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STAFF

Editor
Kathy Crisp

Associate Editor
Angelia Brinn

Art Director
Ed Midgett

Staff Assistant
Christie Lawrence

AWARDS

Anheuser-Busch Poetry Award
Lisa Ryan
oAnomy: The Loss of Me�

Jeffreys Distributors Prose Award
Gary R. Bryant
oKindling�

Sixth Annual Attic Art Award
Kris Gunderson
Untitled Sculpture

EditorTs Award
L.K. Johnson
oTo My Dad " The Colonel�

All prize money provided by The Attic and
Budweiser

The Rebel is published annually by the Media Board of East Carolina
University. Offices are located in the Publications Center on the ECU cam-
pus. The Rebel welcomes manuscripts and inquiries; however, unsolicted
manuscripts unaccompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope will not
be returned. Address all correspondence to The Rebel, Mendenhall Student
Center, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27834. This issue is copy-
righted © 1981 by The Rebel. All rights revert on publication to the individ-
ual artists and authors, from whom permission must be obtained to reproduce
any of the materials contained in this issue. Volume 23 Number 1.

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7

Lawrence

INTRODUCTION

It has been quite a year. I have thoroughly
enjoyed the opportunity to serve the university
as the Rebel editor. I have always been a believ-
er in practical experience as one of the best teach-
ing methods. This job certainly qualifies as an
outstanding learning experience.

I will leave this office sadly, because I will
sorely miss the chance to edit the magazine again.
I have taken great pride in my job here and I
regret that I will not be able to work on the next
issue.

The staff has worked diligently to produce a
magazine that continues to meet the high stan-
dards that have been established for The Rebel.
And, this year, special recognition must be given
to our art editor, Ed Midgett. Ed worked long and
hard to organize the Rebel Art Show and has
spent countless hours planning and refining this
issue of the magazine.

The staff must extend appreciation to the
Greenville Museum of Art for hosting the art
show, and to Mary Anne Pennington, Clarence
Morgan, and Michael Ehlbeck for judging the
show.

Thanks also go to Cheryl Rubino for judging
the poetry contest.

And, we must not neglect acknowledging the
continuing support of the Media Board and the
advice of financial advisor Paul Breitman.

We owe special gratitude to Tom Haines of The
Attic and to Jeffreys Distributors for their spon-
sorship of the art show and the literary contest.
Their interest in the promotion of the arts by
offering awards is an invaluable asset to our pub-
lication.

In the final analysis, what is most important is
your enjoyment of the magazine. We have tried
very hard to make this Rebel the best ever. we
hope you will agree.

Kathy Crisp
Editor

LITERATURE

Haiku For the Clams

Captive
Dismissed

Menu

Suddenly Simply
Spring

By the Ruins of

the Nuremburg Wall

Kindling

Comatose Kamikaze
Anomy: The Loss
of Me

The Left Over Lilly
Brains, Erector Sets
and Skeltons
Paring

After OctoberTs Gift
The Secret

Gayla

Chicken PickinT
Purple head

Letter to Jilla
Ghardai

Joy Ride

Banjo

Nugatory Poems
To My Dad "

The Colonel

First Recital

How the Weft

Was One

Haikus Left

By Spring

Tracks

Plants, Animals,

And What Have You
Dolphins at Ocracoke

Michael Loderstedt
Kathy Crisp
Christie Lawrence
Robert Jones

Gary R. Bryant

Roger Lell
Gary R. Bryant
Roger Lell

Lisa Ryan
Sam Silva

Hal J. Daniel
Kathy Crisp
Ernest Marshall
Don Ball

Gary Patterson

Sam Silva
Hal J. Daniel

Roger Lell
Christie Lawrence

Richard Hudson
Raymond Schimdt

L.K. Johnson
Christie Lawrence

Dale Maness

Ernest Marshall
June Sylvester

Raymond Schmidt
Linda Underwood

o10 & o

~J

11
16

18
19

21
22
22
23
23
25
26

46
49
o3
aya)

56
06

o7

O7
o9

59
60

ART
Figure with Green Paula Patterson 1
Illustration Michael Loderstedt 4
Venentian Interior Michael Voors 8
Illustration Ed Midgett 10
Illustration David Lewis 13
Highway View Donald Sexauer 15
Illustration Ed Reep 17
Photograph Susan Hall 19
Illustration Susan Hall, 20
Gary Hinnant
Spring Kevin Phillips 24
Sculpture Kris Gunderson 27
Winter Skylight Larry Shreve 28
Time Tom Grubb 29
Field of Deception Robert Dick 29
Southern L.A. Roxanne Reep 30
11B5 Jim Jacobs 31
A Garden: Protected,
Privileged, and Private Maria McLaughlin 32
Island of the
Blue Hearts Kathy Sholar 33
Figure in Transition Susan Ward 33
Blue Chair Gary Hinnant 34
Nuclear Baby Ed Midgett 35
Untitled Rochele Roland 36
Mixed Media Henry Stindt 37
Gum Print Bob Rasch 37
Birds of a Feather Laura Jackson 38
Raisins Bette Bates 38
Figure Drawing Betsy Ross 39
Marshscape Michael Loderstedt 40
Drawing Ray Elmore 40
Mixed Media Stacy Heller 4]
Untitled M.A. Hutto 41
Figure Drawings Ed Reep 42-45
Illustration Joan Mansfield 46
Scouts Playing
in the Graveyard Sid Davis 48
Illustration Stacy Heller 52
Gun Michael Ehlbeck o4
Rain Elaine Miller 08
Illustration Bruce Hall 61
Isabella and the
100 Arcs Paul Hartley 64

HAIKU FOR THE CLAMS

New sun in stiff reeds
great heron jumps leaving rings
the clams will wait.

Gray skies overhead

rake teeth scraping mud, shells and
the sharp scratch I know.

I feel you here, clam
move down deep in winter "
onion bag half full.

Lunch is hard salami
and bread balled up for pinfish "
salt-stung blisters.

Small ones are sweeter
sliding the knife alone the muscle
the clam pulls back.

Under leeward pines
the sound of wet stone on stone
eight-and-half cents each.

The bar down the road
my back knows each step to there
clams just get scarcer.

Michael Loderstedt

CAPTIVE

Face by face on the mirror

The reflection was maimed by florescence.

I paled in the light

And like the Cheshire Cat
Stretched into my biggest grin
And quickly disappeared "
Not fast enough

To avoid the eyes, fading and
Discerning and slipping back
Into mine ...

Kathy Crisp

DISMISSED

My hand is on the tabletop,
apart from my body. I watch
the fingers grip this pen,
like a crab on the beach
fumbling for water.

I stare at the crack in the

plaster, once hidden behind

the picture of clowns you painted.
I cannot stand your steady smiles.

You did not wait.

The change that comes
from time and booze
came too fast. You wear
this change

like a mask.

Christie Lawrence

MENU

In White Sands
there is a messy trailer

and me. I start right
each day: a bowl of wheat

germ for breakfast
with raisins, milk,

and honey. If you visit
me for lunch

I will feed you fresh bread
with a yeasty spirit

to leaven your daily lumps.
By dinner I drink. I drink

Italian reds sometimes,
usually German whites

until my right temple throbs.
Truly, it is no miracle to turn

blood into wine.

Robert Jones

SUDDENLY SIMPLY SPRING

Spring

Sings

In color keys.

Freshets free

From WinterTs claw

Pee. ...

While clean trees grow

Green.

And the keepers come commanding;
Humming, buzzing, gnawing,
Branding

Every stem and stick and leaf

A pollinated feif.

Slain seeds suddenly shoot,

And the birdsongs arenTt monotonous;
Yet.

Gary R. Bryant

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by Gary R. Bryant

Day dawned gray, with a creeping chilly damp-
ness that promised rain. A stray dog, cold nose
against cold steel, snuffled along the railroad
track outside an abandoned train depot and, com-
ing to the urine scent of another dog, emitted a
single, long howl.

The sound woke Lucas. He yawned and rolled
over on the hardwood floor of the depot. Kicking
away the ragged blanket that covered him, he
slowly sat upright. The fog in his mind was
thicker than usual and his glazed vision was
slower to clear. He blinked before remembering.

The big bottle. He was accustomed to a small
one. But the night before, Axton had given him a
big bottle as a reward for catching the shoplifter.
She was trying to slide a carton of cigarettes into
her coat pocket, and right in front of him, prob-
ably thinking, itTs just old Lucas: grubby, groping
Lucas; he wonTt tell.

Lucas grunted. He hadnTt wanted to tell; didnTt
like to tell, but there was none left in his bottle
and there was no money. There was nothing; no
fish or pecans or bottles to sell. There was only
ten minutes to closing time, only ten minutes to
find a way to get it, so heTd had to tell; had to
because yesterday had been the dog biting and
the dog killing and the waiting to get his hand
and arm fixed and the explaining to the police-
man that he didnTt kill the dog for meanness.
Then, there was only ten minutes left to closing
time and he hadnTt had any all day.

He had walked into AxtonTs store sweating,
worried; thinking that he might not get any at all
when he saw the cigarettes sliding smoothly, si-
lently into her coat pocket

Axton had smiled and said, oI sure do appreci-
ate what you did, Lucas. Tell you what, why
donTt you get yourself a big bottle on me and go
on home and have a good time.�

He had taken the bottle without a grunt, with-
out a sound, only briefly thinking, oI didnTt want
to do it, but I didnTt have any, hadnTt had any,
and closing time was coming.�

Now, there was still no money and only a little
left in the big bottle, but there were pecans to
pick up and sell and maybe fishing if it didnTt
rain, and he could pick up the trash on the park-
ing lot at AxtonTs for a few dollars.

""" = ° »

12

He fished a crumpled cigarette butt from his
shirt pocket and, after carefully straightening it,
lit it and coughed. The end of the room where he
stood was bare and the daylight struggling
through the smoke and dirty window panes col-
lapsed at his feet, leaving him stained with shad-
ow. Particles of dust from his stirrings languished
in the feeble rays of light. He shuffled closer to
the window and peered outside.

She hadnTt liked it. Even when Axton told her
that he wouldnTt press charges, wouldnTt have her
arrested; she hadnTt liked it. She only looked at
him and Axton, seeming to say without speaking,
oYou'll be sorry for this, donTt you know who my
Daddy is, he could buy and sell this place ten
times over.� Looking like she had been slapped
for no good reason, she had stalked through the
door as though she didnTt feel the stares of the
others in the store, as though she didnTt know or
care that her name would still be on their lips the
next morning.

And he hadnTt wanted to tell, might not have
told if he had looked closer; might have risked a
night without any if he had seen before telling
that it was SutlerTs daughter. But he had needed
it and Axton had given it to him in the big bottle
instead of the little one that he usually bought; as
though Axton figured that it was the least he
could do; figured that a big bottle might be some
refuge from what Lucas faced now because he had
needed it and taken it, even though it was
SutlerTs daughter who had paid for it.

Lucas flicked the cigarette to the floor and
stamped it out. He knew that Sutler knew about
the pecans, knew who it was who slid down the
creek in a canoe and crawled up the bank to the
fence bordering the long rows of pecan trees,
knew who it was who carried off sometimes thirty
or forty pounds and sold them to the supermar-
ket, knew, too, who would sometimes take a
chicken that had strayed too far from the coop;
knew that the only man to see the smoke that day
six years ago, smelling it before seeing it because
he was half drunk fishing on the creek bank, the
man who had reported the fire to the volunteers
and so saved most of SutlerTs house and his sleep-
ing daughter, was taking his reward in his own
way after refusing the money Sutler had offered
him.

So Sutler had said nothing to Lucas for four
years, had done nothing, had pretended not to see
him the times he stumbled upon him lying drunk

on the creek bank with a cane pole, a burlap bag
filled with pecans, and a pile of chicken bones
scattered around a smoldering fire. But the fifth
year, Sutler began to watch the pecan grove more
carefully. He had a new steel wire fence erected
around the chicken coop and let it be known in
town that he thought someone had been stealing
his chickens; as though by that he was warning
Lucas properly that he felt the debt had been
paid, as though he was giving Lucas the chance to
acknowledge the payment without having to be
told.

Now, there was no gratitude left. There was
only the shotgun carried over the shoulder and
the scowl and the promise to oget that god-
damned wino whoTs been stealing me blind the
last six years.�T

And for Lucas, there was only a little left in the
big bottle that SutlerTs daughter had paid for
with her name the night before. Lucas grunted as
the image of SutlerTs menacing glare dissolved
and was replaced by the gleaming bottle on the
window sill. The bottle cap rattled when it hit the
floor, and the wine sloshed gently against the
sides of the bottle as he drank in long, slow swal-
lows. When he finished, he ambled to the wall
opposite the window and placed the empty bottle
at the head of a row of smaller duplicates. He
shuffled back to the window and scratched the
week-old stubble on his chin.

Sutler would know by now how his daughter
had bought a bottle of wine for the man who had
refused his money, the man who wouldnTt be
bought into silence. Would know and would
swear to use his gun the next time instead of
merely shooting over the head of the half-drunk,
half-crazy man coaxing a stubborn fire with a
dead chicken lying on the ground beside him; the
man who had saved SutlerTs house and little girl
six years earlier when Sutler was two miles away
in a dirty bedroom with that same half-drunk,
half-crazy manTs wife. Would think, oI wasnTt the
only one, and what did the bastard expect any-
way, drinking and staying away all the time. A
woman like her was going to have a man and I
wasnTt the only one, but ITm the only one paying.
Six years of hearing the talks and whispers be-
hind my back; six years of wondering if it was
God or the devil tipping his hat and laughing at
me with a bag of pecans and a dead chicken in his
hands; and now, shaming my daughter and get-
ting a bottle for it.�

Lucas smiled as he thought of Sutler sliding
the shells into his gun, but the smile wavered and
disappeared as the thought of SutlerTs gun was
replaced by the image of two prone figures sweat-
ing and groaning in the hot dry shadows of a
summer evening; Sutler, grunting with surprise
when the fire alarm went off so that he almost
stopped. But Lucas imagined she was urgent,
quickly saying, ooNo, no, donTt stop now, itTs prob-
ably just a tobacco barn, donTt stop now,� and
Sutler continued while she murmurred oyes,
yes.�

The ones in the store who had seen Lucas turn
in SutlerTs daughter would think that he had
done it out of spite, at least the ones who knew
about LucasT wife and Sutler; the ones who had
never been told where Sutler had been that day
six years before but had guessed correctly just the
same; would think that even though he was a
drunk, Lucas was still pretty damned quick and
had seen the chance to get at Sutler and had
taken it; when all that he had really seen was a
warm bottle of wine in the carton of cigarettes
sliding into a coat pocket because he had nothing
and closing time was soon.

LucasT smile returned and broadened as he
stepped outside and closed the door of the rail-
road shack. It was the kind of day that he liked;
the kind of day that made it harder for Sutler to
see him under the trees.

The cool mist had turned into a cold drizzle
when Lucas steered the canoe into the creek bank
and tied the anchor rope around a rotting tree
trunk. He wiped the moisture from his eyelids
and blew away the beads of water on the end of
his nose. Shivering, he hurried to a clump of trees
that concealed the path up the creek bank to the
higher ground of the pecan grove. There would be
no fishing today. Too cold. And no picking up
trash for a tight two or three dollars either, not
when he could get ten dollars for a good bag of
pecans and maybe grab a chicken for supper as
well. But he would have to be quick, because
Sutler would know by now that he had caught his
daughter stealing and had gotten a bottle for it.

Sutler would lay for him harder than ever now,
thinking, oThis time heTs gone too far; I wonTt pay
any more; ITve already paid too much and now
my daughter. He must have known she was my
daughter and him, lower than the dirt on her
shoes, turning her in. ItTs too much to pay, too
much of what ITve worked twenty-five years to

... he ambled to the
wall opposite the
window and placed
the empty bottle at
the head of a row of
smaller duplicates

get. | wasnTt the only one to lie with that whore
of a wife of his. He must have known that I wasnTt
the only one; she was giving it away. All a man
had to do was ask and I wasnTt the only one
asking.�

The mud was cold and the fence rail knocked
his hat off when Lucas slid under it and into the
grove. He didnTt bother to brush the mud off his
clothes and after he put his hat back on, he
reached under the fence for the sack he had
brought with him and retreated to the sanctuary
of a nearby tree.

Sutler watched the crouching, ghost-like figure
from his perch in a tree a hundred feet away.
Watched and smirked when the figure began to
move slowly from tree to tree, scooping the fallen
pecans from the ground with practiced dexterity
and dropping them into the bag. Watched and
waited patiently, studying the wraith of a man,
the living proof of SutlerTs shame, coming closer.
Watched and studied like a complacent spider
waiting for an approaching, unknowing fly. Stud-
ied and allowed the smirk to creep into a leer of
triumph in knowing that he had finally been
there before Lucas and had guessed correctly
from which hole he would emerge; leered longer
in knowing that by killing Lucas this way, as a
thief, he would kill, too, the stories and looks and
whispers that had followed him for so long.

Sutler shifted his weight and balanced himself
in a new position without sound or wasted mo-
tion, as though his early years as a treetopper for
the lumber yard were not early years at all, as

13

14

though it was only yesterday he had walked into
the foremanTs office at the pulp mill and said,
~oYouTre going to need somebody to cut that tim-
ber you bought from me and my Pay, and ITm
your man. I know every inch of that piece of land
like the back of my hand and it would save you a
lot of trouble.�

Five years later he had made enough money to
buy his own farm, and after five more years his
farm had bought him a wife, a house and a daugh-
ter. Now, he was in the treetops again, as though
the trees, which had provided him with the
means to gain all that he had might now provide
him with the means to rid himself of the man
who was threatening to take it all away " the
man who was asking too much, expecting too
much, taking advantage of one who had done
nothing that half a dozen men hadnTt already
done after Lucas had taken to drinking harder
than ever. She wasnTt too choosy about the com-
pany she was keeping when he was gone. Sutler
wasnTt the only one to hear that LucasT job had
quit him; it had only been holding him loose and
half drunk for years, and it finally quit him com-
pletely when the new equipment was put in at
the pulp mill.

But Sutler was the only one who had paid, the
only one obligated to the shadow scooping
around the trees below, obligated because that
shadow was the one who had called out the vol-
unteers to save that which Sutler was thinking
last of when the alarm had sounded.

It wasnTt a matter of begrudging Lucas the pe-
cans or chickens he had taken over the years.
They were little enough payment for saving the
house and his girl. It was LucasT eyes and his
swagger; it was the looks and whispers that had
become unbearable. And now he would have to
see his daugnterTs shame reflected along with his
own in those eyes. Lucas, who meant nothing,
had nothing, and now moved more like a spirit
than a man, scooping from the ground, grunting
and groaning like the dead come back to life.
Lucas: the only flaw in the image that Sutler
proudly presented to the community, the only
errant brushstroke in the twenty-five year paint-
ing of Sutler. Now that stroke would be erased
with the flick of a trigger finger.

Lucas sensed the click of the shotgun hammber
before he heard it. Sensed it ripple up his spine
and grip him with what it was and what it meant.

He didnTt look up immediately, but continued to
study the ground in front of him. He allowed his
gaze to creep to the roots of the tree before strug-
gling past the gnarled bark to the branches above.

Sutler waited until LucasT eyes met his before
pulling back the hammer of the second barrel.
Lucas jerked fully erect at the second sound. As
Sutler raised the gun and sighted, he glimpsed
the shadowy faces of the townspeople leering at
him in the mist behind Lucas, daring him to pull
the trigger. He blinked and the faces vanished.

Lucas had not moved. A gust of wind brought a
shower of leaves and prompted the flight of a
flock of roosting birds. Sutler blinked again. He
wanted to pull the trigger, wanted to empty both
barrels of the shotgun into the man-wisp floating
before him, wanted to tell his daughter that he
had taken care of things, to soothe her who had
said, oIt was awful, Daddy. That dirty man put-
ting his hand in my pocket and saying, ~Axton,
maybe you ought to take a look in here,T and me
standing there with all of them watching me. I
was going to pay for them, Daddy, I just forgot I
had them in there, thatTs all, Daddy, I just for-
got.� Sutler wanted to shoot, wishing that the
man-figure below him would not bleed, would
not crumple, would not collapse and stain the wet
brown leaves with blood that was mostly red
wine, but would instead disappear like a dream
upon waking, and he would be six years younger.

Still Lucas did not move, even when he spoke.
His words didnTt seem to come from his lips, as
though they needed no source, but pervaded the
air.

oWell? You going to or not?�

Sutler knew that he wouldnTt, couldnTt answer.
He knew that if he could suspend time around
them he would never be able to either shoot or
take the gun from his shoulder; knew that he had
come as far as he could and now could not go
back. The finger on the trigger was no longer his
and Lucas knew it, but without gloating or guile.
Sutler watched, the gun still trained on the spot
where Lucas had stood, as Lucas shouldered the
burlap bag, slid under the fence, and disappeared.

Lucas was entering AxtonTs store, still holding
the money he had gotten from selling the pecans,
when the fire alarm went off. He only paused a
moment when he heard SutlerTs name mentioned
with the smoke and flames and oHow much do
you reckon that house is worth?� @

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Donald Sexauer

15

COMATOSE KAMIKAZE

He dreams of plunging his weary
flak-ridden dive bomber full speed
into the steel gray bridge

of the approaching aircraft carrier.

Alone in an American hospital room,
needle in arm,

clear plastic tube

& bottle of plasma " O Positive.
The tilted bottle

drips slow drops of saki

into his kamikaze veins.

Angry voices straff the hospital
window from the parking lot below.
Sunlight bursts into the room

like. exploding antiaircraft flak.

Body rigid, eyes glazed,
fixed straight ahead.
Kamikaze in flight.

The nurse on duty

draws a thermometer from

his lips.

Terrifying screams

flood the hospital.

A broken thermometer lies crushed
on the floor.

He smiles.

KAMIKAZE. DIVINE WIND.

A silent breeze flows
out the window.

Roger Lell

nt AA

tak

a

ATTN
T é r

-
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|
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)

Se

then Renoir, rolled and rubberbanded,
ended thumbtacked on my plasterboard,
dripped on my baseboard.

DegasT dancers

never pointe

just bend and bend.

(Churning
toting watching madonnas
with red earthenware.

Welp and feign and dream.

I know Magdalenes

live upstairs.

The women. The women

run by. I try

to get older,

even knowing nunneries, I try.)

I am dictated after frenzy:
No more hands in abstraction.
Today define your pupil nicely
in the eye. Forget du Lac.

You never knew the moors.



Root clippings in wine.
Punch rising bread.
Arrange magazines
and The Book of Job
ANOMY: THE LOSS OF ME illustrated by Blake.
Vacuum. Translate little
princes.

I try to get old.

Wear all leather shoes, (Get afraid to let up;
promise a heel, putting the shades and the plants
toes in the war zone turn yellow, skin sallow. Now
but newsprint on elbow as then.)
cancels me out. I smear
and blend. I am dictated:

Promise poetry. Fight off
Like angina down the arm all uterine urges, the desire
from the finger out to aura to be single celled. Try.

the centuries live in me.

Try to get old.

Poster paper made my living room
tan impressions growing brown " Lisa Ryan

THE LEFT OVER LILLY
(To Margaret Crutchfield)

When ITve gone through a thousand synthetics
Packed my bags like a vagabond

A gambler Vegas bound, pale tweeds

And the spare jeans

That quip my poverty

(And how I love leaving anyplace)

When I pluck a daisy

Up from a corner crack

Like a fiver

And think othey know I womanize
They know ITm a writer�

Or better yet

That I could be bound for Siberia
Outlays of early winter

And without any chapstick

Illegal immigrant dissident
Cornerstone of the new Faith

New movement

New new new clean sweep of the world

When the speed of rapid transit

An eastbound bus

Makes brush like flowers

Or else just as much

An edible leaf

And I kick up my feet

And prowl the aisle with my eyes
Looking for suckers

As much as the misguided wayfarer

When I rip off the windbreaker
Button and thread

Playing the part of a carnivore
And looking like a frog licking flies

You seed the frostbitten earth
In the back of my mind

I know thereTs a lilly
Somewhere

Sam Silva

by Hal J. Daniel

oCome in, sit down and wait a second. Okay,
you're Ms. Lilley, right?� Professor Carroll re-
membered his old friend Russell as he gestured
Ms. Lilley to the seat next to his filing cabinets.

oThey burn out,� Russell had asserted. oYou
donTt see many still at it past 45. Having to cre-
atively persuade a jury all the time burns Tem
right out! You just canTt do trails forever. Have to
go to corporate law or some such before your
wires cross.�

Russell never made it to corporate law.

Ms. Lilley put her new gray flanneled ass pert-
ly in the chair, right on top of DavidTs philosophy
class exams. It really didnTt seem to make any
difference, and her delicate perching enabled him
to conjure up some nice imagery of gray flanneled
asses on top of Descartes.

oDr. Carroll,� she purred, oI just donTt under-
stand CapraTs new ~bootstrap physics.T Do you
have the time to explain it to me?�

David sighed at her frettings and clipped,
oLook at this skeleton and my sonTs erector set

for a moment, Ms. Lilley.� DavidTs seven-year-
old son had recently used his fatherTs office table
as a launch pad for his latest intergalactic cre-
ation " a spaceship rabbit.

David knew he could finish pinballing his
thoughts while she gazed at the hanging bones
and his sonTs futuristic lagomorph. The fifth and
final ball slipped through his mindTs flipper,
waiting for another quarter and button press.

oOkay, Ms. Lilley,� David brayed, oCan you
see how the wind would blow through the erector
set and skeleton differently?�

oThe wind,� she hebephrenically pondered,
oOh, yes ... oh, yes, the wind. I understand.�

oOkay, then imagine the bones and steel are
matter; the wind anti-matter. Are you with me
Ms. Lilley?�

oYes sir, I think so.�

oNow, Ms. Lilley, imagine the wind is a soul;
the erector set is one brain and, ~Boney BennyT
there a different brain. Can you see that both of
these ~brainsT have spaces between their struc-
tures and structures between their spaces? You
can also see that both the spaces and the struc-
tures in each are different. CanTt you, Ms. Lilley?
Please see that?�

David watched Ms. LilleyTs eyes. oAll right
then, if you like, Ms. Lilley, the soul, the spirit,
ESP, clairvoyance, and whatever else old physics
and psychology canTt quantify; these are the up-
wellings of the ~new physics.�

David noticed the claw-like supination of his
right hand when he said ~upwellings.T He remem-
bered Peter SellersT portrayal of Dr. Strangelove.

oThose non-quantifiables, Ms. Lilley, move
through brains like the wind moves through skel-
etons or erector sets. Eastern philosophy has
been correct all the time.�

oOh, hello Frances.� Ms. Lilley smiled to the
high-heeled nursing student that calvin-kleined
around the hall. oITll be right there. Thanks, Dr.
Carroll, you helped me a lot.�

oGood day, Ms. Lilley.� David dropped an-
other quarter into the slot as he listened to Ms.
LilleyTs clogs doppler down the hall.

oFrances, ITm changing my major.�

Ms. LilleyTs fading words were the final five
David heard as a professor.

Tilt. @

21

22

PARING

A thin red line swells
Across my hand where the knife
Split my skin, exposing

You "
Hands cracked and bloody
As you stood in the cold

By the old wringer washer

Silently, as the wind tugged your hair.

I watched from inside,
Until just now as

The air rushed in and
I wonder

If there will be a scar.

Kathy Crisp

AFTER OCTOBERTS GIFT

What but brief days ago

Filled to every branchTs brim
Like bright birds

Chorusing in colors

Today lies on walks and lawns
In dark stains and pools

As if the aftermath of massacre

Rather than this customary catastrophe
Of the Fall.

My children used to ask me:

oDaddy, why does Christmas morning
Ever have to end?�

If only I knew to tell them.

For the answer must be somewhere

In what the rain murmurs only to itself
As it rips the last leafy wrapping

From OctoberTs gift.

Ernest Marshall

THE SECRET

Aunt Jane kept a secret
all her life

laced around her neck
like a silver cross,

but it wasnTt God.

Her poems came

bound together like rare pale birds
half-crazed from their trip

in the rambling boxcar

that was Aunt JaneTs mind.

And although they didnTt attend
her funeral,

they must have overheard

Uncle John in the bedroom crying
imploring her to come down

and whisper him

the secret.

He cut her down instead

with a carving knife,

and she slipped through his grasp
to the floor (much as she had
evaded him for twenty years.)

The secret was safe,
and the pale birds flew clear.

Sometimes in that abandoned part
of night when lunatics and

lovers peer out at the moon,

I lie still and listen

to Aunt JaneTs words

fluttering together

like songbirds,

endlessly rehearsing the calm
seductive melody of death.

Don Ball

GAYLA

From gate five, emerging rapidly,
Black rabbit and boots,
Brown curls.
Closer now
Gayla
Airport reunion,
Electric embrace.
How was the flight?
Got drunk with the co-pilot in Atlanta.
Come with me
To the burgundy Mercedes
At Fleet StreetTs end.
Steak and mushrooms,
One candle, maybe two
I think I love you.
But itTs much too soon.

Gary Patterson

23

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CHICKEN PICKINT

Plans seem to run themselves out
These days

Like dying hens

Lose their heads

Lie down

Squirt blood not

Stopped by the esophagus

Wait breathlessly

And someone else
Will pick them up
and pluck them
And eat them

Leaving behind
Thin bones

Sam Silva

25

by Hal J. Daniel

He cost me $6.25. At 25¢ a shot it took me 26
times to put that ballooned excuse for a basket-
ball through the Mid-South FairTs rip off hoop.
But, I was determined to win that little purple
chicken.

I think it was the purple that did it. Yes. That
was it. He was the only lavender puff in a box full
of reds, greens, and yellows.

I was eight and worried that the little purple
chick would get trampled like some of his biddy
buddies. I counted seventeen in the wire cage that
were dead from the zebra August Memphis heat.
His home was a Biafra of baby chicks.

But, I got him. Swish, on the 26th shot, that
biddy of pupura was mine!

I cupped him home; all the way from the fair-
grounds to 2946 Garden Lane. It was a long three
mile journey as big-boy baseball games, the
Memphis Belle, and the Chickasaw Garden Lake
all had their distractable magic. But I kept
crossed eyes on my chicken.

I put him in my backyard. Immediately, he
caught and ate fast bugs. His feet grew feathers,
his wings turned white, but his head stayed pur-
ple with a red comb: an iris in the snow named
oPurple Head.�

He followed me everywhere. It made perfect
sense to me that he did so. The older people in
the neighborhood laughed at us. I didnTt under-
sand why. But they laughed and laughed and
said, oHere comes Jeff and Purple Head.�

They gave me crackers. Purple Head was indig-
nant. East Memphians in 1950 didnTt serve fast
bugs, especially to uppity purple headed chick-
ens.

I always left full, Purple Head still indignant.
On the way home I could hear Purple Head cluck
fast bug success stories as we satiatedly sauntered
along.

Two loyal years later, Purple Head died. I
buried him next to my English bulldogTs grave. I
remember my last look at Purple Head. His eyes
matched his head; his feet were yellow razors. His
comb was a Gulf Coast boiled shrimp and his
beak a perfect candy corn.

~I put him down. But not forever. H

aimee. eee ee

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28

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Tom Grubb

Robert Dick

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Roxanne Reep

30

31

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Maria McLaughlin

32

Kathy Sholar

Susan Ward

33

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Ed Midgett

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37

Laura Jackson

Bette Bates

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39

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Stacy Heller

M.A. Hutto

42

44

My intention is to establish a condi-
tion " this in a relatively short period of
time, avoiding the inconsequential while
denying embellishment. With no set goal
in mind, a ocondition� of a sort usually
surfaces. Is it an elegance, a sensuous-
ness, a spirituality, a gesture or simply an
attitude " I cannot say.

Ed Reep

&

wn
vv

SL GMo_ Gt On AOU _

Jilla,

The Revolution has come & gone
and the last Americans

are being held hostage

in Teheran.

It was Athens wasnTt it?

Or was it a dream?

My feet were

blistered & sore

& I knew the seat on the bus
would do me some good.

Mycenae was absorbed by our film;
Corinth continued to trade with us
from her ruins.

We conquered a Peloponnesian lunch,

& then there was the Amphitheatre
at Epidaurus.

I photographed you sitting there,
alone

on the stone seat

from a distance.

I remember in those days

I still believed in

miracles and romance.

We talked endlessly
on the bus,

you about Iran,

& I about the army.

Later the Athenian night
appeared

& you turned out

the lights.

Your body was warm,
but the night was wrong.
Too much Greek wine,
my headache,

ITm not sure which,

but

when I found you
sitting at breakfast

the next morning

you were smiling at me
from your table.

I still remember your smile
as you boarded the bus

for the airport,

& while you were in the air,
millions of barrels of
Iranian oil gushed

from deep inside me

out of the wells

of my eyes

onto my bed of sand.

Your letters never came.

Only the Revolution.
American influence

expelled.

& you

daughter of an Iranian colonel,
secretary to an army general?
Sometimes at night

I dream

that the clicking

of typewriter keys

is transformed into

the bolting of execution rifles.

I think of you
sometimes
when I see a photograph
of Mycenae,

read the news of Iran,
or drink a glass of
white wine.

My camera created

your image

there

in the Athenian garden,
& when I look

at you

now & again,

you never stop smiling.

Roger Lell

"

JOYRIDE

by Christie A. Lawrence

Jack Wilson had been the strangest man who
ever lived in Diamond City. The Banksers had
always been known for making people feel wel-
come among them, but Wilson never acquired
this unusual talent. He had moved to the tiny
whaling community on Shackleford Banks more
than twenty years before the summer of JustanTs
joy ride, but in all that time, he had never made a
single friend. And the Banksers, for once, never
tried to make friends with him.

Justan had always wondered why the old man
had been so foreboding, and remembered trying
to think up excuses for him whenever she had
walked past his house. ~ooMaybe he was injured,�
her imagination running wild, oin the War Be-
tween the States. He might have lost his mind in
a fierce battle and thinks weTre all Yanks out to
get him.� Or else she pictured Wilson as some
desperate criminal who was hiding out from the
law. Whatever his reason for being inhospitable,
none of the Banksers ever knew, but one thing
the children, including Justan, had always heard
was that Jack Wilson practiced witchcraft.

No one knew where Wilson had lived before he
had moved to Diamond City. He was the first to
admit that he didnTt have any kin on the Banks.
He just drifted into the small Banks village one
day and decided to stay. If having no family

49

50

wasnTt evidence enough that the old man was
magic, the apple trees in front of his house was
definite proof.

Diamond City had grown up in the shadow of
the old diamond-patterned lighthouse for a back
yard and the Atlantic Ocean for a front yard. The
soil was either completely sand or too salty to
grow a wide variety of plants. Justan could re-
member her mother and the other Bankser wom-
en getting together and trying to grow fruit trees,
but only a few fig and pecan trees ever survived.

Still, out in front of WilsonTs house, right be-
side the porch, were two tremendous apple trees.
They were the most magnificent trees Justan
ever saw. Even after she was grown and Diamond
City was only a childhood memory, she never saw
any trees more beautiful than Jack WilsonTs ap-
ple trees. When she thought of those trees, she
always remembered the tale of Wilson her father
would tell on stormy, winter nights, sitting before
the fire. She remembered every word and gesture
her father had used:

oNot too long after Jack Wilson came around,
he began asking where he could get fresh apples.
Well, we all told him to go down to Josh Guth-
rieTs store. ~No,T he says, ~I mean just picked ap-
ples, large green apples.T Well, we all told him
there werenTt any apple trees in Diamond City.
So, Jack gets this funny look in his eye and says,
~Oh, there will be, there will be.T

oNow old Luther Davis said he was passing by
JackTs one night when he heard some funny
noises. He hid behind a sand dune near the house.
Jack was out in the front yard with a lantern. He
was conjurinT apple trees! I wouldnTt even be sur-
prised if he sold his soul to Satan for those two
trees.�

A shiver would still run down JustanTs back
whenever she thought about that story about
Wilson. Even as a child, Justan had been almost
certain that her father had simply wanted to
scare the gang of children who always listened,
but she had never been totally convinced the
story wasnTt true until that one, eventful sum-
mer. Besides, all the other Bankser children had
said it was true and that their parents all told the
same tale about Jack Wilson and the apple trees.

All of the children, except Justan, had been too
afraid to even walk past WilsonTs house. Justan

had always had to prove to everyone that she was
just as good as any of the boys in Diamond City
" and twice as brave. So, the kids were always
daring her to sneak over to JackTs and bring back
something to prove she had actually been there.
Once, she had stolen a dozen apples. Another
time, she had brought back a jug of the liquid she
had seen Wilson making from the apples. One
taste of the apple brandy was enough to convince
the young Banksers that it was the work of the
devil.

But stealing those little things had been mere
childTs play. The older boys racked their brains
for weeks trying to think up a suitable conquest
for Justan. Finally, they decided: Justan could
oborrow� JackTs skiff. That skiff was his prized
possession. The sides were always sparkling
white, not a single spot of dirt could be found
from the bow to the stern, and he kept the bot-
tom barnacle free. The thought of taking Wil-
sonTs skiff out had filled Justan with excitement.
But Justan had known she couldnTt handle that
escapade by herself, so she had convinced her
younger brother, Jonnie, to join her. Jonnie was
scared stiff of Jack Wilson, but he would have
done practically anything his older sister had
asked him to do.

When the day came, the two children slipped
past WilsonTs house without any trouble. The
apple trees provided excellent camouflage from
the front of the old manTs house. In back of the
house, a huge sand dune partially hid Back
Sound from view. Jack kept his beautiful skiff
pulled up on the shore behind the dune.

Jonnie and Justan should have found it an easy
task to float that skiff, but Jonnie was too ner-
vous. Although he had helped his father push off
his skiff many times, the launching of WilsonTs
skiff proved almost too much for Jonnie. He kept
expecting to see Jack Wilson jump from behind
the dune and turn him into a fiddler crab or some
other small, insignificant creature. If Jonnie
heard any creak or snap, he would drop the bow
of the skiff and dive into it.

Half dragging, half pushing, Justan finally got
the skiff into the water. Jonnie was relieved that
they could pole out to the channel and be out of
the reach of JackTs magic. He had settled back
and begun sorting out the fishing gear while Jus-

tan did the poling. He hauled his handkerchief

out of his pocket and untied the knot in it. He
unfoled the corners to reveal everything needed
to catch fish: twine, safety pins, and a slab of fat
meat. No other type of bait in the world would
ever beat fat meat.

Justan pulled in the oar, but didnTt bother to
throw out the anchor. Throughout her life, that
was JustanTs favorite way of fishing, just letting
the skiff float wherever it wanted. She settled
down next to the anchor rope and threw her
fishing line overboard. As the boat gently rocked,
Justan began to think of the croakers she and
Jonnie would catch and she hoped they would get
lucky and catch a few crabs. She closed her eyes
and imagined how those crabs would taste stewed
with strong onions and fresh potatoes swimming
in gravy.

Suddenly, Justan was jostled from her dream
by a volet rocking motion. Jonnie had caught a
crab, but before he got it off the line, the crab
caught JonnieTs toe.

oStop jumpinT around,� Justan yelled as she
grabbed for her brotherTs foot. She didnTt notice
that her own foot and gotten tangled in the an-
chor rope. As she lunged toward Jonnie, the mo-
tion caused the skiff to capsize. Justan remem-
bered feeling the anchor rope pull tight around
her ankle; so tight that the rope burn would leave
a permanent scar. Then, the anchor jerked her
under. The more she struggled, the tighter the
rope got. She tried to scream, but her mouth only
filled with salt water.

Justan seemed to stay underwater for an eter-
nity. The water she swallowed was choking her,
but she knew she couldnTt afford to cough and
take in more water. She tried to reach Jonnie, but
couldnTt find him.

Then, she felt something pulling on one of her
pigtails and her head was raised above the water.
A hand reached down and Justan remembered
feeling the slackening of the the rope as a knife
cut through it. Justan thought that the skiff must
not have capsized completely and that Jonnie
was helping her. She went limp and allowed her
rescuer to pull her into the boat.

Then he spoke. oI lost my boy to the same
thing that just about took you two. Fool kids.
Never think about the dangers of anything.�

oThe more she
struggled, the tighter
the rope got. She
tried to scream, but
her mouth only filled
with salt water.�

Justan was stunned by Jack WilsonTs words.
None of the Banksers had ever said anything
about Jack having a boy. She wondered if anyone
else knew.

Jack got up and pulled the oar out. As he was
poling to shore, he kept muttering about how
lucky they were that he saw them and that old
man PateTs skiff happened to be close by. Then
Justan heard sniffling. She thought it was Jonnie
whimpering about the beating Wilson had given
them until she saw the old man grappling for his
handkerchief.

The next day, Justan took a pan of bread to
Jack as a peace offering. Her motherTs bread had
always helped break the ice when she wanted to
make friends. When she reached the house
thought, Wilson was not in sight. She walked
around back and saw that he had managed to
save his skiff and was down on the shore cleaning
it. Justan started to go down to him, but she
heard him talking and stopped to listen:

oYou never listen, boy, never listen. I know |
shouldnTt have let you take that skiff, but youTd
have done it anyway. It wasnTt bad enough I had
to raise you by mTself. Now all I have to tend to
are my apple trees. You never listen.�

Justan walked back to the house and left the
pan of bread under one of the apple trees. Mf

51

Sa

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BANJO

Old banjo singing
through thick fingers
moving fast.

Strong man after work,

picking and posing
in calm likeness

of a prophet,

never stops to think
of reading Plato

or writing lyrics.

He just picks

and listens

to CBS Evening News
without voting "
loving potatoes

and oatmeal cookies.

Richard Hudson

53

NUGATORY POEMS I, III, AND V, AND VITAMINS
I

God is good. God is bad.
And we thank Him for lightning bugs.

Ill

I'd like to speak in tempo di valse,

I have the sky, but havenTt the time.
Words that are metered always sound false,
Especially when they rhyme.

V

After everything melted,

What had started out as

For lack of sleds fun

Became a bumpy springtime game of
Rolling down the hill in a garbage can.

VITAMINS

Eat the skins, theyTre better than the potatoes.
Eat the orange peels, theyTre better than the inside.
The silos are better than corn.

Raymond Schmidt

55

TO MY DAD " THE COLONEL

While I slept

You lay half-awake
Waiting

For the siren to

Order you to the flight line

While I played
~oSquint-and-make-Jap-eyes
Bang-bang-youTre-dead�T
With defunct grenades and
Wearing hand-me-down fatigues "
Miles away

You fought the real wars
So that when I grew up
and learned to talk

I would be free

To say what I pleased

While I sat

Behind desks in school and

Read and wrote and wished

That I had a job, too

You worked overtime

Above and beyond the call of duty
So that I would have everything

I needed

And most things I wanted

And now

As I sit here

Writing a poem, which
While not a great poem

Is a poem about a great man
Miles away

You lay dying

And I salute you

Sir

L.K. Johnson

FIRST RECITAL

That night on stage

all that mattered was

my saxophone solo.

[ wanted you there

but knew you couldnTt

make it in time.

Then the conductor raised his baton.
I started playing

and forgot about you.

But Mother saw you
standing in the doorway.
Your face was hidden

by engine grease

and sweat. You drove
without sleep to hear me.

No one understood why
an old man was there
covered with dirt and
aching for sleep.

Christie A. Lawrence

HOW THE WEFT* WAS ONE

Batavia: the gluon is disclosed,

a matter-of-course on the pilgrimage to the infinitesimal.
Electromagnetic, weak, strong, gravitational forces,

4 sea serpents circling the Known World

are biting their tails (as well as their tongues)

timely as coelacanths.

Burlington: 2 ladies waiting for broken weft

(for the clock to spin) pause from their industry.

One wears an implausible headdress " earphones,

tortoise shells of green resin. The otherTs ears are stuffed

with ceruminous cotton and despite the continual din they gossip,
shoulder to clavicle, jowl to chin.

The first weaver grins; her gilded front tooth reveals

the persistence of dental decay and what little

bacteria know of angst.

The banging shuttles in number obscure their own rhythms,
the Big Bangs excruciate (what a difference dacron makes.)

Dale Maness

*the thread carried by the shuttle in weaving

HAIKUS LEFT BY THE SPRING

Tulip bulbs at last
Press their way through warming loam
" Moles turned into birds

Morning lawnmowing
On the loom of my dreaming
Weaves sweet strands of grass

Ernest Marshall

PELs RO POE

PLANTS, ANIMALS, AND WHAT HAVE YOU

My old friends find me, among other things,
Quite leapless now,

Having given the last of my faith

To charity.

ItTs allright though, because

For six seventy-five I bought myself

A used botany text.

Twenty years ago someone wrote in the front
what is the purpose (wrong)
should be function

ItTs the first thing everybody learns.

Flowers donTt bend in order to smile at the sun.

TheyTre just growing on the opposite side.

At first I used to worry

As I leaned out the upside-down window.
Quite leapless,

I couldnTt make myself crazy,

I couldnTt make myself invisible,

I couldnTt make myself stop.

ItTs alright though, because, according to the
Text, life is like a mailbox,

A locker combination, a bus driver,

A blanket, a family, a serious talk.

There is no purpose behind it.

ItTs all whatever works.

I hope to become an unembarassed American chestnut.
My old friends find me
Among other things.

Raymond Schmidt

TRACKS Against the cold, early porcelain of sink and stove
I drink my coffee black

Gone. lifting back my curtain

Even the snow melts away I squint

from the tire tracks " into the white glare of snow

your last comment and watch the sun make tears

of the thin ice threads hanging
This morning high on the glazed maple branches from my home
a bluejay scratched into my waking on this window they wave
his call the first vein of Spring.

harsh in the morning light
June Sylvester

59

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62

WRITERS BIOGRAPHIES

DON BALL is a graduate of William and Mary. He
taught high school English in Virginia and hopes to
enter graduate school at East Carolina in the fall. He
has previously published in several North Carolina
magazines.

GARY R. BRYANT is a writing major. He is the
winner of this yearTs prose award.

KATHY CRISP is a senior writing major from
Washington, N.C. Kathy is editor of this yearTs Rebel.
HAL DANIEL is a Professor of Speech, Language
and Autitory Pathology at ECU. He is currently a
visiting scholar in the Department of Anthropology at
the University of Washington. This is his second ap-
pearance in The Rebel.

RICHARD HUDSON is an English writing major.
He has previously published in St. AndrewTs Review,
Aspects and The Rebel.

L.K. JOHNSON is a junior writing major from
Greensboro, N.C. Her hobbies include photography,
tennis and biking. This is her first appearance in The
Rebel.

ROBERT JONES is a senior writing major. He has
previously worked on The Rebel staff.

CHRISTIE LAWRENCE is a graduate student in
English from HarkerTs Island, N.C. This is her first
appearance in The Rebel. She is on The Rebel staff.
ROGER LELL is a senior at ECU majoring in Eng-
lish and minoring in Philosophy. He has been writing
poetry for two years. This is his first appearance in
The Rebel.

DALE MANESS is a senior majoring in painting.
This is his publication debut.

ERNEST MARSHALL is a professor of Philosophy
at ECU. He has previously published in The Rebel.
GARY PATTERSON is a freshman Commercial Art
major. This is his first appearance in The Rebel.

LISA RYAN is a junior French major. She has pub-
lished previously in Miscellaney and Rag and Bone.
RAYMOND SCHMIDT is an undergraduate stu-
dent in Philosophy on a yearTs leave of absence from
ECU, presently conducting research with Hal Daniel
at the University of Washington.

SAM SILVA is a poet from Goldsboro, N.C. He has
previously published in The Rebel.

JUNE SYLVESTER is a senior writing major from
Elizabeth City, N.C. She has published in past issues
of The Rebel.

LINDA UNDERWOOD is a graduate student in
English from Pensacola, Florida. She has published
previously in an anthology for college poets. This is
her first appearance in The Rebel.

ARTISTS BIOGRAPHIES

BETTE BATES is a graduate student in printmak-
ing. She works primarily in lithography.

SID DAVIS is a senior in Commercial Art. He has an
interest in photography.

ROBERT DICK is a painting major and expects to
graduate with an MFA degree in May, 1981. He re-
cently had his first one man show at the Greenville
Museum of Art.

MICHAEL EHLBECK is a printmaking instructor
at ECU. Much of his work deals with the fantastic and
the absurd.

RAY ELMORE is an ECU drawing instructor. He
works in mixed media and graphite on paper.

TOM GRUBB is an MFA candidate in the School of
Art. His major field of study is sculpture.

KRIS GUNDERSON is a senior sculpture major
with a minor in metal design. He received several
awards in this yearTs art show.

BRUCE RIVERS HALL has recently begun explor-
ing the field of illustration and is aiming for a situa-

tion where his creativity can flourish. He is a graduate
student in CA.

SUSAN HALL is a senior majoring in Communica-
tions Art.

PAUL HARTLEY is the chairman of the ECU
Painting Dept. He has most recently been exploring
three dimensional mixed media work.

STACY HELLER holds a BFA in illustration with a
minor in painting. She plans to pursue photography.
GARY HINNANT is a senior BFA candidate in
Communications Art. He is interested in animation
and painting.

M.A. HUTTO is a senior majoring in metal design.
She won second place for a mixed media piece in the
Rebel art show.

LAURA JACKSON, a graduate student, is majoring
in printmaking and minoring in textiles. She was a
second place art show winner in design.

JIM JACOBS is a graduate student majoring in
painting. One of his works was a first place winner in
the art show.

DAVID DODGE LEWIS hails from Bar Harbor,
Maine. He is an ECU graduate with an MA in painting
and is now looking into the MFA Program.
MICHAEL LODERSTEDT is a senior BFA candi-
date in printmaking. He also has an interest in writing.
JOAN LESTER MANSFIELD is working toward
her MFA in illustration.

MARIA MCLAUGHLIN, a senior painting/print-
making major, won first place in the printmaking cate-
gory in this yearTs art show.

ED MIDGETT, Rebel art editor, is completing his
graduate studies in printmaking. He has published in
several past issues of the magazine.

ELAINE MILLER plans to travel as much as possi-
ble. She is a senior in printmaking and intends to
enter graduate school. One of her peices received sec-
ond place in printmaking in the Rebel art show.
PAULA W. PATTERSON comes from Colorado
Springs, Colorado. She is currently completing her

bel 8}

MFA in painting. One of her drawings received a first
place award in this yearTs art show.

KEVIN PHILLIPS is making his first appearance in
The Rebel. He is a senior art major. His home is
Swansboro, N.C.

BOB RASCH serves as chairman of the Communica-
tions Art Dept. at ECU. He works primarily in gum
bichromate prints.

ED REEP is an artist in residence at ECU. He has
been listed in WhoTs Who in America and has received
honors too numerous to list. He says his work is a
reflection of his life " experiences real and imagined.
ROXANNE REEDP is a graduate student in jewelry
design. Her minor is drawing.

ROCHEL ROLAND spent two years at Chowan
College and is now in photography at ECU. She hopes
to become a CA major in graphic design. She was a
second place winner in the Rebel Art Show photog-
raphy category.

BETSY ROSS is an ECU drawing instructor. She is
currently working in miniatures.

DONALD SEXAUER has exhibited prints through-
out the country. He is the chairman of the ECU Print-
making Dept.

KATHY SHOLAR won a first place award in the
mixed media area of the art show. She is a senior in
Communications Art and is planning to attend gra-
duate school.

LARRY SHREVE is a graduate student in painting.
He received his BFA from ECU, also.

HENRY STINDT is a conceptual artist. He is an
associate professor of Communications Art at ECU.
MICHAEL VOORS is from Fort Wayne, Indiana.
He holds an BFA and MEA in printmaking.
SUSAN WARD won first place in the photography
competition in the art show.

63

Paul Hartley