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METAL DESIGN »
GRAPHIC DESIGN »
PAINTING » _
SCULPTURE »
DRAWING »
PHOTOGRAPHY »
CERAMICS »
WOOD DESIGN »
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY .
PRINTMAKING »
TEXTILE DESIGN »
literary |
7 POETRY »
FICTION »
music
BEST COMPOSITION »
BEST PRODUCTION
MOST ORIGINAL
HONORABLE MENTION
20
28
38
74
100
340
126
14, 120
136
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METAL DESIGN
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Lear To-whom-it-may-concern,
We have no threads between us.
No water pipes, no electrical wires, no gossamer red ribbons,
no phone lines, no dental or embroidery floss. We have no threads.
My mind has formed a picture-postcard legacy of you, lifted
from the remnants you left folded between your covers and crumbs
caught in the wrinkles of your oJane Doe� charisma. Do with it
what you will, I found it crumpled anyway.
We could have been stepsisters (And | say that with regret).
We could have been evil together, coldhearted like goldfish
in our Sshamed-woman ways and our linked, licked pinky finger
promises.
We could have been stepsisters, misunderstanding the
symptoms of each otherTs afflictions. We could have clawed out
each other's hair, eyes, hearts, and fingernails (not to mention the
pulling out of stops and eyelashes) to reach a smudged and dirty
glass shoe.
We could have been chronic enemies, falling towards
friendship. We could have been bus drivers on the same route, we
could have worked together as seamstresses, we could have been
pen pals, we could have grown sweet potatoes that had each otherTs
faces, we could have adopted each otherTs children, we could have
worked next to each other in a shoe factory, we could have
discovered feng shui together, we could have had the same
hairdresser, we could have read Sylvia Plath by flashlight,
we could have been stepsisters
But, alas, there are no threads between us.
Threadbare not knowing you,
| leave you to obscurity...
ver me
second place « POETRY
ELIZABETH SHUPE
»
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» was driving to my motherTs funeral when |
recalled the exact moment | lost my faith. It
was early into what would turn out to be a
six-hour drive and | was trying to avoid thinking
about Mom. Every time | drive, it happens; bad
memories always seem to find me. | had just
gotten off an exit and was shifting up a gear
when the memory hit me like a bug spattering
on the windshield.
I remember it was on a cold January day, the kind of day where
you want snow, but you only get bitter cold. So cold it hurt. Mom
and Dad had separated by then. I was waiting at home for Dad to
get back from work when I happened to think about my old mutt
of a dog outside in the cold and wind; I thought I might bring
him a can of Alpo to warm his bones. I remember tapping the
ground in front of him to try and wake him from sleeping. It hurt
me when I realized why he didnTt wake.
I don't think ITll ever forget the way his body was so rigid,
how I could push it and make it bend at the joints to a degree.
Death was frightening and powerful,
and it made me sad in ways I had never realized I could be. I sat
there on the roof of his tiny doghouse, too sad to leave, and too
macho to cry, waiting for my father to come and help me bury the
old mutt. His cold eyes stared back at me, and I closed them with
my index finger, and rubbed his mangy head.
Dad arrived sometime an hour later, and it had become dark.
He wrapped him in a towel, and dug a grave too large for him
to rest in. Made me feel better to know he was wrapped in
that towel, | remember. | didnTt want him to be cold after he
had been buried. It was strange. The whole ordeal of burying
the dog was such a chore. Death was not this ultimate release,
it was a chore. It was work, like everything else in life and it
hurt as bad as anything | had ever felt before.
What kind of God takes a boyTs dog from him? That was the
final nail in the religious coffin, for me. Or maybe it was all those
nights I spent thinking that I had not spent enough time play-
ing with the poor dog, all those nights he spent, cold and alone,
first place « FICTION
eating his dry dog food and drinking day-old water. That was his
life waiting day-in, and day-out for someone to pay attention to
him, for one of us people to come to him and generously scratch
him behind his ears or give him a piece of bacon. So much of his
life was boredom, a gray, placid half-life at best. I hated myself
the more I thought about it. Maybe I lost faith in God because |
didnTt want to think He would send me to Hell for treating the
poor dog like a chore, too.
pang truck blew past me, carrying its eighteen wheels of
ed e hicken cargo, and scaring the life out of me. lt crossed
wad into my lane quickly, blinking its red right turn signal and
aa onto the exit ramp. | mashed down hard on my brake
Sage into the left lane, neatly avoiding slamming into his
oop nd. | ran the whole scene through my head several times,
atl ie about what would happen if | had slammed into that
, then | began to think about how Mom had died again.
I had only a few phone conversations and even fewer visits with
Mom leading up to the time she died. Mom had divorced Dad
when I was eight, and my fatherTs constant testimony to my
motherTs unending bitch streak had made me feel as he did. She
had moved northward, back near her sister on Long Island. Dad
kept his feet firmly planted in the Virginia soil where he was born,
and goddammit, where he was going to die.
She was walking to work when she tripped over a storm drain
into the street. The bus driver that had hit her had tried to stop,
but it was little use. She collided with the front end of the bus,
breaking her forearm, cracking her ribs, compacting her spine,
and bruising and rupturing a whole stew of organs I'd rather not
mention. She was pronounced dead a few hours after she was
hit, and I got a call after another couple of hours from my Aunt
Susan, who told me the specifics about the funeral.
I was reluctant to go, I remember. I had spent the entire day in
the darkroom developing prints and negatives. My back ached
and I stunk of fixer, and all I wanted to do was take a shower and
go to sleep. It was getting close to midnight Friday when Susan
called and insisted that I make it to the funeral. Through light
ERIC GOODNIGHT » rest i
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sighs that resembled sobs, she told me they would be holding the
reception on Saturday at noon. I remarked at how fast that was,
and she assured me that was how these things worked. I never
could understand that, how we could just hurriedly toss what used
to be a perfectly good person into the ground only hours after
she'd been snuffed out. Regardless of how I felt, I was faced with
the duty of driving practically all the way from Richmond to New
York during the night. Aunt Susan, blessedly, would pick me up
in the morning, and drive me around the city, so I wouldn't have
to worry about that much. It did little to ease the situation. I
swore, inanely and to myself, printed out my pathetic oYahoo!�
directions, and got on the road.
The trip was not getting any better. | had gone about forty-
five minutes out on I-95 before the monotony really started to
get to me. My stereo had been stolen the last time | had gone
to visit Mom in New York. | complained to her about it and |
remember getting furious with her when she told me | was a
~complete tourist.T It got my blood boiling and after a short an-
Sry exchange, she told me | had my fatherTs bad temper. | got
in my car and immediately drove back home. Anyway, thatTs
neither here nor there.
Driving is the kind of thing that takes little more than motor
control, leaving you free to think about practically whatever you
want. Unfortunately, thinking was the last thing I wanted to do
at all during this trip. It hurt to think about Mom. I could see
her clearly, getting smashed by that bus. I saw a million little
moments; she was there and heard a thousand whispers over
the phone. It seemed impossible to think of anything that didnTt
hurt. I thought of Mom and, when I tried to stop that, I thought
of my dog and then what a bastard God was, if he even existed.
Something, anything, I just needed some outlet to try and keep
my mind off of everything. I tried to empty my head, focus on
any single, small thing that I could find. Leaves on the wind-
shield rattled and caught my eye for far too long. The air condi-
tioner whispered dull, unintelligible secrets. My head swam with
the utter lack of sleep and unfortunate boredom of the road. I
« FICTION
had to do something, to talk to someone, to keep sane, if not
just stay awake.
So | decided to pick up a hitchhiker.
ItTs a terrible idea, of course, but what choice did I have? I scanned
the side of the road through the murk and blackness of the night
for company for at least part of my journey.
I was without luck for a long time. 95 North had combined
with 395 North, not unlike the printed directions had said when I
finally found them. There, just beyond the jcT 395 signpost stood
two of the strangest human beings I have ever had a chance to
meet in my lifetime.
The red from my brake lights lit up their forms in the night as
they crawled in the back of my tiny BMW. They were strange
to see. One was ridiculously tall, around seven or eight feet,
Maybe. His hair was sort of a bowl cut, platinum blonde, and
N�,� wore these weird black aviator sunglasses practically the
Whole time | was around him. His friend was shorter, about five
Foot six or seven. His hair was black, and was definitely styled
@ little nicer than his buddyTs. They were both dressed in some
Of the nicest suits | had ever seen, and suddenly, | felt really
UNnderdressed after they got into the car. The tall man wore a
Standard dark, charcoal suit and a black tie. He looked sort of
like a Mormon. His friend wore a lighter gray suit, almost white,
and a shirt so black it looked like a hole in his chest in the dark.
His collar was undone, revealing the top of his collarbone.
oWhere are you guys headed?� | turned around briefly and eyed both
of them. They looked like cartoon characters. I shifted up a gear
and headed down the road.
oNew York, New York,� the light suit said, almost singing it. He
had an accent I was certain was Mexican when I first heard it. It
seemed to slip into something else as I spoke to him, almost like
he was faking an accent really well. Actually, I might be over-
analyzing it, and it doesnTt matter anyway. The dark suit stared
around the car emptily and said nothing.
oThe Big Apple,� | spat out, and felt dumb. I paused a second, to
make sure I didnTt continue sounding stupid. oTm going almost all
ERIC GOODNIGHT »_ rest
the way to Long Island, so I can take you most of the way. � The light
suit seemed pleasantly surprised by this and smiled. His friend
said nothing.
oYou mind if I smoke, man?� He pulled out half of a black and
mild cigar and lit it before I responded. | power-rolled down the
window beside him, and he took it as a yes. oGracias,� he said.
oWhere yall from?� 1 posed the question naturally, letting my
southern vocabulary show. The huge man turned his head toward
his friend, but said nothing. His buddy smiled as if it was a trick
question and answered it as if I had asked something else.
oBeen walking from South America these past couple of days. We
started in Chile, I think.� He ran his hand through his black,
black hair. |
oYou walked from Chili to Virginia?�| asked, hoping
Ne wouldnTt correct my pronunciation. It sounded
SO right when he said it ochee-lay�, but | felt stupid
even thinking about saying it that way.
oWalk some parts, drive others. We hitch. You know.�
oHow long has that taken?�
oAh, don't know.� He seemed frustrated as he said it. oI gots no
concept of time. Maybe, like...a month? I donTt know.� He hesitated
when he got to the word month, as if it was new to his vocabu-
lary. His English was heavily accented, but good when he wanted
it to be.
oY'all got names?� It was the natural next question. The big guy
looked at his buddy again, disapprovingly, but didnTt even give the
impression he was going to speak. Somehow, I got the impression
he didnTt want me to know their names, and I felt a little afraid for
4 the first time. His friend spoke over the icy stare.
~ oYou can call me Mr. Black.� Motioning mag-
nanimously to his friend, he continued his introduction. oThis is
mi amigo, Mr. White.�
oThose aren't your real names,� | said. It wasnTt really a question; I
got no answer. I added, oYou got your colors mixed up. :
Mr. Black laughed. oThis suits me better. Light hiding dark. Nice.�
ERIC GOODNIGHT »_ rest |
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FICTION
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We passed under a tunnel, and the only visible light in the car
came from Mr. BlackTs cigar. He took a drag and orange embers
lit up his face in the dark; I suddenly felt very afraid.
oYou guys aren't criminals, are you?� I knew that
was not a good thing to ask as soon as I said it. Mr. Black laughed
in a way that made me feel a little more comfortable about hav-
ing said it.
~Not criminals, not yet, anyway,� he laughed and elbowed Mr.
White in the side, who only stared back at him. He seemed angry
about the ~not yet.T Mr. Black looked at him and said, oWha-hat?2�
Mr. White continued to look frustrated and stared out the win-
dow. oWe don't tell you our real names, and we donT t wanna kill you,
either, so relax.� And I did feel oddly relaxed. They could have
been planning to kill me, but something about the way he talked
seemed to make me calm.
| didnTt even introduce myself,� | spoke quickly, glancing
at them in the rear view. | offered them my right hand
Over my shoulder and Mr. Black shook it as | told them
My name. oMy nameTs Jack, short for Jackson. Jack-
Son Menius. ITm a photographer.� | wanted to talk about
Photography, but | got the distinct impression that they
Wouldn't give a damn to hear my stories about D-76 and
Chemical fix and the time | met Ansel Adams. It was only
long enough to shake his hand, but that was enough.
oSon of Jack,� Mr. Black said. oI like that name, Son of Jack. Suits you.
You daddy, he 1s Jack?�
oDads name is John, not Jack.� | sped up to pass a Miata in the right
lane, only to notice what looked like a highway patrol car parked a
couple of dozen feet ahead, and I decided to slow back down.
John 1s Jack, like William 1s Billy, same thing.�
oHuh,� | grunted. Son of Jack. oSo why are you going to New York
City?� In my head, I came across the old picante sauce commercial
and thought oGet a rope.�
oWe are going to kill a preacher,� he said flatly. Mr. White turned
sharply to Mr. Black, who did not look back in his direction.
He knew that he was burning a hole in the side of his head
ERIC GOODNIGHT »_ rest |
through his sunglasses. o(Calm down, mi amigo.
People only pick up hitchhikers for
conversation or the gay sex. So ITm
conversati Ng. oa laughed, despite myself. I wasnTt certain
if he was serious, or if he was just making it all up to entertain me.
oWhat do you mean, ~kill a preacher?T I thought you guys said you
werent criminals.�
oUA, itTs tough, you know, to explain.� He coughed and looked
around the car. oThis one preacher guy, he tells all these people about
Heaven, and pretty soon, all these people start turning up there,
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demanding really stupid thin gs like streets of gold and mansions in the
sky and stuff like that.�
I laughed again. oWhy would you want to stop people from
going to Heaven?�
~Heaven, it is not for everybody. Is not like everybody here
thinks it is like, a big reward up in the sky for not lying to you
58 mama or playing with you penis too much.�
I didnTt really get his point yet, but I laughed anyway, like he was
telling a joke. oHell, she needs people just like Heaven, and some people,
they need Hell just like some people need Heaven. Thas Just how it is.�
~What do you mean, ~thatTs just how it is.T I'm an atheist. I donTt
believe in Heaven or Hell.�
oYou, you are... whas the word, agnostic, I bet. Not atheist. I can tell
You don't quite not believe in God, but chu donTt care what happens
after life.� 1 grumbled. He was right enough. Life had not quite
kept me from believing in God, but had stopped me from caring.
oYeah, maybe I am agnostic, but"� He cut me off, realizing I was
going to ask the same question again.
o| Know how it is. | seen
Hell. | seen Heaven.�
~How have you seen Heaven and Hell?� | asked, expecting to hear
lurid stories of nightlong South American coke orgies that lead to
visions of the afterlife amongst other hallucinations. What he said
was, no doubt, the last possible thing I expected to hear.
o~T was an angel,� he said. oLong ago.� His accent seemed to have
fist place « FICTION
changed for a second, as if his English suddenly became perfect.
He seemed genuinely sad or nostalgic. He continued. oI am a, ah,
you know, fallen angel. I was born in Heaven shortly after the Cre-
ation. After the fall, I live in Hell. Well, a suburb of Hell, kind of.�
| wanted to laugh at the reference to HellTs suburbs,
Dut | couldnTt bring myself to really interrupt.
oThis big guy,� he said, saying ~bigT a little like ~beeg.T He paused
to slap Mr. White on the shoulder, who only stared down at Mr.
Black. oHe is bona fide angel.�
I decided to go along with the joke. oIf you're a fallen angel, and heT the
real thing, then why are the two of you going to kill a preacher together?�
Ah, si.� He looked into the air in front of him, as if there was
some answer in the darkness. oHow do I explain? What do you call
those people in the trial, he talks to the judge?�
~A lawyer?� | asked.
oYes, lawyer. In Hell, my job is like a lawyer. Afterlife 1s. all about your
Job, you find what you do, and you do it forever. For angel, especially.�
~What do you mean, ~the afterlife 1s all about your jobT?�| flicked my
beams off and on at a car on the other side of the highway.
~Is Like, not really work, I guess. It has a reason. You are a photo-
grapher?� | particularly thought it was cool how he broke up that
word. I hummed an affirmative o#2mm-hmm� and let him con-
tinue. oYou don't do what you do for any kind of money. It has a deeper
purpose. Like you take photo-graphs because you enjoy it. Is that kind
of job. Its part of you. In Hell, I argue with different people to see
that Hell gets treated right and that everything stays in balance. Hell
gets people, Heaven gets people, and some people get oblivion. This one
preacher, he tells people all about how great Heaven 1s, and after they
die, they try to go right to Heaven, because they scared of what they
actually need to do. Gets everything all unbalance and wrong.�
~What do you mean, actually need to do?T�
Ah, you know, not everyone need to go to Heaven. Yeah, some people,
they need the punishment. They feel bad for what they been doin g. So
they go to Hell. They feel guilty, so they go to Hell. Is what's right. Other
people don't want neither Heaven or Hell, so when they die, their soul
ERIC GOODNIGHT »_ res¢ |
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kinda evaporate, like ~poof!T and they rest for the rest of all time. Some
people, they soul is small, like it has no memory, and it donT want to go
to Heaven or Hell, neither. So it evaporate. Poof! Rest forever.�
oWhat do you mean, soul is small? That doesnTt make any sense.� I
didnTt particularly think I understood any of it too well, but I was
more interested in hearing it than I thought I would have been. It
seemed like the thing to do to at least ask some questions.
oAh, thas hard.� He looked up at the ceiling, to see if his
answer was there. oYou people, when you born, you
are like blank, piece of paper with no mark. As soon as
you start to learn things, you grow you soul. Baby donT
hardly got no soul, cause it donT know enough about
living yet. When a baby die, it just rest.�
It's always bothered me a little how a supposedly loving God
would let children die and babies be stillborn. I remember this
one time, back when I was still in college, I was taking pictures
of corroded graveyard angels when I came to a strange gravestone
shaped like a teddy bear. I remember that feeling of curiosity being
smashed to jagged pieces when I realized that the grave was a still-
born babyTs. Gravestones all tell a sad story, beginning with their
owner's first day and ending with their last. I remember reading
the date through the moss oDecember 15th, 1968 - December 1 5th,
1968" and the name oRodert James Harrison.� He wasn't some kind
of accident. Those parents wanted that baby, and it died the day it
was born. He had a name, probably a crib and a nursery, with blue
clouds and yellow duck wallpaper, building blocks and the aBcTs
on a mobile. I remember not being able to take any more pictures
that day because I kept crying into the viewfinder and fogging it
up. Mr. Black might be absolutely crazy, or maybe just a liar, but
the idea of that stillborn baby being able to rest for eternity was
somewhat comforting. At least compared to the old ideas I had
been filled with, of dying; unbaptized babies going straight to Hell
to rot in damnation. Maybe it wasnTt God I had my beef with, at
least not all of the time. Maybe it was just religion.
oYou people,� Mr Black continued, oIl feel sorry
for all of you. Born to die. Is sad, you know?
Humans start torot almostassoonas they die. ItTs
first place « FICTION
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like, the only thing that keep you alive is not
being dead. Like you dead to begin with, and
you try to deny it your whole life. You know how
| say | gots no concept of time? Is kind of a
human thing. Angels can live forever. Year and
second, this is peopleTs idea. People count how
many years they have. To angel, this is no point,
you know? | been around since the Beginning,
but | could not tell you how long it has been. You
stop counting after all the time. People keep
track of how many years they have because
they- want to know how many years they have
left. It is sad, my friend. | canTt imagine the kind
of half-life people live, trying to be happy while
staring your end in the face.�
I was stunned, speechless. This was the most religious experience
of my life, and it was coming from a strange Hispanic man who
enjoys waxing philosophic while hitching rides around the West-
ern hemisphere. I spoke, barely aware of what I was saying.
.
62 oMy mother, she died today. I'm heading to her funeral.�
oTy Mama. That is sad. | thought some-
thing seem kind of sad about chu.� Me
looked at me with serious eyes in the rear
view mirror, and | looked back. oI'm sure
you Mama will get what she needs.�
And not another word was said in that tiny BMW, as we rode along
the highway, up onto the New Jersey Turnpike. Mr. Black smoked
a few cigars, and Mr. White stared out the windows, his head
cramped against the ceiling. I sat and thought about Mom.
At 7:15 AM, we had made it far enough into New York, and I
stopped at a place that reminded me of a Waffle House to call
my Aunt. Mr. Black ordered several pieces of pie, which he was
obsessed with, as you apparently can't get pie in Hell. Sometimes
you can get cobbler, but not often, he told me. I remember watch-
ing the two of them walking around the restaurant, the eyes of
everyone present staring decidedly at the hugely tall man and
his short, pie-eating sidekick. Mr. Black waved and stepped out-
side, while Mr. White lingered in the shop a moment, watching
first place « FICTION
me dial the wrong number three times before finding the right
sequence. I remember his face, and the look in his blue, blue eyes
as he removed his aviator sunglasses, looked at me and smiled.
He did not speak, but, for some strange reason, I got the strang-
est impression in the back of my mind that if he had, he would
have said, oI'll see you.� And I have no idea at all what that was
supposed to mean.
Susan spoke briefly to me on
the phone when she finally
answered after five rings. She
quickly recognized my tired
voice, and sleepily asked me,
oAre you ready to go?�
l was.
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ItTs steady rushing back into the crisp salt-encrusted womb fills me
| want to swirl into myself, become a shell, a pearl, a tiny grain of red sand
A barnacle
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or the vertebra of a fish
Then, with a cold slide I would slip
Into the ocean that sounds like the first heart beat I remember
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AAAS RAIS Ss i eH hss st ER
She is wild and bitter, beautiful with salty glitterings
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hurled away into the deep wet night
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| best composition .
| | LUCIAN COBB »_ ain't meant to be
best le) gele| eerie)
ART LORD & THE SELF-PORTRAITS » we're in the same bubble baby
agles-june) aii ato)
STUART MCLAMB »_ rock rocket
avolatolacle)l=Maat-talsieya
LAURA HARSANT » untouched
tracks
I. LUCIAN COBB » ain't meant to be ,
2. ART LORD & THE SELF-PORTRAITS » were in the same bubble baby
3. STUART MCLAMB & WYATT YOUNG » rock rocket |
4. LAURA HARSANT » untouched
5. ART LORD & THE SELF-PORTRAITS » £00 many artists
6. ART LORD & THE SELF-PORTRAITS» holy light
7. LAURA HARSANT .» lucky you
8. LUCIAN COB B» bittersweet dreams
9.JEFF LAMPSON » prelude | \
IQ.JEFF LAMPSON » alli know
hy
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the same
bubble baby
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»ART LORD & THE SELF-PORTRAITS
rebel 46 staff
- EDITOR -» ryan strobl
GRAPHIC DESIGN » clay johnson es ryan sivadl
IMAGE DESIGN » jon cain
STAFF PHOTOGRAPHERS » jason mathts, laura ryan &8 justin woolverton
STAFF ASSISTANTS» Julte marco &F hannah novak |
FACULTY ADVISOR » craig malmrose
GALLERY PHOTOGRAPHER » henry stindt
STUDENT MEDIA STAFF » yvonne moye & paul wright
COPY EDITORS » paul hartley, craig malmrose £8 eva roberts
SJey-reif=| ual lal > co
michael ehlbeck » emerge gallery & staff » holly garriott
lou anne hager » greg jarrell » stacey jarrell » craig malmrose
materials management » yvonne moye » matt munoz
eva roberts » francisco souto » robert siegel » henry stindt & staff "
trade union press » paul wright
e)gele|Cleinlo)a |
PRINTING » Theo Davis & Sons
EDITION » 3000
TYPOGRAPHY » adobe caslon & trade gothic
The Rebel 46 is produced by and for the students of East
Carolina University. Offices are located in the Student
Publications Building. The contents are copyrighted 2004 by
the Rebel 46. All rights revert to the individual writers and
artists upon publication. Contents my not be reproduced by any
means, nor stored in an information retrieval system without
the written permision of the writer or the artist. Printed with
non-state funds. " :
notes
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