the door, crossed to the
opposite door and knocked. With a
deep breath I eased into my room. |
smiled to myself. 1 have always been
safe here. My piercing laugh cut into the
guardTs back and he jumped with fright.
He hurriedly dug into a grimy pocket
and offered me a cigarette. I blew
smoke at his sadness and stepped up
to the opening that would lead me
to my death.
The room was dark, but it was a
bright cold morning I stood gazing out
on; the sun just breaking into the eastern
sky with a bright orange glow. The
gallows were etched on the orange-white
ball and I was sure I would be dead
before it cleared the horizon. A horse-
drawn wagon, led by two men, pulled
up in the shadows under the platform.
There was a heavy silence in the square
where the gallows stood, its wretched
arm silhouetted against the rising sun.
The sun was flooding through the
doorway, filling the room, when the
guard nudged me through the door way
into the early morning light. I stood
blinded, listening to the sharp click of
heels striding evenly through the square.
Leather soles padded up the gallowTs
steps. Silence. The guard nudged me again
and sadly whispered, oMay God be with
you.� I spat and laughed as my feet
quietly padded over the cool stones of
the square. My toes gripped the back of
the wooden steps as | climbed into the
sun. I stopped short of the top step.
Deep in the thin shadow of the gallows,
the two men waited. A wooden box lay
in the wagon and whisps of the green
wood floated up between my knees. I
flipped the cigarette butt into the box,
listened to it hiss in the sap and took the
final step. My laughter pealed through
the silence as the hairy rope gripped my
neck. I stared at the leather boots that
had clicked across the square. A smile
slowly spread like lava across my face
and my empty eyes filled with laughter
as they slowly raised. Death was wearing
a gray cloak, a black hood-and had a
quick hand.
GALLERY
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George Brett
George Brett
65)
George Brett
Luellen Vernon (p
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H. A. Giles
T. E. Austin
Peter E. Podeszwa
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T_E. Aastin
H. A. Giles
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Deborah Cofer
Dale Verzaal
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Raymond L. Brown
41
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Richard Fennell
42
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David McDowell
Matt Smartt
eee a
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44
iste DtGis
Broken limbs in morning blue
Open to dregs of cold
The cretin impetus of flat training
Dries to drive amaurotic
And to open and gape
Touch the small worn pocket and try for thanks
Moisture rubs and relieves
Under aimless and empty
Folds the packet lies gaping
For change and renewal with the breaking sad breaking
Utter breaking
Killed and obese the jaundiced eye breaks bleating for
Emptiness to pursue the folds and catch and open and
Remove pure packet from veins and rococco elbows
fried in ancient fields
open for concession
Gene Hollar
en
PORTRAIT
there is some gripping ache in all this
his demands on me, my use of him:
there is some seeping doubt that pulls, then pushes
like our hands when we wrestle. and this battle"
god, he lables it love in my neck at night"
follows me each morning when i lightly leave him
and grows like an evening shadow,
tinting the blues on my pallette and hanging
a weight to drag my brush down a
canvas that holds my face so carefully devoid
of me. until 1 wash out worryTs ashtray,
pack my twisted paint and wander back to him.
there is some tempting aroma in his shirt
his warmth pressed lightly on my eyelids,
then firm around my waist he pushes me back
until 1 canTt but see his eyes and in them me.
Sue Adyelette
45
+. E. Austin
nebulous gray
awakens out of folds
gently reaching
like baby paws
from timid yellow
turning flannel forms
open day dreaming
from inside
to play
on leafy memories
that porch swing
with light smells
of mother food
pleasing pampered mouths
suckle honey wet
in hush fringe
shadow summers
brown stained soft
ice tea napkins
soak breathy stories
while sofa down
and float lint pillows
in candle moons
where plowing lines
curl in flesh sweat
tobacco smiles
Cele Carnes
47
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Peter E. Podeszwa
THE RAIN 1s NOT SIOPFING
The rain is not stopping.
The world outside my window glistens,
And the crystal droplets
Watching from the window panes
Distort my view.
Occasionally, the tableau is fragmented
Like a completed puzzle
When one of the beads bursts,
And streaks to the wooden frame.
The muffled monody of the rain continues.
I stare pensively, reflectively,
At the refracted world outside.
The gray, monolithic clouds
Move sluggishly across the sky,
Ignoring the whip of the impatient wind.
The rain is not stopping.
The moroseness of the dismal day outside
Softly strokes the strings of my memory;
Playing a tune I thought I'd long ago forgotten.
I must draw the curtain soon,
Before I begin to remember the words.
G. R. Bryant
49
SURFING
Hazed bent horizon |
water walls stretch to dawnTs faint clouds
faint red sun, blocked
bronze hands dig water
pulling with the crestTs shadow
descending speed
hiss of jet water
fin slices vertical wall
arms drop limp in crouch
star dropped ribbons
wrap the curling wall
tube surrounds shoulders
the shadowTs gut
the brain of pitch black speed
Bright white light!
Walter H. Johnson
52
Beno! EXPEC liNG
Least expecting
To find hummingbirds at midnight
Sipping pink blossoms"
Bare feet on gravel
Sharp scrapes and scratches. Then
Cold, wet blades"
Fencewalking over
The cattle pond. Dizzying
Ripples glide and glint"
Finally, the swimming pond;
Chilly, moonlit nudes find warmth
In blankets of water"
Allison Thompson
TAKEOVER
Mice move in the veins of this house.
At night they scurry in nervous networks,
scraping tiny nails on callous plaster,
above baseboards, down chimneys, into
cavities behind bricked-in fireplaces.
I strip away the walls and see only
a skeleton, pulsing with activity
like an ant farm between two panes of glass.
I restore the walls and allow the mice
to go about their work. They distract me
in their efforts to govern my house ...
Once while I was gone, they insulated
the space between the keys of my typewriter.
In the ribbon chamber: four bright acorns.
Molly Petty
53
COMPOSITION IN RED
Soak liquid red
That your tongue can only sickly mimic
Into a shiny wet brush until
Crimson is seen between
Each black bristle
About to slip
From the slendered end
Facing your echo
Eyes intent
Let the tickling liquid find
Your mindTs lines until
Scarlet streaks bar your image from
Reflection
And someone else is captured
In crimson cobwebs
Allison Thompson
54
COEXISIENCE
i call upon you for
a final release.
it does not come.
you curl with the
smug indifference
of a cat.
the inner workings
subtle and gapped,
hidden from the
casual glance.
this evening takes on
the stuffed coils of
summer,
though we carry the
damp back of December
to its cold conclusion.
lover?
It is NO use.
the word rattles
and repeats like
a pebble in a tube.
a strange sound.
out of sync with
the still-warm stares.
this divides us with
slow madness.
| file each ~loverT
with the others i
have used in love.
the display case
grows soon crowded,
a constant bickering
for air.
but
your words touch me
as sharply.
they trail a stain
that congeals and
grows ghastly.
as our effort to give
withdraws in growing
feebleness,
i fine meow that | have
sold too much to live
alone.
for you,
the pitch we live
Is perfect.
for me
It wears too much
the old face of my
troubled sleep.
J
S. Phillip Miles
50
ELE
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ossy
The ride int
music and he hasnTt met a soul. All the
same, driving in he canTt help feeling high
on the possibilities.
At the age of thirty-one Hanlon has
realized a kind of loneliness. He spent
his young life in books and music and
films, closely following his friends in
sports and going along with whatever
was happening at school, as long as
whatever was happening didnTt require
a date. Now, after eight years teaching
American History in a small high school
in the Cascade mountains, happy with
his courses, happy with his students and
his colleagues, Hanlon has found him-
self vaguely unhappy. He has found his
life incomplete.
Just a little thing started it off. The
old rock musical oHair�, which Hanlon
had never seen, was being revived by the
Seattle Repertory Company in early
September. Hanlon told his senior stu-
dents about it and offered to drive a car-
load of them in to see it. None of the
students said anything about wanting to
go, so the day before the opening Hanlon
asked them again. Nobody said anything.
Then a girl named Sue Sillman said this:
oMr. Hanlon, I think that play is proba-
bly pretty passé. I mean everybody lives
like that now.� ,
oMaybe so,� replied Hanlon. oMay-
be so.� Later he gave much thought to
what Sue Sillman might have meant by
olike that�. He began to view the students
through wider eyes. Of course, there was
nothing to see that Hanlon had not seen
before: taunt nipples through a T-shirt
ona chilly morning; boys and girls to-
gether on weekend ski trips to Snoqualmie
Pass; the last ardent tokes on a half-
time joint behind the bleachers. Hanlon
never was able to put his finger on what
Sue Sillman meant by olike that�, but he
did conclude that whatever it was he had
missed it.
Hanlon takes the 85th street turnoff
and rolls through the university district.
Right off he spots a place with a rough
log front. On the roof is a huge plywood
foot across the toes of which is written
oPaulTs Bunyan�. In the window is a sign
saying ocountry band�.
He pushes through the door and
is greeted by the jukebox blasting rock
and roll from his college days:
ITm the friendly stranger in the
black sedan
WonTt you hop inside my car?
P've got pictures, cotton candy"
I'm a wonderful man,
Let me take you to the nearest
Sian.
oVehicle�, Hanlon says to himself,
by the Ides of March. ItTs augury. ItTs an
omen.
He takes a table for two by the big
front window. He sits facing the door,
back to the bar. He watches the people
going by outside and he watches the
people coming in. The place is only about
half full, but the air is already thick with
smoke. Hanlon fantasizes briefly about
Opening a tavern for non-smokers.
D/
58
WouldnTt it be ironic, he thinks, to wind
up with emphysema or the big C from
breathing other peopleTs smoke?
A barmaid arrives and Hanlon
orders a beer. He asks when the band
comes on. She is dressed as a lumberjack.
Hanlon looks up at her wide black sus-
penders. oIn a few minutes,� she says
without looking down at him.
Two girls sit alone by the jukebox.
Hanlon wonders if they have come in
hopes of the same simple adventures he
seeks: meeting people, the plesant surprise
of the friendly stranger, the germ of
romance. He knows he should think of
them as owomen�, but he has a hard time
of it. Even now he canTt stop thinking of
women his age as ogirls�. He vows to
work on it.
The place is beginning to fill up.
Each time the door opens Hanlon lifts
his eyes in expectation. Generally, he is
ignored. The people who do catch his
face, so primed to smile, note unself-
consciously that his hair is too short, his
manner too stiff, that he is out of place.
A guy just out of the service, maybe. A guy
who has been away a long time.
A wave of color rolls by out the
window. Hanlon twists his face to the
glass. ItTs a giant serpentine of students
on their way to the football rally. They
yell and laugh. Arms around each other
they sing, they hoist their signs. ooWe
banged the beavers, we'll . . . the ducks�
reads one great banner. Hanlon doubts
Washington will beat Oregon. I give the
Huskies six points, Hanlon thinks. Ten
points tops with Sixkiller graduated. Just
then a young woman riding a ten-speed
bike winds her way up the sidewalk
against the flow of people. She sees
Hanlon staring as she parks her bike in
front of the window. She smiles and sends
him into fantasy.
What a winsome waif through the
window, leaning bicycle against the tavern
front, slinging packsack over shoulder,
pushing a path through the door.
Moonface shining in the smoky dark,
grannies precarious on the nip of her
nose. SheTs Benjamina Franklin come to
fly me in a storm, Natalie Bumpo break-
ing ground in the wilderness of my heart.
The young woman moves toward
some people she knows who sit around
the little stage. Hanlon follows her with
his eyes. Hanlon has always been good at
games as long as they took intellect or
imagination rather than physical coordi-
nation. Such skill involves a degree of
detachment from oneself, a willingness to
let things float, to let things ride on a few
more rolls of the dice, a couple more
cards.
She makes camp among the pony-
tails. Amenities transpire. She knows the
tribe. She is tall, slim, like a smiling
flannel flute.
Everywhere Hanlon has turned his
head the past few months everything and
everybody has seemed teamed or mated.
The battleship North Dakota, old and
salt-streaked, seems to gloat in the Brem-
erton Navy Yard, smugly tucked along-
side its comrade ships. The Monorail
glides along, glowing as it does, and even
if not one of the people inside knows
another, Hanlon imagines that some-
how, before the end of the line, the
guys and girls meet. He sees them walk-
ing through the mist of the fountain in
Seattle Center on their way to little tap-
estried apartments.
Some nights Hanlon drives down
Pike street to watch the prostitutes. Once
or twice a month the Seattle police roll
by in the paddy wagon to round them up.
The girls seem so casual about it all. They
are slim as reeds, Hanlon thinks. They
wave like eel grass in the neon glaze.
Their strawberry hair makes him see
cheap wine. He wonders if any of them
secretly yearns for salvation in a simple,
quiet man. In their suppleness, he won-
ders, could they tolerate a man with a
paunch. And then Hanlon laughs at
himself. If it were only as simple as the
old films, he thinks. But heTs glad itTs
not. His new self-consciousness has
brought him some pain, but itTs brought
him a new amazement too.
As the little tavern has steadily
filled with people, Hanlon has become
increasingly aware of the club-like
atmosphere of the place and of his non-
membership. People yell each otherTs
names across the room, the bartender flings
his stocking cap at a young man in an
immense fur coat who appears to be imi-
tating a bear on the little stage. Someone
turns on the microphone and bear sounds
emerge from the corners of the room. The
young man pretends to eat the bartenderTs
stocking cap. From HanlonTs point of
view it looks as though the young man
actually does eat it. Various animal
sounds erupt. Coyotes, a dog, a bull,
several pigs and a horse join the bear.
Hanlon reminds himself that back in col-
lege he used to do a very good chicken. If
anybody in the dorm had any chicken
jokes to tell theyTd always come get me
to do the sound effects, he remembers. He
restrains himself now, however.
The bear lumbers off the stage and
joins the girl with the packsack and her
friends who account for most of the
noise. Hanlon, who has been steadily
watching the airl, is captured for a
moment by the loose, good spirit of the
place. He grabs his beer and his sport
coat and walks briskly to the only vacant
chair near the stage. He nods a brief
smile to the people whose table he has
joined. Embroiled in laughter, they do
not acknowledge. Lost once again in a
game of fantasy, Hanlon notes only their
laughter.
The familiar xenophobian cackle! I
move self-consciously, conspicuous as a
double-knit lute among woodwinds. Just
a table away now she spies me and takes
me for a bell jar.
The bartender steps to the jukebox
and turns it off. The noise level lowers
slightly as the four musicians step up to
the stage. They bring fiddle, acoustic gui-
tar, string bass, autoharp and dulcimer.
Requests are shouted before they finish
tuning. oDo ~Cripple CreekT, you guys!
Hey, Lenny, how Tbout ~Dim Lights,
Sweet SmokeT! ~Santa RosaT! someone
hollers from the doorway. The bass play-
er waves out through the darkness.
oWe'll get Tem all in,� says the fiddle
player into his microphone.
Hanlon tips his chair back against
a post. He has ordered a pitcher of beer.
Hanlon is as relaxed as he can be ina
public place. He has finally stumbled on
the kind of music he enjoys, and for that
he feels fortunate. Leaning back against
the post he is able to watch the girl with-
out turning his head. She is just beyond
armTs reach. Her mouth is quite small
and her lips are thin, but the smile that
plays there gives a richness to her face.
What a pretty girl, Hanlon says to him-
self. Then he turns his eyes away.
The band is beginning its fourth or
fifth tune. Hanlon has never heard it
before, but everyone else seems to have
been waiting for it. Applause erupts
everywhere. Some people sing along,
others stamp their feet and howl. Out of
the corner of his eye Hanlon sees some
commotion at the agirlTs table. He turns.
She is standing, handing something from
her packsack to each of her friends. Be-
cause of the dark and the smoke and the
flinging of arms and the rearing of heads,
Hanlon canTt make out what it is until
she turns to him and invites him to play
along. And that is just what Hanlon does.
From her packsack obscurely she
distributes small pipes. I reach across the
darkness. Lightning flashes. I glow. I
join the communal symphony, touching
my lips to her proffered kazoo.
59
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7
LAMP
Useless till the sun goes out,
the lamp begins its shaded glow;
she worms into their cold wide bed,
attempts to read till he comes home.
The half-full bed is lighted up,
the bulb supplies no husband warmth;
resentful, she rejects her book
and rubs the lamp for instant dark.
Once asleep, she runs in dreams,
grabs the lamp as for escape
when driven hard to nightmare cliffs
where near the edge she jerks awake.
And later while she sleeps again,
the drunkard stumbles through the door
and opens her eyes like another bad dream
to pieces of glass across the floor.
Martha Alexander
Ed Midcett
61
WHEAT FIELD
Walking parts
the wheat
like a shadow
the shafts
bend and fall together again
like a ruffled feather
touched yet unchanged
Leigh Myers
GLASS FALLING
Silver sharp curls
Of clear spun stars
Slide toward the edge,
Slipping, breaking,
| Whole house awakening;
| Silver sharp crystals
| Of clear slivered sand.
|
| Jim Kittrell
|
| 62
MANIKIN
Your painted lids peer through
A slit in your sheet of hair
Where your face is supposed to be"
Uniform lashes
All equally apart
All in black coats
All perfect"
The angle
Of your freshly-combed hair
Tells me you're looking down at
Yourself again
Making sure your hair drapes
Your small breasts
So they aren't seen through
Your see-through"
Your neatly-colored nails smooth
Down hair, taking care that they
DonTt touch anything
Like when you hold objects
And bodies"
Teetering on
Top of your high-heel boots
Under all those silver circles and turquoise
Chokers
And still youTre able to stand and
Make your neatly predictable, uncertain steps that
Carry your accessories across the floor.
y,
Allison Thompson
63
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SNe
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by Sally Brett
|e om otcleMneal"toln coms cjc-jeMmolelanetmet-ve!
watched instead her eyes, and the wispi-
ness of her hair shining in the lamplight.
es (ham atclianttyclowm ifeial@mescelyuelr-lelems itet"m
wispy in a way that some people liked
and some people"like herself"did not
like. He had always liked it, liked es-
pecially the way it clung to her head like
sleepiness to her eyes when she awoke
Tel Ge(cimeelevaalierecy
But it was her eyes that he liked the
most. They were what he had first seen,
in that jumble of people and voices the
Holdens liked to call a party. They were
intelligent eyes, and he had seen that and
been glad for it, among those glassy and
chatty and wandering eyes everywhere
else in the room. He had watched her and
those fine eyes for a long time before he
had approached her. It had not been
false, that intelligence. And it was her
eyes that he had learned to watch always,
after he had loved her and married her
and brought her here where he taught
Slauve(seecmcoml-lereyannu lve ilet ie (ceielemely-e
their words. |
It was her eyes that told him tonight
that he should listen to what she was -
saying. And so he had, putting down the
paper he was grading and watching her as
she looked at him and said the things he
had not said to himself but had known
for a long time.
He had known. He had to say that
now, and not be surprised. How long
had he known? How long had he seen
and not seen the restlessness, the
moments when her eyes saw nothing that
was him, or her, or them, or even where
they were? What did she see in those
peateyea\-evecPanlans) e(cMmctcluvarclalidaltevemrel ar) | ta w (=
did not know that. Perhaps she did not
either.
65
What exactly had she said? Blame .. .
there was no one to blame. They had
tried and they had had so much. Could
he say he had known they had lost some-
thing? She said they had. Had she given
a reason? No. She only wanted to go
away. For a while. No more. Did he under-
stand? Did he? Yes. And no. He under-
stood that she looked at him with gentle-
ness, but it was a gentleness for a
stranger, not the loving gentleness he
sometimes felt in her when they made
love.
The first time they had made love
they had laughed. He had liked to remem-
ber that, often, sometimes in the middle
of a class, when students were taking a
test and the silence in the room and the
curve of some airlTs shoulder reminded
him of her body curved above his that
night. The light from the streetlamp had
shone in the room and made patterns
on the sheets, on their skin, patterns from
the ivy growing on the windowTs screen.
Her body had been shadows and light,
hollows of darkness, curves of light. He
should have noticed more, kept more of
the moment. But he had not realized it
would be so important to remember.
She knew a great deal. She knew him
in a way that he did not always like, a
superior kind of female knowing that
grated sometimes and made him wish to
be away from her . . . with some woman
who did not know so well all that he
was. When she went away she would
take all of that knowing with her.
Would, then, some of himself go, too?
Would she leave some of herself? He knew
it was not that married anger that made
her want to go now. He had to say it was
more than that, more than that anger
at being known by someone else when you
wanted most of all to be unknown even
to yourself.
What was it? Had she told him and
he had not heard? He had tried to listen.
But he had watched instead her eyes, and
the wispiness of her hair shining in the
light.
What would she do? What would he
do? Who would he be, without her? He
had thought of that before, had tried to
be without her before, by being with
someone else.
She had known that, too, had said
to him quietly without any voice at all
except the sound, oYou went to bed with
her, didnTt you?� And he had been sur-
prised and said yes, without wondering
if he should or not. It had not mattered;
she had been almost pleased. In the
end, if there had been one, her pleasure
had made it her moment and not his
own. He had not known what to do about
it or how to say that he was angry. It was
almost as if she had taken something
from him that she knew was not hers to
take, not hers to know. But that had been
a long time ago.
So he did not know what it would be
like, being alone, without her. If he had
said, stay, would she have? He did not
think so. He knew that much about her.
There was a darkness about her when she
knew herself most clearly, a darkness
that kept her apart from him, did not
acknowledge him. She would not have
heard him. Or, would not have answered
him. Once, before he had known the
darkness behind the light of her hair and
her fine eyes, he had tried"something he
could not remember"and he had felt
that darkness. It was, he sometimes
thought, the same darkness that came
when they made love, interrupting the
light.
Down the hall, she was moving
about in the bedroom. He tried to think
more about what it was she had said,
coming to him and waiting until he knew
she was there. He wanted to remember.
Why was it hard to recall, if he had
known, really known, before?
He had tried to listen, but he had
watched instead her eyes, and the wispi-
ness of her hair shining in the light.
SHUCKIN:
Hold the oyster down left-handedly.
Admire and examine it to find
The perfect place to thrust
The knife with the forefinger pointing the way.
Push the blade so that its gritty incision
Sounds on the bottom shell
Like glass underfoot on a wet sidewalk.
Pick up this punctured oyster and cup it
In the palm of your left hand,
Take the weathered handle of the knife
(Its blunt blade protruding from the oyster now
Like a tight-lipped patient might hold a thermometer)
Shake the swallowed blade from side to side
Freeing the meat from the hold of its lower tendon.
With the blade slid as far into the hinge
Of the shell as it will go, you are almost there
A motorcyclistTs twist and the top shell is off
Exposing the naked fruit of saline labor
Gently cut the under tendon and
Eat.
Bill Harrington
67
68
Pe pemNOON IY LATE MAY
I walk in a wind of musk
behind two women in cotton dresses.
One is barefoot. A light sweat hangs
along her calves. I match her steps.
Pedestrians are gazing at the sky: uncertain
granite-colored clouds gather to the west;
strong sunlight confuses weather-predictors;
but I know this spring will change
to summer; this love to lust.
A haltered, small-hipped blond wheels by,
bent over handlebars, graceful little bumps
down the line of her backbone"a frisky, skinny filly.
Too much. I climb four flights,
two stairs each step, legs slow,
thin and buckling like a love-struck
stork. The physics lecture: Properties
of Color: oThree subtractive primaries"
yellow, magenta, cyan"are blends
of the additive colors. Your eye sees the average
frequency. Green light starts at 5000 angstroms;
this ruby laser�"lancing across the darkened room"
oaround 6500.� Everything vibrates. I want to know
what frequency of light reflects from the tanned
Caucasian girl beside me: what makes her skin
so round and heavy? I would like to take her
to my room, take her shirt away,
tense her nipples with both hands, tracing circles
with the hollows of my palms.
And then weTd sleep. That would be enough:
a slanting sun against the wall, a sigh of breath,
no grim need to test our best techniques ...
I dream until the lab lights flicker on.
Outside, wind soars between buildings. I cross
the street, dodging pintos, mustangs, a US Mail truck.
Traffic lights shift to 5000 angstroms;
barometric pressure drops;
tornado warning in effect til 4:00 PM.
Luke Whisnant
LOOM
intricate lacings
of polished wood and stainless steel
flicker and click
the heddle pushes
and lifts a thousand strands of brown
taunt and ready
quick weaverTs hands |
cross under brown and over some shade
of charcoal grey
one thread
canary color, loose between
the bars
the heddle drops
the weaver pulls, and his machine
beats thread into thread
on some great wall
straight and solemn and perfect
a bankerTs tapestry
the only missing strand
is gold to hold SarahTs hair
through hopscotch
Sue Adyelette
69
STAR
oa
a
AAR
a a
:
4
See
ie mS Ss.
4, ese
sa
ane
ae A . ¥ ~ 3
e 8
I had just settled into my second-
class chair on the boat bound for Mon- , Thad brought along for my lunch of
treux on the lake cruise. I preferred the salami, fontal and bread. Children were as
second-class booking, for unlike first- running around the boat, fascinated by - ay
Class, the open deck gave me the quiet the legion of gulls which were following | i
joy-0f being on the water, if only for a _ our path across the lake, swooping from te
short time. ;
e
~~ Some days, especially ee ital ones, them by the passengers. It occurred to :
I would take the extended cruise past
Chillon to Vevey and see the castle of
ByronTs. poem. It was, all in all, a most
refreshing way to travel the short dis-
tance from Geneva, take the air, and
gain a respite from the trains.
~ But today there would be no time
for the castle. I had to be on time for a bread, I noticed a yellowed bit of paper,
business appointment in Montreux, an
obligation which I could hardly appre-
ciate on suchT a beautiful day. The lake
was a shimmering blue, its surface dis-
turbed only. by the path of the boat and Geneva paper in the year 1922 detailing _ :
an occasional whip of breeze. The sun
glistened on the vineyards which angled | | :
up the hillside; the mountains were bold: _ clipping before I knew (or guessed that |
against the sky. All considered, it was
nothing short of a marvelous day, and
resolved to enjoy it as fully as possible
before my duties pulled me into shore;
a " ao : Se
not unlike a fish struggling on a line for
the freedom of the water. = =~
= A slight wind was playing over the ~
deck as I opened the bottle of wine which
time to time to catch bits of bread thrown 7
- me thaf since the war, [had been seeing © =|
more children around, or perhaps just
noticing them, I donTt know which.
As I was watching this scene play
before me, my bread slipped fram my | a
lap and fell between my chair arid the yg
one adjoining. Reaching down for the !
folded many times over, wedged between _ . :
_° the chairs. Naturally given to curiosity,
, I picked up the paper and began to unfold sits
it. It was a quite lengthy article from a
the tragic derailment of a Zurich express.
I had only to read a portion of the
7 knew) why the person who had lost the. =
I clipping saved it in the first place. Aside
from a detailed report of the incident, it oo
consisted of portions of adiary found ""
le
on one of the bodies the authorities were
at a loss to identify. In hopes of identi-
fying the dead man, portions of the
diary had been printed in the newspaper
in hopes othat some reader might recog-
nize through it a friend, relative or busi-
ness associate who might have been
traveling on the Zurich Express this
Thursday past.� The children and gulls
receded in my mind as | found myself
caught up in this clipping as the boat
pushed steadily toward Montreux.
oThe portions printed (the article
said) were those left undamaged and in-
telligible by the fire which broke out
subsequently on site of the derailment.
These highly unusual circumstances
necessitate the co-operation with authori-
ties in hopes of the identification of all
the passengers on the train.
17 February, 1922 (here the
wording is singed by the fire and
begins in mid-paragraph,
apparently)
She had a great need of newsprint
for the type of etchings which she
was showing at that time, and she
developed the practical habit of
buying the Sunday Times in order
to supply herself with the necessary
paper. As an amusing result, she
picked up an enormous amount of
parenthetical information osmoti-
cally, as it were, from casually
looking now and again at the news-
paper she would use. So it wasnTt the
least bit unusual for her to mention
some fact or other that none of
our circle would ever have known,
but nonetheless found interesting,
either as topic of interest or mere
distraction.
As for myself, it consisted of
information which I would rarely
if ever need, unless jammed in at
one of those dreadful teas at which
time I could always turn to the
stranger to my right (they are all
strangers at these gatherings) and
say: oThe Velusian (or something)
penguin, long considered monog-
amous may, in fact, have three or
four mates during life. Greater num-
bers have been reported.� It is in-
variably easier to then walk away.
* 4 eye
The cold which has: plagued my
winter attacked full force this morn-
ing. All draughts notwithstand-
ing, my only salvation shall, I fear,
be a headlong battle of endurance.
Trawich posted today to tell me
that he did not like the turn the serial
was taking; thinking, as usual, in
his uninspired mediocrity. It is turn-
ing dark, black even; but that is
the tenor of the story, the tenor of
the times. This shall be my last
encounter with serialisation.
17 March
Lunching with T. W. today, I
had a fleeting memory of a day spent
in Central Park some years ago
with P. and one of her friends from
the gallery. It was dull and overcast
as today, but I met the weather then
with a cheerful rally which somehow
today I could not muster. | felt an-
noyed at the sky; no matter how |
understood the hopelessness of the
position, I could not rid myself of
it. | was caught upon a wheel of
memory, looking back as a helpless
spectator.
The luncheon proceeded quite
well as I remember, but I was no
more of that meeting than margi-
nally, my thoughts constantly. escap-
ing to her face appearing in sudden
flashes from across the table. .. .
I was becoming increasingly depressed
with the article. I was beginning to feel as
if | was looking over someoneTs shoulder,
Or rummaging around in a desk drawer. We
were at mid-lake where only the
heartiest (and hungriest) gulls follow,
and the sky was growing slightly over-
cast. I uncorked the wine, drank fully
and continued with the clipping.
22 March
This afternoon I met N. at the
cafe and read his latest poetry, as
he in his inflated and hopeless way
treasures my opinion as an author.
As many times as | insist to him
that the time is past, that there will
be no more oeuvres, no more mots
justes, he tells me of gifts eternal
and the shame of memory, etc., etc.
I found the poetry, as usual, in-
adequate; N. writes of things un-
known to his experience, and thus
fails to leave that vital part of him-
self upon the printed page. There was
ODE TO AN EIDOLON
|
| He wanders pale in a lonely vale of sorrow,
| lost and forlorn with nowhere to turn,
| in a land where there is never, yet always a tomorrow,
| wondering emptily if were no better to burn
| in a hell, than to ache in this timelessness,
/ entrapped by mountains of grey and black,
bounded by rivers fed not by forgetfullness,
| but by the misery of knowing there is no turning back,
| nor looking forward to a new rebirth.
|
|
|
| Strange creature, of what space do you belong
| that you were taken from life, yet death not given?
| Is this waste land a punishment for some earthly wrong?
| Or is this the end result, regardless of how youTve striven?
| Shall I, too, be thrown into this bleak and dismal hole,
to wail and lament for all eternity?
Better I should spend my days in hunger and cold
| on earth, and then at death be set free
into the blissful ignorant void
of knowing neither pain nor joy.
But wander on, O Eidolon,
| in your hideous, hellish hole,
in that condemned land that carries on
the fear that such is the fate of souls
of humans. For never shall I see
the dank, putrid river of the Styx
| nor a passenger of Charon ever be,
| since I shall not succumb to those earthly tricks.
I know full well where dwell your kind"
in the deep recesses of fear in the mind.
Karen Blansfield
74
MORNING
There is a statue in the garden:
Saint Francis with a bird.
A tawny web sags and stretches;
Oval mirrors shimmer on folded flowers.
Fresh pine caught on a whisp of wind;
A black cat bats a bug.
Robert Glover
75
Giles
A. A.
78
MEAT
]
Your grandfather
in his old-country beard
blessed himself
under the barn-beam
under pully and rope
by a steaming tub
and the eyelevel pig
twisting, before he lifted
that autumn knife
shaped like a ritual squeal.
II
The cowpoke squints
(his cheek a tumor of tobacco)
and electrically prods
the endless steers
up a wooden ramp
to the first specialist
on the disassembly line
of this long factory.
They call him othe killer�
and armed with electrodes
he shocks the bellowing
beast to its short knees
and the metal floor flings open
and end over end it falls
into avernal light
where a hoister chains
a hind leg and up kicking
wide-eyed and upside down
it takes a clanking
overhead tram to the gum-
chewing throat-cutter. See
how he uses the special tool
to get that bright spurt
and spray on rubber boots
and apron. See how the white-
suited slitters joke
and wait for bellies
while stropping their blades
how the cavity men lean in
to unpack that hot rank case
root with the sharp right hand
and turn with armfulls
of gutflop: lungs and liver
kidneys, glands
and the still-wincing heart
mucus, silver plop and slither.
See how the conveyor men
earphoned against clank and roar
watch a football game
in four tubes along the line
and let their hands
go out and down and in:
a Pattern. of cut and jit
sometimes a squint at the tripe
that might have been swallowed.
But on to the saw men
who make the sides
(with a high motorized whine)
the skinners, drapers
heavers and haulers
inspectors (okay so far?)
heapers of hides
boilers of gristle
packers and shippers"
God loves them all
as He does
the ears and tails
boilings and tryouts
crimson tides on the floor
the drain-suck
the bone, the shit, and the bristle.
Peter Malena
79
ARTISTS
T. E. AUSTIN is a graduate student
in the ECU geography department
who is presently working on his
MasterTs thesis. He has three pho-
tographs in this issue.
GEORGE BRETT is a local craftsman
of fibers and metals who has a spe-
cial interest in science fiction and
photography.
RAYMOND BROWN graduated from
ECU in 1972 with a B.S. in Act. He
entered graduate school here in 1974
and is presently working towards an
M.F.A. in printmaking with a minor
in painting. He has appeared in the
last three issues of the Rebel.
FRED CHANNEY is from Satellite
Beach, Florida. He is majoring in
Communication Arts with a minor
in printmaking. He plans to pursue
interests in liquid mediums in vari-
ous latitudes.
LEWIS CHERRY is a senior prnt-
making major. His work centers
mainly on the combination of pho-
tographic image with intaglio prints,
the results being an imaginative
creation of ohappy accidents.� This
is his second appearance in the
Rebel.
DEBBIE COFER was the third-place
winner in the Rebel Art Show this
year. A senior printmaking major,
Debbie has exhibited her work in
various museums across the state.
After finishing her B.F.A. degree,
she plans to attend graduate school
in Texas or Colorado.
RICHARD FENNELL is a senior
double-majoring in painting and
printmaking. He is able to support
himself on the sales of his own art-
work.
H. A. GILES graduated from the Col-
lege of William and Mary in 1972.
He is a first year graduate at ECU,
majoring in painting with a minor
in Communication Arts. Andy has
become increasingly interested in
photography and many of his pho-
tographs appear in this issue.
JOHNNY HAMILTON is from Clin-
ton, North Carolina. He has been
interested in photography for about
ten years. John ran the photography
workshop at Nosotros Fine Arts
Workshop from 1971-1975. He also
taught photography at Sampson
Tech in 1976. He is now studying
printmaking at ECU.
-LAURA JACKSON is a printmaking
mejor ar EeU. This is her first ap-
pearance in the Rebel.
ROGER KAMEREEN is a_ junior
painting major from Swansboro,
N. C. This is his first appearance
in the Rebel.
DAVID McDOWELL is a candidate
for a M.F.A. in printmaking. He
received his B.A. from Pembroke
University in 1974 and his A.A. de-
gree from Southeastern Communi-
ty College in Whiteville, N. C. David
now has a two-year teaching fellow-
ship at ECU,
ED MIDGETT is a senior printmak-
ing major with a minor in commer-
cial art and a strong interest in pho-
tography. This is his first appearance
in the Rebel.
JOHN MORRIS graduated from
ASU in 1974 and is now enrolled as
a graduate student in painting with a
minor in drawing. JohnTs work in-
corporates the figure and negative
space in equal proportions. He feels
this gives his drawings an extra di-
mension. His piece, oO Wretched
Man� won second place in this yearTs
Rebel Art Show.
DANIEL OTSHEA is a first year grad-
uate student in Communication
Arts. He is also working as a graphic
designer for Silkscreens Unlimited
in Greenville. He has been art direc-
tor of the Rebel for the past two
years.
PETER E. PODESZWA is a pheteg:
rapher for the publication board
who hopes to major in Communica-
tion Arts. Peter has spent several
years abroad. This is his first ap-
pearance in the Rebel.
MATT SMARTT is a graduate stu-
dent in printmaking. In addition to
winning first place in last yearTs
Rebel Art Show, Matt has shown
work in several shows including the
North Carolina ArtistTs Exhibition
at the Museum of Art in Raleigh.
Matt likes to work representation-
ally, but feels that many of his goals
and attitudes can be expressed more
uniquely through a_ non-literal
idiom, such as the character and
strength of surface phenomena and -
mark quality.
LUELLEN VERNON is a senior print-
making major at ECU. This is her
first appearance in the Rebel.
DALE VERZAAL won first place in
the Rebel Art Show. His biography
is found on the inside front cover.
