Rebel, 1993


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East Carolina
University

The Literary and

Arts Magazine

FallmSprin
Vo nis ae KP)











managing editor
Margie 0T Shea

art director
Kristin Moore

assistant editor
Valerie Anthony

poetry editor
Kris B. Hoffler

prose editor
Matthew Readling

media adviser
Greg Brown

faculty adviser
Craig Malmrose

art judges
George Baka

Mark Brown
Meade B. Horne

poetry judges
Joseph Bruchec
Marvin Hunt

prose judges
Ashley B. Futrell, Sr.
Susan Sturgill

photographers
Catherine Walker
Keith Hobgood

illustrators

Stanton Blakeslee
Keith Hobgood
Tom Kim

Lee Misenheimer

printer
Theo Davis Sons

fonts
Garamond Book
Futura Condensed

stock
Simpson Evergreen
Matte Natural





on the cover

Prize Finalist

Artist Stanton Blakeslee
Title Mother and Children
Category Illustration

oIf you bring forth what is within you, what
you bring forth will save you. If you do not
bring forth what is within you, what you do
not bring forth will destroy you.� (Jesus,
trom The Gnostic Gospels)

For me, creative expression is the way you
discover what you believe" who you are. It
takes effort and perseverance. Being an art
ist or a writer is not for the shallow, or weak
in spirit.

The REBEL 93Ts sole intention is to show-
case the creative expression of students at
East Carolina University through Poetry, Prose
and Art Competitions. | only wish the budget
would have allowed us to show more, as
there was much, much more work worthy of
publication. | applaud those who made the
effort to share themselves with us. | encour-
age anyone to begin by believing in yourself,
and not to give up.

Those people who were involved with the de-
velopment and production of the REBEL 93
Magazine have inspired me to continue in
my personal search through artistic expres-
sion. | thank you for the opportunity to work
with you. Before | present this yearTs REBEL
for your enjoyment, | would like to borrow
the following words from Nancy Thayer, an
American writer, oItTs never too late" in
fiction or in life" to revise.�

Margie 0TShea





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contents

Poetry

Angry Hand

Autumn Aging

The Black Woman

A Bus Station In Charlotte
Click

I Saw Falling A Leaf Claimed By Autumn
Keep Her Well

Lost Images

Margaret

Oblivion

Of Arsenic And Old Memories
Rapids

Recreation

Stephen

The Swing

Tenure

Visitation

Prose

A Cleaner Place
Keeping House

The Porch Sitters
Rain

The Way With Water

Art

Ash Starburst

Bushwacker Catalog

Circle Pins

Color Of The Dream I Had
Depleting Environment:First In Series
Design 9: History Calendar
El Pulpo

Fallen King

Full Fathom Five, My Father
Interior With Bottles

Just Not So Story #4: Who Will Have Remorse

Just Not So Story #6: All That Remains
Leaf Catcher

Lucille, Maggie, & Suzanne

Mr. Armstrong

NRBQ

Perfume Bottle Set

Pueblo Ceremonial Bird Vanity

Saved By Two Bang Caps: Toursie & Glennie

Self-Portrait
Summer Workout
Inder The Sea
Intitled
Intitled
Intitled
Intitled
Intitled
Intitled #2
Intitled #2
Waffle House
Watervessel #1

ee ee ee ee

Malana Harris

J.E. Boyette

Latonya L. Hargrove
Matthew D. Jones
Rod Hawkins

T. Scott Batchelor
Nicole Ossman

Jennifer Tiedebohl

Ashley Gruber

Melissa Link

Rod Hawkins

Ronald Jason Osborne
Eva Rogers

Terry Wiggins

Don Marr

Tracey Gay

J.E. Boyette

Jim Shamlin

Angela Bacon Reid
Timothy C. Hampton

J. E. Boyette
James Casey

Jamie Kirkpatrick

Colleen Parks

Jennifer Green

Mitzy Jonkheer

Stanton Blakeslee
10:00 Graphics II Class
Steven Benson

Doug Knotts

Terry Wiggins

Amanda Taylor Durant

Jeanne Brady
Jeanne Brady
Jerry Jackson

Rachel Banks
Irene Bailey
Mark Elmore
Liz Parker
Nikki Holbrook

Jerry Jackson

Shannon Morrow
Catherine Blackburn
Laura Sharar
Christine Cranford
Steven Benson

John Loftin

Todd Houser
Todd Houser

Bill Dermody

Ray Kaylor

W. Keith Hobgood
Traci Mercer







Prize First Two hours late He leaves
Author J.E. Boyette ex-husband three hours early
Title Visitation makes a grand entrance promises more turtles
Category Poetry not a date for his return
bearing gifts
he pulls from a bag That night,
five turtles in the bathtub
all stolen the golden necklace turns green
from the roadside pictures dissolve
he has named them like dandelions in the wind

oThis is better then Christmas! oITm sorry that happened.� I say.
IsnTt it Mommy?� she says.
She kicks the water
I had asked storming the air
had needed her eyes blacken
him to bring like her DaddyTs
new school shoes, white and she growls
leather, size 2
oNo youTre not. You are a liar.�
Later,
as a loving servant
bearing tithes
to his queen
he presents a dime-store locket
picture of him on one side
her on the other

oWhere does MommieTs picture go?�

oSilly,� he says, oPromise me you will
never never ever take this off.�

oNecklaces get tangled in my ponytail.�

oThis one won't.�







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an tirtl = nat le he out mo engeueenees

Prize Best In/Show
Artist Shannan Morrow
lite Selt-Porteaut
Cotegory, Painting













Echoing

Rocking
alone
COnversation more than oe ae inctured
f i] Ly wrapped in a clinging, pt
4 quarter of a mile away
womb
the closest home yt
Thinking
of their
Humming eae
enure
electrical wires, ll
i yenez
though few, a
j i my fe
Crossing the field bis hls Rina
: ' in osmahn
to the stark white cabin | soft whispering
through wild orange blossoms through the branches and bark
rows of tobacco
Whistling sandy earth
wind

Caught in
gutters, uninsulated
walls

struggling to be
free again

Creaking
under gusts
Roaring e here
; id had earned tenure here
with leaves Oaks my father said had earned t
Remembering
my father

Prize Second
ie ' Tracey Gay
chasing me through the tobacco field, sgt
Wel, gritty leaves slapping my arms, : Scar fears
4)
Shoulders, cheeks
Porous sandy earth,

clumping
around my ankles,

my feet, between my toes

Tipping
his chair, beneath the moaning eaves,
Oak,
as he reached
for bourbon
ice

Swirling

clinking
Threading

me to him

and them

-Artelia, Gladys, Theodious

N







Prize Third

Author Don Marr
Title The Swing
Category Poetry

This girl knew him from years gone past,
but these inner questions will never be asked.
Something in him familiar and quite similar,

that could have been a dream or a distant fear.

The contours of his face seemed the same,
as cracks in the earth forever unchanged.
And yet, she sometimes thought she knew him,

reminisced and returned to days back then.

She moved higher toward the stars,
her pleasure and laughter heard afar.
With childlike laughter she filled her desire,

pushed by his thrust she flew higher, higher.

This vehicle once in her struck fear,
with his hard-worked hands he pulled her near.
A pull and a push and upward she flew,

falling back to earth to one she knew.

Pushed, she swung upwards and returning,

to his safe touch and rich love burning.

oPush me higher, Daddy, higher,�

gentle force could not quench her desires.

Years have passed and she still returns,
to a time in her mind forever burns.
This man beside her in blissful sleep,

memories in her soul forever will keep.





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Prize Third

Artist Nikki Holbrook
litle Pueblo Ceremonial
Bird Vanity

Category Wood







Author Angela Bacon Reid
litle Keeping House
Category Prose

Illustrations by
Keith Hobgood

athleen couldnTt keep the invita-

tion from her mind; she might as
well have tacked it to her cart, so
frequently it rose before her eyes:

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin David Bishop
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Victoria Christine
to
Mr. Michael Andrew Connor
on Saturday, the twenty-ninth of August
at three oTclock
First United Methodist Church

Burlington, Vermont

The ticket there enclosed hadnot start-
led her half so much as had the message
scrawled across the invitationTs bottom:
oSee you at the airport "Mike.� So non-
chalant it was, youTd think she knew
that he was getting married, that he had
found a bride. SheTd called him when
she had gotten the invitation yesterday,

and he had laughed. HeTd meant it to
surprise.

It had. SheTd listened with bemused
amazement as Michael rambled on. his
grown-manTs voice grown husky in the
year since heTd left school, oWait until
you meet her, Mom. VickiTs just a doll.
Her father runs the company I work for.
HeTs been so good to me; they all have.
[ know you'll learn to love them. too.�

Small chance sheTd have for that. Accor-
ding to the ticket sheTd get two nights
in Vermont. She had no doubt her son
would put her up in style, but it was
obvious he didnTt mean for her to stay.

When had he dropped the oOT� Off his
name?

Two nights before the plane returned
her to resume her life. At least sheTd get
to see a hotel from the other side.

The cartTs wheels snagged against the
carpet as she put it to the side before
the next door, glanced down automa-
tically to see the little sign, the oPlease







Beara - aes Not Disturb� or
Pea 8 to warn her of the residentTs
oR as Nothing, as it often was the
ee she rapped softly, heard a lazy
�,�r without inquiry. oCome in.�

Her key

oo , 7 ~4
the d y chain jingled as she unlocked
= Cor, smiling blandly before sheTd
seen the face. said, oMaid.�

Y y ; 1 ~ eo

hair ¢ .
c Oncealed by > of >
hote y one of the

lTs W ite

ently fr vhite towels, glanced indiffer-
Alth« rom the Vanity against the wall.

A ) P >

cared ugh she had enough that she was
e eSs % . Bee ~ "

waite zg the wrinkled clothing strewn

. SS > > . e .

su ? 1e beds and chairs, the white

Sun dress setting off
Pressed.

though

her tan was neatly
1 ler eyes slid off at onceas _
"". lacked detail, was not
gag ugh to keep the girlTs
ntion from the mirror and herself.

oWould you like

: me to come back
maTam?� 1e back

~Hmm? Oh. no.T
towel away

oGo ahe: VeT
ahead. We'll be leaving ina
moment.�

The lady pulled the
and ruffled her short hair,

Kathle

euueen pushed her c:;
mati art up
48ainst the w ra
the b
Othe

all, glanced within to see
oo door was closed" the
: Pa piste perhaps. She grabbed
) Land a tr
briskly in the
filled ashtray «
blinds. Outsid
the Water
lights on
Childre
Spoke t

ash bag, stepped
room towards the half-
m the table by the open
le the sun was shining on
» Painting free and easy high-
the waves. The sunburned

n playing by the boardwalk

O her of happy days.

he blonde
flawlessly. e
While she

put on her coral lipstick
nraptured by her ritual
critically applied her face.
The sg;
aac anes shade stained the filters of
olgarettes, Ch
Profusion jn
4s if the
de ne or
table.
tawny

esterfields, a great
all stages of «x ympletion,
not. Ashes spj
; t. Ashes spilled out on the
SI aT} ¥

} Nattering had fallen on the
rug. F
VICe, NO matt
Stole

amiliar money, used to ser-
te er she was young. Kathleen
Slance at her " pretty, jewelry

wom: eae a
Oman didnTt care if they were

shimmering at throat and ears and hands,
the wedding band perhaps the newest
of the lot. She seemed more picturesque
than the view from the balcony win-
dow, acutely conscious of heraffluence
and the aristocracy it conferred.

Would Vicki look so to the maid that
served her in her honeymoon hotel?

Blue eyes met hers in the mirror. Just
the flicker of a frown upon those paint-
ed lips sent Kathleen to her w« rk, al-
most brought a blush to Kathleen's face
that mercifully subsided when the man
came through the bathroom door.

She felt him glance towards her and
away, a quick dismissal. He, too, was
dressed in summer white, was tanned.
He strapped a watch onto his wrist.

oITm getting hungry,Ellen. Shall we g ?�

There was no spoken answer, nor did
Kathleen see the woman's response,
for she had bent to move the sheets off
the bed, pushed gingerly aside the
silky clothing, knowing that the hotel
rules forbade her move these peopleTs
things, knowing the housekeeper,
Yoni. would have a fit if she did not-
she had to make the beds, remove the
hair and debris their guests left behind.
She heard them walking, looked to see
him usher her out through the open
door, one connubial hand at the base
of her back. There, that was Michael

and his bride. Comfortable in the world
his motherTs paychecks and his educa-
tion bought him. Not hiding the girl
from his mother, but hiding her from
the girl.

The air conditioner shut down with a
cough, left the muted rush of the sea
her only companion while she pulled
the sheets from the bed, shookthem
and smoothed them back down again,
emplacing the heavy orange bedspread
and reinstating the clothes. She couldn't
help spreading those out-her meticu-
lous care of her own things madehe
thought of leaving this finery crumpled
abhorrent. Kathleen could make an
outfit last a lifetime.

She tried to summon her usual pride in
restoring the illusion the hotel meant to
make"casual, effortless elegance, but
she had curiously litthe emotion to
spare. She moved into the bathroom,
felt a flicker of annoyance when she
surveyed the damp towels and the
sand-begrimed tub, the trunks and red
one-piece dripping from the towel-rack
onto the floor.

Tubs were the hardest, but she had tech-
niques for dealing with those"twelve
summer seasons of getting out sand
gets routine. She took one of the used
towels and bent to the task, feeling the
strain on her back. Twenty pounds less
might make this much easier.

Might make her look better for Michael.

When had he started to call himself

oMike?�

Under the metallic water flow the sand
went into the drain, pressed on bythe
work of the towel. Here were the pubic
hairs she hadnTt found in the bed"
dark ones. She guessed they were his.
His hair hadnTt been wet when heTd
come from the bathroom"she ima-
gined him standing under the stream,
head pulled away so as not to wet his
coiffure, and half-smiled. It seemed a
ludicrous image. Unmanly. Not so
much like Michael, then. Or not as he

was when young.

ww
bod
o
m

on







i WAP APUSALS TAL t Ven ar ee 50 Nes teenie Senn Rte ahs nee Behe

When young. A sobering thought. It
accompanied her while she hefted the
wet towel from the tub, carried it out to
her cart and pulled forth the fresh ones:
two bath towels, a mat, two face cloths.
two washcloths. Four plastic-covered
cups for the ice tray, and then to the
toilet. She took the brush in her hand
and knelt on the checkered floor, swab-
bing the bowl with a lilac perfume.
MichaelTd been young not so long ago,
a tow-headed boy with his fatherTs
eyes. Not a freckle for all his fair skin.
HeTd not been ashamed of her then, not
until high school did he start to notice
the lack in their home, in the quality of
clothes that they wore.

She never resented it then. Thought
heTd grow from it. Thought he had.
Never imagined to feel the same scorn
from him that she felt from her guests.

The thought made her sad, made her
tired. She let the perfume sit for a min-
ute and bent to thefloor, her cloth pick-
ing up hair from the tiles that seemed
to match neither guest"oversight from
the maid here before. Some of them
weren't as careful as Kathleen was.
Being careful took time, took too much
time, that and her musings had cost her
ten minutes to the schedule this mor-
ning and that meant a scolding from
Yoni. SheTd just two more rooms on
her listing"no way to cut enough
comers to make up the time without
failing her standard of work.

Despondent, she turned towards her
cart and the doorway, finished with her
final review, and was ready to step out
into the hall when she saw the light
glint from the ring.

On the threshold of thedoor, just ina
boundary to leave her no doubt who
had dropped it. She bent to it slowly,
feeling the creak in her knees. adjust-
ing in case one gave out. It felt smooth
in her fingers and warm, recently worn.
It wasnTt the wedding band as she had
first thought"the onyx had fallen face
down, the band of diamonds spanning
the center initially hidden in the nap of
the ring.

PAGE

j2

It would be worth a small fortune. a
monthTs wages or more if those dia-

monds were real, and sheTd no reason
to think they would not be.

She straightened and looked at the

ring, thinking wryly how different she
was from them. Ellen had much, cared
for it little. SheTd bet her sonTs Vicki had
known her share of jewelry, like Ellen
lost finer than sheTd ever known. SheTd
spent her money helping Michael
through graduate school"not that she
ever begrudged him, nor that he didnTt
work for it as hard as she had herself.
but it was a shame it had taken so long,
she had grown old, would go to Ver-

mont ugly, with nothing to wear.

Nothing to wear. Like her carburetor on
a cold morning, her heart gave a jump
and the color flooded her now. She
went scarlet down to her fingertips as
she felt herself seized by the thought.

Nothing to wear?

Not in her life had she jewelry as gor-
geous as this, this ring dropped and
forgotten by that pretty young woman
who begrudged her a look through the
glass. How was that woman to know
where she'd lost it? Surely sheTd re-
member having put it on, think she had
worn it to dinner or wherever she and







her y

ace hipaa went. Surely sheTd
Or a moment Kathleen...

Twelve

Yoni was

Se ~se

ra ns and never a problem.
Work ard, but she'd stand by her
'kers. No one

would ever imagine
Kathlee d ever imagine.

ee hehe ae eae
she sli hardly believed it herself when
oIpped the ring into her pocket.

a aii

Chey

Y 9 ae

st " in housekeeping at the
; a) » Compare 2c
who'd h: ipare notes on

Five

id the worst room. bargain for

ting a " floor tomorrow.

IN chairs ies aed � in their hard fold-
an arc facing Yoni, hands

digging into the box full of cups and
slipping them into the plastic while the
housekeeper laughed, carried on.

This end of the day was important to
them and to her. Work done, they
could be easy and comfortable, relaxed,
as they talked and shared the small
details of life. Their meetings were late
enough afternoon that the game room
next door was usually empty, guests
usually all dining out. The housekeep-
ing room could stay open, letting them
enjoy what wafted in of the late sum-
mer breezes, for in spite of the air con-
ditioning this tiny room would never
be cool.

Today it seemed worse than ever, but
Kathleen knew the sweat on her brow
wasnTt entirely heat.She felt it branded
her, made it apparent to any that look-
ed that she had a secret. She knew that
was plain paranoia. If anyone thought
anything of it, they might put it down
to the lashing sheTd gotten from Yoni,
the quickly served verbal punishment
that had been put aside for one of
YoniTs favorite preoccupations.

Yoni was mocking the new girl, her
fierce black eyes snapping over her
gap-toothed smile. It was the same
smile sheTd had when she had been
hired, ten years ago, seeming young
enough then to be Kathleen's daughter.
But no mind what they said on TV
about Japanese, they aged just like
everyone else. If YoniTs hair was still
black and her figure still trim enough to
get away with tight jeans, her face
didnTt get her the same kind of men
that it did.

« trying to be slower than Kathleen?�

The others laughed easily and Kathleen
joined in, knowing that was expected
"no hurt feelings here, she had slow-
ed down this summer. Her seniority,
affability, would forgive her a lot.

The new girl looked ready to cry. Yoni
could do that to the young ones, the
teens who came on tO Wt wk over the
summer, earned good tips for indiffer-
ent service, went under the wing of

""""""" ssrcorry-EeEcEe

herself or Daisy and under the suspicion
of the rest. She looked at Kathleen, ex-
pecting defense, but Kathleen couldn't
think of what to say. She couldnTt re-
member the name"Amy or Annie, or
was that last summerTs? The ring was a
weight in her pocket, exciting and
frightening. It made her forget all her

lines.

oKathleen,� Daisy said slowly, oDon't

you feel good?�

Daisy always spoke to her slowly, as
though she couldn't quite fathom that
otherwise Kathleen would know what
she meant. The rest of them looked at
her now, expectant, while Kathleen
reached in the box. She ad-libbed into
their silence, eyes fixed on the plastic
bag in her hand. oMy sonTs getting mar-
ried this month.�

Her voice was too loud. She heard the
quiver and hoped they did not. She
wanted to look at them, see, but her
eyes remained riveted to the bag, the

oSanitized for Your Protection� as her

dirty hands swathed over the unending
stream of cheap cups.

oLittle Michael?� Yoni sounded amazed.

She had met KathleenTs son once when
he was fifteen, too sick one June day to
stay home. HeTd been set up in an
empty room like a king, and all the
maids took turns checking up on him.
When heTd vomited all over the bed-
spread, Yoni had cleaned up efficiently
without ever saying a word. oHe just
otoko-no ko, a pimply-faced little boy.
Who he find to marry?�

Kathleen said, oTheyTre having me up
for the wedding. I need the 29th and
30th off.�

Yoni pursed her lips and whistled, oSo
quick? Is she pregnant? No mind. You
can have those two days,but no more.
You know how busy we are.� One of
the last weekends in summer before
the kids went to school, the hotel
would be near-capacity.

Kathleen didnTt need anymore. She
nodded her head in acceptance, and

PAGE

3







Prize First In Metals

Artist Mitzy Jonkheer

lite Color Of The Dream | Had
Category Metals

Prize First In Textiles
Artist Jeanne Brady

litle Just Not So Story #6
All That Remains

Category Textiles





" """" "_"~+ ""

Y Oni, reassure
Smile.
when

te d, gave her a benevolent
You go see him Thanksgiving,
iii ge shut down. See if they started
8randchild. Mr. Gray savs maybe
800d bonus this year.�
oo : "a uncertain faces, ob-
vs Std es her announcement,
a i eaipsen yn she must her-
oo tiagdl �,� could almost hear
pd und working, the
Y mothe
this must
Whe

supercilious-
tly woman pondering what
St mean, the loss of her son
he re mad no one else.� It
i era casserole or potted
tie Plaga ones Daisy had given the
years wr 10 d lost her mother three
Shes e. She knew they
! discomfort. if
didnTt know that
Its w

all sensed
not its source. They

a the ring was burning
ay through the cloth.

te he alway beyond he
Bes ~is Kathleen jumped in her

ed towards the
alarmed. The eye
ed hers. watche

doorway,

s of five others follow-

romping their : itt vaca ce

RS Sie al by ay towards the game

bias 1-cut kids, miniatures of the
ssme

n who had spaw
c ~ AV _ °
whose pawned them,

kingdomTs they'd one day inherit.

Boating near to the point of
~rain what sheTd expected.
inca cheatatygs demanding the
Mr. Gray the ink sale ae dapper
terisliees "" promiser of unma-
this meant aati asking her just what
git a. ~ le knew what the other
Abies tie dagps sweet, simple,
Watching : sie She didnTt want them
Shuddered " tumbled tor this. She
horror seh ; th from the relief and the
though s] : cS = hide the reaction
could S rs " Yoni, whose eyes
Spy dust in
Would see it.

rhe coup!
re

a white pile carpet,

Yoni cx cke
Side.
~ Kath]
athieen. van afeaid vp
Talee N, you afraid ITd not let you go?
Bie another day off if you want. |
oYDE Can cover for you.�

d her head curiously to one

Che housekee

per was injured. seeing
Kathlee , seeing

nTse ee
emotion, seemingly thinking

her
�,�r tongue to the gap in her teeth.

that she was the cause. Kathleen bit

down on her lip and tried to regain her

composure. oI donTt feel good,� she
said. oCan I go home?�

Daisy, self-satisfied, looked to the others

as if to say, oSee?�

Back on tangible ground, away from
the morass of emotion, Yoni seemed
relieved. oAh, go on,� she said, oYou
cleaned your rooms for today, and as
slow as you are on those cups we
finish faster without you.� She smiled
teasingly, her underlying concern only
for those who knew how to read it.

oYou feel really bad? You need a ride?�

oNo, no. I just need to go home to bed.�

They watched her rise from the chair
and weave her way out to the hallway,

turn towards the lobby beyond. The
hall seemed ten times as long as it ever
did, the voices growing evermore dis-

tant. seemed far too surreal. She thrust
her hand in the smock, to the ring, felt
the smooth, soothing curve of the
onyx, the rough sprinkle of diamonds.
Aside from the odd bar of soap, the
Kleenex they all took, sheTd never
stolen from work or from anywhere
else she remembered, had had no idea
how it would feel. She wondered the
worth of the ring, wondered the penal-
ty if she were caught. Would she lose
her job at the hotel?

cael

She had to walk past the front desk to
get out, returned the wave of the
smiling clerk. HeTd gone to school with
Michael, been amazed to learn when
heTd first come here who she was. He
was himself maintence man at the
start"eight years ago? HeTd risen fast in
Mr. GrayTs opinion since that time and
would be manager if he kept it up.

She knew he expected her to stop and
to talk to him as she always did, go into
the small attached office or at least to
the counter, but she had too much
momentum to stop. She was moving
too fast, the clatter of her hard heels
(nurseTs shoes, required) on the tile
floor was too staccato, she couldnTt
even slow down. Out into the parking
lot, half-deserted with the tourists de-
parted for dinner, and found her salt-
seared blue sedan, unlocked it with
trembling fingers. The smell of hot
vinyl made her dizzy as she slipped in
the car, but she didnTt take time to
open the window, set the fan on full
blast and started it, eased it out onto
the road.

Traffic was mercifully light. She watch-
ed her speed with stringent eye, maneu-
vering turns so long familiar she could
have made them at night without lights,
from boardwalk to causeway, from
causeway to bridge and then into the
city, to the back street that led to her
house, finally into the drive, all the while
hunched over the steering wheel as if
pulled down by the weight of the ring.

She couldnTt let go at first, sat clutching
the wheel long after sheTd eased up the
gas and the engine had stalled out and
died. She registered automatically that
her house needed painting, the bright
yellow coat sheTd put on last summer
already fading and peeling under the
sun. It made the house look abandoned
even though the lawn was well tended,
porch swept, meter clicking methodi-
cally on.

There was even less sign of life in the
houses around hers, the neighborhood
quiet as always. Her nearest neighbor,
Mrs. Brinson, signaled her presence

PAGE

S

= = nsession
"""""""""" ee eo
""""" oe







through only a quiet litthke code"vene-
tian blinds open, blinds closed, the
occasional church van with food for
the shut-in, the glimmer of the blue TV
from tight-shuttered windows at night.
The Thurbers were little better, the
Olsons, Mrs. Haversham two houses
down kept a Siamese cat that sylphlike
would on occasion appear at the kit-
chen window, pass judgement on the
passing world with its soulless blue
eyes. Sometimes Kathleen wished
thereTd be havoc, even the sounds of
stereos too loud would be preferable to
the mortuary stillness of this dying road.
Old people only around her, she grown
old herself, too old to pull pranks like
this, to draw police to her home.

Would they send the police? She pray-
ed not, let Mr. Gray come for her, she
would gladly give back the ring, leave
her job. Or if they sent the policeman
at least let it not be Larry, the one who
stayed free at the hotel in exchange for
keeping an eye on the place, not much
of a cop but a good man, and one sheTd
rather not have to know. Their com-
mon heritage was a bond for them; so
many times heTd come in while she
cleaned out his room and sheTd heard
him discordantly bellowing forth, JT7/
bring you home again Kathleen.

Home. She locked her car door me-
chanically, walked up the rickety porch
to the mailbox, not surprised to find
nothing was in it. She pushed the door
hard to the wooden frame, jiggled the
key in the lock and went into the
serene sour silence. She put her purse
on the TV and turned on the lamp in
the living room. She switched on the
tube out of habit, her eyes not on the
humming blue screen but on the pic-
ture, MichaelTs picture, over the TV that
smiled at her, teeth postbraces straight
and dimpled chin. He looked so like
his father to her. To the sounds of a
show host consoling a losing contes-
tant, she pulled the smock from her,
with uncharacteristic abandon draping
it over the patched leather easy-chair as
she took the ring from the pocket it
seared, looked at it in the light of the

PAGE

GS

lamp, half-expecting it transformed into
the onerous thing it had become.

It still shone radiantly. It promised a
beauty and an elegance sheTd never
known.

There were no excuses for this. She
had none to offer man nor God, but as
she looked at it, she knew sheTd not

"27am

return it. She wanted so much what it
promised. It was no more than she
deserved"surely sheTd not worked
more than half her life to slink into her
sonTs wedding unadorned? Unadored.
She felt a sharp pang of envy for that
woman, that Ellen, that Vicki whoTd
captured her son. She, whoTd not even
a wedding ring to remember MichaelTs
father, still deserved.

She took the ring into the bedroom,
placed it carefully on her bed, in the
center of her bedspread just as if it
were a stone amid that flowered field.
She slid open the door to her closet,
reached high for her sewing kit, pulled
it down and opened it quickly enough
to upset it, rummaged through its
haphazard entrails.

There past the spools of white thread
was a razor blade. She took the pillow
off her bed and pulled it from its faux
satin cover, slit the seam alongone
dark-stained end. The ring, wrapped in
her old yellow scarf, would go in there.

With a few neat stitches sheTd sealed it
inside.

Before she put up the basket, and
undid all the evidence of her treasure
trove, she held the pillow to her breast
and she wept, wept over the beautiful
ring.

That night she dreamed of a young girl
with long hay-colored hair and laugh-
ing black eyes that, if they were not
pretty, appealed. She dreamed of a
sturdy young woman, supple round
arms and a full breast and a tending
fleshiness that had a charm of its own
to the type of young man who liked a
young woman to snuggle. She dream-
ed of Kathleen in her youth, MichaelTs
father spinning her round in a waltz,
making her laugh and singhey nonny
under her breath. The church hall was
transformed to a magic land, lights
sparkling on windows, an old-fashion-
ed lantern on the table where the green
grocerTs wife served the punch. She
saw the light catch on the folds of the
dancing girlTs white party dress, on the
silk ribbon that weaved through her
hair. She saw her mother at the sideline
with her sister, her nephew"all laugh-
ing and loving and amazed that their
changeling girl had such a handsome
young beau.

How he had loved her. His words were
as sweet as persimmons, his hands so
gentle around her she hadfelt precious,
like pearls. HeTd kissed like a young
boy, clumsy and wet and impassioned,
his hands trembling as he held her
against him and pulled at the waist of
her skirt. It wasnTt his words that had
won her, nor even his comeliness, but
that tremble. Oh, so earnestly he had
wanted and that want built desire in
her. HeTd married her with a moment,
with the thrust that had taken her
innocence, with the short weeks of
courting before he had drifted away.

What a gift he had given her"beauty.
The dancing girl sang nonny hey.







She woke tO a gray-sunwashed mor-

ning, sat up in the used bed that had
been her second purchase in her first
home, after the hand-finished crib.
MichaelTs picture on the dresser smiled
at the ceramic Madonna. She recalled
Suddenly as if it were again a day long
480 spent at the beach just the two of
them. SheTd held his plump hands and
pun in a circle knee-deep in the surf,
seen his sunny face bright with delight
and desire, the freedom to fly through
the salt-scented air. At four he had just
begun questioning the lack of a father,
the grandparents he knew through
Only mailed gifts.

She hoped that he loved her, this Vicki,
more than her fatherTs last name.

The ring was a lump in her pillow,
scarcely discernible as she ran her hand
Over the case.

With her teeth she tore at the stitches
and squeezed the scarf-wrapped bun-
dle out through the hole.

Cold diamonds, black onyx. Bitter-
sweet shame settled over her, and in a
Spirit of Self-mockery she forced the
ring onto her finger for the first and last
time. In the cold light of morning she
Was no longer so certain the diamonds
were real, but the ring was still pretty"

and costly. She suspected the cost to

her could be dear.

It Weighted her hand as she dressed for
Work, the blue polyester pants as old as
her job, the flowered shirt from the
tack of the five and dime. It caught her
©ye when she fluffed out her hair in
front of the mirror"rather than enhan-
cing her features it made her seem
homelier. Older, with a face that at best
Would be motherly and a figure to
beguile no eye.

The view through the kitchen window
oUsgested it was likely to rain, no
Clouds but a heavy sky, a summer wind
Whipped the leaves framed in the deep
August blue. She didnTt bother the toas-
ler, spread scuppernong jam on the
oTust ends of the loaf and took her food
into the living room, murmured grace

"_"" eS





SRE a
~ py iN ewe
-o

a
Se

ante a rt ¢ . n c la betyt Pages
wow at N00 ee atte wo tne: seen eee oe us SE EOTOE Ouan a ag nO - 1 . ses "







into 2 cjla . ¢

the iy Silence before she turned on

a ' Sat down into the familiar sag
1e sofa as sl meee, - .

sofa as she waited for spark

into life it to spark

The square of light j

: oquare of light in the center ex-
ag to static: she trie
"a Crash in the nj
the

d to remember
Susteren = had warned her
rap 2 oa a en again but all she
rea � the music that swirled

: gh her dream, the sound of her
Own happy song.

et te bread without tasting
ee xe started to don her smock
de abit before she de
It instead, ¢
Waiting car.

cided to fold
atry it under her arm to the

rhe mornin
when the
Was too

8 would hold heavier traffic
sun had gone higher,but 6:30
needa ig for me st of the tourists.
the ride
Pulling into the
she saw Larry tl

in with no trouble.
parking lot of the hotel.
Paused and Gace Fie, aii wauieege
her through ig = valf a doughnut at
mouthed ts _" fos a closed-
the rest. smue to indicate the fate of
oo in her usual place and
the tray a through the lobby, saw
~oy hy oai doughnuts that Larry
untouched tage areapaleens largely
sali sear clerk making wake up
eet a re as Kathleen walked
ica. o4 « lounge with its rows
tor, Se aac 'Vs. The night audi-
hurry to go ~ ivorced and seldom in a
heficre a beige after his shift, stood
hand, the bl ee a - Conee: in
Night apy, igs grimness of the
approach, oM4 oee ing as he saw her
catch - oe Kathleen. Did you
litrcet, aig 3 He she 0k his head
oLarryTs - : . apecting a response.
won five h 2 id this morning. He
ucks.

The }

lallway th.-

seemed ay that led to the game room
Ong. A mother and child walk-

ed towar
ards the beach - i
from the ¢ 1�,� beach at the end of it,

: Conomy r .
Kathlee y rooms, the ones

N usually cleaned.

The ,
. e door to houseke
Oni was ft

a eping opened.
alking to someone, someone

stepped out with a clipboard in hand to
go to her floor and the cart in the closet,
double-check her cleaning supplies.

It was Amanda (not Annie or Amy).
Yoni was speaking to the girl with an
edge not usually there, chiding her for
failing to restock her equipment the
previous afternoon.

The housekeeper cut off mid-word
when she saw Kathleen. oGo on,� she
said to the other and Amanda looked at
her. looked at Kathleen with an unin-
formed conspiratorial sympathy as if to
say, oIt won't be that bad.�

Yoni beckoned Kathleen in, closed the
door behind them, and they faced each
other over the closed box of cups, the
new cups, to be bagged for a new
batch of guests.

Yoni looked curiously vulnerable.
There was no doubt that she knew.

oKathleen?�

Kathleen held out the hand with ring.

Yoni sat heavily in her chair. oShit.
Kathleen, why did you do it? Why?"

Kathleen thought of telling the truth,
the wedding, her shame, but she real-
ized it wouldn't be all of the truth, for
that she didnTt know where to begin.
The ring was a weight on the house-
keeper now, an unintended result, and

Kathleen would add to that weight if
she tried, if she made a bid for sympa-
thy. Instead she stood silently by.

Yoni sighed. oMichael getting married.
What would Michael think of this?In
your vacuum bag,� she said suddenly.
She held out her hand for the ring.

oYou did not see it there on the floor.�

oTdonTt want you to get in trouble for me.�

There was a flash in Yoni's eyes, not
anger, although the housekeeper ball-
ed up her fist; something else, some-
thing more. oStupid woman. You want
me to fire you? I won't let you make me
do that. This is my wedding present to
you, for Michael. But I donTt want to
see you again. You go to the wedding
and stay.�

Yoni stood by her workers, her friends.

There would always be work for a
cleaning woman"even if Yoni gave
her no reference there was the nursing
home by the waterfront where she
could apply. More grueling labor, less
pay, but she would survive. She had

overcome shame once before.

She reached down to twist off the ring.
Tight, mercilessly tight, on her hand,
work-roughened, spotted with age.

it wouldnTt come off of her finger. It
seemed it had settled to stay. =!







Prize Fifth

Author Ashley Gruber
litle Margaret
Category Poetry

After it ainTt dark no more
And ITve made my way to

The big old building

Just me and the big quiet sky

And the bus driver
And a few other people who

Mind their own business...

Like the girls in the building.
I take out the garbage

and a girl walks by

And puts an apple core in

My trash can.

They all wear
Bags on their backs
And always look nice

But never stop going...

And they mind their own business.

Out the window I see

More of them walking fast...

The patterns of the

Children with bags move and move.
They look straight ahead but

I wonder what theyTre really seeing.

I see them wind around
The Arboretum fast, so fast...
And it all looks so funny...
These youngsters running
Around with backpacks

Looking straight ahead.

ITm cleaning up after
Them so my daughter can
Wander around a pretty

Garden with a backpack...

And mind her own business.





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"" a ere

Prize Finalist
PES ' Rod Hawkins
rue we alth Autho ; .
Time was 3 not vanity Title Of Arsenic And Old Memories
x is anity.

When I could remember Category Poetry
The Mystery in your eyes. ie wiki

: : ar hoe: This ring,
[ smelled the rain in your hair- in 5

when not properly filled,

is but the definition
Your plum lips

5 . of a hole...
Were taken in so readily Filed full
illec
{A harvest of Godflesh). Ce teaee 1emories.
of arsenic and old n
But now | must forget.
Arsenic

On your words
Henbane

yOur scent
Permeated.

Poisoned my thoughts.

I recollect a time
When | Willed e
My passion burned

as the sword of God
©ver your Eden of Heart.
That time js wan,
fading...

very second
ast an infinity

Hazing Over...
indiscernable.

seeping into this hard Earth
©n my tears of blood-

Fruitless

| have brought you
Full circle.
YOU see,

This js the end of the beginning,
the beginning of the end.

~A Golden ring)
Destined for no b
And no e

nd
Yet all are at the
S

�,�me junction.

eginning

You Came wit

h nothing,
And wil] lez

ive likewise.
Vanity is not

a treasure.
and treasure.

AE)







Illustrations by
Stanton Blakeslee

Prize Second
Author Jim Shamlin
Title A Cleaner Place
Category Prose

=
A

i

y back is not touching the

steel girder behind me, but I

can feel that itTs there. It is
pressing against an invisible skin that
covers me, a few inches over my coat. I
cast my stare into the tunnel, hoping to
catch the glare of headlights through
the thick mist of my own breath. There
is something else: a person standing
beside me, several feet away"beyond
the scope of my vision, but I smell a
distinctly human musk. I stand rigidly,
my feet at shoulder width, prepared to
resist the push.
I tighten the muscles in my legs when I
hear the stranger moving closer, keep-
ing them stiff when the shuffling stops.

leaner place

It is quiet for five heartbeats.

oYou got any change?� The voice is

hoarse, yet mezzo-soprano. I do not
know if it is a woman or a man.

[ tense the muscles around my eyes,
trying to stare deeper into the darkness.
My calves are beginning to ache. Three
more heartbeats pass before the stranger
moves away. When the sound grows
soft enough, I relax my legs. It is almost
inaudible when I turn around and haz-
ard a curious stare down the platform.
The stranger is no longer there.

[ stamp my feet. The chamber echoes
with a dull clatter and the scattered
shadows on the other side of the sta-
tion turn their heads in my direction. |
feel warmer and the stiffness in my legs
fades. It seems almost foolish, tap-
dancing in the underground, but I donTt
know of anything else to do. My





9S

it

neous agape acPe 4 a 2 . r
Pica t Aeraih - eS mn eS ETERS FI

ame _ > Mann EL ine ee ~ . - .

-- ~~ " me a Sek ee aT ea aera Fe ehinobinte Son hatetetaee =

Ove . P om
= o is buttoned to the neck. It is
2 O ) : ¢ ear ; 3 ¢ :
me, eg layer of insulation over my
oCKO, Shirt, and undershirt. Sti |
| a ershirt. Still Ee
the chill ee

ca in place when I feel
Pip sy = beneath my feet.
sek ES apa appears in the tun-
Sound com Pa ; niger larger. The
Mei es ne Xt. It begins soft and
crescend "" in the distance, then
every arid 9 a howl that smothers
st Cochin Ngai [ turn once more to
aici hae : 1e�,� stranger has gone"
body sa wanted to push some-
when the nae x the train would move
Oise was the loudest.

A aad
Witcher ve: = people. Through the

S that 1
no more inti;
the train be

ush past me, they seem
nate than statues. When
gins to slow, I see fragments

"H-«enw sre

of motion. It seems that the most min-
ute movements draw my attention: a
young man in the fifth car turns the page
of his newspaper, a middle-aged wo-
man in the sixth looks at her watch, an
old man in the seventh closes his eyes.

The tenth car stops in front of me.
There is nothing to see through its
windows, which strikes me as strange:
while the other compartments are as
full as usual, this one is practically va-
cant. When the door shifts open, the
reason confronts me"a powerful
stench, so pungent and sour that it has
an almost physical presence, envelopes
me when I step into the car. It seeps
from the vagrant who is sprawled, face-
down, across my usual seat. Disgust
pulls at the corners of my mouth as |
step across the car and take a place on
the opposite bench.

Se ee

MR LR oR A ALBEE I aaa aed '

The doors close and the train begins to
roll. | watch through the window as the
columns pass, slowly at first, then fas-
ter, until they rush by in a blur, and
then the glass goes black. My eyes drift
from the window to the advertisements
posted above it: a recruiting poster for
the police, something about STDs
written in Spanish, and a 970-prefix
dating hotline. The smell seems less
powerful now. My eyes begin to drift,
falling toward the person who sleeps
across from me.

I get only a glimpse of ragged blue
cloth before I turn away, casting my
stare at the far end of the compartment.
There are three people there, position-
ed in an almost perfect triangle. Closest
to me is a woman my own age, perhaps
a few years younger. I can only see the
profile of her nose and lips through the
veil of dark hair that falls across her
cheek. Her head is tilted downward,
unseen eyes focused on the magazine
that rests on her skirt.

Across from her, leaning against the
doors, is a young man dressed in black
leather. A crown of thorns is tattooed
on his naked scalp. The harsh light
gives his pallid skin a greenish hue that
makes his cheeks seem hollow. His
eyes seem to be locked on the maga-
zine in the lap of the woman across
from him. I stare at him for several
seconds, counting the links in the chain
that runs from his earring to the corner
of his mouth, before I realize that his
gaze is resting somewhere else"in the
direction of the magazine, but several
inches higher.

The third person in the group is an
elderly woman, who sits diagonally in
her seat, placing her back against two
walls. Her eyes flit between the young
punk and the woman, and then she
notices my stare. Her eyes stare back at
me from the shadows of their sockets
and a skeletal hand clutches the air
before her. She is beckoning me to her
end of the compartment. I donTt move.

| face forward again and turn my eyes
to the figure I've been avoiding"the

PAGE

a







eee

PRI

vagrant. His body is a pile of dirty cloth.
From where I sit, I can see at least three
shirts, possibly a fourth underneath.
and two jackets. His trousers are torn
along the inseam. revealing the yellow-
ed leg of a pair of sweat pants. The
cuffs of long flannel breeches peek out
at his ankles. Only his feet are bare.
though blackened with soot. I cannot"
[ will not"look at his face.

[ can feel the train slowing, inertia pull-
ing me forward, and I notice that the
tunnel outside the window is growing
lighter. Soon, the window is filled with
light and the images of columns rush-
ing by, quickly at first, then slower. un-
til they are no longer passing at all. The
doors shift open, and a man steps into
the car. HeTs wearing the same overcoat
as he wore yesterday. It isnTt quite black,
but a dark shade of gray. He pauses for
a moment to look at the vagrant, then
sits on the bench beside me. The train
begins to roll before he speaks.

oMorning, Phil.�

oMorning, Chris.�

Often, this is all we say to one another,
but today, he leaves his newspaper fol-
ded in his lap. He is staring at the bench
across from us, his nose wrinkled with
disgust. oCan you smell that.� he says.
I's more a statement than a question.

| turn to face him, but he doesnTt meet
my eyes. At the other end of the car.
the young punk reveals a row of per-
fect teeth.

oThey should put them off the train,� he

Says, a bit more loudly. oThey should
put them out of the city.�

oNo,� I say softly. oThey should get rid

of them altogether.�

oYou know, there was this plan in Octo-

ber to give them all a free ticket to
Florida for the winter. The idea even
pleased the bleeding hearts. Trouble is,
the Floridians heard about it. They
didnTt like it much. They'll take in all
the scum from the Cuban jails, but they
donTt want the American variety.�







ee :
think it Was for the best.�

I le | S >)
OO r . 4 "9 ~
fac oee ks at nee for the first time, his

Do yv
yOu want t
Be ? O see them whe fe ar
a > '
retired, tog?� ee

oYou g
Ot ;
hea gota Pom there.� He shakes his
ad. oCat food.�

I do % ne :
Nt ask him to elaborate.

He opens
a _ et Teport, and begins to
imns. |
Watch his face as he
" the Paper. His
a are steady,
otS mouth twitches
Bis ically "some-
na assumes a smile,
is oe Often, it forms
pee C urse. He maybe
" ng silently. If he
= =: : wouldn't know.
, Ice Would be
smothered by the ste:

7 3 ady
rumble of the train

Whe
en W 1, © :
�,� stop in the nextstation, the

Ment. auth | nee leaves our compart-
at the place en punkthrows himself
4pparently o| egy she was sitting,
enters the co dtivious to thefact that she
Own. He SO aigenriae in front of our
at the old i splayed, and glowers
nervously. eve - who watcheshim
tight arm oF ashy ti his stare, her
shopping bag. ig eedarecsd

busine

Anc the

rf Man steps j
ment steps into our compart-

it oo with hair so blonde
punk. then =a " me He looks at the
Of iecas ah ~nn vagrant. He steps out
" - 4Ne train is still for a long time.
*hris es
Der. oe the top of his newspa-
and goes oe The punk rises
Pie Ges a: 45 door. He leans out to
back inside ; Aemanis then ducks
for an Ta car. His eyes meet mine
between th . Derore he opens the door
�,� compartments and steps

Onto .
the small ledge outside.

S a
©conds later

a polic > officer p: '
ee e officer passe:
~Ur Window. passes by

He stops to scan our com-

oHis eyes are
open, looking
at me, staring
through me,
and his mouth
is agape.

partment with his eyes, then doubles
back toward the door. He is a lean man
with dark skin and a closely shaven
head. Once he is inside our car, his
hand drifts to his belt, fingers brushing
over the butt of his pistol to remove the
small handset. He holds it close to his
mouth when he speaks. oITve got him.
Third car from the end.�

I look at the window at the end of our
car. The punk is pressing himself against
the railing between the cars, but I can
still see the profile of his
mouth, the chain that
parts his lips shimmers
in the fluorescent light. |
want to ask the officer
what is happening, but |
know it is best to remain
silent.

Shortly, another officer
enters the car"a short.
fat man with thick black
sideburns. They stand
directly in front of me as they speak.

oYou get the head,� the tall one says.

oI ainTt touching his head. You get his

head.�

oYou want to touch his feet?�

oNo, I donTt want to touch his feet, but I

donTt want to touch his head, either.�

oHow about we both get an arm?�

He pauses for a moment and runs his
fingers through his sideburns. oI hate
this damned job.�

The tall officer bends over and takes
the vagrantTs arm, pulls until the va-
grant falls to the floor. The other officer
steps over the vagrant, whispering a
curse. and takes the other arm. Toge-
ther, they drag him across the linoleum
and through the door. I cannot avoid
seeing the vagrant's face. His eyes are
open, looking at me, staringthrough
me. andhis mouth is agape.

Seconds later, they are gone. The doors
shift closed and the train begins to
move. I feel cold again, terribly cold,
but sit still, unable to move. When I lift

oHe had a gun

my head at last, my eyes fall upon a
long, dark stain on the bench across
from me.

oHe was dead,� I say softly.
o No wonder he stunk so bad.�

oHe was dead,� I repeat.

1 can hear Chris folding his paper; I can
almost feel his eyes upon me. He says
nothing for what seems like a long time
while I sit still, without speaking, with-
out thinking. I feel colder now. My
hands are starting to shake and I can
feel my body tremble.

Chris speaks. His voice 1s s¢ ft and even,
though still twisted in the urban way.

oSometimes I look at you and see the

same guy | saw"what was it"five
years ago? The guy who asked me how
to get to Sixth from the Avenue of the
Americas. Know what I mean?�

It is silent for a time. When I speak, the
voice I hear comes from somewhere
outside me. I can feel my mouth move,
the warm, damp breath flowing over
my tongue, but itTs as if ITm not making
any noise, only mouthing someone
elseTs words in perfect synchronicity.
The voice I hear is deeper and hoarser
than my own. oWhen I was younget,
we used to play in the fields beyond
the wood. There were so many fields
there, full of thick grass.�

oMaybe itTs because you come from a

cleaner place,� Chris says. oYou come
from a place so clean that the dirt can
only get down to a certain point.�

oIt wasnTt grass, though,� I say, as if

Chris had never spoken at all. oIt was
rye, or perhaps corn"some kind of
crop. The farmer would walk out from
this small house. We could barely see it

in the distance.�

oLook, things are different here. Your

nearest neighbor is through the wall. If
he breaks wind, you know what he ate.
ItTs just"�

a long shotgun. It was

old and worn. There were places on
the barrel where the naked metal show-







ed through. It would catch the light as
he walked. It seemed to sparkle. I canTt
remember what the farmer looked like,
but I can remember his gun.�

oPeople who've have robbed say the
same thing,� Chris says. oI canTt remem-
ber what he looked like, Officer, but he
was Carrying a .22 that had a scratch on
one side.T ItTs strange.�

oHe would carry that gun with him
when he came to tell us to get out of
his fields. An hour later, heTd be back.
It was like that every spring. He didnTt
bother us in the winter. He never
bothered us in winter.�

oI guess things were different in winter.
Here, it always the same. The only
way you tell the difference is itTs either
too damned hot or too damned cold.
For three days a year, maybe four, it
feels good.�

o| stare at the
floor before
me, trying to
find shapes
inthe grime.�

oHe didnTt come after us
One spring. His fields were
a mess. The grass was
sparse, with clumps of soil
and furrows where he had
driven the tractor during
the last harvest. The field
was peppered with strands
of long, dead grass and brambles. We
stopped playing there when Jerry bark-
ed his arm, stripped the skin from the
wrist to elbow against something. I
donTt know what.�

oPhil?�

oWe played in the woods, on the edge
of the field. All the winter, shouting
among the trees. Building forts out of
deadfall, chasing rabbits and,"�

oIs this going anywhere? You keep bar-
king and barking about this place ITve
never seen like itTs"�

I turned to face Chris. His eyes meet
mine, but I could not feel them there.
oWe didnTt know anything until April.
That's when the smell reached the
woods.�

Chris is silent. His features seem frozen
his mouth forming a perfectly straight

>

S

line, his eyes staring somewhere be-
hind my own. He turns away and looks
over his shoulder to find that we are
alone in the compartment. Neither of
us, it seems, saw the old woman leave.

oThat's a pretty bad memory,� Chris
says. oThat smell must have"�

oThat's not the point,� I say. oHe lived
alone, Chris. Nobody knew he was
dead until he started to smell.�

oThat kind of thing happens in the city,
too. All the time. There was this old
lady in the attic of my sisterTs building,
a mean old hag who was so tight she
never ran the heat in the winter. Nobody
knew about her for months. So what?�

oSo how are we any different from them?
oWhy do we have to be?�

The compartment leans
forward, an indication that
the train is approaching
the long stretch of track
that runs beneath the rive.
The lights flicker twice,
then fade until the com-
partment is almost dark. |
realize that we are alone,
Chris and I, riding in the
darkened compartment,
travelling beneath the river. It is only
he and I, and the shadow of that smellT

oWhat's the difference between him and
us, Chris? Really.�

oPhil. Look at me, guy.�

[ look at him. His forehead is smooth,
his jaw set, but there is something un-
certain in his eyes.

oChange the subject or shut up,� he Says.
oGet me?�

oGot you.�

oThereTs some things in this world [T'd
just rather not think about,� he says.
His voice is softer now.

The train rolls silently through the dark-
ness. It slopes upward and the lights
glow brighter again. I stare at the floor
before me, trying to find shapesn the

grime. Today, I see only faces. Their
eyes are cleaner places in the filth, and
those cleaner places stare back at me. I
can almost feel their anger.

oI donTt know why youTre upset,� Chris
Says at last. oPeople die all the time. I
got this brother-in-law who's a cop.
He's a rookie, just joined last spring.
His partnerTs this old guy. I never met
him, but Greg tells me about him. ThatTs
my brother-in-lawTs name"Greg. Nice
name, right?�

I say nothing.

oSO anyways, his partner's this crusty old
fart whoTs been walking the same beat
downtown for twenty years or some-
thing. GregTs first day on the job, the
guyTs walking along pointing to the
squares of pavement on the sidewalk.
Now get this: for every square, the guy
tells Greg about a person who died.
right on that spot.� He laughs. oCould
you imagine that, just walking along
and some guy talking to you, saying,
~well, thatTs where some suit landed on
Black Friday, and the one beside it, an
old lady had a heart attack,T like itTs
some kind of sight-seeing tour. Some
tour, hey?�

oI thought you wanted to change the
subject.�

oIl am changing the subject.�
oYou're talking about death.�

oIts a story, Phil, just a story. He was
probably making it up anyway.�

I shake my head. oIt could be true, all
of it.�

oImpossible! ThereTs no way that
somebody could kick on every last"�

oThere are ten million people in this
city,� I say. My voice is smooth and
calm. oThousands of them die every
day, thousands more are born to re-
place them, only to die later. ItTs quite
possible that someoneTs last blood has
fallen on any given stone in this city.�

That reminds me of this playground I
pass every day when ITm on my way to





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Prize Second In Ceramics
Artist Jamie Kirkpatrick
litle Ash Starburst
Category Ceramics

Prize First In Printmaking
Artist Amanda Taylor Durant
litle Interior With Bottles
Category Printmaking





tapas LPRSALE TAL SEUSS tae

Prize Second In Textiles
Artist Laura Sharar

litle Under The Sea
Category Textiles







the

Station. Y
. O : sons 3 .
ii u should see it some

e ) : F ?
» Phil. YouTd laugh.�
Every place

you step. vouTre nassi
through es P, you re passing

eae Outline of a corpse, a huge
c ( ) CC Irpses | a s
. Sf5s LYING
Corpses.� ying on top of
oTh; . - e :

US just what Pon talked

says, 1g about,� he

oThey P

Y got this area of

i o yf th > AT.
boards. (

What the

) hopscotch
10d only knows
Y use it for"

Paveme

nt is brown, reddi
t KX n > :
brown , reddish

i | always wondered
tis " it that color. ItTs
y ? . .
d. ItTs so much blood.�

oThey °
LOT it Paint > .

Cc 4 J
outlines d with the

S of bodies. Little

guess the kidsT bodies. I

ie

a. ids lay in the outlines. It

teach; Part of some game they're
¢ lng them. Sc yme same ie )

ItTs the City, Phil.�

oIt looks 1;
Oks = . .
Scene ag some kind of murder
T | Le . > " -
and Sea = crackpot finally broke
ry: "ei deo 1e sc Ar ra
chine gun,� hool yard with a ma-

ItTs tainted s¢ mehow
©verywhere. 1
YOu touch. It
and ge

ThereTs filth

» thick. ItTs on everything

: " through your skin
you.

oItTs a ¢

you.�

. T
10d damned ric t, Phil

ITm telling

[ look at him.
Ners of his eve
He ¢

Chere is water in the cor-
S and his face is flushed.

atches
© My stare : i
{Urn to face th e, then turns away. I

Che Stain or

h the hen-h i.
now. 1e bench is only a smear

In nN
) =
4Nymore muaDS, itwon't be noticeable
TI Just another part of the grime.
�,� train slows

and Chris rises. oITll see
YOu tom, row. } a fieps. oFE see

Ih j ry 9
i hil, maybe Wednesday.
laybe.� :
Wh
CN we « ;
through i Stop moving, he steps briskly
Movin the doors, | watch his back
3 aWay fr om
Steps Sat ay from me until a woman
doorway Way. She pauses in the
the settle ul IS swept into the car by
Ple behind her. She takes the

oWithout
4... thinking,
| turn to
face the
voice.�

the 4 : ~
he Opposite side of the car.

bench across from me and looks at her-
self ina mirror she takes from her purse.
People brush by in shades of khaki and
gray, slowly filling the compartment.
When the bell rings, a hand clasps the

side of the door, holding it open as one

more person enters the car. I rise and
cross the compartment to stand by the
door. I look over the woman's
shoulder, watching her reflec-
tion in the mirror. In time, she
sees the reflection of my eyes.
She turns to face me and she
smiles.

The smile does not last long.
Her eyes stray away from mine,
then back. oDid somebody die

in here or what?�

Someone laughs.

oYes,� I say. oRight where you're sitting.

oWhat a coincidence,� she says, then

returns to her mirror.

I brace myself against the post when
the next station enters my window.
The train slows, the doors open, and I
step out of the car. The tide of people
bears me down the platform and
around the corner, where it deposits
me in a small alcove. I wait silently,
looking at the pale sunlight that drifts
down the stairway.

oExcuse me, sir, but do you have any

change?�

Without thinking, I turn to face the
voice. I find myself looking into the
blue eyes of an old man. His face is
covered with matted white hair that
hides his lips and his forehead. Only
the tops of his cheeks are visible, and
they are crimson. While I'm reaching
into my coat, I notice that he doesnTt
have the smell that the other beggars do.

I offer him the fistful of change | find in
my pocket, glancing ruefully at the two
subway tokens that fall into his cup

along with the coins.

oHey, thanks, buddy.�

~Wait. ThereTs more.� I reach beneath

my coat to the px xcket of my trousers,
where I find another handful of chang,
somewhat smaller than the first. I drop
it into his cup and he smiles at me.

The traffic is growing thinner on its
way to the exit. I take a step forward,
but I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is
the old man again. oAre you a bachelor.
he asks.

{| look at him for a moment, my face set
~na stare that tells him itTs none of his
business. He keeps looking at me, the
same wan smile displacing his beard,
until my features soften. oYes, I am.�

oTake these,� he says. I raise my hand to

recieve the two coins he offers me.

oThereTs a fountain in front of the Ran-

dolph Building, a block west of the

station.�

[ look at the pennies in my hand. They
are old and brown, not shiny and new
as wish-coins should be. I lift my head
to look at the old man again. He gives
me a smile that I cannot return.

oIn my case,� he says, oyou might need

them s« neay. =







Prize Finalist

Author Latonya L. Hargrove
litle The Black Woman
Category Poetry

Even through the countless times the earth performs its ritual around the sun:
situations change and are yet unchanging.

Quite often it is said that she has progressed considerably, but what good is

this if she is still so far behind?

Forced to run a race in which her competitors repeatedly place her over again
at the start.

So beautiful is she from head to toe, she is hunted for her skin, but is no mink.
So strongly domineering is she that when actually placed side-by-side with
others her great shadow is cast over them and instills fear deep into their

souls; but is no grizzly.

SO rejected and prejudiced is she. even by her own, she must adapt to the
battered life of an outcast; but is no criminal.

sensitive yet unbreakable, Aggressive yet passive.

Vast as the set of fractionals that bridge zero and one. with each approaching
step, she finds an infinite more to be taken for it.

It may seem unlikely for one to possess all this in entirety, but she is complete,
she is a woman.

She is a Black Woman.





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Prize Second In Metals
Arist Jennifer Green
litle Circle Pins
Category Metals

Prize Finalist

Artist W. Keith Hobgood
litle Waffle House
Category Mlustration











= a ~ =e ad T4E5 =e .
- ; ooo . oom Lowney DAEs ms ie

The ~e10r a . .
Gears of time are Grinding to a halt Prize Finalist

tonig >
1 pnt. Author Rod Hawkins
1ere is a oJ :
~ ~© an ominous presence abiding in the thunderstorm litle Click
Outside li
¥ Category Poetry
[ can feel it.
lt won't be denied.
Somethi
mething must change drastically
tonight. j
We will have
one such
Since

my Dream

a meteor shower tonight,

as has not been seen by my eyes

( Yy > ,
# the bookTs Opening.
I feel the

I feel tI
1e Onset of neo- bei
Ee nset of ne gated motion in the universal axis of being.
ee

coming of stoppage.

| . . , . .

: Quietus beginning.
»Preading like
Ove

a wave of heat
et the blind planet.
I feel the

3 beginninninninninn"
No.

It is listen; '
listening for me.

o ~es ! .
I can't hear it.T
Cr T=" T
3 Ceping like a Stalking cat
CanT ar = di
a t hear the last fading oclick�
) > IA en % :
\ = Sars of our existence
/ nc th R o. a : é
bch e first great Rumble of my Reversal.
oay | marvel - :
a4tvel at our rav antasies
ot ea hhy raving fantasies,
»�,�ers, and prophetic drivel?

Your w
hea
vords spill Slowly from your lips...

And the stor
le storm begins.

Rush rhythm Prize Finalist
of the river Author Ronald Jason Osborne
litle Rapids

as it pounds ring wir
on rocks
(first drums)
peeling over
granite under
skin so supple
and the bubbles
marking motion
gather, froth, and pop

in dizzy, swirling pools.

UlEW)







MWe LPTSELS TS at

Prize Third

Author J.E. Boyette
litle Rain

Category Prose

Illustrations by
Lee Misenheimer

4)

~
pad
oF
faa]

0)

arah leans against the white

column under the grey stone ar-

ches at the top of the sanctuary
stairs. She wears her birthday jeans and
a daisy patterned shirt.

Tom, the local bum, climbs up four of
the twenty steps and stops.

oHi Tom.� Sarah says.

He glances toward her, his eyes catch-
ing hers for an eighth of a second.

oSarah. Fourteen. Sarah.� he says.

oThatTs right Tom. Fourteen today. How

did you know?�

Tom looks toward the sky. ItTs dutch
boy blue like the sky in the crucifixion
stained glass window. oGoing to rain,�
he says.

oWhen is your birthday, Tom?�

Tom licks his finger and holds it in the
air. Testing the wind. It seems to get
stuck there like a giant mother who has
reached down to take hold. Sarah won-

ders if it hurts him to hold it up so long,

like it hurts her when she tries to roll
her long hair.

She shifts her small frame. oPut your
arm down Tom,� she says.

He does, and unbuttons his outer over-

coat. When he takes it off. the dust
swirls around the hemline and Sarah

smiles thinking of oPig Pen� in the
cartoons. Tom lovingly stretches the
coat along the brass rail. He loops the
sleeves under and over the bar and ties
them securely. He pats the coat on the
shoulder.

Sarah looks at her watch. Its new.
Mickey Mouse. She likes it, she had
written her favorite and richest aunt a
letter of request for it, but she knows
Daniel will tease her about it. oI donTt
care,� she proclaims to the wind.

She looks at her golden watch now.
Daniel is late. He is always late, she
knows he canTt be anything but late.
but it makes her mad anyway. She
pulls her blonde ponytail across her
shoulder and twists it around and
around her finger. The twist stays, in a
ringlet, like Pollyanna. She wants it
there. Daniel will know she is mad
when he sees it.

Tom takes off his second overcoat and
ties its sleeves to the hemline of the first
coat lying prone across the rail. oYou
two stick together now,� he says. oItTs

going to rain.�

Daniel yanks the red Volkswagen bug
to the curb. The right front tire boun-
ces on the sidewalk. Tom screams.
throws his arms around his coats and
buries his face in their flaps.

Sarah stands straight and brushes the
grit off the seat of her pants. She adjusts
the shoulders of her blouse and sucks
her stomach in tight.

Daniel runs up the steps skipping two
then three, two then three. He grabs
Sarah by the shoulders and lifts her off
the ground. oITm on time, on time Sarah
can you believe it?� He jerks his hands
away and she lands hard on the walk-
way. oGod, look at your hair. ItTs twis-
ted. What's the matter, what have I
done, was it a cardinal sin?�

I got a new watch Danny boy.
You're late.�







oHi Tx m,� D

Is your mo

Nc ), SheT

oOh.�

Tom et-
may stands, looks at Daniel and
T -oaMS, oRajni� : ,

» Rain!� He drops his voice to a
ert and says, oRain, Daniel 16,
ocember 12, rain,�

Whisper

aniel says. oNo rain today.�

Mm coming to help us when

She ia "
8ets off work?� Sarah asks.

S beat. I told her we could do itT

gf *

o

ay
o
a
a
4
}
|

at

*.

adi

oWe, did you say we? You will direct

and I will clean, there will be no we.�
Daniel reaches up and gives Sarah's
ponytail another twirl.

oDid you pick up the stuff yet?�

oNo, I was waiting for you.�

Daniel turns toward the cherry wood
doors of the Sunday school section.

oCome on Minnie,� he says. oM-I-C-K-E-Y

TUAVI> exerK 4s wo sed a ee a "_

oDonTt beat me, donTt beat me,� Daniel

PIE he oe

M-O-U-S-E,� he sings and he runs
across the walkway.

Sarah runs after him. She catches up at
the doors and pounds him on the arm.

says and _ he falls down on the stone
and curls around her feet. oNice jeans,�
he says, oare they new?�

In his office, Reverend James pulls
white tissue paper around a small
Bible. It is cream-colored and her name,
Sarah Johnston, is engraved in gold let-
ters on the bottom. He runs his fingers
over the name. It feels raised and he is
sure he could read it even without
knowing what it says. He likes that. He
tapes the ends of the paper together

and cuts a piece of purple ribbon to go
on top.

He holds the ribbon between his fin-
gers, rubbing the slickness, thinking of
the feel of Sarah when she was born.
He had been there, with her mother
and Sarah, in the bedroom of their
home. He had taken her from the doc-
tor, her littke body still bloody, her first
screams loud and low-pitched and
wrapped her in the towels he had
warmed in the dryer. They were be-
side the sink in the bathroom, clean
and ready to protect. She had looked
hard at him then, straight into his eyes,
hers blue like a storm, his brown. She

stopped crying as if she knew he had
something important to tell her.

He knew already that her Dad was
dead. The policeman, knowing the
family, had called him first after the
accident. SarahTs Mom had called her
Dad at work, told him it was time for
the baby to come and refused to leave
the house until he got there. She was
still waiting all twisted up with pain,
when Reverend James and the doctor
knocked on the door less than fifteen
minutes before God had given Sarah
safe passage into the world.

PAGE







Reverend James said the words to
Sarah first, in the safety of the bathroom,
in the safety of tiny ears that couldn't
understand, oYour Daddy is dead.�
They didnTt ring true, didnTt say what
he felt. He tried again, oYour Daddy
can't come home,� and he watched
himself say the words in the bathroom
mirror. They werenTt enough. He need-
ed the words to be more, different
words to use only at times like these
and at times when you heard God call
your name.

oHelp me,� James said to the sky, to

God, to the being who was going to
force him into telling SarahTs Mom.
telling her how. He couldnTt find the
words. They were lost in the smell of
Old Spice in the bathroom, lost in the
pocket of SarahTs DadTs pajama bottoms
hanging over the shower bar.

oReverend James, let me see her please�

SarahTs mother had called from the
bedroom. He had walked to her, Sarah
in his arms and placed her carefully
beside her Mom.

Later that night, when his wife was
saying grace, he opened his eyes and
saw a pink tinge of blood under the
hair at his wrist. oI washed my hands,�
he said aloud.

oIt's all going to work out dear.� his

wife said.

sarah and Daniel knock on the door at
the same time. oAnybody home?� Sarah
says through the door.

oOr awake?� Daniel adds.

Reverend James jerks straight up in his
chair and drops the purple ribbon to
the floor. oCome in you two,� he Says.

Sarah pushes the heavy oak door open

with two hands and walks inside.
Daniel follows.

oHi,� Sarah says. She walks around

Reverend JamesT desk, sits on his lap
and hugs him tight around the neck.







Se
kisses his cheek, stands up and
~ O stand beside Daniel.
Hi yourself.T

oy Reverend James says,

fo idy to clean? Daniel, thanks
~com;
©oming to help out.
Sure.�
: on o > ¢ nn COEF
i Daniel Says. oYou know Reverend
J*¢ 1es \, > ya" . . »
fii l've been coming to help out for
Cf tw vers ; ~
(WO years now, every Sunday.
oYes ). :
time Daniel, | know, but this is the first
�,� your }
es thn Mother hasnTt come. So I
ee ir .
i : may be the first time you will
lard �,�nough to be much help.

Btn see says, but he smiles and

One sir et is the Reverend. oGood
» Ne says.

ace Reverend James and

Make bi c nows he teased Daniel to

know that " _" erestayia =

acsieas a it w as a joke. It is important
lat they like each other.

~ie.
a i
: WTs the birthday girl?� Reverend
JaMes says

oGood � ¢

gx...

1 » Sarah answers, oDid you tell
Om tha ;

Cit was my birthday?�
oNo
» &
mem tling, he knows all the church
~MDerTs hj
you cTS birthdays although I think
'S was .
ene Was the first he learned. He helps
© keep up.�
oTha Ss Wy} :
CS Wierd, isnTt it?� Sarah says.
oDa :
MN sure is,� Daniel says.
* Here ;
ws S x . . : F m
dea =e little something for you my
c: Warns: ¢ ; .
Reverend James says to Sarah.

Pe Paper rattles when she takes
© present.

Sar;
es ah WwW: ee ses
lean valks back around the desk and
o0S against T-
~Sainst James as she opens the

Bible ¢
e, pra
She smiles, holds it close to her

he tissue

Chest onr :

Nam - hank you,� she says. oIt has my

Rey - She bends down, and kisses
frend JamesT huge hand.

~Cx dd :
>SO much mush,� Daniel says.
oYou
| c rE c=) > . on
a ~Te welcome Sarah,� James says.
N donTt forget to read it.�
Sar;
arah cial ;
clean; ind Daniel pick up the yellow
al .e 4
ung buckets. One has two

SPOngec
Ses, both gray with the use in it,

the other has three bottles of wood
soap and a drying cloth.

oGood luck, that balcony gets dustier

every week, with plaster flaking the
way it does.�

oThanks,� they both say and they leave

the office, letting the heavy door slam
shut behind them.

Tom has taken off two of his shirts and
tied them to the hemline of his second
coat. oHold on boys, hold on boys,
hold on boys,� he is saying to them.
When he sees Daniel he runs up the
stairs, and face to face blocks DanielTs
path. Tom sniffs Daniel's shoulder, and
leaning closer, his nose actually touch-
ing DanielTs T-shirt, sniffs his chest.

oWhat the hell?� Daniel says and he

pushes Tom away, grabs Sarah by the
hand and walks towards the leaded
glass doors of the sanctuary.

Sarah drops her Bible into the cleaning
bucket. oHeTs harmless,� she says.

oThe hell he is,� Daniel says and he
charges up the balcony steps skipping

Sarah follows Daniel up the narrow
balcony stairs. It's dark and the carpet
is worn in the center so that footsteps
are disguised as creaks or wood settling
sounds. Daniel has hidden behind the
third pew. Sarah can see him in the
reflection of the oLet the little children
come unto me� window, but she pre-
tends to look for him. When she walks
past the fourth pew he jumps out and
grabs her around the waist.

She spins away from him. oLetTs get
started,� she says.

oRemember when we stared at Mrs.

Fenell so hard this morning. She kept
rubbing the back of her head like a
spider was in her hat or something. Its
our power eyes,� Daniel says and he
opens his eyes wide and stares at Sarah.

oITm glad no one else likes to sit up here,

Sarah says. I like the dust too. It makes
great patterns inthe light. Jesus must
watch the patterns too. Sometimes |
think I see his eyes move, especially in
that window.� She points to the scene
of Jesus taking bread from a basket and
all the little children in many colored-

two then three, two then three.

Outside, Tom takes a gray Ked off his
right foot and a tan cowboy boot with a
silver toe off his left foot. He places
them in the worn dips in the stone
steps. oTime for a swim, boys,� he says.
He stops, turns towards the balcony
and sniffs the air. He growls, a low dog
throat noise. A dangerous sound.

coats gathered around him. oHis eyes
make me want to touch him, if I could
walk across this air I would.�

oYou've got nice eyes too, Sarah,�

Daniel says.

Sarah pulls a sponge from the bucket
and pours a round circle of wood soap
in the middle. oLetTs put a lot on the
back pew, we can slide across it to
polish it.�

t)

ie ~
te
(on)
lal

O







oOkay,� Daniel says and he grabs a bot-
tle of soap and pours a thin line down
the middle of the pew. Sarah rubs it in.

oMe first,� she claims. She gets a running
start, sits and slides to the far end of the
pew. At the end she bangs her hip on
the hand rest. oThat hurt, but it was
fun,� she said. oYou try.�

Daniel slides so hard, when he hits the
end, the hand rest cracks. oShit,� he
says, othis was your idea.�

oIt doesnTt matter, we can fix it,� Sarah
says.

oNow whoTs using we?� Daniel says.
They clean the mix-matched pews of
pine, oak and cherry and meet toge-
ther at the windowsill.

oI bought you something for your birth-
day,� Daniel says. He sits on the edge
of the windowsill, motions for Sarah to
sit beside him.

oI didnTt know you knew it was my
birthday,� Sarah says.

oWith all the hints dropped?�

oOkay, so what did you get me?�

Daniel pulls a necklace from his jeans
pocket. It is silver and there is a tur-
quoise stone in the center. He holds it
by both ends, walks behind her and
hooks the clasp together.

Sarah turns, oIts beautiful.�
Daniel takes her hand and kisses it.

oSuch mush,� she says.

PAGE

O

oCome here,� Daniel says and he guides

her to the second pew. oI want to show
you something. I learned it in karate
class.�

oWhat?�

oJust come.�

Sarah walks with him. sits down. oDoes
it hurt?� she asks.

oOnly a little. Lay down.�
oNo way.�

oOkay, chicken shit,� Daniel says and he

stands up.

oWait, wait, okay, okay, but if it hurts I'll

never speak to you again ever.�

Sarah lays down on the pew. Daniel
kneels beside her. He moves quickly,
yanks up her shirt and blows air to her
stomach. The sound echoes in the
empty room. Sarah screams, brings her
knees up to her chest and bumps
DanielTs head hard. He falls backwards,
her shirt still in his hands.

Sarah sits up, pulls her shirt down,

f Ee passat
LO * "
yee pee

Shine tilde allan.

looks at Daniel. He kneels, walks on
his knees two steps to her, opens her
legs and pulls her by the thighs toward
him. He lifts her shirt, pushing his fin-
gers under her bra and pulls it up and
over her breasts. They are round, small,
white next to the bathing suit tan line.
He leans forward, kisses her nipples
softly, carefully. She sits still, feeling the
blood travel in waves through her
body, not wanting tolose the sensation.

oSee what you do to me,� he says, and

he pushes her hand under the waist
band of his LeviTs. Sarah doesnTt resist.
She leaves her hand where he places it.
She feels warmth, then wetness.

Daniel lifts her hand, stands. oI guess we
should be ashamed of ourselves,� he
says, as he walks slowly down the stairs,
his footprints hanging on every step.

Sarah lays down on the pew. She pulls
her shirt over her head, unclasps her
bra, drops it on the wooden floor. She
waits. Her nipples harden in the cool
air. She brings her fingers to her nose,
smells the wetness, tastes it, touches
her nipples with it.

She hears the creak of the steps, knows
from the sound that it is Reverend James
and still she waits. He reaches the top
of the stairs.She sees him in a reflection
in MaryTs robe. He sees her and stops,
silent, to watch.

Five minutes pass, ten maybe. She sits,
picks up her Bible and closes her fin-

gers inside hoping to save what might
be left of the new smell, and she turns
towards Reverend James.

He walks to her. When he wraps his
arms around her she feels his hardness.
It occurs to her that she had never felt if
there before. oWhat happened Sarah?�
he asks. The hardness dissolves.

oNothing, I donTt think.�

oLetTs put your shirt back on, itTs cold up

here.� He walks with her to the pew,
helps her put her shirt on, picks up her
bra and hands it to her. oThanks,� she
says and stuffs it into her pocket.

oDid he rape you?�
oNo.�

oAre you Okay?�
oYes.�

oGood.�

Reverend James wraps his arm around
Sarah and they sit together, her head
against his shoulder, her Bible in her
hand. It begins to rain and the drops







roll down the face of Jesus like tears.
For the first time, Sarah is afraid to look
into his eyes.

We better get you home,� Reverend
James says after a while. oYou sure you
are okay?�

o Yes.

They stand and walk down the stairs
hand in hand.

oWe'll talk tomorrow. okay?� Reverend
James Says and he kisses her on the top
Of her head.

On the Stairs, Tom is dancing in the

rain. He js wearing his red swimming
trunks as he always does when he is
bathing and all his other belongings are
scattered around in specific spots
taking their baths.

Reverend
Sarah is y
from the

James and Sarah walk past.
sing her Bible to shield her
rain. Tom stops and sniffs the
air. He turns in a circle, oReverend
James, January 12, rain,� he says and he
StOwls low and mean until he sees the
oar pull out of the parking lot. He takes
Off his Swimming trunks, walks tothe
Walkway under the stone arches and
hunches the column where Sarah had
Stood. His wetness is sheltered from
the rain and does not wash away "_













Prize Finalist
Author J. E. Boyette
litle Autumn Aging
Category Poetry

Driving my fatherTs 59 Chevy
down a color-quilted street

toward home

I watch
the cadillac ahead
choreograph

the leaves

They spin

into pirouettes

flash orange, red,
yellow tumble seconds

of leaping glee

and I laugh

even the brown ones

dance |
ENDLESS RECOLLECTIONS OF MY LIFE GONE PAST Prize Finalist
WITHOUT WARNING, INTRUDE MY BRAIN; Author Malana Harris

litle ANGRY HAND

'HAT BIG PARENTAL HAND HAD ME TRAINED ( P
ategory Poetry

ME HOPING TODAY WILL BE THE LAST.
'O GOD, ENDLESS QUESTIONS I WOULD ASK,

LEFT UNANSWERED. MARK ANOTHER FOR THE INSANE.
THE DAY THE BIG HAND WOULD LOWER NEVER CAME,
LEAVING ME ONLY TO HIDE BEHIND A MASK

OF FEAR; THE SCARS WILL NEVER LEAVE.
WILL I LIFT MY HANDS IN LATER DAYS? |
THE ANGER IS SO EASY TO RETRIEVE.

THIs FEROCITY WILL ALSO AMAZE

UHE VERY EYES OF MY FIRST CHILD,

WHEN IN HIS PRESENCE MY ANGER TURNS WILD.







Prize Finalist

Author Terry Wiggins
litle Stephen
Category Poetry

When I was little-eight or nine,

I cried because suddenly I thought

I was the twin that lived, survived.

Had she- the first one, died at our birth,
Or by some tragic accident left me alone?

Silly child, my mother scolded,

Half laughing at my imagined suffering.
You are the first, not the only"

Two brothers and the new baby now
Hush now hush that noise.

When I knew everything-fifteen or sixteen.

[ thought Astrology was my answer.

Born in May (of course)

I had a cosmic twin;

The Power of the Universe, Castor to my Pollox.

Foolishness! my mother chided
And a waste of precious time.
You are only you. Unique. And
Too smart to be led by

The ringing of Celestial Spheres.

When I was grown-thirty-three or so,

With a girl of my own nine years old

[ yet considered myself bereaved

But instead of cherishing my cankered cavity
[ searched for another self in someone else.

Phah! exclaimed the potential reflections.
Malcontents and miscreants all,

We are uniquely we, not yours to touch.

It did change, one cold hour, one cold day when
You heard my stories and I your poems.

The sepulcher has been razed.

My ribs now buttress a concave

Warm with magic, mystery, time, and telling.
Cushioned there I keep you,

A talisman against loss, past and future.





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Prize Second In Graphic Design
Artist Colleen Parks

Title Bushwacker Catalog
Category Graphic Design

here in the United States.

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Prize Finalist

Author Timothy C. Hampton
litle The Porch Sitters
Category Prose

a

wa at es. ;

Illustrations by
Tom Kim

the
porc

sitters

n

he Cravens sat on their porch watch-

ing cars, dogs and clouds pass by,

trading discriminate comments
when necessary, while leaving most un-
scathed. They called their dog, Gracie,
but she didnTt listen. The black dach-
shund sniffed a lilac bush at the end of
the lot before finding interest with the
tires of a parked car on the street.

oThere comes ole Junior in his deuce

and a quarter, thinking heTs king of the
worle with his mag wheels and such.�
Billy Craven said between his yellow
teeth.

A Buick Electra barreled down the long
street, its hood ornament, a flying wo-
man dipped in chrome. leading the
way. Cowered by the noise of the ramb-
ling car, Gracie scampered to cross the
street. Junior swerved with a squeal of
rubber. Gracie just barked. oJunior, you
son na bich, someday you'll learn,�
Billy screamed as the Electra escaped.







che, Saughter left her green metal
and his " the frantic animal. He
Juniog fy : - imached | insults abc ut
Sufficient] . "_ aii mer felt he was
Stored a condemned. With peace re-
ice ies | wenvens found that all the
she a melted in their plastic
tea.

ee notling on four bent wheek,
oOwn the ih mower moved defiantly
they pues pushed by a boy who
Ped to a be about 5. He Stop-
and wag uis brow with a shirt tail
Sar gy or Grass to mow. Eyeing the
front gpa of brown grass in the |
Neads nc, . 1e porch sitters shook eta
20t "epee app second thought We
oY explai ag a
lands Apia had a rash on his
hing fierc ae k weeds burned some-
snakes eg ans briars usually meant
Coppe h a - uncle was once bit by a
thead, so heTd rather not.

&

on ns back in his chair, Billy pulled
finds, iba - his pant legs as to an-
the boy to been going to speak. He told
ask the tip k across the Street and
nadie * eed : rere, oMess PenderTs her
ue of Robs = hand on a gallon milk
handle oate , he pushed the chrome
ets soiled = the mower with sneak-
with hic pious ahies Near the curb
hawt = =" eyes wide, he saw a
ai it 8am animals frozen sup-
and cra hi me ded in concrete
People page ey 1 afresh coat of enamel.
UO hetile ue Sipe dY ; ten slowed down
Children, cag sansa careg beasts.
Of the rooste . es would skid in front
buale The et and gawk at his mauve
graph of ord once had a photo-

�,� scene on the front page.

The |
IOV « sa ie
y and the animals stood at atten-

tion as
as . Je
Mrs. I ender Came through the

screen .
ie door in a bleached-white apron
C glasses th

neck of neti hung around a craning
im, she re ~ After peering into
under ee le to an eight dollar job
trim suffici _" that the boy would
Senecio a y around the animals,
nose in 4 on spotted fawn with its
C grass.

sata cmccncn

Witnessing the agreement, the Cravens
smiled in their tea as the grass cutter,
now partially hidden by a constant
plume of the mowerTs blue smoke, lost
his scent in a bombardment of bleed-
ing blade tops. He negotiated the rab-
bits and the ducks without allowing the
wheels to scrap their hardened fur.
Mrs. Pender peered over her half lens
to watch him, keeping her pensive
hands on her wide hips. He'd better
treat ~em right.

Creaking in his chair, Billy sucked his
cigarette and exhaled, oThat grass of
PenderTs is high enough to choke a
cow. HeTd be better off watching that
milk weed burn his hands than work
for that slave driver. Man, oh man, he
donTt know what he got hisself into.�

His wife shook with silent laughter.

oAnd hope the Lore come to the rescue

if he disturbs ole Mrs. PenderTs barn-
yard,� she said shaking her Saturday
head full of curlers.

Mrs. Pender situated herself on the
front porch swing, reading a tabloid

Py)

| f ; ¥ ; i! ie
1 ® AGS } th iA i
Bas YA HMMA yy)
at py sig Hs iin)
iia? Te |

oP y

i ihe?

\ \
AAR A Which
CN ANON

AAO

yeh
i}

)
'
AM)

she had picked up in the grocery store
line that morning. Tomorrow, her
daughter would come to visit after
church and eat Sunday dinner. The
cleaning was complete, including the
parlor reserved only for sacred events
such as visits from Uncle Eddie or
bridge parties. Now recleansed from its
previous untainted state, the parlor
doors were resealed, its sanctimonious
air forever locked with the Jesus over
the mantle, its overstuffed furniture
never to fade from a venetian blind left
open. The living room was also spot-
less with furniture wrapped in plastic
slip covers, of which she refused to
shed because she didnTt trust the uri-
nary tracts of her older relatives nor her
grandchildren. And the younginTs muss
things up with their grubby little paws.
But she loved Ida, her only child, she
told the checkout person at the store.
In between a story about miracle
weight loss, the mower belched and
cut off.

oThose mowers is all the time breaking

down. I have to side with my daddy
when he said them gas mowers can't
beat the old-fashioned reel variety. And
he never did buy a gas one either, told.
my brothers that they would just have
to cut the grass by the sweat of their
brow,� she said, resting her eyes on the
before-and-after photos of a 300 pound
woman now wearing asize seven dress.

oLady, if 1 mowed with one of them old-

timey things, ITd be dead,� the young
man said, turning the handle bars on its
side and patiently digging out the grass
still wet from the morning as it clung
to the mowerTs belly. He tugged the
truculent starter cord and the engine
sputtered back to life. Halfway through,
while approaching the bird bath pro-
tected by a perched eagle, the mower
blade again became cloggedon the
killing field. The boy wanted to vent a
blasphemous scream, but insteadasked
politely for a glass of water.

On her way through the screen door
into the foyer, she decided to use an
old cup because the glasses with daisies

LS

AG







already sat on the dining room table
beside the polished silver and the iron-
ed linen napkins. Passing through the
dining room, she could smell the plas-
tic flowers sitting on the center leaf.

While filling the cup under the tap, she
heard the mower rumble again and
looked through the kitchenwindow at
the backyard. Compared to the front, it
was Cluttered with nothing, inanimated,
spotted with a few weak wild flowers,
its roof and walls of towering pine trees
produced dark. On the limestone, her
name awaited. It was all arranged, even
the preacherTs verses. Ida will get the
house and all its contents. The other
daughter, Delores, isnTt in the will.
Delores moved away before the end of
high school, left a note on the bed say-
ing she was going to Waltersboro in
search of oculture.� SheTs lived there for
30 years now, with the same woman,
writing poetry and doing all kinds of
ungodly sins. Read about her getting
arrested at some freak demonstration,
said she was ~the spokesperson for the
movement.T Couldn't be like Ida and
have children that she could growed up
just right. Just had to hurt her momma
and run away in a red dress.

Turning off the faucet, her thin, steriliz-
ed hands found the window curtain to
be off center"slightly more to the left
"an imperfection amended by her fast
blinking eyes. She exited the white kit-
chen framed-in-pink trim with a steady
but cautious pace, stopping only to re-
examine the curtain from afar and
bending her lips slightly upward.

oMama, why ainTt that lady very nice to
us? We sent her hot chicken noodle
soup when we found out her husband
was sick last winter. And called the cops
that time that bum wouldnTt leave her
porch. Maybe, it was that time Gracie
chased that cat under her house and it
took Daddy two hours a crawling to
get ole Gracie out,� the daughter said.

oHoney, the woman just donTt like
CampbellTs and little black dogs,� the
mother said while clapping her hands.

Across the street, water ran down the
boyTs AdamTs apple as he tilted the cup
toward the sun. He was disappointed
by the absence of ice, but Mrs. Pender
said that she was having company to-
morrow and her husband did not want
her to buy a freezer with an automatic
icemaker back in '79,so sometimes you
have to take what is given to you in this
world.The Cravens laughed to hear her
sing-song voice.

Don't pay no heed to them people

across the street, theyTs all the time
laughing about something, just like
those laughing hyeners,� Mrs. Pender
said in a low tone, just above the rum-
ble of the stationary mower.

Back to work, he pushed the mower
slowly, wishing he hadnTt agreed to the
job, wanting to be far away from the
staring, concrete eyesof the green goat.
Tempted by the eight dollars, he grip-
ped the chrome handle for what seem-
ed liked an eternity of work ahead. His
sweat had dripped on six lawns yester-
day and three today. He crammed the
money in his jeans, not stopping to
count. At night, the crumbled bills were

stashed under the mattress; he lay atop
them with images of motion and flight,
wheeling across Pitt River Bridge,
leaving, not waving goodbye. JesseTs
dad gotta two-door for sale in the front
yard. Burns oil, needs a head gasket.
Marvin says I can stay with him at
school at Brownville. Has a couch and
says I can find something. All-night,
every night, Saturday night, something.

oThat boy is looking a tad tired. Looks

like an old man out there on prison
detail. ITm surprise she ainTt come out
and tole him heTs got to tuck his shirt
tail in. Mr. Pender tole me one time
sheTs the most nit-pickinTness person
about being proper,� Billy said.

oI remember ole Mr. Pender use to sit

out on the swing and not even move. A
fire truck, all wailing and flashing could
drive by and he wouldn't even flinch,�
Roberta said, sucking in the sweet
smell of cut grass.

smoothing her apron with both hands
and allowing a sigh to escape, Mrs.
Pender returned to the swing. She
looked through the window at the set
table and heard her husbandTs voice.
Honey, canTt you sit down and stop tak-
ing up the dishes before et erybody has

Jinished. I know, Reva, but you donTt

have to ~get things out Of the way.T For
you know d it, Ree, itTll be out of the way.

Springing up, she moved quickly to ad-
vise the lawn cutter. She hollered at him:

Now be careful when you get around

that rooster. My little grand daughter
and her brother are coming tomorrow
and they think he actually crows. I
tellTem he only does it in the morning,
real early when theyTd asleep. But it
would break their hearts to see him
dead. Besides, my daddy willed these
things to me. Said they use to remind
him of when we lived on the farm out
near Idyen. But look here, ITm paying
you good money, so you be careful
and trim it up good.�

After she turned her back, the boy con-
torted his face and spit into the grass a
long stream of saliva. As much as he





a

Prize First In Ceramics
Artist Doug Knotts
Title Fallen King
Category Ceramics







Prize Second In Wood
Artist Steven Benson
Title Untitled

Category Wood

Prize Finalist

Artist Catherine Blackburn
litle Summer Workout
Category Painting







isteimetiominnes en ee

didnTt want to pull the weeds with his
hands, he knew he had to. Bending in
front of the cx wral-pink pig, he tried to
Pull the shoots, but the roots held firm-
ly to the red earth, unwilling to part.
When Mrs. Pender went inside, he inch-
�,�d the mower as close to the lumps of
Painted concrete as he could. The futil-
ity of it all made him grimace and chuc-
kle. He pushed the crooked wheels
Closer and closer to the roosterTs feet.
The cutting bladeswung low on the
heon yellow claws, creating an abun-
dance of sparks as if a jar full of furious
fireflies had been freed. Frightened, he
tried to push the cutter, but it rammed
Into the stilt legs and toppled the roos-
ter onto the mowerTs engine, it's mauve
beak crushed on the starter rotor.

Mrs. Pender flew out of the house,
Squawking and pacing around the mid-
dle of the yard.

oMy God, you are as stupid as an ape. |
Can't believe what youTve done. You
Can't buy anything like this anymore.
You canTt replace it. If my daddy were
here, heTd whup you good. Now the
yard is all a mess. People drive from all
around to see my pretty yard, but not
anymore,� Mrs. Pender screamed at
the boy.

He had a tolerance for people yelling at
him; he stood evaporating the ire, look-
ing calmly ahead expecting anything.

There was an urge to run, but not now.

Across the street, amidst all the chaotic
Commotion, the Cravens rumbled with
a hysteria of their own. They stopped
Once to catch their collective breaths,
but the uncontrollable urge returned,
tickling the bottoms of their lungs into
4 series of unstoppable contractions.
They grasped for air after several min-
utes of continuous shaking and attemp-
ted to escape the blissful euphoria.

oNow, that ainTt nice, letTs...� Mrs. Craven
Said before the contagion reappeared,
Causing her to hinge at the waist and
her eyes to water. She couldn't see her
husband or daughter, both caught by
the compulsion, howling and clutching

their pants at the knee.

Alerted by the outpouring, Grace, her
tail hinging back and forth furiously,
began to bark near the curb as if she
didnTt want to be excluded from the
excitement.

Mrs. PenderTs anger grew as she heard
the CravensT cackle. She crossed her
arms and issued a sleet-cold look
across the street, awaiting the cessation
of laughter.

oYou people ainTt worth nothing,� she

said as she began to march between
the deer and goat, extending the length
of her stride as she approached the
curb, intent on going across the street
to scream some sense into the Cravens
as if they were her children.

Junior sped along in a hurry to pick up

a bag of cornmeal. His fingers were
feeling for loose change deep in the
crease of the seat cushions when he
looked up. He swore and stamped his
foot down hard. The smell of burnt
rubber and metal against metal. After
charging like a bull into a fearful mata-

dor, the Electra lurched to a stop.

The dog barked more fiercely now.
Mrs. Pender lay frozen on the hot as-
phalt, her vision twisted. She tasted the
blood streaming from her nostrils and
breathed with pain. Smelling the
chance, the dog lapped the salty blood
from her chin.

oRyil...Dog...Evil...Dog,� Mrs. Pender

wheezed.

Junior knelt before the grill of the Elec-

tra and muttered softly.

oDo you need anything?� I was just on

my way to the store...shouldnTt of been
speeding...momma always said. You
are the woman with the statues, listen,
it'll all be fine. But lady, you ain't gonna
die. You gotta...Live...God.�

From the street, Mrs. Pender saw three
"her husband, Delores, and herself"
looking at a bleeding animal with wont
to help, yet with steps frozen.

The Cravens stood by the curb. They
did not pass judgement. =

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Prize Finalist

Author Jennifer Tiedebohli
litle Lost Images
Categoty Poetry

pictures melting on the wall
the fan sucking up memories
filling my head with smiles

she reads to me
with a voice about ready for death
soft pillows

underneath a sheet of sorrow cushion

swim through it

really you can

sugar SO sweet you can taste it
suck it in

swallow it

a dirty rag floating in it
entangles me

the weight so heavy

pressure creeping up slowly
from beyond the pillowy white
snow falling

sliding down my face into the

pool of blood

Prize Fourth
Author Eva Rogers
litle Recreation
Category Poetry

| should like to glimpse the palette of the morning maker,

The dabs of blue and violet he blends behind black trees.

| should like to dip my brush into that ether.

What must it be

To paint with water, air and fire.

To work and never tire.

The bold master who with one sweep

Begins another he needn't keep?

Would I dare to have one canvas for my life?
To slash a new stroke across my finest moment?
| should prefer a trembling wonder

To a comforting content.







Prize Second In Illustration
Artist John Loftin

Title Untitled

Category Mlustration

Prize Finalist
Artist Mark Elmore
Title NRBQ
Category Painting







with water

| oa

| Foe

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ou should have been there.�

The boy raised the white porce-

lain lid and seated himself on the
cold tile, curling into the corner. The
naked bulb on the ceiling revealed little
in the four-walled room. On the side,
by the corner where the boy was, the
stale grey paint was cracked and peeling.

oI think you could have easily laughed
out loud. You see, the entire situation
was absurd. The old priest was a
wretched sight. Scraggy hair, stained
teeth, and eyes that you could see
straight through. A picture of Catholi-
cism. And he smelled of rotting fruit.�

The boy, now on his knees, began to
move his hand around the edge of the
bowl in front of him, staring into its
recess.

oWhen he talked, the smell on his breath
was fetid and unclean. And he spouted
out prayers or something. I couldnTt
hear him. Noise was everywhere. The
presence of so many eyes uponme, so
many people seeing themselves in my
place, so many people wanting what's
best for me. They said my parents

ee aL gh FOR APRS: ea i ai A I a TSAI i a TET

would have wanted it that way. And
most of them donTt even know my full
name. I almost cried, right there, with

Jesus looking down on me from the wall.�

The water in the toilet rippled slightly

as the carp in its bowl shifted sides.
Looking away from the fish, the boy
tilted back his head and examined the
ceiling, finally stopping his eyes upon
the burning glass bulb which protrud-
ed from its socket.

oI almost didnTt see. The scheming old

man. I looked up just in time to find
him lifting his twisted and bony fingers
from the pedestaled bowl of water.
Holy, they called it. This was what they
had come for, this was the spectacle to
gawk at. And their noise as unbearable.
I hated them for it, and I hated the per-
verse smell of the priest as he moved
his hand toward my forehead. I saw
three drops of water fall from his hand
onto the dirty floor of the cathedral and
| knew I could not bear the completion
of the ceremony. So I ran. Past the spec-
tators, who couldnTt even exist without
me. And I ran and I ran and I ran and I
feel as though ITm running still.�

cnenpggypetinettt nn dihm

e we PA RE

The boy lowered his head and shut his
eyes against the light. A stream of
salted water appeared on his pale
cheek. His bare chest rose and fell
rapidly with his short breaths.

oThat wasnTt supposed to be the way.�

The boy sat, eyesstill closed and again
moved his fingertips round and around
the polished rim of the bowl. He then,
gently, descended his hand along the
inner curve of the toilet into the cold
water that waited in the rounded white
bowl. Letting his fingers prove the
seeming depths, the large fish moved
across the boyTs palm. The boy recoiled
and the water made a subtle splashing
sound as he pulled his hand from it.
The water on his hand was dripping as
he held it in front of his fae, examining
it. Several drops moved across his wrist
and ran down his arm nearing his elbow.

oBut I guess thatTs the way with water,�

the boy said, exhaling deeply. He
placed his hand to his face to wash
away his tears and opened his eyes to
see. The walls and the dusty pattern of
the tile belowhim were unaffected =

PAGE







Prize Finalist Keep her well, my dear.

Author Nicole Ossman Idolatry is a fever

Title Keep Her Well absorbed, like a candy apple

Category Poetry in the hands of a child,
into conception.

On the cold, steel surgical table
sterile and white:
elbows bolted into place,
smudgy fingerprints
are consumed into memory.
Rigid- to match the atmosphere,
the sun melts down the mountain

the last tear from the tigerTs eye.

The hum is vague,
the vibration close to the skull:
before a golden glow
now clean with chemicals
stunted and,
chopped off at the knees.

There, there " it was all very painless.
Drowning in Valium,

heavy chain,

keeping the tiger at bay
lost for tears, no channels to flow.

Become a hole,

a vacuum sucked within yourself:
swallowed by emptiness,

regurgitated a machine.

Hollow,
hallowed torso
It used to be a nursery rhyme.





Prize Editor's Choice
Artist Bill Dermody
litle Untitled #2
Category Painting

Prize Second In Photography
Artist Christine Cranford

Title Untitled

Category Photography







Prize Finalist

Artist Liz Parker

Title Perfume Bottle Set
Category Metals







Prize Finalist
Author Melissa Link
Title Oblivion
Category Poetry

I awoke again today

My clothes a crumpled heap on the floor

And my hair still stinking of stale beer, smoke, and sweat
And the insufferably loud thump-thump-thumping

Of a bass line still pounding inside a skull

Void of memories
Of last nightTs Bacchic revelries.

Did I really dance?

Or was it simply the painfully mad, thrashing death throes
Of a youth fast fading

Into Oblivion.

Prize Finalist

Author T. Scott Batchelor
Title | Saw Falling A Leaf
Claimed By Autumn
Category Poetry

I saw falling a leaf claimed by autumn,

And thought of you.

Those pre-winter days when our natural paths
Cross less and less, and their lengths cut

Short by a quickened pace,

I saw the lonely brown and gold thing
Fluttering helplessly downward,

And thought of you.

When souls who mean the most"
Who really count-give respite from the
Closing cold with their warm

(More than just heat, though) presence,
Over soothing, crackling fires and wistful
Talk of summer plans,

Walking hurriedly past I marked the leafTs
Aimless descent through steely air

To the dead and dying ground below,

And thought of you.

While in the evening, shades draw shut and
Amber glows fill window-eyes, I hurry

Past their watching gaze, (their pitying gaze!),
As used-up leaves in the sterile, biting twilight
Fall, I sense them there,

And think of you.





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Prize Finalist

Author Matthew D. Jones

Title A Bus Station In Charlotte
Category Poetry

~I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.�

oThe cigarette machine stole my money.�

"older woman to daughter.
The air is cold and dead.
"remains of all
"exhaled from people who had
used it
Moments ago,
lively
action
here.
Room full of people who never look one another in the eyes,
talk only to their own,
carefully suspicious of any passerby
who intrudes too close.

Most are gone now, off to other places, other bus stations.

north
west east
South
The room is almost empty.
"people left find it hard to breathe the stale air of

They are waiting.
At a bus station in Charlotte.

Slowly,

Slowly.
The people return,
not the same people to be sure.
Same, however, in spirit " tired,
weary.
Quick to make small talk to the stranger
anything to pass the time
some read
some talk
others sit.

They sit and stare.
What do they think of? Or do they think at all?
To think would proclaim existence.

(The buses pump the life of their existence through the roads. The
bus terminal is vast and encompassing. They will only find existence
on the roads, that is their lifeline. Here they are nothing.)

tie -





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oITm going to the bathroom.�
"man to wife.
"doesnTt glance from her book.
"nods at the information.

People wander aimlessly.

) oWouldnTt be so bad if the bus werenTt an hour late.�
"Old man to himself,
hoping to stir conversation.
Awestruck, the players in the station remain silent.
Old man reaches for a sandwich from brown paper bag
wrinkled from use

(it has seen many of these bus
stationTs and so has the old man.)

oWhat time do you have?�
"young man to older woman.
He is anxious to go.

How long is an hour when you donTt exist?
The station fills. Motion stops.

There is no reason to move.
) Everyone silently waits for the bus
) (itTs late!)

and count the minutes they imagine go by.

Prize Finalist

Artist Rachel Banks

Title Lucille, Maggie, & Suzanne
Category Painting







",,

_"_""""" "" = = =

Prose Judges

Susan Sturgill is an author, illustrator, and
since 1988, a publisher under the name, The
Laughing Academy Press (Ego adsum quod
insana non stulta). Her booksinclude The His
tory of the Universe Vols. I and II. She lives
and works in Columbus, Ohio.

Ashley B. Futrell, Sr. is the Editor Emeritus
of the Washington Daily News in Washington,
North Carolina. He has been a member of the
East Carolina University Board of Trustees. He
shared the prose entries with members of his
newspaper staff and his decisions represent a
cooperative effort.

Poetry Judges

Dr. Joseph Bruchac is a poet, editor, and
storyteller whose work has been widely pub-
lished. He is the founder of the Greenfield
Review Press. His newest book, Turtle Meat
and Other Stories was published in 1992 by
Holy Cow! Press.

Marvin Hunt, professor of English at Camp-
bell University, took his B.A.and M.A. degrees
from East Carolina University (where he taught
during 1987-88) and his Ph.D. from the Uni-
versity of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. A
specialist in Renaissance English literature,
Professor Hunt writes nonfiction essays and
book reviews in addition to scholarship and
criticism. As a student at ECU, in a distanage,
he edited the REBEL magazine.

Art Judges

Mark Brown is the Visual Art Director ofthe
Community Council of Arts in Kinsta, North
Carolina. He received his MFA from East Caro-
lina University in 1987, and works as a sculp-
tor and draftsman.

George Baka has been a partof the Washing-
ton, DC and Buffalo, NY design community
for 25 years. Mr. Baka received his degree
from Pratt in Brooklyn, NY, after serving as a
combat photographer during the Korean Con-
flict. He has been involvedin the design of
World Fairs and has won numerous awards
from Buffalo and Washington, DC Ad Clubs,
Society of Federal Artisits and Designers, and
the Federal DesignCouncil. As Director of
Design Division for theUS Dept of Agriculture,

he gained national acclaim for his designs for

the World Poultry Congress, where he receiv-
ed a Gold Medal. Upon retiring from the fed-
eral government in 1990, he has been teach-
ing Graphic Design at Pitt Community College,
Greenville, NC. He has been recognized in
both Communication Artsand Print Magazines.

Meade B. Horne is the Director of the Blount
Bridgers House and Hobson Pittman Gallery
in Tarboro, North Carolina.She received her
B.A. in Greek from VassarCollege, and M.A

in Classics from Johns Hopkins University.
She is a current member and past Board mem-
ber of the North Carolina Museums Council,
as well as aFounder of the Eastern North
Carolina Gallery Directors Association.





| want to thank the REBEL T93 statf for their
dedication. There has not been a harder working,
more worrisome staff. | believe we thought too
much and tried too hard. Valerie loves Carters for
making those huge red markers, and Ovid Pierce
for starting the REBEL Magazine in 1958. Spe-
cial thanks to John Bullard for his help this year.
Kris thanks all the secretaries in the English De-
partment for redirecting last minute entries. |
thank KrisT officemates for giving him messages.
Allison Heintz, thanks for typing. Matthew, your
messages were inspirational.

Yvonne, we enjoyed the smoke outside Jenkins,
and thanks for finding a storage area. Craig
Malmrose, you have been a calming, yet direc-
ting force for us all. 'm not sure why you came fo
us, but the REBEL Magazine and ECU is better
for it. Brandon, your tape was a lifesaver, as was
the fellow in the sculpture area who loaned me
the wood glue. Advice from Ray Elmore, Charles
Lovell, Donald Sexauer and Your Eminence, Art
Haney, was much appreciated.

Catherine Walker, how did we convince you to
shoot the photos again? Have you been paid
yet? Well, the wheels turn very slowly at ECU.
Kristin thanks Susan in the Gray Gallery, for
knowing about tables. Kristin would also like to
thank Johnny Gee and Inga for putting up with
her bitching, like usual, right? What would | have
done without the support of Yvonne, Janet and
Deborah, who work in the Pubs Bldg, who
patiently listened to me complain about the
system? Greg Brown, | will never forget you!
}net, you sure have got the resources, and we
could not have gotten along with out you on
entry day. My utmost respect goes to your un-
canny ability to get things done without being
otoo confrontational...� Myra and Kelly, the
donuts were brilliant, and Myra, Happy New Year
to you too! (You know Hugh, donTt ya?) o..your
kisses, sweeter than honey...� Thanks Mike (aka
Too Short) for doing the dishes and keeping the
home fires burning. And Terri, Ms. Media Board,
you will become a famous diplomat one day!
Enough said, you get the point. Chuck, thanks for
the inspiration, and | promise you and myself I'll
do better next semester.

Margie 0TShea







wt Wer

The REBEL is published for and by the stu-
dents of East Carolina University. Offices
are located in the Publications Building
which is in the center of campus. This
issue, Volume 35, and its contents are
copyrighted 1993 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.







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Thanks to all entrants who made this REBEL possible.

Malana Harris Jennifer Tiedebohl Michael Penland
Mark Fetner Jane Sabatini Ronald Jason Osborne
Nelson Tibbett Don Marr Fab Bianchi Eva Rogers
Angie Johnson Christopher Daniels Rebecca Pence
Clarissa Beckner Tracey Gay Ronald Jason Osborne
Lisa Roach John Marte Kevin Brooks Michael Cox
J.E. Boyette Kevin Kornegay Judith Anne Fountain
Terry Wiggins Latonya Hargrove 1. Scott Batchelor
Phyllis Weatherly-Rosner Shawn Adam Rod Hawkins
Nicole Ossman Matthew Jones Heather Lynn Seanor
Daniel Zima Wesley David Leonhardt Jim Shamlin
David Woodworth Laura McKay Angela Bacon Reid
Edward Agsten Sarotsakorn Campbell James Casey
Nikki Holbrook John C. Lohman Stephen Randolph
Yeaton Clifton Brandon Scharr Shannon Morrow
Rachel Banks Heather Cushman Denise Machala
Ingrid M. Lutman George Sarfiano Christina Lemon
Lisa C. Hayden Matt Forrest Gibson Jennifer Green
Tim Hampton Melissa Taylor Bryan Avery Shaffer
Eric Osborne Catherine Blackburn Darlene Pelliccio
Allison Brantley oW. A. Chadwick Lee Meisenheimer
Eric Bailey Melisso.Link Erin Becker Ben OwenIll
M. Andrea Harvin Kennington Gwendolyn E. Redfern
Mitzy Jonkheer Stanton Blakeslee Doug Knotts
Phil Surrett Liz Parker Bryan Metzer Carl James
Mark Elmore Sheri Lynn Harrington Terry Wiggins
Steve Ollice Kristi Stainback Ivan R. Whitehead Jr.
Joshua Dowd Joshua P. Lesniak Jamie Kirkpatrick
Michael Alban Angele Pritchett George A. Tompkins
Fred Phillips Greg Gulick Myra Smith Lisa Eagle
Jerry Jackson Robert Guion Dixon Carol Overman
Laura Sharar Andrew P. Linton Julia Aurora Burger
Alan Dawn Solomon Charles Dupree Cindy Trivette
Ray Kaylor Audrey Kilgrove William Craig Sparrow
John Harrell Jeannette Stevenson Lori Twardowski
Julie Lambeth Marianne Federal Patrick Daugherty
Brenda White Dena Angel Blount Hanna K. Gilham
John Loftin Mickey Ross Colleen Parks Jan Mollet
Sarah Tector Dietrich Maune Charles L. Massey III
James D. Swenson Billie Jean Snuggs Brian Jacobs
Chris Gabriel Hugh OTBryant Kimberly Kirchstein
Christine Cranford Tracey Mercer Keith Hobgood
Charles N. Barnes Jr. Bill Dermody Susan Johnson
Kiyomi Talaulicar Michael Johnson Jeanne Brady
Alan L. Shuping Amanda T. Durant Steven Benson
David Roberts Connie Hartmann Nancy Whitlow
lrene Bailey Bert V. Lane Kurt Gabriel Eric Olsen
Tom Kim Todd Houser Roger Goins Ashley Gruber
Paul Rustand John K. Stiles Todd Houser





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Title
Rebel, 1993
Description
The Rebel was originally published in Fall 1958. The purpose of the magazine was to showcase the artwork and creative writing of the East Carolina University student body. The Rebel is printed with non-state funds. Beginning in the 1990s some volumes included a CD with featured music.
Extent
Local Identifier
UA50.08.35
Permalink
https://digital.lib.ecu.edu/62604
Preferred Citation
Cite this item
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