[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]

EditorTs Note:

Rebels with a cause:
in search of poetic and artistic truth

On the second floor of the Publications Building, in an office as confining
as grandma's girdle, the creative voices representing over three decades of
student expression swell and resound"still demanding, even now, to be
heard. The din is, at times, overwhelming, but when we consider the
process that each artist struggled through, purging him or herself of that
ineffable something that drives each of us to that electric moment when
we communicate our thoughts to others so well that they, in turn,
reevaluate their perceptions, the din wanes. Indeed, it transforms into a
serenity omore tranquil than the curve of eggs?.

We at the Rebel are proud of our heritage, from its rawest beginnings to its
most successful triumphs. Through the years, the magazine has been
nationally recognized repeatedly for its excellence"winning several All-
American ratings as well as the coveted Pacemaker Award in 1985 and
1986. Still, the Rebel staff has never been one to rest on its laurels; we
continuously strive to represent those students who may otherwise have
no outlet for expression. It is a unique opportunity.

Take pride in it.

Joseph Campbell
Editor

This yearTs cover art is by Scott Eagle, a graduate student in Painting.

The Rebel is published for and by the students of East Carolina University. Offices are located in the Publications Center on the campus of ECU. This issue, Volume 31, and
its contents are copyrighted © 1989 by the Rebel. All rights revert to the individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor may
any part be stored in any information retrieval system without the written permission of the author or artist

The Rebel invites all students, faculty, and alumni to voice their opinions and/or make contributions. Inquiries should be addressed to the Rebel, Mendenhall Student Cen-
ter, East Carolina University, Greenville, North Carolina 27858-4353.

Michelle McDevitt Untitled I

SPRING/FALL 1

Doug Johnson, oThe Dimming Effect? 9
illustration by Scott Eagle
Greg Christensen, oEmpty Cans? 16

illustrations by Steven Reid, Jr.
Joseph Campbell, John OTConnor, & DA Swanson,
oStream of Consciousness? 46
Rita Rogers, oThe Sacrifice? 69
illustrations by David Cherry

Tonya Batizy, oSwimming In Space? 5
illustration by Jessica Murphy

H. Kermit Leggett III, oPetrarchan Sonnet III? 14
illustration by Scot Buck

Rita Rogers, oTouring Carl Sandburg? 19
illustration by Jacqui Hughes

Mary Joyce McCallum, oThe ITs Have It? 20
illustration by Tony Nichols

Rita Rogers, oSarahTs Hymn? 24

Lynne Rupp, oMother and Child Photo? 25

Melissa Gray, oMagnolia Leaves and

Pine Blossoms? 26

H. Kermit Leggett III, oTarot? 28
illustration by Rick Burgess

Brett Hursey, oThe Master Architect? 33

illustration by Robert Gwyn
Christopher Gallagher, oThe Simplicity of it All

(A VampireTs Confession)? 34

Joseph Campbell, oOh, Bod!? 35

Robert Flanagan, oHooverville Request? 36
illustration by Paul Glankler

Marshall S. Moore, oNow I Understand? 39
illustration by David Stanley

Robin Ayers, oTo Say Good-bye? 44

illustration by John OTConnor
Marshall S. Moore, oRequiem for the

Marquis de Sade 66
illustration by Shari Boyd
Joseph Campbell, oBreakdown? 73

Michelle McDevitt, Untitled
CCE Walker, Untitled
Tim McClanahan, The Witch and the Rainbow

Gallery

Allen Sovelove
Amanda Jarrell, Kiss Me Ruby
Craig OTBrien, Light Forms
Ray Puckett, Mr. Champion's Pier
Lisa Brantley, Untitled
Bill Bailey, Ring
Carol Torrell, Basket
Chris Hill, Porcelain Knob
Scott Eagle, The Annunciation
Michael McCreery, My Steel
Carol Torrell, Ginko Plate
Erik Johnson, Pumping Iron
Leesa Hartley, The Chain of Family Abuse
David Stanley, Breaking the Cycle

of Family Abuse
Andrea Ross, La Sophistique
Scott Eagle, The Genius of Disease
Steven Reid, Jr., Just Art
Steven Reid, Jr., Turbo Print
Leigh Miner, Portrait of a Friend's House
Melissa Iverson, Cathedral
David Cherry, Mission in Outer Space
Alex Marsh, Untitled

Photography

Alex Marsh
Alex Marsh
Tina Shaw
Alex Marsh
John OTConnor
John OTConnor
Renée Rice
Stacy Hamilton
Jeff Campagna
Renée Rice

12
13

48
50
51
52
53
54
54
54
55
55
55
2
56

at
58
a
60
61
62
63
64
65

23
30
31
40
41
42
43

2 REBEL'89

Art Awards
Best-in-Show: Craig OTBrien, Light Forms

Ceramics: Carol Torrell, Basket rT ys vs
Design: Craig OTBrien, Light Forms Y EN ee Be ee
Drawing: Lisa Brantley, Untitled
Illustration: Leesa Hartley,

The Chain of Family Abuse
Mixed Media: Bill Bailey, Ring
Painting: Melissa Iverson, Cathedral
Photography: Alex Marsh, Untitled
Printmaking: CCE Walker, Untitled STA rr
Sculpture: Michael McCreery, My Steel

Editor
Literary Awards Joseph Campbell
Poetry i
1st"Rita Rogers, oTouring Carl Sandburg? Art Director
2nd"Christopher Gallagher, oThe Simplicity of it John T. OTConnor

All (A VampireTs Confession)?

3rd"Marshall Moore, oNow I Understand? Associate Editor

Prose DA Swanson
1st"Rita Rogers, oThe Sacrifice?
2nd"Doug Johnson, oThe Dimming Effect? Poetry Editor

3rd"Greg Christensen, oEmpty Cans? Lynne Rupp

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The Rebel staff wishes to
thank those individuals who helped to make the magazine
possible: Ms. Julie Fay, Dr. Patrick Bizarro, Mr. William
Hallberg, and Mr. Luke Whisnant of the ECU English

Department for judging this yearTs literary contests; Mr. J U DG ES
Bob Rasch, Mr. Russell Gordon, and Mr. Robert
Edmisten for judging the art contest; Ms. Jessica Stanley

for assistance with the literature contest; Mrs. Yvonne ART

Moye, Media Board Secretary, for her unlimited support

and guidance; Mr. Kevin McCloskey and his classes for

their continued support; the writers and artists of East Mr. Bob Rasch

Carolina University for their contributions; Mr. Henry Mr. Russell Gordon

Stindt for his superior photography; Mr. Leonard Veillette :
ee ie Mr. Robert Edmisten

for his professional advice; and Mr. Nick Honeycutt and
Ms. Sherry Davis of Theo. Davis Sons, Inc. for their unre-
lenting patience, among other things.

The Rebel staff would also like to extend its gratitude
to the university and community members who provided LITERATURE
support and financial assistance during publication: Ms.
Carol Hartsog, Ms. Julie Campbell, Ms. Meredith Camp- ;
bell, and Ms. Hilda Campbell for their assisting with the Ms. Julie Fay
art showTs reception; Mr. David Walser Yarbrough for his Dr. Patrick Bizzaro
help in hanging the art show; Mendenhall Student Center :

Sor the iaas of eis tactidad: Wie Resid Dal Mr. Luke Whisnant
the entire Expressions staff for the use of their office; Mr. Mr. William Hallberg
Michael o ~ITll sue; so help me, ITll sue!T ? Daughtry for his
constant nagging; and the Buccaneer staff for the use of
their couch.

SPRING/FALL 3

Jessica Murphy

4 REBEL '89

Swimming In Space

oThe stars have opened up for you, my love,
Walk in and bathe in their healing lights,?
Sang Mother Gaia, afloat in the heavens.

| was in the stars last night,

Their astral lights soothing, like the ocean
Waters that revive the fish a fisherman
Threw back after putting on ice.

Melting in the sun and salty air,

The floating fish lulls in a daze

As Mother OceanTs womb moistens
Chapped gills, and fins splash frantically

As the misplaced fish swims, floating on side.

Sporadic movement erodes to feathered fans,
Sending into flight his fins,

Like wings; through the water he flies

Away from baited lines, despite appetite.

His true love, the sea, warms
With soothing salts, a vacuumed swaying
Of watery space the fish calls home.

Tonya Batizy

SPRING/FALL 5

Alex Marsh

6 REBEL '89

CF

~Kk

a

Alex Marsh

SPRING/FALL 7

a
¥
¥
~
7
3 a
~ . W
a
# |
és
}

Scott Eagle

8 REBEL '89

ow

ay

Gee

POI fh air

by Doug Johnson

SPRING/FALL 9

[ was an oppressively hot day, not
unlike many of the days that had
come and gone in the last few weeks.
Jimmy pulled a stained handkerchief
from his pocket and drug it across his
face. Running his fingers through his
hair, he was surprised to find it so hot to
the touch.

The dry-cleaners that he worked at sat
at the corner of Pollock and 7th Streets,
in the center of downtown. He was
considered to be a maintenance man
there, although he probably couldnTt fix a
flat tire. HeTd never tried. Actually, he
did little more than sweep, cut grass, and
wash the huge pane windows that ran on
three sides of the lobby, which jutted
forward from the section of the building
that housed the cleaning and pressing
equipment, not to mention the ever
mysterious oOne-Hour Martinizing?
apparatus. Jimmy wondered what
oMartinizing? entailed, and was
compelled by curiosity to venture a
query on the subject, only to be
rewarded by a distant oWho the hell
cares?? by Phyllis, the heavy-set redhead
who waited on the customers when they
came in, and took their money when
they left, performing both of these tasks
with the same flippancy. As a matter of
fact, he felt that it justified one of his
favorite time consuming activities.
Jimmy liked to take a song and change
the lyrics to suit his own fancy. He
delighted in making up lyrics about
Phyllis, amusing himself at her expense.
His favorite to date was a little ditty that
he sang to the tune of an obscure song
that he had heard years before called
oBlack Betty.? He didnTt remember the
words, but the chorus had a man singing,

Who-oa Black Betty

Bam-a-lam

Whoa-oa Black Betty
Bam-a-lam

In JimmyTs version, he substituted oFat
Phyllis? in the place of oBlack Betty,?
thus getting,

Who-oa Fat Phyllis
Bam-a-lam
Whoa-oa Fat Phyllis
Bam-a-lam

and so on.

10 REBEL '89

When he came to work, Phyllis had
told him a little too happily, he thought,
that today he could have the pleasure of
washing all of the windows in the lobby,
inside and out. She had folded her fleshy

old lady,? Jimmy mumbled, screwing his
face up in a distasteful grimace. Jimmy
dropped his rag and lay the Windex bot-
tle onto the concrete. He puffed his
cheeks out, and pulled down the corners

He grinned at Jimmy and stuck out a

tongue stained purple by the ~Now &
LatersT that jutted from his shirt pocket.

arms on the counter, and leaned forward
with a smirk on her face. oBetter get to
work, if you want to get finished today
sometime.?

oNo problem,? Jimmy replied simply,
but when Phyllis turned to get him the
things he would need, he puffed out his
cheeks and raised his arms out a little
ways from his sides in a mockery of her.
As she turned back he dropped the
stance quickly.

He decided to start on the outside, so
that he could joke Phyllis and just screw
around in general without being over-
heard. Setting the nozzle on the econo-
sized bottle of Windex to ~spray,T Jimmy
triggered some onto the window. The
glass was so hot that the liquid dried
almost as quickly as he could wipe it off,
leaving long streaks on the glass where
he pulled his rag across it. Jimmy gradu-
ally came up to one of the two long glass
doors that stood at either end of the
lobby, and ran his rag across it, obliterat-
ing hundreds of small, oval fingerprints
that looked to Jimmy like a group of
tiny faces peering into the closeness of
the humid interior of the cleaners.

As Jimmy worked his way across the
first window, he noticed an old bull-
doggish looking woman enter the clean-
ers. She wore an ill-fitting black dress
that bulged in places over an abundance
of flesh. Her grey, stringy hair protruded
from under a worn black hat that
resembled a hub cap perched precar-
iously upon her head. The skin on the
backs of her arms was sagging and
wrinkled, and liver spots stained her
wrists and hands. Her short, fleshy legs
protruded from the knee length hem of
her dress, and she wore knee-highs that
ended long before crawling above her
vein-laced calves. oJesus, what an ugly

of his eyes, pushing up his nose at the
same time. oI'd like tuh pick up muh
dawg blanket,? Jimmy mimicked in a
low, gruff, huffy voice, oand I'd like tuh
have muh studded collar dry-cleaned,?
he added with a giggle.

The old lady exited through the door
next to Jimmy, and he barked at her.
She turned to Jimmy , and saw his dis-
torted but strangely familiar imitative
mask. Her face reddened, and she shook
a gnarled, root-like fist at him, the loose
skin on the back of her arm swinging to
and fro, before continuing on to her car,
muttering to herself on the way.

Jimmy laughed, and turned back to
his work. When he looked through the
window again, he noticed a small black
child standing by his motherTs side as she
stood talking to Fat Phyllis. As Jimmy
looked, the child turned around and
stared at him, his mouth worrying over a
piece of candy. He grinned at Jimmy,
revealing a pair of protruding front teeth.
oMan, I bet you could eat corn through a
barbed-wire fence,? Jimmy laughed to
the window, sticking his own front teeth
out in an exaggerated imitation of the
small boy. The child walked over to the
window, looked directly at Jimmy, his
small brown eyes into JimmyTs narrowed
blues, and planted his sticky, candy-
streaked palms firmly upon the window.
He grinned at Jimmy, and stuck out a
tongue stained purple by the ~Now &
LatersT that jutted from his shirt pocket.
Jimmy looked around, then thrust his
middle finger against the window in the
little boyTs face. The child leaped back,
his grin widening, and scurried back to
his motherTs side, occasionally glancing
back over his shoulder at Jimmy. Jimmy
began to sing,

Who-oa bucked-tooth black boy
Bam-a-lam

Whoa-oa bucked-tooth black boy
Bam-a-lam

and he laughed aloud at his witty lyrical
ability. He caught himself, and glanced
quickly around to see if anyone had
heard him. A pretty young woman who
had been walking by on the walk threw
him a sidewards look, and he laughed
harder. She shook her head and kept
walking.

Jimmy returned to work, passing time
and cleaning the windows as best he
could. The shadows were beginning to
lengthen when he heard the slow, shuf-
fling footsteps of someone making his
way slowly along the sidewalk. Jimmy
paid them no attention, as people passed
him frequently. The foot falls
approached, and stopped right behind
him. His curiosity aroused, he turned, his
muscles tightening involuntarily. Before
him stood a nondescript old man of
average height, staring at him in a
bemused sort of way. JimmyTs glance
took in the manTs shabby clothing, his
stained and frayed pants that were shiny
on the knees from wear, and his plaid
flannel shirt, its tail out and its sleeves
unbuttoned and rolled up over scarred
forearms. He clutched a white plastic bag
with oRite-Aid? written in bold letters
across it in his veiny right hand. oHowTs
it goinT,? Jimmy said.

The old man stared at him from odd,
lead colored eyes a moment longer
before answering. oFine, just fine I am,?
he said, following the words with a grin.
oFine weather weTve had lately.?

oYessir, it shore has been,? Jimmy
replied, letting his muscles slowly relax,
although he wasnTt conscious of the
action.

The old manTs gaze held JimmyTs a
moment longer, and then he lifted his
grey stubbled face up and looked at the
bright orb above. oA little cool, though,?
he said.

Jimmy looked at the old man, and
glanced down at his own sweat-stained
tee-shirt. A brief whiff would have told
him that his deodorant really didnTt work
24 hours, he was sure. oCould be
cooler,? he commented, punctuating the
remark with a short laugh.

oTtTll get cooler,? the old man said

with a sigh of certainty and resignation,
ocooler, and darker, too.?

Jimmy said nothing, but a look of
confusion began to inch across his face, a
look that was not wasted on the old
man.

oThe sun, boy, the sun is what ITm talk-
inT about,? the old man said in a
manner that implied that what he was
talking about was as plain as the substan-
tial nose on his face, oits fadinT.?

oYou mean itTs going down,? Jimmy
said, the confusion on his features mak-
ing its way into his voice.

oNo, boy, no,? the old man began in
an exasperated tone, throwing his free
hand up in a frustrated gesture and
scrunching up his face, oI mean ... aw,
hell, forget it.? His hand dropped, and his
features relaxed. He looked at Jimmy for
a moment without saying anything, then
his right hand raised the white bag, and
he reached into it with the other. Jimmy
took an involuntary step backward, his
mind spewing a list of things that the old
guy might pull from the bag.

What he saw in the old manTs hand
when it withdrew from the bag was
nowhere on that list.

Clutched between the old manTs dirty
fingers was a candle.

oT see you've met
Crazy Harold;T she
said, her heavy

jowls quivering

with laughter.

It was a short, squat red candle,
Jimmy saw, the kind that his mother had
at home, the ones she would put on the
mantle during Christmas, surrounding
them with that plastic holly with the
plastic red berries. You could pick them
up at RoseTs for $.69, his mind told him.

The old man looked up into the sun,
and then back down at Jimmy. He
extended the candle towards Jimmy with
a slightly quivering hand, as though he
held some sacred trinket, and said with a
gentleness and sincerity that touched

Jimmy deep within the recesses of his
heart, oTake this, son. This is for when
the lights go out.? JimmyTs hand reached
out, and he took the candle gingerly. It
was not a new candle, Jimmy noticed.
Rather, it was malformed and sweaty
from the heat and closeness of the bag,
and it began to cool in the open air. It
was streaked with wax, resembling a
small volcano that had erupted, sending
molten lava streaming down its smooth
sides.

Jimmy glanced up through the
window into the cleaners. Looking back
at him were a half dozen laughing faces,
Phyllis and Jenny, the girl who did the
pressing, and Molly, the old lady that did
all of the sewing repairs, and the others.
They were all laughing. Jimmy could see
their faces through the window, and at
the same time he could see his own
reflection in the glass, superimposed
upon the others. His reflection was not
smiling back at him. Rather, it harbored
a confused, almost hurt look, like it had
when he had discovered that, No
Virginia, we were really just pulling your
leg, there is no Santa Claus.

A movement brought him out of the
window, and he looked back at the old
man. He had turned, and his mission
completed, he continued down the side-
walk, his shuffling gait eventually taking
him around the corner out of sight. He
never looked back.

Jimmy watched the man until he was
gone, then glanced back down at the
candle that he was turning over in his
hands. A tap on the window brought his
head up, and he saw Phyllis motioning
for him to come inside. He walked to the
door, and swung it open. The oppressive
air hit him, but he pressed on, letting the
door swing silently shut behind him. oI
see youTve met Crazy Harold,? she said,
her heavy jowls quivering with laughter.
The rest of the women added their
comments, their laughs, following their
words, but Jimmy scarcely heard them.
His ears were filled with a fuzzy
whooshing sound, making it hard to hear
all of the remarks and jokes that the
women made about the old man. PhyllisT
laughter penetrated the winds in his
head, and became an almost physical
thing. He could feel it drilling at his
temples, burrowing its way to the center
of his brain: He raised his hands to his

Continued on page 72

SPRING/FALL 11

CCE Walker Untitled

12 REBEL '89

Tim McClanahan The Witch and the Rainbow

SPRING/FALL 13

14 REBEL '89

Petrarchan Sonnet III

As Heaven's passing fades across my face,
| think | see a stormcloud in the West.

You know, that is the only vestige left

Of what | thought was coming from that place;
But what | thought has never been the case,
Nor could it ever truly be expressed.

My gray reflection, crazy or possessed,
Confronts me now and mocks the rites of chase.

As my face turns toward the pounded pane,
The lights go out, foreshadowing a night

Of stale depression, soaked with sudden rain.
And she will come, or must | yet invite

More tension than this prison can contain

As Heaven's shadow passes from my sight?

H. Kermit Leggett II

Illustrations by Steven Reid, Jr.

REBEL '89

id, Jr.

H: was settinT on his porch as I
walked over. RockinT, like he was
listening to music or somethinT. His three
teeth, yellow as the sun, and his hair,
white as the clouds. Sometimes I canTt
really understand him; when he gets to
mumblinT, I usually ask him what he said
once, and if I doesnTt understand by then,
I just nod my head and he keeps on
talkinT.

I sat down in the chair next to him; it
wasnTt a rocker no more. The chair
was his wifeTs, she died a
while back. When I was a
kid, a little kid, 1 remember
them rockinT together, he
looked just as old as he does
now. She used to love the
rocker until one night she
had sipped a bit too much
moonshine. The porch is
real hard. Never saw two
rockers there again.

oHot.?

oAlways is this time of
year,? Blueblood said.
oAirTs coming up straight
from hell, sometimes it car-
ries the screams up too.?
His name is Blueblood
because he says heTs the
great great grandson of a
King somewhere in Africa.
ThatTs what he says and
most people believe him "
I donTt know, it donTt
matter to me. His real name
is Willie Nixon, but he
donTt tell many people that.

Me and Blueblood
always talks. HeTs the smart-
est person I ever met.
Maybe the smartest I ever
will. Says heTs so smart
because he got royal blood
in him.

oSaid good-bye to my
girl. WasnTt bad.? He knew
it was.

oNever is easy ... sayinT
good-bye.? Blueblood was like an old
race horse; youTd have to warm him up,
but then heTd run. Like a machine. Like a
time machine. oGuess you're here to say
good-bye to me.?

oGuess so.?

oLast war I said good-bye to lots of
boys, said good-bye to my sons. Never is
easy, sayinT good-bye.? I didnTt know his

sons, both died in the war. Before the
war one of the sons had a kid though.
Never knew him, moved up north a
while back.

oAin't told nobody . . . ITm sorta
scared, Blueblood.?

oShould be, warTs scary, ainTt no place
for a kid.?

Blueblood knew I was just a kid, but
I guess even my pa was a kid to Blue-
blood. If it werenTt for Blueblood, I
might have hid somewheres, donTt know

His name is Blueblood
because he says heTs the great
great grandson of a King

somewhere in Africa. His real
name is Willie Nixon, but he
donTt tell many people that.

where, but somewheres. Told me I'd
only be hiding from myself, and you can
never lose yourself.

oHowTd you stay alive, I means, in the
war??

oDifferent war. WasnTt things like
~aero-planesT and bombs. All there was to
rely on was smarts " thatTs how I did it,
smarts. But that ainTt gonna help you, not

in these new wars, ainTt the same. DidnTt
help my boys, lost two of ~em, you
know.? I knew.

oYou scarinT me Blueblood, I know
ITll live, I gots to live. My girlTs waiting
for me, you waiting for me.

oAinTt waitinT for no boy to come
home from no war.? I knew heTd be
waiting for me, had to.

oHowTd you use your smarts to stay
alive? I thinks I gots enough smarts to
stay alive.?

oGots to think different
than most people. Think
hard, all the time. People say
that if you think too hard too
long your headTll blow, like a
pot on the stove that nobody
lets the air out of. Well, that
ainTt the truth. The truth is the
oppTsit, whatTs inside the pot
is your thoughts, and if they
ainTt let out, by thinkinT, then
itll blow.?

oYou seen a head blow
from not thinknT??

oOld as I am, I seen lots.
You gotta think different.
Gotta remember that we live
in the past, and everythinT
goes by too fast. We only
know what has happened; we
donTt know nothinT ~bout
what is happninT, or what will
happen. Only thing to do is
look back and think, decide
for you whatTs gonna happen,
then do it, for you. When you
in the Army you ainTt got no
choice but to listen to certain
people and do what they say
" but you gots to think,
think ~bout everythinT.?

Blueblood looked up at the
sky and took a deep breath,
like he always does when heTs
thinkinT, rememberinT about
the past. Like the sky got
some power that runs this
machine. Guess his time
machine runs on the night sky.

oWe was fightTn on the edge of the
woods, and they was just cominT over a
hill right in front of us. They couldnTt see
us SO we was just droppinT em, like
empty cans. There was about forty of us,
more of them. A lot more, I knew. We'd

Continued on page 72

SPRING/FALL 17

saunter

vas

NWP ES
& BY
ODH

TTC Uns

Jacqui Hughes

18 REBEL '89

Touring Carl Sandburg

The guide led us through your lived-in quarters,
Connemara, a name you chose not to change when
the land changed people.

Here and there, bits of you, a cigar and ashes,
your hat, sweater, paper in a typewriter (| long to touch
the keys), letters, boxes, files of letters, a calender on the

wall, June 1957, old magazines, LIFE, a plaque from the NAACP,

a cap.

In your bedroom, clothes laid out for you to slip into,

old shoes, pants, a flannel shirt. And in your bed,

a hollowed-out dent which matches well your contours.
(| see you have just risen from your nap

and walked over to the window where the sun floats dust
in even lighted lines and it goes through you.)

The guide says oNo? to my question, obut it is arranged
as closely as possible to the way it was " one of the
daughters confirmed us on that.?

So, it was then, all arranged, the cigar smoke hastily

by a face-making guide who let the ashes fall and

the cigar smolder, and leaving some of the ashes connected,
placed it counterclockwise at 6 o'clock,

and the sweater, thinned in the right places, was lifted out
of an old trunk and placed nicely on the back of the
ocorrespondence chair? and the chair was pulled out slightly.
Letters scattered just so.

The clutter you never attempted to straighten, straightened
and re-cluttered

And, naturally, up in the bedroom, a carefully arranged dent
in the bedspread, a guide on a slow day slipped in for a nap
and on his way out, opened wide the curtains

to let the rays pierce the soul of Carl Sandburg.

Flat Rock, N.C.
1976

Rita Rogers

SPRING/FALL 19

20 REBEL '89

The ITs Have It

Days pass like puddles,

evaporating magically

into forgotten nothingness,
indistinguishable,

| watch through the iron bars,

a gilt colored parrot with

no tongue to protest
imprisonment.

The free denounce me,

| am a oCallous criminal,?

a oMarblehearted malefactor,?
oimmoral.?

But what do they know of

my heart which beats

in tune with their own,
identical.

A jury of my peers blew

Gabriel's horn, redefining

the boundaries of my life,
incarcerating

me, removing a blemish.

| have appealed, | now

have no concourse left,

their judgement stands, the
I's

have it. | am impotent,

helpless, not heartless.

| am blamed, exiled, yet
innocent.

| fell through a hole |

in the system into a

chasm of yellowed despair,
indicted.

| see the leaves fall

outside my cell,

knowing that never will
|

feel the seasons change.

Mary Joyce McCallum

Tony Nichols

N
4
i

aw
Oo
Zz
ira
a.
o

a ee
& Aa? i
TAN

Tina Shaw

22 REBEL '89

Alex Marsh

SPRING/FALL 23

SarahTs Hymn
(Genesis 21-22)

I laughed when first He stirred me from my sleep:

o| who am so old to have a child!?

But laughter grew in me and we named you, our first-born,
Laughter.

Oh how fast you grew! (and | knew but did not dare believe
the time would come)

Do you remember

your first trip with your father?

How excited you were with your little face tuned upward to
question, question, oBut Papa, where is the lamb??

And the silence. And the look, the look

oThe Lord will provide,? he answered and you believed but

How hard it was to keep from running running to bring you back
to me. My arms ached empty.

| waited, waited

Waited for dust to rise from small sandals

Washed out your white white clothes on rocks, they dried coarse
and stiff, then on the limbs of willows and waited for softening
breeze. But there was no wind.

No wind, no rain in desertlands. It was too too long and when
you returned at last, at last, | cried. | cried and pulled you
close and smelled your baby hair. You, puzzled, little hands
embraced my moumful face: oBut, Mama, | am here.?

You are. You are

Laughter.

Rita Rogers

Mother and Child Photo

oWish | could have known you then

still full of that fat fertility glow,
screaming bundle in your arms, red faced,
blood filled balloon about to burst.

You held me up, proud sculptor.

But labor followed my birth;

on your brow the marks,

only chisels carve marble so deep,
shadows from nights with no sleep
cast beneath biting stone
coldness, your eyes.

What weight hung so heavy

round your neck, bending

proud posture into brutal broken back?
Has some horrible hunger sucked

full cheeks gaunt from within?

Now you appear always gasping for air.

Years ago when the cord between us split
| thought | saw it fall and

shrivel like sloughed off skin;

| never dreamed you'd pick it up,

entwine it round your throat and choke.

Lynne Rupp

SPRING/FALL 25

_eeeeeeeeeeC~isC

Magnolia Leaves and Pine Needles

When | see magnolia leaves and pine needles,
| think of you.

You were nine,
| was ten,
life was fun.

We were friends at a time when,
oMama, can | go outside and play??
was the only question in our lives.

The anticipation was overwhelming
when Sundays and Summers
came ~round.

Sitting in Grandmother's den,
staring out the window,

Anxious to see you run into your
Grandmother's house.

Thinking all the while,
oCome on, Shannon, itTs time to play.?

Seeing you brought a smile,
a hurried and impatient
oMom, can | go out??

With a yes, a race with my brother would begin
out the door,
jump the ditch,
ring the bell.

oCan Shannon play??

What fun we had!
Days playing Army, tag, hide ~nT go seek,
or making a house out of
magnolia leaves and pine needles.
Moments of playful arguments over
who was older,
and who was taller.
As quickly as they started,
they stopped and we were playing again.

26 REBEL '89

""

neat. f

ein

Thoughts of the end
never crossed our minds,
the fun would last forever.
Then, suddenly, | moved,
missing you the most.
Wondering,
what if | had stayed?

Now, remembering only the good times,
the showing off,
the giggling,

there is warmth and smiles.

You were
my first playmate,
my first friend,
my first crush.

| cared so much about you,
though | could never say it,
did you know?

| wish | could tell you now,
| canTt
you're gone.
Somehow,
| know you know.

Yet, | keep finding myself wanting to ask,

oMama, can | go outside and play??

one last time,
to say
goodbye. . .

Melissa Lynn Gray

SPRING/FALL 27

TAROT

| was in the forest
And a tree fell.
Nobody
Heard.

Later on, | met a hermit
On a lonely pilgrimage and He said,
oLet's put this poem on the rack, see what it has
To say.?
oWell,? | said, oit could be made longer,
But it really couldn't say
Much more.?

But the poem was stretched, and it said:
From phantom tempest on the deep
To silken, sodden shore,

In fearful haste, the wind gives chase
Then blows that way no more!

oBAD OMENS IN THE VERSE!? the hermit cried,
oBEWARE THE IDES OF THE OCEAN!?
Lost in the light of His lamp,

He went His way
And | was left alone
With this rackbroken poem
Which whispered reassuringly
Of doom.

HLK. Legget

28 REBEL '89

\\
\ \\ aN

A YN y~ \
Wy Va t
ONC © ace:

Rick Burgess

SPRING/FALL 29

pn

Ts, 2 ee

"=

John OTConnor
30 REBEL T89

John OTConnor

SPRING/FALL 31

Soe ay

Robert Gwyn

32 REBEL '89

The Master Architect

Upon a field of thistles stands

A single lily, tall and white.

The Bloom about the Thorns commands a view of wild, untended
Lands

Newly thawed from Winter's blight.

The deeds that Men have bought and sold

To flower, thorns and virgin ground

Are stored in Coffers, stark and cold " The yellow parchment
Sprouting Mold;

A hardy, healthy crop abounds.

Do grass and weeds grow by Design?

And shrubs and trees of every kind?

Who plans the way the ivy twines and twists around the Withered
Spine

Of a rotten apple rind?

Do Lawyers write the rules for rain?

Do Priests and Prophets own the wind?

What text was written that explains the proper nesting time to
Cranes,

When Winter fails and Spring begins?

And deep within the lily white,

A spider's spun her silken web.

And when a Monarch stopped his flight to sip the Nectar, she
Wrapped him tight

In her sticky, silken thread.

But men don't like to look in Blooms,

That stand alone in distant fields,

Where Death and Life share common rooms and stately flowers are
Fragrant Tombs

That Carpenters can never build.

Brett Hursey

SPRING/FALL 33

34 REBEL '89

The Simplicity of it All
(A VampireTs Confession)

I am repelled by the darkness,

Her frigid fingers tenderly touch

The frame of my body.

Warmth is suckled and weaned away.

| no longer believe in what | used to be

For the temptation is greater than the belief,
Creating an eruption of hunger

TWISTING, SPIRALING, RIPPING, TEARING
Past a hollow hole where a soul once lay.

| ensue the craving,
Yearning to bite soft, tender flesh
Pliable, but filled with enough tenacity
To resist briefly my wants,

my needs,

my desire,
Until finally breaking with a gentle snap.

| endure an immortalized sensation
As | have for an imperishable number of times.
Drinking in the simplicity of it all,
| allow carmine droplets to slide down my face,
Land upon my arm,
Fall onto the floor.

The continuing drip,

drip,

drip, of each drop
Pricks at my ears,
Arousing a frenzy f no longer control.

| know | am evil.
The darkness is a constant reminder

And that is what sickens me.

PO nomen elias

Oh, Bod!

Come, mein frau, mon fiddle-stick,

Heave high those heathen hurdies from that vanity.
Don't fiddle with rouge, those cheeks are perfect,
Oh, just ponder the passion we'll miss!

(I'll blush you deeper with just a kiss!)

My Hunnish desires make me perspire

As does that smirking archaic smile.
Fiddlesticks! you say? Well, fiddle-dee-dee"
Fiddle you may " (yet of sticks,

| have but one.)

Put away that clew, you must
Discard the thimble.

| promise the prick you receive
Will not make you spew.
(Unless you want it to.)

This linen is plush, you " a scrumptious
Sultry-poultry, sculpted flesh in your white
Tight teddy: an odiferous odalisque

For my paltry emotions.

(Even Ingres would blush.)

Oh, my concupiscible concubine, go
Fetch me my slippers, my robe.
We'll shower for an hour,

Then bask in the afterglow,

All wrinkled and spent.

Joseph Campbell

SPRING/FALL 35

Hooverville Request

Taking the time to paint some shoes
where the plaid bucket dips the deep
water.

Let the three of us leave our separate sets
of keys in the dish " avoiding the
floroscope.
Nose, ears, mouth, all in the proper space
above the corkscrew humorously boring
into the meeting of foreigners:
ThatTs my talent!
and those who donTt laugh, | can't speak with
unless we press in a unification
chamber.
Collected feathers chip a cheap Morano
glass.
A girl waving a red scarf to a gorilla
comments:

oLook, a mouse!?
the rodent limps silently across the dresser.

Now, let me go eat my Jello and cookies down
where the plaid bucket dips the deep water.

Robert Flanagan

36 REBEL '89

aaa

a aa anes Paul Glankler

SPRING/FALL 37

David Stanley

38 REBEL '89

be

i nr
4

2404 acamoas:

re ee ee ee

a ee

""

Now I Understand

a confusing assortment of tedious challenges
vex me and hex me, don't cease to perplex me
i manage to acquire them in tottering heaps
which at any moment look ready to collapse
and relieve me of my head.

pessimistically optimistic or optimistically pessimistic
distinction too insignificant to warrant clarification
impressing both young and age simultaneously
requires so much meaningless expostulation

or so much mental masturbation

instant impersonal gratification

i'll scribble instead.

useless consternation over topics at best obscure and irrelevant
to tire me and stress me, guaranteed to depress me

for the sake of conversation i achieve an education

i'd rather stay in bed.

marshall s. moore

SPRING/FALL 39

ee ee i ee i ee Meal eal Ee

ee ee

» Pe OR ae oe ae ey

Renée Rice
40 REBELT89

"_

otee +

ne ete.

Stacy Hamilton

SPRING/FALL 41

"" a a """-
"- ~ = > |

7 ee """"" oo a ee een mi a ? sa Maen
ae I . ~ Zz
agrees ",;-+.".- "- ooo > ng a ee =f " = 5 = = = : = =.
ak i. ke tie Se : es. bP _- - = a A eee 7 af > e = = . . a ?"? ,
ohit enas ~ _" sen pee ig Sy ON, a en i a ee eee ee

Jeff Campagna

42 REBEL '89

Renée Rice

SPRING/FALL 43

To Say Good-bye

First time, with pine

and scarlet dogwood, that afternoon
of the fall | reached for the light

in your eyes and found a beginning.

Longleaf and leafless wood
protected our intimacy
under sharp winter sun "
because we only knew

of warm love.

Rain, without relief

bent white dogwood

and camouflaged what fell
from our eyes " the pain
of endings.

Your city, my innocence "

they seemed reason enough

for intervention, and bloodstained
tears left behind

our youth.

So many years, and miles apart
have since made their way
between what we shared

and all that was left

of love.

| just wanted you to know

about belief in natureTs progression,
of births and all beginnings "

that endings become tomorrows
and love.

Robin Ayers

a ses Sut

John OTConnor

SPRING/FALL 45

Consciousness

by the 3 caballeros Af

And in the beginning it was a
dark and stormy night and
there we were"faced with a
stark, white, clean, brilliant,
spotless, unadulterated
spread (of pages that is, and
a computer screen...
sometimes). And suffering
intensely humanizes the
whole universe, by Mina.

-- it's a jungle out there!

St r i a mM O f WTA Word Processing an}

7 items 18,079K in disk 1,231K availa\,

SILI MU fib Pagemker 3.0

Maclliie

Sf ff

The time limit for completing all credit
(including transfer credit)

in non-doctoral programs is

6 years; for two year programs

nine years...
--ECU Bulletin 1986-1988 Graduate Catalogue

George! George! George!

JETSON

Flotsam! Flotsam!

Daughter Judy

46 REBEL 'S9 :

ASTRO! META!! Football...

Raymond Lau
--as distorted by DA Swanson

Crickets like music from a bad horror movie.

Rationalists, wearing square hats,

Think, in square rooms,

Looking at the floor,

Looking at the ceiling.

They confine themselves

To right-angled triangles.

If they try rhomboids,

Cones, waving lines, ellipses--

As, for example, the elipse of the half-moon--

Rationalists would wear sombreros.
--Wallace Stevens



Apple Computer Co.
-- as distorted by DA Swanson

Cellular Neurophysiology* (3)

Prerequisites: Calculus, Physical Chemistry, & Consent of instructor.
Development of theoretical and experimental evidence underlying modern con-
cepts of bioelectric phenomenon. Current concepts of membrane structure,
metabolism, resting and action potentials, ionic fluxes, and techniques utilized in
electrophysiological research. Seminars with emphasis on the critical evaluation

of pertinent original research papers.
: qe --ECU Bulletin 1986-1988 Graduate Catalogue



Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
. ; TEae Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
The Werewolf ae With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
. Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse
--Milton

That we're all just on some cosmic treadmill on our way to some doomful
doom? Is truth really painless? or is it just beautiful. But what does beauty
mean without some sacrifice to it? The sacrifice, the stigmata, the gap, the
gap, landscapish, architectonic, poetic and prosey, syllabics, sound quality,
composition, the desire to produce, stick it out! 9

SPRING/FALL 47

The Wonder, The Splendor

SPRING/FALL 49

Amanda Jarrell Kiss Me Ruby

50 REBEL '89

if - | sy ee

Muminating the forms of ict

light |?

Wore (5)!

Craig OTBrien Light Forms

SPRING/FALL 51

Mad

Ray Puckett

52 REBEL '89

Mr. ChampionTs Pier

SPRING/FALL 53

Bill Bailey

Chris Hill

54 REBEL ~89

Porcelain Knob

Carol Torrell Basket

Carroll Torrell Ginko Plate

Scott Eagle The Annunciation



Erik Johnson Pumping Iron Michael McCreery My Steel

SPRING/FALL 55

56 REBEL '89

Leesa Hartley

The Chain of Family Abuse

Breaking the Cycle of Family Abuse

David Stanley

SPRING/FALL 57

The Genius of Disease

Scott Eagle

SPRING/FALL 59

Steven Reid, Jr. Just Art

60 REBEL '89

Steven Reid, Jr. Turbo Print

SPRING/FALL 61

Leigh Miner Portrait of a FriendTs House

62 REBEL '89

Cathedral

Melissa Iverson

SPRING/FALL 63

Space

Mission in Outer

>
~~
3
=
1S)
2
>
3S
Qa

Q
Ld
a
w
a
Ww
a
st
©

yin

Alex Marsh

Untitled

SPRING/FALL 65

66 REBEL '89

Requiem for the Marquis de Sade

Once enough people like me
I'll allow myself the luxury of hating some of them.

| swallow the pins and tacks
Like you suggested
But didnTt find any answers in them.

My best traits and my worst ones
Are the same;
It depends on who I'm talking to.

The mirror never tells me anything
| haven't heard before

| put hooks through my eyes

So you could drag me along.

Who and what am |?

You said you'd tell me

Although | never asked.

Given the chance,

You would carve out and classify all my secrets.
| wouldn't kill me, but all | ever wanted

Was the death of definition.

Trying to weigh your guilt against my innocence
Only showed me the depths of the graves

We've dug for ourselves.

Marshall S. Moore

y é ty, hf > a SA
sal T oy * ~ > Ss T
f whet J yt Stag NS X
f a ay fs f| 2 it i NN SS yoo.
ee =
oBie Re Gan Pa
oats ei a
RAS th oll ty * .

LOBES |
o

4





vw
> *

angie
PET ate
i aR ag

.
.Al

Illustrations by David Cherry

68 REBEL '89

ine...
acrifice

Youngsters would
stop by on their
NEWCO BIleComre)
get ice-cream, or
on their way
back, and the
next morning
Alice would mop
off the sticky
drippings from

the porch steps.

he preacherTs wife found the bundle

late that afternoon in the left corner
of the closet, fitted snugly between
sweaters and wool skirts. She motioned
to her husband, oJohn, here,?
then got up from her
knees and walked
carefully to give the blood
time to circulate in her
shaky legs, holding onto
the chair, then desk and
dresser top until she
reached the open
window. The house felt
airless. Outside dogs
barked, at Harry BlakeTs
red pickup, she could see
now. They chased the old
Dodge clear around the
corner, then chased each
other back to wait for
more slow-moving traffic.

Dogs. Last week four
dogs had dug up under
her duck pen. They had
chewed up her beautiful
ducks like they were old
thrown-out slippers. By
the time she had reached
them, there was not much
left other than mangled
bits of feathers, meat and
blood. In one corner she
saw a fat mallard squirm
even as a dog bit deep
into his
breast. She had stood
there beating the dog hard
with her fists, then with a stick until the
stick split into splinters and still he
ignored everything, her screams, her
kicking, and ran with the duck in his
mouth, its limp body bouncing back and

forth like a childTs balloon-on-a-stick.
AliceTs arms and back still felt stiff from
the effort.

She felt almost as much anger toward
the palefaced girl curled up on the couch
in the front room. oJohn, ITm going
home. You donTt need me here, do you??

oNo, honey, go on. Try to rest.?

Alice didnTt remember walking home
or passing the two small brick houses,
then crossing the bridge which arched
over only mud during this very low tide.
The muddy marsh gradually merged into
a rather shallow creek where only the
smaller boats could safely go. The par-
sonage that she and John had lived in for
almost 11 years was the second house
after the bridge. It was white, one-story,
two bedroom. She had loved it for its
porch.

Summer nights, when theyTd first
moved there, she and John would drag
out chairs from the dining room table
and sit out on their porch. Youngsters
would stop by on their way to TildenTs
to get ice-cream, or on their way back,
and the next morning Alice would mop
off the sticky drippings from the porch
steps. She hadnTt minded. She wasnTt par-
ticular as most childless women about
neatness. Every summer until a few years
ago she had taught the Vacation Bible
School. Her favorite activities were
finger-painting and play dough. Her class
was one of the most popular because she
let them be as messy as they liked.

The porch had a porch swing now
and a set of matching lawn chairs, but
since the building committee had
installed air conditioning they no longer
used the porch. No one walked down
this road anymore except heart patients

by Rita Rogers

SPRING/FALL 69

who had taken their doctorTs advice
seriously. Most people drove even if it
was just a quarter of a mile to TildenTs
store or to their church, Marshall Baptist
Church. It was as if walking were no
longer an option.

At home Alice waited for her
husband. Nine oTclock came and she put
his supper on the refrigerator; she should
have left a note, but she was too worn
out to remember that he would never
find the food otherwise. She was used to
being alone at night. During seminary it
had been the library; then at the New
Hope church, then Bethany, then
Calvary, now Marshall, there were the
parishioners to visit. Early on, Alice had
visited them with John. But somehow, as
the years passed, she couldnTt do it
anymore. Those pastoral calls took so
much out of her, always having to smile
and be interested in their children and
grandchildren. All those past
congregations now blended into one
huge conglomeration of scorning faces:
nominating committees, revival services,
social committees, too much make-up,
not dressy enough, run in your stocking.
Do, go, be, they chanted over and over;
do, go, be.

Not the children though, those she
remembered distinctly and gladly: Todd
and Michael at the Bethany church,
singing oIf I were a butterfly, T'd thank
you Lord for giving me wings,? and
CalvaryTs Belinda and Allyson and Brian
at the district Bible Drill, earnestly
flipping the pages of their Bibles, a

70 REBEL '89

soothing noise like the flapping of wings,
and looking up triumphantly when they
found what they were looking for. Those
children and the others were all grown
by this time, but she tried not to think
about that.

And John had told her just last week,
a pulpit committee this Sunday will
come to hear him preach. Mt. Tabor
near little Washington. Then, as always,
would come dinner with the committee,
then a session of questions and answers.
Then wait for the phone call.
Then the
trial sermon.
Then the
vote. Then
another
phone call.
Alice felt
traitorous
during the
waiting.

She fell
asleep final-
ly. When
she awak-
ened near
dawn with
John there
beside her,
his steady
breathing comforted her a little; she
gently moved his hand so that it softly
stroked her own face. Alice wondered
when he came to bed; she was usually
such a light sleeper. By the time the sun
filtered through the cracks in the blinds,

John had mowed
around a bunch of
the wild red
amaranth. He
never could bear to
cut down any of
the transient
flowers...

John began to stir. oAre you
already awake?? he asked
her.

oHowTs Miss Eva?? She
shifted her pillow as she
spoke.

oSheTs doing as well as
can be expected. The doctor
gave her something.?

oThe girl??

oDonTt know. TheyTve
already scheduled a hearing.
You okay??

She closed her eyes and
nodded. oWant some
breakfast??

oTI just fix myself some
corn flakes.?

Alice stretched her legs
out across the bed after John
got up. It felt good, cool.
When was the last time she
had changed the sheets, she wondered.

Almost one hour later she forced
herself up and went into the kitchen.
John was leaving. oI think I ought to go
back for awhile. I'll be over at the church
after that if you need me for
anything,? he said.

She hesitated before asking, oYou
think I should go back? I could.?

oNo, I can handle it all right. You
could phone Miss Eva later.? As he
walked out the door he said, oDid you
see the flowers??

Alice shook her head
and walked to the back
screen door. She smiled.
John had mowed around a
bunch of the wild red
amaranth. He never could
bear to cut down any of
the transient flowers that
sometimes
spontaneously sprung up in
their back yard, goldenrod,
columbine, violets, trumpet
vine, hearts-a-busting, all
sojourners on their way to
someplace else. As a result,
the lawn often had a
blotched appearance.

oWhere did they come
from?? she asked him.

oDonTt know. Nice, arenTt they??

oYes.? Alice stayed at the door
until John had crossed the street.

On her way back from gathering
the sheets Alice passed the bathroom and

noticed the clothes hamper. It was
bulging with dirty laundry, its mouth
opened slightly as if it had started to say
something but had forgotten exactly
what. She swaddled the damp bundle
like her dough rising slowly in the
refrigerator. She punched it a little with
her fists as if to knead it into a proper
smoothness.

While she was loading the washer, a
childhood memory suddenly came to
her. When she was about seven, the
summer before the second grade, a cat
had taken up at their house. There was
nothing symmetrical about the catTs
markings " a scramble of yellow and
brown and white " except for the bulging
in its sides. She had wanted desperately
to keep the cat, but her mother had
hastily shooed it away: oThatTs all we
need"a dozen cats around this place!?
The animal stayed in spite of her mother.
Alice encouraged it with jar lids of milk
hidden behind the shrubbery.

The kittens came. To AliceTs horror,
the mother cat had them right there on
the concrete sidewalk in front of the
house. Alice had felt sick and wondered
why she didnTt go into some corner,
somewhere out of view. The cat
completely ignored the births, the last
one came out while she was crossing the
yard. Where they fell, she left them"
wet, ugly, mouse-like creatures still in
their clinging bags of thin skin. Curling,
dried-up cords protruded from their
middles.

Without thinking really, Alice had
picked up the cat and pushed a reluctant
nose down toward one of the kittens.
The cat didnTt even sniff at the poor,
squirming creatures, or show any of the
casual curiosity she had exhibited that
morning pursuing a beetle. Alice had
watched helplessly as she walked away.

Such indifference, such detachment
she had never seen, until now, this. She
pictured the girl there on the couch, her
knee drawn up to her breast.

The washer was full, she closed it and
set the dial.

Another day passed before her
neighbor Mildred came. Alice had been
expecting her, dreading the womanTs way
of making her feel guilty for everything.
Alice knew Mildred blamed her when
the church bake sale didnTt make enough
to send all the children to camp. They all
expected so much of her. She just
couldnTt do it anymore.

Mildred came with a fresh flounder
wrapped in freezing paper. oThought the
preacher might like this,? she said,
smiling. oI know how he loves fresh
fish.? MildredTs husband owned his own
fishing boat and ran the communityTs fish
market.

Alice smiled back thanks. oJohn does
love it. HowTs Dave doing now? He
okay??

oYeah, heTs gue
fine. Ornery
as ever. Just
a spell of
the flu I
guess. |
came to ask
about ... you
know.?

Alice knew. \
She was
trying to
ask about the
girl.

oYou heard
anything
else? I
saw the
police over
there. You
heard any-
more today??

Alice
looked down
at her own chewed fingernails. She
wants details, she thought. She wants to
know more than who, what, and where.
More than the newspaper
reporter/receptionist could bring herself
to put in the scrubbed columns of page
one of the Marshall News-Dispatch
headlined: oInfant Found Dead, Teenage
Mother Questioned.?

oNo Mildred, you know as much as I
do.?

What more can I tell you, she thought.
Can I describe for you the awful way in
which a dry-cleanerTs plastic bag clings
against the wet face of a two-day-old
infant, clings as if it were a second skin?
Should I tell you how the veined eye lids
seem to contain eyes too large for the
head? How the swelling seems to fill the
whole wax-doll face?

oT just thought, you being the
preacherTs wife and all.? Mildred
hesitated. oDidnTt you find it??

oNo,? Alice said.

Mildred had been gone for more than
half an hour before Alice got up

from the kitchen table. She smoothed her
limp hair straight back. The bangs fell
stubbornly to her forehead. ItTs a sight,
she thought. I'll need to wash it for
tomorrow, for Sunday. John had been
on his way to take her to the beauty
parlor three days ago. They were
backing out of the carport when they
caught sight of Miss Eva walking up,
struggling to find a firm hold in the

gravel driveway.
oPreacher, somethingTs
wrong with Linda. SheTs
fainted.? Miss Eva had
been out of breath.

They found the girl on
the bathroom floor, a
small stain growing on
her terrycloth robe. The
ambulance had come to
take the girl to the
hospital. John and Alice
had followed in their car.

After his examination,
the doctor took the adults
aside. Alice was stunned.
It was as if someone had
hit her from behind, the
blow was so jolting.
oThatTs impossible,
doctor,? she had
said.

Miss Eva, the girlTs
grandmother, had
whispered, oSheTs no more than a child
herself.?

The doctor seemed not to be listening.
oThe girl wonTt tell me anything. See if
you can talk to her. ITm going to have to
call the sheriff.?

Where have I been, Alice had thought.
This happened so close and I never
knew.

She found a bobby pin and fastened
the strands away from her face. I canTt
wash my hair. Maybe Ill miss church
tomorrow. John never minds. The organ
player had taken over most of her choir-
leading duties anyway. Probably no one
would hardly notice.

She stopped suddenly and walked
over to the sink. That sound! Out the
window she saw, over near the marshTs
edge, two ducks moving in the direction
of the pen. She held her breath. One
young drake, and trailing him out of the
marsh grass, a dingy-brown female. They
must be mine, she thought excitedly.

Continued on page 72, col. 3
SPRING/FALL 71

continued from page.11 continued from page 17 continued from page 71

ears and then to his temples. oItTs not funny,?
he managed to whisper, dragging the words
from his constricted throat. He drew a breath,
and this time shouted as loud as he could
manage, oGod dammit, shut the hell up, itTs

?

not funny

The laughter trickled off as the women saw
the look of anger on JimmyTs face. There was
a short, awkward silence, which was broken
by a cough and mumbled oletTs get back to
work,? and the subsequent whisper of leather
and squeaking of rubber on the concrete
floor, leaving with a few backward glances
Jimmy standing in the middle of the lobby
clutching his rag.

Finally, his grip relaxed and he turned and
strode back out the door. He began to rub the
window in a slow, absent motion. He started
to sing in an effort to make himself feel
better, oWhoa-oa, Fat Phyllis, Bam-a-lam,
Whoa-oa, Fat Phyll ...? he trailed off. It
didnTt make him feel any better. Somehow it
wasnTt funny anymore. He came to the
section of window where the little boy had
left his prints, as if he were a celebrity in front
of GrumanTs Chinese Theater. The memory
of the little boyTs smile, so filled with
innocence, made him feel a little better, and
he moved on down the window, washing as
he went.

When he had finished he went inside and
handed Phyllis the rag and the Windex. oSee
you tomorrow, Phyllis,? he said to her as he
turned toward the exit.

oYeah, see yaT,? she replied, looking up at
him briefly. He noticed, with a little surprise,
that she had pretty blue eyes.

Jimmy crossed the floor and pushed the
door open. He stepped halfway across the
threshold and then stopped. He turned and
said, to noone in particular, oI wonder if the
sun isnTt maybe a little dimmer for a lot of
people??

oHuh, what did you say?? Phyllis asked.

oNothing,? he said, and stepped through
the door, allowing it to swing closed behind

him. Sg

72 REBEL '89

seen Tem "bout a week before, campinT, lotTs
of em. They stopped cominT over the hill,
and we all thoughts we won; but I knew
there was more, more than us at least. The
boss-man " we never called by theyTs army
names, cept to em " he wanted to go over

the hill, I donTt know why, guess I never will.

I knew there was lots of Tem waiting, but he

wouldnTt listen to me; they never listens to us.

Told me I'd better go or heTd have me shot

" so I said I would. I smarted him, cause I
stayed right there in the woods. Gotta know
when to think on your own.?

oHe never tried to gets you shot??

oSettinT here talkinT with you, ainTt I??
Blueblood looked away, probably so I
couldnTt see his face turn soft. He never
talked *bout wars, hatesTem. I could tell he
was worryinT "bout me; heTll wait.

oBusTll be here soon.?

oDidnTt have no buses or cars or nothinT,
had to walk, walk everywhere. Some of Tem
had horses, not us, we walked .... Different
war.?

oITm gonna use my smarts. Gonna think,
think all the time. I'll be back. I know ITll be
back.?

oAinTt waitinT for no boys to come home
from no war.?

oThereTs the bus. Got to be goinT .... be
back though, defnantly be back.? Blueblood

just mumbled that he ainTt waitinT for no boy.

Shook his hand; it felt cold, like old leather
workinT gloves.

The bus was dark and lonely lookinT.
Pulled myself up into it and didnTt nobody
even look up at me, but from the looks on
their faces I could tell. Could tell we were
goinT somewhere far, somewhere I knew I
didnTt wanna go. From my seat I could see
Blueblood, just rockinT, lookinT up at the sky.
No one to talk to, no one to ride in his time

machine anymore .... heTs already waitinT. Bg

Some were saved after all. They must have
flown over the coop when the dogs came and
now theyTve come home.

She was nervous. If only I can get them
back into the pen, she said to herself. She
slipped on her flipflops and went outside. She
had the feed bucket in her hand. oHere,
duck,? she said. She filled the feeder trough,
ohere, duck.? The two moved in a little
closer; they were almost in front of the
opening. oTT'll have to fill in that hole,? she
said to herself. oThose dogs might be back.?

As she started toward the ducks they made
a sharp turn away from the fence and her and
headed instead back toward the marsh.
Ducks are such stupid animals, she thought,
donTt know itTs for their own good. She
tossed a little feed at them, hoping theyTd turn
around. oHere duck, please,? she said. They
kept going and she watched them. She
watched their V-shaped ripples they made
when they entered the water widen and
silently hit the muddy shore.

In her anger she picked up the bucket and
swung it by its handle, around and around
like a pantomime of a baseball pitcher
winding up his fast ball. It made a dull thud
when it hit the wire pen. oWhat does it
matter,? she said as she took off her apron
and wiped duck pen mud from the sides of
her feet. Then she sat down on the cold
concrete steps of the back stoop and tried to

cry. So

Breakdown

Have you ever
broken
your leg in three
places"
all at once? The
sudden
twist
after
strenuous living;
It's the snap
the snap
that echoes
throughout the body. ItTs
the grind
of metal, the
crunch
of marrow, the crunch of
flesh.

It's a sound
that never quite
leaves me. It's
a snare, a trap, a trend
toward enlightenment; a spike
in my heel to
hold
it all together, meshed in
neo-Oedipal fashion.

When it rains, |
Still feel the gritty coarseness. It
pulses, aches,
boulder-heavy,
a socket
full of Hell that
| choose to
wallow in. It's a
crutch of convenience:

Adapted.
Perfected.
Healed.

Joseph Campbell

SPRING/FALL 73

contributors

Robin Ayers is a senior in English who wonTt answer telephone
messages.

Bill oJewelry? Bailey is 26 years old and currently working on a BFA
degree in metal design. His hobbies include oeverything,? and he
hopes to own his own jewelry business one day. HeTs a size 9.

Tonya D. Batizy is a frisbee-golf playing Dead Head working on a BA
in English with a Concentration in Writing. Realistically she would
like to teach English and Spanish; but her real love is translating
Spanish poetry into English. SheTs an 8%-B.

Sheri Boyd will not be in until 5 pm.

Lisa Brantley is a 26 year old April FoolTs baby. Lisa is a graduate
student in painting who, in her spare time, loves horseback riding,
water skiing, and preparing her lectures in the wee hours of the
morning at Krispy Kreme. SheTs a 7% AAA.

Rick Burgess is 26 years old and currently working on a BFA in
Communication Arts. His hobby, when not working at AccuCopy,
is painting. HeTs a 9 narrow.

Scot Buck is an illustrator and might have brown hair . . . we really donTt
know. He probably wears a size 15 shoe.

Jeff Campagna is 21 years old and working on a BFA degree in
Communication Arts. He enjoys basketball and football. HeTs an
11%.

Joseph Campbell is 25 years old and seeking, among other things, an
MA in English literature; his hobbies include writing, reading, and
painting, and says that he owes all his creative talents to the rich,
cultural environment that he grew up in. Of his future plans, heTd
like to forge, in the smithy of his soul, a higher consciousness for the
human race (ahem). HeTs a 10% medium.

David Lee Cherry is 25 (happy birthday), currently seeking an MFA in
printmaking, and was recently converted to Christianity. In his
spare time, he likes collecting and getting rid of garbage. He wears a
7? narrow.

Greg Christensen is a 22 year old Philosopher who plans to graduate in
May " that is, as long as he determines that all of this does exist. He
enjoys snow skiing and would like to apply his philosophy to a
career in computers. He wears a 10%.

Scott Eagle is a 26 year old grad student in the painting department. He
originally received a BFA in Communication Arts, but after living
in New York for a year, he decided painting would probably be less
competitive. HeTs a 9¥.

Robert Flanagan is 24 years old and working on a BFA in the
printmaking department. In his spare time, Robert likes collecting
insects and is currently wanting to add to his collection a Madagas-
car Hissing Cockroach. After graduating this summer, Robert plans
to move North. His shoe size is otwice my hat size.?

Christopher Gallagher, is a Broadcasting major with a minor in Eng-

74 REBEL '89

lish. He would like to write scripts for tacky T.V. sitcoms about
angst-ridden artists. Chris is 21, wears a size 10%, and thinks the
Rebel has a great beat and is easy to dance to.

Paul Glankler is a 24 year old illustrator, working on a BFA degree. HeTs
got no hobbies or future plans. But he is a 9% (a 10 in Nike).
Melissa Gray will be 21 in May and likes to dance at parties, or so she
says. Her ambitions for the future include completing a BA in
Writing which will hopefully lead to a career in publishing. She

wears a size 8 raquetball shoe.

Robert Gwyn is a CA BA illus. Sophomore. HeTs also a biker (thatTs
motorcycler), so look out. Other than that heTs just like all of the
rest of these art students and paints in his spare time. Robert wears a
size 9% shoe.

Stacy Hamilton is currently working on a BFA in Communication Arts
and hopes one day to open her own design studio. This twenty-one
year old photography enthusiast also wears a size 7 medium shoe.

Leesa Hartley is a twenty-one year old skydiver who enjoys lying about
her dress size. A Communication Arts student, she wears a size 7
shoe.

Jon Christopher Hill is an auto mechanic who doubles as a graduate
student in Ceramics. He wears a size 8 shoe.

Jacqui Hughes is 22 and in the BFA-illustration program. Her main
hobby, she says, is fairies, especially Scandinavian fairies"of
which her grandmother was one. Jacqui adds that she loves
mashed potatoes and gravy. And sheTs an 8% B.

Brett Hursey, if I remember correctly, is about 23 years old and
working on an English degree in writing. Not only is he an
accomplished playwright, poet, and short story writer, but Brett
also enjoyed acting and drawing caricatures of our drama teacher
in high school. HeTs got rather large feet.

Melissa Ivereson is 21 years old . . . again... and an INPF. SheTs a

senior in the painting department who enjoys Todd Rundgren, the
Beatles, and her flirtatious feline, Tasha. When asked of her
hobbies, she replied, oWhat hobbies? ITm always working!? Melissa
hopes to own her own photography studio someday and to paint,
paint, paint. SheTs an 8.

Amanda Jarrell is studying graphics in the Communication Arts
program and although she has no hobbies she does have a ~special
interestT in photography. She hopes to find work in a design studio
or ad agency in the Winston-Salem/Greensboro area. SheTs a 6
narrow.

Doug Johnson graduated this past December and is now living in the
thriving metropolis of Garner, North Carolina. He used to write for
the East Carolinian and they described him as a big guy who reads
a lot and takes his frustrations out on innocent digital machines.
Doug wears a size 12 DDD.

Erik Johnson is 21 and currently working on a BFA degree in metal
design. His hobbies include frisbeeing, table tennis, biking, and
oany general playing around.? Of his future plans, Erik says heTs
going to grad school and later pursue a career in academia, adding,
oITm gonna be a big man someday.? HeTs 9% and oexceptionally
wide.?

H. Kermit Leggett, III has moved since getting married, and has no
phone.

Mary Joyce McCallum is working on a BA in English with a
Concentration in Writing and wants to be a lawyer. She enjoys
swimming and horseback riding when not dreaming of chasing
ambulances. Mary wears an 8%.

Tim McClanahan is a twenty-eight year old illustrator in the Commu-
nication Arts program who is totally dedicated to things artistic. He
currently plans to pursue a career as a freelance illustrator. Tim
wears a size 8% shoe.

Michael H. McCreery collects 78Ts when not sculpting masterpieces for
his BFA degree. After completing that he is considering furthering his
education with an MFA. This masochistic 21 year old wears a 12.

L. Michelle McDevitt studies Fabric Design and also enjoys reading,
writing, and photography. Her idea of fun is enrolling at Columbia
to study Art History for an MFA. Michelle wears a size 7/4.

Alex Marsh is a 21 year old Graphic Design student who also enjoys
music and film. He wants to be an artist when he grows up. He
wears an 11% wide.

Leigh Miner likes to paint. In fact she is working on a BFA in Painting.
She also likes to read and walk, but she hates the way she always
runs into trees and curbs. For lack of anything better to do she is
considering grad school after college. Leigh has to special order her
size 4% EE wide shoes.

Marshall S. Moore is an 18 year old Psychology major who likes the
literary arts. In fact he would like to publish a book when he grows
up. oYou havenTt seen the last of him.? Marshall wears a 10%
medium.

Jessica Murphy is working as a graphic designer for the USDA this
semester. Although they made her change the funky color and style
of her hair, we will fondly remember her nappy, orange head.

Tony Nichols is married to his work as an Illustrator in the Art School.
He wants to become an illustrator for a Christian publication. Tony
wears an 11.

Craig OTBrien is a Graphic Design student who likes to shoot things in
his spare time (basketballs, golfballs, Bambi . . .). He is looking to get
into a design studio or ad agency after finishing his BFA. Craig
wears a size 104.

John OTConnor is 22 and currently working on a BFA degree in
graphic design. His hobbies include the Rebel (natch), the Rebel,

and...er...the Rebel. HeTs a really diverse individual. Someday,
he wants to go to California and make really awful, artsy movies.
HeTs a size 9% in the UK, but a 10 in the US.

Ray Puckett is working on a BFA in Printmaking and dreams of being a
lithographer some day. This noble fellow also spends time at the
BoyTs Club and as a Tepid Lemon Referee (whatever that is). Ray
wears ~at leastT a 10%.

Steven F. Reid Jr. is married. In his spare time he is a graduate student
in Printmaking. His goal is to teach college level art. Steven wears a
size 11 hightop.

Renee Rice is currently working on a BA in Communication Arts.
According to her colleagues, she is a very nice girl, an attractive girl,
a good listener, and wears about an 8%.

Rita Rogers is a graduate student in Writing and one of the RebelTs most
prolific contributors. Among her other talents are motherhood,
scholarship, and teaching freshman composition. We estimate Rita
at about a size 7'.

Andrea Ross is a little art student who spilled a lot of Coke on JohnTs
stack of resumés. We donTt know how tiny her feet are.

Lynne Rupp is a graduate student in English literature currently on
sabbatical in Durham. She likes running with her dog, Rogue,
really strong coffee, Chinese noodles, and being the RebelTs poetry
editor (even though she was not here for most of the production
work). Lynne has little feet supporting her tiny athletic frame....
Come back, Lynne ...

Tina Shaw is an avid reader, photographer, and someone we'd like to
get on a racquetball court. SheTs currently working toward a BFA
in Graphic Design and would like to someday work in an ad
agency. She wears an 8.

Allen Sovelove is a 23 year old Painting major who fancies himself a
guitarist. His unabashed desire in life is fame. But is that possible
with a size 9 shoe?

David Stanley is working towards a BFA in illustration. His favorite
mediums are watercolor and pen and ink. He adds, oI get my
strength and talent from the Lord.? He wears a size 10.

Dale Swanson hasnTt been in Greenville as long as Joe, but longer than
John. HeTs getting married and lives in Frog Level with a zillion
cats and a blind dog named Ginger. Dale spends most of his time
playing computer games and worrying about the papers he hasnTt
written. He wears a size 9 loafer.

Carol Torell is oreally boring? and is totally consumed by her art. She is
a graduate student in Ceramics and wears a 7 narrow.

CCE Walker is 28, from some British-speaking country, and seeking an
MFA in Communication Arts. She has no hobbies, a quality
endemic to seemingly all art students, but does plan to teach and do
freelance work. SheTs a dainty 7.

SPRING/FALL 75

KBE

G H T:Y RNs EN E

R

| want to help provide an outlet for artis-
tic expression by supporting the Rebel,
East Carolina UniversityTs Literary-Art
Magazine.

| have enclosed my tax-deductible con-
tribution of:

__" $250 Benefactor
"" $125 Patron
"__ $50 Friend

"_" Other

Name:
Address:
City:
State:
Zip:

Telephone:

Please make checks payable to ECU/
Rebel and return to the following address:

Rebel, Mendenhall Student Center, East
Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27858-
4353.

Telephone: (919) 757-6502

Ge an bl ae OF

igs OS cee Bee BC

| want to help provide an outlet for artis-
tic expression by supporting the Rebel,
East Carolina UniversityTs Literary-Art
Magazine.

| have enclosed my tax-deductible con-
tribution of:

___. $250 Benefactor
__" $125 Patron
"__ $50 Friend

ae Se

Name:
Address:

THE
ENDLESS
HORIZONS
OF
We do not understand all there is to know about
how color does what it does, but we do know that
color enhances your message, gives your sales pitch

greater impact, and insures better return on dollars
you invest in printing.

|
l

THEO. DAVIS SONS, INC.

PRINTERS - LITHOGRAPHERS
P.O. Box 277 « Highway 97 West
Telephone 919/269-7401 ¢ Fax 919/269-5647
Zebulon, North Carolina 27597

City:
State:
Zip:

Telephone:

Please make checks payable to ECU/
Rebel and return to the following address:

Rebel, Mendenhall Student Center, East
Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27858-
4353.

Telephone: (919) 757-6502

76 REBEL T'89