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THE LITERARY-ART MAGAZINE OF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY
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WriterTs Awards
To paint a picture or to write a story or to compose a Poetry
song is an incarnational activity. The artist is a servant First Place: Laurilyn McDonald, Peppermint Rust
who is willing to be a birth giver. In a very real sense the Second Place: Deanya Lattimore-Cobb, Fireflies
artist should be like Mary, who, when the angel told her Third Place: J.T. Pietrzak, The Conception Company
that she was to bear the Messiah, was obedient to the
command. | believe that each work of art, whether it is a Prose
work of great genius, or something very small, comes to First Place: Horace McCormick, Jr., Winters on the
the artist and says, ~o~Here | am. Enflesh me. Give birth to Reservoir
me.�T Second Place: Gary Bryant, Tremors
Third Place: Chrystal Fray, Mothers on the Bus Go Hush
Madeline LTEngle, Walking on Water Hush Hush
Judges: Jean Morgan, Judith Suther
ArtistTs Awards
Best-in-Show: George McKim, Tone Poem for Arnold
Palmer
Ceramics: V. Jane Tucker, Tea Pot
Design: Phillip Dismuke, Neckpiece
Drawing: William Leidenthal, Geologic Time #26
Illustration: Todd Coats, Self Portrait ...
Mixed Media: Kara Hammond, For Barb
Painting: William Leidenthal, Summer Rain at Twilight
Photography: Joe Champagne, Untitled
Printmaking: Joe Champagne, Untitled
Sculpture: Carolyn Capps, Death of a Bird I, Il
Judges: Randy Osman, Chuck Chamberlain, Margaret
Georgiann, Joan Moment
Cover
oUncle OttoTs Truck,� this yearTs cover art by Mike
Tatsis, is an airbrush illustration.
James Lux Untitled
A Jamie Biggers K Bill Keck Q Ellen Moore ) Tim Thornburg 10 Katharine Kimberly
Poetry Editor Art Director Editor Associate Editor Prose Editor
The REBEL is published annually by the Media Board of East Carolina University. This issue and its contents are copyrighted 1985 by the REBEL. All
rights revert back to the individual writers and artists upon publication. Address all correspondence to the REBEL, Mendenhall Student Center, East
Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27834. Volume 27.
Untitled
ItTs Only Supposed to ...
Illustration
Illustration
Untitled
Photograph
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Remembering Days Past
Levitate
Untitled
Voluptuous Journey
Teapot
Neck Piece
Cultureel Paspoort
Lazerus
Costeau-Scape
Electric Clavinet
Untitled
Koud
Yellow Square
Death of a Bird, |
Victor, Vanquished
Self Portrait ...
Disjointed
Silence and |
Garage Door #12
Untitled
Tone Poem for Arnold Palmer
Tree of Knowledge, Tree
of Life
The Wedding
Untitled
Geologic Time #26
For Barb
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
Summer Rain at Twilight
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Photograph
Cintitled
Illustration
Illustration
Untitled
Untitled
James Lux
Bill Keck
Walter Stanford
Scott Eagle
Julie K. Simon
Lisa Sowers
Todd Coats
Jeff Hoppa
Gregory S. Tucker
Hayes Henderson
Hunter Hadley
Joe Champagne
Hugh Heaton
V. Jane Tucker
Phillip Dismuke
Blanche K. Monroe
David Lewis
Maya Oliver
George Arata
Carolyn Capps
Wanda Johnsrude
Susan Fecho
Carolyn Capps
David Lewis
Todd Coats
Hunter Hadley
Hayes Henderson
Leslie Karpinski
Joe Champagne
George McKim
Margaret Shearin
S. Renee Thomas
Jody Lynne Praskal
William Leidenthal
Kara Hammond
Bill Keck
Tom Baker
Tom Baker
William Leidenthal
S. Renee Thomas
Beth Heinig
Gregory S. Tucker
Julie K. Simon
Frank Stovall
Ellen Moore
Todd Coats
Gary Patterson
Gary Patterson
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Literature
Tunnel Travel
Fireflies
Mixed Media: Oil and Blood
Small Folks
Winters on the Reservoir
Whispers
Flight
Cotton Candy
Mothers on the Bus Go
Hush Hush Hush
Peppermint Rust
The Conception Company
The Teen Man
Old Hat
The Eighty-Eighth Year
Lunar Poppies
Light
Vacation
Leftovers
Tremors
Making Ends Meet
| Saw the Things Dwindle
Dog Days
Pas de Deux Jerome
Lost on the Horizon
Matricide
Haiku
A TurtleTs Trip
Whispers
On a Battlefield
October 1984
J.T. Pietrzak
Deanya Lattimore-Cobb
Donald Rutledge
Jenny Meador
Horace McCormick, Jr.
Sherrill Owens
Pam Robinson
Pam Robinson
Chrystal Fray
Laurilyn McDonald
J.T. Pietrzak
Jeffry Jones
Jeffry Jones
Laura Redford
Joe Argent
Joseph Swayze
Laurilyn McDonald
Michael Butzgy
Gary Bryant
Linda Anderson
Linda Anderson
Katharine Kimberly
J. Renee Pratt
Katharine Kimberly
Katharine Kimberly
Joe Argent
Carolyn Stroud
Theresa Rodger
Robin Ayers
Jennifer Hulsey
ONO U
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Tunnel Travel
| stir toward a pinhole of light.
Drooped dark dogs my tail, | donTt look.
Ahead distance is distorted, splits
confidence and concentration like
star-travelers confused by clouds.
| go on.
The tunnel seems slanted slightly skyward,
and the circle of light grows,
and the circumference of dark grows,
and | grow more sure of disorder.
| go on " nearing the end, the light "
walls, which once were chilled and hard, hold
warm colors. Artwork frisks my eyes. Stop
study silent the scenes preserved
on tunnel walls to show some lost soul.
| turn back, try to take in the whole
scene. Dark, too thick a sheath for these eyes,
turns me back. The artistTs pegmatite
disperses dark as prisms refract light.
Outside | reflect and find my face
in a shaded stream. Closing my eyes
| see fresh colors, caress contours
framing my pants. And in these pants ITve
worn all my life | finally find
my pegmatite deep in my pocket.
J.T. Pietrzak
Mixed Media: Oil and Blood
It was hit and run
sandaled feet and sabered teeth | sprang
after that murderous machine
cursing the foulness | took in
They sped off license unregistered
senseless " stupid to my turgid veins
Foul " defiling the transparent with stench-filled fumes
Obscene " raw meat message of violent frenzy with a tongue
greedy for gore but not for game
shit " bloody gut-wrenching period!
seeing him lay there
still breathing oThank God�
Never suffered the impact, they'll feign
Chrome bumperstreaked deep red with blackish down
Christ! You steely sternumed seed of a fiery iron steed!
In the wild this wouldn~t have happened.
Bleeding bad
we needed fo lift him
(from the fervid pool of oil and blood
engaging horrified stares
as if this serum oozed from out the ground below)
but
(mongrel dosgap sinfully shed, abandoned
to Sirius enlightened aid
road tar crudely sealing a gaping side)
we waited emergency flatbed coming
bowing our heads together
transfixed by nightmarish visions
transformed by tremoring scissions
Donald Rutledge
Fireflies
They twinkle around us unafraid
turning sparse summer boxwoods
to Christmas trees. We laugh and run
to find a jar any jar my mother
is not using we open breathing holes
with sharp pointed scissors then scatter
picking our flowers from the air
with cupped careful hands spooning our stars
into the glass. When the lid is off
they fly to the top rest on the rim
til we push them back. We hoot
through the field building our fire
filling the jar until almost time
to go inside. My grandmother
comes over to us says
oLet me show you what we used to do�
and delighted we huddle around
the warming glow she takes
from our hands. She gently unscrews
the lid and takes one out handing the jar
back to me. | drop it softly to the ground
not caring how many escape
as | watch this new thing
she will do. She places the bug on her finger
and flattens it
leaving a shining diamond on her right hand
ring finger. She looks at me
and smiles and | leave
the fallen jar
and the dying ember
and the favorite grandmother
and run out into the sparkling dark
surrounding myself with the living lights.
Deanya Lattimore-Cobb
Small Folks
Little boys, red galoshes, car pools, Mrs. Keggley.
Laughing at bouncing balls.
Sliding down the firepole.
Crunching square crackers on green napkins
after Tuesday's French lesson.
Together in a circle we repeated
ma mere, mon pere, bon jour.
The chapel modern, mysterious, monsterous
to us wee elves and dwarves.
Black stole and white collar,
A heavy Bible in his hands.
His deep, mellow grumble pronounced
~Our Father, who art in heaven ...
Everyone knew this prayer. Everyone said it
in light, reverent whispers God could hear.
God was big, His home a gold castle in the sky
and His chapel almost as big.
Its sunshine ceiling just short of a skyscraper.
Melted crayons " yellow, blue, purple, orange "
seeped through glued Humpty Dumpty glass
searing our hearts and wandering eyes.
A rainbow delight.
A cross hung.
Colors like popscicles reflected the wooden image.
God picked the colors as He frosted the spectrum.
oAmen,� he said.
oShh. Tiptoe single file with a buddy.�T
We were NoahTs stuffed animals pairing off the ark.
We'd jump into Jack-in-the-Beanstalk trees and try
to snatch a dinosaur cloud.
On swings we could almost squeeze clouds
between our fingertips like Playdough.
Honeysuckle vines bordered the glittering forest creek
Leaves edged tree roots and rock crevices.
springTs perfume saturated vines " Nature #5.
There, tiny sweet honeysuckles fit softly
in our hand.
Upside-down hats with orange brims
and Martian antennae sticking out.
Finally, something small.
Now we were the giants in Mother NatureTs
plant and ant world "
Little people holding on to marshmallow dreams,
and wanting to be grown-up enough
to make them all come true.
Jenny Meador
Walter Stanford
Scott Eagle
10
Winters
on the
Reservolr
Horace McCormick, Jr.
o Sis shine the light in my face,�T he said. ~~YouTre
blinding me. Keep it on her.�T
~~| didnTt mean it, Daddy.T
~~How long has she been this way?�T he asked.
~| found her here after church,�T | said.
He threw a half smoked cigarette into the snow, pushed
his hat slightly onto the back of his head and put his
hands on his narrow hips. The flashlight followed my eyes
into his face again, but he didnTt say anything. He looked
down at Sal lying there in a dingy patch of snow and ice.
oI think you better take your coat off her, Bud,� he
said.
~~Why?�T I asked. She ainTt dead yet.�T
oIt ain't gonna do her much good, boy. SheTs been sick
for weeks. SheTs old, Bud! CanTt you see that?TT he said.
While taking a slow, deep breath, he pushed his hat
further back and put his hands in his pockets. | came to
my feet and put my hands in my pockets, and we both
stood silently, watching the snowfall get thinner in the
beam of the flashlight while Daddy thought. Sometimes a
swift chill of wind would lift the small flakes and scatter
them in different directions before they could touch the
ground. It didnTt snow often in these parts of Missouri, and
when it did, the snow hardly ever stuck, except for the
year the ice broke when Daddy and | were fishing for bass
on the bottom of the reservoir near the Echo Hole. In the
winter, the Echo Hole was always the last part of the
reservoir to freeze. Daddy knew it wasnTt safe to fish there
on the ice in the winter, but when he wanted to do
something bad enough, nothinT mattered. Not Ma, me or
anybody. Not even Sal.
He slid out onto the ice on his belly like a spider
crawling on a thin glass table. Once he got to his spot on
the ice, Daddy pulled out his knife and chisled at the ice
until he had a hole big enough to put a fist through.
Afterwards, Daddy rolled over on his back, took his
small bottle of rum out of his breast pocket and threw it
back to shore for me to put in the tackle box. He rolled
back over onto his stomach and started to light a
cigarette, but the glass table beneath him began to crack
like a web spurting from his body in all directions. Daddy
tried to roll away from the webs, but everytime he turned
onto a smooth sheet of ice, he made another web. He
jumped up and took a short step toward the bank, but the
ice gave and he went under, all of him. I screamed his
name as loud as | could and the words bounced back at
me off the small cliffs on the other side of the Echo Hole
and rang and rang until | couldn't tell if it was me or the
walls of the cliffs echoing his name. | thought he had
drowned, but he had swum toward the shore under the ice
and burst through the thin layer on the waterTs edge in
front of me. He stood still for a few seconds facing me,
and then staggered onto the bank toward the tackle box.
He kicked the box open and grabbed the bottle of rum.
His shaking hands wasted the liquor down the sides of his
face and chin.
~Ss tay here with Sal,TT he said. ~ITm going to Ms.
CatherineTs place to get a shovel before it gets too
dark.�
He went in the house and put on his heaviest coat and
his old leather boots " the same black boots he told Ms.
Catherine that he broke his foot in during a war. | could
hear Ma yelling at him, ~o~Why donTt you take your best
clothes off? YouTre goinT to mess ~em up out there. | know
where you're likely to be goinT anyway, besides Hell.
You're goinT back out to CatherineTs place, ainTt you?�T
Ma knew he always went to Ms. CatherineTs, the
bootlegger, instead of GrandmaTs place on Sundays after
church. No matter how much she fussed, Daddy never
argued back, even when she hid his rum " he never said
anything. | never told Ma he kept a small bottle hid in the
closet in the old blue coat he never wore.
He came out through the back door with his boots
untied and coat unbuttoned. After lighting another
cigarette on the back porch, he tied his boots and brushed
each one off on the back of his Sunday pants.
~Get in the house, Bud. And get your best coat off that
dog!�T he said. ~I'll be back directly with the shovel.�
11
| watched him buttoning his coat and walking down the
snow-covered dirt road until he disappeared behind the
thinning flakes. | looked down at Sal; her mouth was
beginning to fill with snow, her eyes were glassy, and her
tongue was starting to freeze in place.
Sometimes Daddy took me and Sal to Ms. CatherineTs
place and made Sal sit on the back porch and me stay in
the yard or den where the painting was. The painting was
an imitation Van Gogh, hanging between two dying ferns
in bright red flower pots attached to the ceiling by fishing
string. The room was so dimly lit that the plants seemed
to be suspended by nothing. | told Daddy once when we
were there that he smelled like Ms. CatTs, and he took me
to the den.
The door was open and the painting was still there,
watching me as we walked down the hallway toward it.
The plants had died but the large red pots still loomed
around the unusually hideous painting. | often had
nightmares about the strange characters in the painting,
particularly the bartender staring at me like a gatekeeper,
welcoming me to Hell. There was a man crouched in a
chair in the deepest corner of the painting who reminded
me of Daddy. The colors in the painting were bright and
alluring, but I could never figure out how the beautiful
bright colors could emit so much darkness and fright. The
painting was called ~~Night Cafe.�
On the way down her hallway, I could hear men and
women making noises in the other rooms. Before we went
in, Daddy put his ear to the door for a few seconds. When
we entered, he unfastened his belt and told me to close
the door. He folded the belt in half and held me firmly
around the waist. | never ran from a whippinT, but he
knew | wouldn't stand still for this one. | shut my eyes
tight as he held on to me, held me almost as tight as he
held my wrist when the brakes went out on the jeep on
Dead ManTs Road.
[He held my arm with his right hand while pumping the
brakes on the old jeep and cursing every tree that weaved
in and out of our path while we raced and shook over the
narrow-curving dirt road.
Daddy never let my arm go nor loosened his grip, not
even at Dead ManTs steepest curve, Sawdust hill. His left
hand jerked the steering wheel and | could hear big Sal
crashing into the tin floor. It seemed as if we were on a
ship and every hill or curve was a dangerous wave and
the trees were dead boats that never got away, but Daddy
was our captain.
Finally Daddy slammed the jeep into the side of a dead
tree. The steering wheel knocked the wind out of him,
glass came pouring into our laps, and a bottle of liquor
came flying out of the glove compartment and into the pit
of my stomach. We both had cuts on our faces and
Daddy broke his hand. He sat up slowly, rubbed my
shoulder, and cursed the tree that stopped us from going
into the reservoir. ~~Jesus Christ!TT he shouted. ~~Damn,
Bud! You alright?� | wasnTt hurt much at all. He looked at
me and laughed a little, but I could tell he was still scared
~cause he hadn't let my arm go. Sal didnTt care much for
riding in the old jeep much after that.
| opened my eyes and looked up at him, waiting for him
to start on me with the belt in Ms. CatTs den. He took a
deep breath, brought his arm down to his side and
unfolded the belt.
oYou better watch yourself, Bud, or you'll be lookinT for
a soft place to sit before we get back home.�
oYes, Sir,TT 1 said. ~I wonTt do it again,TT even though I
wasn't sure what | had done. He let my arm go and told
me to get out on the back porch with Sal. Then he sat at
the bar between the ladies, and they giggled at me
walking out the door. ]
ll the ladies in Ms. CatherineTs place had on wigs and
lots of make-up. They didnTt seem to be much for
conversation, but they giggled a lot and listened to
everything Daddy said. He always told them a war or
fishing story after he had been there awhile, and he would
sometimes tell them the same story twice. His favorites
were about the tiger that ate his new lieutenant in Korea
and the bass that pulled his boat upstream.
| donTt think it made much of a difference at all to them
if he told the same story twice. He tried to tell Ma the
same story twice on night and she fell asleep behind the
newspaper. She wasnTt listening when he told it the first
time, but he went on anyway. | donTt think she knew the
real reasons he went to Ms. CatherineTs place, nor what
the ladies there meant to him. Sometimes | listened to his
stories ~cause I knew it made him feel good. Other times |
listened ~cause | knew what might happen if | called him a
liar.
The wind was still blowing snow from the pine trees
and it was getting colder, but Sal was still a little warm,
so | got closer to her. On camping trips she always got
between me and Daddy to keep us warm when the fire
went low. When she got too close, Daddy would tell her to
get away from us. | donTt think she ever really understood
him like I did, but little things like that didnTt bother her
much.
| looked toward the path, but | still couldnTt see Daddy
coming back from Ms. CatherineTs place with the shovel. |
stroked Sal under the neck and she closed her eyes. | got
closer to her, sat down, and waited for him to get back.
| wasnTt sure how long I'd been lying there with Sal, but
the wind had stopped blowing the snow from the trees
and Sal was getting colder. | straddled her waist and
pulled her up by the shoulders, but her head fell limp like
the deer Daddy and | shot and skinned four or five years
ago during my first hunting trip on the reservoir.
! remember Daddy skillfully making the incisions and
pulling the soft coat from the deerTs warm flesh. He cut a
straight deep line from its throat to the end of its stomach
and threw the warm insides on the ground, never looking
the deer in the face. When Daddy had finished, Sal
dragged the rest of it into the woods and ate it, every bit
of it.
After putting SalTs head back down, | slapped her
stomach. It sounded hollow and stiff, but she was still
alive. | rubbed her along the front of her neck and she
made a few deep swallowing noises. | saw Daddy coming,
12
wobbling through the path he made in Mrs. LetTs yard
from walking to BurtonTs Barber Shop on Saturday and
Ms. CatherineTs place on Sundays.
Even though the path was covered with snow, he
followed the trail instinctively around each meandering
curve. He bobbed along the path with his head tilted to
the left, his arms swinging a little awkward, but his long
legs took even strides like a long jumper taking a pace
count before his final jump. He had the shovel resting
over his left shoulder, his shirt had started to come out of
one side of his pants and his sleeve was cuffed at the
elbow. He had been drinking, but not enough to tell the
same story twice.
His hat was still perfectly aligned on his head to cover
bald corners, his brown tie was still centered tightly about
his neck and tucked into his pants the way he liked it, but
he had still drunk enough to forget his coat, despite the
cold.
~Is she dead yet?� he asked.
~No, sir. Not yet.�
~She will be directly,TT he said.
~~WhereTs your coat?T�T Ma yelled out the window. ~~Get
in here and get another coat!�
~oIndirectly!�� he shouted.
He looked down at Sal and rolled his sleeve down and
put his hands in his pockets. Looking down at my
snowman, he threw a pack of unopened cigarettes in the
snow and said ~o~Damn!�T only loud enough for me and Sal
to hear. | looked down at Sal and said it loud enough for
me to hear. Daddy ran at my snowman, kicked him in his
middle, and pushed his head off. SalTs body had started to
sink to the bottom of the snow. He picked his cigarettes
up, sat on the porch and smoked for a while.
~~What do you want to do with her?TT he asked.
~~LetTs bury her on the other side of the reservoir, near
the Echo Hole,�T | said.
~oNo!�� he shouted.
oAnd donTt let your
Daddy get too close to
the water. HeTs been to
Catherine's.
~Well; letTs just bury her on this side, then, where we
caught the brim with the night-crawlers last year,� | said.
~~ThatTs a long walk in this snow and itTs getting dark,�
he said.
o| know, but she wonTt mind. She liked to lie there in
the cool dirt while we fished,TT | said.
~| hear a lot of quail go there in the winter,� he said.
~Get some rope, your fishing knife, and the sled. Get my
old blue overcoat and put your boots and gloves on.�
| ran back into the house and saw Ma standing over ar
empty sink, staring out the kitchen window at Daddy.
~Is she dead yet?T she asked.
~~No, not yet. But weTre going to take her down to the
reservoir to bury her. SheTll be dead before we get there,
Daddy says.�
~You better hurry before it gets too dark,� she said.
~And donTt let your Daddy get too close to the water. HeTs
been to CatherineTs.�T
oOkay,� I said.
| got my gloves, boots, and DaddyTs old blue coat out of
the closet. From the storage room | grabbed the sled,
rope, and my fishing knife out of the tackle box, and | ran
back out in the yard.
Daddy grabbed Sal by the collar and | put my hands
around her hips. We picked her up, laid her down on the
sled, and rolled her over on her side. Her head was turned
the wrong way as if her neck was broken. | tried to turn it
the right way but she couldnTt hold it there.
oQuit foolinT with her,TT Daddy said. ~~ItTs gettinT darker
and we gotta be gettinT outta here.�
It had been dark for over an hour, but the moonlight
was enough for us to find our way to the reservoir. It had
gotten cloudy again while Daddy was at Ms. CatherineTs
place. | knew Ma was worried, but Daddy and | had made
this trip many times before on darker nights, walking
home from hunting trips.
He took the rope and cut it into two long pieces and we
tied her to the sled by the waist and shoulders. He took
the other piece and tied it to the front of the sled and
wrapped the free end of the rope around his hand.
Ma came out of the house and walked over towards us.
~~DonTt bury her too close to the water,� she said. ~~But
bury her deep. SalTs a big dog.�
Daddy had already started to pull Sal off into the
woods. | put the shovel over my shoulder and ran towards
him until | was behind the sled.
oWe'll be back indirectly!� he yelled back at Ma.
~You stay away from that water!TT she shouted.
~Be back indirectly!� he shouted again.
The snow always seemed quieter and deeper in the
woods. Thin sheets of cracked ice usually covered the
edges of the reservoir, keeping the water still. The woods
down by the water never seemed dark when there was
snow on the trees and ground. The moon wasnTt full, but
the clouds had drifted away and the moon reflected
enough light off the icy water and snow for us not to
wander off the path. | followed close behind the sled with
the flashlight aimed down the snow-covered trails. When
Daddy's boots made the soft crunching noises in the
snow, the quail or a rabbit would move in the bushes now
and then. The sled erased each one of his perfect prints in
the snow.
The farther we walked, the harder Daddy began to
breathe, and his pace became much slower.
oWe'll rest here,�T he said. ~o~WeTre about halfway there.�T
He leaned against a tree, took his tie off, and put it in
his coat pocket. He reached into the inside pocket and
pulled out the small bottle of rum he kept hidden there.
SalTs tongue moved a little after he poured some in her
mouth before taking a long swallow himself. He put the
bottle back into his coat pocket and wrapped the rope
around his hand again. He was ready to go, but | knew he
was still tired. A few winters ago, | could hardly keep up
with him. Sometimes we would chase a wounded deer for
hours and Daddy never got tired before | did.
13
~Come on, letTs go,�T he said. o~ItTs gettinT colder out
here.�T
| picked up the shovel; he grabbed the rope and we
started back down the path through the woods. Now and
then he would stop along the way and take quick sips
from the bottle of rum " to keep warm, he said. Every
winter on our hunting trips it seemed to be harder for him
to keep warm. | continued to follow behind him closely as
he stumbled on down the path. The walk to the other side
of the reservoir seemed much longer when we werenTt
looking for quail, deer, or a good spot to camp or fish.
When we got there my lips were hard and numb and
my finger-tips seemed frozen. Daddy sat down clumsily on
aT log. He leaned against the tree behind him and took
another swallow from the bottle of rum. Sal couldnTt move
at all now.
~~Why donTt you give her some more rum?� | asked.
~If | give her any more that girlTll live to be older than
your grandma,�T he mumbled. ~o~We can make a small fire
and wait for a while. She'll be gone directly.�T
After sitting there and watching Sal for a while, | flared
the light into his eyes again and he looked tired and
crowsy.
~Get that damn light out of my eyes, boy,� he said,
~o~you're blindinT me again. Put it out for awhile.�T
~You better stay away from that water. Wake up! You
know what might happen if you were to fall asleep out
here,TT | said.
~You watch how you talk to me, Bud! Shut your smart
mouth and get some dry branches so | can get the fire
going,T he said.
| walked around for a while, but there were not any dry
branches. When | got back he was almost asleep.
oWhat the hell are you doinT?TT he mumbled.
oItTs for the fire. YouTve been drinkinT too much
anyway, | said.
| took the bottle from his coat pocket and put it in
mine. ~o~You better watch how you talk to me!� he said as
he started to nod again.
| untied Sal from the sled, rolled her off and poured rum
over the sled. | took his lighter from his shirt pocket, lit
the sled, pulled Sal away from the fire and dragged Daddy
closer to the warm flames. Daddy mumbled, now and
then, while we sat there waiting for Sal to die.
| sat there in front of the burning sled, day-dreaming
and watching the flamesT shadows get smaller on SalTs
rusty-red fur. The shadows played on the icy edges of the
reservoir and on Daddy's tired face. The sky had cleared
and the moon's light was so illuminating that | could see
the trees on the other side of the reservoir and the lights
from the power plant far ahead of us. | could see the logs
Daddy and | laid on the water, tree to tree, to reach the
blue-gill bed under the large patch of green and yellowish
lillies.
In the winter the water rose over the spot where the lily
pads grew and during the July droughts, when the
reservoir was almost completely dry, a fast deep stream
runs behind them.
| looked over at Daddy " he had fallen asleep. He
wasn't moving, mumbling or saying anything, not even
after | flashed the light into his eyes. ~~Wake up!� |
shouted. oWe can't fall asleep out here!TT He didnTt say
anything. His face was cold and stiff and | wasnTt sure if
he was freezing or passed out from the liquor he drank at
Ms. CatherineTs place and on the way here to bury Sal.
~Get up Daddy! Get up!� | shook him by the collar and
he fell over onto the ground in front of the sled. The fire
was out " he was going to freeze to death.
| put my hand under SalTs neck " she was frozen stiff,
but her heart was still beating. Closing her eyes, | took my
knife out of its rusty casing and cupped SalTs chin in my
right hand, pulling her head upward until her neck was
tight. She made some more deep swallowing noises. | took
a heavy deep breath, looked away from her, and forced
the knife into the bottom side of her neck. | stopped for a
few seconds and looked at Daddy, and then, | felt a
shuddering jerk move through SalTs body.
Her head fell back farther as | lengthened the cut. After
cutting a complete circle around her neck, | cut her
around the ankles and tail and pulled the warm lining
from her flesh.
The thin layer of skin holding her flesh together was
wet and warm. | took my gloves off and rubbed it over
my face and hands before wrapping it around Daddy.
~~Come on Daddy! Get up!�T I said, but he didnTt move at
all. | grabbed the knife and ran back over to Sal where the
snow had turned muddy red and icy. | cut her warm
pieces of flesh out of her and stuffed them in DaddyTs
shirt.
| backed up against a tree and flashed the light onto the
ground and watched SalTs body melt the snow around it.
A slow narrow stream of blood mixed with the ice on the
water's edge.
| sat down on the half-burned sled and watched a warm
mist rise from DaddyTs collar like steam from the water on
the first warm spring morning when the last sheets of
winter ice melted from the surface of the reservoir. |
picked the shovel up and started to dig. RJ
14
Whispers
Swimming inside silk skin,
the first sounds whisper,
hushed nurseries with swishing arms,
light slivers pierce through gauze,
a stranger in rubber gloves,
sterile white, mumbles
behind a muffled mouth.
Grass licks toes, whispers of warmth,
warm rains speckle ground,
roses from the garden weave
like candlelight, heady moisture;
chilled wine enchants
on cricket nights, music
whispers on creeking springs.
Winds in early autumn
become faces that haunt, follow
on melancholy walks, whisper memories.
Leaves skate across the grass,
nestle against shrubs, curbs,
~crumble under the weight of man,
as a calico chases a breeze.
White as a full moon,
snow whispers as it touches,
hold tight, cling to now.
spider legs reach, black spindles
trimmed with lace doilies,
steamy breath against iced windows;
gentle last sounds of quiet rooms,
starchy sheets, silk stockings,
a family gathers, whispers, whispers.
Sherrill Owens
15
Julie K. Simon
16
Flight
In Autumn days
when brown leaves fell,
| laughed,
crushing late-blooming petals
as | ran to the weeping willow.
The black tire beckoned
through green fingers.
Eyes tightly squeezed,
| gained speed
(surely | could touch wind-roughened
bark melting into blue).
| swung higher and higher
never hearing the snap
of rotten twine.
Set free,
| soared into the heavens.
Pam Robinson
Cotton Candy
Warm air swirls
through vented sides.
Wispy pink threads
intertwine,
grow thick,
merge.
An ivory staff pierces the soft mesh.
Stiffly, the old man rises from his task
offering his masterpiece.
A child snatches the fluffed candy,
darts among faceless strangers.
The man turns and begins again.
Pam Robinson
47
Mothers
on the bus
Go
Hush Hush Hush
Chrystal Fray
he woman rose from the bench with a practiced grace
i i as she saw the bus round the curve. She had been
waiting for what seemed years but was actually only
fifteen minutes. She was a small, light-skinned woman; her
hair was pulled back, not severely, but elegantly,
conservatively, into a small bun at the back of her head,
and tied expertly with a scarf. Her petite hands rose
occasionally to smooth away non-existent stray hairs. Her
wool suit, almost ten years old now, had been brushed
just that morning to remove any signs of lint or wear. She
was a woman of middle years " not young, not old "
but her carriage, her care for her appearance, her
confidence in knowing that she was attractive, gave her
an air of a beautiful young co-ed waiting for the campus
bus to take her to class. No passerby would have
assumed that her life had been long, in truth was half
over. That in life, she had done all her living and that now
she waited for more than the bus slowly approaching on
the street, but for a release; a final fulfillment.
The bus stopped directly in front of her " whether out
of policy or knowledge of her preference, she did not
know. The woman boarded the bus and carefully put sixty
cents into the money slot. She counted it out slowly,
turning each coin over in her hand. One quarter, three
dimes, and one nickel " sixty cents exactly. She made
sure the driver knew it was sixty cents exactly, because
these city bus drivers were known for miscounting change
and demanding more money. DonTt let that happen to me,
the woman thought, and locked her eyes with the bus
driverTs in hopes of relaying this request.
The bus was crowded, as it almost invariably was. The
seats were filled with mostly women, mostly young, and
all black. The majority of them seemed to have babies or
small children; and, the woman assumed with distaste,
were not married. She craned her head towards the back
in hopes of finding an unoccupied seat. She skimmed the
faces of the other riders, registering their dislike of her,
and decided to take an empty seat beside a large black
woman with two small children.
They are colder this month, she decided. Each month, it
was worse, the coldness. The other riders recognized what
to them were her fine clothes, her pretty hair (like white
folks), her high-sidity look, and they hated her. She hardly
ever paid her fare in pennies, but she did ride the bus.
She must not be all she tries to make us believe, they
thought. Come down off your high-horse, Miss High and
Mighty. You are one of us now, she had even heard one
say. | am not one of you, she thought. | am and always
will be something more; | am better, she thought, and
nothing would ever convince her otherwise.
She spent a few moments gazing out of the window on
the other side of the bus before noticing the occupants of
the seat beside her. She looked at the large, very black
woman and immediately decided that she was quite ugly.
Much too dark, she decided, but the children captured her
attention. They were identically dressed little boys " not
twins, but no more than a year apart. One little boy was
suffering from a cold, evidenced by his runny nose and
the mucus creeping down into his mouth. Occassionally,
out of irritation, he would reach up and wipe his nose with
the sleeve of his shirt. Jeffrey, her knee-baby, used to do
the exact same thing, the woman thought. The other boy,
the smallest, whined and cried, continuously pulling on his
motherTs arm.
18
Momma ... wen we gone git dere? How long it take?
I'm hongry. ITm tired ...TT the child droned in a flat voice.
~~Hush! Hush boy. We gone git dere in a lilT wile. JusT
hush now!�T the mother replied, then added under her
breath, ~~Jerome, stop wipinT that on your shirt, boy!T
You should spank them, the woman thought to herself.
| always spanked mine when they made a scene like that
in public. If you spank them while they are young, they
will be better behaved when they get older. She followed
this train of thought back to a time almost ten years ago
when Gregory was five and Jeffrey, six. She had taken the
boys shopping, as she did every Saturday during the time
when they still had money and Daddy was home and they
had a car. Jeffrey and Gregory had begun to fight over
some popcorn, even though there was plenty to go
around. She had spanked them long and hard, so that
everyone in the mall could see the bad boys duly
punished, and told them to never, ever embarass her in
public again. They had never been ill-behaved in public for
fear of one of those spankings, and she was glad. Her
mother had told her this little trade secret when the boys
were born.
~Spank them boys, girl. They won't give you no
problems later on,�T her mother had said.
~~But Momma, | canTt spank them. They'll grow up and
hate me,T she had cried.
~~Now I spanked you and all of your brothers before you
and you never did hate me for it, did you?�T was her
motherTs reply.
She had not hated her mother, not for the spankings;
but she had always been skeptical of her advice. Her
mother was simple, uneducated, and black; this she had
hated. She had hated being the daughter of a black maid
and a mysterious white man, referred to only as the
oinsurance man.� She had been the best-dressed, best-
looking girl in high school, but had hated wearing the
white familyTs throw-aways, artfully fixed up by her
mother. She had hated all of this but she had loved her
mother, and therefore had taken her advice.
~Mark my word. | know everything about being a good
mother,TT her mother had said.
Mark my word, her mother had said, those many years
ago. Over and over, constantly, she had said, ~~Mark my
word.� oHe ainTt no good, mark my word,� she had said
when informed of her daughter's plans to leave school and
marry that fine Northerner with the cool accent and the
fine car (as she had described him then.) ~~YaTll ainTt gone
keep them payments up,� she had said when they had
bought the brand-new split-level house in the subdivision
for blacks on the south side of town. ~You gone regret
havinT all them kids, mark my word,� she had said when
presented with Gregory, her fifth and last grandchild.
oMark my word, you ainTt gone have no life at this rate,�
she finally said.
Those many years ago the woman had chuckled softly
to herself. Momma donTt know what sheTs talking about,
the woman had said. My husband will always love me, my
house will be mine forever, my children will go to college
and be doctors and lawyers, and we'll live happily ever
after. She had believed this; but that had been all those
many years ago.
She had lived in a dream existence until one day her
fine husband drove his shining new car (which wasnTt all
that new by then) into the sunset, escaping five
19
responsibilities and his house payments. He left the
woman, his wife, unemployed, untrained, lost in a deluge
of responsibility she had never planned on handling. She
had five boys, mortgage payments, and no car (nor
driver's license). She had sought work in several places.
She was too old to work as a waitress, too proud to work
as a maid, too dumb to work in the all black bank (that
hired just about anyone with good looks and math skills),
but just pretty enough to get offers for her body. I'll be a
maid before I'll be a prostitute, she had thought.
S he sought help at the county social services offices,
and was horrified to discover that she either had to
work or give up her house and move into the local
housing projects. | would rather die than suffer the
humiliation, the woman had decided. SheTd considered
suicide once, but she could not get any prescriptions for
lethal drugs, she hated the smell of gas, and she couldn't
possibly cut or hang herself. Besides, she thought of the
scandal she might create, and changed her mind. She sold
her furniture and lived on, finally moving in with her
mother when the bank foreclosed on her mortgage (which
was several months in arrears).
She collected a welfare check to provide her children
with the barest of essentials, but never lived on the same
level again.
~~oMomma! ITm hongry now ... wen we gone git dere?
I'm hongry!�T said the child beside her in a tone loud
enough, the woman supposed, to wake the dead. This
time, to the woman's surprise, the mother gave the child
a ringing slap across the forehead that sent him stumbling
into the aisle. The child gave his mother a long, puzzled
stare, as if to say, is it wrong to say ITm hongry?
Somehow, he never shed a tear.
The mother picked him up gently and cradled him in
her arms. oITm sorry, baby. | do de best | can. Now hush.
Bus'll get dere soon, O.K.?�
The woman, bothered by the scene, focused her
attention on some of the other riders. The young mothers
with babies cradled in their arms were sitting quietly, their
faces registering emotions from boredom to ...
annoyance, maybe? Some seemed deeply engrossed in
some thought or the other, maybe what to get from the
grocery store, how many food stamps to spend.
Occasionally, they would rub a babyTs forehead or gently
tap a childTs wandering hand, but generally they appeared
to the woman as a flock of sheep, all holding round-trip
tickets to nowhere. Where are their husbands, or more
appropriately, their lovers, the woman thought. Are they
alone, these women, these children, like | am alone.
Some of the children, especially the little girls, were
dressed in their Sunday best: hair brushed and greased to
a T, socks that had been soaked in Clorox until the
slightest bit of dinginess was gone, patent leather shoes
shined in a better than military fashion. The mothers, on
the other hand, seemed to be dressed in a close to
careless manner, some of them with knotty, uncombed
hair and barely pressed blouses. Almost all had on
bluejeans " not the real denim kind, but the polyester
blend kind sold in stores like Jet Fashions. They should
take more care with how they look, the woman thought to
herself.
hen her boys were young, she always pressed their
W pants with great care, the creases pencil sharp,
starched until they almost stood on their own. At the
slightest show of a knot, she would wet-brush their hair,
smooth on some grease with the palms of her hands, and
comb in a part on the side. Her children were clean, those
many years ago, and it was a reflection on her. Now that
the boys were teenagers, they dressed themselves, but
they were still clean " she saw to it. No one would ever
say that she wasnTt a good mother.
And these women, she thought, are they good mothers?
Have they sacrificed their lives, as | have, to give their
children life? Do they wear ten year old suits in order to
buy a fifteen year-old son sneakers on a regular basis? Do
they also bear the embarrassment of buying food with
government issued food stamps instead of real money?
Did they love the men who undoubtedly left, as much as |
loved mine? Did it hurt as much? Suddenly, she felt sad,
not for herself, but for these mothers in their tattered
clothes with their hungry children. Their lives are like
mine, she thought, only theirs have never been better.
Suddenly she remembered that she had not made out a
grocery list for the month. | have to plan carefully, she
thought, because last time the month ended up longer
than my food supply. For the last two weeks of
November, she had fed her children meals of rice and
beans flavored with side meat (which she abhorred), and
sprinkled with a rationed portion of sugar to add a little
flavor. Somehow, the sugar had hung around until this
morning, just enough for her coffee ... But Gregory, who
is always hungry, (he is a growing boy) found it and added
it to his grits.
She had screamed, she had pouted, she had acted like a
child. She had thought of that hot cup of coffee all night
long, she told him. It reminded her of years before, when
she would fix the children oatmeal before school and her
husband would join her for a quick cup of coffee before
running off to work. She would then sit and think of how
perfect her life was; her hard-working husband, her lovely,
well-behaved boys, and her beautiful, much envied split-
level in the best black neighborhood in town. But this
morning Gregory had taken that sugar and put it in his
grits.
She had screamed, ~~Every time | want just a little
something for myself, one of you boys takes it. ITm tired
of it. | wish I could just die sometimes to get away from
you, all of you ... | canTt have anything!�T
~ITm sorry, Ma,TT Gregory had said, close to tears. It was
only a tiny bit of sugar and it hardly sweetened his grits
at all.
She had screamed, she had pouted, she
had acted like a child. She had thought of
that hot cup of coffee all night long, she
told him. )
oYou couldn't have been that hungry. You could have
left it alone,TT she screamed back, before storming off to
the bathroom.
| shouldn't have screamed, she thought as the bus
20
pulled to a stop in front of the store. I'll apologize when |
get home. The woman fell in line with the other women as
the bus driver prodded them towards the door. Like sheep,
the woman thought. As she neared the door, she noticed
the bus driver staring at her. Why not? she thought with
amusement. | look pretty good for forty-three. She reached
a hand up to her head, trying to recapture and replace
any stray hairs. She gave the bus driver a smile before
saying, oHave a nice day.�T
She noticed the driverTs eyes as they dropped to her left
hand. She had a wedding band on her finger still, along
with her engagement ring and its genuine diamond setting.
She quickly left the bus.
The driver followed her progress toward the store,
taking in the high tilt of her head, the steady, self-assured
glide in her walk, her slightly outdated, but finely-tailored,
wool pantsuit, and then she disappeared into the grocery
store. Inside the store, she turned and gave him another
smile, confident that he was impressed with her. She did
not know that he never saw her wave and that he wasnTt
much impressed with her at all. He'd guessed her age to
be about fifty, and heTd never cared much for welfare
mothers. He quickly drove away.
The woman turned, and, surprised to find the large
black woman from the bus standing beside her, quickly
grabbed a cart.
oMiss?� the other woman said. o~Miss, whatTs yoT
name?�T
~~My name is Mrs. Thompson,� the woman said.
~Beatrice, my name is Beatrice.�T
oWell, Miss Beatrice, | sorry if my chirren bothered you
on de bus. You know how chirrens is,TT the large black
woman said. oItTs jusT dat dem bus rides is so long and de
chirren gets tired so quick. But if dey bothered you, | shoT
am sorry.�
~They didnTt bother me at all. | have five children of
my own. You should spank them, though. If you spank
them while they are young, they will never misbehave in
public again. My mother told me this when my boys were
small.TT The woman, Beatrice, said, surprised at this flow
of words. The large black woman grinned with a wide,
relived grin.
~You are a pretty woman, Beatrice. Bless you,TT she
said, and walked away.
Beatrice watched the woman waddle slowly down the
aisle, a small child on each side. She thought of her
husband, so far away, so long gone. Why didnTt he take
us with him? She made a mental note to pick up plenty
of sugar.
ee ee ee
eh PRM Ee
i, aes &
Todd Coats
22
Peppermint Rust
Junkyard cars sit and rust
on sun-splashed afternoons, girls
on porches sit tasting
field dust, bare dirt, grass
sparse yards, combs through thin
damp hair. The tractorTs slowing sound
coming home. A kitchen filling with sounds
_ Of clatter, scattering forks, a rusty
jar lid " a kniveTs thin
blade, (the edge of a girlTs
eyes mocking through tall grass "
their brown shape leaving a sad taste.)
The first time a boy tastes
the salt sting of blood, he remembers sounds,
scents, the bug buzzing grass
of the hillside spilling into the rust
colored river. (He remembers the girl,)
moist fingers tracing the thin
scratches. Sucking a thin
paper straw soggy with the sticky taste
of cherry coke (swirled like the girlTs
striped dress) at Lindsey's store. The sound
of men folk trading tales, a rusty
hound lazes on the cool concrete, not the grass
that lies beyond the storeTs shade. (A blade of grass
makes a shrill whistle, lips tight on the thin
side.) The thrill of a petticoatTs rustle
between the pews, the holy taste
of communion replaces the evil sound.
Leaving the church, passing giggling girls
he hesitates. A honey flavored girl
awaits, laughing in high grass
making a metallic sound.
Butterscotch hair tossed with thinned
blue jeans. SheTs sensible enough to taste
of peppermint, candid enough for rust.
She is not a holy girl, her thin
blouse grass stained. He will remember the tastes,
the sounds, the qualities of rust.
Laurilyn McDonald
23
The Conception Company
Wife, our landlord called today. Rent
went up. A Bourn Hall doctor called. Your application
is acceptable for two couples, a concept
| am still unsure how to live
with. Confusion seems the consistency everyday.
The Cambridges call for you to donate
only your womb. The Duncans desire your donating
an ovum also. You must choose who will rent
your body (not a true donation). Everyday
you will be, to the Cambridges or Duncans, an appliance
paid for to make their lives
complete. My wife, fertile, able to conceive,
will carry for a Cambridge or a Duncan, keep their concept
of Family alive. Like an ordinary organ donor
you will bring them new life
and we will pay rent.
The procedure poses logical applications.
Ethics consider other questions. Science offers today
an array of artificial ways to create life. The day
may come when computers capable of conception
(don't be close-minded) will scan applications
of surrogates best suited to donate
living software. Computer-time with rent
payable to The Conception Company " a life
industry firm " will provide a way for people to make a living.
Will this industry ever find roots in The Third world, where today
the ultimate confusion is not paying rent
(who needs a house?) but a new concept
of cultivating unfertile fields without donations
from those working for The Conception Company. Maybe apply
science to the underprivileged underfed who apply
for handouts in magazine advertisements to stay alive.
Thousands of dollars needed to hire a donor.
Less than a quarter to feed a needy for a day.
We will condone a contemporary concept
to be secure about next monthT~s rent.
J.T. Pietrzak
Wa
Jeff Hoppa
The Teen-Man
His womb was the arcade.
The first milk he tasted
dripped from the tv screen,
was poured as a metal scream
from 24 hour radio "
A Walkman for a straw.
He suckled deeply,
the Teen-Man.
He saw Star Wars five times,
because once was not enough
to dream of speed and stars,
laser light and thunder
and glittering wreckage.
At least the monsters
he watched and watched there
had faces he could see "
not like the drivers
of suicide trucks,
or the butchers of children
who strutted and fretted
their hours and hours
upon the six oTclock stage
of the nightly news.
He knew little about the past,
because the world was all present,
and Our Town was not his town.
When he showed himself
into the dark of the thighs
of a girl who wore
candy-striped jeans,
pointed-shoes, and red sunglasses,
he cried.
They cried together
as their waters mixed,
and the formless took form.
When the Teen-ManTs son
fell from the womb
with blood in his mouth
to an afterbirth chorus
of electric guitars
Chilling his spine,
the Teen-Man knew,
suddenly, finally knew,
that the mass of men
lead lives of noisy desperation.
Jeffry Jones
|
Old Hat
The brown hat rests tilted
on the old manTs head.
It belongs nested there,
for hats are old good things.
In World War Il the soldier
could live out of his
helmet-hat; this man
used such things once.
No soup could be made
in this hat, though,
for it would leak through
the moth holes, change felt-
brown to an even darker stain.
So, this hat merely stands
and waits, serves to keep
the sun off hair
already bleached white
by too many park bench suns.
HereTs the crimp in the brim
where beaten fingers
the color of tobacco juice
clasped too hard when
an underdog yearling
won the race, or the only son,
helmetiess, slid
feet-first and flag-wrapped
into the waters off some Asian place
that wasnTt on postcards.
The hat was off then
when that deep, deep crimp was made.
The hat stays on now,
except when dismounted
by trembling, careful hands
and gently impaled
ona hatrack spike
in the barber shop.
There the hat picks up
odor of lavender water,
ginseed tonic, and talcum,
old, good smells that belong
to the old, good hat.
Jeffry Jones
Gregory S. Tucker
27
the eighty-eighth year
she was as tired
and volatile
as steam rising
from the white, oak bowl
of brown bouillon spreading
like nervous
smoke across her hungry
face
oil beads swam
desperate for linkage
around the open bowl
forming chains
of swirling,
dotted smiles
as the wooden spoon
circled and dipped
she breaks brittle
crackers into her bowl,
watching them soak liquid
expand
separate slowly,
piecing into small
brown bits of heavy flesh
some floating, some sinking,
both mixing, always
mixing
staring at the window,
she breathes deeply,
glances at me
as if | were spring
her blue eyes, flower buds
gone gray
for this, her eighty-eighth year,
these few moments, her surrendering
sacrament of self
dipping for the last warmth,
she tilts the bowl "
aware of winter,
steam abrading,
her heart beating harder
from the swallowed heat.
Laura Redford
28
Hayes Henderson Remembering Days Past
Lunar Poppies
Yesterday
| had tea
on the moon
with Karl Marx
while waiting
for his shuttle
to Mars
Under the light
of the three
quarters earth
we dined
naming all
the familiar stars
oFatherT " said |
sipping Russian cha
from a china cup
oWhy leave us now?�
oWhy give us up?�
oMy sonTT " said he
brushing off some
lunar dust
oYour brothers
have sold their
birthrights
for the possessions
that they lust
Besides "
ItTs high time
for a Martian
WorkersT MovementT
Joe Argent
30
Light
Once upon a time under a velocity,
an acceleration met a displacement and they had a baby
and called him Light speed. Three times ten to the eighth
was his full name. Old 186 was what some called him.
He gave me a ride one day, and when | got back home,
everything was gone, even time. | looked a look
of lonesome thunder as three left me; he said
he would be back in a second. He came back
and my bones, bleached in the sun,
saluted him,
this kid from the sun.
Joseph Swayze
31
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Villanelle for a Bag Lady
Before | knew you never wore a bra on rainy days
| wanted to travel can to can, trick or treat year round with you
Before | knew you were a has been whore and had street ways.
Saw you bathe in a fountain, tear through a large green maze
Change into a new old dress, covering half your body. | knew!
You never wore a bra on rainy days!
You spread your legs like little girls in sand, knees raised,
and when muddy and wet, | wanted to play with you
Before | knew, you were a has been whore and had street ways.
| wanted to pull your hair, maybe hold your wrinkled hand, play
A cold city night in a garbage can, just us two.
| knew you never wore a bra on rainy days.
Once | saw you steal from a blind boyTs vase.
At the Port Authority | saw others, like you.
My sister said they were all has been whores and had street ways.
Even you, to sell your body to Moslems, to persuade
a Brownstone Jew and a gypsy cabbie. They knew
You were a has been whore and had street ways
Before | knew you never wore a bra on rainy days.
Horace McCormick Jr.
61
inig
Beth He
62
Vacation
| find myself circling
in that copper light
of tropic days, my dress
a fan of pleated paper, rubber bands
paper clips, desk toys, move "
erased by a summer color.
My steamy eyes take color
and replace it with dark circles.
| make.a heated move
| need breath and light.
Beneath the palm fronds a reggae band
plays. Selecting a backless dress
| take care and dress
slowly, placing one strategic color
next to the other, slipping that band
of gold away, leaving a pale circle,
sandals strapped tight, fingers light
| stand. Smoothing my dress, | move
toward the sound, swaying moving
rhythms draw me, undressing
me. You are the silver wavelight,
washing color after color
under the moonTs circle
near full. Your arms make bands
that | dance within. The bands
dissolve as you MOve
closer. Your hand circles
my breast, dressing
me in charming color,
charging me with fuschia light.
In the minky half light
my scorched body is banded
with stripes of torchy color,
making it hard to move,
making you restless, me dressless.
Our faces two infrared circles.
Shuffling papers in the flourescent light, | move
my wedding band into focus. My dress
a somber color, but coffee in my cup, careful not to circle.
Laurilyn McDonald
63
Leftovers
As you go to sleep, my child,
save a kiss for me;
but should | die before | wake
let my soul be free.
The things you touch, the sounds you hear
intensify, then disappear.
The starlight is in my ears,
the breeze is in my eyes;
softly, in a far-off vale,
frightened comrade cries.
Individuality has become an evil
greater than the serpent.
Green and yellow, blue and red
glitter and fade, then lie dead.
boom
The sun swelters
above
green rice paddies
on the
edge
of a primordial jungle ...
somewhere
far up a river
what once was a helicopter
slowly smoulders
in the dense
undergrowth ...
64
hazy
silent
unclear
a study in olive
and red "
shades that permeate the consciousness
and the conscience,
like anti-aircraft fire
or a childTs burst balloon.
Rock will crumble into earth and dust,
the birth of lies, the death of trust.
Here we stand on the edge of time,
the winds of eternity burn blue and gold;
tell our children so they will know
the aurora borealis blows shrill and cold.
Our world will never end
as long as
one person
dares to defy.
Then the judgment:
ice will cover alll,
silent, grim, miles tall.
The moonlight plays with shadows
on the grass-covered plain,
desperately | beg
release me from my pain ...
| seek my death in the twilight of the jungle.
Michael Butzgy
fj al Atl iN �"�»
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Stanley Leary
66
Tremors
Gary Bryant
t was just thunder, he mumbled, and reached to pat
SandraTs round bottom before settling back into the
blankets. But he found only the dogTs cold nose against
his hand. He remembered. His eyes focused the darkness
into familiar shapes and shadows. He had slept on the
sofa. Sandra was away somewhere in Vermont on a lake
with her parents " sitting on a fragile dock with her dog
and her father the way he'd seen her in her pictures, with
dark tree-lined water around her and her parentsT house,
her sanctuary, in the background, waiting. She didnTt look
like a fisherman.
The dog followed him as he rose from the sofa and
stretched. He was up an hour early. Just thunder, he told
the dog, but she was already over it " it had been a
sterile sound, happening once and gone. No rain, no
lightning, no repercussions. He climbed the stairs in the
dark and looked out the window as he dressed. The tree
branches moved like shadowy veins across the panes. The
dog licked at the vaseline he put between his legs to keep
them from chafing. He would do ten miles. He was up
early, and he didnTt have to take Sandra to work " she
was taking Spring Break with her parents. Maybe even
fifteen miles. She would be up early, too, to go fishing
with her father. She would tell him, the first time he
asked, Ben couldnTt come with me because he had to
work.
The night was dying quietly, and a red stain seeped
toward the chip of moon that still lingered when he
finished stretching and began to run. It was new to him.
He was ahead of the light. The gas station on the corner
was deserted, and the pumps flickered and hummed with
electric life as he passed. There was a lone figure moving
inside, but the big red clock over the counter told him not
to hurry " he was early.
His breath went before him, tiny fog-clouds of himself
he would move through. Pale thin shells of ice broke
under his feet and echoed. there were no cars yet. The air
was sweet. He was out of sight now " where Sandra had
said she wouldnTt see him anymore the mornings when
she used to watch. It felt different. She was gone " he
couldn't pretend she was watching.
The streetlights were still on " twin columns escorting
him in silence. The air was suffused with their color "
like the ochre dusk the day before at the airport. He
would have accepted and gone with her back to the car
and driven home, if sheTd asked. We all have lovers of one
kind or another, heTd told her; | could have that girl in the
parking booth for my lover, couldn't I? But | wouldn't tell
you about it and then run off somewhere and brood about
the mess I'd made. But she didnTt speak, she wouldnTt
even turn around; and when she was gone, there were
only the white lights, stiff chairs, and long angular aisles
of carpet that deadened all sound.
She had a lover. He didnTt care. He didnTt. It had been
long enough " the newness of knowing her wasnTt
threatened. | have a seven year start on him, heTd told
her. You'll be bored with him long before he begins to
know what I know about you. It wonTt take you seven
years twice. It had been easy enough to say; it had
seemed the civilized way to react " the way he thought
he should react. She had only continued to pack.
6/7
He approached an intersection where he usually turned,
but he was doing ten miles. He could go across town. He
could go through the university campus. Did he go home
for Spring break? " he was still being civilized, only a
little curious. He is one of your students, isnTt he? But she
wouldnTt tell him that. She wouldnTt even tell him what he
looked like. Certainly he canTt be a colleague, you couldn't
handle that. She still packed " the bag sheTd bought for
her mother, and a tin of her fatherTs favorite tobacco.
Maybe the plumber. She had laughed and said it was
always the plumber. Maybe it was the man in the gas
station on the corner and he had looked so busy because
that was how he'd decided to keep his mind off her while
she was gone, since he couldnTt run ten miles.
He turned a corner and saw a black mass of smoke
ahead of him. There were blinking lights and people and
cars. As he came closer, there was a strange, sweet smell.
He thought of his grandmotherTs big white stove with the
brown grease between the letters of the label and of
playing Dominoes at the kitchen table " he was back
from church " while dinner cooked; and that smell under
all the other smells. Bottled gas. It hung in the air with
the acrid tang of something burned. Her father would use
the small gas grill sheTd given him for Christmas to cook
the fish theyTd caught if it rained and they couldn't get
back to the house by dark. And, of course, they would
have taken tents.
He moved around the edge of the crowd. Some of them
had parked their cars and trucks close and stood on the
roofs and hoods. He slowed, to keep from running into
anyone, and tried to see beyond the huddled, gesturing
figures. Patrol cars and cruisers had formed a phalanx of
flashing lights and bright metal between the crowd and the
red lights and anxious, white-clad attendants behind. There
had been an explosion " the thunder heTd heard. An
apartment building, someone said. Excited voices mingled
with the rasping of police radios and megaphones.
He moved faster. There would be another view from the
other side of the building when he came back through the
park. The burnt air became heavy with exhaust fumes as
he passed through the thickening swath of cars behind the
curious crowd. A crowd had seen him pick up the broken
pieces of the juice jar Sandra had let drop on its way from
the shopping basket to the check-out counter when words
had been inadequate " when waiting until they were back
in the car would have given him too much time to
prepare. They had stared suddenly at the sound. He had
stared back. A nervous bag boy had appeared with a mop
and broom and the crowd had died back into people with
coupons and car keys and cares of their own. The small
red spalsh of juice had blotted the floor like a fat spider
web, and there was only the sharp rap and crisp echo of
her shoes as she went through the door.
He crossed a street and entered the parking lot of a
small shopping center. The noise behind him faded. He
could hear his steps again. Some of the store windows
had been cracked by the explosion, and he watched his
reflection move to the cracks, become distorted, and
reappear whole on the other side.
o you have a lover, was all heTd said in reply. He was
S a crowd of one, watching her, waiting, wondering
again why after their years together they still lacked the
temerity to have their real disagreements anywhere but in
a public place. He knew sheTd wanted more of a response
from him, but sheTd waited too long. He had tried to
laugh. She should have started at the cosmetic counter or
the fresh vegetables, heTd told her, but sheTd waited too
long. They were too near being back in the car alone. It
was a half gallon of milk please, Ben, and on to the
checkout counter and, by the way, dear, | have a lover.
She had unloaded the cart mechanically, efficiently, and
he could only watch the green figures of the cash register
dance under the cashierTs deft fingers. He thought he had
taken it well and wanted her to know. He wasn't
shattered. The magazines at the checkout counter had it
all wrong. Such things didnTt shatter the world. He had
leaned forward, just to let her see his smile, his
magnanimity; but she wouldnTt look. You shouldn't have
waited until the milk, heTd whispered, your approach was
too bland. You should have told me with a pineapple in
your hand, or an artichoke. And then the small flat
explosion of red on the floor and on the front of her legs
" her still good legs " and she was going out the door,
leaving him to the crowd.
He thought of her sitting, neatly-dressed, in the boat
with her father. The crepuscular light would make them
shadows with voices. There would be a last blink of light
from her parentsT house " she would watch it " before
they went around some bank or peninsula on the way to
one of her fatherTs favorite spots. Her father would ask
and she would lie the first time. Expecting the lie, her
father would wait until there were neatly-dressed fish lying
beside them. Mullet are good only fresh-caught and
cooked, he would begin, and ask her again. It would be
about dawn, about now. And she would tell him. They
would sit quietly, her father smoking some of the tobacco
sheTd brought him, left with just fishing, and the lead
weights on their lines would make tiny splashes that
reverberated to the bottom and corners of the still, dark
lake.
e ran easily. The climb to the crest of a wooded hill
had removed the last strains of morning stiffness from
his legs. The downward slope was smooth and he felt
himself flowing toward the busy blats of gathering traffic
at the bottom of the hill. The leaves crackling under his
feet felt good, sounded good. The frying mullet would
make a good breakfast for Sandra. No oil to spatter and
waste, her father would say; a mullet has enough oil of its
own. Her mother would know they had talked, but her
father would say nothing in front of Sandra. They would
eat the mullet in the cold rich air and talk about the fish
getting fewer and the New England winters getting harder,
and after she had eaten, Sandra would sit in the gazebo
with her dog. She would think about him and her lover
until her parents came to take pictures or offer her some
cake.
His feet slapped the brittle planks of a bridge leading in
to a park. He waved to a black woman fishing beneath
him and heard sharp, swishing sounds as she played the
cane pole over the water. A sleepy cat yawned in a basket
by her side. Sandra would have her dog " some mindless
black retriever or shepherd, he could never quite tell from
the pictures " and he was jealous. She would confide
more to the dog in a morning than she had to him in a
68
month.
The park was a great empty hall. The thick trees
blocked out the sky and hushed his quick crushed steps.
The acrid smell came back to him slowly, becoming
Stronger as he moved deeper into the park, and he slowed
to a trot.
Through a gap in the trees, he saw what had attracted
the crowd. The exploded building was a crater of clothes,
glass, bricks, and broken furniture. Water gushed from
firemanTs hoses, becoming a rainbowed spray that hissed
as it sank into the hot debris. A soot-smeared woman was
crying and pointing to the one wall still standing. The
crowd watched. Helmeted workers hurried to other figures
emerging from the ashes and smoke. The firetrucks,
police cars, and ambulances surrounded the scene like
Squat lighthouses.
He climbed the path leading from the park and was
alone again. The cloying smell faded. The sun was in his
face, waiting for him at the end of the long straight street
that would take him back home. The aluminum light poles
glowed a burnt orange as he sprinted past them the
remaining quarter mile.
ouTre sure you donTt mind?� The girl ducked to throw
her dark hair back over her shoulder. She was holding
a small suitcase.
~~No,�T he repeated, and she came inside.
She was young; she was attractive; she was very
nervous. She was one of SandraTs students. He led her to
a chair and lowered the volume of the television. She put
the suitcase on the floor beside her.
~~l wouldnTt have come,�T she opened her pocketbook
and fumbled for a cigarette, ~~but | didnTt have anywhere
else to go. And Dr. Stone " I mean, your wife " has
been so nice, | didnTt think sheTd mind for just tonight. My
Parents are sending me some money. Is she here?�T She lit
the cigarette.
~~No,�� he said, ~o~sheTs out of town.� She was stiff in the
chair. Her fingernails were carefully kept.
oeh.�
~o~Here,�T he offered her an ashtray. She smoked like.
Sandra, in a hurry, with long rolling streams of smoke.
Her hair wouldnTt stay out of her face. She couldn't be
more than nineteen.
~Was it bad?�T
She smiled and looked at him. Her teeth were perfect.
~At first,� another stream of smoke. o~But | was lucky, |
guess. Four people died.�T
~So I heard. Did you know any of them?�T
~| had a class withT one, a guy.� A line of smoke. oHe
was kind of cute. He drove one of the buses. | knew his
Wife.�T
The telephone rang and he got up to answer it.
Vickie, right?TT He held the receiver out to her.
She put her cigarette out quickly and crossed the room.
The top of her head came to his nose. Her hand was
warm.
~ITm sorry,TT she whispered, o~itTs probably my
roommate. | told her | was coming over here.�T
He nodded and went back to his chair.
The local evening news program had started when she
Came back, and the lead story was about the explosion.
He looked at her. Her jeans tightened when she sat beside
him on the sofa.
~| told her I had a place,�T she crossed her legs. Her
eyes were large and darker than her hair. ~~YouTre sure
you donTt mind? | mean, I could probably call her back
and stay with her if itTs too much trouble.�
oNot at all. We have a spare room.�T
She reached for another cigarette. The streams of
smoke were slower. She watched the television report.
oAre you hungry?�T
Her round shoulders looked smooth and tight, and her
neck wrinkled only when she shrugged. She could have
been a model selling him shampoo. She could have been
his daughter.
~~| guess I should have something,�T she said.
~~Good,TT he stood and wiped his hands on his hips. o
better cooking for two anyway.�
~You know, my roommate said the police are letting us
go back and get our things tomorrow,TT she pointed to the
television screen, ~~but | donTt think thereTs much left.�T
She looked at her small feet and wiggled her toes. oSome
of it meant a lot, but itTs probably gone now.�T
He controlled an urge to touch her, to rub her hair. She
was handling herself well. She didnTt need him. Her hair
brushed his leg as she reached to put her cigarette out.
~I! can help you,� she said, and started toward the
kitchen.
T
ITm
he evening had passed quietly. The dishes were done.
He had washed, she had dried. She had moved behind
him, now and then brushing against him, as she placed
the dishes into the cabinets. The television had stayed on,
with no sound, the entire evening. She had become
relaxed. He had not. He had played some of his and
SandraTs old records for her and finally a symphony. She
had fallen asleep on the sofa. He watched. Sandra might
be asleep now. She would be tired. She would have
accomplished nothing, or she would have decided
everything. She would lie in her bed " thick with her
motherTs handsewn quilts " and breathe the dark, womb-
pure air of her parentsT shelter; and she would decide. The
house around her would be dark, every room; and her
mother and father would lie still, saying nothing " one
knowing, one guessing " waiting.
The late news program silently paraded the scene of the
explosion across the screen again. The crowd watched.
The crowd was high. The reporters and policemen were
high. The victims moved like puppets. Sandra would be in
her bed, unable to relax even though he was not beside
her. Her parents would lie motionless with her. The girl on
the sofa turned to lie on her back. Her tight shirt had
crawled far past her navel. He watched.
he had said to him the night before she left, Don't,
Ben, I canTt now " It wouldnTt solve anything. And
then a small burst of laughter " at least there are no
children involved if it comes to that; we do have that
much, donTt we? She was lying beside him, her thin silk
becoming concrete. It was her way of not quite punishing
just herself, but letting him know he shared if there were
blame.
But her lover was only her lover. She could have kept it
69
from him. He had never suspected. It was like an old
newsreel " the small steady drone of the plane over the
tiny village until far below the sudden, soundless eruption.
| have a lover. The young girl slept. The furnace
continued its quiet hum. But he doesnTt touch me
anymore. | woke up this morning to tell you it was only
thunder, but it was lives exploding, and | ran ten miles
around it while you fished and told your father about it.
ThereTs a young girl, old enough, maybe, sleeping on my
sofa.
| only see him now and then " | canTt, now that you
know about it. She smoked two cigarettes in bed now.
And | donTt touch you either, he wouldnTt say, and found
himself becoming the first one to sleep until the night
before the drive to the airport. ItTs getting way from me,
Ben. ITm only thirty and itTs already getting away from
me. So | canTt tonight. | canTt. You wouldn't like it, and it
would be disgusting.
es here was a wedding picture of them on the table by
the sofa. The girl had toppled it with her coffee cup
and there had been the slap of glass on glass. She had
offered to buy a new one, but only the glass was broken.
He looked at the cracked picture. Her hair was still as
dark as it had been when he met her. They were working
summer jobs at a resort park. She was a dancer in one of
the theatre groups, he was a set painter. Mrs. Benjamin R.
Stone, | like that " dancing, her good legs there to see,
on the tables at the reception " but | think I liked being
just your lover better.
SheTd had a loverTs fingers through her hair " it wasn't
long anymore, like that of the girl on the sofa, but it was
still as dark. She would be sleeping now with a hand in
her hair, a hand between her knees. SheTs had a lover who
took her back to nights when her life was lights and
laughter and colors spun into a wheel keeping her up,
keeping her in touch " next show " drinks " | made it,
Ben, ITm a Phud " drinks " a toast, Mr. Stone, sure I'll
call you John, but your boy my little girl, eh? LetTs leave
the women and go outside, you fish? like mullet?
It was the last show of the season. They were late
leaving. She would not be back to perform, she had
chosen school. She stopped to let her hair down. Mullet
bones make good combs, she said, laughing. | used to tell
my father that when he threw them away " they were on
the stage, it was dark and late. Ben, itTs hard to keep up,
but | want that degree so bad " and then a laugh " so
goodbye Natalie and Isadora and Anna. She was up,
dancing across the floor in socks " a pirouette away
from him and a jump. Her hair followed her like a dark,
confused spirit, and he was up following too " Marry me,
Sandra " sprite, and one day I'll paint you rich. But she
was gone, running to the Ferris wheel and a squeaky seat,
pointing up laughing and saying, And | presume you'll
take me up there, right? beforé she would say yes.
He got up to get a glass of water. The girl still slept.
The sprouts in the jars by the sink were ready to be
eaten. They were a leftover habit from their years together
in school " years of self-reliance, of asking their parents
for nothing and accepting their voluntary poverty as a
necessary pre-conditioning for the mutual dependence they
were beginning to feel. We grow a lot of things we eat,
Mother " she would speak into the receiver, lying on her
back doing stretches and letting her look tell him that her
mother simply wasnTt with it. HeTd imagined her father at
the other end, imploring her mother to offer mullet or beef
or cake. Sprouts, Mother, little sprouts grown in jars. And
Ben's growing some tomatoes outside. WeTre doing fine.
We like it.
He watched the tiny, white-sshooted seeds tumble as he
turned the jar and wondered how small he would need to
be to hear the seed shells finally crack open and yield to
the inertia of life.
The girl stirred on the sofa and mumbled something he
didnTt hear. He put the jar down and went back into the
den. The girl lay on her back with her head on her arm
and one knee raised. The furnace hummed and he heard
the intermittent ring of high-frequency bleedoff from the
voiceless television. She had a lover and she shouldn't.
He began to pick up the strewn record jackets that had
been left on the floor after the girl had taken them from
him to read. He and Sandra had bought them together "
given up food, at times, to have them " had tried to find
magic in the empty lyrics of the songs, and had finally
grown away from them. They had lain naked, scared,
listening in bed dark nights while strange young men
wearing their hair and beards like medals tried to convince
them they were all right, and the world, too, would be all
right soon when the great change came. They had
believed. They could feed the hungry and stop the Bomb
and cleanse the world. The records slid into the dusty
jackets with soft plops. How pitiful they were now, he
thought, only seven years later and they couldnTt keep a
lover out of their marriage.
e sat by the telephone to wait. It would ring. It must.
He would catch it early, leave the incipient ring a
solitary note that would die on the carpet before
disturbing the sleeping girl. Sandra would not sleep. She
would lie in her bed like a stylus poised above the
recorded harmonies of a concerto. She would be thinking
of him. She would see him waiting. The telephone would
ring and he would get it early and pat the young girl's
bottom when she moved away and say, It was just the
telephone, just my wife. And he and Sandra would hear
their voices breaking through the silence, suddenly, tighter
than the tensioned line strung along the miles of poles,
unaffected by the fields, factories, dim lights, and dark,
whispered needs thick in the distance between them. Their
fragmented words would become fragmented sentences
that would tumble over each other like clumsy acrobats,
and the somnolent air " around her, dark, around him, lit
by the quiet blue television screen " would absorb them.
And when they were gone, when the ordered monotony of
the telephone line returned, he would replace the receiver
and go to bed. They would have spoken only words. She
would come back. She would watch him again in the
mornings.
The dog crawled from under the sofa and lay at his
feet. He watched the young girl sleep. [J
70
Julie K. Simon
7~
Frank Stovall
72
| Saw the Things Dwindle
| saw the things dwindle
that you could do
no more dances
no more driving your car
no more trips to the mall
no more sitting in your pew
no more Agatha Christie clues
no more bridge games
or pecan pie or chocolate cake
until finally
there was quietly
no more you
Linda Anderson
Making Ends Meet
Armed with coupons, hodgepodged but still
suggesting order (beverages, cereals, dairy,
detergents, snacks, miscellaneous),
she strides through the supermarket door
to battle her monster.
Up and down the aisles she pushes the cart
past produce, spices, cleaners,
the meat department (horrors!),
her mind a geiger counter clicking,
ultimately finding bargains.
SO much to consider (this is no run
for pizza and beer): bruised fruit, dented cans,
dates expired " she strains to remember
all the ways fo save.
A jumbleful of saran-wrapped, packaged things,
coupons to spend stuffed in her pocket,
it's on to the check-out line.
Tally of items, double-off Coupons.
Computer digits print out the total and
HAVEANICEDAY.
she walks out
loads the vittles in her car.
and drives away.
Linda Anderson
73
Dog Days
Katharine Kimberly
t was the dead of summer at Virginia Beach. Somehow
the air is hotter and heavier at the beach "
particularly when you are working and itTs 100 degrees
outside and everyone you know is on the beach.
| was working; | think | was the only person in all of
King George County working, because all of the people |
could see through the window of the Cafe were cruising
down the sidewalk in OP bikinis and Rip Curl trunks. Wow
" bathing trunks. Now thatTs a term for you. Come to
think of it, though, when people first started wearing
them, they did kind of Jook like trunks. Those old
fashioned suits that covered everything from the knees to
the neck " when you got out of the water in those
things, you must have felt like a soggy load of laundry.
All those wet clothes stuck to your body!
| could sympathize. The air conditioning in the Cafe
wasnTt working too well. It always went out when we had
a week or so of really hot weather " and Mica, as usual,
hadnTt called the guy to come fix it, so the Cafe was
about 85 degrees. My short, cotton-blue mini-dress
(uniform for the Cafe) was stuck like microwaved
cellophane to my body; and underwear, which was
essential to the costume because of the materialTs
sheerness, made the dress even more unbearable. | rested
my elbows on the counter, chin in hands, and gazed out
of the Cafe window. The people outside had no shelter
from either the humidity or the sun itself; somehow,
though, they looked so much cooler than | was. | couldn't
keep the ice chest full, because the ice kept melting. The
water ran down the drain with a steady drip ... drip ...
drip which was very annoying. And which meant that |
had to trudge back to the kitchen every twenty minutes
or so and get a fresh bucket of ice " in case someone
come in and wanted a drink. Or a cold beer. That was the
joke! All of our wonderful imported BeckTs and FosterTs
and St. PauliTs lay in their little inefficient coolers,
drowning in their own sweat. Even the tap beer was kind
of lukewarm " and the only thing worse that warm draft
is cold coffee. That, at least, was no problem.
~~ oBout time for an ice run,T�T | announced to the empty
counter. | picked up the yellow-handled bucket and swung
back to the kitchen.
With the stoves on and the ice-machine fans blowing,
the kitchen had to be 110 degrees. Matt, the dishwasher-
cum-cook, was standing by the open back door in his cut
out T-shirt and ~~New WaveT�T bermudas, watching a surfer
bop down to the beach.
~Hey,T I said, oIl thought you went home.�
~oNaa,�T he answered over his shoulder. ~~Mica told me to
hang around Ttil four. We might get busy.�T
~Oh, sure!TT| said. oLike what does he think " people
are going to cruise in for a piping hot bow! of our home-
made mushroom soup?�T
~Hey, itTs good!TT Matt protested. ~~] made it!�T
~~Matt, itTs one hundred and some odd degrees outside!
No one wants to eat soup! Here, help me with this ice,
since you're here.� | opened the ice-machine and dug my
bucket in. ~Maybe if we fill up the chest, the stuff won't
melt as fast.�T
~~Sure.T� He reached down beside me to scoop a load
into the bucket. ~o~Wow, this is great,TT he said, as the cold
air hit his sweaty cheeks. ~Coolest ITve been all day!�T
~Yeah, it has its rewards,TT | answered. ~o~Here, carry this
out and I'll fill up that other bucket and bring it out.�T
Matt nodded and swung his sunburned shoulders through
the doors. | watched him with interest before filling the
second bucket and dragging it out into the dining room.
~Yuck, this is hot!TT Matt complained, pushing a half-
filled glass away from him across the counter.
~~What are you doing?�T | shrieked. ~You canTt drink
that!�
~Oh cTmon, Ellen. Why not?�T
oA " you're fifteen. B " youTre working. MicaTd fire
us both " not to mention the ABC man would close us
74
down in a minute.�T | snatched up the glass and emptied it
into the sink. ~~YouTre starting awfully young,T | warned
him.
oYeah, I know. | really donTt drink that much " my
DadTs an alcoholic.�
~Oh, yeah? You never told me that.�T
~~DonTt sound so shocked. It happens to the best of us.
Fix me a Pepsi,TT he ordered.
~I'm not ... shocked, exactly. It just seems like you
should've had a perfect life " youTre such a perfect kid,�T
| told him, putting ice into a glass and filling it with the
drink hose marked o'P.�
oYeah, well, | guess I've got everyone fooled. HowTs
David?�T
~ooWouldnTt know.� | poured the ice from both buckets
into the cooler and spread it out with my hands. ~~Now
maybe it wonTt melt so fast.�T
~~Ch-uh. It'll melt just as fast, but youTve got more ice in
there so itTll look like it takes longer. So what happened?�
~~What happened what? Oh, with David? I donTt know
" just a summer romance, | guess,�T | said.
~Oh. | thought you two were really hooked. Come sit
down " quit playing in the ice,TT he said, patting the stool
beside him.
~Yeah, | thought so too ... that we were hooked, |
mean.� | came out from behind the counter and sat down
on the bar stool next to him. The mirror behind the
counter was slightly warped, and reflected our faces with
a rolling, fun-house effect. | picked up an empty match
book and tossed it into the trash can. ~o~Oh well, his loss.
WhyTre you so interested?�T
~| donTt know " a month ago you acted like he was so
great. You know, when you told me about the concert he
took you to and everything. Then all of a sudden, you
quit talking about him. | just wondered.�
~Yeah, the concert was great. David Bowie.� I picked
up my Cigarettes from the other side of the counter,
shook one out, and lit it. | took a deep drag and blew the
smoke, which Matt hated, towards the mirror. ~~Well, we
went out drinking one night, about a week after the
concert, and got into a fight. He made a couple of really
nasty cracks, so | hit him. | canTt believe | did that,T |
mused, taking another drag off my cigarette.
~~WhatTd he do " when you hit him? In the face>TT Matt
asked incredulously.
~Yeah. | punched him. He deserved it.T | stared at the
now cloudy reflections.
~~He hit you back,�T Matt said. ~~l saw the bruise.TT
~Yeah. ItTs gone now.�T | touched my cheekbone. The
swelling was gone too, | noticed. ~~He moved out the next
day. | think he was more upset that he hit me than he
was that | hit him.�T
~Well, he should be. ITd never hit a girl,T� Matt said
firmly.
| blew smoke in his face. ~o~Oh, yeah? Not even if she hit
you? DidnTt you ever hit your sister>?�T
~~Hey, cut it out. No, | didnTt hit my sister. We never
fought. Besides, she was bigger than me " sheTd deck
me!�T
~Yeah? Well so will I. | pack a pretty good punch "
ask David.�
7S
~| bet. You oughta quit smoking " itTs bad for you,�T he
told me.
oI'll get over it.TT But | put out my cigarette and went
back behind the counter. | emptied the ashtray and began
washing the stacked glasses and dirty ashtrays left over
from the night before. ~~Jean never washes dishes,�T |
grumbled.
Matt mumbled something. He crossed his arms on the
cool surface of the counter and rested his chin on them.
His sandy red hair fell slightly down into his long
eyelashes.
~~What? The water was running ... | didnTt hear you,� |
said, turning the faucet off.
~| said, ~Were you in love with him?T �
| looked down at the ashtray in my hands. The soap
suds had gotten into some little cracks in the plastic, and
fanned out into a kind of snowflake. o~This is broken,� |
said, holding it up for him to see. He lifted his head.
oItTs O.K. | fixed it last week " Superglue works
wonders.T
~~Oh.� | continued to wash in silence. Matt picked up
his glass and sucked it dry with exaggerated slurping
noises. His grey eyes followed my face over the rim of the
glass.
~~Yeah, I guess | was,� | finally said. ~~| never said so. It
never seemed ... you know, relevant.�T
~You lived with him, though,TT he said. He began
spinning the glass in the little ring of water it had made
on the counter. ~o~Did he love you?�T he asked.
~I donTt know. HeTs a surfer " you know how that is.
Girls, girls, everywhere. ~ChicksT was his word. | was his
~chick.T
~What do you mean, ~You knowT? | surf, but | don't
have ~chicksT. | donTt hit girls, either,TT he reminded me.
oYou're fifteen,� | countered. | picked up the clean
ashtrays, walked back around the counter, and began to
place them at varied intervals on the black formica.
oBesides, what about all those dizzy little blonds | see you
bopping around with? What are they?�
~What? Oh, theyTre just friends,� he told me loftily.
oOh, sure. And you donTt cruise ~chicksT, either, | bet,� |
teased, coming to stand beside him.
~Shoot, | could,�T he said defensively. ~o~But | donTt ...�T
He picked up the cracked ashtray and inspected it. ~Don't
you cruise?T he demanded.
~Look, you little brat,~~ | said menacingly, odon't you
have anything to do?�
~~Naa " ITm done. ITm not slack like you chicks,� he
grinned.
~Oh, yeah? Look, go wash some dishes. ThatTs what
you're supposed to be, isnTt it? The dishwasher?� |
reached out and dug my fingers into his ribs.
oCook ... ITm the cook!� he yelled indignantly, before
he started giggling. ooOh, shit ... no, don't,� he pleaded.
~Please no ...TT He squirmed and fell off the stool,
laughing. Before | could pull away, he tangled his feet in
mine and grabbed my hands, dragging me down with him.
oOh, damn ... stop, Matt,TT | shrieked, as he tickled me
in return. ~Stop, stop!TT I fell on top of him, laughing.
oO.K., O.K., I give ... let go.TT He did, and we collapsed.
e lay on the floor for a minute, a tangle of bare arms
W and thighs. MattTs shirt had pulled up to his chest,
and my right hand lay across his exposed brown skin.
Before | thought about it, | slid my fingers across his
damp, smooth stomach, dipping one into his navel. | felt
his muscles tighten instinctively, and glanced up at his
face. His eyes were wide, and his mouth fell open a little.
| grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it back
down. My uniform skirt was hiked up to my hips; | jerked
it down and quickly stood up. Matt still lay on the floor,
breathing hard, so | offered him a hand.
oYou O.K.2�T | asked him. He took my hand and rose
slowly.
oMatt?� | called.
oYeah?�
~Will you teach me
how to surf?�
~Yeah.T He straightened his clothes and tucked his shirt
back in. Both of us were sweatier than before, if that was
possible. | pushed my damp hair off of my forehead and
went behind the counter. Matt watched me for a minute,
then turned and headed for the kitchen.
~~Matt?�T | called, when he reached the halfway point.
oYeah?�
oWill you teach me how to surf?�
~ooSure,�T he said. oWhen?�
~| donTt know,� | said, wondering why I'd asked.
~~How ~bout after work? TideTs high at four " should be
some decent waves.�
~~O.K.�T | picked up his glass and began washing it.
~~WhereTre you going?�
~I got some dishes to wash,� he grinned.
oYou brat!TT| yelled. | picked up the cracked ashtray
and threw it across the room at him.
oHey!� he yelled back, catching it with dexterity. ~~I just
fixed that!�T
ince | lived off the beach, | always brought my
bathing suit with me on sunny days. When Jean came
in at four, | handed her the unused order pad, grabbed my
bag from under the counter, and headed for the door
marked ~~Chicks.�T
~~WhereTs Mica?T Jean called after me.
~DonTt know. Try the Crest. Why?� I asked, stopping.
oWell, whoTs cooking tonight?�
~~Not Matt " heTs teaching me how to surf,� |
answered, kind of smugly.
oAt night?�
oWell, now, actually.�
~Oh. Watch out for that young stuff,T she grinned.
oO.K., I'll be careful with him,T | grinned back at her. |
turned around and almost ran into Matt. ~~Put on your
suit,TT | told him. ~~LetTs go.�T
~Hey, this is it,TT he said, indicating his shorts. ~~Meet
you out back.�T
| changed and ran out to the back door. The smell of
rancid oil and rotten garbage permeated the air behind the
Cafe. Matt picked up a pastel colored surf board leaning
against the wall, and we began walking towards the beach.
As soon as we got away from the row of bars and the
Cafe, a smooth sheath of fresh air hit us full in the face.
76
The afternoon sun beat down on my head. | began to grin,
and matched MattTs long stride step for step. In his right
hand he carried a radio " his ~~boxTT " and | reached
down and snapped it on. A mellow saxophone solo poured
out of the speakers. oI didnTt know you liked jazz.�
~Yeah, well, ITm a jazzy kind of guy,T�T he grinned down
at me.
e spent the afternoon down on the water. One thing |
do love about summer is that the days last so long,
and since itTs so hot, the beach doesnTt really cool off
until longer after the sun goes down.
The surf, we decided, just wasnTt worth anything.
Mostly Matt decided, since | was having massive
coordination problems on the board. We left it beside the
radio and played in and out of the shallow breakers. Then
we sat on the beach, discussing summer kinds of things
" drinking, meeting girls (or guys), and, eventually, sex.
~~| did it my first time right over there,�T he told me,
pointing to an innocuous-looking sand ~dune.
~~How can you remember that?TT| asked, gesturing.
~Because it was only a couple of weeks ago. |
remember because of that pole over there. The one with
the beer can nailed to the side.�T
~Did you do that? The beer can, | mean?�T | asked,
trying not to laugh.
~~No! I just remember it.TT He drew little abstract
patterns in the sand with his bare toes.
~Are you in love?�T | asked him.
~~Now? Naa. But I was then ... she turned out to be a
real sleaze, though.�� He leaned back, digging his elbows
into the sand, and threw his head back to catch a face
full of the dying sunlight.
~Wow, that was quick. A couple of weeks?*
~Well, actually, it was more like a month ago.�T
oOh: O.K.TT | crossed my arms across my knees and sat
silently, watching the breakers tear away at the sand. The
beach was slowly disappearing, year by year. It seemed
Walter Stanford
that all those people who came to enjoy it never thought
about trying to build the beach back up. They just flopped
their fat, white bellies down into the sand for three
months, took massive quantities of sand home with them
in their bathing suits and towels and beach bags when
they left, and never thought about the fact that the beach
was disappearing. It was August, and the end of summer
was coming on with a velocity that depressed me. |
watched a sunburned family of four collect their sand
laden possessions and head for their car, whereabouts
unknown, with a reluctant, trudging step.
~~Damned Yankees,�T | muttered.
Matt sat up. oI know. They donTt give a damn about
this beach. Look at that.TT He pointed to a mass of
chicken boxes, drink cans, and other picnic debris the
family had left behind. A dirty seagull came from nowhere
to light on the mess, picking for scraps.
| leaned my head on my knees and my vision grew
blurry as | watched the waves roll in over one another. |
sniffed, wiping my face with a sandy hand. Matt reached
up and put a reassuring arm around my shoulder. | lifted
my head, and a slight breeze dried my tears. | wiped my
face again and got sand into my eyes. oOuch,� |
whimpered.
~~Here,TT Matt said, taking off his shirt. ooWipe your
face.TT | did, and handed it back to him.
oWow,� he said. oIt was dry.�
~Get over it,TT | told him. | felt a crooked smile slip
across my face.
oMatt?� | said.
oYeah?�
~~Sometimes, | really wish you were older.T
He said nothing, but put his arm back around me. His
hand rested on my shoulder, cool and comforting, as we
watched the seagulls make a feast on the shadowed
beach. &)
77
Lost on the Horizon
Last night
meteors showered;
thousands " maybe millions "
of tiny yellow pinpricks
hurled themselves across
a violent sky;
flying, fleeing, desperate
only to drown
in a slow rising dawn.
| watched,
wondered if one "
perhaps a solitary flicker "
Found a reason for his flight.
Like lemmings,
did they all merely soar
for a time, then fall
recklessly
to a cold, charred death?
Or did one curve his path
in a different arch,
preserve his singular spectacle
for a more expectant audience?
It may have happened "
my eyes filled too quickly
with the brilliant flashflood
and could not detect
the individual efforts
of a rebellious star.
Katharine Kimberly
78
Pas de Deux Jerome
Welcome to JeromeTs twilight zone, where bodies learn
the real meaning of work "
oMove those hips honey, open those legs " ainTt nothing
gonna fall out. This is dance, au naturel. | want
you all to be divas!�
Classical, jazz, modern, ditty-bop
Body moving, sweat popping, dancinT to that rhythmic beat
Music soothes the savage beast and makes him wanna tap his feet.
the beginning
my mama, woman of love, pride, and high expectation
singinT sweetly, soulfully, and powerfully to the African
son of her fertile womb, dancinT ~round the room of our
lively home " mamas, thatTs where black folk get their
boggie and jive " dancinT, lovinT, and crooninT the traditions
of a heritage removed to their marked offspring
the middle
my laughter, laughter that cries the melodies of my innovation
willowy body with beautiful feet, quick wit and mind,
and natural turnout. Apple city jivinT in Manhattan
waitinT, no screaminT to be discovered " find me out
before the city eats me whole, | gotta be a toetappinT
pas de bourreinT, hip movinT fool
the end?
40 hours a week of movement that sings harmony to the melodies
of my past, an eclectic perspective of dance " Misha stand back
cuz JeromeTs around, and so where am | " Greenville, NC
Mama you'd be disgusted ALL THAT HARD WORK FOR SOME BY THE WAY
OUTTA THE WAY! oh | wanna dance and dance and dance!
Three of them know how to dance if we're lucky, but ITm an
artist so itTs Welcome to JeromeTs twilight zone, where bodies
learn the real meaning of hard work.
J. ReneeT Pratt
79
Matricide
All death is murder.
Murder
by microbes
by sightless chrome and steel
by childbirth
ThereTs no question.
Is it infanticide
to slowly strangle
a writer's hesitant offspring
by enforcing the choice
of no choice?
What of all the wispy unborn
poems executed
in the intellectual poverty
that is motherhood?
Inspiration dies
in the face
of a full time, seven day,
twenty four hour
life.
And so | commit murder
by choice"
| choose to bear the guilt
rather than see the burden
as tears
on the face
of a child.
Katharine Kimberly
SSE
80
bd
ioe sige FOO eu
tak ae *
26 AE
CAE SEER
ppt
81
Haiku
apples fall to earth
and patiently dream of when
they'll next touch the sky
Joe Argent
A TurtleTs Trip
Glitter on the farside
takes the shape of broken glass.
A fleeting fragrance of fermented leaves
reminds him of old friends.
He would feel it first:
A tremor beneath his belly.
A roar.
A shadow passing over and away.
The ground trembles again.
Webbed claws quicken to end this journey.
The pain is momentary.
It comes as the crest of a shelled back breaks
reducing life inside to two dimensions.
Midmorning
a crow picks
at the red splattered remains
of one who almost made it.
Carolyn Worsley Stroud
82
Whispers
Your voice was not made to whisper.
It was made
to press your silent
sweet breath
against my brow.
lt was made to enter me softly
when, awake at night,
| know you're not really there.
It was made to caress me to sleep,
then wake me in the middle of the night.
To get up and search the house,
wondering if ITm really alone,
afraid to look out my window.
My cats stare at the window,
their round eyes luminous,
unblinking,
and | know
you are not there,
but part of you is waiting ...
for me.
Your voice ...
Theresa Rodger
83
On a Battlefield
Many layers of flannel
and wool bother the young
soldierTs skin after weeks
in Belgian snow.
He'll be going to the lines
soon. Must sleep.
Or will he, today, sleep twice?
Trains close in on Eastern
seaboard; army of love
from young wifeTs hands.
He screams.
No one hears, Even this
god who
is (it is said) somewhere,
watching;
This same god Jehovah
that boasts a son
Jesus Christ whose brother
is Mohammed, what
is the punchline?
Explosions
mortar shell and bullet
sing close by a boy
at the front. But
they aren't his
so far. Breakfast
is forgotten;
there is dead forest
smoldering, blood
on the Christ childTs hands. What of
the others?
U-88's fade stars
and the Virgin dresses
her sonTs wounds
beside sons of mothers
left to cradle
memories olive drab. Who
dresses their wounds
God's infinite mercy? All
around him faces of children.
One takes a hand
across downy beard, secret fear
wetting a grimy cheek.
A young man dreams
when moon doesnTt catch him
on naked hills:
OceanTs lullaby;
sunshine a loverTs touch.
seagulls hover
on peaceful winds.
Then sea is red
becomes cold desert.
He is
alone
until buzzards swoop
at his sweaty back,
until
Almighty universe laughs
in his face. And
Moses, high
on his mountain,
cries.
Somewhere trains slither
eastward, their cargo
a nation. GodTs infinite mercy.
Young warrior is weary;
swears the morning
as halftracks rumble
and 90-millimeter guns
rage in his head.
The soldier sees
a buddy, smiling,
nightmares behind;
heTs on the evening train
going home.
Robin Ayers
Gary Patterson Untitled
85
=
g
5
co)
«
* October 1984
}
Autumn leaves
Brown and Crackling
Like. old love letters
Torn to confetti " 3
A blanket for the weeping grass.
It is so cold.
The.smoke
From the street fires .
Billows like
A phantoms shroud.
Upwards if trails
To blend in with a
Sky like lead.
The trees mourn
The lost green,
And the bark
Chips " brittle as bones.
They stand there like
Ancient towers
Dark and wise,
Hating the icy air \
That envelopes all. . *
The man, wrapped in warm clothes,
Leans on his rake, silent and still,
And his eyes, like deep black mirrors, réflect
The dancing flames
Of the fire.
so@n he drags his weary eyes away.
He Turns and slowly disappears
Behind a heavy front door
Into warm reassurance.
Outside "
The dancing fire remains.
Jennifer Hulsey
|
|
|
Biographies
Writers
Linda Anderson is an English major.
This is her publication debut.
Joe Argent is a second year graduate
in English. He is presently waiting for
assignment from the Peace Corps.
Robin Ayers is a senior English
major.
Gary Bryant is a graduate student in
English.
Michael Butzgy enjoys writing and
collecting records. He is a senior
History major with a minor in
Broadcasting and he is a producer for
WNCT-TV.
Crystal Fray, a junior in English,
hopes to be a news reporter or a
feature writer. She enjoys reading,
writing, and getting involved in
various activities.
Jennifer Hulsey is an English major
from Raleigh, N.C.
Jeffry Jones is a writing major who
collects comics, likes sci-fi, and
British Imperalism. He is working to
become a character actor.
Katharine Kimberly spells her name
with an ~o~aTT " o~like Katharine
Hepburn.�T She plans to be as famous
a writer one day as Hepburn is an
actress.
Deanya Lattimore-Cobb is an English
major who occasionally attends wild
English Department parties.
Horace McCormick Jr., an Honor Roll
student, is an English major with a
concentration in writing.
Laurilyn McDonald is a senior who
enjoys writing and collecting hearts.
She plans to attend FIT in New York
to study fashion design.
Jenny Meador is a senior English
major who enjoys playing the guitar.
Sherrill Owens enjoys creativity in
art, writing, and photography.
J.T. Pietrzak was this yearTs third
place winner in poetry. When not
working in the advertising department
of the East Carolinian, he enjoys
karate and snowskiing.
Johnnie Renee Pratt is from
Fayetteville, N.C. She is a senior
English major with a concentration in
writing.
Laura Redford is an English major
and a former member of East
CarolinaTs tennis team.
Pam Robinson is an English major
from Greenville, N.C.
Theresa Rodger is an English major
with a concentration in writing.
Donald Rutledge is an English major.
Carolyn Stroud is a part-time student
from Washington, N.C. She received
her B.A. from UNC and presently
works at East CarolinaTs print shop.
Joseph Swayze is a third year
student who plays blues guitar and
builds churches in Haiti. His other
interests include karate and world
peace.
Artists
George Arata made his publication
debt with his sculpture entitled
Electric Clavinet.
Tom Baker is a senior Printmaking
major.
Carolyn Capps is a senior Painting
student.
Joe Champagne is a second year
graduate student from Miami, Florida.
Todd Coats won first place in
Illustration. He is a senior in
Communication Arts and is Vice-
President of Design Associates.
Phillip Dismuke, a junior from New
York, enjoys soccer and art. He is a
Metal Design and Jewelry major.
Scott Eagle is a senior in
Communication Arts. He won second
place in Illustration and is a member
of Design Associates.
Susan Fecho is a graduate student in
printmaking. Her speciality is paper
making, and she is working toward an
interdisciplinary degree.
Hunter Hadley is a sophomore from
Raleigh, N.C. His only interest is
getting out of school.
Kara Hammond enjoys going through
junk piles and collecting fossils. She
is a senior who is working toward her
B.S. in Art with a concentration in
painting.
Hugh Heaton is a graduate student in
painting.
Beth Heinig is a senior in
Communication Arts and a member
of Design Associates.
Hayes Henderson is a painting major.
Jeff Hoppa is Visual Arts Forum
President. He is a senior in
Communication Arts.
Wanda Johnsrude is a painting major.
Leslie Karpinski is originally from
Winston-Salem. She is a second year
graduate student in painting and
drawing.
Bill Keck, a junior, is Art Director of the 1985 Rebel and
a member of Design Associates. He is in Communication
Arts with a concentration in Graphic Design and
Marketing.
William Leidenthal is a graduate student in painting. He
received his undergraduate degree from the University of
Hawaii.
David Lewis is a graduate painting student originally
from Maine. He enjoys dealing with the human condition
in his work.
James Lux is a ceramics major.
George McKim is a graduate student in painting from
Wilmington, N.C. :
Fa Ry . a . a at
A Me, � oe . KY - : : . » ; ile oe
Blanche K. Monroe is a graduate art student from N.C. oa aN WE fp
Ellen Moore is a junior in the School of Art. SheTs from
Richmond, Virginia, and believes creativity is the key to
the soul.
Maya Oliver is a textile major who is presently designing
a Fall line of clothes in Chapel Hill.
Gary Patterson, a senior in Industrial Technology, plans
to seek a commercial photography job and is Editor of
the Buccaneer Yearbook.
Margaret Shearin is a second year graduate art student Special thanks to the Art and Camera Gallery for hosting
from Cary, N.C. Her interests include art and music. the Rebel Art Show.
Julie K. Simon, a junior in Communication Arts, is
from Charlotte, N.C. Her main ambition is to win the
Publisher Clearing House Sweepstakes.
Lisa Sowers, a senior in Communication Arts, is from
Goldsboro, N.C.
Walter Stanford is-a junior in Communication Arts and a
Member of Design Associates.
Frank Stovall is a senior in Communication Arts with a
Concentration in Graphic Design. He is from Winston-
Salem, N.C.
Michael Tatsis, is a senior in Communication Arts.
S. Renee Thomas is a senior in Communication Arts and
Design Associates President.
Gregory S. Tucker is a senior in Communication Arts
COLUMBIA
and a member of Design Associates. pt gree oa
V. Jane Tucker, from Greenville, N.C., is a senior Associated
Ceramics major. Collegiate
Press
COURDINA Tn COUNLH UF UITERARY MAAS as
