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Note on the CoverThis yearTs cover is by Lisa Bateman. ~~Porkalina-Odeto Katherine? is one in a series of five paintings dealingwith commercialism in a whimsical context. Lisa says,~~Porkalina itself is dedicated to the type of person thatsmokes and eats at the same time.?TLisaTs piece placed 2nd in painting. She has shownwork in ECUTs Student Show and she also has a piecein a traveling show of ECU student work.

Vol. 22 Number 1

COLLEEN PLYNNSUE AYDELETTEAssociate EditorProofreaderThe Rebel! is published annually by the Media Board of EastCarolina University. Offices are located in the PublicationsCenter on the ECU campus. 7he Rebe/ welcomes manu-scripts and inquiries; however, unsolicited manuscripts unac-companied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope will notbe returned. Address all correspondence to 7he Rebel, Men-denhall Student Center, East Carolina University, Greenville,NC 27834. This issue is copyrighted (c) 1980 by The Rebel.All rights revert on publication to the individual artists andauthors, from whom permission must be obtained toreproduce any of the materials contained in this issue.Anheuser-Busch Poetry AwardJune SylvesteroThe CallingTTJeffreys Beer and Wine Prose AwardJoe Underwood~ooStrawbossTTFourth Annual Attic AwardStephen EdgertonoHarriet McNeill McKayThe MatriarchTTAll Prize Money ProvidedBy The Attic andBudweiserATTICThe Rebel has been in highstanding for many years. As thisyearTs editor, it is my prayerfulhope that with the changes madein this issue, the high standingstill remains.| once asked Luke Whisnant,last yearTs editor why we didnTthave two issues of 7he Rebe/each year and believe me, | nowknow why we don't.Putting this magazine togetherhas been hard work and quite alearning experience. To have theOpportunity to be directly in-volved with so many studentwriters and artists has been veryrewarding. | would like to thankall those who had so muchpatience with the art show,newspaper announcements andthe like.Two English professors whoseinfluence on the writing studentsat ECU has been great and towhom | wish to dedicate thisissue Of The Rebe/ are TerryDavis and Peter Makuck. | wishto extend my utmost thanks tothese two men who have madesuch things as writing novels andgood poetry seem readily ob-tainable to those who work hard.Their interest in writing and con-cern for students is very ap-parent.| wish to thank the staff forworking long, hard hours evenwhen the monetary value givento their efforts has been so little.Special thanks are also extendedto Robert Jones and PetePodeszwa_ for their helpfulsuggestions. Tom Haines, EdithWalker, and George Brett forjudging the art show. David San-ders for judging the literature,The Media Board, SFA office,contributors and most of. allthanks to the kind people atNational Printing.

CONTENTSLITERATUREClassroom Activities .UntitledCollard Centipede ...Route 1 ApplianceSagaMarco Polo and OtherWater GamesUntitledVernonDream SalvagesDrowning, WithRelativesSeymour: AnEpilogueSouthern Comfort...The Calling| Will Not WeepTagged LastOedipusUntitledShoplifterAs | Listen the Air isSplit into Layers...Uneasy Transition...Crossing the Linville. .NovenaPassageStrawbossFossilsWhat to Know AboutThe Fish KillLike ThisDanglingSurvivorsOcracokeLineageUntitledUntitledParadoxTeller IIA Matter of ExistingWill (in fragments) .Plum StoneTim WrightHal DanielMichael Loderstedt.Colleen FlynnMichael Loderstedt.Sue Aydelette ....Karen Blansfield...Robert JonesKathy CrispKaren Blansfield...Sam SilvaJune Sylvester....Sam SilvaSue Aydelette ....Joseph Dudasik ...Cheryl RibinoLuke Whisnant....Luke Whisnant....Phillip Arrington...Luke Whisnant... .Robert JonesTim WrightSam SilvaJune Sylvester....Joe Underwood...June Sylvester....Luke Whisnant....Tim Wright>. Phillip Miles...Jeffrey Joseph....Denise Andrews...Tim WrightJune Sylvester....Michael Loderstedt.Michael Loderstedt.Ernest Marshall... .Phillip Arrington...Robert JonesSue Aydelette ....Kempten L. Daniel .ARTDudobratsGas MaskSouthern RailGallerySeated Figure, Red ..Seated FigureSpectral Encounter . .Target Treeptych....Weather or NotAfter the Sincerity...oHarriet McNeillMcKay "The Matriarch? ...PhoenixGirl With Hat & Vest .114 E. 12th StThe Original JuvenileJuxtaposition_ The Blackbird Whirledin the AutumnIllustrationIllustrationFish KillDavid LarsonEd MidgettSid DavisRita EarleyRobert DanielRobert DanielBetsy Kurzinger ...Betsy Kurzinger ..Mark Peterson ....Roxanne Reep....Stephen Edgerton .Michael Loderstedt.Larry ShreveMichael Loderstedt.Ella Mallenbaum.. .Pete Podeszwa....Marcia Deckey....David NorrisJudson PoolePete Podeszwa....Brenda Williams...REBELThe Literary-Art Magazine(o} i =t- |) OF- 1 c0) [lat MOlaliY-1s118%44

Classroom ActivitiesI offer to sew.She threatens to accept.I read Al Duganto her new cat.She disapproves.She thinks I give hermore than she asks for.Her cat composes beautifulsonnets. She is tiredof knowing it rains on Tuesdays.Her cat becomesa villanelle, she isangry with me, sheTs alwayslosing cats this way.Tim Wright

what is wrongwith an orange peelon the sidewalkat 6 pmthe day after xmas.Bob RayCOLLARD CENTIPEDETrying to get this one into words is like trying to describethe taste of chocolate, but I just saw a dew-laden strand ofemerald green collards sprout combat boots. The bootsturned groundward, tested themselves with a few goodstomps, and then proceeded to carry the entire row of col-lards, like one huge marching green centipede right out ofthe furrow and down the white line of the highway. Thecollard centipede completed a oleft flank march? and strad-dled the highway line in perfect symmetry and time, until itwas but a dot on the horizon and, then, out of sight forever.Iwas smiling as I got out of bed to start the day of January10, 1980.Hal Daniel

Route 1 Appliance Sagaon top of therefrigeratorwhere an onion bagskin-filledand loathsomeremained very contentlife was easybut shortand soon changed.new neighborsImpish roguesthe raisin bran clanbickering endlesslyIn their cardboardcondothey were labeleda cereal mismarriage.many died in greatfloodswhile other enviousflakesran away to becomebread brotherswrapped tightbonded to secrets andloaf oathes.soon the bread grewrestless and greenmold.and many lefttheir plateau estateIn pairseach after a chancea sliceor a toasty vacation.Michael Loderstedt

flMarco Polo and Other Water GamesThe bathing capMy friendTs mother made me (at twelve) wear in the country club poolHad rubber flowers on its sidesBig blue and pink pansy-shaped flowersLike those on our colored maid's flip-flops.I'd jack knife into the pool, pray my capWould come off, pull if it didnTt, thenButterfly stroke a length and back.The cap would be floating along the poolTs edgeLike a blooming lily.Older women in pointed-boobed suits of broad flowery printHad caps like mine.They'd side stroke and back stroke and rest onThe side doing swift leg flutters.A broad backed swimmer in a racing style cap yellsMARCO| say POLO then lowerMyself, bubble-headedAnd begone.Colleen Flynn

she is napalmpoison gas around meshe watches my leaves shrivel,fall. awe pass in the doorway.my eyes fixedon a point not bendingnear her.she is bittersweetCoyemeohiannevercattome)-astale refrigerator,empty. no food.she reaches for new stemstoo short to pickthe telephone ringsshe pouts.sometimes she is nice.like now. eyes watch- await the transition. sniffingthe gas.Michael LoderstedtSS

10VERNONby Sue AydeletteVernon would meet me in the carport on hisbike. We raced there, taking tight fast curvesaround the carport posts. Or we looped themslowly, finally stopping, straddling the bikesand talking. It was cool and dim below the car-port roof but open so that hot sunlight sur-rounded us. It smelled good in that shade, likeear oil.Before I got the letter, I had forgotten Ver-non and Mark. Now I hear that Mark is workingin this city too and I suddenly notice that thisbig office is like that place, Norstad Streetwhere we knew each other. Vernon lived acrossthe street. Mark lived on the end of the samebuilding I lived in, Air Force Base houses, all inone piece, all identical. We never thought of itthen, maybe because we were children, buthere, where the desks are all the same and inrows, green blotters and heavy addingmachines on each, people mark things. They putup Bible quotes or newspaper cartoons, theyhave color animal stickers, some of them orplastic flowers or immense rubber plants thatthreaten the order of their work by throwing agrey leafy shade across the columns of num-bers. And these people mumble softly with thehum of office machines and break sometimes in-to loud laughter. They are in the ladies room,franticly close to the mirror and in the hallsswinging their arms like children. So far, I keepmy desk clear of all but the white griddedpaper, the long yellow pencils and the old ad-ding machine. I wonder if Mark has a desk, inarow of similar desks somewhere in this city.Mark was ten when I knew him on NorstadStreet; I was seven then and when I first metVernon he was six. Vernon was small; a cleanblond boy. His mother was German. He had apink bathing suit she made him wear. He nevercrossed the street in it but my mother saw himover in his yard. The suit, she said, had strapslike one of my girlTs suits but they came downalmost to his waist so they were really more likesuspenders. But it was pink. I never talked withhim about it.Mark was much bigger than us both, andsmart, and had a broken leg. While I knew himhe went from a cast to a brace and back to acast. I donTt remember ever talking about thateither, but we did talk, the three of us. Since hecouldnTt run around, Mark would drag an oldstraight back chair out into the field betweenour building and the road. It wasnTt such a bigfield, but in the center of it we had a lot of space.And it was a field with flowers, milky dan-delions, those small daisies and tiny roundyellow flowers you never saw until you satdown in the thin grass. Mark sat out thereevery day in the summer. Vernon and I wouldwander over sit down and we'd talk; sometimesabout the cars going by or the way mushroomsspread out in circles. Sometimes we had things,like a chalk board, and Mark would write outnames for us: C-o-l-u-mbus, or make up codes.Or the etch-a-sketch and Mark would turn out ablack scribble for Vernon and me to find thebeginning of. Once I found a box of gold tippedmatches. Vernon and I took the box over toMark. Sitting huddled, we took turns lightingthem until each match had flared up and burneddown to the finger and thumb that held it " un-til all the matches were burnt ends, black splin-ters that we buried in one small hole. I kept thelittle sliding box, glad that Mark and Vernonlost interest in it once it was empty.My mother keeps up with MarkTs family.Being good friends with Mrs. Ledbetter, shehad known all about MarkTs leg. I listened tothose details once, but I only remember that itwas something simple " like falling as he got onthe school bus " which broke MarkTs leg sobadly. Mama writes now to just mention that hehas a job in the city. Mark moved away sixmonths before Vernon died. A lot happened af-ter he left. It was then that Vernon would meetme in the carport leaving the bright field off tothe side of our houses empty.Mark would remember much, though, and un-derstand more. He would remember the naps;how Vernon and I each had to go home, eatlunch and rest. Mark never had to take naps ofcourse and when I ran back outside, sometimesVernon would be coming from across the street.We'd race to where Mark sat, crash into him,and knock his chair sideways into the grass. Itwas the naps that started the discoveries

though, after Mark moved away. They wereproofs, both of them, proofs of natural science.During the summer after Mark left we didnot go, usually, into the field. One day though,after our naps, Vernon was waiting there forme. Before I sat down next to him he asked,~oW hatTs an axis like??~An axis? You mean for wheels on cars? Youknow what that is.? Vernon was seven by thenand he never was stupid.oYes, but whatTs a world-axis like? You know" with the world turning on it " is it just agiant bar in space?oYes,? I said, I always acted like I knew afterMark left.oYou ever hear it?? Vernon turned to ask it,facing me in the center of the field.oHear what??oThe world turning,? he said it slow and thenin exasperation, oDo you really sleep afterlunch?oOf course not.? I was thinking of lying on mymotherTs big bed, feeling hot, and yes .., theroar, I heard it every day.oVernon, you sure you didnTt read this someplace? You sure Columbus didnTt hear it?? Ver-non was mad. I knew he had to read books inschool about children and dogs. Anything in-teresting he had to make up himself. Nobodytold either of us anything good except Mark andif Mark had told it, I would know.~Vernon, you sure Mark didnTt tell you this??When I said that Vernon ran off. I didnTt chasehim.It was after my nap the next day that I ranover to Vernon and he was running to meet me.Panting into the carport, we squatted in thecool grease smell. oVernon, you're right! I heardit! I hear it every day " after lunch, that mustbe when it turns!~DonTt tell anybody, Reenie.?That was the first discovery. The second oneI made, with Vernon there next to me. We werelying on the hill behind my house, on our backsbut with our feet going up, feeling the bloodrush to our faces. Our arms crossed under ourheads. In short sleeves I remember, feelingsharp tufts of grass against my arms. Weweren't talking. And then I noticed that I wasmoving. No the clouds were moving. I wasnTtsure. And that was the second discovery.oVernon, are you moving!oWhat?? His eyes were squeezed tight a-gainst the light.~Vernon, please open your eyes.? I actedcalm. oLook, Vernon, are the clouds moving orare we??He jumped straight up to his feet. He lookedbig like that from where I was lying. He jumpedup and then he lay right back down and watchedand we had our second natural proof for therotation of the earth.At lunch I couldnTt contain it. I just hintedand my older sister, still chewing, said of courseclouds move. I felt sick and awful.During my nap I lay down and listened withmy eyes closed to the world turning on its axis,a sound so big that it was quiet. I stayed therelonger than usual. I didnTt call down once to say" is my nap over yet? I lay there until mymother came upstairs with a pile of my fatherTsshirts smelling like hot, ironed cotten. Then Iwent outside.Vernon was on his bike in the sun, riding a-round the sidewalk square across from the emp-ty field. There was an old coffee can at one cor-ner and each time Vernon came around thesquare he rode over it, jumping his bike up intothe air. Other children watched him. I joinedthe little group and he saw me, but he put all hisconcentration into going over that can. Ithought it was stupid " him grinning andsquinting like it was important. As he hit thecan. Then his front tire turned and in mid airthe bike jerked out of VernonTs hands. He wasin the sky, and then down on the ground so fastand then just lying there. He was pale andsmall, his eyes closed, his hair almost white inthe sun. I could see that one of his arms wastwisted backwards and I ran for my mother.The other children backed away and watched asMama brought a pillow, a blanket, and then ranback to call a doctor. Somebody finally wentover and told VernonTs German mother so thatshe came running out just as the ambulancescreamed into the carport. Vernon, unconsciousall that time, was put on a big stretcher and awhite sheet was tucked up to his white neck.They carried him into the shade of the carportas if he were no weight at all. When the am-bulance left, Mama and I were alone and for along time, silent in the shadow.~oWhatTs that noise, Mama??oWhat noise, Reenie? The airplane??And then I knew it was there, not just atnoon, but all the time, that noise from the run-ways across the base. So before Vernon wasdead I knew there were no discoveries at all.But Vernon never knew. He died that night.Mark will be glad it happened that way. Vernondied better than Columbus, who got old andcrazy. And better than me. Already I walkdown the halls at this job trying not to swingmy arms too much. Vernon would have hated it.11

V2ElegyThey have hewn the huge oakthat guarded my grandmotherTs grave,LOL Outthe twisted gnarled limbsthat lent reverence to the skyas her gnarled fingerslent reverence to all they touched:the rosary she beaded silently,the arm she graspedwith fragile hand,the twisted Irish walking caneheld limply in her lapas she stared vacantlyinto somewhere.Once, in winter,I stood beneath the black boughs,fusing their form into words.But the words were lostbefore they were written.And though I returnedin summerand again in winterto search,they were found.NowI cannot findmy grandmotherTs grave.Where once the dark massspread its aged web,unmistakable cairn,there is now anonymous sky.For they have felled the ancient oak.It was too oldto go on.Karen Blansfield

DREAM SALVAGESby Robert JonesSeptember 29, 1967. I was eleven years oldand had not seen my father since July. He wassick with heart trouble, in the hospital with thatqueer antiseptic air. HeTd had heart trouble andhad been in the hospital before, and ITd visitedhim many times, but that day they wouldn't letme see him. I went to bed, fell asleep, and beganto dream.I dreamed it was Ash Wednesday, theCatholic, holy day that initiates the Lentenseason " a time of preparing oneself for the ob-servance of ChristTs passion. I stood in the cen-ter aisle of a church, in front of the altar. All Icould see around me were tall lighted candles. Istood there alone for what seemed like manyslow, burning hours staring at the flames to seeif I could find any blue in them. Then, a priest inblack vestments came toward me. He stoppedand asked me if I had any special prayer to say,and I nodded that I did. I knelt quickly andprayed, oGod, please let my daddy die. Let himrest, let him not be in pain.? When I stood thepriest made the sign of the cross with ashes onmy forehead and said, ~Thou art dust and untodust thou shalt return.? I knew those asheswere the ashes of my father.The telephone rang waking me immediately.Something was wrong, and I heard myself say,oPlease God donTt let my father die today, nottoday.? I sat in bed watching my older brotherand my mother walk swiftly down the hailtowards the phone. My mother answered it onthe third ring. I didnTt hear what was said, but Iknew what had happened. So I lay back in bed,pulled the covers over my head, and let thesound of my heart beat me back to sleep.I dreamed again. My father was laying in anarrow hospital bed. His head, chest, and armswere attached to many tubes and wires thatstuck out from under the edge of an oxygen tentand connected him to machines around the bed.It was dark in the room except for the little redand green lights on the instrument panels ofmachine which clicked and gurgled. It was soalien and scary, but I told myself from then on, Iwould never be afraid of anything. Only when Igot right next to the bed, I realized I could seemy father plainly, as if a flourescent light wassomewhere inside the oxygen tent. His facelooked calm, but for a slight wrinkle in hisforehead. His blue eyes were closed. His facewas flushed, and his mouth was partly open "no trace of a smile. I watched him sleep wantingto tell him something, but I couldn't get thewords out. I could only gurgle and click like themachines I watched his breath turn to vapor in-side the tent. Slowly, the vapor filled the tent,then the room: it got heavy like a cloud " aspongy cloud that moved over my father andgradually absorbed him until he was gone.When I woke again the blanket and sheetcovered my face. I remembered my dream. Iknew how my father left this world. In his sleep,in a cloud. I glanced at my bedroom clock andsaw it was 10:30. I got out of bed to eat break-fast. There were two neighbor women in thekitchen. One was feeding my baby sister whowas almost 2 years old. One of the women star-ted to tell me my mother and brother had goneto the hospital to see my father. I shook myhead and said, ~o~No, my father is dead. He diedin his sleep last night.? The women stared ateach other, and then at me. They knew,assuredly, no person told me.I do not recall much more of my fatherTs deathday, except I tried to tell my best friend, Ar-mand, my father had died, but he was not athome. So, I walked in my backyard thinking Ihad the same disease as my father and woulddie young too. I walked and told the pine andwillow trees to be strong, and the birds to singand dance under the bleached blue shroud thatwas the sky.Ss

14Drowning, With RelativesAfter a photo in the Washington Daily NewsThe drowning is complete.The old black woman dressed in whiteIs being guided back from the pier,Her open hand beating her heart.Other faces, awash with nightHover around her like wingsAs she is silenced in a flash,Her mouth a black hollow.The water keeps slapping the shore.Kathy Crisp

seymour: an epilogueyou did notwalk into the seaon that perfect day.the day brokeover you,a small black massof furshrouded in frostas wave after waveof mechanical fishcrested past youon the black stripof land.Karen BlansfieldRS

16SOUTHERN COMPORTMy palet breathes tincture of burgundyI could drown in itLike what changes the puddle red to greenFor this is the SouthWhere factories grow from green hillsWhere gulls fly inlandFrom rubber and oil inhaleThe marigoldNot just wine this thingMy thingBut wine of the heartMakes the rude smoothNot one crack to cut my tiresMaple fires red orangeBring the sun to earth sometimesWhy I saw roses bloom in JanuaryOne reddish winterI remember it | ate peppers with SylviaOut on the verandaNight is comingThe cars have bredWith oil shafts and rude openingsI supposeAt any rate more of themIn wild herdsWith headlights glued to townsAnd chasing off malingerers with wordsProfane demands no hint of supplicationThis night is black as good farm soilIt must lie in fallow stuporlest it spoilThe origins of eveningsOf the planets first half motionLie with Sylvia, my wifeNow dead and dying even moreEach time I realize I reach the finalElement: the empty drive the pitched houseThe cellar doorSam Silva

SS-Ss

The CallingI have learned to recognize the warmVaguely oniony scent of my motherTs handsThe essence of her callingAt twelve I was going to be an artistI drew my mother bent over the ovenWith sweat damp hair clinging to her neckOn Sundays I sat stiff on hard benchesI listened to the stories. Mary satAt JesusT feet, but Martha was busy in her kitchenI wander out in the eveningMother calls to me from the kitchen windowHer face is framed, crossed, and hung through the panesThe years make Mother smallerShe looks at me and shakes her headSays, oHoney, settle down ... goodman... Chrustian family.My lovers say ITm distantOr insecure, or hopelessInod my head, I watch their jawlines move(see how hard they swallow)Sometimes I raise my music upI send my voice outI split my own silence with songMother says, oHoney, turn that down a littleYour fatherTs sleeping...You can help with supper if you will . . .?I will I will (not my will but thine)Mother says ITm headed downThe wrong pathShe shakes her headWhile the stove that heats MotherTs heavenConsumesAnd consumes.June Sylvester

I Will Not WeepThe bails of garden mulchAre sequined in earth bordersBetween welts of flowersThere is a dead towerIn the distanceWhere we played as children,Death dare gamesHurdling multi-leveled raftersTo thin lumps of hay "Now even this decaysNothingNothing in the worldWould roar so loud at lightningPromising paradiseThough at sixteen we returnedDrawn to glimpse the spread of alfalfaAnd seeing nowAt twenty-five the virile vineThe projects of youth goneWe mouth our words separatelyAnd silentlyTo think we could have leapt up to the heavensInflate balloons with stardustA multitude of perfect childishnonsenseA language so completeSo differentI will not weepBut only look away.Sam Silva19

Tagged LastTagged last by my fatherTs voice,every dayTs game was called over at dusk.His white t-shirt floated just outside the doorway lightuntil I turned toward him bargaining for one more game.He was gonebehind the slap of our screen door. I followed.From bed, I heard childrenlaughing.Dark air ran across my pale sheetsand my fatherTs silence rose up the stairspressing on my dreams.I have seen it now.Night is a dark pine made white,using up a moon a month "turning itfrom a shy sliver toa wreathed and rounding sirenuntil suddenlynight lifts up a moon flat and pocked.Still, it is some soundof night I chase.Pressed on by the shape of my old dreamsinto the whir of cicadae, the hum of neon.Pressed through the erratic jargon of nightto morningWhere from his bed,my father hears my poem.Sue Aydelette

OedipusAt some timethe sound has to stop.Blindness can only be so dark,and tongues can spitonly so much cork from each swallow.Even the scald of desert riverscan be eased over;and the stench of wet leatherforgotten after a month of floodings.But the sound has to stop.The ledge of the cliffstartles the quiet; it is not seen;the wind is not felt;but that groan of depthmakes the quiver that is in my knees.The words are remembered,and the dance of the goatsong,and the cracking of the bottlesis what overwhelms.The temple finch startles the air.Hearts shake the columbine,and hands cast bottles into the ravine.But the sound has to stop.It gurgles in the blood,whispers in the headand applauds with both handsacross the face.It has to stop.J oseph Dudasik

oeBeneath the fadedshirt on the line, cherrypetals in shadowsWhen a branch straysacross the sun, leaves and mothsbecome one colorThe pitcher rests onthe tree roots, last nightTs rainwithin and withoutAs the rabbit browsesa leaf momentarilyfills his earCheryl RibinoMICABrittle. Thin slipsline the trail.Some catches sunonicely;TT worthless,too dull to seeyourself, kick itinto the creek,fling it down the slope,step on it. The commonkind: your pack isTU OF It,You want black mica.Looks old, stained-glassswirls, gold flecks.Fight through laurel,switchbacks, watchfor snakes. Whenit crops up " boulder-sizedbeside the trail, too hugeto carry out " what canyou do? Pick up chips.You know you cannotbreak a piece off.Luke Whisnant

DuplexHis wife sings in the backyard hanging clothesa faded blue shirt knotted under her breastshis socks swing in the windsometimes we talk about our landlord or the weathersometimes she asks me if |am lonely| never answer| live alone listening for their windchimestheir throbbing stereo her moanshis deep voice on the phonehe works downtown in an office far above the streetsoon they will buy a car move to the countryleave meme late-sleeper, day-wasterwaiting for dusk talking to the radioleave meeach evening | hear his thin wife in bedeach morning | shave while her husband is shavingwe stare at back-to-back mirrorslistening standing so closehis face almost coming through | stop breathinghe unplugs his razorthen the bedroom tangled blue sheetshis wifeTs bare shoulders she kisses him good morning| start another dayLuke Whisnant23

SHOPLIFTERHow can he look so much like waterIn such tight clothing, and survive, in that waysO awry, skewered on a laserTs hisslancing his jacket and touching,with bright alarm, the make-up mirror,the silver-plated comb & brush set,and the instruction manual onoHow To Play Bridge: Ten Steps to Mastery.?Even locked to the stiff armof the officerTs early detection techniques,aware of how much he will loseto the prima facie of guilt "how the mirror must have mimedall the faces he would pull in walking out,or how the comb had given his hair a brutal partand the manual heTd only thumbed throughhad printed the dummyTs fate deep within its appendices. . .So that even with such witnesses as these,he would borrow your lighterand be flung into the squad car,hoping you could forgive the awful memory of thieves.Phillip Arrington24

Robert Daniel

Betsy Kurzinger| Betsy Kurzinger28

Mark Peterson

30Roxanne Reep

Stephen Edgertonscans atesa1

Michael LoderstedtOz

_sLarry ShreveMichael Loderstedt3a

David LarsonStephen Williams34

Ella Mallenbaum55

As I Listen the Air is Split into Layers |by Luke WhisnantSheets SS :They are deep blue, as blue as the sky lookingstraight up, blue as Dutch China, blue as youreyes when you wake. In the top sheet, on theleft-hand corner over the seam there is a half-circle of tiny holes: a gift you left me on the firstnight we slept together: teethmarks from whenyou stuffed the sheet into your mouth so thepeople in the next room wouldn't hear us. Everytime I look at these sheets now I think of thatnight, of how cold it was and how you had_ gooseflesh everywhere I touched you. And laterwe slept curled, with my hand on your breast,and weTve never slept any other way since.The sheets were brand-new and clean then,but now theyTre a little worn, slick ahd soft withuse, and on the pillowcase I can smell whereyour hair lay this morning and all last night. ©I'd like to get up. ITve been in bed for daysnow, it seems like, trying to get my balanceback. My ears are ringing. ITll admit it: ma lit-tle light-headed. Sometimes I catch myselfkissing your teethmarks in the blue sheet.WindowComing through the finger-smudged windoware three sunbeams, sharp-edged, blindingshafts I watch moving against the wall._ Splotched, etched, three sun-shapes on the

es ce ee eaeONE AEfloor, two of them rhomboids, light-losenges,and the third smaller, tapered by the curtainTsshadow. Dust notes turn and spin slowly in thesolid columns of light; dust drifts in whorls fromwindow to floor and as I watch, I think of how,when I was younger, I used to try singling outone white speck and following it down. I try itnow; I pick a bright pinpoint and watch it glidefloorward, slow and then faster, scribing half-circles, side-slipping and the rising on an up-draft like a tiny white gull banking and glidingin the sun. When I lose it I pick another one. ItTstoo much: my head, spinning and swirlingalready, starts to whistle a shrill song to me,and then from a long way off I can feel myselfdropping back down to the pillow in slowmotion.But when my head clears, I'll lift it back up,turned toward the window. From this mattresson the floor I canTt see cars or the street or evenphone lines against the sky " only the topbreeze-blown blossoms of the apple tree in myfront yard " but I keep watching for you. Iknow you'll be here soon.YouWhen you come in you're smiling and out ofbreath and the first thing you ask is What didthey say at the infirmary?" Kiss me first, I say. I canTt help beingplayful with you.You set your books and your the flute casedown, then bend over and kiss me. " Now whatdid they say?" I love your eyes. Kiss me again." Be serious." Okay. The doctor said itTs some kind of earinfection and that itTs affecting my sense ofbalance. You know, your balance center is inyour eustachian tubes." You mean you're getting black spots infront of your eyes and tunnel vision and diz-ziness and you haven't been able to stand up forthree days just because of an ear infection?" Yep. Nosense of balance." Whata metaphor.I reach out and touch your hair. " I know. Amonth ago it would have fit me _ perfect,wouldnTt it? No roots, no vision, no balance. Butthis morning I wanted to tell him, ~No, Doc,youTve got the wrong man. ITm not off-balance.Not any more. Hell no, ITm happy and togetherand in love, Doc, ITm okay. ITve regained my per-spective.TYou roll your blue eyes and smile, and run ahand softly down the side of my face. " Are youhungry?-" im himery, but | demt want to eatanything.ITm not sure that makes sense, because mylightheadedness has come back.You make pepper steak, with onions and bellpeppers and sweet-and-sour glaze. I eat a littlebit and feel better, then I finish until only a lit-tle of the sauce is left on the plate. After aminute ITm feeling well enough to brush myteeth.You sit me up against the wall, fill my tooth-brush for me, and hold my shoulders steady.When ITm finished I spit the toothpaste into myiced tea glass. " Things like that make me hatebeing sick." Hush. I have a whole ~nother week to takecare of you and ITm going to enjoy it while I can.Your face is beautiful as you say that." I need to practice tonight, you say, easingme back down gently. " ITm going to do somedishes and then work on the Mozart." Okay. I'll just see if I can sleep some.I donTt sleep, though. ItTs too early. In a littlewhile you'll come back in, stepping out of yourstockings and throwing your skirt across thechair, curling tight around me until your side ofthe bed warms up. Then you'll read to me, orwe'll talk about balance and metaphor, love andlevels of meaning. And then we'll sleep.But now I lie awake listening to you runwater in the kitchen, listening to the gentle clat-ter of dishes, pots, and silver. YouTre singing toyourself. The water runs out down the drain;you dry your hands on a paper towel; I wait forthe next sound: your flute case opening. Youblow a few round breaths inside, warming up, aminor scale, then a major, and then the first fewnotes of the Mozart sonata. My head clears andI close my eyes and as I listen the air is split intolayers.October 1978

IUneasy TransitionsFor no reasonI move from chair to chairturn on and then offflourescent and incandescentlightblow out my only candleeat a late supper in the summerTsdarkwhen I bed downthe neighborTs shepherd puppy barksgrowls for hourslitters my lawnI donTt have to tell you it is difficult to sleep.COtwo oa? period om? period "I pick out the echo of a traintracking through the townTs west endconfuse it with an echo of my bloodcount boxcars of hemoglobinfol a dol me aotin the magnolianot far enough away from my bedroom windowa roostercrews and caws and crowsI am not asleep yet, but | know you are.at some dot period time dashsome dark-light timemoths drum ragasagainst the bone plaster ceilingNow,I canTt tell you how difficult it is to awaken.I would never lie to you.Robert Jonesag

40Crossing the LinvilleWe are all up early in a clear-floored forest.Everyone is rising, taking deep breaths of light.The owls have shut down their emerald lamps.The wind stirs only the tops of slim trees.Now hawks are swooping to the creekTs arena.Now our dogs are cool and lazy on the sand.Our unborn sons are sleeping, our fathers returningfrom their long morning walks.Our mothers and brothers and sisters are bathing.Now we burn our silent tithes in the breakfast fire.We strap the ritual burdens of sustenanceonto each othersT backs, grip our walking sticksand leap from rock to rock across the water.Tim Wright

NovenaI guess the birds are goneThis morning has a very thin layer of noiseI focus onHumming heaters.The institution wakesFor six o'clock ritualsNovember toys " the t.v. setThe meter set at eightyRoast duck stuffed and preparedWe run into the sunshine and the coldLike little boysWhen was the last novena?I believe I was eightKneelingAs fragile as an acolyteBefore the kitchen candlesDemocratic thoughWe would take turns leadingOur prayersHow strange it wasFeeling " trying to feelThe prayers; all of themFor sanity in the worldI looked beyond the candleAnd saw nothing...A drop of moonlight on the kitchen stairs.Sam Silva41

Passagethat morning she found him where she had laid him the night beforein a bed of crumpled sheets and muscular pillowsand she thought of eating 40% branor maybe eggsthe shower steamed hot water outfrom all 11 holes(the 11th being the center hole)all of her pores opened to itshe passed a bulletin board on her wayto or from somewherean unevenly torn sheet pronouncedocanoe for sale$350.00 good condition... What can go wrong with a canoe??that day we made a mental list entitledo101 things that can go wrong with a canoe?she stopped at 31and said who cares anyway?ITm not buyingshe entered room 301 at 1:03 andsat for 57 minutes looking at a green blackboardand then an earnest young mancut the green with white linesand began earnestly speakingshe watched him finger the airshe watched his hands roamthen meet each otherand he began to clean his nailsthat evening the bugs circled in an endlessly mad, futile wayaround the yellow bulb on her porchshe decided to flick the switchand set them freein her room she noticed the hollowed center in her bed once againlike a marble marker worn thin in the middleshe lay facing the ceilingand thoughtI should get up and turn the light offI should go to sleep.June Sylvester42

STRAWBOSSby Joe UnderwoodSoftly, the yellowish, afternoon sun pressedthrough the only window in the packhouse andglided to a dusty stop among the tobacco sticksand empty boxes of rat bait scattered along thefloor. Duke laid his bandaged hand on the silland peered cautiously out the window at thetreeline just beyond the tobacco field. Hisfingers lay numbly among the fly bodies andputty chips as his eyes searched the trees. Hebreathed heavily but with control.oDanny,? he muttered aloud to himself. Theword bounced along strands of a dusty spider-web and stopped abruptly as the creaturerushed out to examine its catch. oWhat thehellTs keepinT ya??He looked at his hand and winced at the rustyred stain. The bandage had been torn from hissweaty tee shirt and tied loosely with his lefthand. The salt within the bandage was workingits way into the wound, and his hand throbbedwith each heartbeat.Duke turned from the window and crossedwearily to a loose chair that had once sported awicker bottom. He raised a worn boot to theseat and laid his hand gently, palm up on hisknee. The calloused and cracked fingers of hisleft hand pulled clumsily at the bandage. Theheat pressed close around him and squeezed un-til salty water rolled down his face and fell tothe wooden boards beneath the chair.~oDook ... Dook itTs Danny,? came a strainedhalf-whisper from outside the packhouse. Dukejerked at the sound and dropped the bandage.He turned and faced the door as blood creptslowly down his hand and fell silently to hisbootstrings.43Gis:%

44The hinges sang as the door opened. A bonyfield negro dressed in ancestoral rags stoodsilhouetted in the framed opening.oDook??~Yea, Danny, ITm in here. Close the door Tforesomeone sees.?Danny stepped into the packhouse and leanedback, closing the door behind.~oDook, I think .. . Lawd, Dook, look at yerhanDuke raised the angry, swollen hand so thatthe blood flowed backwards and dropped fromhis wrist.oYea, he bust it up good.? He regarded thehand for a moment and then asked, oHe dead??~oDook, you need to get to a doctor Tfo youlose that hanT.?Duke looked at the aging black face with itslean cheeks and pale yellow eyes fortresseddeep in the skull. Danny instinctively loweredhis eyes as was his custom when a white mansought an answer there.oBout an hour ago,? he said at length withoutlooking up. After a moment he spoke again.oDook, therT ainTt no reason foT ya to run like yadoinT. Be different if youTse a nigga, but the law.oLaw treats trash jusT the same, Danny.?oBut youTse a strawboss. You had mensworkinT under...?oI was a field hanT jusT like you. ThatTs jusT atitle they gimme cause I was the onTy whiteaan.?The light softened a little, and the two menstood facing with eyes downcast in the heat anddust.oStill, Dook, if youTd jusT splain to the sheriffhow he cheated ya and tried to fawce .. .? he letthe words trail away without struggle.oT kilt a man what owns most the propTty inthis county. He pays the sheriff's wages, " notno travTlin field hanT.?Danny raised his eyes and studied DukeTsface. Deep lines ran from the corners of his eyesto his temples, and a waxy scar melted from hishairline onto his forehead. It was a kind face,hardened by sun and wine and drunkendisputes. The eyes had been cloudy withthought, but they cleared and looked into theancient eyes of Danny.oYou bring my things??oEverthinT you ast for. Left Tem in a gunnysack by the broke-over tree near the swamp.?oThen heTp me with this hanT ~for I bleed todeath.?Danny tore the remainder of the tee shirt intostrips and took DukeTs arm by the wrist andstudied the hand closely.~He musta bust near evra bone in there,? hesaid as he begun wrapping the strips around thedark swollen hand. Blood stained each layer ashe worked.~oDook? You awright??Duke steadied himself with his good handagainst the back of the chair. He turned and satdown, weakly, on the edge of the seat. Sweatbeaded on his forehead. When he spoke, hisvoice was thin and weak. oGimmie a minute~fore you wrap anymore. It hurts bad.?~Sho, Dook. DidnTt mean to hurt ya none. Is ittoo tight??In the golden light, Duke held his hand in hispalm with his elbow resting on his knee andmade no reply. The bandaged hand lay looselyin his lap. Danny stood with his hands deep inhis pockets and shook his head slowly from sideto side. At length, Duke lifted his head andlooked at the window.oThat'll haf ta do till I get someTrs else wherefolks donTt know me.?He stood and extended his left hand to theNegro.oThanks for ya heTp; you took a big chance.?DannyTs hand came out of his pocket with afolded piece of paper which he gave to Duke.~Keep this witcha foT good luck,? he said.Duke moved painfully along the rows oftobacco until he came to the edge of the woods.He went over his plans as he walked. He wouldhop the evening freight as it slowed for the oldbridge near the edge of the swamp. He'd get offin Raleigh and get his hand looked after, thencatch another freight to Richmond.He stopped often and rested until he came tothe broken tree and the burlap bag. There hesat down heavily and leaned his back againstthe stump and closed his eyes. The pounding inhis hand made him nauseous, and he was dizzyfrom the lost blood.He unfolded the paper Danny had given himand held it wearily at arms length. On the frontwas a picture of Jesus holding a lamb, peeringout from the creased paper with goodness andmercy. A broad golden halo orbited his head. Onthe back was printed the 23rd Psalm in boldtype, but DukeTs eyes could only focus enoughto read the title.He lay the paper down beside him and closedhis eyes again. With his good hand he dugaround in the bag and withdrew a bottle ofcheap brown whiskey. He uncorked it, pressedit to his lips, and heard it bubble as heswallowed. He lowered the bottle and openedee eer este[See

=cs aRT ee SS EL aehis eyes. Quietly the light had slipped from goldto magenta and crimson. The legion of treesawaited trumpets. Jesus and the lamb stared upat the branches where evening birds soughtshelter from the approaching darkness.Duke took another long pull from the bottleand attempted to stand. His head spun and hereached for the stump with his bandaged hand.The pain made everything black for a moment.When he recovered, he stumbled towards theswamp and bridge.He could hear the train in the distance. He en-tered the woods, descended a slight grade, andsloshed through ankle-deep water towards thesound. His fevered body resisted. With eachstep his concentration shattered, reassembled,and shattered again. He leaned forward againsta tree and nestled his neck and shoulder into itstrunk. They embraced with a secret love. Aftera moment he withdrew and shook his head. Hewas nearing delerium and knew he must get onthe train before he passed out.oThe Lord is my shepherd,? he said thickly ashe sloshed among the cyprus knees. He couldhear the train cutting back power as it ap-: x alan i t beeae ba vnproached the bridge. His feet moved slowly anddistantly; they seemed far away and beyond hiscontrol. He listened as the engine crossed thebridge. It was a short train with only one enginepulling. Through the trees he could see thewhirling light of the locomotive twisting its wayalong the horizontal ladder.oT shall not want,? he whispered as he sank tohis knees in the shallow water beneath thebridge. He scooped a palmful of the cool darkwater to his face and shivered violently as itdripped onto his chest.The train clicked rhythmically across thebridge before him. The box cars swayed gentlyfrom side to side like a huge cradle. In the pur-ple light, with half closed eyes he saw a preciouscargo of field hands and strawbosses and landowners, bathed in innocence and cloaked in thewhite robes of forgiveness.His shoulders sagged; his arms hung looselyat his sides. oHe leadeth me,? he whispered.The psalm danced about gracefully in his mind.He felt himself falling without fear orhesitation. ~ooBeaneath the still waters.?; eh 4 . oS : ohe, 6 yy,~ . LivedPhone mb Stared madosora :

FossilsAfter the last rice and pulpy tomato of the afternoon was gone| washed my dishesand your gift " a fossil, once a whaleTs ear(that must have banged and beat with sea sounds long ago)sat on my tableits barnacles dry in the sifting light of my kitchenLifting my hands from the stained red water| notice how they have begun to pucker and softly whitenand this is how it goeswe are young fruitwe dry like raisinsthen we are the stoneIn the high keening sound of a new storm| heard an echo from my childhoodfrom many childhoods agoand before the rain drummed downIn its ancient, vicious pulse| raced to shut my windowskeep in the warmthstay dryIn this way we turn to boneIn this way we arestones offered up from the seaJune Sylvester

What to Know About HogsStand on the runway. Dropslop to sows without falling off.Know diets. Diseases they catch.Learn to watchthe sallow piglets litter-clumpedtoasting under red heat-lampsbreeding boars with balls dung-draggingwhite eyes wild rolling.Hear their shrieks. They trot sure-footedsnort and rootthrough kudzu snake-routes.They toss rattlers with their long snouts,slash them under trotters, tearwith sharp pig-teeth in mid-air.You learn this. And: you've seenphotos: meat markets in Spainwhere whole roast shoats hang at eyelevel,sly mouths choked with apples...Eaters of anything. Rats and slugssnakes shit other pigs:think this as you watch: they found himthree days later. Last year. A manyou knew well " blinded, stroke-struckwhile slopping his stock,black clot in his brain "he tottered on the runway, fell into the penof hungry sows. You carry onand pray he died on the way down.Luke Whisnant47

48at aayanew ooAThe Fish Killfor Ed Jones, 1958-1979A procession of white, cylindrical bellies A flock of birds is spreading in the skyis floating down from a night they allswaminto as though the pages of some dark novelfar upstream. Occasionally, a tail curlshave opened, letting out all its words;slowly back and forth, shaking out its stillness. their shadowsThe dead ones keep drinking, pretending to stain the creek in tracts as big as clouds,breathe, their mouths opened into the current dimming everything, until the first fish bodyin perfect fish kisses.rounds a sharp bend back into the light,and breaking out into the sprayover the table of a high waterfall, theyare not falling, not ever.Tim Wright

like thisiam like this place.sheer heights surrounddepths rummaged by endless= hooks.== there is a differenceYH of course,these granite walls aremuch more real.stillthe colors mate,red and pinks trace veinson the babyskull sky.i know these colors well.i feel them as the blindfeel them,untouched.beneath the sheen of sunbleachedwater lies a blue.none of this is newthough iam new,and lucky.clutching my unspent timelike a ticket out,iam like this place,solid and vertical besideflowing aquaintance,reflected now by deep poolswhere friendships glidelike fish.S. Phillip Miles49

Danglingafter a painting by DegasAs though her strained insidesare slowly slidingout of her suspended bodyshedanglesabove the circus crowd. To her, we're colored chipsof a kaleidoscope. Her knees are bentto ease pressureas the fire rages against her teeth. The rope, tauthangs her, holds her " some hunterTs killcreakingshe gently sways and twists.The ceiling walls pulse red and orange secondbysecond.The thought that pain mightovercome her, that the nail-like gripof her teeth might slip,sends waves of whispersthrough the crowd.Jeffrey Joseph50

SurvivorsYou are afraid The river isof water but itTs never blue singing and high watertoo late sweeping dreams outfor sailing away to seatake my skin and stitch but the stars are deeperlong white sails than the riverbuild my bones into the wind is wiser thanthe body of a boat anywhere the riverTs been |turn my eyes into a hot white star still, riversyour north star like lovers shouldnever be fully explored.Denise Andrews

OcracokeOn a darkening sliceof island, you camewithout my calling.The old, old scentsof salt, and pineand driftwood burningmet you at the edgeof many voices, put youto sleep on rocksin the sea wind,planted dreamsof people saying thisor that. And now,with the tideat the reachof my backward feeling,you and | yet sleepIn the night-shy heat,lie feverish togetherand feelin the eye of our frontthe tremble of soft friction,land and wave.Tim WrightBZ

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54LineageFound in 1978 by your fingers:the curved line running from the edgeof my nose to the cornerof my mouth| had to smile at your tracing touch(and deepened the creases there)That Spring we rowed out over the cypress stained waterthe sun was bright and sharp as pain| squinted into the glare and you turned and caught meyour face folded into laughter andyou said | looked like a near-sighted Chinese womanA history is furrowed in my foreheadthere - moments crossed in concentrationhere - times when your annoying habitsgathered knots between my browsand pulled them tautThese moments have taken formand are etched in the fine linesof my facewhile other women cream and maskand salve to smoothness their surfaces| will wear these years you have given meand, yes, | will wrinkle with pride.June Sylvester

with one classtomorrowplease marry me tonightor just a shorthoney moon pie.blindly like nylonbristles | crash through yourhair, new found adorationyou Say is my fault.tongue by a fatpebble in a stream. noseof steel grind bright sparks.make eyes resolvetempestuous contours.like a candle " singe me.Michael Loderstedt55

56ink blot cataggielooks at me soclosewithreasonfor the black.and real live whiskerstoo nearforFOCWS,| wasthe space behind her earsshe likedand the reasonfor thewhite.Michael LoderstedtPARADOXLilies possessed the room for nearly a week,SuspendedIn a few inches of water from the kitchen sink:A moment's captured graceLike a dancer stilled in movement,A snowflake caught against the window pane.Then as if all at once,The way buds burstAnd leaves fallThe petals blackened like banana peels,Crumpled into an arthritic fist, andGot thrown into the garbage.Ernest Marshall

TELE teThe gold is tucked awaybehind blue-braille numbers.Coded, secret.Balance achieves balanceand rocking between the right handside of your secrecy and the leftleaves them nothing to seebut your back, your busy fingers.Property is again protected.Yet those eyes,those sliding screens.~~One moment pleaseT and one momentmight have established a kind of fundto be drawn from without credentials.But the wallet foldedevery world youTd been inin two, withdrawing all depositsyou thought you owned.Even that gets investedin some stock responseto the yellow slipsdropping at your feetlike smaller nods,wise to the total transaction.Phillip Arrington*A 24-hour banking machine atWachovia TrustOY

A MATTER OF EXISTING WILL (in fragments)You cannot inspire until you expire.Laughand the angst in your throatlike grinding bones,or the sound of saltshaken,echoes echoes.Let clay re-acquaint with clay.Danceand your fumbling feet,not quite ever leaving earth, will knowtreasures that are hereand there-honed and hued.Eye the particular.Blinkand the bright brow of sundownblanks.It all goes bleak to black-hole- spaceand nothing period.Robert Jones58

Plum StoneYou hate it whenI drop the slippery wet stoneof a pluminto the wastebasket in your study.This wastebasket you sayis for paper,dry stuff.This stone I sayonly stainsthe poems you havetorn.LookThis crumpled sheethas yellow ochre rings.Sue AydeletteoDaddy,Why donTt Ijust stop talking right now so I will knowmy last words??Kempten L. DanielLV

WRITERSSUE AYDELETTE is a senior in thewriting program and this yearTsRebe/ art editor.DENISE ANDREWS is a_ seniorwriting major whose poems haveappeared in past issues of TheRebel and Tar River Poetry.PHILLIP ARRINGTON is a lecturer inEnglish at ECU. He is currently headof the Poetry Forum and a pasteditor of The Rebel.KAREN BLANSFIELD is a graduatestudent in English who has recentlycompleted her thesis. She haspreviously published poems in TheRebel and Tar River Poetry.KATHY CRISP is a junior fromWashington, N.C., majoring increative writing. She has previouslypublished poems in Straight, aChristian magazine.HAL DANIEL is a Professor ofSpeech, Language and AuditoryPathology at ECU who haspublished extensively in his field.This is his first appearance in TheRebel.KEMPTEN LOVE DANIEL is_ theprodigious seven year-old son ofHal Daniel who attends MoreheadSchool in Greensboro. This is hispublication debut.JOE DUDASIK, a long standingmember of the Poetry Forum, isboth a poet and an artist. His workhas been published in past editionsof The Rebel and Tar River Poetry.COLLEEN FLYNN is a senior whosepoems have appeared in previousissues Of The Rebe/ and Tar RiverPoetry. Colleen is the editor of thisyearTs Rebel.ROBERT JONES is a member of thePoetry Forum and last year servedas associate editor of The Rebel.JEFFREY JOSEPH is a senior writingmajor from Danville, Va. He is amember of the Poetry Forum andhas published in numerous smallmagazines.ERNEST MARSHALL is a teacher inthe Philosophy Department at ECUwho has been reading and writingpoetry intermittently for manyyears. This is his first appearance inThe Rebel.S. PHILLIP MILES, an ECU alumnus,teaches English in Fayetteville, N.C.He has published poems in severalpast issues of The Rebel.CHERYL RIBINO is _" currentlyteaching poetry in the Englishdepartment. This is her first ap-pearance in The Rebel.SAM SILVA is a member of thePoetry Forum who lives in Golds-boro, N.C.JUNE SYLVESTER is a senior fromElizabeth City, N.C., majoring inwriting. Her poem ~The CallingTwon this yearTs JeffreyTs Beer andWine Poetry Award. This is her firstappearance in The Rebel.JOE UNDERWOOD is a graduatestudent in English who won thisyearTs prose award for his shortstory ~~Strawboss.?T This is his firstpublication in The Rebel.LUKE WHISNANT is _ currentlystudying creativeT writing atWashington University in St. Louis.He is a past editor of The Rebel.TIM WRIGHT is a graduate studentin English at ECU and this yearTsRebel literary editor. This is his thirdappearance in The Rebel.

ARTISTSLISA BATEMAN is a senior paintingmajor at ECU. The cover piece ofthis yearTs Rebe/ marks her first ap-pearance in the magazine.ROBERT DANIEL is a_ graduatepainting major in the ECU art de-partment. Before coming to Green-ville, Robert was artist-in-residencein Harnett County.SID DAVIS is a High Point nativeworking toward a BFA in com-mercial art. He is presently a freelance commercial artist.RITA EARLEY is a graduate student -MFA Ceramics. This is his first ap-pearance in Rebel.STEPHEN EDGERTON is a seniorseeking a BFA in painting with aminor in drawing. He is originallyfrom Philadelphus, N.C. His mixedmedia piece won best in show thisyear.BETSY KURZINGER is an MFA can-didate in Communications Art. Sheis currently participating in in-ternational postal art correspon-dence.DAVID LARSON is a junior workingtoward a BFA in painting. He hastwo pieces in this issue of JheRebel.MICHAEL LODERSTEDT is a senior inprintmaking with an interest incollagraphs. His work has beenexhibited in Kate Lewis and Graygalleries, and recently at the Univer-sity of Florida.ELLA MALLENBAUM is currentlyseeking an MFA in painting. Shehas previously taught art andEnglish in Pennsylvania publicschools.DAVID NORRIS is a senior fromCharlotte majoring in print making.This is his third appearance in TheRebel.MARK PETERSON is a sophomoreBFA painting major. He attendedGovernor's School in 1974. He con-tinually strives to express hismusical interests through his art-work.PETER PODESZWA is a graphic artsmajor at ECU. He is an avidphotographer and currently head ofthe student Photo Lab.JUDSON POOLE was formerly an artstudent at ECU. He has previouslydone illustrations for The Rebel.ROXANNE REEP is a_ graduatestudent in jewelry design who hashad work purchased by R.J.Reynolds. This is her third ap-pearance in The Rebel.BRENDA WILLIAMS is a senior inCommunications Art and a StudentUnion artist. Last year she won firstplace in the Rebe/ Art Show for ablack and white photo.STEPHEN WILLIAMS is a graduatestudent in the Dept. of English. Hisphotograph comes out of a collec-tion of images from his summer tripto England.