[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]
Note on the Cover
This yearTs cover is by Lisa Bateman. ~~Porkalina-Ode
to Katherine� is one in a series of five paintings dealing
with commercialism in a whimsical context. Lisa says,
~~Porkalina itself is dedicated to the type of person that
smokes and eats at the same time.�T
LisaTs piece placed 2nd in painting. She has shown
work in ECUTs Student Show and she also has a piece
in a traveling show of ECU student work.
Vol. 22 Number 1
COLLEEN PLYNN
SUE AYDELETTE
Associate Editor
Proofreader
The Rebel! is published annually by the Media Board of East
Carolina University. Offices are located in the Publications
Center on the ECU campus. 7he Rebe/ welcomes manu-
scripts and inquiries; however, unsolicited manuscripts unac-
companied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope will not
be returned. Address all correspondence to 7he Rebel, Men-
denhall Student Center, East Carolina University, Greenville,
NC 27834. This issue is copyrighted (c) 1980 by The Rebel.
All rights revert on publication to the individual artists and
authors, from whom permission must be obtained to
reproduce any of the materials contained in this issue.
Anheuser-Busch Poetry Award
June Sylvester
oThe CallingTT
Jeffreys Beer and Wine Prose Award
Joe Underwood
~ooStrawbossTT
Fourth Annual Attic Award
Stephen Edgerton
oHarriet McNeill McKay
The MatriarchTT
All Prize Money Provided
By The Attic and
Budweiser
ATTIC
The Rebel has been in high
standing for many years. As this
yearTs editor, it is my prayerful
hope that with the changes made
in this issue, the high standing
still remains.
| once asked Luke Whisnant,
last yearTs editor why we didnTt
have two issues of 7he Rebe/
each year and believe me, | now
know why we don't.
Putting this magazine together
has been hard work and quite a
learning experience. To have the
Opportunity to be directly in-
volved with so many student
writers and artists has been very
rewarding. | would like to thank
all those who had so much
patience with the art show,
newspaper announcements and
the like.
Two English professors whose
influence on the writing students
at ECU has been great and to
whom | wish to dedicate this
issue Of The Rebe/ are Terry
Davis and Peter Makuck. | wish
to extend my utmost thanks to
these two men who have made
such things as writing novels and
good poetry seem readily ob-
tainable to those who work hard.
Their interest in writing and con-
cern for students is very ap-
parent.
| wish to thank the staff for
working long, hard hours even
when the monetary value given
to their efforts has been so little.
Special thanks are also extended
to Robert Jones and Pete
Podeszwa_ for their helpful
suggestions. Tom Haines, Edith
Walker, and George Brett for
judging the art show. David San-
ders for judging the literature,
The Media Board, SFA office,
contributors and most of. all
thanks to the kind people at
National Printing.
CONTENTS
LITERATURE
Classroom Activities .
Untitled
Collard Centipede ...
Route 1 Appliance
Saga
Marco Polo and Other
Water Games
Untitled
Vernon
Dream Salvages
Drowning, With
Relatives
Seymour: An
Epilogue
Southern Comfort...
The Calling
| Will Not Weep
Tagged Last
Oedipus
Untitled
Shoplifter
As | Listen the Air is
Split into Layers...
Uneasy Transition...
Crossing the Linville. .
Novena
Passage
Strawboss
Fossils
What to Know About
The Fish Kill
Like This
Dangling
Survivors
Ocracoke
Lineage
Untitled
Untitled
Paradox
Teller II
A Matter of Existing
Will (in fragments) .
Plum Stone
Tim Wright
Hal Daniel
Michael Loderstedt.
Colleen Flynn
Michael Loderstedt.
Sue Aydelette ....
Karen Blansfield...
Robert Jones
Kathy Crisp
Karen Blansfield...
Sam Silva
June Sylvester....
Sam Silva
Sue Aydelette ....
Joseph Dudasik ...
Cheryl Ribino
Luke Whisnant....
Luke Whisnant....
Phillip Arrington...
Luke Whisnant... .
Robert Jones
Tim Wright
Sam Silva
June Sylvester....
Joe Underwood...
June Sylvester....
Luke Whisnant....
Tim Wright
>. Phillip Miles...
Jeffrey Joseph....
Denise Andrews...
Tim Wright
June Sylvester....
Michael Loderstedt.
Michael Loderstedt.
Ernest Marshall... .
Phillip Arrington...
Robert Jones
Sue Aydelette ....
Kempten L. Daniel .
ART
Dudobrats
Gas Mask
Southern Rail
Gallery
Seated Figure, Red ..
Seated Figure
Spectral Encounter . .
Target Treeptych....
Weather or Not
After the Sincerity...
oHarriet McNeill
McKay "
The Matriarch� ...
Phoenix
Girl With Hat & Vest .
114 E. 12th St
The Original Juvenile
Juxtaposition
_ The Blackbird Whirled
in the Autumn
Illustration
Illustration
Fish Kill
David Larson
Ed Midgett
Sid Davis
Rita Earley
Robert Daniel
Robert Daniel
Betsy Kurzinger ...
Betsy Kurzinger ..
Mark Peterson ....
Roxanne Reep....
Stephen Edgerton .
Michael Loderstedt.
Larry Shreve
Michael Loderstedt.
Ella Mallenbaum.. .
Pete Podeszwa....
Marcia Deckey....
David Norris
Judson Poole
Pete Podeszwa....
Brenda Williams...
REBEL
The Literary-Art Magazine
(o} i =t- |) OF- 1 c0) [lat MOlaliY-1s118%4
4
Classroom Activities
I offer to sew.
She threatens to accept.
I read Al Dugan
to her new cat.
She disapproves.
She thinks I give her
more than she asks for.
Her cat composes beautiful
sonnets. She is tired
of knowing it rains on Tuesdays.
Her cat becomes
a villanelle, she is
angry with me, sheTs always
losing cats this way.
Tim Wright
what is wrong
with an orange peel
on the sidewalk
at 6 pm
the day after xmas.
Bob Ray
COLLARD CENTIPEDE
Trying to get this one into words is like trying to describe
the taste of chocolate, but I just saw a dew-laden strand of
emerald green collards sprout combat boots. The boots
turned groundward, tested themselves with a few good
stomps, and then proceeded to carry the entire row of col-
lards, like one huge marching green centipede right out of
the furrow and down the white line of the highway. The
collard centipede completed a oleft flank march� and strad-
dled the highway line in perfect symmetry and time, until it
was but a dot on the horizon and, then, out of sight forever.
Iwas smiling as I got out of bed to start the day of January
10, 1980.
Hal Daniel
Route 1 Appliance Saga
on top of the
refrigerator
where an onion bag
skin-filled
and loathsome
remained very content
life was easy
but short
and soon changed.
new neighbors
Impish rogues
the raisin bran clan
bickering endlessly
In their cardboard
condo
they were labeled
a cereal mismarriage.
many died in great
floods
while other envious
flakes
ran away to become
bread brothers
wrapped tight
bonded to secrets and
loaf oathes.
soon the bread grew
restless and green
mold.
and many left
their plateau estate
In pairs
each after a chance
a slice
or a toasty vacation.
Michael Loderstedt
fl
Marco Polo and Other Water Games
The bathing cap
My friendTs mother made me (at twelve) wear in the country club pool
Had rubber flowers on its sides
Big blue and pink pansy-shaped flowers
Like those on our colored maid's flip-flops.
I'd jack knife into the pool, pray my cap
Would come off, pull if it didnTt, then
Butterfly stroke a length and back.
The cap would be floating along the poolTs edge
Like a blooming lily.
Older women in pointed-boobed suits of broad flowery print
Had caps like mine.
They'd side stroke and back stroke and rest on
The side doing swift leg flutters.
A broad backed swimmer in a racing style cap yells
MARCO
| say POLO then lower
Myself, bubble-headed
And begone.
Colleen Flynn
she is napalm
poison gas around me
she watches my leaves shrivel,
fall. a
we pass in the doorway.
my eyes fixed
on a point not bending
near her.
she is bittersweet
Coyemeohiannevercattome)
-astale refrigerator,
empty. no food.
she reaches for new stems
too short to pick
the telephone rings
she pouts.
sometimes she is nice.
like now. eyes watch
- await the transition. sniffing
the gas.
Michael Loderstedt
SS
10
VERNON
by Sue Aydelette
Vernon would meet me in the carport on his
bike. We raced there, taking tight fast curves
around the carport posts. Or we looped them
slowly, finally stopping, straddling the bikes
and talking. It was cool and dim below the car-
port roof but open so that hot sunlight sur-
rounded us. It smelled good in that shade, like
ear oil.
Before I got the letter, I had forgotten Ver-
non and Mark. Now I hear that Mark is working
in this city too and I suddenly notice that this
big office is like that place, Norstad Street
where we knew each other. Vernon lived across
the street. Mark lived on the end of the same
building I lived in, Air Force Base houses, all in
one piece, all identical. We never thought of it
then, maybe because we were children, but
here, where the desks are all the same and in
rows, green blotters and heavy adding
machines on each, people mark things. They put
up Bible quotes or newspaper cartoons, they
have color animal stickers, some of them or
plastic flowers or immense rubber plants that
threaten the order of their work by throwing a
grey leafy shade across the columns of num-
bers. And these people mumble softly with the
hum of office machines and break sometimes in-
to loud laughter. They are in the ladies room,
franticly close to the mirror and in the halls
swinging their arms like children. So far, I keep
my desk clear of all but the white gridded
paper, the long yellow pencils and the old ad-
ding machine. I wonder if Mark has a desk, ina
row of similar desks somewhere in this city.
Mark was ten when I knew him on Norstad
Street; I was seven then and when I first met
Vernon he was six. Vernon was small; a clean
blond boy. His mother was German. He had a
pink bathing suit she made him wear. He never
crossed the street in it but my mother saw him
over in his yard. The suit, she said, had straps
like one of my girlTs suits but they came down
almost to his waist so they were really more like
suspenders. But it was pink. I never talked with
him about it.
Mark was much bigger than us both, and
smart, and had a broken leg. While I knew him
he went from a cast to a brace and back to a
cast. I donTt remember ever talking about that
either, but we did talk, the three of us. Since he
couldnTt run around, Mark would drag an old
straight back chair out into the field between
our building and the road. It wasnTt such a big
field, but in the center of it we had a lot of space.
And it was a field with flowers, milky dan-
delions, those small daisies and tiny round
yellow flowers you never saw until you sat
down in the thin grass. Mark sat out there
every day in the summer. Vernon and I would
wander over sit down and we'd talk; sometimes
about the cars going by or the way mushrooms
spread out in circles. Sometimes we had things,
like a chalk board, and Mark would write out
names for us: C-o-l-u-mbus, or make up codes.
Or the etch-a-sketch and Mark would turn out a
black scribble for Vernon and me to find the
beginning of. Once I found a box of gold tipped
matches. Vernon and I took the box over to
Mark. Sitting huddled, we took turns lighting
them until each match had flared up and burned
down to the finger and thumb that held it " un-
til all the matches were burnt ends, black splin-
ters that we buried in one small hole. I kept the
little sliding box, glad that Mark and Vernon
lost interest in it once it was empty.
My mother keeps up with MarkTs family.
Being good friends with Mrs. Ledbetter, she
had known all about MarkTs leg. I listened to
those details once, but I only remember that it
was something simple " like falling as he got on
the school bus " which broke MarkTs leg so
badly. Mama writes now to just mention that he
has a job in the city. Mark moved away six
months before Vernon died. A lot happened af-
ter he left. It was then that Vernon would meet
me in the carport leaving the bright field off to
the side of our houses empty.
Mark would remember much, though, and un-
derstand more. He would remember the naps;
how Vernon and I each had to go home, eat
lunch and rest. Mark never had to take naps of
course and when I ran back outside, sometimes
Vernon would be coming from across the street.
We'd race to where Mark sat, crash into him,
and knock his chair sideways into the grass. It
was the naps that started the discoveries
though, after Mark moved away. They were
proofs, both of them, proofs of natural science.
During the summer after Mark left we did
not go, usually, into the field. One day though,
after our naps, Vernon was waiting there for
me. Before I sat down next to him he asked,
~oW hatTs an axis like?�
~An axis? You mean for wheels on cars? You
know what that is.� Vernon was seven by then
and he never was stupid.
oYes, but whatTs a world-axis like? You know
" with the world turning on it " is it just a
giant bar in space?
oYes,� I said, I always acted like I knew after
Mark left.
oYou ever hear it?� Vernon turned to ask it,
facing me in the center of the field.
oHear what?�
oThe world turning,� he said it slow and then
in exasperation, oDo you really sleep after
lunch?
oOf course not.� I was thinking of lying on my
motherTs big bed, feeling hot, and yes .., the
roar, I heard it every day.
oVernon, you sure you didnTt read this some
place? You sure Columbus didnTt hear it?� Ver-
non was mad. I knew he had to read books in
school about children and dogs. Anything in-
teresting he had to make up himself. Nobody
told either of us anything good except Mark and
if Mark had told it, I would know.
~Vernon, you sure Mark didnTt tell you this?�
When I said that Vernon ran off. I didnTt chase
him.
It was after my nap the next day that I ran
over to Vernon and he was running to meet me.
Panting into the carport, we squatted in the
cool grease smell. oVernon, you're right! I heard
it! I hear it every day " after lunch, that must
be when it turns!
~DonTt tell anybody, Reenie.�
That was the first discovery. The second one
I made, with Vernon there next to me. We were
lying on the hill behind my house, on our backs
but with our feet going up, feeling the blood
rush to our faces. Our arms crossed under our
heads. In short sleeves I remember, feeling
sharp tufts of grass against my arms. We
weren't talking. And then I noticed that I was
moving. No the clouds were moving. I wasnTt
sure. And that was the second discovery.
oVernon, are you moving!
oWhat?� His eyes were squeezed tight a-
gainst the light.
~Vernon, please open your eyes.� I acted
calm. oLook, Vernon, are the clouds moving or
are we?�
He jumped straight up to his feet. He looked
big like that from where I was lying. He jumped
up and then he lay right back down and watched
and we had our second natural proof for the
rotation of the earth.
At lunch I couldnTt contain it. I just hinted
and my older sister, still chewing, said of course
clouds move. I felt sick and awful.
During my nap I lay down and listened with
my eyes closed to the world turning on its axis,
a sound so big that it was quiet. I stayed there
longer than usual. I didnTt call down once to say
" is my nap over yet? I lay there until my
mother came upstairs with a pile of my fatherTs
shirts smelling like hot, ironed cotten. Then I
went outside.
Vernon was on his bike in the sun, riding a-
round the sidewalk square across from the emp-
ty field. There was an old coffee can at one cor-
ner and each time Vernon came around the
square he rode over it, jumping his bike up into
the air. Other children watched him. I joined
the little group and he saw me, but he put all his
concentration into going over that can. I
thought it was stupid " him grinning and
squinting like it was important. As he hit the
can. Then his front tire turned and in mid air
the bike jerked out of VernonTs hands. He was
in the sky, and then down on the ground so fast
and then just lying there. He was pale and
small, his eyes closed, his hair almost white in
the sun. I could see that one of his arms was
twisted backwards and I ran for my mother.
The other children backed away and watched as
Mama brought a pillow, a blanket, and then ran
back to call a doctor. Somebody finally went
over and told VernonTs German mother so that
she came running out just as the ambulance
screamed into the carport. Vernon, unconscious
all that time, was put on a big stretcher and a
white sheet was tucked up to his white neck.
They carried him into the shade of the carport
as if he were no weight at all. When the am-
bulance left, Mama and I were alone and for a
long time, silent in the shadow.
~oWhatTs that noise, Mama?�
oWhat noise, Reenie? The airplane?�
And then I knew it was there, not just at
noon, but all the time, that noise from the run-
ways across the base. So before Vernon was
dead I knew there were no discoveries at all.
But Vernon never knew. He died that night.
Mark will be glad it happened that way. Vernon
died better than Columbus, who got old and
crazy. And better than me. Already I walk
down the halls at this job trying not to swing
my arms too much. Vernon would have hated it.
11
V2
Elegy
They have hewn the huge oak
that guarded my grandmotherTs grave,
LOL Out
the twisted gnarled limbs
that lent reverence to the sky
as her gnarled fingers
lent reverence to all they touched:
the rosary she beaded silently,
the arm she grasped
with fragile hand,
the twisted Irish walking cane
held limply in her lap
as she stared vacantly
into somewhere.
Once, in winter,
I stood beneath the black boughs,
fusing their form into words.
But the words were lost
before they were written.
And though I returned
in summer
and again in winter
to search,
they were found.
Now
I cannot find
my grandmotherTs grave.
Where once the dark mass
spread its aged web,
unmistakable cairn,
there is now anonymous sky.
For they have felled the ancient oak.
It was too old
to go on.
Karen Blansfield
DREAM SALVAGES
by Robert Jones
September 29, 1967. I was eleven years old
and had not seen my father since July. He was
sick with heart trouble, in the hospital with that
queer antiseptic air. HeTd had heart trouble and
had been in the hospital before, and ITd visited
him many times, but that day they wouldn't let
me see him. I went to bed, fell asleep, and began
to dream.
I dreamed it was Ash Wednesday, the
Catholic, holy day that initiates the Lenten
season " a time of preparing oneself for the ob-
servance of ChristTs passion. I stood in the cen-
ter aisle of a church, in front of the altar. All I
could see around me were tall lighted candles. I
stood there alone for what seemed like many
slow, burning hours staring at the flames to see
if I could find any blue in them. Then, a priest in
black vestments came toward me. He stopped
and asked me if I had any special prayer to say,
and I nodded that I did. I knelt quickly and
prayed, oGod, please let my daddy die. Let him
rest, let him not be in pain.� When I stood the
priest made the sign of the cross with ashes on
my forehead and said, ~Thou art dust and unto
dust thou shalt return.� I knew those ashes
were the ashes of my father.
The telephone rang waking me immediately.
Something was wrong, and I heard myself say,
oPlease God donTt let my father die today, not
today.� I sat in bed watching my older brother
and my mother walk swiftly down the hail
towards the phone. My mother answered it on
the third ring. I didnTt hear what was said, but I
knew what had happened. So I lay back in bed,
pulled the covers over my head, and let the
sound of my heart beat me back to sleep.
I dreamed again. My father was laying in a
narrow hospital bed. His head, chest, and arms
were attached to many tubes and wires that
stuck out from under the edge of an oxygen tent
and connected him to machines around the bed.
It was dark in the room except for the little red
and green lights on the instrument panels of
machine which clicked and gurgled. It was so
alien and scary, but I told myself from then on, I
would never be afraid of anything. Only when I
got right next to the bed, I realized I could see
my father plainly, as if a flourescent light was
somewhere inside the oxygen tent. His face
looked calm, but for a slight wrinkle in his
forehead. His blue eyes were closed. His face
was flushed, and his mouth was partly open "
no trace of a smile. I watched him sleep wanting
to tell him something, but I couldn't get the
words out. I could only gurgle and click like the
machines I watched his breath turn to vapor in-
side the tent. Slowly, the vapor filled the tent,
then the room: it got heavy like a cloud " a
spongy cloud that moved over my father and
gradually absorbed him until he was gone.
When I woke again the blanket and sheet
covered my face. I remembered my dream. I
knew how my father left this world. In his sleep,
in a cloud. I glanced at my bedroom clock and
saw it was 10:30. I got out of bed to eat break-
fast. There were two neighbor women in the
kitchen. One was feeding my baby sister who
was almost 2 years old. One of the women star-
ted to tell me my mother and brother had gone
to the hospital to see my father. I shook my
head and said, ~o~No, my father is dead. He died
in his sleep last night.� The women stared at
each other, and then at me. They knew,
assuredly, no person told me.
I do not recall much more of my fatherTs death
day, except I tried to tell my best friend, Ar-
mand, my father had died, but he was not at
home. So, I walked in my backyard thinking I
had the same disease as my father and would
die young too. I walked and told the pine and
willow trees to be strong, and the birds to sing
and dance under the bleached blue shroud that
was the sky.
Ss
14
Drowning, With Relatives
After a photo in the Washington Daily News
The drowning is complete.
The old black woman dressed in white
Is being guided back from the pier,
Her open hand beating her heart.
Other faces, awash with night
Hover around her like wings
As she is silenced in a flash,
Her mouth a black hollow.
The water keeps slapping the shore.
Kathy Crisp
seymour: an epilogue
you did not
walk into the sea
on that perfect day.
the day broke
over you,
a small black mass
of fur
shrouded in frost
as wave after wave
of mechanical fish
crested past you
on the black strip
of land.
Karen Blansfield
RS
16
SOUTHERN COMPORT
My palet breathes tincture of burgundy
I could drown in it
Like what changes the puddle red to green
For this is the South
Where factories grow from green hills
Where gulls fly inland
From rubber and oil inhale
The marigold
Not just wine this thing
My thing
But wine of the heart
Makes the rude smooth
Not one crack to cut my tires
Maple fires red orange
Bring the sun to earth sometimes
Why I saw roses bloom in January
One reddish winter
I remember it | ate peppers with Sylvia
Out on the veranda
Night is coming
The cars have bred
With oil shafts and rude openings
I suppose
At any rate more of them
In wild herds
With headlights glued to towns
And chasing off malingerers with words
Profane demands no hint of supplication
This night is black as good farm soil
It must lie in fallow stupor
lest it spoil
The origins of evenings
Of the planets first half motion
Lie with Sylvia, my wife
Now dead and dying even more
Each time I realize I reach the final
Element: the empty drive the pitched house
The cellar door
Sam Silva
SS
-
Ss
The Calling
I have learned to recognize the warm
Vaguely oniony scent of my motherTs hands
The essence of her calling
At twelve I was going to be an artist
I drew my mother bent over the oven
With sweat damp hair clinging to her neck
On Sundays I sat stiff on hard benches
I listened to the stories. Mary sat
At JesusT feet, but Martha was busy in her kitchen
I wander out in the evening
Mother calls to me from the kitchen window
Her face is framed, crossed, and hung through the panes
The years make Mother smaller
She looks at me and shakes her head
Says, oHoney, settle down ... good
man... Chrustian family.
My lovers say ITm distant
Or insecure, or hopeless
Inod my head, I watch their jawlines move
(see how hard they swallow)
Sometimes I raise my music up
I send my voice out
I split my own silence with song
Mother says, oHoney, turn that down a little
Your fatherTs sleeping...
You can help with supper if you will . . .�
I will I will (not my will but thine)
Mother says ITm headed down
The wrong path
She shakes her head
While the stove that heats MotherTs heaven
Consumes
And consumes.
June Sylvester
I Will Not Weep
The bails of garden mulch
Are sequined in earth borders
Between welts of flowers
There is a dead tower
In the distance
Where we played as children,
Death dare games
Hurdling multi-leveled rafters
To thin lumps of hay "
Now even this decays
Nothing
Nothing in the world
Would roar so loud at lightning
Promising paradise
Though at sixteen we returned
Drawn to glimpse the spread of alfalfa
And seeing now
At twenty-five the virile vine
The projects of youth gone
We mouth our words separately
And silently
To think we could have leapt up to the heavens
Inflate balloons with stardust
A multitude of perfect childish
nonsense
A language so complete
So different
I will not weep
But only look away.
Sam Silva
19
Tagged Last
Tagged last by my fatherTs voice,
every dayTs game was called over at dusk.
His white t-shirt floated just outside the doorway light
until I turned toward him bargaining for one more game.
He was gone
behind the slap of our screen door. I followed.
From bed, I heard children
laughing.
Dark air ran across my pale sheets
and my fatherTs silence rose up the stairs
pressing on my dreams.
I have seen it now.
Night is a dark pine made white,
using up a moon a month "
turning it
from a shy sliver toa wreathed and rounding siren
until suddenly
night lifts up a moon flat and pocked.
Still, it is some sound
of night I chase.
Pressed on by the shape of my old dreams
into the whir of cicadae, the hum of neon.
Pressed through the erratic jargon of night
to morning
Where from his bed,
my father hears my poem.
Sue Aydelette
Oedipus
At some time
the sound has to stop.
Blindness can only be so dark,
and tongues can spit
only so much cork from each swallow.
Even the scald of desert rivers
can be eased over;
and the stench of wet leather
forgotten after a month of floodings.
But the sound has to stop.
The ledge of the cliff
startles the quiet; it is not seen;
the wind is not felt;
but that groan of depth
makes the quiver that is in my knees.
The words are remembered,
and the dance of the goatsong,
and the cracking of the bottles
is what overwhelms.
The temple finch startles the air.
Hearts shake the columbine,
and hands cast bottles into the ravine.
But the sound has to stop.
It gurgles in the blood,
whispers in the head
and applauds with both hands
across the face.
It has to stop.
J oseph Dudasik
oe
Beneath the faded
shirt on the line, cherry
petals in shadows
When a branch strays
across the sun, leaves and moths
become one color
The pitcher rests on
the tree roots, last nightTs rain
within and without
As the rabbit browses
a leaf momentarily
fills his ear
Cheryl Ribino
MICA
Brittle. Thin slips
line the trail.
Some catches sun
onicely;TT worthless,too dull to see
yourself, kick it
into the creek,
fling it down the slope,
step on it. The common
kind: your pack is
TU OF It,
You want black mica.
Looks old, stained-glass
swirls, gold flecks.
Fight through laurel,
switchbacks, watch
for snakes. When
it crops up " boulder-sized
beside the trail, too huge
to carry out " what can
you do? Pick up chips.
You know you cannot
break a piece off.
Luke Whisnant
Duplex
His wife sings in the backyard hanging clothes
a faded blue shirt knotted under her breasts
his socks swing in the wind
sometimes we talk about our landlord or the weather
sometimes she asks me if |am lonely
| never answer
| live alone listening for their windchimes
their throbbing stereo her moans
his deep voice on the phone
he works downtown in an office far above the street
soon they will buy a car move to the country
leave me
me late-sleeper, day-waster
waiting for dusk talking to the radio
leave me
each evening | hear his thin wife in bed
each morning | shave while her husband is shaving
we stare at back-to-back mirrors
listening standing so close
his face almost coming through | stop breathing
he unplugs his razor
then the bedroom tangled blue sheets
his wifeTs bare shoulders she kisses him good morning
| start another day
Luke Whisnant
23
SHOPLIFTER
How can he look so much like water
In such tight clothing, and survive, in that way
sO awry, skewered on a laserTs hiss
lancing his jacket and touching,
with bright alarm, the make-up mirror,
the silver-plated comb & brush set,
and the instruction manual on
oHow To Play Bridge: Ten Steps to Mastery.�
Even locked to the stiff arm
of the officerTs early detection techniques,
aware of how much he will lose
to the prima facie of guilt "
how the mirror must have mimed
all the faces he would pull in walking out,
or how the comb had given his hair a brutal part
and the manual heTd only thumbed through
had printed the dummyTs fate deep within its appendices. . .
So that even with such witnesses as these,
he would borrow your lighter
and be flung into the squad car,
hoping you could forgive the awful memory of thieves.
Phillip Arrington
24
Robert Daniel
Robert Daniel
Betsy Kurzinger
| Betsy Kurzinger
28
Mark Peterson
30
Roxanne Reep
Stephen Edgerton
scans ates
a1
Michael Loderstedt
Oz
_s
Larry Shreve
Michael Loderstedt
3a
David Larson
Stephen Williams
34
Ella Mallenbaum
55
As I Listen the Air is Split into Layers |
by Luke Whisnant
Sheets SS :
They are deep blue, as blue as the sky looking
straight up, blue as Dutch China, blue as your
eyes when you wake. In the top sheet, on the
left-hand corner over the seam there is a half-
circle of tiny holes: a gift you left me on the first
night we slept together: teethmarks from when
you stuffed the sheet into your mouth so the
people in the next room wouldn't hear us. Every
time I look at these sheets now I think of that
night, of how cold it was and how you had
_ gooseflesh everywhere I touched you. And later
we slept curled, with my hand on your breast,
and weTve never slept any other way since.
The sheets were brand-new and clean then,
but now theyTre a little worn, slick ahd soft with
use, and on the pillowcase I can smell where
your hair lay this morning and all last night. ©
I'd like to get up. ITve been in bed for days
now, it seems like, trying to get my balance
back. My ears are ringing. ITll admit it: ma lit-
tle light-headed. Sometimes I catch myself
kissing your teethmarks in the blue sheet.
Window
Coming through the finger-smudged window
are three sunbeams, sharp-edged, blinding
shafts I watch moving against the wall.
_ Splotched, etched, three sun-shapes on the
es ce ee eae
ONE AE
floor, two of them rhomboids, light-losenges,
and the third smaller, tapered by the curtainTs
shadow. Dust notes turn and spin slowly in the
solid columns of light; dust drifts in whorls from
window to floor and as I watch, I think of how,
when I was younger, I used to try singling out
one white speck and following it down. I try it
now; I pick a bright pinpoint and watch it glide
floorward, slow and then faster, scribing half-
circles, side-slipping and the rising on an up-
draft like a tiny white gull banking and gliding
in the sun. When I lose it I pick another one. ItTs
too much: my head, spinning and swirling
already, starts to whistle a shrill song to me,
and then from a long way off I can feel myself
dropping back down to the pillow in slow
motion.
But when my head clears, I'll lift it back up,
turned toward the window. From this mattress
on the floor I canTt see cars or the street or even
phone lines against the sky " only the top
breeze-blown blossoms of the apple tree in my
front yard " but I keep watching for you. I
know you'll be here soon.
You
When you come in you're smiling and out of
breath and the first thing you ask is What did
they say at the infirmary?
" Kiss me first, I say. I canTt help being
playful with you.
You set your books and your the flute case
down, then bend over and kiss me. " Now what
did they say?
" I love your eyes. Kiss me again.
" Be serious.
" Okay. The doctor said itTs some kind of ear
infection and that itTs affecting my sense of
balance. You know, your balance center is in
your eustachian tubes.
" You mean you're getting black spots in
front of your eyes and tunnel vision and diz-
ziness and you haven't been able to stand up for
three days just because of an ear infection?
" Yep. Nosense of balance.
" Whata metaphor.
I reach out and touch your hair. " I know. A
month ago it would have fit me _ perfect,
wouldnTt it? No roots, no vision, no balance. But
this morning I wanted to tell him, ~No, Doc,
youTve got the wrong man. ITm not off-balance.
Not any more. Hell no, ITm happy and together
and in love, Doc, ITm okay. ITve regained my per-
spective.T
You roll your blue eyes and smile, and run a
hand softly down the side of my face. " Are you
hungry?
-" im himery, but | demt want to eat
anything.
ITm not sure that makes sense, because my
lightheadedness has come back.
You make pepper steak, with onions and bell
peppers and sweet-and-sour glaze. I eat a little
bit and feel better, then I finish until only a lit-
tle of the sauce is left on the plate. After a
minute ITm feeling well enough to brush my
teeth.
You sit me up against the wall, fill my tooth-
brush for me, and hold my shoulders steady.
When ITm finished I spit the toothpaste into my
iced tea glass. " Things like that make me hate
being sick.
" Hush. I have a whole ~nother week to take
care of you and ITm going to enjoy it while I can.
Your face is beautiful as you say that.
" I need to practice tonight, you say, easing
me back down gently. " ITm going to do some
dishes and then work on the Mozart.
" Okay. I'll just see if I can sleep some.
I donTt sleep, though. ItTs too early. In a little
while you'll come back in, stepping out of your
stockings and throwing your skirt across the
chair, curling tight around me until your side of
the bed warms up. Then you'll read to me, or
we'll talk about balance and metaphor, love and
levels of meaning. And then we'll sleep.
But now I lie awake listening to you run
water in the kitchen, listening to the gentle clat-
ter of dishes, pots, and silver. YouTre singing to
yourself. The water runs out down the drain;
you dry your hands on a paper towel; I wait for
the next sound: your flute case opening. You
blow a few round breaths inside, warming up, a
minor scale, then a major, and then the first few
notes of the Mozart sonata. My head clears and
I close my eyes and as I listen the air is split into
layers.
October 1978
I
Uneasy Transitions
For no reason
I move from chair to chair
turn on and then off
flourescent and incandescent
light
blow out my only candle
eat a late supper in the summerTs
dark
when I bed down
the neighborTs shepherd puppy barks
growls for hours
litters my lawn
I donTt have to tell you it is difficult to sleep.
CO
two oa� period om� period "
I pick out the echo of a train
tracking through the townTs west end
confuse it with an echo of my blood
count boxcars of hemoglobin
fol a dol me aot
in the magnolia
not far enough away from my bedroom window
a rooster
crews and caws and crows
I am not asleep yet, but | know you are.
at some dot period time dash
some dark-light time
moths drum ragas
against the bone plaster ceiling
Now,
I canTt tell you how difficult it is to awaken.
I would never lie to you.
Robert Jones
ag
40
Crossing the Linville
We are all up early in a clear-floored forest.
Everyone is rising, taking deep breaths of light.
The owls have shut down their emerald lamps.
The wind stirs only the tops of slim trees.
Now hawks are swooping to the creekTs arena.
Now our dogs are cool and lazy on the sand.
Our unborn sons are sleeping, our fathers returning
from their long morning walks.
Our mothers and brothers and sisters are bathing.
Now we burn our silent tithes in the breakfast fire.
We strap the ritual burdens of sustenance
onto each othersT backs, grip our walking sticks
and leap from rock to rock across the water.
Tim Wright
Novena
I guess the birds are gone
This morning has a very thin layer of noise
I focus on
Humming heaters.
The institution wakes
For six o'clock rituals
November toys " the t.v. set
The meter set at eighty
Roast duck stuffed and prepared
We run into the sunshine and the cold
Like little boys
When was the last novena?
I believe I was eight
Kneeling
As fragile as an acolyte
Before the kitchen candles
Democratic though
We would take turns leading
Our prayers
How strange it was
Feeling " trying to feel
The prayers; all of them
For sanity in the world
I looked beyond the candle
And saw nothing...
A drop of moonlight on the kitchen stairs.
Sam Silva
41
Passage
that morning she found him where she had laid him the night before
in a bed of crumpled sheets and muscular pillows
and she thought of eating 40% bran
or maybe eggs
the shower steamed hot water out
from all 11 holes
(the 11th being the center hole)
all of her pores opened to it
she passed a bulletin board on her way
to or from somewhere
an unevenly torn sheet pronounced
ocanoe for sale
$350.00 good condition
... What can go wrong with a canoe?�
that day we made a mental list entitled
o101 things that can go wrong with a canoe�
she stopped at 31
and said who cares anyway?
ITm not buying
she entered room 301 at 1:03 and
sat for 57 minutes looking at a green blackboard
and then an earnest young man
cut the green with white lines
and began earnestly speaking
she watched him finger the air
she watched his hands roam
then meet each other
and he began to clean his nails
that evening the bugs circled in an endlessly mad, futile way
around the yellow bulb on her porch
she decided to flick the switch
and set them free
in her room she noticed the hollowed center in her bed once again
like a marble marker worn thin in the middle
she lay facing the ceiling
and thought
I should get up and turn the light off
I should go to sleep.
June Sylvester
42
STRAWBOSS
by Joe Underwood
Softly, the yellowish, afternoon sun pressed
through the only window in the packhouse and
glided to a dusty stop among the tobacco sticks
and empty boxes of rat bait scattered along the
floor. Duke laid his bandaged hand on the sill
and peered cautiously out the window at the
treeline just beyond the tobacco field. His
fingers lay numbly among the fly bodies and
putty chips as his eyes searched the trees. He
breathed heavily but with control.
oDanny,� he muttered aloud to himself. The
word bounced along strands of a dusty spider-
web and stopped abruptly as the creature
rushed out to examine its catch. oWhat the
hellTs keepinT ya?�
He looked at his hand and winced at the rusty
red stain. The bandage had been torn from his
sweaty tee shirt and tied loosely with his left
hand. The salt within the bandage was working
its way into the wound, and his hand throbbed
with each heartbeat.
Duke turned from the window and crossed
wearily to a loose chair that had once sported a
wicker bottom. He raised a worn boot to the
seat and laid his hand gently, palm up on his
knee. The calloused and cracked fingers of his
left hand pulled clumsily at the bandage. The
heat pressed close around him and squeezed un-
til salty water rolled down his face and fell to
the wooden boards beneath the chair.
~oDook ... Dook itTs Danny,� came a strained
half-whisper from outside the packhouse. Duke
jerked at the sound and dropped the bandage.
He turned and faced the door as blood crept
slowly down his hand and fell silently to his
bootstrings.
43
Gis:
%
44
The hinges sang as the door opened. A bony
field negro dressed in ancestoral rags stood
silhouetted in the framed opening.
oDook?�
~Yea, Danny, ITm in here. Close the door Tfore
someone sees.�
Danny stepped into the packhouse and leaned
back, closing the door behind.
~oDook, I think .. . Lawd, Dook, look at yer
han
Duke raised the angry, swollen hand so that
the blood flowed backwards and dropped from
his wrist.
oYea, he bust it up good.� He regarded the
hand for a moment and then asked, oHe dead?�
~oDook, you need to get to a doctor Tfo you
lose that hanT.�
Duke looked at the aging black face with its
lean cheeks and pale yellow eyes fortressed
deep in the skull. Danny instinctively lowered
his eyes as was his custom when a white man
sought an answer there.
oBout an hour ago,� he said at length without
looking up. After a moment he spoke again.
oDook, therT ainTt no reason foT ya to run like ya
doinT. Be different if youTse a nigga, but the law.
oLaw treats trash jusT the same, Danny.�
oBut youTse a strawboss. You had mens
workinT under...�
oI was a field hanT jusT like you. ThatTs jusT a
title they gimme cause I was the onTy white
aan.�
The light softened a little, and the two men
stood facing with eyes downcast in the heat and
dust.
oStill, Dook, if youTd jusT splain to the sheriff
how he cheated ya and tried to fawce .. .� he let
the words trail away without struggle.
oT kilt a man what owns most the propTty in
this county. He pays the sheriff's wages, " not
no travTlin field hanT.�
Danny raised his eyes and studied DukeTs
face. Deep lines ran from the corners of his eyes
to his temples, and a waxy scar melted from his
hairline onto his forehead. It was a kind face,
hardened by sun and wine and drunken
disputes. The eyes had been cloudy with
thought, but they cleared and looked into the
ancient eyes of Danny.
oYou bring my things?�
oEverthinT you ast for. Left Tem in a gunny
sack by the broke-over tree near the swamp.�
oThen heTp me with this hanT ~for I bleed to
death.�
Danny tore the remainder of the tee shirt into
strips and took DukeTs arm by the wrist and
studied the hand closely.
~He musta bust near evra bone in there,� he
said as he begun wrapping the strips around the
dark swollen hand. Blood stained each layer as
he worked.
~oDook? You awright?�
Duke steadied himself with his good hand
against the back of the chair. He turned and sat
down, weakly, on the edge of the seat. Sweat
beaded on his forehead. When he spoke, his
voice was thin and weak. oGimmie a minute
~fore you wrap anymore. It hurts bad.�
~Sho, Dook. DidnTt mean to hurt ya none. Is it
too tight?�
In the golden light, Duke held his hand in his
palm with his elbow resting on his knee and
made no reply. The bandaged hand lay loosely
in his lap. Danny stood with his hands deep in
his pockets and shook his head slowly from side
to side. At length, Duke lifted his head and
looked at the window.
oThat'll haf ta do till I get someTrs else where
folks donTt know me.�
He stood and extended his left hand to the
Negro.
oThanks for ya heTp; you took a big chance.�
DannyTs hand came out of his pocket with a
folded piece of paper which he gave to Duke.
~Keep this witcha foT good luck,� he said.
Duke moved painfully along the rows of
tobacco until he came to the edge of the woods.
He went over his plans as he walked. He would
hop the evening freight as it slowed for the old
bridge near the edge of the swamp. He'd get off
in Raleigh and get his hand looked after, then
catch another freight to Richmond.
He stopped often and rested until he came to
the broken tree and the burlap bag. There he
sat down heavily and leaned his back against
the stump and closed his eyes. The pounding in
his hand made him nauseous, and he was dizzy
from the lost blood.
He unfolded the paper Danny had given him
and held it wearily at arms length. On the front
was a picture of Jesus holding a lamb, peering
out from the creased paper with goodness and
mercy. A broad golden halo orbited his head. On
the back was printed the 23rd Psalm in bold
type, but DukeTs eyes could only focus enough
to read the title.
He lay the paper down beside him and closed
his eyes again. With his good hand he dug
around in the bag and withdrew a bottle of
cheap brown whiskey. He uncorked it, pressed
it to his lips, and heard it bubble as he
swallowed. He lowered the bottle and opened
ee eer este
[See
=
cs a
RT ee SS EL ae
his eyes. Quietly the light had slipped from gold
to magenta and crimson. The legion of trees
awaited trumpets. Jesus and the lamb stared up
at the branches where evening birds sought
shelter from the approaching darkness.
Duke took another long pull from the bottle
and attempted to stand. His head spun and he
reached for the stump with his bandaged hand.
The pain made everything black for a moment.
When he recovered, he stumbled towards the
swamp and bridge.
He could hear the train in the distance. He en-
tered the woods, descended a slight grade, and
sloshed through ankle-deep water towards the
sound. His fevered body resisted. With each
step his concentration shattered, reassembled,
and shattered again. He leaned forward against
a tree and nestled his neck and shoulder into its
trunk. They embraced with a secret love. After
a moment he withdrew and shook his head. He
was nearing delerium and knew he must get on
the train before he passed out.
oThe Lord is my shepherd,� he said thickly as
he sloshed among the cyprus knees. He could
hear the train cutting back power as it ap-
: x alan i t bee
ae ba vn
proached the bridge. His feet moved slowly and
distantly; they seemed far away and beyond his
control. He listened as the engine crossed the
bridge. It was a short train with only one engine
pulling. Through the trees he could see the
whirling light of the locomotive twisting its way
along the horizontal ladder.
oT shall not want,� he whispered as he sank to
his knees in the shallow water beneath the
bridge. He scooped a palmful of the cool dark
water to his face and shivered violently as it
dripped onto his chest.
The train clicked rhythmically across the
bridge before him. The box cars swayed gently
from side to side like a huge cradle. In the pur-
ple light, with half closed eyes he saw a precious
cargo of field hands and strawbosses and land
owners, bathed in innocence and cloaked in the
white robes of forgiveness.
His shoulders sagged; his arms hung loosely
at his sides. oHe leadeth me,� he whispered.
The psalm danced about gracefully in his mind.
He felt himself falling without fear or
hesitation. ~ooBeaneath the still waters.�
; eh 4 . oS : o
he, 6 yy,
~ . Lived
Phone mb Stared mado
sora :
Fossils
After the last rice and pulpy tomato of the afternoon was gone
| washed my dishes
and your gift " a fossil, once a whaleTs ear
(that must have banged and beat with sea sounds long ago)
sat on my table
its barnacles dry in the sifting light of my kitchen
Lifting my hands from the stained red water
| notice how they have begun to pucker and softly whiten
and this is how it goes
we are young fruit
we dry like raisins
then we are the stone
In the high keening sound of a new storm
| heard an echo from my childhood
from many childhoods ago
and before the rain drummed down
In its ancient, vicious pulse
| raced to shut my windows
keep in the warmth
stay dry
In this way we turn to bone
In this way we are
stones offered up from the sea
June Sylvester
What to Know About Hogs
Stand on the runway. Drop
slop to sows without falling off.
Know diets. Diseases they catch.
Learn to watch
the sallow piglets litter-clumped
toasting under red heat-lamps
breeding boars with balls dung-dragging
white eyes wild rolling.
Hear their shrieks. They trot sure-footed
snort and root
through kudzu snake-routes.
They toss rattlers with their long snouts,
slash them under trotters, tear
with sharp pig-teeth in mid-air.
You learn this. And: you've seen
photos: meat markets in Spain
where whole roast shoats hang at eyelevel,
sly mouths choked with apples...
Eaters of anything. Rats and slugs
snakes shit other pigs:
think this as you watch: they found him
three days later. Last year. A man
you knew well " blinded, stroke-struck
while slopping his stock,
black clot in his brain "
he tottered on the runway, fell into the pen
of hungry sows. You carry on
and pray he died on the way down.
Luke Whisnant
47
48
at aay
anew o
oA
The Fish Kill
for Ed Jones, 1958-1979
A procession of white, cylindrical bellies A flock of birds is spreading in the sky
is floating down from a night they allswaminto as though the pages of some dark novel
far upstream. Occasionally, a tail curls
have opened, letting out all its words;
slowly back and forth, shaking out its stillness. their shadows
The dead ones keep drinking, pretending to stain the creek in tracts as big as clouds,
breathe, their mouths opened into the current dimming everything, until the first fish body
in perfect fish kisses.
rounds a sharp bend back into the light,
and breaking out into the spray
over the table of a high waterfall, they
are not falling, not ever.
Tim Wright
like this
iam like this place.
sheer heights surround
depths rummaged by endless
= hooks.
=
= there is a difference
YH of course,
these granite walls are
much more real.
still
the colors mate,
red and pinks trace veins
on the babyskull sky.
i know these colors well.
i feel them as the blind
feel them,
untouched.
beneath the sheen of sunbleached
water lies a blue.
none of this is new
though iam new,
and lucky.
clutching my unspent time
like a ticket out,
iam like this place,
solid and vertical beside
flowing aquaintance,
reflected now by deep pools
where friendships glide
like fish.
S. Phillip Miles
49
Dangling
after a painting by Degas
As though her strained insides
are slowly sliding
out of her suspended body
she
dangles
above the circus crowd. To her, we're colored chips
of a kaleidoscope. Her knees are bent
to ease pressure
as the fire rages against her teeth. The rope, taut
hangs her, holds her " some hunterTs kill
creaking
she gently sways and twists.
The ceiling walls pulse red and orange second
by
second.
The thought that pain might
overcome her, that the nail-like grip
of her teeth might slip,
sends waves of whispers
through the crowd.
Jeffrey Joseph
50
Survivors
You are afraid The river is
of water but itTs never blue singing and high water
too late sweeping dreams out
for sailing away to sea
take my skin and stitch but the stars are deeper
long white sails than the river
build my bones into the wind is wiser than
the body of a boat anywhere the riverTs been |
turn my eyes into a hot white star still, rivers
your north star like lovers should
never be fully explored.
Denise Andrews
Ocracoke
On a darkening slice
of island, you came
without my calling.
The old, old scents
of salt, and pine
and driftwood burning
met you at the edge
of many voices, put you
to sleep on rocks
in the sea wind,
planted dreams
of people saying this
or that. And now,
with the tide
at the reach
of my backward feeling,
you and | yet sleep
In the night-shy heat,
lie feverish together
and feel
in the eye of our front
the tremble of soft friction,
land and wave.
Tim Wright
BZ
oo
SSE
SG
BS
EOI LT
f
j
g
|
;
#:
j
g
j
LL Ge Ye
Zo
54
Lineage
Found in 1978 by your fingers:
the curved line running from the edge
of my nose to the corner
of my mouth
| had to smile at your tracing touch
(and deepened the creases there)
That Spring we rowed out over the cypress stained water
the sun was bright and sharp as pain
| squinted into the glare and you turned and caught me
your face folded into laughter and
you said | looked like a near-sighted Chinese woman
A history is furrowed in my forehead
there - moments crossed in concentration
here - times when your annoying habits
gathered knots between my brows
and pulled them taut
These moments have taken form
and are etched in the fine lines
of my face
while other women cream and mask
and salve to smoothness their surfaces
| will wear these years you have given me
and, yes, | will wrinkle with pride.
June Sylvester
with one class
tomorrow
please marry me tonight
or just a short
honey moon pie.
blindly like nylon
bristles | crash through your
hair, new found adoration
you Say is my fault.
tongue by a fat
pebble in a stream. nose
of steel grind bright sparks.
make eyes resolve
tempestuous contours.
like a candle " singe me.
Michael Loderstedt
55
56
ink blot cat
aggie
looks at me so
close
with
reason
for the black.
and real live whiskers
too near
for
FOCWS,
| was
the space behind her ears
she liked
and the reason
for the
white.
Michael Loderstedt
PARADOX
Lilies possessed the room for nearly a week,
Suspended
In a few inches of water from the kitchen sink:
A moment's captured grace
Like a dancer stilled in movement,
A snowflake caught against the window pane.
Then as if all at once,
The way buds burst
And leaves fall
The petals blackened like banana peels,
Crumpled into an arthritic fist, and
Got thrown into the garbage.
Ernest Marshall
TELE te
The gold is tucked away
behind blue-braille numbers.
Coded, secret.
Balance achieves balance
and rocking between the right hand
side of your secrecy and the left
leaves them nothing to see
but your back, your busy fingers.
Property is again protected.
Yet those eyes,
those sliding screens.
~~One moment pleaseT and one moment
might have established a kind of fund
to be drawn from without credentials.
But the wallet folded
every world youTd been in
in two, withdrawing all deposits
you thought you owned.
Even that gets invested
in some stock response
to the yellow slips
dropping at your feet
like smaller nods,
wise to the total transaction.
Phillip Arrington
*A 24-hour banking machine at
Wachovia Trust
OY
A MATTER OF EXISTING WILL (in fragments)
You cannot inspire until you expire.
Laugh
and the angst in your throat
like grinding bones,
or the sound of salt
shaken,
echoes echoes.
Let clay re-acquaint with clay.
Dance
and your fumbling feet,
not quite ever leaving earth, will know
treasures that are here
and there-
honed and hued.
Eye the particular.
Blink
and the bright brow of sundown
blanks.
It all goes bleak to black-
hole- space
and nothing period.
Robert Jones
58
Plum Stone
You hate it when
I drop the slippery wet stone
of a plum
into the wastebasket in your study.
This wastebasket you say
is for paper,
dry stuff.
This stone I say
only stains
the poems you have
torn.
Look
This crumpled sheet
has yellow ochre rings.
Sue Aydelette
oDaddy,
Why donTt Ijust stop talking right now so I will know
my last words?�
Kempten L. Daniel
LV
WRITERS
SUE AYDELETTE is a senior in the
writing program and this yearTs
Rebe/ art editor.
DENISE ANDREWS is a_ senior
writing major whose poems have
appeared in past issues of The
Rebel and Tar River Poetry.
PHILLIP ARRINGTON is a lecturer in
English at ECU. He is currently head
of the Poetry Forum and a past
editor of The Rebel.
KAREN BLANSFIELD is a graduate
student in English who has recently
completed her thesis. She has
previously published poems in The
Rebel and Tar River Poetry.
KATHY CRISP is a junior from
Washington, N.C., majoring in
creative writing. She has previously
published poems in Straight, a
Christian magazine.
HAL DANIEL is a Professor of
Speech, Language and Auditory
Pathology at ECU who has
published extensively in his field.
This is his first appearance in The
Rebel.
KEMPTEN LOVE DANIEL is_ the
prodigious seven year-old son of
Hal Daniel who attends Morehead
School in Greensboro. This is his
publication debut.
JOE DUDASIK, a long standing
member of the Poetry Forum, is
both a poet and an artist. His work
has been published in past editions
of The Rebel and Tar River Poetry.
COLLEEN FLYNN is a senior whose
poems have appeared in previous
issues Of The Rebe/ and Tar River
Poetry. Colleen is the editor of this
yearTs Rebel.
ROBERT JONES is a member of the
Poetry Forum and last year served
as associate editor of The Rebel.
JEFFREY JOSEPH is a senior writing
major from Danville, Va. He is a
member of the Poetry Forum and
has published in numerous small
magazines.
ERNEST MARSHALL is a teacher in
the Philosophy Department at ECU
who has been reading and writing
poetry intermittently for many
years. This is his first appearance in
The Rebel.
S. PHILLIP MILES, an ECU alumnus,
teaches English in Fayetteville, N.C.
He has published poems in several
past issues of The Rebel.
CHERYL RIBINO is _" currently
teaching poetry in the English
department. This is her first ap-
pearance in The Rebel.
SAM SILVA is a member of the
Poetry Forum who lives in Golds-
boro, N.C.
JUNE SYLVESTER is a senior from
Elizabeth City, N.C., majoring in
writing. Her poem ~The CallingT
won this yearTs JeffreyTs Beer and
Wine Poetry Award. This is her first
appearance in The Rebel.
JOE UNDERWOOD is a graduate
student in English who won this
yearTs prose award for his short
story ~~Strawboss.�T This is his first
publication in The Rebel.
LUKE WHISNANT is _ currently
studying creativeT writing at
Washington University in St. Louis.
He is a past editor of The Rebel.
TIM WRIGHT is a graduate student
in English at ECU and this yearTs
Rebel literary editor. This is his third
appearance in The Rebel.
ARTISTS
LISA BATEMAN is a senior painting
major at ECU. The cover piece of
this yearTs Rebe/ marks her first ap-
pearance in the magazine.
ROBERT DANIEL is a_ graduate
painting major in the ECU art de-
partment. Before coming to Green-
ville, Robert was artist-in-residence
in Harnett County.
SID DAVIS is a High Point native
working toward a BFA in com-
mercial art. He is presently a free
lance commercial artist.
RITA EARLEY is a graduate student -
MFA Ceramics. This is his first ap-
pearance in Rebel.
STEPHEN EDGERTON is a senior
seeking a BFA in painting with a
minor in drawing. He is originally
from Philadelphus, N.C. His mixed
media piece won best in show this
year.
BETSY KURZINGER is an MFA can-
didate in Communications Art. She
is currently participating in in-
ternational postal art correspon-
dence.
DAVID LARSON is a junior working
toward a BFA in painting. He has
two pieces in this issue of Jhe
Rebel.
MICHAEL LODERSTEDT is a senior in
printmaking with an interest in
collagraphs. His work has been
exhibited in Kate Lewis and Gray
galleries, and recently at the Univer-
sity of Florida.
ELLA MALLENBAUM is currently
seeking an MFA in painting. She
has previously taught art and
English in Pennsylvania public
schools.
DAVID NORRIS is a senior from
Charlotte majoring in print making.
This is his third appearance in The
Rebel.
MARK PETERSON is a sophomore
BFA painting major. He attended
Governor's School in 1974. He con-
tinually strives to express his
musical interests through his art-
work.
PETER PODESZWA is a graphic arts
major at ECU. He is an avid
photographer and currently head of
the student Photo Lab.
JUDSON POOLE was formerly an art
student at ECU. He has previously
done illustrations for The Rebel.
ROXANNE REEP is a_ graduate
student in jewelry design who has
had work purchased by R.J.
Reynolds. This is her third ap-
pearance in The Rebel.
BRENDA WILLIAMS is a senior in
Communications Art and a Student
Union artist. Last year she won first
place in the Rebe/ Art Show for a
black and white photo.
STEPHEN WILLIAMS is a graduate
student in the Dept. of English. His
photograph comes out of a collec-
tion of images from his summer trip
to England.
