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The Literary-Art Magazine of East Carolina University
Volume 26, Number 4
ArtistTs Awards
Best in Show: George McKim, Vicissitude
Ceramics: James Lux, Pit Fired Basket
Drawing: Jo Pumphrey, The Arrival
Design: Diane Maisel, Flying Boat Four
Graphics: Christopher Palmer, Portrait of J.C. Sacks
Illustration: John Boone, Optimism
Mixed Media: Leslie Karpinski, Architectural Scrapyard
Painting: Marty Hardin, Frog Level (An Ode To)
Photography: Joe Champagne, Untitled
Sculpture: Gregory Shelnutt, Tripod Landscape
Judges: Michael Ehlbeck, Marilyn Gordley,
Tran Gordley, John Satterfield
WriterTs Awards
Prose
First Place: Cam Sloan, Random Scenes from Going
Off on a Limb One Special
Evening
Second Place: Jeff Jones, Captain Danger
Judges: Bill Hallberg, Carlyn Ebert
Poetry
First Place: Malynn Linton, Passing
Second Place: Jeff Jones, Kentucky Grandpa
Judges: Pat Bizzaro, Julie Fay, Luke Whisnant
The REBEL is published annually by the Media Board of East Carolina University.
This issue and its contents are copyrighted 1984 by the REBEL. All rights revert back
to the individual writers and artists upon publication. Contents of this issue may not be
reproduced by any means, mechanical or electrical, nor may any part of it be stored
in any information retrieval system without the written permission of the author or
artist. Volume 26, number 1. Address all correspondence to the REBEL, Mendenhall
Student Center, East Carolina University, Greenville, NC 27834.
Introduction
The task of producing the Rebel magazine has been one
of excitement as well as confusion. While producing the
Rebel, | not only learned to cope with a ransacked office
left by well-intentioned ECU construction workers and the
frustration of habitually locking myself out of the office,
but I also learned that professionalism is not drudgery, but
a source of pride. This year I have seen professionalism on
many levels, beginning with the fine works of ECU students
and concluding with the care and attention of the JostenTs
Publishing Company.
The magazine could not have been completed without
the assistance of all the dedicated individuals involved in
the production of the Rebel. We would especially like to
thank Ed Midgett and John Boone for photography, Marty
Hardin for hanging the art show, Greg Wilson for Gallery
layout, Jay Holley for distribution and circulation and |
David Harris for all-around good advice. We would also
like to recognize Tom Haines of the Attic and Jeffries
Distributors who provided financial support for the annual
Rebel contests and the Art and Camera Gallery for the use
of its facilities. We have enjoyed the help of Mark Niewald
and the Media Board who gave us a good foundation, the
East Carolinian for its excellent coverage and the
Buccaneer for supplying entertainment as well as
equipment. And of course, the Hyatt Regency of Chicago
for a good time during the ACP convention.
On a more serious note, I would like to thank Alice
Walker for her inspiration. In The Color Purple, she writes
~I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple
in a field somewhere and you donTt notice it.TT The Rebel
magazine affords you the opportunity to look past the
browns and greens of our lives and see clearly the color
purple. Writers and artists together are the pigments which
make up the color purple. Through their work we are able
to see ordinary things in refreshing new ways, to
experience the pain of a tragedy and the laughter of a
comedy, to appreciate life for what it is, not what we want
it to be.
We hope that the 1984 issue of the Rebel magazine can
put you in touch with the color purple here at East
Carolina University.
,
Cover
~States of Mind: AnxietyTT, this yearTs cover art by Keith
Simmons, was originally an illustration for Psychology
Today.
dim Albright Inside Gorky II
R E B E
SSS cs Sees Sc saleoeiaineadinateiialiat beshendnaa
ILLUSTRATORS
Jim Albright, Jim Armstrong, John Boone,
Dwight M. Burke II, Donna Gregory, Leslie Karpinski,
Thom Ketring, Maya Oliver, Debbie Rawls,
Cam Sloan, Clay Smith, July Thompson, Dwight Touchberry
NINETEEN
EIGHTY
FOUR
REBEL
STAFF
UL: Ellen Moore
Editor
UR: Dwight Touchberry
Art Director
LL: Bill Murphy
Poetry Editor
LR: Jamie Biggers
Prose Editor
Art
Inside Gorky II
Architectual Scrapyard
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Illustration
Painting
Untitled
The Arrival
Pit-Fired Basket
Tripod Landscape
Frog Level (An Ode to)
Untitled Composition #4
Springboard Diving
Vicissitude
Flying Boat Four
Lady at the Left
Subway Sax
Power to be of Service
A Brooch
On the Frontier of High Flight
Untitled
Red Onion
Red Corner
Supersensualism Extended
Tourin |
Blues
Untitled
Bagged, Trapped, and Crossed
Illustration ;
Optimism
Triptych Images
Seeing Through Your Eyes
Illustration
Painting
Artist Biographies
Jim Albright
Leslie Karpinski
July Thompson
Cam Sloan
Dwight Touchberry
Maya Oliver
Dwight Touchberry
Donna Gregory
Dwight Touchberry
Thom Ketring
George McKim
Donna Gregory
K.F. McCleneghan
Joe Champagne
Jo Pumphrey
James Lux
Gregory Shelnutt
Marty Hardin
Mark Brown
Michael Tatsis
George McKim
Diane Maisel
Chris Carlson
John Boone
Carol Soo LeBuhn
Linda Darty Smith
Dwight Touchberry
Susan Fecho
Dwight Touchberry
Wiley Hicks
Leslie Karpinski
Joe Champagne
Donna Gregory
Betty Melton
Ellen Moore
Clay Smith
John Boone
Hal J. Daniel III
BettyJo Norman
Dwight Touchberry
Billy Walker
13
16
19
20
24
27
28
29
33
34
36
37
38
39
40
40
41
42
44
44
45
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
55
58
59
64
69
72
81
82
85
87
Literature
Odes and Old Songs
Kentucky Grandpa
Random Scenes
MargauxTs is Still BlimpieTs
(to Me)
Professor Emeritus, 1989:
A 1984 Poem
Fox Tales
Blue Eyes
Passing
Leaves
Discant
Fall in Greenville
Scarves
African Violets
The Fan
Metal Workings
The Eighty Dollar Poem
Retriever
The Pond
Concentric Circles
Sandcastles
Another Sunrise
I and They (VincentTs Goodbye)
Erasure
Ungame
Butterfly Wings
Churches
Running
That Spring
Captain Danger
What the Leaves Seem to Do
Perpetual Motion
WriterTs Biographies
Low Burn
Brian Rangeley
Jeffry Jones
Cam Sloan
Hal J. Daniel III
Hal J. Daniel IIl
Melanie Phillips
Brian Rangeley
Malynn Linton
J.T. Pietrzak
J. Phillip Horne
Al Maginnes
Jamie Biggers
Jamie Biggers
Elizabeth Ito Hart
Andy Johnson
Mike Hamer
Sherrill Owens
Andy Johnson
Brian Zachariah
Charles Shannon Meek
Elizabeth Ito Hart
Cam Sloan
Dorothy Liles
Bob Clyde
William H. Murphy
William Neil Bender
Al Maginnes
Dorothy Liles
Jeffry Jones
Sam Silva
Melanie Bently-Maughan
Sam Silva
Pg. 64
5
7
8
14
15
16
20
25
27
28
29
30
31
32
53
54
56
57
61
64
66
70
70
70
71
71
74
75
77
83
84
86
88
Pie ey hy
ee ee
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8
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een , ae
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insk
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OR eT ed a
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Leslie Karp
Odes and Old Songs
Ode to my old radio
aged, rounded Philco.
From beneath your veneer
decades, even generations
ago, you displayed creationTs every color.
You musiced mellow yellow daffodils
crooned country green lullabies,
cried dark blue midnight heartaches.
In younger days
you announced the end of war
ushered in Happy Days.
Now, rescued from attic retirement,
you decorate my table
with your cathedral face
design of lace
thoughtful, somber,
never frown.
A row, three black knobs
amidst finger-faded circles; dry
finish, white cracks in dark wood,
time-worn laquer.
Useless now,
they turn in vain
silent, empty sound
" your dirge? | try again
tune you in, still, no miracle
to wake you from your coma. Someday "
I'll take you to a chapel
set you on a workbench altar:
minister to resisters
cheer the dim and sad glass tubes
transplant the dying ones.
Then home to your happy table top;
I'll plug you in, start you up,
you'll color my room
and never stop.
Brian Rangeley
nil
ND) IN
Kentucky Grandpa
Dry, pulled tight over narrow frame
Your skin is brown like Kentucky soil
Or the varnished stock of the gun
You hunted coons with
When you learned the wilderness.
Here, now, you seem displaced,
A dark-skinned Germanic nomad
Who climbed
The last Kentucky mountain,
Found the 20th Century,
And could not climb back.
We have a few stories to give, Grandpa,
SO you are our only tale-teller
At this union of estranged kin.
You speak of cuckolds
Reaching for shotguns
Sleepy-eyed men, rudely aroused,
Claw at their britches,
Run, stumble, through cane and corn
On foggy Saturday nights.
These tales of yours shock
And as we laugh,
We wonder about a man
Who tells of such wicked deeds
And yet has never uttered
A curse-word that wasnTt
In the Bible.
You smile, Grandpa,
Your gaunt cheeks filled out
By your dentures,
Begin another story.
Your eyes fill with sparks,
Hard to define little lights
Like the glows of the carbide lamps
You followed
Into the deep and inky darkness
Of a mine shaft.
When the big war came
You traded mine shaft for foxhole,
sent South Pacific trinkets
To the Kentucky girl back home.
Never saw the enemiesT faces,
Did you, just their planesT
Bellies bleeding bombs
Over Phillipine fields, where,
Crouched in your midnight foxhole,
You vowed to leave all dark holes
Forever.
When you bought the farm
You did it after the war,
Got good Kentucky bottom land,
Raised a family, the fringes
Of which are gathered,
Listening, here.
You have come so far, Grandpa,
But | guess someone must
Keep your stories,
Have them
When you have gone
To brown soil
And dark holes forever.
Jeffry Jones
- Tee
trom Going off on a
Limb One Special
Night
Even though ITm nineteen, ITm not at all well-versed in the
ways of the world, a failing I attribute much to my
sensitivity. | know that the preceeding statement begs
illustration, but I want to be sure that I, since I have taken
on the responsibility of being your narrator, say it so you
won't think ITm totally naive about everything. Because at
least | can realize what I am, right? DoesnTt that make me a
more reliable narrator? | want you to feel that you can relax
and trust me as we go through this ordeal.
My Dad was standing by the bookcase in the kitchen
about four feet northwest of the comfortable, green chair
where his o~little girlT (me) was perched, half sitting, half on
her knees. I was bragging about my most recent scholastic
achievements back at the small college I was attending, the
rising and falling of my fatherTs smile dictating the degree to
which | exaggerated. My mother was on the opposite side of
the kitchen, approximately twelve and one half feet
northeast of me, standing over the stove tending the
spaghetti sauce. The oversized pink and green flowers of her
faded housecoat billowed and rolled in her wake, just like
we all did, while the unromantic, yet ever-practical overhead
kitchen light dug merciless crevices under her eyes. I was
sure she loved it though because they were the ~o~attitude�T
wrinkles of a self-made martyr.
[ interrupted my bragging for a moment to tell her how
delicious everything smelled and how good it was to be
home. This paticular comment was, as always, followed by a
somewhat embarrassed and stilted, ~Well, weTre glad to
have you home, honey� from my mother. And each time
Cam Sloan
this interaction took place, I wondered if maybe weTd both
have been better off without it.
We were by nature a very quiet unit as we all seemed to
be equipped with some sort of internal feelers which most
times deemed words unnecessary. | felt as if my parents
lived by an unspoken motto, something to the effect of:
oWhy slander things by saying them?�
Anyhow, I have to stop here for a minute. ITm wondering
if you like my family as characters so far, or at Jeast if
you'll at Jeast like me by page four. But try to forget about
page four right now because itTs too early for you to be
thinking about conclusions. We havenTt even really gotten
started yet. I also want to tell you that the self-portrait may
be somewhat biased. ITm really beginning to regret taking on
all this responsibility so since ITm in charge ITm going to
make a narrator/persona switch. From the end of this
sentence on, I will be an independent, self-willed, strong, yet
considerate and somewhat sensitive career woman of 29.
(You can decide whether or not I have a family.) My name
is Nichole , and I happen to love my name as well
as if I'd made it up myself. | have somewhat wavy, coarse
brown hair (length is up to your preference). ITm reasonably
well off (salary of $64,000 a year) and ITve been around.
ITm now living in a penthouse in New York City after
trekking way across the nation from my little ranch house in
Austin (we had armidilloes and lemon trees in the backyard),
and I got my masterTs degree at the University of Texas.
(My modus operandi for o~the big move�? will be up to you,
too.) ITve got to let you take some of the responsibility in
this so we can build up some sort of mutual respect. I think
it will make it a lot more pleasant for both of us, and that
way you can make me as reliable a narrator as you choose
and I donTt have to worry about proving myself anymore.
| have a beautiful smile, possibly coy, alluring, natural,
individualistic, etc. You decide according to your
specifications of what o~beautifulTT means to you. I have
mesmerizing eyes, though, without a doubt, mesmerizing. But
most of the time, | will be so intriguing, analytical, clever, or
selfless that you will forget this detail within a few minutes
into our conversation, and you will only be attentive to it
when thereTs a break in the dialogue or if | should get up to
get us some coffee or wine, if you prefer. (I donTt keep beer
in the refrigerator since I moved from Texas.) And when
you see my face from different angles and my mannerisms
and the way I| walk, I would like you to be thinking: ~o~The
way she moved showed grace, good upbringing without
being pretentious, and most of all, an ingrained sensitivity as
if sensitivity had been her favorite characteristic in a person
since the time she was nineteen. And she had a way of
looking at you during breaks in the conversation that could
make you forget what you were even talking about to begin
with.�T Ha! Will you look at that? I got so caught up in
trying to be sexy that I forgot my original purpose. That
happens to a lot of people, ya know? Okay, back to the
narrating:
The girl sat basking in her parentsT attention in the
comfortable, green chair, still bragging about her most recent
accomplishments.
This is fun now that ITm separated not only by space and
time but by involvement. | am free to say whatever I want.
So, first of all, | want to say that, honestly, certain aspects
of this daughter character make me sort of sick. | donTt
think she deserves half as much attention as sheTs getting
from us though I do believe she deserves it from her
parents. I really think she just likes to be in the spotlight.
How anyone over the age of nineteen puts up with
adolescents is beyond me. ItTs definitely a gift. She thinks
she knows about things " the ways of life and people and
things that one canTt possibly know until one has been
through them, like me. She also has a really dull hang up
about whether people like her or not, and sometimes, it
practically dictates her life, and most of the time, inhibits her
from making any real creative endeavors. You'll notice that
the main conflict we will encounter in our story is within this
main character herself, and it may never even be resolved.
So that, in effect, depending on your perception, this
storyTs graph may look like this _""" , like this SWZ ,
like this , or even worse, like this . (In
which case, I urge you to make more effort in my favor,
please.) But if you are my kind of reader, you will try to
make it look like this, ~~ \., somehow. A suggested way
to do this is to consider that maybe a possible solution to
our main characterTs conflict would be for us to simply let
her go loose: to leave her out of conventionality, out of
routine, obligation, norms, and expectations for a while.
Therefore, the solution/resolution of the characterTs conflict
would occur after the story is over. You see, itTs not so
hard if youTre willing to compromise. We will not even let
her be inhibited by the fact that a certain admired author
has already used graphs in his stories and that sheTs not the
10
only narrator to step out into the spotlight or to step out of
it for a while. Being the first person is not always the best. |
know this from experience rather than assumption as our
first narrator would have.
For purposes of counteracting possible technical criticism,
[ am going to make a change. We will dispense with the
word o'story�T in relation to this stuff you are now reading,
and tonight we will call it going off on a limb because thatTs
exactly what it is for me. We can do anything we want to
with the concept o~story.�� We can hide it under a rock in
the backyard and simply pretend itTs not there. We can
rearrange it and make it into o~ryots,TT or we could shred it
into bits like confetti and randomly scatter it all over the-
place. Any proposals you might have are already accepted.
You donTt even have to ask.
Besides, I think an occasional ~~going off on a limb�T is a
natural human process (nothing we should be ashamed of),
and I really believe itTs beneficial sometimes, especially in a
creative situation. The mistakes of subject A help establish
for the other subjects the limits of what you are or are not
supposed to do and how much you can get away with.
Remember, we are under the Law, not grace when
performing in ~o~the public eye.�T
I want to point something out to you. Here we went
through this whole long break in the conversation, and not
once did you think about my mesmerizing eyes. I donTt
know whether thatTs good or bad. | guess it depends on
where you place your values.
Maybe you need some more wine. | meant to tell you ITve
got chablis and rose in the fridge if you donTt really care for
burgundy. You want a beer? All right I lied. ITve got a
beer. HereTs a Lone Star long neck hiding behind the
mayonnaise. ITve even got some homemade cheese sticks
and sausage balls if you want some " all the way from
dear old MomTs kitchen. ITm 29 years old and halfway
across the country, and she still sends me o(CARE
packages.TT Can you believe that? Once upon a time, it used
to make me feel guilty, but now ITve come to the realization
that itTs her desperate way of trying to make up for the way
she never could be to me. Just like my Dad you should
see the dress he sent me for my last birthday. (Cut way
down to there. You canTt even tell the front from the back.
| would have gone wild over it ten years ago.) But itTs too
late. All those years of silent anguish pent up for one
special night when we would finally talk " you know,
lay things out on the line. | thought when I left home |
would finally ~freeT them. HA! I canTt even free myself. But
whose ogoing off on a limb�T is this anyway? LetTs get back
to our main character: | wish she had done something worth
merit so you would have some reason to care about her
because thatTs important with main characters. Okay, letTs
see. You could care about our main character because
she died. Woo0O0Oooo, wait a minute. ITm just kidding. Any
spiritual reference will be purely symbolic, and you donTt
even have to see it if you donTt believe.
Okay, letTs try again. The only important, meritable thing
she did was guess what! You get to decide! Ha.
~Well, itTs black-eyed Susan!�T the father exclaimed,
looking up from the sports section.
oDa-addy,�T she whined. ~~ThatTs why I want to get false
eyelashes.�T
~o~Huh, that makes a whole lot of sense,T�T he said fumbling
through the stack of newspapers beside the green chair.
(They had already been over this subject once today, much
to the daughterTs chagrin. She would really have much
rather not let them know she was planning to do this.)
9
~See, if I had false eyelashes,T she continued bravely. oI
wouldnTt have to wear mascara, and then | wouldnTt get this
black stuff all under my eyes.�
~Well, nobody says ya got to wear mascara in the first
place, ya know?�
~Oh, Daddy, just forget it,TT she said in exasperation.
~~You have no comprehension of what itTs like to be me, and
youTre not even trying to understand. Maybe you donTt care
if I look like ITm twelve years old for the rest of my life, but
I do!�T
~oYTm sorry, honey. Is it that all your girlfriends are getting
false eyelashes so you want them too?�
~o~No, itTs not,TT she pleaded. ~o~Daddy, for once I want to
be different. Why canTt I be the first person for once?�
~Because youTre not ready for the responsibility, thatTs
why. I donTt know whatTs made you go off on this limb. It
seems to me you've got your priorities all screwed up. False
eyelashes! Honey, cTmon! You're getting so preoccupied
with having sexy eyes that youTre forgetting the importance
of your character. If you keep up like this, ITd hate to see
you by the time youTre 29!�T
~I donTt be-lieve this!T the daughter exclaimed, her cheeks
beginning to burn. oJust forget it. | didnTt know it was that
big of a deal!�T
~I would call twenty dollars a big deal!TT her mother
suddenly interrupted as she came down the stairs, a load of
dirty laundry in her arms. The father and daughter had
forgotten she was eaves dropping at the top of the stairs.
oTwenty dollars,� her father repeated slowly as if he
hadnTt realize we were no longer living in the ~oldenT days
when everything cost a nickel.
~| assume you donTt have any money, either _..
correct?� the mother asked her matter-of-factly.
~~No, maTam,�T the girl answered quietly. oI spent it all on
books last week.�T (So what if she didnTt mention the pizza,
mini skirt, and HBO hook-up.)
~Well, even if you were to get this preposterous thing
done, | donTt know when ITd have time to go with you,�T the
mother went on while the daughter watched her motherTs
wrinkles grow deeper before her very eyes. ooTomorrow ITve
got to pick up your brother from football practice, get his
uniform cleaned in time for his game. ITve got to take the
dog to the groomerTs, wash four more loads of dirty clothes,
then ITve got to...�
~~Mom,�T the daughter interrupted, knitting her brows.
~You donTt have to go with me. ITm a big girl. ITve got a
driverTs license, remember?�T
oITm sorry, dear,TT the mother answered. oBut I couldnTt
let you go there by yourself. You have no idea what kind of
people could be running this operation.�
~~Geez! ItTs not like ITm getting an abortion or something!�T
The daughterTs face was now beyond the crimson stage "
it looked almost spotted. oI had no idea it was such an
imposition or that I was forever besmirching my character
just because I wanted to get false eyelashes. It was a stupid
idea, and | regret that I even brought it up. It just seemed a
smart way to avoid hassling with mascara, and then I would
never get this infernal black stuff under my eyes, and |
wouldnTt look like a ~black-eyed SusanT anymore.�
oOh, honey,� her father protested. ~I was just kidding
when I sa...�
oDaddy,� she replied solemnly. o~The truest things are
said in jest.�T
~~Now who in the world told you that?� her father asked.
~I donTt know, but I believe itTs true,T she answered. o~l
just wish you could accept me the way I am, with or
without black eyes and stupid ideas!TT And with that, she
turned and walked up the stairs leaving her father wide-eyed
and speechless.
Well now, I believe that our main character has
undergone a very, very subtle yet crucial transformation.
You remember | said itTs not always best to be the first
person, but sometimes itTs instrumental to oneTs well being,
if not for the success of the story. Facades canTt last
forever; ITve got to give this back to our first person, first-
person to whom it belongs. Some narrators are just too far
removed to be effective.
So I walk up the stairs and into the bathroom and smile
at the reflection in the cabinet mirror in spite of myself. |
begin lathering my face with Safeguard (donTt worry; it
hasnTt hurt me yet) and am interrupted by a faint knock on
the door. I cautiously open my eyes through the suds, and |
see my fatherTs right hand sticking through the crack in the
door and his left hand gripping the door a little farther
down, ingeniously preventing me from being able to open it
any wider. I can see nothing but his hands and the twenty
dollar bill he is holding out to me. I blush with an awkward
yet wonderfully happy feeling, and | finally reach up and
take the bill extended from his hand, in acceptance (this |
misplaced modifier is provided so you may decide who is
doing the accepting of whom here).
oWell ...�T I hear him say as he disappears to his
bedroom around the corner. I can imagine him shrugging his
shoulders and can almost hear his knees popping as he
walks down the hall.
Now I donTt know what to do. How do | show my
gratitude? ThatTs exactly it " ITll have to show him not tell
him! (These words sound hauntingly familiar, and | believe |
remember hearing them in the context that it is always,
always better to show it not tell it.) I realize that this is
inevitably much more difficult and tricky to do (as all
valuable things in life seem to be) but here goes _..
I quickly splashed the remaining suds from my face and
with eyes closed, groped for the plush forest green towel
that hung on the ivory rack about eighteen inches northwest
of the light switch. I buried my face in the towel, and when
it (my face) was all dry, I wiped up the excess water | had
splashed around the sink counter and hung the towel back
up in its customary place; then I just stood for a long, long
time behind the closed bathroom door. And | practiced a
few desperate but futile gestures: Uncle Sam wants you _..
What, me worry? Yeah _.__ yes, I am worried.
A gray, mascara-ed tear debuted before I finally opened
the door, grimacing as it creaked on its hinges. And I began
to walk, one unsure foot in front of the other, toward the
open door of my fatherTs room.
12
13
Cam Sloan
14
MargauxTs is Still BlimpieTs
(to Me)
Returning | find slick
Waitpeople swishing noontime
Bloody MaryTs but
MargauxTs is still
BlimpieTs to me.
Where boys in pink alligators
Once threw up pizza
Nouveau riche Wachovians
Now pin stripe bored poodles
In open-toed pumps.
The ladiesT toenails,
Pink, burgundy, red,
Look like undigested
Chunks of pepperoni.
New clientele; same old colors,
| sit downwind
From an aware couple
That just completed
Sensate focus.
Musk oil wafts my coffee.
This place could use
some winos and junkies;
A few key twitching crazies
To give the hip hot tubbers
something to squirm about.
It could do with
Another cleaning up.
No matter the customers
It always needs
A good hosing down.
Hal J. Daniel Ill
Professor Emeritus, 1989:
A 1984 Poem
| can be
at age 46
the youngest
in our UniversityTs
fetal history.
In 5 years
~ll have given
among other things
a score
to teaching, researching, servicing.
~ll get in my Buick
5:30 Sunday morning
the middie of February
and crash through that sign.
That tacky sign.
That blinking middle class monstrosity.
That capitalistic enterprise on taxpayerTs soil.
That bourgeois 92 IQ outrage
welcoming Pitt Plaza Sweet Shoppers
Kinstoners
New Bernites
Cherry Pointers and
Raleighoids to our funky little U.
A photo
of the blinking bricks
just before they tumble
sent to Cambridge, Oxford and Yale
will soeak well of our aesthetics.
The Real Estate Brokeress
administration supporter and alll
doing her last electric flash
before my thud and crackle.
Using State University property
to advertise
slum landlord condos
smells fetid to me.
Maybe one of my students
can read this
get inspired
and do it for me.
They can blame it on me
inciting an automobile accident
| can hear ~em now
It wasnTt my idea
I'm too intelligent.
In the Pitt County slammer
wearing a 1969 purple pirate T-shirt
drinking Pepsi
I'll take all the credit.
I'll ring a former colleague
for my bail
She'll borrow the bread
from Wachovia
or Tillie at BB & T
(a new 25k supporter
to the School of Business).
I'll get out
go down to the Rat
tell Jack Brendie and Garrett
all about it,
drink a few beers and
consider a career in medicine.
Hal J. Daniel Ill
iN
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oW i Z
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f
Dwight Touchberry
Fox Tales
Melanie Phillips
~~Those dogs bark every night ITm here,�T Jonathan told
his grandfather who sat on the porch swing, muted yellow
light from inside the cabin glowing on his balding head like a
stream of moonlight on a creek.
~~ThatTs cause they wanna get out, boy.�� He leaned back
and reached behind him to flip a moth off the screen. ~~And
itTs called ~bayin.T Foxhounds bay, not bark.�
~Howling at the moon?� asked Jonathan. He sat on a
feeble rocking chair near the swing and watched the moth
flit away, its dusty wings gleaming in the ebbing daylight.
Grandpa shook his head. oNope, they just wanna get
outta their pen, thatTs all.TT He looked up the hill beside the
crouching cabin toward his dogs. o~They ainTt been huntinT in
a blue moon.�
Jonathan watched his grandfather swing gently. The
evening breeze and the motion of the swing ruffled the
shoulders of the old manTs worn flannel shirt. ~oWhatTs a blue
moon, Grandpa? I mean, does the moon really get blue?�T
oWell,� Grandpa said crossing his legs, bony knees
protruding through the brown stains on his jeans. oA blue
moon means in a long time, but, well, on a foggy night, like
this oneTs gonna be " see the mist rollinT up the holler
yonder " well, on a foggy night the moon does look kinda
blue.�T
~And you took them hunting?�T
oFoxes.�
oITve never seen a fox.�T
Grandpa smiled, his mouth twitching at the corners.
~Foxes is smart creatures, Jon. ThereTs probTly one or two
lookinT at us right now, but you canTt see Tem. They donTt
wantcha to see Tem. If they did, theyTd walk right up to the
cabin and say ~Looky here at me.T �T
Jonathan stood up and put his hands on his hips. ~o~ThatTs
not so. Foxes canTt talk.�T
oSure they can.�T
~~Aw, come on, Grandpa!�T
oThey do.� He smacked his tongue on his teeth.
~ITve never heard one.�T
Grandpa shook his head, the swing creaking against the
cooling air. oYou ainTt listening. Just Tcause you canTt see
~em donTt mean you canTt hear Tem.�T
Jonathan snorted and settled back in the rocker. He
reared it back as far as his short legs could push and tilted
his head back to look through the screen. ~o~Stars are coming
out,� he said.
oStarsTll shine even through the mist. Best kinda night for
huntinT.�T
~~Because the stars make it bright in the dark?� Jonathan
asked.
~That too, but when itTs still like this,T his voice lowered,
~~sound travels a good way. I Tmember hearinT ole Belle
down a ridge a mile away one night. She was heading the
pack, and they had that fox a-goinT,� Grandpa said slapping
his knees with both hands. The sound ran up the hill and
echoed twice in the twilight.
The boy bit his lower lip and looked at his hands. He was:
quiet for a long time. Again, the hounds bayed and threw
themselves against the wire that held them from the quiet,
17
dim woods. Jonathan glanced up the hill in their direction.
Finally he spoke.
~~Whatever happened to ole Belle?�T
Grandpa started. o~Oh, oh, ole Belle. Well, she run herself
to death. ThatTs four of her pups out there in the pen, but
sheTs long gone.�T
Jonathan cringed. ~o~Run herself to death?�T he repeated as
he chewed his lip.
~Chased that fox Ttil she plumb dropped dead, she did,�T
Grandpa answered.
JonathanTs green eyes twitched. o~She died, out there in
the woods, chasing that fox? HowTd you find her?�T
~o~CouldnTt hear her bayinT no more and knew something
was wrong. Like | told ya, you could hear her bayinT a mile
away. I always knowTd my dogs by their bayinT.
Grandpa fingered his belt buckle with gnarled hands, the
misshapen knuckles burnt brown by the sun. His thick yellow
nails scraped at the small brass horseshoe. oITve heard Tem
myself,T he repeated.
The boy stopped the rocker, leaned forward, and
narrowed his eyes. o~Well, then, what did they say?�T
oOh, you donTt wanna know ~cause you donTt even think
they can say somethinT.�T
Jonathan leaned back again. A whip-o-will cried out,
haunting the dusk with its melancholy name. The foxhounds
bayed again, longer and louder, breath mingling with the
thickening mist. Both grandson and grandfather rocked, the
swing creaking in unison with the rocker. The baying
stopped, answered only by the cicadas and a ruffle of leaves
in the trees above them.
~IT did hear that fox laughinT that killed my ole Belle,�T
Grandpa said softly.
Jonathan, too, spoke softly. ooDid she ever catch a fox?�
~~Naw, but she chased many a one through these ridges
~round here. Sometimes for two days at the time. ITd blow
my horn Ttil my face turned blue, but sheTd chase that fox
til she got him holed.�T
~~What about the other dogs, Grandpa?TT Jonathan asked
as he gently rocked. Each one of Tems got a diffTrnt voice.�
Grandpa twisted around and leaned on the arm of the
swing, resting his feet on the other arm. ~o~Those bugs are
gettinT sTloud I can hardly hear myself think.�
~~Those are cicadas, Grandpa,� Jonathan smiled.
~Who told you that?�T
oGranny.�
Grandpa closed his eyes. ooSpeaking of Granny, go and
see if sheTs got supper on the table yet. ITm hungry.T
Jonathan slid away and returned in a few minutes. oShe
says itTll be awhile and to stop telling me tales!�T
~T ainTt tellinT you no tales.�
Jonathan flopped back in the rocker and moved it to and
fro vigorously. ~oYou are too. Foxes canTt talk, not like we
can.�T
~Believe what you will, boy. But ITve heard Tem myself.�T
~Come on now, you are so telling me tales.�
~ooOh, am I? You ever heard a fox talk?�T The cicadas
whirred in the damp air while Jonathan shook his head.
~Well, if you aintT ever heard a fox talk, then how can
you say that they canTt talk. You never heard George
Washington talk, but you know he could.�
~ItTs not the same. Foxes are animals, and animals donTt
talk.�
~They'd usually come on in.�T
The hounds bayed again, a sound that echoed up the
night and through the hills.
~o~ThereTs something out there, Grandpa,T Jonathan
breathed. o~Listen to the dogs.�T
Grandpa looked at Jonathan, and Jonathan looked back
at him, each barely breathing. Grandpa stopped the swing.
~o~Hush now. Listen. That fox is back there in the holler
answering, ~Come on, catch me. I'll give ya a good run.T �T
Jonathan widened his eyes and cocked his head. A smile
trembled at the corner of his lips, his grandfatherTs smile.
~I can hear him,� he whispered. oJust as clear as day.
HeTs telling ole BelleTs pups to try and hole him too. I can
hear him.�
They both listened, hushed, until Granny broke the foxTs
spell and called them inside to supper.
18
Maya Oliver
19
eee
i
ERAS
bie
Dwight Touchberry
20
Blue
Eyes
Brian Rangeley
Susan sipped her hot tea twice then set the cup down on
the redwood deck beside her chaise to cool. She pulled her
cardigan close to warm the chill she had gotten from the
cool morning breeze and sat listening to the waves crashing
on the beach below.
A hand fell on SusanTs shoulder. She gasped and spun,
turning an ear. o~Who is it?�T
oItTs just me!�T
~ooMindy?�T
~Yes. Good gosh, girl, you startled me,� said Mindy.
oWell, you scared me half to death,TT said Susan. ~~What
are you doing up so early, anyway?�
oSorry,� said Mindy, oI woke up and saw you from the
kitchen window so I came over. Your folks up yet?�T
~No. They sleep Ttil about noon on Saturdays.�
oItTs almsot nine-thirty now. LetTs go watch Bugs Bunny.�
~T donTt feel like it,TT said Susan. She reached down, her
fingertips lightly stroking the wooden deck until she felt
warm china. against the back of her slender hand. She raised
the cup and sat, elbows on armrests, with the cup supported
by her fingertips. The steamy, sweet cherry smell rose and
opened up her sinuses.
~~What are you doing out here, anyway?TT asked Mindy,
pulling one of the redwood chairs close to Susan, o~ItTs cold
out today.�
Susan blew across the liquid, then sipped it. ooDrinking
tea,TT she said dryly. She sipped it again. ~o~oSee?TT she added.
oIs something wrong?�T Mindy asked.
~~Aah, ITm just a little down.�
~Well, whatTs wrong? Tell me about it.�T
~~Nothing,�T said Susan, impatiently. ~~Sounds like the surfTs
up.�
oIt is,TT said Mindy, looking at the ocean, oPretty good
waves. I think itTs gonna rain, though.�T
A gust of wind blew suddenly, whipping MindyTs long hair
across her face. Annoyed, Mindy hooked her hair with her
fingers, and gave it a quick toss behind her.
oYou want tea?� Susan inquired.
~~No, I brought cocoa,� said Mindy.
Susan tried her tea again. It was cool enough. She took a
swallow. Mindy watched her, waited a moment, and said, o~I
know somethingTs bothering you. Why donTt you tell me
what it is?�T
~Tm a little upset about school,TT said Susan.
~~What, about graduation? Me too, ITm all full of
butterflies.�
~~No, stupid. about college.�T
oHow so?�
oItTs a long way to Dartmouth,� said Susan, oItTs so far
away from everything I know. ItTs scary.�T
oSure it is,� said Mindy, o~but youTve just got to go, thatTs
all. You know itTs the best thing to do.�T
~~I donTt know that, either,T said Susan. ~oSometimes |
think itTs the best thing to just stay here. ThereTs nothing for
me at Dartmouth any more.�T
oSo go to another school, one that has a curriculum you
like.�T
oLook,� said Susan, ~~Ever since I was little, all I ever
wanted to do was work in interior design. I canTt do that
any more. So what are they going to teach me in college?
21
Crafts? Touch typing?T She gulped a mouthful of tea.
oI thought you: were over that stuff now,�T said Mindy.
oYou're starting to sound like you did last year, after you
got home.�T
~Yeah, well maybe ITm not so different from what I was
then,TT Susan said angrily. She turned a shoulder toward
Mindy, and leaned firmly into the thick vinyl cushion.
Mindy got up and ran around the chaise to face Susan.
~~Sure you are!TT she exclaimed. o~You made a complete
turnaround! You were happier!TT She waved her arms in wild
gestures. oYou were cheerful, and my party! Remember, at
my party "�T
~~What are you guys fighting about?TT SusanTs little brother
Wendell had appeared at the sliding glass door, unnoticed
by either girl. Mindy sat down again.
~Nothing, Wendell,T saud Susan. ~~Nothing important. Go
eat your Rice Krispies.�T
~~T already did.�T
~Then go take a bath.�T
~~T donTt want to.�
~Bugs Bunny is on,�T said Susan.
~Oh yeah.� Wendell shut the door and ran into the living
room.
~oBrat.�T muttered Susan, turning back toward Mindy. o~Yes.
Sure, I can be cheerful. I can be the life of the party. But what
good is that? You just donTt understand. I donTt have any
problems with me. My problem is with school.�T
Mindy fell back into another chair, her brow furrowed in
confusion. o~But your grades are nearly as good as mine, and
mine are great.�T
~~Q-o-h!�� Susan moaned impatiently. ~Mindy, youTre a
bright kid, but youTre lacking in the common sense
department.�T
A disgruntled look appeared on MindyTs face. o~Okay
then, spell it out for me. What went over my head?�T
~ooCTmon, Mind, | just told you. You knew grades are no
real problem with me. Think about it. I canTt do what I
wanted to do. So what will 1 do? I have no other real loves
I can pursue, in or out of college. | really think it would be
a waste of my time. Floundering around in some general
curriculum is not my idea of being productive.�
~And staying home doing nothing is productive? Look,
you love to cook. So why not turn a fun hobby into a
career?�
~Right. I could have my own show on channel 22 Sunday
afternoons. Right after the ~Southern SportsmanT " ~The
Sightless Chef.T �T
~~No, smart mouth,� Mindy said. She was getting tired of
SusanTs cynicism. o~] donTt mean that at all. What I mean is
you could go to a chefTs school, learn the techniques, and
teach, or write books.�T
~But I donTt want to teach or write books.�T Susan said.
There was a vicious tone in her voice. She sipped from her
cup.
Mindy sat still for a moment, watching Susan and choosing
her words. A friend shouldnTt have to choose her words, she
thought. o~My point is, you have options. You can take on
or just stay here and vegetate.�T
Susan set her cup down hard. Tea washed over the side
onto MindyTs shoe. o~Like what?TT she said. ~~Name a few
things, if you can, something that would hold my interest for
oYou already know what you
want. I donTt need any of your
optimism washing over onto me.�T
even one week.�
oIT canTt name anything right now. YouTre not listening to
me. You gotta be open to things, you know, like to new
ideas.�T
oDonTt lecture me. You already know what you want. |
donTt need any of your optimism washing over onto me.
You " you just donTt understand.�
Susan rose from her seat, reaching for the rail that
surrounded the deck. o~ITve heard it all already. ITve heard
the experts, and ITve seen the counselors with their degrees.
ITm tired of hearing, ~You ought to go to this special schoolT
or ~try this thingT or ~see this doctor.T And the real winner is
when people bring me inspiring books to read. ITve got to
stop hearing all these things and see what I think of it all.�
Susan followed the rail to the steps at the far end of the
deck before she burst out in tears. Unsure of what to do,
Mindy just sat and watched as Susan followed the side of
the house around the corner.
Susan opened the side door to the garage. She was
greeted by the half-burned oil smell and stale odor of dead
grass from the lawnmower. The only available light came
from behind her. She stepped softly to her left, surveying
the air with her hand. Her fingers found metal, cool and
smooth.
Her fingertips followed the contoured edges of her car
toward the front. She remembered each curve and crease of
the fender from countless wax jobs. Flat-palmed, her hand
searched the hood for that little dent made by WendellTs
baseball. It wasnTt there. ThatTs right, she thought. ItTs been
fixed. How silly.
The dryrot of the tires went unnoticed. So did the riew
molding around the new windshield.
Susan continued to follow the edges of the car around to
the driverTs side. She felt for the door handle.
Inside, the factory-fresh smell still lingered. Susan touched
the smooth windshield in front of her, but she was thinking
of a cruise down country roads to watch dairy cattle graze.
She was remembering how much fun it was to zip in and
out of the curves and hop the little rises in those county
highways. It was challenging and thrilling like a roller
coaster. A roller coaster is simulated danger. She
remembered rounding a curve and zipping quickly over one
of the little rises and seeing the slow tractor just in time to
22
brake but too /ate to stop. Then she remembered waking to
a vague gray and voice, low-pitched and distant, to her right
saying, o~SheTs waking.�T
A womanTs voice reassured her, ~o~DonTt move, youTre
being cared for.�� And there were people, women and men.
~~LetTs move her now,� said another voice, and Susan had
a feeling of sideways motion.
oDid you see that leg?� asked a man. oIt moved funny.�
= not natural �T said a woman.
oNo,� said another woman. ~~Get the doctor.�T
It seemed as if the doctor was there immediately, like he
appeared out of the air. o near the hip,� said the man.
~X-rays traction, twelve pounds suspended.�
~Yes, doctor. Right away.�T
It was a day and almost another before Susan found out
her head was wrapped.
~~Good gosh, girl,� she said to herself out loud. ~~YouTre
down in the basement digging holes. Snap out of it. Think
about something else.�
She lowered the sun visor; mounted on it was a mirror.
She stared into it and, for the thousandth time, tried to
discern her own well-sculpted features but found no fine line
for her deep blue eyes to trace. She put her hand behind
her head and pulled the clasp from her hair.
Delicate waves of satiny blonde hair fell, cushioning her
neck. She wondered again if she was as pretty as she
remembered. As she stared into the dark fog, colors began
to fill her mind. She saw herself selecting fabric for curtains
and arranging art on a wall to visually expand a small room.
One of the counselors mentioned marketing, she thought.
Maybe I can do that.
A sudden crash and a scream broke the silence in the
garage. Susan gasped and slammed up the visor, spinning
around to face the intruder.
oSorry,� said Mindy, o~I tripped over your rake. Ouch! |
think I hurt my knee.�T
Susan opened her door and yelled. ~~Do you sneak up on
everybody like that, or am I just lucky?T�T
~I said I was sorry!�T said Mindy, as she stacked the rake
and shovels against the wall. ~~What were you doing, |
anyway?�
~None of your business!TT snapped Susan. ~~Why donTt
you go scare old people for a while? Maybe you'll get to
see a heart attack.TT She slammed her door for emphasis.
Mindy got in the other side of the car. ~~Sue,TT she said,
~~are you still upset about what happened?�T
There was a silence. Susan sat, quietly twisting her hair in
her fingers. She remembered when she used to drive to
Snow Cream and buy strawberry shortcake ice cream cones
with chocolate chips sprinkled on top. She would pick out
the best-looking guy there and sit across from him, hoping
he would notice her. Whenever the guy looked up at her,
she would turn her face shyly away and flash her blue eyes
of innocence his way. Robert Kelly met her there; after
baseball practice, he used to watch her at practice on the
tennis team then followed her home. Sometimes he would
even stay around for dinner. About three months ago,
Robert started coming around again. He had even taken her
out a few times.
oOh, Sue. oI thought you were okay now. | even admired
the way you were handling yourself.TT
oIl told you thatTs not it. And donTt admire me. Me! ITm
no hero. ITm scared, scared of the future. ITm afraid that
college is too big, that I wonTt be able to handle it all at
once.� She sighed then continued calmly. oI canTt do what |
always wanted to do. I donTt know if I can survive the first
few weeks without friends, what, with learning a new place,
and class stuff too.�T
~Sounds like youTre giving up before you start,� said
Mindy.
oMaybe I ought to,�T said Susan, wryly.
Mindy turned to face Susan better. ~ooYou think youTre the
only one whoTs nervous about school? ITm scared to death!
Harvard Medical School! Talk about adjusting.�
Susan just sat quietly. She turned her face toward her
door window. Her left hand stroked the soft crushed velvet
upholstery on the edge of her seat. Beige, she recalled.
Mindy continued. ~ooYouTve been asked out twice just since
Easter. Half the girls in school would die just to latch onto
Robert Kelly for an evening, and youTve got him wrapped
around your pinky. People flock to you like bees to a flower
garden. Sure, your eyes wander sometimes. But theyTre still
clear and blue. YouTre pretty! WerenTt you my runner up at
homecoming? YouTll have more help than you'll need.�T
Susan ran her fingertips around the steering wheel, feeling
the leather sports grip that was laced onto it. The laces
crisscrossed, weaving in and out of the holes of the leather
strip. She pretended she didnTt hear what Mindy said.
~Things change, Sue,�T Mindy continued. ~Everything
does.�T
~Some things faster than others,TT said Susan.
~Yes, and everyone gets scared. ITm scared. Just like you
" of school, making new friends _.�T
ooYouTre good in school.�T
~Yeah, ITve got an above average.�
oYou're half a point below perfect,�T said Susan. o~ThatTs
well above average.�T She leaned over onto the steering
wheel, both arms crossed, and rested her chin on one arm.
oWe can't all be perfect,�T Mindy said.
Susan stroked the windshield slowly with the back of her
finger. The finger collected moisture.
oOh no,� she said. ooThe windows are frosty. Now my
new windshield is streaked.�
oIt can be washed,� answered Mindy.
oYeah, I guess,�T said Susan. ~o~I think ITll sell my car.TT She
started to get out of the car.
oWhere are you going?�T asked Mindy, getting out the
other side to follow.
oInside, where itTs warm.� Susan said. oMaybe watch
some Bugs Bunny.� &
T
23
Passing
Sweeping at the doorway, the woman
smelled the layered chemical river.
The room was humid. Empty as a boot
just removed. Familiar. Her brook, like a seagullTs
ragged wing, beat against the linoleum air
of the floor. Dust fell back like pages in a magazine.
Sweat blistered her skin. A river
dropped and moved beneath her seagull
printed dress. She moved to the window for air.
Outside, her tree was static, fading brown. The woman
bought it from an ad in a home improvement magazine.
Brother planted it years ago. Right before he left for boot
camp. Digging, he said, oThese are good boots
for planting.T� Now, stuffed in a box of magazines
they were ready to go with her. The woman
turned to see light meander in glass warped rivers
on the floor. Dust in sunlit spirals rose like seagulls.
Pulling in a drowning breath of heavy Southern air,
she shut the window. Dead air
sealed into the rooms. In her pocket, the woman
carried BrotherTs letter. It said, oRead a magazine
on ~How to Cope with Moving.T Why donTt you fill a boot
or pan with noxious ~potting soilT from the river
bottom? Take home away from home!TT She touched the seagull
colored letter. Paint like seagulls
perched against the peeling wall. With a lonely air
dust mice shifted. On the sill, a tiny, streaming river
of ants made its predictable way, in magazine
page precision. Black lines, white scratches marked where boots
and shoes had fought the floor. The woman
closed the door as casually as a magazine.
she pulled the lacings of her memory, boot
tight, as she walked away and felt a seagull
calm. She parted the close and vacant air
while passing from the house. The woman
locked the waiting door. She would find another river.
As she drove, the river was a magazine
of places she had lived. In traveling boots the woman
left. And seagulls take to air.
Malynn Linton
ste = eee -
25
LOLOL PERFOR RIF
Dwight Touchberry
26
Leaves
August once held high death
me , heaps of October ironed by offspring.
ona io a, a + gy
big ah bac aha October death itches bare skin "
A Sy y tight scarecrows stuffed with fall-
Ba Mn ae: outs from limb to limb in momT~s
old clothes gathered family members
to yard games offspring love
to jump in autumn
October death raked morgues
awaiting cremation or plastic coffins
carried out of town to larger death-
zones of August throwaways.
October death of orange, red
and yellow holding to roadside heights
with looks loved from cars
rolling to pumpkin pies
and scary eyes stare at bags filled
with candy coming through strangers doors.
October death sends great smells
of grey smoke way up
from holy barrels
near a hallow say.
Offspring iron heaps of October
Death August once held high.
J.T. Pietrzak
27
Discant
Wind chimes measure the drying
Breeze. My shirts receiving currents
At dusk..Moisture receiving
Moisture.
The chimes tingle ... frighten ...
Delight ... Kilned from clay-ridged sundowns,
From dust to damp, hardened ...
Glazed. Disquieted, like glasses delicate,
Breaking.
Guests, from where | stand, seem
Like artisans " they have done it
So many times; they excell
In departures.
Now | entertain thoughts so
Brief | can measure them with lightning
Bugs. Yet, nothing so severe it demands
A clean shirt. Instead,
A clear head.
Later | will retrieve them all,
lron them out. Nights like this
| donTt care if | never
Put them on again.
Nights like this, too, when moisture
Ceases, my things have born themselves
Dry, | will worry. The chimes "
Victims | think " will have to be
Removed.
Winds will be to great, lifting soil,
Scratching the glass, overpowering.
My arms, limbs, struggling against them:
The act of rescue will become stiff,
Unmoving, to currents cast;
A re-soiled, sustained ... good-bye.
J. Phillip Horne
28
Thom Ketring
A i A OE
=
Fall in Greenville
| am turning
brown and ready to fall.
A change of wind
gives me motion,
tells me to go noW
before | take root
become another tree, pulling for life
in this sandy soil.
| soend afternoons looking at maps,
proving that this is not the only place.
Outside, the air turns gray,
trees stripped of leaves
become twisted hands
try to pull down the sky.
Turning pages | think of Dakar,
Dahomey, Quito, places
I'll never see from here.
It begins to rain.
Leaving, my feet donTt touch the ground.
I'm not sure whatTs ahead
or what I've left behind.
| feel as if too much time has passed,
| want to move faster.
The trees are waving good-bye and |
remember never wanting to leave this place.
Al Maginnes
"" eee eel SS = = ee = = """ "
""" Senna nena nenetnennaanedieieeentieeann cee cane enes eee eeete nee are
George Mckim
29
30
Scarves
| touch a swingTs rusty chain
and gray splintered arms
of a rocker whose creaking
motion makes me a child again.
| listen and watch
Nana knit tall tales
into my soft, hazy scarf
as she explains,
oWinters are cold up yonder.�
Up yonder was New Jersey.
Far from hop-toads
and grasspoppers
hidden in corners.
But my scarf kept me warm
whispering stories
of red-bearded Scots
and blockade runners,
of how to doctor bee stings
with obacca�
and banana pudding love.
When its yarn rotted
leaving only stray threads,
| replaced it
with one as cold
and flat and gray
as those northern skies.
Jamie Biggers
African Violets
They grew
in Nana~s north windows.
Forbidden territory
the hairy green leaves
and delicate blossoms.
A child
I'd creep .
invisible
to touch them
so lightly
it wouldn't disturb
butterfly dust.
Pink blooms
became miniature radishes,
purple cabbage
mixed together
with grass
and mimosa puffs.
A childTs salad
you gobble
like a field hand
of ante-bellum days.
Leave gritty black marks
on me
everywhere
my good
china
white body
my African violets
consecrated territories.
| clutched
some, stroking
their fleshy leaves
with terrified hands
while | was consigned
to you "
Forever,
we argue
about forever.
The first day
is the time
it would take
a white doveTs flapping wing
to erase Gibraltar.
| wait
in my north window
framed by dark.
Urge the dove on "
return me
to NanaTs north windows
and African violets.
Jamie Biggers
The Fan
You thought
everyone
grew up
with
a fan
hanging on the family room wall
bird of paradise
ubiquitous bamboo
grew on rice paper
from over there
And that
everyone
had dark
slant eyes
like the geishas
peering
from the silk screen in the corner
the kimono-ed dolls on the shelf
the phtographs arriving each year
crowded
with more
bamboo
32
But
blonde brunettes
stared
as you absently
toyed with pencil
chopsticks
they
tugged the corners
of their hazel blue green eyes
laughing
laughing
Oh
don't tell them
about
the fan
Mama so carefully
unwrapped it
hung it on the family room wall
Your eyes cry tears
faster
gravity works
better
ona
slant
Flizabeth Ito Hart
Donna Gregory
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Katherine F. McCleneghan
Joe Champagne Untitled
The Arrival
Jo Pumphrey
37
James Lux
Pit-Fired Basket
Gregory Shelnutt
Tripod Landscape
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Michael Tatsis
Springboard Diving
41
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48
Untitled
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Leslie Karpinski
Supersensualism Extended
51
Metal Workings
Giant steel pipes
Stem out,
Breathe, swelter in metallic air,
Tunnel under.
Sleeping city veins
Grow cold in winter;
Their origin remains
White hot
Where molten liquid gurgles
Over the edge
Of giant metal pots
Pouring into molds.
It is GodTs way
Of cooling the world.
As a child,
| loved the feel
Of cold steel balls,
The sound of metal
Scratching glass marbles,
Smashing through the playground circles,
Bringing home more steel
To hold.
| learned to speak
With a steel voice,
To stand like a steel beam
And so many metal men
Whose eyes have melted
From the blue flames
Of metal workings.
Eyes that once saw
As childrenTs eyes see
Steel beams in the ceiling,
Metal balls
Slipping between fingers,
A world of greasy gadgets
Glistening gears
Clinking and clanking
Like the pipes in our hands,
Pipes that come together underground,
- That interlock like metal lips.
Pipes sucking me down,
Frothing at the mouth,
Hungry to fill hollow spaces.
Pipes that open into pipes.
Black metal fingers
Wrap around my brain
Make me remember
My love for steel,
My young desires to mold metal,
To breath liquid fire.
Now,
It is steel that makes me return
To my origins
Six feet under playground sand
And sleeping
Inside silent metal boxes
Beneath marble memories
That have forgotten the sound
Of solid steel
Crashing through networks
Of glass,
Bringing home more steel,
And the heat of liquid fire
Long since gone cold
In the hands of children.
Andy Johnson
53
54
The Eighty Dollar Poem
The reason I'm writing this
is because I'd like to make eighty bucks.
There " itTs out in the open:
And I'm a very private person, you know.
But even venerable old Sam Johnson said that
anyone would be crazy to write and not earn some money.
Annie Dillard writes that all we have is our grammar and our lexicon
to state those things wed like fo say.
Bob Dylan would say we have our dreams "
lf we can remember them, | say.
But what do you do if youTre a person like me who doesnt put
a lot of faith in words?
| guess you do the best you can " use your face,
Kick your piano stool out from under you,
And howl when the moon is full
lf | win the eighty dollars,
| promise to have a party with tequila, musicians, poets, artists,
dreamers and lovers.
No foolin!
Mike Hamer
56
Retriever
Waves of water spring and spray.
Mitzie wags her tail, slaps
it against wood with a thud
as Dad swings oak Oars.
Her fur, black patent leather,
with winking beads of water
that slide off her smooth surface,
rain on my slightly pink toes.
Dad cast his line with ease,
smokes his cherry pipe. White curls
rise, draw in summer air
visions of his catch cooking.
He throws rainbow trout
as big as my bare feet
on boat bottom for their death dance.
Leaping, fearful acrobats.
Like me, Mitzie senses their plight
and when they slow motion
she gently lifts each between teeth,
leans over, drops them
into cool darkness, down
where they glide from sight;
as a bit of midnight rescues rainbows,
divers plunge down, dying for breath.
Sherrill Owens
The Pond
Like an old man,
He stares out
Over the still and calm, at age seven,
On the slick, red clay
At the edge of the pond
Where his brother slipped and slid
Away under the milky, glass surface,
Bobbing up and down
Like a cork
on the end of a fishing line "
Going under,
Deeper, deeper, out of sight,
As when a big fish bites
And just takes everything.
After the swallowing, Dwight M. Burke
He was landed,
Wrapped in a black, plastic bag,
And shuffled in the truck
That slowly crept away
As if expecting a procession,
Leaving the water still
like when nature takes the time
To stop breathing
And soft reflections shimmer
As quiet as death.
Andy Johnson
57
di, Trapped, and Crossed
Res
SSR ARTS
oy
Vi Sty
4 Wibonigey
me ST
Concentric Circles
Brian Zachariah
ITm going to write an experimental story.
* *
. * i 7
He was a writer and everybody knew it. He looked,
dressed, talked, and acted like a writer. Or at least he
looked, dressed, talked, and acted like he thought writers
should look, dress, talk, and act.
Like all good writers, he read voraciously and took
copious notes in his journal. He took notes as much for
posterity as for poetry. Often he'd rewrite his journal entires
On scrap paper until they sounded terribly profound. Only
then did-he write them in the plain black book he carried
wherever he went. (What a phony.) He jotted down funny
names and interesting words and entire menus from roadside
greasy spoons.
He loved to interject quotes (and misquotes) from other
writers and poets into his conversations. His favorite authors
were Shakespeare and Rainer Maria Rilke. Shakespeare was
an obvious choice, traditional and uncontroversial to the
point of bordeom. He liked Rilke partly because nobody
really understood Rilke, and mostly because Rilke said you
had to be a poet first " live, act, and think like a poet "
before you could write poems.
So he continued to be an author. He dressed like one, in
faded jeans, tweed jackets and turtlenecks and he smoked a
pipe. He even bounced from bed to bed and drank like a
fish because thatTs what he thought authors and poets did.
In short, he did everything earthly possible just like a writer.
The only thing was, he couldnTt write like a writer.
ThatTs not to say he didnTt write well. (Though I donTt
think his stuff is very good.) He had won several minor
writing awards and contests, and for quite a while now
~rising young talentT? had replaced his middle name. Oh, he
could write as well as any of the rising young talents in his
circle of literary friends and even better than some. (ITll give
him that much credit.) He just couldnTt write the way they
did it. He couldnTt get up at 6:30 then write for an hour
before going off to work.
He could only write when he felt inspired. He said that
when he wrote it was like another person took over his
mind and body. The words flowed freely and naturally onto
the page. He called this other person his muse, in the classic
tradition. (HeTd read the Classic Comics edition of The
Odyssey once in grade school.) He and his muse had picked
up lots of cute freshman English majors with that BS. They
found it clever and fascinating. (I find it disgusting.) The
problem was, the only time he got inspired was when he
was pissed off at something or someone.
This angry-young-man attitude came across in his writing and
made him the poet laureate of the spoiled university leftists. His
poems and stories of anger and rage against social injustice fit
61
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ne A Ns =" nn =
their cause. But he didnTt give a shit (It was the wrong form, of
course, but his muse was playing around with sonnets that year.)
Some critic for The New Republic had called it the best poetry
depicting Western decadence and the decline of the capitalist
state in years. They paid him $200 for the poems.
Lately he and his muse had grown tired of writing sonnets
and free verse and novels and short stories. HeTd written
them all at one time or another. (If youTre really bored,
check out Graveyard of the West or Frosh or Easy Come,
Easy Go at your local library.) His muse went through
stages. He had begun writing simple, straightforward
episodic fiction in high school, but once heTd become a
serious writer, heTd gone back and played around with most
of the other forms of poetry and prose. Once heTd tried to
go back to the origins of Western fiction; heTd written an
epic. The Great American Epic, he thought, about a foot
soldier of no certain merit in the Revolutionary War who
returns to his small village in Virginia a hero and becomes
the grandfather of a California governor.
Now his muse wasnTt interested in writing at all. ThereTs
nothing to say, he was heard to repeat at cocktail parties
and to his friends. All the plots, every possible story has
already been done, from every possible angle. ThereTs just
no point to it anymore, he said. He got in these moods
often; usually his depression would turn to anger and this
would soon turn to a story or poem. But this time he
sounded serious (doesnTt he?). An attitude like this about
writing canTt be changed simply by writing. Even he wasnTt
sure what he was going to do.
ITm going to write an experimental story! ThatTs all that
was written on the page. Just those words in his scrawled
handwriting (all writers have bad penmanship) on a clean,
crisp page in his journal. It wasnTt the last page written on
in the book, although what follows isnTt nearly so interesting
or so good.
ITm going to write an experimental story, he mentioned in
a matter-of-fact tone to Linda, the latest of his literary
confidants.
What do you mean, she asked. Linda majored in English
at Vassar. (That explains the wrap-around skirts and
oversized menTs monogrammed button-downs.) She could
give the ReaderTs Digest version of the history of fiction in
five minutes flat. Linda knew what an experimental story
was; she just wasnTt sure what he meant by oan
experimental story.�
You know, one of those self-reflective pieces where the
author intrudes into the story and all that.
Why? Your stuff is pretty good as is. Besides youTre the
one hung up on traditional forms and roles for the writer.
She never had that hang up, and she really enjoyed sticking
it back in his face.
But this is traditional, or at least it will be. Everybody
writing serious fiction today is writing the new fiction.
Any idea what this magnum opus will be about? A piece
of hair had fallen into LindaTs eyes. She could have brushed
it away, but she was too busy teasing him to bother.
Well, it wonTt really be about anything, except itself, of
course. I mean, thatTs the whole idea. It doesnTt have to be
about anything because thereTs nothing left for it to be
about. All the good story lines have already been done and
overdone. He was talking to Linda, but the only person he
was convincing was himself.
Linda brushed back the hair from her eyes and asked if
this experiment had at least a nominal plot, a cover for the
~~artistic geniusTT which he would reveal by it.
ITve got an idea. ITm thinking about something to do with
a writer struggling with a story. | could bring in my whole
philosophy of fiction and theory of creativity. Maybe even
quote Rilke. It should be pretty good.
Linda couldnTt help but laugh. Now thereTs the author we
all know and love. (At the time, he didnTt seem to
understand the quip.) Come on now, every writer writes a
story about a writer writing a story. How much more
traditional can you get?
I donTt mean a story about the adventures of a young
writer trying to get published and laid in the same chapter.
He was beginning to get indignant. ITm thinking of a sort of
Borgesian paradox of an experimental story about a writer
writing an experimental story. Sort of an artist painting a
picture of ah artist painting a picture of an artist, etc., ad
infinitum.
Ad nauseum, you mean. She always teased him about his
pretentious use of his high school Latin.
It'll work. I can feel it. ITve got a title too. ooConcentric
Circles.T�T I think the image sums up the whole story. ItTs not
the plot, of course, but the artistry, the skill in telling it.
Still, I think the title fits. But as Robbe-Grillet said, othe true
writer has nothing to say. What counts is the way he says
it.TT (What counts is the way he says nothing? Think about
that when youTre stoned.)
~Concentric Circles,T donTt you think thatTs a little
obvious? Like hitting the reader over the head with the
manuscript? Why donTt you come up with a palindromic title
with numerological significance? ThereTd be real art-for-artTs
sake stuff. Really showcase your talent. Linda had a mean
streak that come out whenever she teased him.
Good idea. (He thought. He was slow to catch on to her
kidding.) Or maybe I could call it ooGenesisTT because itTs the
first of my new series of works and because itTll be about
the process of creation, or at least of creativity. I'll have to
think about it.
Why donTt you just let your muse decide?
~Concentric CirclesTT appeared in one of those quarterlies
that publish only serious fiction " that is, they only publish
stuff nobody understands. ThatTs okay because nobody reads
the magazine anyway except for the authors and critics who
write for it. The story was well received. The plot was a
little thin, but the skill of the author was evident. It flowed
smoothly with clever transitions and excellent phrases and
sentences. Even the critics didnTt fully understand it, but the
magazine paid $100 for it anyway. A contributorTs copy of
the quarterly still sits on his coffee table. {RJ
62
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Clay Smith
64
Sandcasties
Sandcastles, the creative dreams of architects
Who should know the ageless law of destiny
Sculpting shelters against the encroaching sea
As though the wind and tide should show respect
Projects spiritedly undertaken nevertheless
Elaborate designs and sandy built features
From materials left by long dead creatures
With an aristic hand's loving caress
Out pours the effort with serious intent
Finishing touches appraised with critical eye
Amid sun~s glare and relentless birdTs cry
A statement made. of which little is meant
What foolishness is this futile exercise
That men and children so universally undertake
The building of castles for buildingTs sake
From the very inception a doomed enterprise
Time along the shore resists most measure
Knowing only the ceaseless flow of tide
And the sunTs inevitable westerly ride
Through seasons of infallible changing weather
Sandcastles cannot hold long at bay
Near ocean's edges the ravage of time
Nor, are the other works of man in kind
Anywhere on the planet, more likely to stay
But for a moment, like buildings of sand
Doomed to be undone, all that is wrought
Perhaps no more than a God's passing thought
Edging ever closer is destinyTs unfeeling hand
Charles Shannon Meek
65
Another Sunrise
Elizabeth Ito Hart
T his afternoon my philodendron, George, took a flying
leap from the windowsill, and | knew it was going to be
a bad day. Botanic suicide, Cocker Spaniel called it, sniffing
the pieces of broken clay pot. I just left it there for a while
though I know I have to clean it up before John gets home.
Dirt gives him hives. Along with lint in his pockets, spilled
brown liquids, cigarette butts left in the ashtray for forty-
eight hours or more, and dirty dishes soaking in the sink.
We work things out, though. I get to indulge a two-and-a-
half-packs-a-day habit if I keep the ashtrays clean. He
washes the breakfast dishes before they have a chance to
soak.
When he first moved in, John balked about Cocker
Spaniel. But on that point | was adamant.
oCS. stays,�T I insisted.
oBut honey, look what he does to the legs of your
redwood table. I thought you said that was a family
heirloom.�
oI said I found it in my grandmaTs attic. Besides, C.S.
adds his own special kind of antiquing.�
oYou're crazy,� he said, pecking my forehead. ~~ThatTs
why I love you so much.�T
John can be crazy at times, too. Like the day I first met
him. I was at work " the graveyard shift in an all-night
diner. My family always said thatTs what I'd end up doing
after graduation (painting degree! just what are you
supposed to do with that). Waiting on tables in some dive.
But I donTt mind; I figure the people who go there " the
drunks, runaways, lonely old men " will some day all be
subjects for a painting. Probably impressionistic. No bodies,
just detached faces dominated by the eyes. Quivering jowls
and mouths hanging open. So this job does more than feed
me: it feeds my artistic psyche. And ITve got a lot of ground
to cover before realizing that masterpiece.
ITm starting with the sunrise. Well, not exactly the sunrise
but a continuum of sunrises. Each day | study its patterns as
I walk home from work. The city is still groggy; its muted
wake up sounds soothing. When I get home, | set up my
easel or sketch pad in front of the east window. By six or
six-thirty, I donTt even need a light. Just me and C.S., whoTs
very helpful about which color looks better here or there. |
paint for several hours, too absorbed to feel the fatigue of
several hours table hopping.
But back to John. He came in one night around 1:00
a.m., a couple hours into my shift. ThatTs what I like about
the city " her arbitrary pull on the total spectrum of
personalities. And every day, the possibility of meeting any
one of a thousand strangers. He sat down at the bar and
ordered five servings of fries and a slice of Boston cream
pie. He ate the pie first, running his fork along the edge of
the plate to get every crumb of the stale graham cracker
crust. Then he started on the fries " five orders. Must have
used half a bottle of catsup. I smiled and flirted with him,
commenting on his unique diet. After working this job for a
66
Dt Ses
while, you learn to dance the fine line between charming the
penny-pinching customers out of a decent tip and teasing
unnecessarily. The charm is essential to pay the rent while
avoiding the latter enhances your own personal safety. I
usually can strike the difference fairly well, but that night I
was feeling reckless. And despite his off-the-wall appetite, he
looked like a decent enough guy " tweed coat, suede
Patches, and all. In fact, he looked exactly like the kind of
man my mom or my roommate at college was always
Pushing on me. According to them, | was orather
indiscriminate in my choice of men.�
oWarm out tonight, isnTt it?TT | began.
oUmm,� he mumbled.
oToo bad ITm stuck here. This is the kind of night you
should be out in. So warm. ... Spring seems to be the
shortest season of all, donTt you think?�T
Huge brown eyes paused over the second or third round
of fries and looked up at me. oYeah,� he agreed. oBecause
winter doesnTt quite let go until the last possible minute. |
And you arenTt sure whether the frost on your windows will
ever melt..Then all of a sudden you wake up one day, and
itTs spring.�T . 7
oAnd itTs been spring all along. You just didnTt know it,� |
finished.
He blushed and quickly went back to his fries. A shy one,
I mused. When he finished, I was busy with table five and
didnTt see him leave. Not even a tip. But brown eyes danced
before me the rest of the night.
When I got off work, he was standing outside with daisies.
How silly, I thought. No tip, but daisies. And he walked me
home, sharing my favorite time of day. When | relish my
aching feet because theyTve earned me another dayTs rent,
an anchovy pizza with double cheese, another tube of oil
paint " saffron yellow, hushed red, burnt orange "
another sunrise. | put the daisies in water, and I didnTt even
know his name.
oJohn,� he said the next night, sliding onto the worn
leatherette stool.
oSusan,� I replied. ~~Fries?�T
~oo~No, breakfast at Mama TuckerTs. After work?
Homemade blueberry muffins with real butter, poached
eggs, espresso ii
~Long as ITm not slinging the hash,�T I replied.
And thatTs how it started. Instead of mentally painting the
sunrise after work, I eat muffins and espresso at Mama
TuckerTs.
eTs a writer from Peoria who moved to the city
gy Cee the people are so intense.�T
~o~TheyTre so full of energy,� he explained. ooThousands of
people living so close together and moving so fast.�T
~Only on the surface,TT I said. o~Underneath it all, theyTre
living slowly. Like in the diner. When the city around you is
racing, you have to saunter. ItTs the only way to keep your
sanity.�
oWith muffins and espresso,� he agreed.
oBut isnTt that like going back to the town?� | asked.
~~Maybe, but what if tomorrow I want to slow down with
bagels and lox? I just walk out of my apartment and around
this corner or maybe the next, a delicatessen.�T
Thick, wavy brown hair and bushy eyebrows frame those
eyes so deep you could fall into them. And heTs a
meticulous dresser. Along with his tweed jackets, he wears
turtlenecks, baggy pants, and Gucci shoes. He cringes when
67
| wear the same pair of jeans two weeks in a row. Or throw
my wool sweater " dry clean only " into the washing
machine.
~Besides Gucci,� | asked him one day. oWhat do you
like?�T
~What do you mean?�T
~I mean, what do you like? Or what donTt you like?�
He thought for a while, then replied, o~I like scary movies,
reading in bed, and guacamole. | donTt like misspelled words
or flossing my teeth.�
oI donTt like roller coasters, op art, dusting, or the color
turquoise. I like naming my plants and gaudy jewelry.�T
~Brass beds,T he added.
~Travel brochures.�T
~~Boston cream pie.�T
oWriters from Peoria.�
~Waitresses who name their plants.�T
Three weeks later he moved in. His place is nicer, but,
well my place is within walking distance of the diner.
And besides, my plants are all comfy in their eastern
window. Of course, it took some adjusting for both of us.
He works days at a newspaper office. And when he gets
home a little after 5:00, ITm groggy, unbearably grouchy
until ITve had a couple of smokes. Then we only have a few
hours together before I have to go to work. Often we take
long walks and talk about politics, the best sellers lists, and
our dreams.
oIT want to go to Europe,� I said one day. oTo see the
paintings from all those art history slide shows. I'll start with
Italy, that gave us da Vinci.�
~o~And Petrarch,� he replied. ~o~Where then?�T
oSpain ... PicassoTT (with an exaggerated accent).
~~And Cervantes. Then France, of course. de
Maupassant.�T
~o~And Monet. Then maybe Greece " El Greco.�T
~*Plato,�T he said.
And then he talked about his dreams " his future plays,
his novels, his poems. He especially likes to quote literary
works.
~* ~No man is an island, entire of itself.T Do you know who
said that?�T
~o~No, ITm sure I donTt,T I admitted, strangely ashamed.
~John Donne,� he answered.
a
- hen I go to work and he to sleep. I spend the next
several hours wiping off the plastic marbleized counters,
charming drunks out of their next weekTs liquor money, and
laughing with the cook who can never get the yolks of old
Uncle JayTs eggs just right. Today the banter seems
meaningless, though, and my unresponsiveness manifests
itself in a handful of meager tips. I resign my apron early to
its individual hook and hurry home to clean up George
(before John breaks out). George, whoTs helped me through
more than one bout of insecurity before a blank, white
canvas ...
Looking up, ITm abruptly awakened from my moment of
silence for the departed philodendron. For blazoned before
me is the intended sunrise of my painting. Especially lucid
" its colors each pronounced, separate and distinct. Much
more satisfying than the nebulous effacement of color
characterizing my many innocent attempts. And if | could
slip my easel behind it and snip it from its place in the sky
like a spider web, I would.
Instead | bound home, hoping John will be asleep so | can
get it down before I lose it " once again. Seeing the mess
on the carpet, a familiar fear rises to the back of my throat.
I turn away deliberately and swallow " hard. But itTs no
use. I stab at the canvas, unable to strike the distinction.
~o~Too much distortion along the edges,T�T | moan and fling
my brush across the room. The crack of it hitting JohnTs
typewriter produces muffled sounds from the bedroom.
Eventually, he emerges, sleepily scratching his balls, and
spies (obviously for the first time) George. I hold my breath
as if waiting for something. But he surprises me by merely
shrugging and saying, ~ooWhat happened to your plant? That
was one of your favorites, wasnTt it?�T
oGeorge,� I say, my anger rising. ooHis name was
George.�T And ITm not sure why ITm so angry.
oGeorge, yeah, thatTs right. well, here, let me help you
vacuum up the dirt.�T
oNo,� I reply, a little louder than necessary. John looks
at me startled. He stares at me with those huge, intrusive
eyes.
oItTs all right, Susan, honey. You can buy another. ItTll be
all right.�� He comes to me, tries to put his arm around me.
~You still have me,� he grins.
~o~No,�T I say evenly. And make him leave.
T he sunrise, brilliantly intact, flashes in my head, and |
hurry to set up my easel. Maybe tomorrow I'll buy
another philodendron. And name her Alice.
68
aia etd
= = =
John Boone
70
| and They
(VincentTs Goodbye)
and they
always separate.
| trek alone
from stars to earth,
climb the thin trellis
from here to there
so fragile, |
and they are not alike;
they will kill
me misunderstanding.
A solitary soul
will give up in a wheat field " |
and they will
never understand.
Cam Sloan
Erasure
| tried to
erase you
from my canvas heart
My kneaded eraser
only smudged
you
over
the fine lines
into
the background
of lovely yesterdays.
Dorothy Liles
Ungame
| tripped over a poem today
written on the soul of my shoe,
Or was it a home sapiens bone
Laughing at ~o~you nasty dog.�T
samT~s poem kept coming back
Read by shoulder angels in stereo
Giggling at the magic wand
Dancing at my own funeral.
The cherry wood turtle wore
Panama on its back
While a sweaty black man rythmically
pulled a dirty chain out
of a sewer.
Forgiveness peeked out through prison bars.
I'm sure | was drunk.
Too much Monty Python, Woody Allen, and Jesus.
Bob Clyde
Butterfly wings
Butterfly wings
Fluttering color-cathedral
Touching here
Touching there
Drawing sweet nectar
What good are you?
So fragile
So delicate
Yet perchance they touch your hand
Some elusive beauty will remain.
William H. Murphy
Churches
Churches, imposing themselves
upon dying crystal of man, and
a Dat for one "
we never knew how laughable.
Solemnly, as little boys
dressed in Sunday best ciothes
we trod into religiosity
Pompous and self-important
wearing guilt, like a shroud
for our newly confessed, though ordinary, sins.
But maybe we knew better,
(ritual as catalyst for spontaneity)
Quickly, quite, quickly, after Sunday preachinT dies
Southern Churches open to horseshoe pitchinT
three leg races, and dinner on the grounds.
And whatever gods may be " real or imagined " smile upon us
in sunshine, and shade
laughing among the fried chicken, and ham biscuits,
loving life, strictly censored and prescribed
but loving nontheless.
Perhaps we knew after all "
William Neil Bender
71
Triptych Images
Hal J. Daniel III
Mr. Wilson
1953. You made me King Nature. | ruled the butterflies,
moths, and younger campers from New Jersey. I screwed
the final lid on Monarchs by day, Lunars by night. I was the
Eminent Caliph of Camp Carolina Lepidopterans, but |
never screwed a Camp Deerwoode Tuna, fast as those little
peacharinas were. One rainy day | broke my collarbone
chasing a Buckeye in Pisgah National Forest. Only a
Buckeye will fly in the rain. The only exception, you said,
was a Cabbage. Hardy, har, har, har, I yucked. One cold
night, | broke my tooth while chasing a Sphinx through
Egypt. Only a Sphinx will cruise toilets in the cold. The only
exception, you sternly stated, was the one you saw in North
Africa. It was hauling ass from a Fox named Rommel.
My toothTs bloody nerve did not laugh.
1983. The rain still buckeyes my right clavicle. The cold
still sphinxes by broken incisor. Morning Cloak wings tremble
through the cyanide jar of beautiful, but smelly, colors. |
think of you every time I order from Carolina Biological.
Bruce
Rat nests in his hair: three big ones. TheyTve been there
for months: three, maybe four, but he has no reason to
brush or shear his dreadful locks. The manTs dear
grandmother in her hot and humid Memphis grave would
shit BBTs if she tried to comb it now. Thirty years ago,
Grandma would slick him a roach, grease it with a Vitalis
swirl. Now, he has a natural one, maybe more.
A mother-to-be roach and her cream egg case sometimes
stroll down his neck; jump to his ponytail, home sweet
home. Contentedly, mother rats suckle their pink-orange
babies. Swishing them all behind, he feels them no problem
at all. He says he often dreams of different colored rubber
bands, purple and orange mostly.
His buddy Nish, who lives somewhere near Seattle, has a
sheepdog with hair like his. The dog laughs most of the
time.
Blanche explains that no woman will love him with a mop
full of rat pups and a parturient roach. As he hunts and
pecks, red fingernails gently pluck St. Joseph baby aspirin
from their rasta brown cribs.
~They make St. Joseph aspirin in Memphis,� he babbles.
The rat mothers, the almost-mother roach and her
connected baby case leap for freedom, skeedaddle.
A spring green emerald fly slowly buzzes his blind right
eye. He smiles a cupidTs bow in time to the long, smooth
strokes.
72
eeta Zeros
inue to collect these Velveeta cheese
23 of them now. They are stacked like zeros
anese aircraft table. Miniature pilots with blowing,
k scarves are taking their oaths for the Emperor and
Admiral Ohnishi. Those boys are anxious to take off.
y need to fly those boxy zeros more than breathe. It
akes sense to fly a box to oblivion. TheyTre tired of the
training flights.
WhatTs going on here? WhatTs with me that I need to
collect these goddamn Velveeta cheese boxes? I never store
anything in them. I just collect them, stack them, pick them
up, look at them, and neatly restack them after their
perfunctory practice missions. Why do I do this?
Maybe because these little zeros, in all their rising sun
splendor, kamikaze me to flattop nothingness. Maybe
because the moment my eye zooms in on one of these zero
heroes, presto, he is reduced to a blank, null set. Just like
the 1949 movies I saw on the subject. A closeup on a Jap
automatically sent him to his asahi home. Maybe because |
drew very good zeros in the second grade, taking a red and
yellow Crayola pride in my rising suns. Maybe because the
only thing I can draw in 1983 is a Velveeta cheese box. |
donTt even have to color it.
Or maybe because my thoughts are like the IntrepidTs
catapulting guns. Thirteen members of the shimpu want to
take me to my divine wind.
73
Jim Albright
74
""""
y
. \
ae +
A rH j
through gray streets
past mute, squatting houses
to a place
without bicycles, cars or dogs,
only the sound of my feet on pavement.
past a world | donTt see,
until breath is a prayer
and the only thing real
is the next step.
Times like this
| never want to stop.
Al Maginnes
That Spring
That spring
romping through crystallized
sunbeams
spiced with honey-brown sugar words
and
soeckled leaves of crispy-curl,
Stringing sugar candy dreams
and
chocolate cones of laughter,
Weaving golden spider
webs of fantasy
so delicate
the morning breeze tosses them INTO
va Pp OF Oi j g %
casting rainbows of light. ee ~ § 7 E-
We played , YW :
and ¥ tf
Time stood still. : i
Dorothy Liles ~ ; da gre ag
Debbie Rawls
75
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Captain Danger
Jeffry Jones
Family reunion and itTs my turn to entertain. The old,
middle, and young ask for the story I tell the best, and I,
still in a stupor from jet lag, protest. But their faces are
bright with expectancy. Old stories told at reunions are the
lifeblood of family. So I repeat the story. They all laugh at
the right places, and still laughing we retreat to the
lunchtime table.
But I have been away too long. For me the telling is
much like reading the script of a play done by other actors.
The house has become crowded, noisy with childrenTs
Cartoons and my unclesT argument about the merits of the
candidates in some long-ago local election. Lunch has
become a collection of scraps efficiently piled on our plates
in the center of the table. The women sip tea, reflect on our
Praise of their cooking. The screen door hisses shut behind
me.
It was just a fifteen minute walk to my old neighborhood.
Old neighborhood no honey-dripping nostalgia brings me
here. Just the gentle, careless accident of walking without a
destination, of being nudged along by the dim ghosts that
lurk on the outside edges of reunions and old stories.
The changes shouldnTt surprise, but they do. The street,
my street, seems bare, as though a winterTs wind has
stripped it of color, eroded the idiosyncracies that gave the
Street its personality.
Where are the crates and chunky milk bottles we dodged
on the way to school, or the smiling, pidgin English
workmen who hefted scrap metal and trash into carts made
of rust and wood? Where is the enamelled metal Coke sign
my best friend and I hung above our stoop as though it
were our familiesT heraldic shield? Everywhere are the prints
of a levelling hand. Only the distant orange and black sign in
front of HanniganTs Drug Store remains, like the cornerstone
of an abandoned lot.
| approach my old stoop slowly, doubting my memory. I
am embarrassed, afraid ITve gotten lost or that the stories |
tell at reunions are myths, fragments from a place that canTt
be excavated. Then I see it, a memorial splashed against the
side of the stoop in wriggling spray painted letters.
Copia Darter Was Here
I remember. Davey. I have a photograph of him. Striped
shirt, blue jeans, sneakers, and a shy smile in a face too
young and round to have a chin. Black and white and fading
to yellow around the edges, the photograph does him no
justice. For Davey was once Captain Danger, and Captain
Danger was magnificent.
I can see us together now. We are standing in front of
Uncle Sam who stares icily from a poster over our
shoulders. Davey is my age, but taller. | am his sidekick,
Sergeant Bravo. I wear a cape of muted blue. My ogloves
of power�T are stained, have holes, and smell of creosote,
but I feel good when I look down at them bobbing and
flapping on my stick-figure wrists. I feel like a sergeant, like
someone real important. Yet the Captain upstages me in his
77
Se ETT a SS RE TERRA SRR RRR eT EE DSS
a a er = ee
red cape and Viking-horned batterTs helmet. An ex-
doughboyTs khaki belt is wrapped around his waist. His
gloves are tight-fitting and have no holes.
Was that why Davey was leader " because he had found
better junk, because his castoffs were easier to turn into
objects of glory than mine? I wonder.
I died a thousand times on that stoop. It was the focal
point of all the play, the happy violence of childhood that
rocked our street. As the sidekick, I was the one who
always got killed. It came with the job, falling down with a
fierce death grimace, writhing in reptilian agonies on that
stoopTs seven steps. Those gray, perpetually damp steps. In
summer, hot, sticky. In winter, cold, hard. Whenever I died
in some freckle-faced NaziTs summer ambush, I always
dreaded my return to life, dreaded tearing my hairless legs
from the gluey hot plate that was the stoop of July and
August.
I am there now.
My eyes are closed against the harsh pressure of the
summer sunlight. The inside of my skull is painted red with
retinal stripes. Captain DangerTs footfalls sound beside me.
He pants. My ambusher, Georgie Forbush (who everyone
calls Red), runs around the corner with a joyous scream.
Georgie is always the villain. In a way, I am jealous of
Georgie; the villain seems much more essential to Captain
DangerTs world than the sidekick. And somehow, though
Sergeant Bravo is proud to fall for his captain, he dies biting
his lip, wanting just once to live, to watch the captain fall
with a moan beneath GeorgieTs hail of rat-a-tat-tat bullets.
But Sergeant Bravo never sees that.
A door opens above me. I blink, come to life. ItTs DaveyTs
mother. Captain Danger, as Davey, hands me a glass that
feels cold and slick like melting ice. His mouth is ringed with
the clownTs circle of a lemonade strain. In his hand is a pile
of comic books. We begin to read.
Those comics. We learned many things, the Captain and I.
Defending the weak and helpless from grinning fiends like
Georgie required much paraphernalia. We built ~~rocket
powered� racers from rusty wagons and splintered traces of
derelict Florida-born orange crates. Marvels of streamlined
warcraft busily made with the guidance of dusky blueprints
pulled from the centers of our comics.
We never acted out the plots of the comics in precise
detail. No, they were more like free style choreographers,
teachers of dance. And oh, how we danced. Four-color
tapestries of swift terrors and violent delights were spun
from our stretching, running, climbing, flying bodies.
How heavy we seem now and how flimsy our war
machines. | didnTt cry the morning I saw the Bravo-mobile
torn apart by claw hammer and stuffed into the basement
furnace for fifteen minutes of heat. But ITd cry now if I saw
it; it still burns a little. The Bravo-mobile was burnt soon
after our last adventure. Last adventure __.
Morning and the release of energy held in tension by a
night of restless sleep. The peaceful smell of breakfast is
made memory by the exotic wind of the street. Davey waits
for me at the bottom of the stoop. HeTs already in costume.
As I slam the door behind me, Momma shouts. | pretend
not to hear. It doesnTt matter; | still have two weeks of
summer vacation left to explore. "
- oT got an idea,T the Captain says.
We're walking toward HanniganTs Drug Store clutching the
dimes for our comic books as though weTre misers on our
last legs. The Captain has a comic book under one arm. An
educational comic. ITm puzzled, stare at him suspiciously; we
never read educational comics.
~oMy father gave me this, said it was better than that
~trashT we always read.�
We grimace together, sharing the pain of fathersT sighs,
teachersT scowls, and old women who obscenely call our
treasures ofunny books.�T
~The story ainTt too hot, but thereTs something in here to
try, if youTre brave enough, Sergeant Bravo.�T
As always, the spontaneity of our play falls into its »
pattern. Georgie strikes by noon. | fall; the Captain leaps
over me and chases Georgie down the street. But I am too
impatient today to be a good corpse. I squirm, peek through
a half squint at Captain DangerTs educational comic.
oClassic True Adventure Comics _.. This issue __.
Franklin Tames Lightning __.�T
The Captain returns. He looks down sternly, grabs up the
comic.
oYou're cheating, Sergeant Bravo. YouTre supposed to be
dead. Dead men donTt keep opening their eyes.�
The accusation stings though I know itTs true. The
Captain, usually so fair, becomes like Georgie, just a kid
who canTt see things quite right. I rise to protest, but the
Captain pushes me down.
oYou can get away with cheating this time. WeTll say
GeorgieTs death ray was only at half power. But this means
we gotta do the funeral all the way.�T
~DonTt give me orders, Davey!�T
For a minute the CaptainTs face loses all expression, all
pretense of command. He looks lost rather than angry. My
stomach suddenly feels cold.
~ITm sorry, Davey,� I whisper. oItTs just the comic. I
wanted to read it, but the game got in the way.�
~But youTre breaking the rules, Bobby.�
Captain DangerTs voice becomes a low whine. | notice his |
helmet is crooked, his cape torn. My hands in my gloves )
begin to itch. I stand up. |
~All right, weTll do the funeral, do it all the way.�
Captain Danger smiles, his faith in his leadership affirmed.
He hands me the comic which I rollup and stick in my shirt.
Now I can wait to read it.
The Captain gives me Gary CooperTs funeral in Beau
Geste. Then we separate, heed the impatience in our
motherTs voices, and go inside to darkness, coolness, quiet,
and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.
I donTt know when we actually decided to fly the kite.
Like all projects that snowball, origin was lost in the
momentum of sudden pile up. But | remember how, during
that last sweet week of summer vacation, it became vitally
important for the Captain and me to re-create FranklinTs
experiment. Somehow the fate of the free world depended
on our secret, secret mission.
I smile now at reunions when | tell the story. Momma can
smile too. But there are parts that make her cringe, as
though she bears a scarless wound that gently throbs
whenever probed. And every reunion I must probe.
Tradition. And every time I probe, I begin the story here
78
_
~ITm angry. Angry that this is the first time
he trusts me to lead, angry because I can
see he is just as frightened as I am.
Angrier than I have ever been.�
ItTs Saturday morning and the components of our
adenture are piled on a crate in my buildingTs basement.
Captain Danger has kite and comic. I have an old copper
key taken with fierce bravado in an after-bedtime raid on
the old chest under MommaTs bed. The sky has begun to
cloud over. We are ready and squirm with impatience. So
clearly I see us there, as though | was the same astral
Spectator then that | am now.
Broad slices of chalky, pale light slant downward from |
boarded windows high in the walls. The basement is as quiet
as an empty cell on death row. Captain Danger and I make
a vow not to back out, though ITm sure I'll break it. | pout,
ashamed for wanting to quit our project, afraid | won't be
able to. Captain Danger is edgy. The gray in the clouds is
too light, and Momma will be fixing supper soon.
Now memory edits itself. Time passes in detail-avoiding
chunks. The light from outside has become broken, thin. Its
slant is sharper. The sky is a layered wash of charcoal and
ash. Captain DangerTs mother calls three times for him.
There is a brief silence, then the slamming of a window.
oLetTs go,� the Captain says. 7
As we step outside, I find myself hoping Momma will |
catch me, pull me indoors. But as we pass my window, it
remains empty, as empty as the street. |
~Hurry up. Do you want to get caught?�T The captain
asks.
°No,�T I whisper.
The wind begins to rise.
We move hesitantly, slowly as though we canTt keep our
balance. Captain DangerTs cape hangs limp, shrinks from the
thickening wind. He holds the kite like a shield. The old key
feels sharp and hot in my hand.
~Sergeant Bravo
asks for the third time.
oYes, Captain.�
Captain DangerTs cape flares suddenly. The rain comes.
Captain DangerTs eyes are very large.
~~The book says Ben FranklinTs kite flew in the rain,TT |
say.
He nods. The kite fabric sags with wetness. From
somewhere far behind us Momma calls.
oBobby Bobby Bobby!�T
The street seems very long. Momma stops calling. The
wind moans a song of sad and delicate pain. We begin to
unroll the kite string. The Captain is shivering.
oHurry up, Bobby.�T
Lightning flashes and we shrink back, blink our eyes
against the rainTs soft sting.
oYou scared?�
oNo " you scared?�T
~No no, ITm just cold. Bobby, do you want to i
I know what Captain Danger wants to ask. I can see it in
the way he half crouches, hear it in the voice that pleads
rather than commands. ITm suddenly flattered that he asks
me what to do. ITm also angry. Angry that this is the first
time he trusts me to lead, angry because | can see he is just
as frightened as | am. Angrier than | have ever been.
The smoothness of his boyish face is made craggy in the
irregular light. LightningTs flash wreathes his face in blue fire,
melts it, makes him monstrous. | shudder.
I have to decide whether to go on or quit, but I canTt. For
a moment we stare at each other. My chance at command
ends without a word. Captain Danger looks down at his feet
and speaks as though desperately ashamed.
Bobby, do you have the key?� he
79
oTie the key, Bobby.�
My fingers are slick and clumsy in my gloves, but
somehow the key becomes part of the kite.
~~Let me make sure itTs right, Captain. Give me the
book.�
The Captain hands me the kite and spool of string. He
paws at the inside of his jacket. Seeking, finding the
~o~educational�T comic.
For a second | hold it, a fantasy montage of form and
color, a ten cent dream that smells like dusty ink. Then a
blast of wind tears the comic from my hand.
There is the flicker of flipping pages. Chaos comes in a
swirl of juxtaposed colors in the crisp straightnesses of line
and panel crumpling beneath the brutal wash of wind-
whipped rain. Paper and color disintegrate become a pulpy
gray slush that trails decay as itTs sucked into the black maw
of the storm grate.
~ooBobby!�T Davey screams.
The wind grabs his cape. For a moment it becomes a
shroud the color of blood. He claws at it desperately. |
begin to run. Somehow, the kite string spool remains in my
hand.
I am running, running, and the Captain frees himself from
his cape. He runs too. For a moment the kite is a bouncing
square of dead weight then the wind catches it. Like the
head of some giant rearing cobra, the kite snaps up. The
kite and I become one; we fly.
oLet go, Bobby! Let go!�T
The street shatters beneath my feet. I step through a
dazzlingly white curtain of searing heat. A soundless crash
and | am falling, my body tearing itself apart from inside.
But there is no pain. Captain Danger leaps over me. I am
silent, numb.
~l killed him!T Davey screams.
Then he is at the top of the stoop and through the door.
And I am alone in the rain
The next memories seem cloudy. But the story I tell at
reunions doesnTt end here. So | dig, and remember, and
return.
A forest of legs encircles me. My eyes pan upward,
looking for Momma. | find her. She is so close. Her eyes are
full of sudden age, and her body is stiff with restrained grief.
She begins to cry, and I cry with her. A sigh comes from
the ring of featureless faces hovering above me. Davey
stands mute, staring. Someone takes DaveTs cape, wraps me
in it like a blanket. Davey seems naked without it, and the
cape isnTt even very warm. Then Davey begins to cry.
Sergeant Bravo feels very dead now, and all I know is that I
want Captain Danger to avenge me. But he just keeps on
crying.
oIT hate you, Davey,T I say, choking on sobs and rain.
ItTs Momma who carries me. The chattering neighbors
disperse. Davey, looking gaunt and pale, drifts off with
them. Momma walks gently toward the stoop. I stop crying.
| ache for warmth and dryness. The stoop has never been
so far away. Momma is whispering in my ear, but I donTt
really hear her. And somewhere along that long, slow,
swaying trek | fall asleep
It hardly seems fair to recall it all now. The sun is shining.
The sounds and smells of the street are different. Comic
books were consigned to a summer school bonfire by
Momma and a preacher whose name | forget. Captain
Danger, he who danced with peril, made faces at death, and
laughed at doomsday now sells insurance a dozen cities
away. I call him David now, but seldom call him.
A woman who looks like Momma stately strolls up the
steps of the old stoop. A boy in a Star Wars T-shirt passes
me with a shout; his face is wild with freedom. And | find
myself at the door to HanniganTs Drug Store.
Hannigan had been dead for many years, even before |
was born. But the inheritors of his corner of the street are
traditionalists and keep the name. They even resemble
Hannigan, whose face radiates benevolence from a dusty
over-the-door portrait. HanniganTs latest incarnation smiles as
I enter.
For a moment I am lost. There are shelves where there
shouldnTt be. A wall is stained with the scorch and water
marks of a recent fire. All of the walls are too close. But |
find what ITm looking for.
I wish Davey were here for I want him to witness this act
of forgiveness, of resurrection. But at least I can tell the
story of Captain Danger now and tell it honestly.
The newest Mr. Hannigan raises an eyebrow as I come up
to the counter, but I look into his eyes. They smile and say,
~~Me too, Mister.� Comic books are expensive now, but this
will be worth it. It is a gift from Davey, for Davey. I tell my
Hannigan to keep the change. Then'I step outside and look
for the boy in the Star Wars T-shirt. RJ
80
BettyJo Norman
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82
WI
What the Leaves Seem to Do
Autumn approaches eternally
My allegiance is to cooler days
The sunlight on misty cells
And on bent leaves
| will stand withered
Beard and sweater
Iberian: dead with the summer holocaust
A catholic crease in my eyes:
Crossed, full of their sorry luck
and good wishes
Dreading the day
Among Carolina evenings
When my bones are too wet and warm
To hold and form against dusk
And the earth circles
Against both my love and restrain
| fold my heart in a pocket of sorts
And breathe the wind in
And dance
Or pretend
To dance
Sam Silva
83
Perpetual Motion
Willie Bisbee owns BatesvilleTs
only cranberry red porch swing;
holds me and him, Jeff and Alfie.
After school we rock
back and forth, back and forth
WillieTs a famous WWI vet.
Everybody knows heTd have made general
if not for a near fatal leg wound.
Instead, HeTs guardian of
Miz MaggieTs begonias;
sheTs been gone three years now
while Willie still rocks
back and forth, and back
HeTs a true businessman
believes in bartering;
swaps moon pies and Hershey bars
for adolescent ears eager to hear
recycled tales while
rocking to the dry creak of the chains
back we go, back, back to
spotted tiger lillies
sprouting four feet tall on fertile banks
of Shenandoah soil
(Is it Big Meadows, Willie?
He never answers.)
back to
the lady with translucent eyes
surrounded by rainbow shadows.
She had a love of paper fans and ostrich plumes.
(We never met her but
know her well.)
back to
84
Barboursville lean-toTs
oswing low, sweet chariotTT echoes
through the Blue Ridge
in the drizzled duskness of the day
only two bucks fo roll, jelly roll
Willie says we'll understand
when we're wallot-carring boys)
and forth again
to the six oTclock supper call
mad scramble before the second summons;
Willie never notices
just keeps on humming
oswing low, sweet chariotT
as he rocks
back, back, further back ...
Melanie Bently-Maughan
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Biographies
Writers
William Neil Bender originally from Jacksonville, NC
received his masterTs from ECU in 1977 and a doctorate
from UNC. He is presently teaching at Concord and
Bluefield State College in West Virginia. He has been
published in several magazines including Weid, Poet, and
New South Writing.
Melanie Bentley-Maughan is presently working at the
Department of Radiology at the ECU Medical School, but
hopes to begin a masterTs in folklore at Carolina in the fall.
Melanie enjoys weaving and making pottery.
Jamie Biggers, our Prose Editor, is a graduate student in
English. She tends to become punchy at three in the
morning and quiet at seven after an all-night layout session.
Bob Clyde can be seen playing golf in a purple sweater
and chugging six-ounce Coca-Colas if heTs not dancing to the
tunes of Lightning Hopkins. In his spare time he writes
poetry and listens to the woes of ECU students.
Hal J. Daniel Ill is a professor of Speech, Language, and
Auditory Pathology.
Mike Hamer is an English graduate student who hopes to
graduate in T84. Better known as one of the Rutabega
Brothers of the Rutabega Brothers and Lemon Sisters fame,
Mike claims his poetic influences include Boy George and
Louie Jordan.
Elizabeth Ito Hart, a senior in English, wants to go to
graduate school and become a free lance writer. Her
immediate plans include reading all the great works of
literature.
J. Phillip Horne, a 1983 English graduate of ECU, is now
persuing his PhD at Carolina. He was published last year in
the Rebel and in the Windhover, the NC State literary
magazine.
Andy Johnson is a junior majoring in biology who hopes to
become a doctor someday. He enjoys hunting and fishing.
Jeffry Jones is this yearTs second place winner in both
poetry and prose. He collects comics, likes sci-fi, and British
Imperialism. A writing major, Jeff would like to be a
character actor.
Dorothy Liles, an ECU graduate student in English believes
herself to be adventuresome. To prove it, sheTs just started
ballet lessons and continues her habit of getting into the
wrong Car.
Malynn Linton, our first place winner in poetry, plans to
continue her studies in creative writing. Malynn was
published in last yearTs Rebel and in the Student of Wake
Forest University.
Al Maginnes is a senior writing major who has been
published in the Rebel, the Davidson Miscellany, and on
various bathroom walls.
Charles Shannon Meek must be out building sandcastles.
William H. Murphy is our Poetry Editor. Although he
received his degree in English nearly a decade ago, he has
been a worthwhile, not to mention laughable addition to the
Rebel. HeTs now singing Italian arias as a music major in the
School of Music.
Sherrill Owens is a senior in English who has three
teenage kids and still finds the time to write poetry. Sherrill
enjoys creativity in art, writing, and photography.
Melanie Phillips probably doesnTt even know sheTs been
published. We figure sheTs off somewhere listening to some
more tales.
J. Thomas Pietrzak is a senior majoring in English and
Advanced Partying. When heTs not partying, J.T. also enjoys
karate and snowskiing. Leaves is his first publication in the
Rebel.
Brian Rangeley tells girls that he doesnTt play games with
his new word processor. Brian is a senior writing major
whose story, A DogTs Life, won second place in last yearTs
Rebel.
Sam Silva is a resident of Greenville who enjoys playing
the guitar. He has been published previously in the Rebel.
Cam Sloan isnTt sure if she is a junior or senior writing
major and art minor. She wants to do everything. Cam won
first place in the prose contest this year.
Brian Zachariah is a second year medical student at the
University of Louisville who wants to become a general
practioner and write. Concentric Circles marks his
publication debut.
86
Se RA A SAAR
Artists
Jim Albright is a senior in Communication Arts from
Winston-Salem. This is his first time in the Rebel.
Jim Armstrong is a senior in Communication Arts. He'll be
Sraduating this fall with a BFA in Graphic Design and a
minor in Illustration.
John Boone is a senior in Communication Arts. HeTs the
President of Design Associates and was published in last
yearTs Rebel.
Dwight M. Burke II is a senior in Communication Arts and
Minoring in ceramics.
Chris Carlson is a Painting major. He was published in last
yearTs Rebel.
Joe Champagne is from Miami, Florida. He is a first year
Sraduate student who enjoys bicycling. His photography has
been chosen to be in the Best of College Photography 1984
annual.
Susan Fecho, whose Untitled Fabric Design was chosen by
the judges of the art contest as a definite show piece, is
being published for the first time in the Rebel this year.
Donna Gregory is a graduate student from Florida
©oncentrating in Painting.
Marty Hardin is a junior painting major from Forest City.
© was published in last yearTs Rebel as a writer.
Wiley Hicks is being published in the Rebel for the first
>a Red Corner was chosen by the judges to be in the
Snow.
Leslie Karpinski is a newlywed from Winston-Salem. She
Was voted most outstanding senior in the Painting
partment. This is her first time in the Rebel.
Thom Ketring is a senior in Communication Arts with a
Painting minor.
Carol Soo LeBuhn is a ceramics major.
James Lux is a commuter from Apex to the School of Art.
Diane Maisel won first place in the Mixed Media category.
ast year she won first place in the Design category.
Katherine F. McCleneghan is getting a Masters in
ainting.
George McKim is a graduate student in Painting from
Wilmington. He won this yearTs Best in Show award.
Betty Melton is a graduate student in Metals from Norfolk,
VA. Her Untitled Drawing was chosen by the judges as
show material.
Ellen Moore has worked her way up to the position of
Editor of this magazine. Though painting on walls, doors,
streets and canvasses seems to be her only qualification, she
cleverly hides this by making snap decisions and giving
dogmatic orders.
Maya Oliver is a sophomore who will be submitting for
Communication Arts this spring. SheTs one of our Prose
EditorTs five roommates and shares the cats, Onyx and
Phoenix, with the rest of the live-ins.
Jo Pumphrey is a graduate painting student.
Clay Smith is a Senior in Communication Arts.
Gregory Shelnutt is majoring in Sculpture. This is the
second straight year he has won first place in the Sculpture
category.
Keith Simmons graduated in the fall. His work is on the
cover.
Linda Darty Smith is a graduate student from Winter
Park, Florida.
Michael Tatsis was published in last yearTs Rebel. He was
born and raised in Greece.
July Thompson is a sophomore who will be submitting for
CA this spring. She likes textiles and silkscreening.
Dwight Touchberry is this yearTs Art Editor. He will be
graduating this spring with a major in Illustration. He loves
airbrush and antique car restoration.
Billy Walker was featured in last yearTs Rebel. He is a
Communication Arts major with a concentration in
Illustration. HeTs from Gastonia.
87
Low Burn
Fire in the corner and
cars on the street
Light for a moment your
Furrowed brow
The days brighten up much slower now
Through the frosted grill
Now,
With the calm of doubt
Set to my eyes
The ashen faith
The hollow glow
Of a love that still burns
Cigarettes at hushed dawn
With the shadow of grey embracing skies
As soft as soft impending snow
On the burrough where our apartment lies
Close your eyes
And blush
Sleep at my feet
And now far away where
Planes take off
And the reaper reaps
A low moan
Those months are lean
And tender to eat
These months would be salt
To keep our meat
To melt liquid love
From other days
That the sweeper sweeps
and
As | have a love
For someone to keep
lt should be the fire
Next to you
Anyway
Sam Silva
88
The Attic & Anheuser~Busch
The Rebel Thanks
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