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THE LITERARY 0 ART MAGAZINE
OF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY

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The Rebel is published for and by the students of East

Carolina University. Offices are located in the Publications
Building (Old Cafeteria) on the campus of ECU. This issue volume
33, and its contents are copyrighted © 1991 by the Rebel.

All rights revert to the individual 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 artist.

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

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cover art:

Kiyomi Talaulicar
It's Just a Matter of Skin
mixed media

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THE LITERARY 0 ART MAGAZINE
OF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITY

ete ROMP SH Mas

Yb UA Co ACR TS

1 It's Just a Matter of Skin

Kiyomi A. Talaulicar 47 Tornado Dream Series: No. 3
Scott Eagle
24 startin Gate
ac m
MC Hammerhead wie :
42 David #11
David C. Behrens COR Weer
25 Tool Study |
Ray Pucket
27 Untitled _
Robert G. Wilson IV
34 Portrait of Denise
Susan Luddeke = No coroner
43 Prisoner of War 39 Return to Hui Tsung
David Stanley Ben Hill
35 Night Train :
Kerth Hobgood oh Toning A ely eee
46 Shaka Zulu 10 Fish Bo
Tony Nichols Scott Eagle
43 Currency | 40 Dirty Stories
Richard Haselrig David W. Yarbrough
33 Art Mark Logo 44 Untitled
Todd Houser Charles Massey
26 Pool Vac 36 Boogie Man Buster
Todd Houser Stephen B. Schandel Jr
33 album cover
Kevin Brown
32 Silver Crescent
Michelle Scott
38 Jacket _
Andrea Fisk
38 Necklace
Tina Bambauer
6 1669 E. 9th Street
Lauren Schiller
17 My Shadow Flies
Karyn Jones
30 Mr.Businessman

Kiyomi Talaulicar
29 Night Wing is Coming

Ben Bus

28 Looking For What Sacred
Patrick Dougherty

47 Ascent

Maia Sampson

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CONTENTS

pee eG bene

7 Pura Vita
Doug Smith

9) Guys and Dolls
Joseph P. Campbell

| 6 Nightfall
David C. Behrens

1 9 Wooly Worms
Karen E. Beardslee

[2 CS S E 8 Coming Out After Two Week Illness |

Deborah P. Griggs

1 8 The Heat of the Moment
Joey Jenkins

20 Burgundy Plum Bleachers
Gillian Ashley 45 Doug Smith

44 Father's Day
Joseph P. Campbell

48 After Taps
Stephen Schaubach

1 1 Second Story
Susan Ambert

52 Nothing To Preserve Without Light
Todd Lovett

SPRING feta

Baal 1997)

Lauren Schiller
1669 E. 9th Street

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Pura Vida

Standing in the middle of rain
like hard white lines drilling earth,
we mourn the death of our bus,
and stand stranded on a hill
somewhere in Central America.

At least there is diversion"

Salon El Descanso, the sleepy bar.

inside a tico pleads for love

with a shot of RonRico on the side.

His Spanish is chopped and searching /
like an exchange student's,

but his old buzz penetrates

deeper than we have known.

Later, chickens

cluttered with mud

strut and heckle us,

the gringos performing a meager M
under the influence

of rum and boredom,

under the breezing clouds,

under the weather.

erengue

Behind us, dogs chase
in ever-widening circles,
a distant scream travels the humid air.

We see, for the first time.
how the road plunges
into the enigma of fog.
And | listen,

in the cloudTs low drift
for the sound of a smile,

that slight smackle of lips
which tells me of your small,

perverse JOY.

Doug Smith

SPRING fia

GET 997

Coming Out After Two Weeks Illness

Imakeittothe endofthe graveldrive

then slowly cross the dirt road where

the mailbox grows up from the ground.
Aslleanonthe pasture fence

horses snortinto the mid-afternoonsun
leaving shadows

where theirheads weave in and out

ofthe overgrown grass,

andour white house is hidden by thehilly lawn,

Untilthey sing,
I~munaware thatthe birdshavecome,
settlingintheredmaple atthe edge of the yard.
They startle me, their voices ringing,
the breeze lifting my dress,
dust clinging to my barefeet.
The mailbox opens under pale hanasto find
a postcard from Australia.

On the frontabrown beach glistens with rows

of busty girlsin tiny rainbow bikinis.

White hotels rise inthe back. Andscrawled amidst
the postmarks

HiDeb,Smile. Life isgood,Kate.

Deborah Price Griggs

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Guys and Dolls

When | wasfive, | pitted
Girdled protection against bridled possession,

Sidedless often with cigaretted

Rings circling air with choked

Smoke. Bysix, learned by rote what Pink
AndBluestoodfor. Still, brot-

Herstangledinthe floor, brought

Frustrations to stage: We pitted

G.|. Joe against Ken overthe pink-

Less triangledslope weT dkillfo POSSESS.

Barbie just satthere while we choked 9
Each other, usedcigarettes

For swords welacked. Even thencigarettes
Were phallic,even thoughDad brought
Symbols to us muchlater. We choked
Onourlaughter, thought it was pitiful

We didn't possess

Knowledge of things pink,

Freudianorvirginal. Afterall,weTdprick
BarbieTs unsex with those cigarettes,
Thenlie back as we positioned
Herontop, cheap whore inabrot-

Hel. Intheimagined moistness ofher unpit

Joe alwayssmoked, never choked. |

But Ken, the pansy-man, would choke

Atthe slightest quiver of BarbieTs uNpiINK.
With ourvery-young eyes, all Blue, weT dpret-
Endthatshe liked those cigarettes

Crushed againsther plastic pelvis: itbrought
Hertoherknees, anew position.

Afterall wasdone & done, the position
Weheldwasthis: Ken would always choke
Due to our flat-footed realities. But brought

from deep within moist, pink
Layers of imagination,| knew mycigarettes

Wouldstand firm against herfanciedpit.

Andif|did choke. itwas herfault, herpit
Thatwasn~tpositioned correctly. Not mycigarette

Failing to bring herfleshy colorto bright pink.

Joseph P. Campbell

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By Susan ANOeyal

oProblem?? | had to speak loudly over the noise of

the traffic. He turned his head with a surprised look.

oWhat??

oT asked if you hada pr
I can help you with??

He inched along the le
politeness, and looked down at the street below.

oThanks ... I think ITve got it covered from here.? ,

oWell, O.K..? I said and turned back to the
television. The commercials had ended and my soap
opera came back on. That day was a Wednesday so the
whole thing was pretty boring " they always keep the
good stuff for Fridays so you'll be in suspense all weekend.
| kept waiting for my favorite character, Court McNeil, to
appear. He and C ynthia were being held prisoner TSO Le
fictional Central American country that week, and I was
kind of hoping Cynthia would be executed or something.
SheTs such a whiner and doesnTt deserve a guy like Court.

oblem " is there something

dge toward me oul of

12

GE 1 997)

The soap was really bad, and I was
just beginning to look forward to the
commercials when I realized I hadnTt eaten
anything all day. I grabbed a box of pop-
tarts off the shelf and went back to my
window seat. That window is my favorite
thing about the whole apartment. The frame
is really big and the bottom of it, which is
only about eight inches off the floor, extends
into a sill big enough for me to stretch out on
and still leave room for my house plant. |
love to leave the window open as far as I can
to let in fresh air. It would all be very
picturesque except opening it also lets in
the noise " police sirens and awful music
from radios in the park across the street "
and from where I sat that day I could see a
man on the ledge.

Noticing his lightweight dress
clothes, I called to him.

oDonTt you need a sweater? ItTs a
little cold out there.?

o*T didnTt plan to be out here for long,
and if itTs so cold why are you sitting at an
open window??

Good question, I thought. I didnTt
know what to say to that so instead I just sat
there. I didnTt care if he wanted to be alone.
In my opinion, if youTre standing on a ledge
then youTre asking for an audience " and
this was lots more interesting than the soap
opera. Finally, I thought of something to
Say.

oPop-tart??T

He must have stared at me for a full
ten seconds. I waved the box.

oTm not going to eat this other
one.?

oWhat kind is it??

oUm " blueberry.?

oSure.? He scooted over to my
window, and I handed him the other pop-
tart. He nibbled contemplatively at it for a
minute and then offered me his hand.

~o~NameTs Michael Adams.?

oHi,? I said. oITm Jane Elliot.?

oNice to meet you, Jane Elliot,? he
said, a touch sardonically. oAnd youTre
right, I should be wearing a sweater, itTs just
I figured that with my brains spattered all
over the sidewalk I wouldnTt be a pretty
sight anyway.?

oGross,? I said, looking at the
sidewalk down below. oConsidering that
this is only the second story, I donTt think
your brains would spatter though. . . unless
you did a swan dive, maybe.?

He looked embarrassed.

oRight again. Guess I should have
researched this art more thoroughly.?

oYou can try again tomorrow from
higher up. In the meantime, why donTt you
go back to your apartment " youT re the one
who just moved next door, arenTt you? "
get a sweater and then come back over here
the normal way so we can be properly
introduced.?

I donTt normally invite over total
strangers, but I was just in a weird mood
that day. The whole of the morning (before
my soap opera) and most of the previous
night had been spent on my newest piece
which I call oPortrait of the ArtistTs
Daughter.? The fact that I am childless is
nota hindrance " in fact, I find itreassuring.
Nobody can ever say it doesnTt look like
her. I felt bad watching Michael creep back
on the ledge to his window, but I didnTt
want to just invite him to hop in my window.
You never know when a seemingly decent
guy can turn out to be a weirdo.

By the time he arrived at my door,
freshly scrubbed and clad in his same outfit
only with a sweater and tennis shoes, I had
thrown my dirty clothes into the bedroom,
turned off the television, and was working
on a salad for lunch. He sat down at the
kitchen counter and I handed him a tomato
to cut.

oSuppose you tell me why you
wanted to turn yourself inside out on St.
Paul Street,? I suggested.

oAll right, but you wonTt believe

99

me.

oSomehow, I think I will,? I said
and looked him straight in the eye to show
that I was sincere. I already felt like I'd
known him for years " he was one of those
people that you could swear youTd met
before.

oT had a job interview today.?

Ick, Ithought. A job story. Well, at
least his girlfriend didnTt dump him.

oBut what really started it was last

YS

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night my girlfriend dumped me.?

I picked up the fork from where I'd
dropped it and threw it back in the sink for
a rewashing.

, oWell, she wasnTt really my
girlfriend " just this person from workT ve
been seeing. Her nameTs Linda. Last night
we went out to eat and right in the middle of
everything she told me she couldn't see me
anymore. Well, I thought she meant that the
restaurant was too dark, so I jumped up to
find the waiter to bring us another candle,
but when I got back she had left. There was
no sign of her left except a napkin with oMy
Place? written on it.?

oThat doesnTt sound too bad,? I said.

oThat was the name of the restaurant.
I didnTt know what to do. I paid the check
and went home to call her. When she finally
answered, she told me that she canTt go out
with me because she doesnTt respect me.
Linda said that when she talks to me she
gets the feeling that ITm not all there. She
called me an... . ~Ozone Ranger.T SO of
course I got mad and told her that at least I
have some creativity and donTt balance my
Checkbook for fun... .?

oNot smart,? I said. He ignored me
and continued to chop the poor tomato into
tiny little pieces.

oSo she said that creativity wasn't
much use if it never took the form of
something tangible and that she could bet I
didnTt know the Pythagorean theorem.?

oAnd what did you say??

oNothing. I hung up.?

I stopped breaking spaghetti noodles
and raised my eyebrow at him.

oI donTt know the Pythagorean
theorem. This is done.? He sprinkled the
tomato bits into the salad bowl. oMind if |
play your piano?? He walked over and tried
a few opening notes of oMoonlight Sonata?
which was the piece that was sitting on the
lid. [had been trying to play it for the entire
week, but I donTt read music very well.

oSo what about the interview??

oOh, that was for a promotion and I
didnTt get it. I was doing really well until
the last part. They asked mea word problem.
~If Train A is moving due South at eighty
miles per hour and Train B is going West

_.T " one of those.?
oNo way!? I said.
oWay,? he countered. oI hate math.?

He struck a few more ominous chords.

oIf youTd jumped, you would have
been one more statistic,? I said. oYou
would have become what you hate.?

Michael paused a moment and then
looked up at me with a smile.

oRight again, Jane Elliot. | donTt
think I really wouldTve done it.? He eyed
the big dish of spaghetti I had made.

oYou should find a better way to
deal with your aggression. ThatTs why I
have a piano. Would you like to stay for
lunch??

oThanks. I wish I'd known you
were going to ask me before. I wouldn't
have put all those tomatos in the salad.?

He grinned and struck a horrible

discor oI hate tomatos!? he told the

piano.

13

~SPRING a

14

Raat 1991

Carol Torrell

Cat Tails , Doughnuts and Cinnamon Rolls
charcoal

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15

Eric Olsen

Untitled
charcoal

SPRING ae

16

GI 1991

Nightfall

The shy current of dusk

Washesaway the voice ofthesun.

Wind suspendedlike afeathersearching
Clouds catch their breathin slumber,
Shadows climbincool,slow strides

Settling into the warm cleft ofthe meadow.

Throughthe dim veilofsolace
Alowly pigeon pauses
Perchedin silhouette
Nestled against cold brick.
Awingedreminder that alllife
Must come

And rest.

David C. Behrens

Werks APES S PAREN pend eterna rntatenlin Nee ge LATA LANE LEE RSNA BLES EBT DD hn oo tment s LN eh Se SEED SOMALI EY AIT Ve Foe crepe seen th eee THE TAIWAN ots wee SEMIN , ,
- ~ = ya ; : aoe ater e aes : - pars te sere Be;

Karen Jones

My Shadow Flies
Xxerography

SPRING Iga

18

GI 1991

The heat of the moment

When you killed your best friend today,
lsaw you.
Greedily youslipped behind him, pointed your tiny finger
andemptied its chambers a dozen times into his heart-
pakow pakow pakow pakow pakow pakow
pakow pakow pakow pakow pakow pakow
He giggled ashe spiraled dramatically to the ground,
his brown and green finger-painted face contorted,
his body wrigglingin the cool,damp Bermuda grass.
That night,|saw youtwo under the streetlight you had shot out
with an airrifle, shuffling through the bits of splintered glass
while the stars arched silently above.

And there! was,
halfway around the world,
looking up atthe emptiness of a foreign sky, the stars dying

inthe glow of asmoldering village three klicks north in the jungle,
smoke rolling skyward like a pitcher pouring water upside down.

Fumes from the Napalm scorched my lungs

the way the realization of it allburns my brain.

He lay atmy feet-no olderthan yourself,

with arifleinhishand- helay there quiet, still,and cooling
asthe ground became soggy andred with his blood.

Itonly took one shot.

Joey Jenkins

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Wooly Worms

Onthe phone with you. Mom,
!realized that at this point

in your life - | mean -

when you were my age

24 almost 25,

youcarried a girloneach hip,
hadahome in Connecticut
and ahusband at work.
Me,onthe otherhand 19
24 going on2o,

i still have a bookbag.

al bedroom apartment
andadog.

Yousaid my sister

told you the other day

you were getting old.

Do you still remember
pocketfuls of wooly

worms from the woods

in the back yard?
Spread out allover the kitchen

table. Allofthem wrapped
inwarm winter jackets.
And you explaining
which ones would predict
and survive

the winter ahead.
|wonder Mom -

thatis,| wanted

to ask yOu.

Mom

Are you-!mean-

are we

Getting old.

KareneE. Beardslee

SPRING Na

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By Gillian Ashley

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, mma's sixteenth
birthday party struggled on
even after she and I left the
wine bar and relocated in
the park. The night was
cold, and the trees dripped
With old rain. Leaves stuck
to Emma's black wing-tips,
which she dangled off the
foot-bridge.

o9 " Let's take a walk and you can
at in out it first. All right?? I had to
conrenyedgeag her. The vat of Grolsch she
bien é ack at the bar had lubricated her
pel and self-pity and made her dangerous.
aah " L want to show him! It'd be
oatl ry if he found me all mangled up
the ro ice She giggled and brushed
ovhanee * el floppy brown mohican out
sili pone an argyle gloved hand. It
: only a four-foot drop, but that wasn't the
Point.
lp a wasn't always drunk, or even
rie : ave But it was only when she
~tn ee . that she needed me. I watched
oA there, slouching to see the
ihe polite her knees. She was wrapped
| sedegpame clothes of her own counter-
ee a and the image she achieved was
et gerd oToby is a self-centered jerk," |
a o knew that all along. Socome on,
S go for a walk."
"Yeah, I suppose," she said, and

poured herself back onto the footpath. Emma
the Outrageous and her sidekick Maggie
walked into the dark wet park until the lights
of the wine bar dwindled out of sight. But
the path was an umbilical cord attached
somehow to its candles and half-lit corners
and smoky anonymity.

A yellow sequin of a streetlamp
hovered before us. Emma tripped over
things that weren't there. Once my eyes
adjusted I could see the concentration in her
face. Her small teeth were stained brown
from the penicillin she'd had as a baby.
Right now they were biting into her lower
lip. "Do you think I did the right thing?? she
asked.
"Well. that's up to you. What do I
know? I just think Toby is a pig for making
you feel so bad. If he's willing to let you run
off all upset, then--"

"T'm not upset!?

The smell of beer on her breath and
the odor of aging leaves were thickly sweet
together. | could hear her stumbling beside
me. Step, step, stagger, drunken giggle,
step.... I took my hands out of my pockets
so I could catch her when she fell.

"Bloody lovely sweet sixteen, isn't
it," she said.

"Sorry," I said, and I really was
sorry. "We'll celebrate at my house later. |
wasn't going to tell you, but I baked you a
cake. Happy birthday!?

"What sort??

"Strawberry, your favorite.
at myself for remembering that.

"But my favoriteTs chocolate chip,
silly! .. Thanks, though."

"Oh." I put my hands back in my
(They were cold.) "You're

" Tsmiled

pockets.

welcome.?
We reached the streetlamp. Emma

drove a hand down her voluminous
trenchcoat pocket and withdrew a cigarette
case. It was antique-looking gold with a red
oriental dragon enameled onto it. The

dragon's eyes were green gems, and tiny

pearls were embedded in the background
for stars. She pressed a button in the side
and the lid flipped open, exposing a line of
Marlboros. Smoking was one of Emma's
new affectations. With the case and her

graceful, practiced motions with the

SPRING [gay

22

GEG 1 997)

cigarette, I thought it rather suited her. She
found a lighter and we were off again, with
the disembodied end of the cigarette
escorting us like a firefly.

I remembered my own sixteenth
birthday party, four months before Emma's.
A couple of friends and I split the fifty
pound fee for Huntingfield Village Hall and
the cost of a bald-headed disk jockey named
Maurice. We invited a hundred and twelve
people, so three hundred arrived. My father
came along to help (he said). He tried
hovering in the doorway, perching by the
D.J., and leaning nonchalantly against walls,
but he somehow didn't fit in the room. His
red lumberjack shirt was a conspicuous blot
against the pink and yellow flashing lights.
The guests spent most of the night dancing,
eating pretzels, intercepting calls from angry
villagers, and playing volleyball (with what
I later discovered was not a balloon), and
taking rides on Emma's new motorbike. An
impromptu bar was set up, despite my
nervous, guilty attempts to prevent it. |
worried about my father's disapproval
(although I didn'thave to. "It's all part of the
experience," he'd say the next day, after we
cleaned out the wretched bathroom) and I
feared the destructive bents of my friends.

In the doorway at last, I gulped frozen
air and felt the space stretch out around me.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them,
Jonathan Marshall's face filled my entire
field of view. A thin-lipped smile bobbed
under a lumpy, irregular nose (broken two
years ago in rugby scrum). His eyes were
huge, animated blue marbles. Goofy with
alcohol and brave with seclusion, he said,
oHappy birthday!" and kissed me.

Jonathan dematerialized and for a
long time I didn't move. I stood in the
doorway like an inflatable Weeble. "Happy
birthday to you," I said.

Emma pounded her fist into my
shoulder. "Where do you want to go now?"
she asked, and I followed her toward the
school. I was even colder now because I
could feel the icy pavement through my thin
shoes. Emma's teeth chattered. I looked
across and remarked that the sides of her
head were stubbly; she'd have to shave them
again.

oNahh, I think I'll grow them out
now. But I'm dyeing it purple," she said,
stooping to extinguish her cigarette in a
puddle. "Sort of burgundy-plum, you know.
Like this." She pulled a maroon (or rather,
oburgundy-plum") man's necktie out of her

Sometime after the coat and
party was underway . brandished it at
[found that Dad had Goofy with alcohol me. Then she tried
left for the pub down and brave with seclusion, (to flick her
the road. I hid inthe drowned cigarette

jungle of dancers
and hoped everyone
would behave.

As I jogged
along to the music,
which made my ribs
vibrate, I realized that I wasn'ta wholehearted
participant. All this foolishness probably
shouldn't have annoyed me the way it did. If
[ continued in this timid, wallpaperish way,
[ might miss those mystical "best years of
my life" about which I'd heard so much.

But I looked around me and saw
three hundred semi-soused teenagers flailing
about in a throbbing village hall, air opaque
with (presumably) cigarette smoke. With
my arms pressed to my sides I squeezed
through the choking swamp of people toward
the open door at the end of the hall.

he said,
oHappy birthday!?
and kissed me.

into a trash can as
we passed, but
missed. It landed
in the branches of
a leafless bush.

I'd seen the
tie before. "Nice choice," I grumbled. Still,
she was having fun, which was more than I
could say for myself that night. Emma
leaned heavily on my shoulder and I
supported her.

[ had planned to do something
unusual to my hair (Emma's word was
owacky") a month or two before, a streak of
color, just a shade lighter than my own
wheaty brown. I sat in the hairdresser's big
vinyl throne and braced myself. After
looking at color charts like I was picking out
paint for a bathroom, I calmly, and with

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great dignity, changed my mind (Emma's
word was "chickened-out"). I slid out of the
chair with a trim and a sigh of relief. As I
walked up School Road my hair kept my
ears warm.

Emma asked, "How about stopping
here?" and drunkenly dropped herself on
the bench outside Edgar Sewter Primary
School, which my little sister attended. It
Was a great Dickensian monster of a building,
but Ellen liked it. Yellow streetlamp-light
reflected off the Renault-Fours outside Chris
CollinsT Garage and glittered on the
Windshields. Stray raindrops fell close
around us and disturbed the puddles in the
road. Emma fidgeted with her glove.

"We're best mates, right? | mean
...We're best mates," she managed. She
Coughed and her gray breath formed acloud
in front of her.

"Of course. Are you okay??

: "No, I'm drunk as hell," (giggle)

But never mind." Her face flipped from
Merry to sullen to lunatic to sick. Her mouth
Opened and closed like a guppy's. She
Stared at the streetlamp as though it were a
night-light, and it revealed tears balanced
On the ledges of her eyelids. She heaved a
maudlin sigh and plunged in. "Remember
Jaffa?"

"Who, James?"

"Yeah." She lost James to a
redheaded drama student at a recent party
(to which I had not been invited, thank
God). After a complicated social tango,
Emma found herself with Toby, who
veryone knew was dangerous when itcame
to girls. She told me she didn't remember
What happened the rest of the night.
Watching Emma hug her shoulders close
Into her body and stare guiltily at her shoes,
I could guess.

Slowly, I eased my arm around
Emma's quivering shoulders. We sat still
on the bench under the quickening rain.
The only sound was Emma's sobbing,
punctuated by the pop of raindrops on
Overcoats. My hand shook slightly on her
Shoulder. I had never seen her cry before.

I realized that Emma's shaved
head looked . . . silly. I hadn't really spent
much time wondering why she chose to
dress like a jumble sale. Hers was a very

striking image in its own way, but not one
| wanted to use as a pattern anymore.

The streetlamp went out. It was
one o'clock. Funny thing -- I didn't notice
the dull drone of the light until it stopped.
The absence of that sound made space
somehow wider and the air cleaner. Stars
were vaguely visible in the openings
between rainclouds.

The party would have disbanded
hours ago at closing time. There was no
reason to take the path back. Emma and |
readjusted our scarves and gloves and set
off toward my house for strawberry cake.
"So. Ems," I said as our shoes slapped on
the pavement. "how does it fell to be a

yaer older and wiser?" RJ

23

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Starting Gate
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Tool Study

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Silver Crescent
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Return to Hui Tsung

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No Escape
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4),

FatherTs Day

The day | was signed up
for Little League. Dad
took me to J. C. Penney.
bought a slick mitt

for me to break-in.

When he handed it over, |
blanked, studied it as We
would toe jam
_,.or phlegm. . .
under our Jr. Scientist Microscope
(Next aisle OVET,

$4 cheaper). At

Eleven days later,
Dad dropped me

off at the park.
But

Dad, you never taught me
how to catch, how to
pitch, how to break

in that shiny glove with
the autograph of Idontknowwho.

| couldnTt go near them.

So | wandered its periphery,
trailed the creek encircling

the diamond. batted dragonflies
and mosquitoes, pitched a fit
when | saw bigger!

boys with bigger girls

get to second base

on the creekTs bank.

| was beside myself.

After try-outs

When moms

returned for

thier little all-stars

Dad wasnTt there.

He had started dinner,

Lost track of time.

Joseph P. Campbell

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Prisoner of War
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Currency
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Bleachers

where ponytails hang

like sO many ropes of hair in front of us,
we turn up aluminum cans of cheap pilsner

and smoke cigarettes in our gloves
when heads are turned.

On the back row,

At sixteen, where we sit,
high above the hierarchy
of letter jackets,
pom-poms, preppie colors,
and parental figures

that breath future

down onto the field

the game goes on

as if in another world
where points don't matter

and God has an alma mater.

Like snipers, We shoot remarks
through the wave of crowd,
ripping into those too content.

Night winds into the stadium lights

and we sit, chopped apart with laughter,
dreaming of cheerleaders bloomerless
leaping into the gir, and wonder

when this won't matter.

Doug Smith

45

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Shaka Zulu

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scott Eagle
Tornado Dream Series: No. 3
mixed media

Maia Sampson
Ascent
acrylic

ric OO

teenage

After Taps

48

ast 1991

The sun was slipping
down the front lawn when
call to quarters blew. It
echoed down the halls of the
dimly lit barracks and floated
outacross the training fields.
The officer of the day read
out the uniform blandly over
the PA system. oUniform
for mess three will be,? he
paused as if he was actually
thinking and said, ogray
trousers, gray shirt, black tie.
black sweater and dress hat.?
It was winter and uncannily
cold for December.
Reaching up I pulled the
window down and paused. |
leaned on my window sill

by Stephen Schaubach

oTwo feet of virgin snow, no night officer
and our Senior year,? he said staring at me,
smoke whiffing from his mouth, oyou
thinking whatI am thinking?? oClayton, are
you serious?? Iasked. There wasa pause and
he said, oNo, but weTre going anyway.?

watching the sun sneak away.
I stood there, looking up. The
Sky was gray, likeus. Clouds
blanketed the horizon and left
nothing but the deafening din
of silence.

Unconsciously |]
about faced and paused to
contemplate the sharp snap
my heels made. The floors
were cement, cold, with a
grayish dark tint to them.
Gray light from outside made
a path to the door, reminding
me to hurry up. Formation
Was in fifteen minutes.
Walking to my closet, |
gingerly pulled out a neatly
ironed gray shirt, my favorite

one; it was Friday. Carefully
I spaced the remaining shirts
two fingers apart. Smoothing
out the wrinkles in my chest,
[ unfastened my belt buckle
and set it on my desk.
Checking my watch] thought
about my parents. |
wondered what they were
doing now. Certainly they
weren't shining their shoes
and brass. I filled the tin of
my shoe polish with warm
water and sat down at my
desk.

I remembered my
freshman year here when my
roommate, Holsinger, had
taught me to shine shoes. I

smiled and then breathed
heavily on the toe of my shoe.
oMake tiny little circles using
alittle warm water, thatTs the
secret, you'll learn.? The
following week we had
gotten acheck minus onroom
inspection because of a polish
stain on my desk. [remember
how he acted as though he
hated having a freshman as a
roommate. We became good
friends and talked about our
oother? lives. The next year
he was put on Battalion staff
as an executive officer. We
were having our outside
company inspection when he
squared off with me. He
checked my uniform. oGood
shoes Mr. Slaven,? he said
and I smiled. oSomething
funny Mr. Slaven?? oNo
Sir!? I found it strange the
distance the military put
between us, yet it made me
feel closer to him when we
talked privately.

Formation call blew
as I finished adjusting my
buckle. Stiffly I walked out
the door and walked to my
platoon sergeantTs room.
oSergeant Strickland,? I said
as he snapped to attention. |
waited as he called his room
to attention.

~Room ten-hut!?

oAt ease,? I said,
ohave you checked the ranks
already or do you enjoy
marching bull ring??

~Sir, I: have; sit," Re
said.

oGood, then letTs get
them down stairs.?

oYes sir,? he said as

he scrambled for the hall,
oLetTs go first platoon, beat
your feet on company street!?

Cadets rushed back
and forth scurrying to get
down stairs and form up. It
was strange, almost surreal.
Only officers could walk in
the middle of the hall; the
others had to use the sides.
As an officer you had to walk
cautiously down the middle
of the hall. After making a
final check of the barracks, I
headed for company street.
oOne hundred and eighty
eight steps,? I thought.

It seems funny to be
counting steps, but what was
even more strange was that it
seemed normal here. There
wasnTt much to do in the
small town of Chatham. Only
twelve hundred people lived
here and four hundred cadets
made up the rest. It didnTt
even seem like the United
States, rather a small town in
an unnamed country. Things
here were old, really old. |
remember seeing a sign that
said, oColored rest room.?
Strangely enough I hesitated
and used the other oWhite
restroom.? Like I said, there
wasnTt much to Chatham. On
Sundays we would get town
leave and go wash our
laundry. The scene was
always the same, a bunch of
cadets sitting around
watching their laundry spin
around in dryers, smoking
cigarettes and looking
nervously at everyone else
doing the same. Tonight was
probably the most exciting

day of the week. Tonight we
got to watch a movie, maybe
one in color.

I stopped briefly and
looked down company street.
The cadets were lined up in
rows, looking straight ahead.
Walking up to my platoon, I
surveyed their shoes, brass
and shirt tucks. As I walked
down each rank of cadets, |
saw a little bit of myself, in
each of them. Who was I to
teach them how to act, when
to laugh or cry? Who was I
anyway? What if they
became exactly like me?
Would we all be knocking
heads at the water fountain?
Better yet, what if we all
became friends and every
time we tried to call each
other, the phone was busy?
oJeese, [have to stop thinking
so much,? I thought.
Returning a salute to my
platoon sergeant, I noticed a
few flakes of snow starting
to fall. It was cold, cold and
gray and depressing. This
would be the first real snow,
if it lasted.

It was six thirty and
like clock work we about
faced and saluted the flag as
it was lowered. I felt the eyes
of twenty-six cadets on me
as I held my hand steady to
my temple. The winter wind
whipped around my face as
the bugle echoed down the
front lawn, across the training
fields and into the small town
of Chatham. I often
wondered if the town stopped
what they were doing to

continued next page

~SPRING

49

00

| Gasial 1997

=e ee

listen. I knew the answer.

Over eighty years ago, cadets
stood where I stood and
saluted the same flag pole.
Eighty years from now cadets
may stand here, right where
[ am standing, saluting this
very same flag pole. There
was something that felt like
love running through me.
Maybe it was the warmth of
my sweater, the weather, or
the bugle playing oTo the
Colors.? Hell, I just felt
proud.

It was after dinner,
after the movie (color) and it
was especially after Taps.
Lieutenant Cochran, my
roommate, became
oClayton? to me and |
became oMatt? to him. We
had just taken report of the
barracks and all were
accounted for. Normally we
checked in with Lt. Cudd.
the night officer. He had a
big gun with rubber bullets
and he used it. During Mess
III (dinner) I had heard he
had a heart attack and was in
the hospital. Clayton and I
had waited to give him the
report sheets, but he never
showed up. oHe really must
be in the hospital then,?
Clayton whispered.

We both looked at
each other and smiled with
our eyes. We opened up the
window to take a look at the
snow. oDamn, must be two
feetat least,? I said excitedly.
Clayton nodded wide eyed
as he took a long drag from
his cigarette. oTwo feet of
virgin snow, no night officer

and our Senior year,? he said
staring at me, smoke whiffing
from his mouth, oyou
thinking what I am
thinking?? oClayton, are you
serious?? Lasked. There was
a pause and he said, oNo, but
we re going anyway.?

A Christmas
excitement filled the air as
we put on our fatigues. oYou
really sure about this
Clayton?? There was no
answer from him. oShush,?
I said, realizing we might be
making too much noise.
Cautiously we crept to the
stair well. There we were,
walking, shirking down the
steps as if we were on a
mission. Finally we reached
the foyer. We both stopped
to listen, nothing, silence.
Slowly he opened the door
and we crept out into the
snow. Quietly we made our
way to the far training field,
one behind the other, and
me, yes, me, leading. It was
over two feet. Much more
than we had both thought. It
was quiet, the kind of silence
only a snow storm can
produce. Looking back I saw
Clayton looking back and
then I stopped. We were far
from the campus, yet we stil]
whispered. Clayton spoke.

oHley man,? he
paused, oI always wanted to
tell you this and donTt get the
wrong idea but,? he paused
again, oyouTre my best
friend.?

oThanks man, that

means a lot to me,? I said
frankly.

oWould you mind if
I kissed you?? Clayton said
and we both laughed; I kicked
snow on him.

oDid I ever tell you
the story about when I got
caught shoplifting?? I knew
the answer.

oUh uh, tell me,? he
said.

oWell it was me and
my brother Jamie, heTs older.
We were at a drug store, for
the hell of it, checking out
stuff. I saw him put
something, I forget what, in
his pocket. I kind of got
scared, you know? Then he
got some candy and put it in
my back pocket and I got
really nervous. I was
Sweating buckets when we
Started out the door. And
this guy, this huge New
Jersey guy, stopped us and
asked us what we had in our
pockets. He knew. He
grabbed us both by the arm
and took us to his office.
You know how the offices
are in those stores. Well, this
one was different; it had a
window. He left the office
and locked it, off to get the
manager I guess. My brother,
who had been caught before,
decided to bail. He opened
the window and got out. He
laughed and said ~Come on!T
Well, I was scared, but I
Started out the window
anyway. Just about the time
[ was almost out, I heard the
door open. That big lumber
jack looking guy started to
pull my legs, just like ITm
pulling yours.?

For about an hour we
sat there, in the middle of the
field and exchanged stories.
It was almost as if we weren't
even there; we were free. |
hadnTt felt this free for
months. It felt like school
was out and we were alumni,
looking at the school from a
different angle. Then, we
just lay there in the snow
looking up and neither of us
said a word for the longest
time. Then he broke the
silence and said, oThis is
great you know??

oYeah,? I said, obut
we better get back soon.?

oWhy do our teachers
have to live here?? he asked.

oReally, everyone
else gets school off at home
but no, not us,? I said.

We shook ourselves
off and headed for the school,
refreshed and careless. Both
of us even spoke in normal
tones of voice. When we
reached the door, I decided
to go first. We slipped in
quietly and shut the door ever
so slowly. With our backs
up against the wall, we
listened, trying to muffle our
breathlessness. It was warm
inside. Every time I moved I
could feel a warm puff of air
rising from my shirt, on my
face. It was dead silent. The
only thing you could hear
was the heaters pinging. We
both looked up as if we could
see clear up to the hundredth
and eighty-eighth step. |
started to climb up when |
heard foot steps. I stopped.
They stopped. ItTs so damn

quiet. I didnTt even want to
turn my head to look at
Clayton, because I might
make noise. It was a stand
off. Then the foot steps
started again. We matched
them with ours and started to
climb up. I remember
thinking, oWhy are we going
up, shouldnTt we be going
down?? We could hear the
other personT s footsteps; they
were solid. They engulfed
ours, but we still kept
climbing. Finally he spoke.
The feet had a voice.

oWho ever is down
there, come up here,? they
said.

oTtTs Rev. Gregory,?
Clayton whispered.

oCaptain Gregory, |
said, oitTs me, Lieutenant
Slaven.?

oCome here boy,
now!? Capt. Gregory was an
older man, very quiet.

We finally met and
he shined a flashlight on us,
blinding us. I didnTt say
anything, neither did
Clayton. Capt. Gregory
puffed as old men do and
said, oHere, hold this
Slaven.? I slowly grabbed
his flashlight and watched as
he pulled out a cigarette and
lit it.

oYou boys find
~em??

oSir?? I said.

oThose boys that
went outside, you find oem??

oAh, no sir I think
they snuck back in without
us knowing,? I said firmly.

oThen I guess you'll

be going to yourrooms now,?
he said.

oYes sir,? I said.

oMr. Slaven, why
you smiling??

oT like snow,? I said.

oMe too,? Capt.
Gregory said, oso you boys
have a good night.?

oYes sir, good night,?

9

I said.

I handed him his
flashlight and started up the
stairs slowly, Clayton behind
me.

It wasnTt until after I
had gotten to the room that I
realized what had just
happened. We both took our
fatigues off and put them in
our dirty clothes bag. I
washed my hands, thought
about Macbeth and got in
bed. It was silent again. I lay
there in amazement, my
hands still wet, clinching the
covers. Clayton spoke. oI
like snow too,? he said. I
smiled,closed my eyes,and
fell asleep. AJ

?"? SHR emaw stam hoe peiatah e7s e:

SPRING

o1

02

asal 1991!

NOTHING TO PRESERVE WITHOUT LIGHT

by Todd Lovett

from The Father and Son Y-Indian Guides

The Story of the Headband,
the central theme

the feathered arrow designs which"
extend right and left of,
the central symbol.

represent the useful, services of father
and son.

The fact:

that the father and son,

achievments are. united,
in
the
center of,

the design is.

interpreted, to mean

that fathers

and sons together under

the eye of,

the great spirit, are seeking.

to help each

other in: the services:
they render.

To the right is the symbol.
of the mother and home, a line

connects

the mother,
Symbol with the teepee or home symbol.

The fact:
that, it is a home.
symbol is shown by the fire. in the teepee
on the left, are symbols.
of father and son, their
relationship again.
is, shown by the line:
that, joins the two symbols,
these symbols.

add to the richness. of the central theme, for it,
is in service to mother and home.

that many of the more.

Significant achievments of,

father and son

will take, place.

oWell the truth is, the boys would go off down the road to the big pond and
go fishing. Dawn and Jerry couldn't go, and they would fish down there at the
creek.? She laughs. oCourse there wasnTt any fish down there, and they'd set out
their lines at night and expect...? She begins to smile, knods her head laughing,
picks up with o...and so Pop came by the store up there and bought a fish about
that long. Now honey he took a flashlight and went down there and hunted that
fishing line, it was way up by the end of the field where the deep place was, and
put that fish on that line.? She chuckles. oThey got up the next morning, when the
boys went a fishing, there was another boy that went with them all the time, Billy
Meeks, you may of heard us talk about him. And they got up and went fishing,
and Pop and | were still tryinT to sleep; | was tryinT, heTs asleep cause he worked
second shift. So | heard, oh they was yelling, they was coming across that field
with that fish on that pole, you know, just waving it...? Her voice slips into a higher,

soft and child-like cry, o...Oh we caught one, we caught one!?

A

I will write down everything I remember.
The avocado-green pin-stripe pajamas are
there. The bedspread is blue, some thick and
heavy fiber. Cotten? The sheets are white,
but the pillowcase, Pinochio in sharp red,
blue, yellow, and wood. This was a gift from
some friends: Stephen, who is half Korean,
his father, American psychologist, and his
mother who wears the sad, length-painted
dresses from south of the DMZ, her home.
On the wall is a Buffalo Bills pennant, and it
is always Christmas when I see this" an
Oakland Raiders fan finding a Bills pennant,
winter solstice time, 1972 substitution till
we can get the real thing" silver, black. In
the corner big as an alter, an old TV, the
reception gone forever from its glass, useless
convex window. This doesnTt matter though,
I am seven, I get a television in my room. A
GE record player, Hot Wheels by Mattel
sticker (lane 1, car 60...) stuck to the sea-blue
plastic; records on the floor that I still have
now, Soultrain, Superfly, Ball of Fire on 45
and Backstabbers. Near, a fireplace rug,
those huge fingersized strands woven in
concentric ovals, lightening from brown to
white, to gold-orange, and brown boarder.
And inthe childT s twin bed, my back is to the
ceiling, arms wrapped around Pinochio, tight
lids, feet to the records and face turned left to
the dark TV screen.

Some of this is real. That much, the
polaroid verifies.

A

Some of it I dream from memory now,
camera mind wide angled backwards.

The light is on" nothing to preserve
without light" but in my dream, it is dark,
and like the photograph I am sleeping on the
edge of awareness. Rapid eyed hours have
already come, diminished; time is late,
midnight because that is far past a childTs
bedtime. It must be high in the night by
now" Moon ascending" coming in my
window through the shears, filtered shadow
white, and violet. Short of a mile away,
seventeen years for a child, I know the wind
was moving in the Savanna marsh where the
land, like the incoming sea, loses itself.
Tide, nocturn animals, both rising in the
reedy straw tangle of sinkholes, moccasins,
the brackish dark: You could drown; donTt
go near the marsh.

Asleep, Iam rousing, rolling my head on
the pillow, and stretching myself in the way
we only do when we feel alone. The door is
open" I have always slept with it closed"
and the bright hallway is just outside, blurry
as I rub to see. My father is coming into the
room. Seven years old, and still I think this
odd; bedtime is sleep, without reason, they
do not wake me. He hesitates, sees I am
moving, cleaning away the drowze, and now
I lean up on an elbow, stare blinking at his
silhouette.

~What is it??
contined next page

| SPRING

03

oSSSR STEW Were s

04

asae 1991)

TDR ten er Cts Pee He Se oe St Mn

[ mumble this, and my voice is trying to
sound tired. Stretch again, this to look the
part. lam growing uncomfortable. Does he
know I have been waiting?

He comes in now awkward, leaves the
door open. From the den, I can hear the
television on still; in the kitchen, ceramic
clinks, the dishes as mommy puts away the
dinner mess.

I listen well and remember sounds at
seven years. Months before in a theater, I sat
with my father midway down the aisle
watching a movie with animals for characters,
narrated disneyesque and anonymous, an
invisible hand on your shoulder, another
pointing to: coyote, prairie dog, the desert
hare.

We had come looking for bigfoot.

The advertisements were all sasquatch"
learn about the legend, hear it, see it, track
the footprints into Indian myth" a decoy
though, fifteen minutes of added attraction
tacked onto the wonderful world of.

oCan I go down front??

oWill you be scared by yourself??

I ran to the first row of the near empty
theater, larger pictures, louder sound. like
closing the door of the room youT ve just
entered alone. On the screen appeared the
only person to ever film bigfoot, mountain
man Patterson and his 8mm. headlong
running footage. There were Northwestern
pines, broken trees and bramble from the
previous Winter moving past your view as
the tall, dark monster long stepped througha
broad clearing. Black hair shining, arms
swinging almost to the knee, it turned into
the break, glancing back once, and receeded
into forrest, as lin my seat. Footprints plaster
cast. Still photographs. FBI analysis of hair
and dung. I sat nonchalant to push away the
instinct flight.

The pictures pick up speed, dusky oran ge
light on a forrest edge, sticks and limbs piled
against a stream, the absence of sound, for
moments counting, waiting for the sound
that came: terrible moan calling, creshend.

fall, dying back into the miles of trees. And

now I am running trying to walk. I am blind
in the aisle. I overshoot my father.

oI just wanted to tuck you in goodnight...?

oT already got tucked in.?

oI know.? I lie back down; my eyes
sqeak as I rub them.

He covers the few paces, wrinkled button-
down hanging over his belt, still in polyester
manager clothes; one hand swings at ease,
the other, fist- clenched. The hall light
shrinks. The dishes, clink again, and his big
arms circle out, under and around me and the
pillow. His breath is warm as he kisses my
cheek.

oLT love you. ~NightT?

oI love you too.?

He sqeezes me tight once to end the hug.
I close my eyes and pretend; do not see him
turn, shirt-rustling; do not see the shrinking
frame, hall light. My heart is racing.

Do I sleep well?

For fifteen minutes, I listen to the drum
in my chest. The sound comes from under
water; I hear it in my ears, rolling inside a
wave. When my eyes open finally, against
my will, the house is silent. A single shaft of
hall light strikes the hard tile floor, rug, and
up the wall. The door is ajar. It takes all my
years of gathering fears to put aside, to move
the covers off, swing my feet to the floor.
Slow, single action, stand, and walk like an
indian on the balls of my feet" this is how
to move unheard in the forest" the door. I
turn the knob, closing centimeters at a time
until without an audible click, the hall outside
disappears.

I stand in the dark room listening a while
before I turn on the light; freeze for long
seconds before I run to my bed and pull back
the pillow, and it has happened: quarters,
dimes, nickels. Several dollars in change,
more than I have ever gotten.

I fall asleep thinking of thread tied to
door knobs, and teeth. The marsh is far
away.

Judges

A
VISUAL ART

Laura Davis
Benito Huerta
Dr. Sharon Pruitt

A
LITERATURE

Dr. Norman Rosenfeld
Dr. William Hallberg
Dr. Patrick Bizzaro
Dr. Richard Taylor

Rebel Staff

Editor
Linda Clark

Art Director/Layout
David W. Yarbrough

Assistant Editor
Traci Treat

Poetry Editor
Deborah P. Griggs

Prose Editor
Carol Maynard

AWARDS

ART

IST
Kiyomi Talaulicar
It's Just a Matter of Skin

2ND 3RD
David C. Behrens Fred Champion
MC Hammerhead On the Three Cycle

POETRY

IST
Doug Smith
Pura Vida
2ND 3RD
Joseph P. Campbell David C. Behrens
Guys and Dolls Nightfall

PROSE

IST
Gillian Ashley
Burgundy Plum

2ND 3RD
Stephen Schaubach Susan Ambert
After Taps Second Story

99

Acknowledgements: The Rebel staff would like to thank those
individuals who helped make this year's publication possible: Mrs. Y vonne
Moye and Mr. Greg Brown for their efficiency and warmth in dealing with
our difficulties; the University Media Board; Ms. Laura Davis, Mr.
Benito Huerta and Dr. Sharon Pruitt for judging this year's art competi-
tion: Dr. Norman Rosenfeld, Mr. William Hallberg, Dr. Patrick Bizzaro,
and Dr. Richard Taylor for judging this year's literature contest; Nick
Honeycutt and Sherrie Davis for their optimism; Dr. David Sanders for his
understanding; Dave, Mr. Wheat, and Penny for warmth on the homefront.

The entire staff sends unlimited gratitude and love to Joseph Campbell
for his knowledge and support. David would like to personally thank the
following persons who alleviated the stress and believed: Leigh; Sue and
Eric (studio buddies); Scott, Eric and Jamin; Todd Lovett, Ezmo and the
Suckie Some D*** Chorus; Karen and Steve, Evan, Pat and Ann, Theo,
Carol, M+D, M+M, Rik and Todd.

~SPRING Nm

- STE Sa > FRADE Be! tae OS Oe Pere Foe 5 ve ot RB Me Hew
- C29 SSOP SS TD BOTT a *
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