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7 rebel 55 is a modern tribute to the retro, lively
3 past of the seventies"all while highlighting
the award-winning work of the student artists
and writers of east carolina university.

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ceramics
cinematic arts
dance

digital photography
documentary film
drawing

fiction

graphic design
illustration

metal design
mixed media
music

non-fiction
painting

poetry
printmaking
sculpture

textile design
traditional photography
wood design

best of show

judges

staff

production notes
special thanks
copyright

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marcus hardy
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Bw? | fiction

a woman's war with happiness
erika dietrick
fiction

Sharon Petersen was blessed. She had the ability to coax
a smile out of everyone she passed while walking to New
Richmond High School every morning. She blushed

as she turned the heads of lustful men, walking taller
with her head facing straight ahead, expressionless.

She breathed a sigh of grateful relief when authority
overlooked her as a suspect of delinquency. Witha
single, personable conversation, Sharon could get
exactly what she wanted.

Sharon was born with the bequest of beauty.

Her light brown hair shone with glimpses of gold,
the only remnants of her blonde childhood mane. Her
eyes were a deep, emerald green that reflected the envy
of her female peers. Her long, shapely legs were toned
in all of the right places and always free of any body hair
that might conceal the perfectly smooth, cream color
of her skin. She had two dimples that all of the elderly
women crowed over, and she strutted with the womanly
curves that all of the men adored.

She was the Breaker of Hearts, the Turner of Heads,
the Fallen Angel from Heaven. Sharon was the girl that
other girls loved to hate.

However, as seems to be the curse of all beautiful
women, Sharon was troubled with insecurity. When her
girlfriends came to her house for a sleepover, Sharon
would wait until the cloak of night hid her worrisome
but wrinkle-free face to fish blindly but subtly for
compliments.

oI can't ever find sunglasses that look right on my
face because my nose is so big...� she would whine in
that way that only teenage girls do.

oYou're crazy!� her best friend Mary would exclaim.
oYou have the perfect-sized nose! At least your nose
doesn't point up like mine...you could pull off any type
of sunglasses, trust me.�

It was true"Sharon could not help but feel sorry for
Mary when her eyes met the roll of her stomach or her
overly square face. As insecure as Sharon was, she knew
she was superior to Mary.



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o4 | fiction

Sharon had the pick of the lot when it came to boys
at her school. Stout and muscular, tall and lean, short
and tan, black or white. They were all enraptured by
the exquisite symmetry of her face, the effortless ease of
her loveliness. She was their favorite cheerleader, the
one they hooted and hollered about in the locker room,
the one they made obscene references to.

She set her eyes on thirteen different boys during her
high school years. She hung off their arm as a trophy
and went to all of their football and basketball games
wearing a homemade t-shirt sporting their last names.
She gave them everything they wanted in the hopes that
they could offer her the one thing she needed in return:
love of herself.

Every late night phone conversation centered around
her insecurities. In her small voice, oYou haven't really
been complimenting me lately... is something wrong?�

oNothing is wrong,� Danny, Mitchell, Corbin, Alex,
Juan, Jake, Will, Clark, Ryan, Jason, Jordan, Landon, and
Beau would reply, oblivious to the approaching storm.

Sharon would lie on her bed, one arm wrapped ina
death grip around her blue pillow, the other smashed
between her cell phone and her mattress in an attempt
to catch every word. oDo you think ITm beautiful?� she
asked in an innocent whimper.

oOf course,T the thirteen boys would calmly reply,
still oblivious to her fragile state of mind. Then the
waterworks. The barely audible, muffled sound of a
girlTs tears. SharonTs tears washed over her in a vain
attempt to cleanse herself.

She ended each relationship for the same reasons:

oYou donTt pay enough attention to me, ITm

always lonely.T

oT just feel like you donTt pay attention to my feelings.�

oWhenever I get upset, you don't seem to care. You
don't even try to make me feel better.T

oT feel like youre only with me because you think
ITm pretty.T

The search for the coddling, emotional boy
would continue, but she never found someone who
understood her woes, who eased her suffering.

oYou're blessed,� SharonTs great-grandmother would
coo in a raspy voice at Christmas. oLook how sheTs
changed, Edgar! Sharon, you just get prettier and
prettier every time | see you, dear.T In between the egg
nog and the pictures, SharonTs relatives seemed to crawl
out of the woodwork from across the country every
holiday and notice her pleasant figure, her cherubic
face, her luscious waterfall of hair.

Sharon would smile. oThanks,� she squeaked in a little
girlTs voice. All she could ever say to the relatives she
barely knew but had to love was a distant othank you.�

The leaves changed colors, and so did SharonTs skin.
The leaves fell, and her hair fell out. The wintertime
snow hid the flaws of the dead grass and the muddy
earth, and Sharon adorned her face with inches of
make-up to conceal her growing list of imperfections.
Boys of all ages sensed the years under her make-up,
so they stopped staring. She lost her ability to sweet
talk, oor did I ever have it?� She wondered. She saw the
beautiful women in Cosmo, on billboards, on t.v., and
wept for her loss.

Sharon battled with her mirror first thing in the
morning every morning without fail. She stretched
and tugged at her skin to smooth out her wrinkles, and
wailed when gravity stretched and tugged at her skin
so that it sagged unbearably. She penciled in her eyes,
colored her lips onto her face, dyed her hair.

She tossed and turned in sweaty bed sheets at
night, unable to banish the thought that she was
no longer special, that she no longer had a purpose.
One night, she pressed a pillow to her face and sent a
bloodcurdling scream into the depths of its feathers:

olM NOT BLESSED! 1M NOT BLESSED IM
NOT BLESSED ITM NOT FUCKING BLESSED!!!" Her
hopeless sadness transformed into a fit of anger. She
flung the covers from her glistening, wrinkled body and
stormed to her closet. When she yanked the door open,
a beach ball and three pairs of jeans came tumbling
down. She knelt down and dug through the bottom of
her closet until she found what she was looking for: her
yearbook from senior year. Her anger reaching its peak,
she thrust open the cover of her yearbook and flipped
clumsily through its pages until she found her picture.
Although the photo was in black and white, the dark
shades of gray in her hair and in her lips painfully
reminded her of the color, the pigment, she once
had. Her high school eyes shone as they gazed at the
camera"no, they seemed to be staring through the
camera at something else in the distance. They were
beautiful, no doubt, but they were unarguably
sad and terrifying.

To the right of her picture, a boy had written the
word ohot� and drawn an arrow to her picture in his
unsteady chicken scratch. Sharon grabbed an ink pen
from her desk drawer and crossed out the all-defining
word. Then she drew in her wrinkles"around the eyes,
deep in the forehead, around the lips from where she
had picked up smoking. A single tear rolled down her
cheek and fell onto her destructive artwork, smearing
the black ink so that it blackened the right portion of
her face.

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90 | fiction

Sharon remembered that the same boy had written
onot� next to her best friend MaryTs picture. She flipped
to the oT� section of the yearbook. Mary Tippett. She
studied the face of her ugly best friend. Ex-best friend,
she thought to herself. Mary had been too dorky
and ugly for Sharon to continue being friends with
her. Next to her picture, Mary had written her phone
number oin case you ever lose it.T

She flipped through the senior class pictures and
found various boyfriends she had. oYou know... these
guys aren't really that good-looking,� she thought as she
peered at the faces of 18-year-old Mitchell, Jake, Clark,
Will, Alex, and Corbin. Each boy posed with his own
cocky version of a half-smile.

It was painful for Sharon to see their pictures and
remember where all of them were now. Over the years,
she had caught up with her ex-boyfriends at high school
reunions, grocery stores, hospitals, the park. She had
befriended all but Ryan on Facebook and was able to
watch their transformations as they journeyed
through life.

Alex and Will were both orthopedic surgeons with
beautiful families. Danny hosted his own radio show,
Gio4, and was a local celebrity. Jason had gone on to
law school, and Jake had joined the Navy and earned
a Purple Heart for his work in Afghanistan. Clark
was a standup comedian and husband to a gorgeous
Philippine woman. Corbin did years of mission work
in Africa before deciding to become a priest. Mitchell,
Landon, and Beau had begun MLB Gaming, a company
that focused on creating video games for kids ages
5-12. Juan was the proud owner of the most popular
restaurant in Cincinnati, Mi Familia. Ryan was a
poor but happy and respected teacher at an inner-city
school. Jordan had died of cancer fifteen years ago after
publishing several fiction novels.

Unattractive and successful. Unattractive and happy.
Unattractive and feeling attractive anyway.

Upset and hopeless, Sharon decided to turn to her
old standby. She turned back to the oT� page, pulled
out her cell phone, and dialed MaryTs number. Sharon
had not spoken to Mary in over forty years.

Wrong number. Of course, Mary would have
changed her number by now, she thought. After a quick
search on Google, Sharon discovered that Mary was
the owner of SweetPops Bakery in Columbus, Ohio. A
phone number was listed for the bakery, and Sharon
quickly dialed it.

It went straight to voicemail, saying that the bakery
was closed. ITm losing it, Sharon thought as saw it
was 4:12 am.

cm

A week later, Sharon was waiting anxiously at a
table at DunkinT Donuts. She checked her cell phone,
worried that Mary had decided not to come, and when
she looked up Mary was walking through the doorway,
scoping out the restaurant.

Sharon waved at her and flashed her once
supermodel smile, showing her new dentures. Mary
gave a small smile of recognition and walked to
SharonTs table.

oHi, Sharon. ItTs nice seeing you again. ItTs beena
really long time,� she said stretching out her arms.
Sharon embraced Mary, a symbol of long lost
friendship reunited.

oTtTs great seeing you again, too, Mary! I knew I just
had to talk to you. ITve been so lonely,T Sharon said.

oWhat are you doing these days, Sharon? Where are
you living?� she asked.

oOh, you know, just been teaching home ec. to
freshman at New Richmond. I love young people"it's
really the only reason I teach. | can assure you itTs not
for the great pay. I still live in New Richmond"I could
never leave it.�

oSharon, Jason told me at least twenty years ago that
you had quit your teaching job,T Mary replied flatly.

oWhat? How does he know that?� Sharon
asked, annoyed.

oFacebook,� Mary said simply.

oThen why did you even ask?� Sharon shot at Mary.

oLook, Sharon, I didnTt come here so you could bully
me and boss me around like you did in high school.
ThereTs no reason for you to lie, and thereTs no reason
to try to make yourself seem better than you are, even
though that seems to be an old habit,� Mary said.
Sharon pouted. oYou used to be a lot nicer. ThatTs why |
came to see you.�

oT still am nice,� Mary said calmly, oI just have more
self-respect and confidence than I did before.

People change.�

An awkward silence hovered over the table for a full
minute before Mary spoke again.

oDo you remember why we quit speaking?�

Mary asked.

oSort of...it was a long time ago,� Sharon mumbled
as she looked down at her hands. She wished she had
never called Mary. She called Mary to be comforted
and consoled, to be told that she was perfect and that
everything was okay. She wanted Mary to make her feel
better, but Mary didnTt care how she felt.

oWell, I remember pretty clearly the day that you
told me we couldn't be friends anymore. It was the day
we graduated high school. I remember how I came up
and hugged you when the ceremony was over and told

you how much I was going to miss you when you went
to Xavier and how we would have to keep in touch. And
you just gave me this...look. And you said, ~Mary, ITve
been picked on a lot for hanging out with you in high
school, and no offense, but I kind of just want to meet
new people in college.�

SharonTs jaw dropped. oThatTs NOT what I said! Why
would I say that?!�

oIt IS what you said, Sharon, and people dont forget
how you made them feel regardless of whether or not I
forgot the exact words that came out of your mouth. |
remember perfectly how I felt that day"like I had just
lost a friend because I wasn't pretty. Like a huge dork.

I felt so sad and inadequate"and angry. ThatTs how |
felt, and I promise you it wasn't because you hugged me
back and wished me luck in my future,� she

said furiously.

Sharon sat fora moment glaring at her old best
friend. Mary was still ugly in Sharon's eyes"still
square-faced and pot-bellied. But there was something
different about Mary. She didn't look so...old. There was
a glow about her that made you happy upon seeing her
face, even when she was angry. She looked passionate
and lively and...beautiful.

And that ticked Sharon off.

oSo what do you want me to do about it, Mary?�
Sharon spit out condescendingly. oDo you want me to
knit you a friendship sweater and take back everything I
did? Will that make you feel better?�

Mary let out a long, deep breath. oI swear, Sharon,
you really haven't changed a bit since high school.�

oActually, ITve changed a lot,� Sharon said.

oHow?� Mary asked.

oTTve experienced life. ITm a lot older and wiser and |
have different interests now,T Sharon replied.

oYou're still unhappy,T Mary said bluntly. She
reached across the table and took SharonTs hand in
hers. oI still really care about your well-being, Sharon.

I dont like to see you like this. You donTt do anything,
you dont talk to anyone, and to be frank, I have no idea
where you get the money to live in a house and eat.�

oWhat, did you just come here to point out that my
whole life is a failure?� Sharon interrupted.

oNo,� Mary said. oI came here to offer you some
friendly advice and bury the hatchet. And hereTs my
nugget of wisdom for you"you can take it however you
wish, and you can completely dismiss it if you want.
But what ITve always wanted to tell you and what you've
always needed to hear is that happiness comes from
within yourself"it comes from self-fulfillment and
meaningful relationships. It comes from love of yourself

58



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and peace with the world and everything that goes on
with it. And you never knew that, Sharon. In high
school you based your happiness off your looks. I know
you were unhappy back then, but not nearly as unhappy
as you are now. You were only happy if you felt pretty,

if people told you that you were pretty, if some guy was
putting his hands all over you.�

oThatTs not true,� Sharon said quietly.

oYou don't have to get defensive. I only tell you this
because I really care about you, and I think you need
to know it. You got your way with your looks, and you
got attention. That made you happy. It made you happy
to feel superior to other girls, and later on, to other
women. But a womanTs worst tragedy strikes at forty,
and fate didnTt miss your doorstep. Your looks began to
fade, and you got older"which, Sharon, youre still so
beautiful for your age. You're just not eighteen anymore.
You've come to realize that you had no real relationships
with people"only shallow companionship that relied
more on catty competition than any real bonds of trust.
You didnTt practice any hobby and couldn't care less
about your education or if you understood the world
around you. All you cared about was if the world around
you saw you, and when the world turned itTs eyes on
Sharon Petersen, it saw a shallow, stuck-up beauty
queen who was unwilling to contribute to society or
offer kindness to another human being. ITm sorry"I
donTt mean to be so harsh. But youre so much more
than your looks, Sharon. I know that you would be
great at so many things if you only looked down inside
yourself for your real passions, your real self. I know
you're not a mean person, and I know that a lot of
people are willing to love you if you only show them a
little love in return.�

Sharon sat silently with tears streaming down her
face. Mary pushed back her chair and got up to hug her.
Sharon stood up, too, and they both stood locked in
each otherTs embrace until Sharon said the three words
she had never told anyone in the whole world:

oT love you.�

n | 59



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black schwinn six-speed
michael davis
fiction

ae oAnother day, another dollar,� I tell myself as I pull
~ myself off my sweat-stained, sheetless mattress that |
found in the alleyway down the fire escape"home to
a homeless crew of former Wall Street brokers and day
traitors...traders. The window which looks out upon the
city that never sleeps has no glass in the panes. Just an
empty window to look out.

Into the shit-stained bathroom, piss dripping from
the toilet seat, a shower that spews dirty water, anda
broken faucet, I go. One look into the splintered mirror
loosely hanging from the crumbling walls, and ITm
already ready to call it a day, call my manager and tell
him I got hit by a cab or something. Got lost
in Neverland.

The cityTs streets are still alive from last night. You
could feel the city rumble as the subway stormed
beneath. East Coast earthquakes. Neon oOpenT signs
quietly begin to buzz back on, radiating bright shades of
blue and red. Cars begin to swerve in and out of lanes,
trying to squeeze by the half a million yellow taxicabs.
Like a group of salmon moving upstream, the reckless
escorts battle for position on the crowded concrete.

An old newspaper, crumpled and torn, rolls across

the road, bouncing from curb to curb like an overused
pinball. The street gutters are filled with half-eaten
sandwiches, mustard and relish-stained napkins, empty
bottles of beer, pieces of paper walked over thousands of
times, used condoms hanging out the sides of trashcans.
The sidewalk next to my apartment, cracked and
crusted over from layers of dirt and filth, leads only to
another tarnished street and sidewalk. The walkways
are beginning to fill with $500 dollar suits and leather
briefcases; designer skirts and handbags, cell phones

an extension of the ear; Mom and Dad clenching their
minions close in fear of losing them to the bright lights,
the giant faces plastered on every bus and billboard, the
dream of rags to riches.

Across the blackened concrete sea, oSilviaTs Bagel
Deli,� known for their honey whole wheat and almond
bagels, has begun boarding up their windows. oBig
AdamTs Apple,T the only place on this side of the city to
have SherfieldTs Ruby Red Apples, Arnold Farm Fresh



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62 | fiction

Peaches, and Louisiana LouTs Pink Grapefruits, looks as
though the upcoming winter may be its last. The pawn
shop two stores down is the only thing on this street
that thrives in these conditions. The rat of the animal
kingdom, feeding off otherTs leftovers and

broken realities.

As I step outside my graffiti tagged, water-damaged,
paint-peeled, window-smashed one-bedroom
apartment, the fresh smell of cigarette ashes, garbage
leakage and burning fuel wake my zombie-like body for
the day ahead. But when your'e filling shelves at a used
bookstore all day, making eight bucks an hour, who
really needs to be more than a zombie? Shelf after shelf,
used book after used book, I see my dream of being a
writer slowly overcome by dust, lodged thoughtlessly
into the bottom shelf where no one looks.

In the constant struggle and cutthroat nature of city
life, ITve become immune in my five years here to the
hopes of a postcard picture life. The magic of New York
City has long faded into the smog overcast and overflow
pollution. No longer does city-sliced pizza taste like
city-sliced pizza. Just pizza. No longer does the towering
jungle of building high rises amaze me. Just the feeling
of cold shadows and constantly over-looming doom. |
barely remember when hailing a cab or buying a hotdog
from a street vendor was affordable and new. But now
itTs just the feeling of pennies sliding around my pocket
as my six-speed and I cruise on past, into the stream.

I can feel every sidewalk crack and every sewage grate
as my black Schwinn rolls over the mini bumps on my
way to oErnieTs Used and Abused Shelter for Neglected
Books.� Like a constant game of cat and mouse, my
riding weaves through the streets, avoiding all cars and
people crossing. Between the buses filled with kids on
their way to P.S. who-knows-what, and the towering
double-decker buses with megaphones blaring at New
York newcomers about the rich history of what was one
of AmericaTs most famous cities, I go.

oAnd to your left we have ~MorrisonTs Bank and Trust,
the only bank on the block not robbed in the 1920s by
the famous New York mobster Joe Marvalli...T

oNow if you look to your right, you'll see the remains
of a purple building. The reason it is half burnt down
is because it used to be a meth lab for drug kingpin
Donald Plum...�

oStraight ahead you'll see a homeless person...T

Red light after red light, I risk my soulless life as I fly
through the intersection, not ever daring to tap the
brakes. The idea of getting hit by oncoming traffic
doesn't faze me. It would almost be a sweet release, a
smack to maybe knock me out of this trance the cityTs
inner workings have cast upon me.



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I can feel the season is slowly changing. The
blistering heat from summer is beginning to tail off,
allowing the cool breeze of fall to linger through the
cityTs maze. My jacket, brown and blue with yellow
patches, barely blocks the cold and wind from my
slender body. There have been times ITve been biking to
work and my hands and arms became so cold I couldn't
brake, forced to crash into a filled trashcan. My jeans are
the same ones I wore yesterday, and the day before, and
both days before that. Since the laundromat down the
street costs a dollar a load, recycling outfits is nothing
new. My white vans have become brown. My socks
stained pink.

Out of the street and into Louis Park, a shortcut |
learned a few years back, which cuts at least five minutes
and gives me the only joy of happiness throughout the
day. The trees fill the open lot, tall and lush, casting
branches over top the wide sidewalks. The grass full,
people sprawled out playing Frisbee with their loved
ones, having checkered cloth picnics and playing songs
from a different time. Just enjoying a morning in the
sun. The pond, blocked off by a three-foot high stone
wall which surrounds its entirety, is brown, yet cleaner
than any other city waterway. There are no dirty diapers
floating like buoys, dead bodies securely cemented to
its depths, or mutant fish colonies from digesting too
many McDonaldTs wrappers and super-sized Big Mac
meals. Just people, everyday people, throwing bread
and crackers to the fish and birds. A dad and son casting
their Walmart brand fishing rods, pretending to catch
fish fifteen times the size of the actual goldfish hanging
at the end of their lines. An old man and woman, both
with grey hair and worn and wrinkled skin, hold each
otherTs hands as they walk the parkTs path with youthful
love and admiration for one another.
| And as I was calmly pedaling, breathing in my
| surroundings and sunlight, paying more attention to
| Captain Ahab and his first mate trying to catch Moby
Dick than the path in front of me, I hit a rock. My body
lodged over the handlebars, slamming flat on my back
onto the pavement, eyes glaring directly at the sun. For
a few moments, it seemed that nothing in the world
mattered, just the pain rushing from my toes to my
fingers, all the way to my ears and forehead. For the first
time in awhile, I felt more than just the rumbling of the
subway or the cool breeze seeping through my hand-
me-down jacket.

Scrapped knees and ripped hands, broken bike and a
splitting headache, I rolled my black Schwinn six-speed
to a nearby tree and called it a lovely day.

03



cm

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puensossont

it feeds on naivety
sarah jukubowski
fiction

I cannot sleep because the government controls that too.
The government feeds happy thoughts into my brain,
and that cannot be good.

Ignorance is bliss and bliss is ignorance.

Endorphins are government work created by some
past senator, I forgot which one.

Dreams are full of endorphins and unbidden
imaginings, seeds of some planted mischief. So I do not
sleep and this planted mischief cannot grow.

My head is free, but there is contamination elsewhere.
The government controls the food. Chemicals in our
cereal, fluoride in our water. Every grocery store is a
warehouse of FMDs"Foods of Mass Destruction.

Every fast food jingle is a landmine and the government
controls the media too, the news and the commercials
and the superbowl ads.

I do not havea TV and I do not have a radio and I do
not have the internet. But still, the government finds me.

Billboards are designed to carry a message and itTs
straight from the government's hands, no
postage necessary.

They say these ads were paid for by individuals, but
all you have to do is look at the face on the bill they're
paying with to know who's really in charge.

The government is everywhere. It penetrates every
aspect of life. There is no individual, we are all playthings
of the government.

I refuse to be a toy. 1am not a chess piece in evil
hands. I close my shutters on the government and its
media. I clean my fridge of drugged food and do away
with poisoned water.

I do not wish to take part of the governmentTs mind
control. I will not sleep and I will not eat and | will not
drink. I will isolate myself in my non-secular chapel of
knowledge. I have no choice but to be a martyr for the
facts and for freedom.

I will fight against. I will hold my vigil. I will wait
on my deserted island of the individual in a sea of
government corruption. | will wait for death, because in
death there is truth.



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how to survive in college
sarah jakubowski
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1. You will need to sleep.
Sleep becomes the most important thing, a commodity
rarer than food or money.

You get stupid without sleep. You stay up late
studying, partying, or crying and then youre stupid the
next day. You learned the technical reason for this in
psychology class but now you can't remember because
you didnTt get much sleep last night.

There are several reasons why you won't get enough
sleep, ever. You may have a night job (see point 4). You
may have a roommate who has a night job. You may
have acquired a pet, which seemed like such a nice idea
at the time but you never took into consideration that
the damn thingTs nocturnal.

There is no place on campus to sleep. If you sleep ina
study room, someone will kick you out saying that some
people want to use the room for its intended purpose,
thank you. The libraryTs too bright, too noisy. If you fall
asleep in class then congratulations, you've just taken a
very expensive nap.

2. You will need to eat.

It seems so romantic, this idea of poverty, of bravely
eating ramen noodles every night. ItTs so essential
college, so struggling artist, so pioneer.

But really, it sucks. A diet of rice and ramen does bad
things to you. You wake up shaky and weak. You don't
have the energy for friends, or the gym, or to walk to
class every day.

You envy those with the freshman 15, though chances
are they're having similar problems. If you donTt want to
go the ramen route, your other cheap food choice is fast
food. Ninety-nine cent meat all the way. Traditionalists
go with McDonaldTs or WendyTs, but if you want a
cultural experience, thereTs a Taco Bell not too far away.

At the grocery store a while back, you did see some
soup on sale, so you stocked up. You were so optimistic
then, but now the cans are just gathering dust and
possibly botulism because thereTs nothing more
depressing than eating canned soup alone.

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3. You will need shelter.

There are a couple of options here. You can have a
dorm, or an apartment, ora house. Roommates or no
roommates. Pets or no pets. Whatever you choose, itTs
strictly for sleep, cooking, and storage space. Whatever
you choose, you will hate it. Maybe not all the time, but
often enough.

Most choose to live in an apartment. Houses are
too expensive and, even if youre renting, seem too
permanent. Dorms give you about 100 square feet of
personal space and trap you on campus. Apartments are
the lesser of the three evils.

Most of your actual living will happen elsewhere. A
month after moving in, the shower drain stops working,
no matter how much Drano you pour in. What was
meant to be a relaxing shower is now you standing in
luke-warm water while you try to wash the shampoo out
of your hair before the tap runs cold. You start going
to the gym just for the showers, or you stop showering
entirely.

You called your landlord about this months ago, but
he never came to fix it. Part of you is relieved. You don't
want your landlord to see the inside of your apartment,
because itTs messy, or youre illegally subletting a room,
or your boyfriend moved in because his place is even
worse than yours, or you never paid the pet deposit for
that stray you picked up, or because your roommate
turned his space into a grow room and now the whole
apartment reeks with the sickly cat-piss smell
of marijuana.

4. You will need money.

There are three legal ways to do this. You can get a
job, you can live off of financial aid and scholarships, or
you can borrow money from your parents.

Financial aid is nice, but you're too tempted to spend
what littleTs left after buying text books on fine dining,
and then have to live off of ramen and rice for the rest of
the semester (see point 2). ThereTs nothing wrong with
borrowing money from your parents, so long as they can
afford it, but you have to put up with their bullshit and
your friends thinking youre a rich prick dependent on
Mommy and Daddy.

The best guilt-free means of a steady income is to
get ajob. If you're lucky, this means some mundane
campus job as someone's secretary's assistant. If youre
not lucky, it means food service or maybe a night shift at
a gas station.

Night shift tends to pay a little better at least, which
\,°.\, will be great consolation when the store gets robbed
}\. inafewyears. You get to put up with the drunks, the

z crazies, with the underaged who get mad at you when
1 you call them out on their shitty fake IDs. You tell your
di boss to work the schedule around your 8 a.m. class and
¥ she puts you down from midnight to eight.

Your roommate gets mad at you for slamming the
door in the morning and waking her up but doesnTt
bother keeping it down later in the day when youre
trying to sleep (see point 1).

If you work a restaurant job you get paid less and get
to deal with the rude, as opposed to the creepy. You
work for tips. If you put up with the extra degradation
of being a waitress, your tips are half-decent. If you
work in a place that calls out food orders from behind
the counter you don't have to kiss as much ass, but you
get fewer tips. Your take for the day might be $3.52
which you have to divide between your ramen noodle
fund, money for cat food, and quarters for laundry.

. Luckily thereTs food you can steal. Smuggle out
.. alone green pepper under your shirt, or swipe a
breadstick and eat it in the freezer where no one can

_ see (see point 2). Fountain drinks are free for workers,
~ so you drink Pepsi all shift, figuring empty calories are
my better than no calories.

5. You must graduate.

: After four years of the shitty sleep schedule, the shitty
___ food, the shitty roommate and landlord, the shitty job,
you don the school colors and walk across a stage.

You wonder about all you did (see points 1 - 4) for
knowledge and, more importantly, the piece of paper
youre given as proof of that knowledge.

The ceremony seems ghastly. A celebration of hunger
cramps, of sleepless nights, of degradation and dirty
laundry. You're supposed to be proud of all you've done,
of all youTve endured. You walk across the stage and
they applaud you, your family and friends, but they have
no idea. You get your diploma and you step out into the
world and put college behind you. You smiled when you
walked across the stage, but you hated yourself for it.

You graduate and you hang your tassel from your
car's rear-view mirror. It hangs there as a talisman, as
a reminder of who you were and what you did for four
years. But you forget it one day and hear yourself call
college the best years of your life.

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182 | poetry

97 girl
garrett souliere
poetry

You ruined my perfect attendance

Youre an eccentric, icky EKG
From your sulfuric geyser spouts of hair
Down to your pretty little piggies

The way the heavens hit you
You've got an AngelTs Angle
But a DemonTs Demeanor

Youre as difficult to remove from my bedsheets
As the stench of vomit

You laugh at the faces of guys

Who wear Don't Eat the Yellow Snow t-shirts

You'll mount any flaming gryphon or fraidy-cat caterpillar
But youre bones curl at the thought of ladder heights

You area 97 Girl

A degree cooler than the rest of us

A decade away from these mere mortals

And if I talk to you again it will be in all capitals

My toes are trenched in this beach

and youre the tide that weathers me

Whether I try to leave my feet are soaked
Wherever I go ITm glued with these grains of sand

When I showed you my favorite songs

I didn't even sing along

We had the chance to be the Third Rome
But we blew it into a gratuitous Vesuvius

We became an abandoned shopping mall
That we'd revisit for rushed meals at Moes
Go back to the hushed library drives

ThereTs a diamond rubber band around us

When you're bored you like to play games
but you have a Monopoly on this Operation
ITm a washed up gumshoe with no Clue
ThereTs a one-way mirror between us

And you can't see what I do

They say that seasons change but people do
I doubt that we ever will

There is one thing I know to be true

With her I wither



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134 | poetry

dark jellyfish
nathan black
poetry

Blurred silhouettes let out pinched tones through waving arms
And under legs.

The crowd flaring, as bright lights and brighter sounds

Shake the air,

A dark jellyfish swims toward the ceiling.

Grab my arm,

I'll never let you go

Until the song is over.

Ask me what I do for work?

I'll bet ITve forgotten.

Something has expired here.

Can't put my finger on it.

It smells like sweat and shamelessness
And I'd like to think itTs misery.

But if I hold my breath I might just
Forget to breathe.

What we wish for most is for our

Feet to jog in place

And they do.

That gel in your shoe bursts on the floor.

That scarf made from the blanket your grandmother gave you
Comes undone.

Smeared diet soda droplets dried on a black jacket
White-washed in organic transitions.

You silly-headed fool.

Dance all you want.

Savor that hope that bubbles and floats

So preciously.

Youre not getting off that easy.

Dont dare walk away.

If you're shy that girl will pull you back

No control in her laughter, and

Hopped-up on her umpteenth drink.

No need to wonder if she likes you or not.

3:45 seconds of uninterrupted concern for self-consciousness.
Let the artists cry.

TheyTve been waiting all day for this.

If you're looking for love, letTs just say

We'll give you the next best thing:

No questions.

Move the way you've always wanted to.

We're already doing the same.

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Everyone's eyes sparkle a little more
Move a little closer.

Imperfections masked,

SheTs all yours.

Dont ask if itTs real or not.

We'll get to that later.

That thing behind your eyes

Yes thatTs your soul, and behind that

A heart that mends in moments.

Malady waits outside,

So close to the ground.

Pigeons clump in corners high above the street.
We hide like them,

Not in shadows of brick

But on display for window shoppers.

Enough trash lays about the floor

Like a hundred hats that fell to earth.
Courtships have just begun

Now use that lawyerTs tongue.

Playing kiss and tell me more

About what you think of those people
Over our shoulders

Pushing to put them under thumbs.
That last drink is looking like three more.
After that, then we can go

Somewhere warm

Talk it over coma splices

And oummmmTs�

And oI donTt know how to put this,�
We'll understand it all before you say
A word.

Every word.

And that girl you danced with,
Well she went home early.

But that was fun,

Wasn't it?

Yeah,

Yeah it was.

186 | poetry



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8 | poetry

the moth
sterling lieske

poetry

Your body breathes the tiniest heaves
and mingles with the light you bathe in,
You dip and shift and still persist,

on reaching your glowing haven.

Wooly wings with watching eyes,
fresh from your cotton cocoon,
an orphan child and often wild
is the heart that light consumes.

You, a runaway, burnished in night,

like a woman with sultry charms,

still stumble wings wide towards a diner light,
scarcely a surrogate for a motherTs arms.



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visual art dan black
a owner and graphic designer
nk strategic marketing and design

gina COx
afa instructor
pitt community college

patrick leger

domestic and international illustrator
bfa in painting and drawing

east carolina university

literature liza weiland
fiction editor
north carolina literary review
associate professor of english
east carolina university

dance patricia pertalion
retired professor
school of theatre and dance
east carolina university

music noah holmes
music and sound engineer

198 |



cm

lee

cm

editor

student staff

faculty advisor

photography

student media

film crew

copy editors

kayleigh schnackel

evan fernandes
elizabeth tucker
evan weinstein

craig malmrose

henry stindt
photographic

genevia hall
yvonne moye
student media board

brandon haulk
cris MuNnozZ
nathan rodan

kate lamere
craig malmrose
lisa beth robinson

55 | \OO

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john dixon

the east carolinian

holly garriott

genevia hall

john harvey

brandon haulk

craig malmrose

maria modlin

yvonne moye

frank pulley

pitt county arts council at emerge
chris stansbury

henry stindt

theo davis printing

university printing & graphics
heather wilkinson

phillip winn

our professors, families, friends, and anyone
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rebel 55 is produced by and for the students of east carolina

university. offices are located within student media in the self-help
building. the contents are copyrighted 2012 and 2013 by rebel 55. all
rights revert to the individual artists and writers upon publication.
contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor stored in any

information retrieval system without written permission of the
artist or writer. printed with non-state funds.



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rebel 55 is a modern tribute to the retro, lively
past of the seventies"all while highlighting
the award-winning work of the student artists
and writers of east carolina university.

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ceramics 5

cinematic arts 16

dance 22

digital photography 30
documentary film 38
drawing 44

fiction 52

graphic design 70
illustration 78

metal design 88

mixed media 98

music 108
non-fiction 4
painting 122

poetry 132
printmaking 144
sculpture 154

textile design 164
traditional photography 174

wood design 184

best of show 194

judges 198 .
staff 199 5
production notes 200 5
special thanks 201 a

copyright 203 =

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a woman's war with happiness
erika dietrick
fiction

Sharon Petersen was blessed. She had the ability to coax
a smile out of everyone she passed while walking to New
Richmond High School every morning. She blushed

as she turned the heads of lustful men, walking taller
with her head facing straight ahead, expressionless.

She breathed a sigh of grateful relief when authority
overlooked her as a suspect of delinquency. Witha
single, personable conversation, Sharon could get
exactly what she wanted.

Sharon was born with the bequest of beauty.

Her light brown hair shone with glimpses of gold,
the only remnants of her blonde childhood mane. Her
eyes were a deep, emerald green that reflected the envy
of her female peers. Her long, shapely legs were toned
in all of the right places and always free of any body hair
that might conceal the perfectly smooth, cream color
of her skin. She had two dimples that all of the elderly
women crowed over, and she strutted with the womanly
curves that all of the men adored.

She was the Breaker of Hearts, the Turner of Heads,
the Fallen Angel from Heaven. Sharon was the girl that
other girls loved to hate.

However, as seems to be the curse of all beautiful
women, Sharon was troubled with insecurity. When her
girlfriends came to her house for a sleepover, Sharon
would wait until the cloak of night hid her worrisome
but wrinkle-free face to fish blindly but subtly for
compliments.

oI can't ever find sunglasses that look right on my
face because my nose is so big...� she would whine in
that way that only teenage girls do.

oYoure crazy!� her best friend Mary would exclaim.
oYou have the perfect-sized nose! At least your nose
doesn't point up like mine...you could pull off any type
of sunglasses, trust me.�

It was true"Sharon could not help but feel sorry for
Mary when her eyes met the roll of her stomach or her
overly square face. As insecure as Sharon was, she knew
she was superior to Mary.

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Sharon had the pick of the lot when it came to boys
at her school. Stout and muscular, tall and lean, short
and tan, black or white. They were all enraptured by
the exquisite symmetry of her face, the effortless ease of
her loveliness. She was their favorite cheerleader, the
one they hooted and hollered about in the locker room,
the one they made obscene references to.

She set her eyes on thirteen different boys during her
high school years. She hung off their arm as a trophy
and went to all of their football and basketball games
wearing a homemade t-shirt sporting their last names.
She gave them everything they wanted in the hopes that
they could offer her the one thing she needed in return:
love of herself.

Every late night phone conversation centered around
her insecurities. In her small voice, oYou haven't really
been complimenting me lately... is something wrong?�

oNothing is wrong,� Danny, Mitchell, Corbin, Alex,
Juan, Jake, Will, Clark, Ryan, Jason, Jordan, Landon, and
Beau would reply, oblivious to the approaching storm.

Sharon would lie on her bed, one arm wrapped ina
death grip around her blue pillow, the other smashed
between her cell phone and her mattress in an attempt
to catch every word. oDo you think ITm beautiful?� she
asked in an innocent whimper.

oOf course,T the thirteen boys would calmly reply,
still oblivious to her fragile state of mind. Then the
waterworks. The barely audible, muffled sound of a
girlTs tears. SharonTs tears washed over her in a vain
attempt to cleanse herself.

She ended each relationship for the same reasons:

oYou donTt pay enough attention to me, ITm

always lonely.T

oT just feel like you donTt pay attention to my feelings.�

oWhenever I get upset, you donTt seem to care. You
don't even try to make me feel better.T

oT feel like you're only with me because you think
ITm pretty.T

The search for the coddling, emotional boy
would continue, but she never found someone who
understood her woes, who eased her suffering.

oYoure blessed,� SharonTs great-grandmother would
coo in a raspy voice at Christmas. oLook how sheTs
changed, Edgar! Sharon, you just get prettier and
prettier every time I see you, dear.� In between the egg
nog and the pictures, SharonTs relatives seemed to crawl
out of the woodwork from across the country every
holiday and notice her pleasant figure, her cherubic
face, her luscious waterfall of hair.

Sharon would smile. oThanks,� she squeaked in a little
girlTs voice. All she could ever say to the relatives she
barely knew but had to love was a distant othank you.�

The leaves changed colors, and so did SharonTs skin.
The leaves fell, and her hair fell out. The wintertime
snow hid the flaws of the dead grass and the muddy
earth, and Sharon adorned her face with inches of
make-up to conceal her growing list of imperfections.
Boys of all ages sensed the years under her make-up,
so they stopped staring. She lost her ability to sweet
talk, oor did I ever have it?� She wondered. She saw the
beautiful women in Cosmo, on billboards, on t.v., and
wept for her loss.

Sharon battled with her mirror first thing in the
morning every morning without fail. She stretched
and tugged at her skin to smooth out her wrinkles, and
wailed when gravity stretched and tugged at her skin
so that it sagged unbearably. She penciled in her eyes,
colored her lips onto her face, dyed her hair.

She tossed and turned in sweaty bed sheets at
night, unable to banish the thought that she was
no longer special, that she no longer had a purpose.
One night, she pressed a pillow to her face and sent a
bloodcurdling scream into the depths of its feathers:

oIM NOT BLESSED! IM NOT BLESSED Invi
NOT BLESSED TM NOT FUGIING BLESSED IMs Hen
hopeless sadness transformed into a fit of anger. She
flung the covers from her glistening, wrinkled body and
stormed to her closet. When she yanked the door open,
a beach ball and three pairs of jeans came tumbling
down. She knelt down and dug through the bottom of
her closet until she found what she was looking for: her
yearbook from senior year. Her anger reaching its peak,
she thrust open the cover of her yearbook and flipped
clumsily through its pages until she found her picture.
Although the photo was in black and white, the dark
shades of gray in her hair and in her lips painfully
reminded her of the color, the pigment, she once
had. Her high school eyes shone as they gazed at the
camera"no, they seemed to be staring through the
camera at something else in the distance. They were
beautiful, no doubt, but they were unarguably
sad and terrifying.

To the right of her picture, a boy had written the
word ohot� and drawn an arrow to her picture in his
unsteady chicken scratch. Sharon grabbed an ink pen
from her desk drawer and crossed out the all-defining
word. Then she drew in her wrinkles"around the eyes,
deep in the forehead, around the lips from where she
had picked up smoking. A single tear rolled down her
cheek and fell onto her destructive artwork, smearing
the black ink so that it blackened the right portion of
her face.

Sharon remembered that the same boy had written
onot� next to her best friend MaryTs picture. She flipped
to the oT� section of the yearbook. Mary Tippett. She
studied the face of her ugly best friend. Ex-best friend,
she thought to herself. Mary had been too dorky
and ugly for Sharon to continue being friends with
her. Next to her picture, Mary had written her phone
number oin case you ever lose it.�

She flipped through the senior class pictures and
found various boyfriends she had. oYou know... these
guys aren't really that good-looking,� she thought as she
peered at the faces of 18-year-old Mitchell, Jake, Clark,
Will, Alex, and Corbin. Each boy posed with his own
cocky version of a half-smile.

It was painful for Sharon to see their pictures and
remember where all of them were now. Over the years,
she had caught up with her ex-boyfriends at high school
reunions, grocery stores, hospitals, the park. She had
befriended all but Ryan on Facebook and was able to
watch their transformations as they journeyed
through life.

Alex and Will were both orthopedic surgeons with
beautiful families. Danny hosted his own radio show,
G1o4, and was a local celebrity. Jason had gone on to
law school, and Jake had joined the Navy and earned
a Purple Heart for his work in Afghanistan. Clark
was a standup comedian and husband to a gorgeous
Philippine woman. Corbin did years of mission work
in Africa before deciding to become a priest. Mitchell,
Landon, and Beau had begun MLB Gaming, a company
that focused on creating video games for kids ages
5-12. Juan was the proud owner of the most popular
restaurant in Cincinnati, Mi Familia. Ryan was a
poor but happy and respected teacher at an inner-city
school. Jordan had died of cancer fifteen years ago after
publishing several fiction novels.

Unattractive and successful. Unattractive and happy.
Unattractive and feeling attractive anyway.

Upset and hopeless, Sharon decided to turn to her
old standby. She turned back to the oT� page, pulled
out her cell phone, and dialed MaryTs number. Sharon
had not spoken to Mary in over forty years.

Wrong number. Of course, Mary would have
changed her number by now, she thought. After a quick
search on Google, Sharon discovered that Mary was
the owner of SweetPops Bakery in Columbus, Ohio. A
phone number was listed for the bakery, and Sharon
quickly dialed it.

It went straight to voicemail, saying that the bakery
was closed. ITm losing it, Sharon thought as saw it
was 4:12 am.

A week later, Sharon was waiting anxiously at a
table at DunkinT Donuts. She checked her cell phone,
worried that Mary had decided not to come, and when
she looked up Mary was walking through the doorway,
scoping out the restaurant.

Sharon waved at her and flashed her once
supermodel smile, showing her new dentures. Mary
gave a small smile of recognition and walked to
SharonTs table.

oHi, Sharon. ItTs nice seeing you again. ItTs beena
really long time,� she said stretching out her arms.
Sharon embraced Mary, a symbol of long lost
friendship reunited.

oTtTs great seeing you again, too, Mary! I knew I just
had to talk to you. ITve been so lonely,T Sharon said.

oWhat are you doing these days, Sharon? Where are
you living?� she asked.

oOh, you know, just been teaching home ec. to
freshman at New Richmond. I love young people"it's
really the only reason I teach. | can assure you itTs not
for the great pay. I still live in New Richmond"I could
never leave it.�

oSharon, Jason told me at least twenty years ago that
you had quit your teaching job,� Mary replied flatly.

oWhat? How does he know that?� Sharon
asked, annoyed.

oFacebook,� Mary said simply.

oThen why did you even ask?� Sharon shot at Mary.

oLook, Sharon, I didnTt come here so you could bully
me and boss me around like you did in high school.
ThereTs no reason for you to lie, and thereTs no reason
to try to make yourself seem better than you are, even
though that seems to be an old habit,� Mary said.
Sharon pouted. oYou used to be a lot nicer. ThatTs why I
came to see you.�

oT still am nice,� Mary said calmly, oI just have more
self-respect and confidence than I did before.

People change.�

An awkward silence hovered over the table for a full
minute before Mary spoke again.

oDo you remember why we quit speaking?�

Mary asked.

oSort of...it was a long time ago,T Sharon mumbled
as she looked down at her hands. She wished she had
never called Mary. She called Mary to be comforted
and consoled, to be told that she was perfect and that
everything was okay. She wanted Mary to make her feel
better, but Mary didnTt care how she felt.

oWell, I remember pretty clearly the day that you
told me we couldn't be friends anymore. It was the day
we graduated high school. I remember how | came up
and hugged you when the ceremony was over and told

58

you how much I was going to miss you when you went
to Xavier and how we would have to keep in touch. And
you just gave me this...look. And you said, ~Mary, ITve
been picked on a lot for hanging out with you in high
school, and no offense, but I kind of just want to meet
new people in college.�

SharonTs jaw dropped. oThatTs NOT what I said! Why
would I say that?!�

oIt IS what you said, Sharon, and people don't forget
how you made them feel regardless of whether or not I
forgot the exact words that came out of your mouth. |
remember perfectly how I felt that day"like I had just
lost a friend because I wasnTt pretty. Like a huge dork.

I felt so sad and inadequate"and angry. ThatTs how |
felt, and I promise you it wasn't because you hugged me
back and wished me luck in my future,� she

said furiously.

Sharon sat fora moment glaring at her old best
friend. Mary was still ugly in Sharon's eyes"still
square-faced and pot-bellied. But there was something
different about Mary. She didn't look so...old. There was
a glow about her that made you happy upon seeing her
face, even when she was angry. She looked passionate
and lively and...beautiful.

And that ticked Sharon off.

oSo what do you want me to do about it, Mary?�
Sharon spit out condescendingly. oDo you want me to
knit you a friendship sweater and take back everything I
did? Will that make you feel better?�

Mary let out a long, deep breath. oI swear, Sharon,
you really haven't changed a bit since high school.�

oActually, ITve changed a lot,� Sharon said.

oHow?� Mary asked.

oTTve experienced life. ITm a lot older and wiser and |
have different interests now,T Sharon replied.

oYou're still unhappy,T Mary said bluntly. She
reached across the table and took SharonTs hand in
hers. oI still really care about your well-being, Sharon.

I dont like to see you like this. You donTt do anything,
you dont talk to anyone, and to be frank, I have no idea
where you get the money to live in a house and eat.�

oWhat, did you just come here to point out that my
whole life is a failure?� Sharon interrupted.

oNo,� Mary said. oI came here to offer you some
friendly advice and bury the hatchet. And hereTs my
nugget of wisdom for you"you can take it however you
wish, and you can completely dismiss it if you want.
But what ITve always wanted to tell you and what you've
always needed to hear is that happiness comes from
within yourself"it comes from self-fulfillment and
meaningful relationships. It comes from love of yourself

and peace with the world and everything that goes on
with it. And you never knew that, Sharon. In high
school you based your happiness off your looks. I know
you were unhappy back then, but not nearly as unhappy
as you are now. You were only happy if you felt pretty,

if people told you that you were pretty, if some guy was
putting his hands all over you.�

oThatTs not true,� Sharon said quietly.

oYou don't have to get defensive. I only tell you this
because I really care about you, and I think you need
to know it. You got your way with your looks, and you
got attention. That made you happy. It made you happy
to feel superior to other girls, and later on, to other
women. But a womanTs worst tragedy strikes at forty,
and fate didn't miss your doorstep. Your looks began to
fade, and you got older"which, Sharon, youre still so
beautiful for your age. You're just not eighteen anymore.
You've come to realize that you had no real relationships
with people"only shallow companionship that relied
more on catty competition than any real bonds of trust.
You didnTt practice any hobby and couldn't care less
about your education or if you understood the world
around you. All you cared about was if the world around
you saw you, and when the world turned itTs eyes on
Sharon Petersen, it saw a shallow, stuck-up beauty
queen who was unwilling to contribute to society or
offer kindness to another human being. ITm sorry"I
donTt mean to be so harsh. But youTre so much more
than your looks, Sharon. I know that you would be
great at so many things if you only looked down inside
yourself for your real passions, your real self. I know
you're not a mean person, and I know that a lot of
people are willing to love you if you only show them a
little love in return.�

Sharon sat silently with tears streaming down her
face. Mary pushed back her chair and got up to hug her.
Sharon stood up, too, and they both stood locked in
each otherTs embrace until Sharon said the three words
she had never told anyone in the whole world:

oT love you.�

black schwinn six-speed
michael davis
fiction

oAnother day, another dollar,� I tell myself as I pull
myself off my sweat-stained, sheetless mattress that |
found in the alleyway down the fire escape"home to

a homeless crew of former Wall Street brokers and day
traitors...traders. The window which looks out upon the
city that never sleeps has no glass in the panes. Just an
empty window to look out.

Into the shit-stained bathroom, piss dripping from
the toilet seat, a shower that spews dirty water, anda
broken faucet, I go. One look into the splintered mirror
loosely hanging from the crumbling walls, and ITm
already ready to call it a day, call my manager and tell
him I got hit by a cab or something. Got lost
in Neverland.

The cityTs streets are still alive from last night. You
could feel the city rumble as the subway stormed
beneath. East Coast earthquakes. Neon oOpen� signs
quietly begin to buzz back on, radiating bright shades of
blue and red. Cars begin to swerve in and out of lanes,
trying to squeeze by the half a million yellow taxicabs.
Like a group of salmon moving upstream, the reckless
escorts battle for position on the crowded concrete.

An old newspaper, crumpled and torn, rolls across

the road, bouncing from curb to curb like an overused
pinball. The street gutters are filled with half-eaten
sandwiches, mustard and relish-stained napkins, empty
bottles of beer, pieces of paper walked over thousands of
times, used condoms hanging out the sides of trashcans.
The sidewalk next to my apartment, cracked and
crusted over from layers of dirt and filth, leads only to
another tarnished street and sidewalk. The walkways
are beginning to fill with $500 dollar suits and leather
briefcases; designer skirts and handbags, cell phones

an extension of the ear; Mom and Dad clenching their
minions close in fear of losing them to the bright lights,
the giant faces plastered on every bus and billboard, the
dream of rags to riches.

Across the blackened concrete sea, oSilviaTs Bagel
Deli,� known for their honey whole wheat and almond
bagels, has begun boarding up their windows. oBig
AdamTs Apple,T the only place on this side of the city to
have SherfieldTs Ruby Red Apples, Arnold Farm Fresh

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Peaches, and Louisiana LouTs Pink Grapefruits, looks as
though the upcoming winter may be its last. The pawn
shop two stores down is the only thing on this street
that thrives in these conditions. The rat of the animal
kingdom, feeding off otherTs leftovers and

broken realities.

As I step outside my graffiti tagged, water-damaged,
paint-peeled, window-smashed one-bedroom
apartment, the fresh smell of cigarette ashes, garbage
leakage and burning fuel wake my zombie-like body for
the day ahead. But when your'e filling shelves at a used
bookstore all day, making eight bucks an hour, who
really needs to be more than a zombie? Shelf after shelf,
used book after used book, I see my dream of being a
writer slowly overcome by dust, lodged thoughtlessly
into the bottom shelf where no one looks.

In the constant struggle and cutthroat nature of city
life, T've become immune in my five years here to the
hopes of a postcard picture life. The magic of New York
City has long faded into the smog overcast and overflow
pollution. No longer does city-sliced pizza taste like
city-sliced pizza. Just pizza. No longer does the towering
jungle of building high rises amaze me. Just the feeling
of cold shadows and constantly over-looming doom. |
barely remember when hailing a cab or buying a hotdog
from a street vendor was affordable and new. But now
itTs just the feeling of pennies sliding around my pocket
as my six-speed and I cruise on past, into the stream.

I can feel every sidewalk crack and every sewage grate
as my black Schwinn rolls over the mini bumps on my
way to oErnieTs Used and Abused Shelter for Neglected
Books.� Like a constant game of cat and mouse, my
riding weaves through the streets, avoiding all cars and
people crossing. Between the buses filled with kids on
their way to P.S. who-knows-what, and the towering
double-decker buses with megaphones blaring at New
York newcomers about the rich history of what was one
of AmericaTs most famous cities, I go.

oAnd to your left we have ~MorrisonTs Bank and Trust,
the only bank on the block not robbed in the 1920s by
the famous New York mobster Joe Marvalli...�

oNow if you look to your right, you'll see the remains
of a purple building. The reason it is half burnt down
is because it used to bea meth lab for drug kingpin
Donald Plum...�

oStraight ahead you'll see a homeless person...T

Red light after red light, I risk my soulless life as I fly
through the intersection, not ever daring to tap the
brakes. The idea of getting hit by oncoming traffic
doesn't faze me. It would almost be a sweet release, a
smack to maybe knock me out of this trance the cityTs
inner workings have cast upon me.

I can feel the season is slowly changing. The
blistering heat from summer is beginning to tail off,
allowing the cool breeze of fall to linger through the
cityTs maze. My jacket, brown and blue with yellow
patches, barely blocks the cold and wind from my
slender body. There have been times ITve been biking to
work and my hands and arms became so cold I couldn't
brake, forced to crash into a filled trashcan. My jeans are
the same ones I wore yesterday, and the day before, and
both days before that. Since the laundromat down the
street costs a dollar a load, recycling outfits is nothing
new. My white vans have become brown. My socks
stained pink.

Out of the street and into Louis Park, a shortcut I
learned a few years back, which cuts at least five minutes
and gives me the only joy of happiness throughout the
day. The trees fill the open lot, tall and lush, casting
branches over top the wide sidewalks. The grass full,
people sprawled out playing Frisbee with their loved
ones, having checkered cloth picnics and playing songs
from a different time. Just enjoying a morning in the
sun. The pond, blocked off by a three-foot high stone
wall which surrounds its entirety, is brown, yet cleaner
than any other city waterway. There are no dirty diapers
floating like buoys, dead bodies securely cemented to
its depths, or mutant fish colonies from digesting too
many McDonaldTs wrappers and super-sized Big Mac
meals. Just people, everyday people, throwing bread
and crackers to the fish and birds. A dad and son casting
their Walmart brand fishing rods, pretending to catch
fish fifteen times the size of the actual goldfish hanging
at the end of their lines. An old man and woman, both
with grey hair and worn and wrinkled skin, hold each
otherTs hands as they walk the parkTs path with youthful
love and admiration for one another.

And as I was calmly pedaling, breathing in my
surroundings and sunlight, paying more attention to
Captain Ahab and his first mate trying to catch Moby
Dick than the path in front of me, I hit a rock. My body
lodged over the handlebars, slamming flat on my back
onto the pavement, eyes glaring directly at the sun. For
a few moments, it seemed that nothing in the world
mattered, just the pain rushing from my toes to my
fingers, all the way to my ears and forehead. For the first
time in awhile, I felt more than just the rumbling of the
subway or the cool breeze seeping through my hand-
me-down jacket.

Scrapped knees and ripped hands, broken bike and a
splitting headache, I rolled my black Schwinn six-speed
to a nearby tree and called it a lovely day.

Bae 4 z
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it feeds on naivety
sarah jukubowski
fiction

I cannot sleep because the government controls that too.
The government feeds happy thoughts into my brain,
and that cannot be good.

Ignorance is bliss and bliss is ignorance.

Endorphins are government work created by some
past senator, I forgot which one.

Dreams are full of endorphins and unbidden
imaginings, seeds of some planted mischief. So I do not
sleep and this planted mischief cannot grow.

My head is free, but there is contamination elsewhere.
The government controls the food. Chemicals in our
cereal, fluoride in our water. Every grocery store is a
warehouse of FMDs"Foods of Mass Destruction.

Every fast food jingle is a landmine and the government
controls the media too, the news and the commercials
and the superbowl ads.

I do not havea TV and I do not have a radio and | do
not have the internet. But still, the government finds me.

Billboards are designed to carry a message and itTs
straight from the government's hands, no
postage necessary.

They say these ads were paid for by individuals, but
all you have to do is look at the face on the bill they're
paying with to know who's really in charge.

The government is everywhere. It penetrates every
aspect of life. There is no individual, we are all playthings
of the government.

I refuse to be a toy. Iam not a chess piece in evil
hands. I close my shutters on the government and its
media. I clean my fridge of drugged food and do away
with poisoned water.

I do not wish to take part of the governmentTs mind
control. I will not sleep and I will not eat and | will not
drink. I will isolate myself in my non-secular chapel of
knowledge. I have no choice but to be a martyr for the
facts and for freedom.

I will fight against. I will hold my vigil. I will wait
on my deserted island of the individual in a sea of
government corruption. | will wait for death, because in
death there is truth.

doubleday draught
katie murray
package design

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weinstein american lager
evan weinstein
package design

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3rd place

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downtown circus
alice holleman
watercolor, digital illustration