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REBEL
FORTY
SEVEN

NON-FICTION ®& FIRST PLACe

AMERICAN
LOSERS +

ReBeL

NON-FICTION

O LF! And surged, my feet had never known such swiftness,

@ thinking my legs couldnTt pump any faster and it was
a dream where I buck a wind, going nowhere, full speed. The sangria,
drunk in luscious sips before I stood astride cobblestones, roiled my
gut and drained lead into my feet"bulls donTt care about trendy
running shoes, only my ass and their horns. The village, Arcos de la
Frontera, erected on a cliffTs edge that drops into a chasm thousands
of feet down, thousands of years before El Cid and Don Quixote
and sunflowers had yet to droop under the weight of progeny.
| CANNOT HELP MY CONQUERORTS STRIDE"IT DISTANCED ME FROM
THE DESERT AND HER. Blue haze broke on the distant rim where a
Roman aqueduct anchored a far shore, and the train from France

penetrated the Moorish frontier.

lhe French rail cashier had asked me if my ticket was for the
frontier. ITd flown from the American West where my family had
lived in a desert tent for over a year, and didn't know Europeans
meant border instead of a place for my father to escape the
Cong, and lose the illusion of sharecroppersT kids getting a piece
of their own. THE RELICS OF WAR BLEW ASHORE IN TROPICAL
DEPRESSIONS"my brothers and I couldnTt know our somersaults
looked like men catching mortar rounds, as rockets whistled over
the wire from bamboo battlements; we were all soldiers in the
siege. No one descended to wrestle until dawn by the bank of a dry

wash. Redemption in the shade of a rock never lasts.

he desert is wide, exposed, and someone could wander for days
fixed on the horizon arriving nowhere, emerging everywhere. In the

desert I met her, and we sucked water from cactus pulp and pollinated

blossoms under the heat and hate of adolescence. We sketched figures

in the sand, searching for why holy men hallow wastes.

ON THE MOTORCYCLE, THE CURVE OF HER BACK ARCHED BREASTS
HIGH INTO MY SHOULDERS, STRAINING FOR KISSES. IT WAS A
TRIP TO DIE ON. HEAT EXHAUSTION PREYED IN THE SHADOWS AND
WE PAINTED DIFFERENT VISIONS OF THE DAY.

+

NON-FICTION

ReEBeL

Spanish girls in American jeans danced, stomped and snapped
their fingers through summer air. The crowd raised a coliseum
cheer"like when the hometown boy sticks a dagger in the
foreignerTs throat. Colored blouses twirled in light, smiles and
winks, senoritas swirled around ringing guitar chords, castanets
clacked allegro assai staccato as satin hair blurred, drawing arcs
before the bulls. Hoof-struck stone vibrated as horns like soaring
scythes slashed through white cotton and blood colored sashes. |
wanted a café con leche and a Cruz Campo Beer, wired and altered
in a Byronic vision. THE SMELL OF BLOOD, VOMIT, AND SHIT
WAS TRAPPED IN THE STREET. | tasted the bullsT dust that hung
golden around them. When life hands you death, you have nothing

to give back.

AND THE WINNER IS"the Academy Awards played live on TV,
as we farewell fucked each other like it was the first time under
L.A. twilight, because what else were we supposed to do when
she moved out to be on her own after three years of thinking we
would never tire of the beach, and each believed it was the final
one, because it wasnTt fucking that faded. We had never married,
each our own oldest friend, and groped between the madness of
possibility and nostalgia"missing each other while sharing air.
Haze of chamomile and sandalwood rolled blue in candlelight, we
sweated the smell. Rhine wine stained sheets. Her new boyfriend
worked a counter in Westwood thinking ITm riding the high desert
horizon beyond El Cajon into the depression of Death Valley.
ItTs never said"everyone knows who the losers for best actor and

actress are.

Something romantic in the ear about Spanish frontier, yeah. The

rail station was loud with violins, guitars, steel tracks and wheels, as

backpacks and business suits, legionnaires in stiff kepis blanc, and
Euro-hippies dragging ragged cuffs fold francs for their passing
of musicians. I spent the night before on a hostelTs floor while a
Vietnamese kid squatted and beat-off to porn under a Victorian

lamp. In the morning, | dropped out a window. Postcards and

NON-FICTION

travel brochures never mention gypsies waving broken bottles,
Brazilian prostitutes, live sex shows, or street performers fucked up

on hashish, but should.

SEX UNDER THE OVERPASS " THE LAST OF THE FAREWELLS " EXQUISITE OUTSIDE
BARSTOWTS EXIT, AS FAR AS SHETD GO BEFORE | HAD TO RIDE THE VEGAS-BOUND
BUS SATURATED IN THE DARK ODOR OF WINE AND ORGASM.

[he two of us, swaddled in the red interior ~of het gray F-150,
the windshield confused with steam the defroster couldn't clear;
we talked of later, but not like when we rode, kissing through
motorcycle helmets at eighty. I hadnTt realized love had swallowed

so much. My passport, empty.

Muscles under shadowed hides, swollen offerings for the matador,
and brown skin wet from bodies are twisted and crushed"sliding
on stones splattered for traditionTs sake. Air heated, the sun an
inquisitor. A WOMAN SPUN, HANDS HIGH, REACHING HER ARMS
TOWARD THE SKY, THEN TO ME, HIPS FLAMENCO OUT OF REACH OF
BULLS AND | HESITATED AT THE PLAZA, CAUGHT BY THE GLIMPSE
OF BLACK HAIR LIKE A MIRAGE UNDER THE SPANISH SUN. Bulls and
her merged and blurred, voices twined with music"the raw rush
of hooves, the rapid tap of high heels in the open air cantina"and

| didnTt know which was more terrifying or alluring.

SURROUNDED BY FRONTIERS, CHINGALOS.

XLVII ¢

MeTAL DeSIGN

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XLVI

THE
OVERRATED
FRENCH HORN
PLAYER, AND
FRIEND

Lexie More lan

7 REBEL

POeCTRY

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the music was secondal

~

to the cascading folds of her skirt, black

ballooning, then deflating

landing paralle
as she cheated on her French horn for au
hardly evident by mouth

vet, the skirt

vave het away

\nd the token piano playel!

1 1 |
. mere fill for the French horn's cleaning:

VIGOROUSLY TWISTING AND TURNING
TUBES WITHIN TUBES

BLOWING SALIVA
LISTENING TO IT CLING AND SLIDE

AGAINST THE BRASSY INSIDES

yu 1e! ads
tumbled out, a fine team of gymnasts
onto the Ké S

ver chunky knucl! reflected

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tinted

NOT ONCE DID | SEE HER ACTUAL HANDS

OR HER SKIRT.

15

XLVII ¢

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NOT ONCE DID | SEE HER ACTUAL HANDS
OR HER SKIRT.

ILLUSTRATION

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SECOND

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as freedom is 4 Dreakrascree
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will being pay the rent of seem d
and genius please the talenrgang
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and every finger 's tow

and any courage © a fear
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* HONORABLE MENTION

XLVI ¢

ILLUSTRATION

HERMAN
MELVILLE

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ILLUSTRATION

4� x 18

| digital output

ILLUSTRATION

Ryan Kittleson

¢ REBEL

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Ryan Kittleson |

SELECTIONS

Heather Mallory

colored pencil

ILLUSTRATION

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XLVII

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23

24 POeCTRY ® HONORABLE MENTION

TEMPORAL
FLAVORS

Christopher Neal

For what itTs worth,

[ could afford to buy time

by the ounce,

gluttonously gaining

pounds and pounds of extra wait,
devouring Dali clocks

like limp globules of pasta.

In the blazing metabolism of my youth,
this larder of hours

is a horn of plenty.

[ think of poor grandfather,
clocked,

cocked but not firing,

no generations left to waste.

As we sit down to the cookout of
WHEN | WAS YOUR AGE,
well-seasoned,

The sun pushes grandfatherTs shadow
lo swallow mine,

And with eyes shut reverie-tight,

He goes on and on about the taste,
Which in his pantry of years,

He cannot seem to place.

¢ REBeL

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WOOD DeSIGN

¢ REBEL

WOOD DeSIGN

FIRST PLACE ¢

SECOND PLACe

B

WOOD DeSIGN

maple, walnut and steel

WOOD DeSIGN

PROGRESSION

Stewart Kent

o4
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all

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ash, padauk, walnut and ebony

PRINTMAKING

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36

HONORABLE MENTION NON-FICTION ( 39

CEMETERY

a OF ROSES

As I gaze across the silent sea of stone, the reality of the sorrow
of each plot overwhelms me like the chill of the uncharacteristic
breeze in the air today. I canTt remember the last time it was so cool
on an October afternoon. Each one of the stones before me was
hand-selected and carved painstakingly to match the person it
would serve into eternity. The names and dates were etched into
the marble so those left behind could never forget. Some have large
letters that grab the attention of the beholder right away; some
have small, subtle print that you must strain to read. The veterans
all have the same message: name, rank, date of birth, and date of
death"all in small print. The ones with carved pictures are the
most interesting to me because they were chosen by scanning a
book. The relative, or relatives, must have searched through many
pictures of angels, hands, or pictures of Jesus to find the exact one

that symbolized their belovedTs wedge of time.

40

NON-FICTION

¢ REBEL

HOW A LIFE CAN BE REPRESENTED BY ONE PICTURE, ILL
NEVER KNOW. HOW AN ENTIRE FAMILY COULD AGREE UPON
THAT PICTURE IS EVEN MORE INTERESTING TO ME. MY
FAMILY CANTT EVEN AGREE ON DINNER. | GUESS SADNESS
HAS A WAY OF BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER.

[his public cemetery is larger than the small family ones that |
grew up near. The cemeteries from my hometown had only fifteen
or twenty headstones out in a pasture somewhere in the country.
Salisbury, North Carolina wasn't known for its big city amenities
and the cemeteries were no different. There are hundreds of lines
of loved ones in this one, filling the flat land surrounded by a chain
fence. I look around and see only headstones. I hear the cars off
in the distance, but stones, trees, and a long fence block them. |
wouldnt be here, hidden in a dark corner of the world, if it wasnTt
for a writing class, but that glorious oA� was dangling in front of
me. It had been an entire year since I received a oB.� I would do

everything I could to continue my streak.

As I continue through the empty rows of what once was life,
one catches my eye. It is in the very back section, surrounded by
monuments with gaudy pictures and artificial flowers. oHosea
Catlin Kilpatrick 1927-1996,� is written on the front of it. THERE
ARE NO PICTURES OR CUTE SAYINGS, JUST THE NAME AND
DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH. It is composed of a gray stone
that I know would glisten in the sunlight. Unfortunately, it is a
fall afternoon, and the sky is filled with gray clouds. The edges are

smooth and formed into a perfect rectangle that looks as if it is

growing from the freshly manicured grass. The only eye-catching,

stunning detail about this particular headstone is the bouquet of
freshly cut roses"not lilies or daisies or carnations, but roses.
Bright red ones that scream love and are only given to the ones
whom you feel the most passion for. These were beautiful, almost
perfect. Each petal forms perfectly the desired curvature of a rose.
[here are no painful thorns along the stem, just smooth, sleek

stalks. All twelve seem to mirror one another in excellence.

I wonder who left them. It could be the husband she left behind,
her last boyfriend, or even the electrician she may have had an
ardent affair with. Someone loved her enough to pay forty bucks to
a florist for a bouquet of flawless flowers the recipient would never
see. I can only wish to have a love that strong in my life; five years
after her death, someone is still in love with her. My life has not
been as kind. ITm 23, divorced, and struggling to make ends meet
just so I can get an education and become a lawyer. Sometimes
I often wonder whether I made the right choice when I chose to
have a career over being a housewife. All the women in my life, my
grandmother, mother, and sister, believed I would become restless
if I only settled for love. My mom and grandma settled for love and
regretted it; they didnTt want me to feel the same way. I'm not so
sure though. COMPANIONSHIP SEEMS SUCH A DISTANT MEMORY.
I wonder if she ever had to make that decision. Did we have any
similar life experiences? Did she accomplish her dreams? Did she
have children? Her life must have been filled with joy; at least I
hope it was.

NON-FICTION (041 ||

TEXTILE DESIGN

+ REBEL

TEXTILE DESIGN (

THIRD PLACe

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FIRST PLACE * ue
| HONORABLE MENTION

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silk painting

XLVII

POeCTRY ® HONORABLE MENTION

A PRETTY
PINK.

Justin Flythe

tin to wasn
all pink because of negiis
ILL SOON FIND THAT ITM MUCH TOO OLD
FOR CHILDRENTS SONGS,

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

¢ REBEL

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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THIRD PLACe

FIRST PLACE ¢

SECOND PLACE *

XLVI ¢

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

THE DAY
AFTER OUR
LAST DAYS
TOGETHER

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Jason Mathis

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DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Jason Mathis

XLVII ¢

FICTION ® FIRST PLACe

MARY HAD

A LITTLE
THIS, WHOSE
FLEeCce WAS
WHITe AS
THAT...

elim ae ace

he decided the time had come to fess up. The charade had

Mm been going on for far too long. Ever since MaryTs sheep un

T expectedly followed her into class that historic morning,
everyone had taken to chanting that silly rhyme. Those reciting the
rhyme tended to be as fervent as a believer speaking in tongues. It
was all too intense for Mary to bear. The sprightly, spunky attitude
of her fans was no longer appreciated. These days, whenever she
heard the sing-songy rhyme, Mary felt as one would feel if they
had been inadvertently doing jumping jacks on an active fire ant

mound. It physically pained her.

This torture happened often, as spontaneous nursery rhymes
are a reflexive action whenever people come across a grown
woman in sheep herderTs regalia with a full-grown sheep in
tow. So she trudged onward, feigning a smile as best she could,
replying oYes, its fleece is white as snow!� while inside, a thou
sand venomous fire ant mandibles were piercing deeply into
her soul, spewing toxic venom. Despite the constant agony she
had to endure, she didnTt have the heart to leave her now full

grown lamb behind, even if it would cut down on the comments.

What had started out simply as a misunderstanding had ballooned
into something of Goodyear blimp proportions. Mary Ts heretofore
pure existence had diverged from the axis of truth by course of a
fashion makeover that had been carried to extremes no one could
have ever anticipated. In perpetuating the myth of her beloved
sheep, she was forced to live a complete origami of mish-mashed
half truths, crooked misstatements, and lies by omission. Where
had her life deviated off course to become the eighth level of hell
in which she found herself today? Why did she find herself in the

Malebolge being whipped by horned demons~



FICTION 57

58

FICTION

REBeL

Like all lies, MaryTs fib started out benignly enough. In fact,
some would insist her prevarication was founded out of virtuous
concern for others and should be admired. All she had wanted was
I.

What was so wrong with that? Mary was sick of having narrow

for her beloved lamb to feel accepted to feel less the oddba

categories bring her lamb such dismay. At times she wondered why
the world had to be so cruel about appearance in the first place.

In her own life, she had discovered that if she wasnTt switching

to painfully restrictive pink-laced, black corsets this week; it was
imported cyan beaded bodices the next. Neither one of these gal

ments being her first choice for comfort, but this was the price one
paid to be in good stead with style. Style was a mean master, with

no compassion for the plain, the generic, or the not-so-trendy.

This was a funny concept that people adorned themselves with
particular arrangements of fabric that existed solely to ensure that

they could snub, belittle and in general feel superior to those with

another particular grouping of fabric. How could such significance
be ascribed to something so insignificant? How was that fair? But
style did not care about respecting the boundaries of fairness o1
prudence. Style also apparently didnTt care about respecting the
boundary of species, and as cloth and dangling trinkets are used as

barometers of intrinsic value in the human world, so too, did wool.

hooves, and horns determine merit in the sheep world.

Mary was quite attuned to the resonant frequency of the sheep
world. Some were born horse girls, who could sense an impending
case of colic just from the tone of their horseTs whinny. Others stil]
were cat girls, who could surmise a catTs mood from its eyes shape

and luster, but Mary was a sheep girl. In fact, she was one of the

best. Mary knew sheep the way a bank teller might know Deutsche

mark exchange rates to ten decimal places.

| 60

+ "«

ReEBeL

FICTION

THE FIRST WORD OUT OF HER MOUTH AS AN INFANT HAD
BEEN oWLMF,� WHICH ALL HER FAMILY RECOGNIZED UNMIS-
TAKABLY AS A BADLY FORMED PRONUNCIATION OF oWOOL.�

Consequently, Mary was quite aware of just how important it was
for sheep to have othe look.� Even within her own flock this snob
bery persisted, despite the weekly talks she had with them all. Mary
would patiently explain to the flock, oI want you all to know that
itTs not whatTs on the outside that makes a sheep special, but, rather,
what you guys are like on the inside.� Try as she may to instill this

value, narcissism always seemed to have the upper hand on the
morals she preached.

T 5 ON (OO Ai AREFUT ANI ARY N¢
Cc ANTLY Si ik 10O0V AST | isi WH t
ATi ARE NOT TQ pi H O Ss. LIK VISE Hf ) MS W
\ 4 | ONDESCE il Ar > A inet ES MAT VIALE~ pay
Tut cM E | 4 i HE MA i : i U
3LIN ' ONI ISIGNIFICANT YOUNG MISCREAN Wil { R A
: : MER NNU NNUI WAS THE SHEE ERI FO! !
( HAT Tf (MED HEIR HORNS GREW LONGER. EVERY Y
1 \ YVOULD } V CLO R ' H |
ae : WH rH HE HORNS CURLED A COMI ie) FE ,

As concepts go, this one should not be that foreign to most humans:
the horn diameter and annuli served much the same purpose to the
sheep as a BMW series number does to humans. Having four-foot
diameter, full-curl, 14 annuli horns was a lot like owning a lavish
Series 760 BMW. While being a ram with three-foot, seven
annuli horns was somewhat like owning a BMW 3 Series 325i,

meaning a ram was in possession of a nice set of horns but nothing
particularly extravagant.

NERE VIEWED

BEREFT OF ANY WORTH WHATSOEVER

These Yugo-equivalent rams found themselves the frequent butt

of owether� jokes, which had nothing to do with temperature or

FICTION 61

chance of rain, but was an insidious sheep term that derided the

diminutive male as being deprived of manhood. The only problem
was that, unlike the BMW 3-Series 325i which can be had for a
little over $30,000 by humans feeling squarely on the Yugo side of
the fence, a smaller buck did not always have that option. Some
times no matter what a buck did to increase his horn girth, he was
doomed to lower social status. Try as he may, following conventional
wisdom, eating nettle on a half moon, he may remain doomed to
meager hominess.

In
the lottery that is life, sometimes a ram was stuck with a losing

ticket, having few prospects to get ahead in the social hierarchy.

But does horn size and hoof gleam really matter that much? What
about a sheepTs ideas, opinions, and inner vibrancy~ [hese were
all afterthoughts in the minds of the fashion-addled sheep masses.
lhe only thing that mattered was prestige. oWhat are the specs on
vour horns? Mine are rated at over 300 sheep power� is more or less

typical of the average sheepTs thinking process.

Marv knew of the constant one-upmanship present in the sheep
world. So, when Mary saw her beloved pet sheep alone in the cot

ner, fidgeting and nervous, she instantly understood that this was
in fact preteen depression, and not merely a case of sagebrush or
leafy spurge acid reflux. Her lamb's inability to look the same as het

peers had thrown her headlong into a debilitating depression.

WHILE ALL THE OTHER LAMBS IN THE FAMILY HAD BEEN BORN
WITH PRISTINE, RADIANT, WHITE WOOL, THE WHIMSY OF
GENETICS WOULD DICTATE THAT MARYTS LAMB ENTERED THE
WORLD SOMBRA, WHICH IS A MUDDLED MIX OF GREY AND
TAN. MARY WASNTT SURE WHY IT SHOULD HAVE MATTERED
IN THE FIRST PLACE. HER LAMB WAS OFF-WHITE. SO WHAT!
THIS HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. SHE HAD SEEN EVERY IMAGIN-
ABLE COLOR OF SHEEP, FROM WHITE TO BLACK TO BLUE TO
BLACK & TAN"AND EVEN A FEW INSTANCES OF SPOTTED
COATS, THOUGH SPOTTED COATS WERE VERY RARE.

This unique appearance was what Marvy had fallen in love with in

the first place. While still being cleaned by its mother, Mary had

XLVII ¢

[he change was not immediate; it happened over three months,
gradually, as the weekend hair bleaching sessions slowly began to
work. When the hair lightening products had finally removed every
last vestige of pigment from the wool, the result was amazing.
Che lamb simply irradiated. It literally glowed, and if the sun was
shining at the right angle on it, it became difficult to even look
at the lamb for any length of time. Former tormentors were now
fans. Overnight, MaryTs lamb had become a celebrity of sorts. rhe
lambTs coat of wool was the envy of the ewes and desire of the rams.
Despite the attention, the lamb remained grounded, never once
belittling others of lesser stature. THE LAMB NEVER REVEALED THE
ARTIFICIAL SOURCE OF WOOL ENHANCEMENT, FEARING THE FLOCK
WOULD GO BACK TO TEASING. MARY WAS QUITE PLEASED WITH
THE RESULTS AND CONTINUED THE COVERT HAIR TREATMENTS.

Mary was close to her lamb, closer to her lamb than perhaps she

was to any person. She liked her alone time in the barn with her

lamb. This was a source of much consternation for her family, as

she neglected her studies to spend time with her lamb. The lamb
was equally fond of Mary. MaryTs absence caused visible uneasi
ness in the creature.

It should come as no surprise then
that the first opportunity for escape that presented itself to the

lamb was taken.

FICTION

63

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XLVII ¢

\ Ez 68 ) FICTION

One morning as Mary and her brother walked along on the well
worn path joining their farm to the schoolhouse, they heard a
sound of shifting foliage from some nearby elderberry bushes. Out
of one of the bushes bounded MaryTs lamb. Mary chastised the

lamb,

Her brother, though, being somewhat prone to mischief, insisted
to Mary, oNo, you should take the lamb to school with you. In fact,
a lack of education among lambs is one of the main reasons they
beat their heads together like barbarians. Ignorance is just as dam
aging to little lambs as it is to people.� This seemed to make sense
to Mary in some queer way, and she agreed to begin the lambTs

education that very day.

ARRIVING AT CLASS, MARY REALIZED THAT HER TEACHER, MRS. KIMBALL,
WOULD NOT APPRECIATE HAVING FARM ANIMALS IN THE CLASSROOM.
MARY PONDERED THIS A BIT AND DECIDED IT WAS UNFAIR, AS HER

) BROTHER WAS USUALLY ALLOWED TO COME TO CLASS. SO, MARY
) COVERED THE LAMB WITH HER SHAWL, REALIZING THAT IT WOULD STILL °
) BE ABLE TO HEAR THE CLASS LESSONS. NOW HER LAMB WOULD HAVE (
: THE LOOKS AND THE BRAINS. >
Everything went smoothly for her lambTs education until Mary
| was asked to show her multiplication tables on the board. As she
) approached the front of the classroom the lamb left its bidden
| nook between MaryTs bag and the desk and skipped happily after
| her, as if to announce its newfound love of education and specifi
) cally multiplication tables. MaryTs classmates roared with laughter,
and she turned a shade of red that was almost as brilliant as her \
| lambTs shade of white.
Che following day, the incident made the local newspaper, telling of
the schoolhouse lamb invasion. Reporters were quick to jump on
the lambTs uniquely dazzling coat. The subtitle of the lambTs pho
tograph stated boldly, oThis may be perhaps the most profoundly
perfect lamb in existence. This lamb practically sparkles!� Included
at the end of the article was a rhyme written by an attending stu
aa dent to describe the lamb debacle:

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THESE DAYS, MARY WAS UNDER CONSTANT PRESSURE TO HIDE THE EMPTY
FRIEDA PACKAGING, AND SHE FOUND HERSELF A TANGLED BALL OF JITTERY
APPREHENSION. TO ENSURE NO ONE WAS THE WISER TO HER ILLICIT ACTIVITIES,
MARY WOULD WAKE UP AT AWKWARD HOURS IN THE EARLY. DAWN, AND BURN
ALL THE EVIDENCE AFTERWARDS, BURYING THE CHARRED REMAINS IN SHALLOW
TRENCHES. THOUSANDS OF THE TELL-TALE PACKAGES WERE METICULOUSLY
DISPOSED OF IN THIS WAY. HOWEVER, ALL OF THIS SUBTERFUGE " THIS
INTRICATE GAME OF CLOAK AND DAGGER WAS WEARING ON HER.

SHE CLAIMED THAT HER TRUSTY HERDER 5 1OO! WAS SOMETHING
FAMILIAR AND COMFORTABLE AND THAT MERELY HAVING IT CLOSE

BY HELPED HER TO RELAX. ALTHOUGH THOSE WhO WERE CLOSE TO

ei rh

FICTION

o111 BET YOU THINK YOU RE TOO GOOD
FOR THE RAIN THESE DAYS, WHAT WITH YOUR FAMOUS GLEAMING

COAT OF WOOL

WITH THE NEWLY RE-MINTED DARK SOMBRA COAT, THE PART OF

MARYTS RHYME STATING oITS FLEECE WAS WHITE AS SNOW WAS

NO LONGER TECHNICALLY CORRES |

FICTION

WHEN YOU GET DOWN TO

AS SNOW ANYWAY?

CERAMICS

»
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CERAMICS

HONORABLE
FIRST PLACE 7 THIRD PLACE ¢ t MENTION
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+ "" + -
* HONORABLE
MENTION

XLVII ¢

CERAMICS

THE HUMAN

vesset

Danie meyer:

CERAMICS

CERAMICS

CROSSED VASE

Ben Jensen

RHYTHM
OF NATURE

Anne Partna-Jarvis

¢ REBEL

CERAMICS

MUSICOS

Teresita Capurro

PINK RUM VASE

Gillian Parke

SECOND PLACe & POeTRY

THE FADED
RATITUDE

ustin Flythe

Shifting in my sleep, | came to memorize her perfect foreign figure.
How it was so flawlessly stretched out and how the slumber lingered
in the ceiling, up above our heads and drained into the morning,
turning us into zombies and the world outside a gory wasteland

of the living.

WE WERE MORE ALIVE BEHIND THE CURTAINS,
DRAPED ACROSS THE LIGHT AND ONE ANOTHER,

THERE IT WAS FOR CERTAIN.

XLVII

""

85

DRAWING

¢ REBEL

LESSON
IN IMPeR-
MANENC

Janie Askew_

DRAWING

FICTION ® HONORABLE MENTION

Anonymous

A GOOD PERSON

¢ REBEL

92 FICTION

world any longer. She went with me everywhere, and there was

rarely a time when you didnTt see us together.
NICOTINE HAS BEEN THERE WHENEVER | NEEDED HER.

She was there when my old Volvo finally broke down in the middle
of nowhere on the way to the beach and I had to walk five miles
to find a gas station, where they didnTt have a phone or a tow
truck. She helped me remember the six weeks I spent in Spain that

seemed to go by so fast that I didnTt have time to write it all down.

SHE PARTIES HARD WHEN I GET DRUNK, AND SHE IS THERE TO
TAKE CARE OF ME WHEN | AM HUNG OVER THE NEXT MORNING.

She was there the first time I met Angela. She was there to calm me
when I failed my first big test at college; there to celebrate when |
passed my final masterTs exam. She held me together when my wife
was having complications with her pregnancy, and she was given to

me in congratulations when my daughter was born.
SHE WAS THERE THE FIRST TIME | MADE LOVE.

She was there with me the first time I went to meet my wifeTs older
brother, in the back of the dirty old warehouse where he runs his
excavation business. She stood by my side as I watched him sip Jack
Daniel's strait out of the bottle while he talked about his business
partners who were not so interested in excavation. I longed for her
as Anthony told me that he liked me, thought I was a good person,
and would do very unpleasant things to me before he killed me
if I ever hurt his little sister. It was nicotine who had stopped my
shaking as I left the warehouse after Anthony had shown me his
collection of human teeth that he kept around in case anyone

questioned his sincerity.

She was there six years ago in the sticky heat at my motherTs
funeral, comforting me in silence while everyone else made insincere
consolations and empty promises about getting together for dinner.
Nicotine has always been there for me. She has been a perfect friend.
She knows when I am desperate for her company, and she knows

when I want to be left alone. She cheers me up when ITm sad.

FICTION

REBEL

SHE TALKED WITH MY OTHER LOVER IN HER TEETH, PLAY!

NG HER BETWEEN

HER CHERRY RED LIPS BEFORE SHE LIT UP. SHE SMILED AS SHE TOOK OFF HER

SHIRT, SLID HER TEQUILA-SOAKED TOUNGUE IN MY MOUTH

TOP OF ME AS | WAS DRIVING. THAT S WHEN I REALIZED SHE

ANYTHING UNDER THAT PINK SKIRT

| WAS BAD. | WAS A REBEL. I FELT LIKE A MAN.

AND CLIMBED ON

WASN'T WEARING

| WAS STILL EXCITED. | HAD
SOMETHING TO DO, SOMETHING COOL, SOMETHING DANGEROUS.

ANGELA WAS ALWAYS THERE WHEN | NEEDED HER

Angela apparently cannot be extinguished as readily as some other
addictions. Not only does she burn brighter, but she exercises vigi

lance in her refusal to be tamped out and tossed aside.

Showing up at the office, leaving notes and flowers and calling my
secretary 14 times in an hour. Driving by the house at all hours of
the night and honking the horn before speeding away. Pricking her
fingers and dripping blood on the windshield of my car. Following
the family when we are spending time together. Once she even ap
proached my wife in the mall and pretended she was doing market

ing research so she could ask her questions.

My wife. My wife has been beside me through all of this. Loyal
to a fault, she ignored my indiscretions and stood by me and my
unpredictable emotional state. Never a word of the late nights, the
liquor on my breath, the perfume on my clothes. When Angela
called crying the other night, my wife chalked it up to a prank. Her
smile never wavered, the tone of her voice never dropped. She has

never asked a single question.

But her silence is not so reassuring, and just because she hasn't said
anything doesnTt mean she doesnTt know. Her support has been

unwavering but sometimes I catch her. Sometimes when she doesn't

know ITm looking, I see the look on her face. Recognition. Disap
pointment. Rage. LOYAL SHE MAY BE, BUT STUPID SHE IS NOT. SHE
GETS THAT FROM HER BROTHER.

And so thatTs why ITm here. ThatTs why ITm here covered in dust and
crouched like some flunkie in the corner of this old warehouse be

hind a backhoe that hasnTt been used in years. My hands stuffed in
my jacket pockets, fingering a pack of Camels with one and hold

ing death in the other. Because after I kill Anthony ITm going to be
dying for a smoke. I'll have one " maybe two " on my way to see
Angela, but thatTs it. ITm not saying ITm going back to Angela " I'm
not getting back with either one of them. But you see, quitting
something you love is never easy. AND AFTER ITM DONE HERE,
ITM GONNA NEED A FIX. JUST A LITTLE FIX.

FICTION

97

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XLVI

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GREAT ID@AS OF
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Brantley Barefoot & Reynolds Strother
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walt AVIAN

XLVII

= "

104 POeCTRY ® HONORABLE MENTION

DANGEROUS
DAY JOBS

Justin Flythe

Ashes from this habit sink down to the

ground like snow onto a platter,

chilled to help reduce the friction between

clashing states of matter,

into which the ~RomeoT must dedicate his

diction fully, for it shattered
upon entering the stratospheric pulley,

pulling music out of tiny bits of data,

TRANSFORMED VIA A COMPUTER
FROM CONSUMER TO CONSUMER

where itTs then turned into rumors

and applied to people's houses,

telling stories about girls and about boys and about

them becoming spouses.

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A CHILDTS
NIGHTMAR

Erica Coke

109

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janie Askew

Audrey Combs

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LAUREN

James Taylor

CALF |

Rick Mobbs

POeCTRY » FIRST PLACe

=

Natalie Ratcl

| ReBeL

POeETRY ( 115

We were once in love.

And now itTs been many nights

rhat you've been gone.

We tried being friends,

But that didnTt last long.

And although ITve been somewhat slow,

I think itTs safe to say I can finally let go.

116

FICTION ® HONORABLE MENTION

UNCATEN
BIRTHDAY
CAKE

Brandy Harman.

Me was lying on the couch again. The bottle she carried
with her all the time was snug against her body. She was

asleep again. Robert needed to eat dinner, and she was asleep. As

usual, I decided to make him something. There was no sense in

letting him starve because she didnTt want to deal with us.

I'm hungry, Betty,T Robert screamed.
~I know, ITm making you a sandwich.
~I dont want peanut butter again! We always have peanut butter.

Can I have a ham sandwich?T

Mamma hasn't gone to the store yet, and all we have is peanut
butter,T I told him. Truth was, mamma hadn't gone to the store in
a month. She hadn't even left the house in a month. Not since after
my birthday anyway. I managed to keep the bread fresh by keeping

it in the refrigerator; but, we were almost out of that too.

FICTION 117

My birthday was supposed to be the best day yet. I was turning
thirteen; finally a teenager. I couldn't wait. I had trouble going
to sleep the night before. I remember because I counted all the

squares on my ceiling three times. There were 237 of them.
oNo crust,T he demanded.

oT know.T He never liked crust. | always thought he deserved a little
something special, so I always cut the crust off the bread for him.
HE NEEDED TO KNOW SOMEONE LOVED HIM. | heard on TV
that it is essential to the growth and development of a young child's

mind. Whatever that means. I just knew it made his day a little better.

That day was going to be great, I thought. Two hours later I finally
fell asleep. When I woke up, everything was different: the air
didnTt smell the same, the sun didn't shine the same, and the water
didn't taste the same. Everything was bitter, even before I knew
what happened. I just thought it was because I was thirteen. I was

becoming a woman. Things were supposed to be different now.

oHERE YOU GO,� | SAID, HANDING THE SANDWICH TO HIM. THE CRUST
WAS CUT OFF AND | MADE LITTLE SQUARES OUT OF THE REST OF IT.
MAYBE HE WOULD FEEL EXTRA-LOVED.

oCan I have milk too?�

oWe don't have any milk, but we've got Kool-Aid. Is that okay?� |
opened the cabinet. There were only a couple of clean glasses left.
The rest were piled in the sink. I would have to wash them later.
Only problem was, we didn't have any dish soap. I guess I could use
a bar of soap from the bathroom. We had plenty of that. Mamma
and a friend of hers had gone to one of those big warehouse stores
a while back and bought enough bars of soap to last a lifetime.
Robert thought so too. He made a soap castle, and then got in

trouble but I thought it was pretty funny. The bars of soap were the

only thing we had enough of.
I didnTt want him to see the inside of the refrigerator when

I opened it. There was no reason he should be worried about what

we had or, in this case, didnTt have.

XLVII

118

FICTION

T'M A WOMAN NOW. IT WAS MY JOB TO PROTECT HIM.
| BLOCKED HIS VIEW AND POURED THE KOOL-AID QUICKLY.
My birthday cake was still in there. It had been a whole month
since my birthday, but my cake was still in there. I didn't touch it.
Somehow it didn't seem right. The cake was for a happy occasion.
| hadn't felt too happy lately. Besides, I think mold had started
growing on the back side of it. That seemed more fitting.

Hurry up! The peanut butter is sticking to the roof of my mouth,

he said, giggling. It was nice to hear laughter again. Everything
seemed dead. Maybe cutting off his crust really was working. I gave

him his drink and sat down beside him.

Arent you going to eat?� he asked.

~No, I'm not hungry.T [ could eat tomorrow at school, | thought.

[hey would let me get seconds if I wanted. I wanted to save what

was left for him to eat. I could just drink a lot of water. That would

fill me up. The TV said you are supposed to drink at least eight

glasses of water every day. At least now I| was getting enough.

I wish Daddy never would've left that day. I couldTve eaten my cake.

I dreamed about that cake. But he left, and I never got to taste it

Mamma got so mad that she almost threw it at him, but I saved it. ]
saved it for when he came back. | told him I wouldnt eat it without
him. But he hasn't come back yet. I just got to look at it. Now it's
moldy and you can't eat it anymore. If he does come back, I'll show

him that I waited. Hell be happy then. Maybe I can get a new one.

On my last birthday, he helped me blow out the candles. We
practic ed all week. oOne, two, three, BLOW!� he would say. By the
end of the week we had it down to an art. I wanted to make my
wish come true. I knew I had a whole lot of candles. He said if I
practiced, I was sure to get them all out. When it came time, he
helped me just to make sure that I did it. I wished for a new bike,
and I got it. So it worked. I just wish he couldTve done the same

this year.

| WOULDNTT ASK FOR A PRESENT, FOR ME, JUST FOR HIM.

~~

120

FICTION

oWhat are you two doing?� Mamma called out. ITm surprised she

remembered that we were here.
oRobert is eating a peanut butter sandwich I made for him.�

oShouldn't you be in bed?�

ItTs only six oclock,� Robert chimed in.

oDoesn't matter, you should go to bed,� she replied.

We had gone to bed early every night. I got my full eight hours
of sleep. Sometimes more. But I wasn't tired now. I wanted to tell
Mamma that we needed to go to the store. We could get some ham,

for RobertTs sake.
oT don't want to go to bed, Betty.�

o1 KNOW,� | TOLD HIM, oBUT MAMMA WILL GET MAD. JUST GO IN YOUR
ROOM AND SHUT THE DOOR. SHETLL FALL ASLEEP IN A LITTLE WHILE.� SHE
DIDNTT WANT TO SEE US AROUND THE HOUSE ANYMORE. SHE SAID WE
REMINDED HER OF HIM. | ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD THING.

Robert went to his room after he was done. I told him I would be in
later to tuck him in. Mamma didn't want to do it anymore and he
needed to know that someone was there for him. He seemed happy

with me doing it. It was important that he was happy.

oWhat do you want?� she said when I sat down beside her. She was

very scary. She was mad a lot lately, and I didnTt want her to get mad

again. Last time she broke my crystal rocking horse, my grandma
gave me. She stays in the home for old people, but somehow every
year she manages to send me a rocking horse. They always meant
so much to me. This one was my favorite out of the collection. I got
one every year on my birthday. The crystal one was from this year. |
was getting older, grandma had told me, and I deserved nice things.

But Mamma broke it.

She used to be happy and nice, too. SHE WAS NEVER THE JUNE
CLEAVER MOM THAT WAS ON TV LATE AT NIGHT, BUT SHE WOULD
DO FUN THINGS WITH US SOMETIMES. One time she took us to the

store and let us pick out anything we wanted. She said that Daddy

had gotten a raise and Robert and I were doing so well we deserved
something special. I wish she could be happy again.

oI, I just wanted to ask if I could have some money so I could go to the
store. Robert wants to have ham sandwiches instead of peanut butterT

oRobert's a kid. He'll get what I give him.T

oWhat I give him; I mumbled softly. But it wasnTt soft enough. An
instant later I felt the back of her hand against my jaw and a big
WHACK sound went with it.

oDon't you disrespect me like that! I had enough of this familyTs
disrespect from your father,� she screamed.

o) DIDNTT MEAN TO DISRESPECT YOU. | JUST WANT TO LET
ROBERT EAT SOMETHING GOOD.�

oHe deserves what your father deserves, nothing!�

oThatTs not true. We're still here for you,� I yelled at her.

oYou're only here because your father didnTt want you. I got stuck
with you two.�

oHe does want us. He does!�

oIf he wanted you, then why would he have left you here?

oHe's gone off to be with his new girlfriend, and he left us behind
because we're not important anymore. You don't believe me? Here,
just read this.� She pulled a letter from her back pocket and handed
it to me. The paper was soft and the edges were torn. | hesitated at
first, but I knew I had to open it.

I read it slowly, careful not to miss a word. oI'm sorry, | can't stay.
Things have gotten so off track. I hope you can understand. I love
the children, but I canTt be tied down anymore. It's just too much

responsibility. I'll send some money when I can. Take good care of
them. Will.� So it was true. She was telling the truth, for once. He

wasnt coming back.

1 couldn't look at it anymore. I threw the letter back at her. I was
always his favorite. How could he not want me? My eyes began to

FICTION

121

122

FICTION

well up, and I was blinded by my tears as I went into the kitchen.
| wiped them away with the back of my hand and sat down at the
table. She was right, I thought. He wouldn't have left us here so
long if he was coming back. It all made sense now. I felt the anger
and hurt from the past month fill up inside me. Fine! If he doesnTt

want me, then I donTt want him either.

| pulled my birthday cake from the refrigerator and threw it in the
trash. He didnTt deserve to see that I didnTt eat it without him. He
didnt deserve to have me love him. I didnTt have anyone to love me
now, but thatTs okay. I donTt need love. I could do just fine by myself,

as long as Robert knew that he was loved.
HE WAS JUST A KID. KIDS NEED TO FEEL SPECIAL.

I decided to go to bed. In my room no one would bother me. |

didn't even change my clothes. I just crawled into bed. | pulled

the covers up over my head and tried to disappear from the world.
It didnTt work. I heard the door squeak, then the light footsteps
of Robert as he came into the room. | forgot to tuck him in. He

probably just wants me to tuck him in, I thought.

Betty,T he said as he poked me in the side. I tried to ignore him. |

just didn't want to deal with him right now.

oBetty!�

oWhat,� I snapped.

o1 WANTED TO COME TUCK YOU IN TONIGHT. YOU SHOULD BE
TUCKED IN SOMETIMES TOO.�

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XLVII ¢

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SCULPTURE 127

128 SCULPTURE

| James Davis
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THE GROWTH

Heather Ivy

SCULPTURE

XLVII ¢

129

NON-FICTION ® SECOND PLACe

LAURA

Ugo Corte

Ok, this ainTt no Hemingway, but it is locally bred and sincerely felt.

Laura 1s crazy.
BUT WHAT IS THE MEANING OF CRAZY, ANYWAY? HOW DO
YOU UNDERSTAND IT?

| mean crazy-good: spontaneous, unconventional and as she says,

a bit neurotic! She is not random, or strongly mentally ill. She is

just full of energy, enough to reply to my suggestion of driving

NON-FICTION 131

down to the beach after drinking all night in a club, with a simple
and unexpected: oLet's go!

fo which I replied, oNo thanks, maybe tomorrow

She is an artist, and her house looks like an explosion of ideas: past,
future, or never-to-be projects. She is living in a mess even though
she has cleaned twice this past week. At times, she may uncons¢ iously
claim that she has better things to do than keep her space tight-up

and I may actually believe that, since | am a mess myself.

LAURA IS DOWN TO EARTH BUT AT THE SAME TIME UP IN THE SKY. SHE
CANTT SEE FAR, BUT SHE CAN SEE THROUGH. SHE IS USUALLY HAPPY,
HIGHLY INTROSPECTIVE, AND BECAUSE OF THIS SHE MAY BE ABLE TO
SUFFER MORE THAN OTHERS.

Laura stinks of chemicals because she is devoted to what she is
doing. If you want to hang out with her you have to cope with it as

you would a friend who has a stinky dog.

Annabelle is LauraTs stinky dog and besides this commonality with

all other dogs, she is also hyper and sweet.

Laura takes photos with the same ease and finesse as | push on my

skateboard, and she does it just as often.

When she talks to people, she always seems to know ~what's up,
even when she may in fact not have a clue. She is ~fired upT and
full of charisma; as Ugo likes to say: oShe is screaming life and

rious!�

4

highly contag

LAURA IS VERY ATTRACTIVE, AND NOT JUST BECAUSE OF
HER BODY DIMENSIONS.

The reason for her success rests in what people cannot really

understand, but can surely notice: thatTs something more than you

can acquire by trying.
rhe wav she carries herself around with wide open eyes behind her

round glasses tells she is ready to communicate, and she also has

something to say.

XLVII ¢

"

132 NON-FICTION

Laura looks good in nice, long, flowered skirts, but she hates to be

called a hippie. Lately, she has been seen sporting a yellow t-shirt

saying, I rock, with the stylized picture of the singer from Bad

Brains, a legendary hard-core band from the Eighties.

[his past weekend we drove to the beach and she surfed three o1
seven waves standing up. That was the first time she messed around

with a foam board, and evidently, she may also be a fast learner.

This, of course, depends on whether or not she likes the activity
she may be confronting; just like anybody else. Have her do math,

and she probably wonTt move a square.

Enthusiasm, determination, and a good physical push from me
helped her to pass the white waters on a choppy, four-foot-wave

day, and finally reach the lineup.

When there, I helped her to late-drop down the first wave of a set
and suddenly I lost sight of her. I thought she drowned. After a
few minutes that lasted longer than the usual ones, I noticed the

silhouette of her body four hundred or so yards down the coast.

She was g

etting out of the water and about to lift the heavy long

board we managed to get permission to use, and walk up the coast

where she would have soon after tried to paddle back offshore one

more time. Nobody was out since it was too windy and rainy. The

waves were good and our day was great. \S WE stepped into het

car, we put on the few dry clothes we could find and hit the road.
While driving back home, we played loud music, sang loudly and

|

consciously out of tune; we both felt good.

LAURA IS COOL.

~ o =e
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PHOTOGRAPHY

¢ REBEL

PHOTOGRAPHY

: FIRST PLACe ¢ THIRD PLACe

* SECOND PLACE

XLVII ¢

Laura Ryan

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PHOTOGRAPHY

SUITCASE #1

Lexie Moreland

ReBeL

TWO SIDeS
TO EVERY
STORY

XLVI ¢

139

" "

""_""

FICTION ® HONORABLE MENTION

SCENE
FROM THE
LeMONTROS

Lexie Morelan

| was standing there. In the paisley carpeted hallway, comprised of
forest greens and burgundies. I stood splitting my body and sight
before a curtain that separated the living room and the bedroom
his hotel suite. I pressed my small back against the wall, and my

spine grated against the eggshell color.

[ dug my toes and feet into the thick, forestry threads, crushing any
chance of a miniature population living within the carpet. I cracked
the knuckles of my toes and they sounded in echoes, fading into
quieter snaps as | reached my pinky toe. I laid my head back against

the wall gently, and closed my eyes, trying desperately to separat«

destiny and reality.

¢ REBEL

DESTINY BOY AND REALITY BOY, BUT THOSE NAMES

SOUNDED LIKE SUPERHEROES.

fo my left, in the room

}
DOY

body. ly stead Ol De S

sheet Instead of Reality Boy

lo my right, in the bedroom, a bed: a
comforter. Swirling and encompassing his

0, I'll call him the Bedroom Boy

[| held cold metal to my ear, busying myself

brown cropped sweatpants sagg

snugly between my shoulder and ear, re-tyi

Ins

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a pullout couch, a boy and a thin w

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with the phone

xed On my hips and | held the phone

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nite

Pll call him the Pullout Couch Boy.

pillow S

My

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the waist. | GOT PRETTY NERVOUS BETWEEN THESE SAID BOYS.

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FICTION

XLVII

141

,

142 )

a |

FICTION

REBeL

creating a huge starred wrinkle in the bed. Shh. Only a curtain

separated our sound from the room with the Pullout Couch Boy.

He nodded. Bedroom Boy would be quiet with me. The curtain
swayed, and I let the starry wrinkle disappear. For some reason |
ducked; I thought about a hearse with painted flames and how eggs

are cooked differently.

PULLOUT COUCH BOYTS DREAM, IN TIME WITH BEDROOM BOYTS NIGHTMARE:

SO SHE BREATHED. A BREATH LIKE HER TIRED LUGGAGE. BOUND ON THE SHAGGY
FLOOR OF THE HOTEL SUITE. FLOORED. IT LAY OPEN. EXHAUSTION DRIFTED
UP, IN THE FORM OF SCENTED CLOTHES. UNWORN BUT WORN. SO WORN.
RIGHT NOW, SHE ONLY WORE THIS SKIN. HER SKIN, HE THOUGHT, SEAMLESS.

He imagined, no, in his dream she was imagining as she slept beside
him on the couch. Herself, waiting for her red bag to drop at the
claim. He wondered how he could hear her imagination in his dream.
Watching each bag fall. Sliding down stainless, textured steel. He slid
his hand down the indent of her hip. A small red bag, one she thought
prior to be colossal, fell gracefully on the conveyer. His head was
spinning. Bags spun. Her bag looking small and indecent against the

monster brown luggage. Monsters. Maybe under beds at hotel suites.

She was grabbing handles " he grabbed her wrist. Making a fist.
Fingertips overlapped. Unsure she liked that. She stirred. Stirring
but knowing. Like the woman. Walking provocatively with the
monster brown luggage. An alluring balancing act. Sides swaying
to the weight of each. He lost his breath in a smoking lounge. One

that this woman may have passed.

A hush fell over Pullout Couch BoyTs once harsh breath. Pullout
Couch Boy opened his eyes from his dream and loosely let his
eyelids close again. Seeing that I wasnTt there beside him, knowing
that he was sleepy and dreaming, dismissing the true to be false.
SCANTRONS AND BUBBLE SHEETS. A or B. He thought...

Perhaps she unpacked her disposition. He dreamt she lay on the

pullout couch next to him. He watched her clothes fall neatly in

"

FICTION 143

dressers, thev even fell neatly on the floor. Folded. Clothes and

knees. Her knees folding tight. Abandoning the pain for pressure.

Her suitcase floating high with his hopes. He joined her in un
packing her clothes. He put them where he thought they should be.
And stay. He grabbed her sides wearing gloves. Gloves from her

bag. Black with pink embroidery.

BEDROOM BOYTS NIGHTMARE:

HE PRESSED HIS MOUTH ON THE GLASS. PUSHING OUT STEAMY BREATH, HE
FOGGED THE VIEW OF THE GLOVES IN THE CASE. SHE WOULD LOVE THEM, LOVE
TO COVER HER HANDS. HE WOULD HAVE TO BE QUICK. AND GET TO BAGGAGE
CLAIM. SHE WAS TRAVELING BACK FROM SOMETHING IMPORTANT.

Stainless textured steel reflected highlights in his eyes. He watched
the bags move, slowly but steadily conveying. One by one, a
different color and size. Canvases and soft or shiny leather. A childTs

yellow pleather suitcase fell on its side. He caught a glimpse of her,

standing, ringing out nervousness from her hands, between some
monster brown bags. She waited for the red bag. And so did he. He

crouched, then and waited patiently for the red bag.

[he bags floated up and then back down, casting shadows like
silhouettes against Aztec-inspired curtains, but he shook his head
at them, gripping the black and pink satins in his hand. He smiled

at the silkiness of them, thinking of her hair tickling paintings.

lhe red bag presented itself, and quickly he grabbed it. Tumbling
down to the cold salmon and turquoise linoleum tiles, tiles he had
been waiting on. He stuffed the gloves in her red bag, and they hid

in her side compartment.

He waited for the gloves, and her hands, in his once sweet dream.
lurning into a nightmare, when he slid back the curtain in his
hotel suite at the sound of satin on skin. A slick and uneasy sound.
His eyes narrowed to deciphet the specs of the scene linked with
the sound. Sounds of undeserving and oversized hands wearing

satin, on the skin he deserved.

XLVII ¢

144 FICTION

BEDROOM BOY LIKES HIS EGGS OVER EASY. PULLOUT COUCH
BOY LIKED HIS SUNNY-SIDE UP.

MY PREFERENCE IS REALLY INVALID.

¢ REBEL

146 SUPPLEMENTAL CD

1. PORTRAIT OF A GIRL Laura Ryan

2. YET UNKNOWN Laura Ryan

3. BAPTISM James Taylor

¢ REBEL

SUPPLEMENTAL CD (| 149

AUDIO

eine eae So
2 =

150

¢ REBEL

STAFF 47

EDITOR

Jason Alexander

ART DIRECTOR

Patrick Jones

CONCEPT & DESIGN
Jason Alexande1
Jessica Duensing

Brett Hartsfield

Patrick Jones

FACULTY ADVISOR

Craig Malmrose

EXHIBITION
PHOTOGRAPHER

Henry Stindt

Photographic

STUDENT MEDIA
STAFF

Bill Clutter
Yvonne Moye

COPY EDITORS
Chandra Cerutti
Craig Malmrose

Lisa Beth Robinson

ILLUSTRATORS
Janie Askew
William Burkert
Brie Castell
Lauren Harbison
Antonio Martinez
Lexie Moreland
Charity Valentine

Lorna Wang

XLVII ¢

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152

¢ REBEL

UDGeS

VISUAL ART

[odd Coats
Lynn Ennis, Ph.D.

Jamie Kirkpatrick

LITERARY

Chandra Cerutti

Thomas Douglass

Rodger Schlobin

MUSIC

Sarah Siskind

Bill Clutte1 Yvonne Moye
Emerge Gallery & Stafl Matt Munoz

lohn Foust Eva Roberts

Holly Garriott Crispin Prebys
Greenville T\ \pplianc Lisa Beth Robinson
Lou Anne Hodgi Starlight Cafe

lrish Hayes Henry Stinat
Aspen Hochhalte1 [heo Davis Sons
Molly Leonard Carl Twaro:

Craig Malmrose Uppercrust Bakery
Maria Modlin Stephanie Whitlock Dicken

lhank vou to all friends, family and colleagues not mentioned.

XLVII ¢

¢ REBEL

154

XLVII ¢

PRODUCTION

PRINTING

PBM Graphics, Inc.

EDITION
3000

PRESS

Komori Lithrone 40" 6-color sheetfed press

STOCK
Sapp McCoy Silk Cover 120#

Sappi McCoy Silk Cover 1004

Sappi McCoy Matte Text 80#

TYPE FAMILIES
\dobe Minion
FF Meta

COPYRIGHT

lhe Rebel 47 is produced by and for the students of East
Carolina University. Offices are located with Student
Publications in the Self-Help Building. The contents
are copyrighted 2005 by the Rebel 47. All rights revert
to the individual writers and artists upon publication.
Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor
stored in any information retrieval system without the
written permission of the writer or the artist. Printed

with non-state funds.

+ REBEL
|

Kirn
NON
wOn>
QED
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