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EAST CAROLINA
UNIVERSITY
@
THE LITERARY
ARTS MAGAZINE
®
SPRING / FALL
VOLUME no
34
er etre
SS Poenct te We
2 tS ae = eee
As children, the importance of art to most of us was
Am C
iz unfathomable. Our earliest primers used art, not photos, to coerce us
er to learn those mysterious words that accompanied, to shed some
n understanding on both the image and text we saw. A few years later,
= when given more to read, we often knitted our brows and asked,
owhere are the pictures?? Now as scholars we still turn towards
7
reading for enjoyment, and sometimes ask" w here are the pictures?
This doesnTt mean that publishers do not provide enough images for us-
in their quest to grab the short attention span of the nation, the periodicals offer
all manner of flashy graphics and pictures. What is lacking is imagery that is
substantial: literate art. That is what makes for true illustration, not mere repre-
sentational art as considered by many.
[Illustration is perhaps the clearest point where art and literature inter-
sect. Besides merely supplementing the fiction, poetry, essay, Or non-fiction it
accompanies, the artwork continues the storytelling process. Many of the early
American illustrators understood this above all; artists suchas Howard Pyle, N.C.
Wyeth, Joseph Clement Coll, Franklin Booth, and Andrew Loomis realized their
work had the potential to become the definitive versions of the subject matter they
illustrated (characters, historical figures, settings and otherwise). This under-
standing generated some of the most imaginative and memorable art produced
in our country, which often shaped American thought and perception.
During the early decades of the 20th century, illustration was at the
zenith of popularity. Publication was the dominant form of entertainment, yet to
be challenged by radio and television. Illustrators often had recognition as
celebrities; avid readers followed the artistsT work from books to magazines and
even toadvertisements. The result wasa fairly well-read public whose knowledge
of popular and classic prose rivaled our generation's thorough grasp of tabloid
gossip and fashion.
Today, the literate illustrator is much akin to anend angered species that
has very few activists interested in its preservation. A trip to a local bookstore or
newsstand will reveal that the magazine industry is in no real jeopardy; nearly
every special interest group, genre, or professional occupation large enough to
comprise an audience has a publication that caters to it. Yet a look at most of the
covers and a scan inside will reveal that photographers are almost the sole
beneficiaries of this vast outlet. Even the magazine that prominently featured the
work of J.C. Leyendecker and Norman Rockwell, The Saturday Evening Post, now
settles for uninspiring photos of media stars, occasionally reusing their classic
covers as so much clip art or for pictorals on othe good olT days? of illustration.
Why does it have to be over? Evidently people want to see a pictoral on
classic illustration, they may also want to see more new illustration. What little art
that is featured by the periodicals is often gimmicky, and the rest is handled by
commercial artists with whom the publishers can sift through mock-ups and
roughs before committing. Anyone can see the implications of this" that illus-
tration is more a process than an art form, and illustrators can not be trusted to
create a defining work. Imagination and aspiration figure in little.
The illustrator as described here has been chased almost exclusively to
book publication which offers artistic freedom and printing quality, but rarely
reaches a majority of the American public. Perhaps just a few publications could
experiment with foregoing their convenient visuals to showcase quality, commis-
sioned illustration, at least for a while. This hasnTt been done in so long that it
would probably be novel to try again. Rather than try to compete with pervasive
electronic media, give the readers something for their eyes to rest on and
appreciate. The mere opportunity could create a whole new generation of artists
and storytellers. It could even encourage the
bring a new audience back to the books.
Rebel 92 maintains itself as a mag
not have to exist as separately as they often do, a
another as well today as ever. As this magazine has serv
many professional writers and artists, may it also help the illustrator, that
storyteller and artist who falls in the middle.
vanishing practice of reading, and
azine of art and literature. The two do
nd can still complement one
ed as a springboard for
Jeff Parker, Managing Editor
Managing Editor
Jeff Parker
Art Director
Steve Reid
Assistant Editor
Darlene Evans
Fiction Editor
Mary Angel Blount
Poetry Editor
Robin Calfee-Moye
25 7
,
a
=
The cover photo is a detail of
Jan Mollet's sculpture which
placed first in the Rebel 92
art show
Cover Design by Michael Dabhs
heen hp UN SPST EGS 6S rt ey, meen ROA wh BTR wee
tae ead eet te
Art Judges
Michael Dorsey
Arlene Morgan
Donald Sexauer
5 |
Se é
~ :
"
. ¢
a
PE MDAD FUELED DSS Sear DOOR Mess te Me EP aM Rann.) Eg RAS. BEDE Mss BER PSM dog arth men aad pean BOND
° mee o . « = +? -
CONTENTS
FEATURES
4 500 Winters by David Behrens
North Carolina is still Indian territory.
52 One ManTs Paradox by Mary Angel Blount
A Southern writer vehemently defies interpretation.
57 The Lost Art of Cartooning by Chris Kemple
Current comics draw lots of praise, but deserve little.
64 Hemingway House by Tim Hampton
Ernest Hemingway is still dead, but his home lives on.
NARRATIVES
46 Tenacity by Jane Ashford
When bats come to visit, its best to be rude.
54 WhatTs in a Beach? by Denise Machala
More than sand and surf make memories.
FICTION
Third place story
10 Swimming in the Slip Stream by John Ray Fuller
SURGERIES 6 4E Efe mre Relea BaF > + terme! OE REE OR WORM RS eae ht Pe a ee tl ete ee ed eee oe A> a a te.) Cae BHP Be at opr OTA Ee a y_® ee
ae . ia Ne ee di a "
* " : mote ee ty e Pe oe gaeees sm a " al & carta: IQ Em mtes poe DO Cemmee whee
1% pee * SPE Pw ata ? ee aie abe an .
1 ane
: ee ests eae Sn ee
- Midis siete acteadieeaianaaadianiaal ETT =
Second place story
40 King of the Coffee Shop by Steve Randolph
First place story
66 Upgrade by Scott Maxwell
39 Daphne by Melissa J. Link
44 Photograph (3rd) by Angela Bacon Reid
590 Winking at the Sun (2nd) by Michael Preston
51 Prologue by James Oliver Tisdale III
74 The Biology Teacher (1st) by Doug Smith
EDITORIAL
I A new start for illustration. by Jeff Parker
76 The leaders of freedom fall. by Kip Russell
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
75 Fiction by Mary Angel Blount
75 Poetry by Robin Calfee-Moye
The Rebel is published for and by the students of East Carolina
University. Offices are located in the Student Publications Build-
ing on the campus of ECU. This issue is volume 34, and its
contents are copyrighted© 1992 The Rebel. All rights revert to the
Original artists and writers upon publication. Contents may not
be reproduced by any means without expressed written consent
of the creators. The Rebel invites all students, faculty and alumni
to voice opinions and/or make contributions.
Reever
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SO ES Rg GR RY FO SE EL Bal et Ser ee erm PSTN LET AVON de MMe ah yet + © ge gern eery coe DMT LS? IN BFP « Reger. 0c 5 astute ROPE Bey & caTh Sn te Se ee ttt Se eee ee . -_ a
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oYou are my friend,? shouted
Wind in His Hair from a cliff as he bid
farewell to John Dunbar in 1990Ts
Dances With Wolves. Though the movie
was based in history, this would prob-
ably have been one of the very few
cases in which the Native American
referred to the Immigrant American as
friend. Other than garnering Oscars
and making Kevin Costner a lot of
money, the film did serve to fan the fire
of a unique type of patriotism towards
the American Indian in this country.
What has in the past been relegated to
a passing regret for the decline of the
Indian is now growing into a full blown
interest in Indian history, heritage, and
the future of the original Americans.
Story and Illustration by
David Behrens
Se mayen ON BER Neth Nae weer 2
oPena 6 Tas Diet becbcee eae es eee
Sweat lodges are dome-shaped
structures where Indians sit before
heated stones to cleanse their souls.
While also used for the purpose of
purging impurities, the lodge takes
on more spiritual significance for
American Indians. A visit to the
sweat lodge is an opportunity to
recieve personal direction from the
source of creation, which emanates
from the ground.
North Carolina has a rich heritage of Indian culture,
sporting nine different Indian nations alone. Among these nine
groups are the Lumbee, who comprise the largest nation east of
the Mississsippi river. Much of famous Indian history traces its
beginnings to this state. Sequoyah of the Cherokees developed
the first written Indian alphabet and produced a newspaper in
1821. Seventeen years later came perhaps the most infamous
period in Cherokee history when President Andrew Jackson
ordered troops to remove all Cherokees from the Smokey
Mountains and conduct a march of the populous to distant
Oklahoma. The oTrail of Tears? is still one of the darkest facets
of American history, instigating the demise of 4500 Indians.
nearly a quarter of the Cherokee nation, by means of starvation,
freezing cold, and complete exhaustion. The event is commemo-
rated each summer in Cherokee, North Carolina in the outdoor
drama oUnto These Hills.?
The Tuscaroras, who at one time dominated the eastern
regions of the Carolinas and Virginia, also figure prominently
into the history of American Indians. War after war tore at the
fabric of their society, such as the push by Colonel John Barnwell
and the South Carolina Army to capture several Indian villages
in 1712. Over a 90 year period many Tuscarorans migrated to
New York, where they were taken into the then-titled oFive
Nations.? The government then alloted the Indians land near
Niagara Falls.
aa ELS AL NS LG ERG GE RYE Oe RT LE aa Ae en me RET oHET NS Sete te eee tN Ne ae Meme sateyee QTL fp ae ere wtrs cap POPES 8 IN BRD 2 Caer. 00 5 Rae beam, & gure ETT PF ale saa ain anf om ea
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As for their own system of governing, the Tuscarorans
held Long House ceremonies to decide upon tribal affairs. The
olong house? itself was a structure that not unintentionally
resembled a loaf of bread, with the inside divided for separate
family chambers. The importance of the family structure within
the Indian society necessitated that prominent Tuscaroran
women made up a large part of the ruling body during Long
sec resses is greater reverence to women as gover-
House congresses. This greater reve 8 Eagles are the most revered of
nors extends in general throughout most Indian nations of the ; ;
birds for Native Americans,
country, owing to the opinion among tribal community that
carrying the peopleTs prayers on
women are naturally more open-minded and less violent than
men. This, like many other staples of Indian society, points to an their wings to the Great Spirit.
underlying belief among most in the importance of coexistence.
RE eenres ee ae Pe av. as evinced by the current :
This value system still presides today, as evinced by Owls represent death. Their
woman chief of the Cherokees of Oklahoma. Ironically, her
feathers are not worn by Indians.
english name is Chief Mankiller.
Sighting of an owl feather can
signify that death is near.
For all the Indian histories that lie waiting for a newly
intrigued public to rediscover, perhaps the most enigmatic of
this region that still draws much speculation is that of the
Lumbee nation. Popular belief places the LumbeeTs roots with
the famous Lost Colony, settlers who disappeared a short time
after coming to North Carolina, and were supposedly assimi-
lated into local Indian society. Upon Sir Walter RaleighTs
arrival on the Outer Banks, he found natives that wore settler's
. , Tres a
clothing, and some having blond hair and blue eyes. Perhaps
Buffalos represent the spirit of
giving; their bodies offered most
essentials to hunters.
¢ The hooves were melted to make
glue ¢Gall bladders and stomachs
made water pouches ¢ Horns made
spoons ¢ Shoulder blades made
knives and tools « Skins were used
for clothing and shelter
The Ghost Dance was performed to
pray for the return of the Buffalo, a
ceremony of resurrection.
the most likely assumption is that they are an amalgam-
ation of Tuscarora, Cherokee, Catawba, and Sioux, as well
as European peoples. Like most Indian nations, the Lumbees
were forced to adapt European norms and thereby lost much
of their own culture, including mythology and birthnames.
This diversity and dissolution plagues the Indian citizens
still today. Though the Lumbee represent the largest Native
American group in North Carolina, their origins remain
inaccessible due to the lack of records concerning treaties,
reservations, language and customs of the Lumbee. Conse-
quently, Lumbees do not recieve governmental aid or ben-
efits offered to Indian groups with established background.
In 1988 media attention fell on Lumberton and its
Indian community when two Lumbee youths held a newspa-
per office hostage. Timmy Jacobs and Eddie Hatcher, angry
at the indifference shown by authorities towards the drug-
trafficking problem in Lumberton, resorted to the measures
to draw attention to a problem they felt was tearing their
community apart. Though most wouldnTt turn to such extreme
actions, there is a quickly rising sentiment among the Indian
nations to make their presence strong again.
Around the country, many prepare to honor Colombus
Day as the event that began America as we know it, 500
oTIRGP ASSES? 6S! F086 HOP UE SIS a Ss Corman! Ok ARO SN aa (Fatma Shee ae
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years ago. This reflection will be different for the native
American however, as it marks the decline of their civiliza-
tion. Rather than dwell on a sad history, many American
Indians are making plans to restore some of their past glory.
One approach is to return to traditions and rituals that
originally educated tribes and held communities together.
Indian activist Reggie Brewer outlines such activity by
The compass points have symbolic
asserting that othere must be more than pow-wows. There
has to be sweatlodges, ceremonies and Indian gatherings. . colors and meaning:
I donTt want some History teacher in classroom of 2050
North (White)" Purity, Honesty,
explaining to the kids, ~this is what the American Indian was
Truth
at one time, now they donTt exist anymore.?
South (Yellow)" Growth, Trust,
Honesty
East (Red)" Illumination, Under-
standing
West (Black)" Spirit World
1993 is being declared by the United Nations as the
year of Indigenous People. This could be an important time
for the natives of this land to reclaim some of the nationTs
attention and reassert themselves as a people. A promising
step would be for the descendants of Natives and Immi-
grants alike to learn more of the almost secret past of this
country, and residents of North Carolina won't have to go far
to begin. Already Indian art, poetry and literature is
growing in prominence and educating a waiting public to a
history theyTve barely known. Hopefully, that history is far
from being completed.
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oeo Pk ide says pointing, oTheir spouts dre so broad.? He looks back atme, smiling from ~hispe rch on the
e obow: but after noticing my appar
nat the wooden planks of the yacht? Sdeck. A moment later, | look up; he
ent Nervousness: his broad grin shallows. I squirm ander hes?
«x, Scuuitiny"looking dow
Das.tumed hts attention back. tothe w hdles: SHAY ww teok, thereate their tails. Oh yeah, they re
one
| no humpback did you sce the white on their flukes??
iy tt stat how to determine the speciespl a Whale by the white omits tail: Excited, -
Again Fred flirns towme. | be gin to
SEP. at the helm to throttle down the boa at.
he
nesta a c
i
sed ene jigttt = ran 400 ad me cies
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Pe
aft srrlaoil in Seatile:
Aa was photographing the Pike Eh ~Maries about Two years igo-for a freelanced Spread
G quel Hotietery marine hon Lica im ingpeeting, atremendous-soc eyein the Tish mar ket
Beis ed pulled his tong: brown Rarcinhot ps pouylail and osmiled at the oriental butchiors as the hittletiiaa""
~ ans gate foie ie thal Sock ny iss Ons oWhen the peta finally got the thing offthe table, za realized
« heel Sas Ken Or?. ore
~as ta. Sache sta Taps Safes I seappe the shot, then asked the men to sign
FER EN SUES, O'S eens ais Pune bake wee ben
a release. In the
subsequent conver-
sation Fred told me
he was a visiting ma-
rine biologist from
Hawaii in town to ob-
serve the killer whales
inhabiting Puget
oe ee ee
, Before I knew
: it, we were
in anearby bar down-
ing our third pitcher,
Staring at the sound
through a gray sheet
of mist and talking about photography and diving. We were
instant friends.
Before that soggy Seattle afternoon, the only things |
had ever heard about whales were either from my great
grandpa or from documentaries. My great grandpa, a
Massachusetts fisherman, used to tell me of his fatherTs
experiences with the great sperm whales off the New
England coast as well as his own experiences with the
colossal beasts. He always terrified me with these stories:
especially the ones where he screamed at the height of
supense because my reflexes and fear always forced me to
join his terrible howl. His favorite story was the one where,
after a sperm whale had breached over his fatherTs launch,
splitting it in two, several of his fatherTs shipmates were
dragged down into the sea and eaten by a group of the
ferocious whales. He would always emphasize after the
story that only a year or so after this happened exploding
head harpoon cannons were added to whaling boats: mak-
ing the launch all but obsolete and giving the whalers the
advantage they needed to harvest the heartless monsters.
Growing up I would sometimes have nightmares in which
a whale would breach over a rubber life raft 1 was paddling,
then take me in its powerful jaws and down into the dark,
bottomless ocean. I'd feel myself helplessly falling and my
stomach would drift into my throat before I woke up.
Sweating.
I could never put his whaling stories out of my mind
whenever I saw documentaries on the animals. They were
nothing more than killers to me, and the show seemed like
nothing more than propaganda. But my fear of whales was
not enough to prevent me from becoming an experienced
diver and it was only a matter of time before my love of
photography merged with my aquatic hobby.
Finally, about three months ago I bought a used Nikonos
underwater camera body, flash unit and some lenses. It was
not long before Fred began prodding me to go with him on
a whale watching expedition off the coast of Hawaii so |
could take some shots. It took some intense deliberations
between my fear and my curiosity before I finally decidedto
go. I figured that if Iwent I could not only take some
marketable pictures, but could also decide from my own
experience whether whales are as evil as my great grandpa
had said. And now here I am, closing in fast on two of them.
It seems unreal to me, like a dream, or a nightmare.
I close my eyes, imagining bubbles from my writhing
regulator shooting up through thick blue
water towards the light of the sur-
face. I feel the jaws of a whale clasp-
ing my waist with needling teeth , and
the light of the surface fades into the
murkiness as I sink deeper into black-
ness.
I canT tdo this, \think. This is nuts!
I open my eyes and clear my head with
a vigorous shake. While I stare at the
wetsuits, I try to shut the vision out of
my head by thinking of how far ITd
come to facing my fears. Its too late to
turn back. I can not quit now, I knew that
the second I got on
SOitr a 0) is a ee ee ee
this damn boat. After standing a moment longer, I grab the
wetsuits, weights and vests from the rack where they hang;
then make my way back towards the steps leading to the
deck.
Within five minutes, both Fred and I have our suits on,
and the tanks and other gear in a pile beside us.
Standing in his red wet suit, Fred guides the boat to
within fifty yards of the slowly swimming whales before
easing it into reverse to stop our momentum and dropping
both the fore and aft anchor. I canTt believe it! This is only
the second day weTve been at sea and weTre only 150 feet
from our goal.
oFred, youTre a genius,? I mutter, thinking he might
also be a madman.
During our approach, I watch mesmerized while the
whales gracefully surface to breathe. I soon notice during
this time how much smaller the calf is than its mother. Fred
Says that the calf was probably born less than a month ago
right off the coast of Maui about fifty or so nautical miles
from where we presently are. He adds that since itTs Febru-
ary, most all of the female humpbacks should have a little
one tagging along: swimming in the slip stream of their
mothers.
oIT canTt believe they donTt even seem alarmed by your
boat, Fred,? J say, helping him put a rather large inflatable
dingy in the water on the starboard side of his yacht.
oITve seen humpbacks come right up to boats before.
ItTs really wild that they arenTt scared of boats. Most whales
are, you know.?
oShit, that thing is bigger than your yacht. From what
my great grandpa told me, they like to crush boats like this.?
I point down at the dingy beside us. oI could just imagine
what she could do to this tinker toy!?
oYouTve been taking too many of his whaling tales to
heart, Chris. These whales donTt want to hurt us, theyTre just
living their lives. If anybodyTs been hurting anything, itTs
been us... | mean, you know, man.?
[ shrug and look towards the whales.
Fred gets into the boat and I hand him our tanks and
ee shames , ;, :
~ Vpstere Parma SO ST, PENG Rg Ge OEY FC SG ELT Bal at SSS OTE EN SOFT S Let WOK VOR? PD SO Merwe ghyss CONS PRG Ue gre wsry oa DEPTS 8 HP IN DLR « Caer. 00 5 n>. tae POPE F srt PUY Pe oe oe. BEPC em ;
. Sa lla? -
some Munchos, trail mix-and: water. He then starts up the
motor.
oYou gotevebvthing?~ H@%sks staring up at me from
the small difighy:
oYeah. yeah beuéss " Oh. iman.-My-camera. I'll be
back!? L.sprint-bélow-the deck and-grab myeamera, flash
and somesfsin-from the torward berth@n_ the. way to the
stairs) ] 8ee my pack of cigarettes'on the-Toor. J throw them
into the ziplock bag containing my trlnt, ther-dart towards
the stéps; almosfiripping on the dara things again before
gettingzon deck.
orere? Lhatid Fréd.the Nikonos and throw the ziplock
bag!into-the Jaunch before-getting in:
Pred-looks atime, then at the whales-surfacing:seventy
five yatdsor more to our right. oYou ready? He is. still
looking away from me as if in a daze.
oYeah. Fieddy. Guliless Pmias teady as Im gonna be.?
I say. uneasily,
Fred turnssfoTme? oLook, Chis orelax, d-swear to you
with Gods my witness that those whales wilknot burt you.
You need to let g@0f those childhood StonieSand trasfme.?
He nodsT in thé direction of the whales. oAnd trust them.
Okay? Now. take a deeprbreath for me.?
I reluctantly. acquiesce.
oAoain, SloWem?T he coaches.
I do if agaim, Only this time more Sincerely.
oGoody? he ®ays-gentlyy: YOu feeb better, buddy??
oY eahi Meah, Fred,T
At this, Fred puts the m@tofin geat and we: speed oft,
It takes only a few minutes to reach the humpbicks. |
fumble for my smokes, and after four windblown failures,
manage to light it. Then I realize | am too nervous to even
smoke the damn thing. I toss the cigarette into the sea and
look at Fred. He shoots back a sidelong glance. He must
have seen what I did. I look down at the blue-gray water
racing quickly past the boat to escape his penetrating stare.
Fred slows the boat down about twenty five feet from
the animals and I nervously put on my tank and mask.
oYou got your chart, Fred??
e& ..f Maa * > (IS mos a ~ o~
yee Lean rptertereeni manana ream CN Se fA NR aR TIO So hs PRT TUCO Pee FO Rn Der La eres hee Pe Be es
om a . o wes
mane e
sit on the edge of the boat, facing away from the whales.
Fe eR A VT ELL A
oYeah, stay
above forty feet
and you can
eighteen min-
utes. Then itTs
my turn.? At
this he smiles
broadly. oTake
some good pic-
tures, all right??
"SSP Te
thing,? Isay, al-
most stuttering
on the oing.? |
While tightening up my tank straps I hear the whales blow
behind me above the steady grow! of the idling boat motor.
[ turn to look at the humpbacks before I dive in. My. God,
we re Within thirty feet of them. The mother whale makes
the dinghy look like a bathtub toy! She must be a fifty
footer! The other one, the calf is maybe fifteen to eighteen
feet long. They are moving slowly and gracefully just
beneath the surface of water, as.if unalarmed by our pres-
ence. | wonder if they know that ITmalarmed by theirs. They
almost appear to welcome our. arrival by slowing down. |
turn back to Fred, who is captivated by the animals, and say
in a slightly jittery voice, oHey, Freddy? I'm going in. All
right??
He looks at me and nods. oLook, Chris, relax and enjoy
it. This is a once in a lifetime thing.?
oYeah, right.? This will probably be the last thing | do
in my life. Those things are probably gonna eat me for
lunch. I try not to let the fear show in my face. I shake my
head vigorously, letting my negative thoughts filter back
into the shadowy recesses of my consciousness, at least for
now.
[ spit into my mask and quickly put it on. I then make
sure the camera is loaded and hand it to Fred before rolling
rE Ree CEPR Rew MO Vato MSA 8.) Sig Rees. Bs Tee. TEP EERE Bec athe ov.
. ~- _ « . +" o-* : .
stay down for
off of the dingy into the warm tropical water. A couple of
seconds later I surface to grab the camera from Fred. I purge
my regulator and adjust my buoyancy compensating vest
before going back under.
The engine of the boat above me grows louder and I see
it shoot overhead. When we were planning this expedition
earlier this week Fred explained he was going to circle the
whales. I now see the bottom of the dinghy approaching the
beasts (only barely visible to me now) in order to fulfill his
part of the bargain. Suddenly, off in the distance, I hear a
series of peculiar sounds: grunts, moans and clicks. The
sounds are ominous, solemn, painful and beautiful all at
once. | pause a moment to listen, a chill tightens my spine.
The source must be nearby for me to hear it above the boatTs
motor. I know this to be a whale song for Fred has a tape he
sometimes plays that sounds much like this. I remember
Fred telling me earlier that only the male humpbacks sing:
apparently to find females and so I rule out the possibilty
that the mother whale is making this noise. I am captivated
yet scared by the sounds, expecting the unseen third beast
to find me, grasp me in its tremendous maw and drag me
down into the bottomless depths as the sperm whales did to
my great great grandfatherTs shipmates. Relax, Chris. Those
are just old fishing tales, I think. Come back to reality, man.
You'll be okay.
I! look into the murky distance and notice that FredTs
slow circling around the whales seems to be containing the
animals, for the mother and the calf (which are mere
shadows in front of me) are also swimming in slow circles
to avoid the craft. Fred told me that a whale will usually dive
when approached unless itTs a female with a calf. In this
case, she usually won't dive because the calf is not long-
winded enough to execute a deep dive long enough for us
to lose the pair.
God, ITm so nervous. I gotta calm down. I fight to keep
my breathing regular. Okay, all right, be calm. In, out... In,
ouuut... Okay, I think ITm good to go.
[ slowly swim towards the dark shapes ahead of me.
They are ominous, yet their slow graceful flowing motions
ate ee tn ee ee eens tar er ee ee ke
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comfort me as I continue my approach. They seem inca-
pable of any sudden movements. Their huge white fins are
the first things that become clearly visible to me.
Now, they are only perhaps fifteen feet away, swim-
ming directly towards me. I ready my camera. The small
one is above its mother, swimming within three feet of her.
I release some air from my vest so that I can go down even
with the mother and snap about four shots.
I see her finish her circle and approach me. Soon I
realize sheTs coming in my direction. I remain still, hoping
she wonTt hit me. The knobby edge of her huge white
flipper is coming straight for me! I raise my camera to shield
myself and close my eyes.
Instead of the inevitable impact, all I feel is a strong Sagas
pnd
current as she swims by. I turn as quickly as ITm able to see
her lower her flipper to its original position.
I canTt believe it"itTs as if sheTs playing with me. I see
FredTs propeller cutting the pair off ahead of me, the whales
turn to circle back.
On the second pass, the whale comes at me and ex-
ecutes the same manuever, scaring the hell out of me again!
So, I decide I should try to at least get some interesting
pictures of her and her calf as they try to make my experi-
ence as stressful as possible.
I inflate my vest enough to put me closer to the level of
the calf. My goal is to be right in between the two and create
a tunnel effect in my pictures. The whales head for me as
before: the mother staying low. I start snapping. They pass
by just as I had hoped. I click off about five shots. | am so
excited by this success that I decide to throw my fear and
apprehension to the wind and water. Damn it, ITm gonna
ride the mother, I think, staring at her as she circles around
me. I deflate my vest a little, then swim into position,
placing the camera strap around my shoulder to free both
hands and preparing to latch onto the beast.
The mother and calf start their fourth pass, but this time
they have slowed down quite a bit, as though the mother
whale knows my intentions. When she passes, I get a quick
look at her head. The curve of her huge jaw seems to hint at
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she is comforting
me. With a new
sense of confi-
dence, I paddle
rather small dor-
sal fin. [hold onas
hard as I can, but
she does not try to
buck or shake me
off. She just casu-
ally swims on. It
is more peaceful
than I ever could
have imagined, riding on the back of the great whale. I donTt
want to let go. I can feel the muscles of her back contracting
and relaxing under my grasp. I feel her gentle power, her
sensitivity. I hang on for two passes. She is warm. Her skin
is smooth, like a newborn babyTs warm scarlet cheek. All
my fears stream away behind me: swirling into the chaotic
wake of her magnificent tail.
When we begin the third pass, she slows down. Taking
her subtle hint, I reluctantly let go. I realize then that ITm
running out of time, but decide to try and get a picture of the
animalTs enormous profile before I have to surface.
After letting some air out of my vest, I prepare my
camera for the next pass. She comes towards me lowly;
then right beside me, she pauses to,bfeath.#eanndt faige my
camera. She is staring into my eyes@aaiimMesmerzedwhteel
as if she is staring into my soul. Her deép RISGYGIs so wise
and tranquil, so penetrating. I feel naKe@@=betore hers
monkey in the water, a monkey out of hi@i¢ment fami
her world and she has welcomed me.
At that moment, I think of my great gran@iaiherand is
stories, only this time I think of what he was dQaigt@hese
gentle creatures, not what they did to him=iGWihas simian
repaid the whales for their tranquility4Weimake war on
them as my great grandfather did and as A2@Satherdid betore
a smile. It is as if
hard and grab her
hime They are easy targets, so we slaughter them, we boil
theif blubber.and we throw their carcasses back to sea for
theig mates and'e@lves to mougeTover. I am embarrassed by
my @wn humanify.
She stay@em@tenicss looking into me, probing my
heart. Sf?,?ePtheameistwarmth: of a tear stream down my
cheek. Severatanore follow: they flow into the bottom of
my magki
[t Saheh that the mothemwhaleT lowers her enormous
head um@eririe dad centiymudessime to the surface.
oMy God aie you okay: Fred yells, speeding towards
me.
[Spit Hue mymeuth piece and gasp before attempting
to. answer a:.¥ ea Pin a"all. right.?
He pals upBeside me and. helps the into the boat. I rip
Off mry wndsky
Wangsdia she hurt you?" } mean all I saw was her
pushing you up!"
Woyshe Gide Ghufbite. My consgeiemwe*tid,?T I say
drudgingtys
oWhatdo. yougaean?Té
of can 't expla wotn cht powered. I"?
PAwwrdam nt?
oWhat?? Mogkitps
Fred just pointS @hcager seetwownre and black flukes
mementarily suspended. tiath@iairy tien, silently sink into
tHe ocean.
oThey ~re -goigg deep,:or at J@asbaSsdeep as the calf can
go: They probably Wen 't be back up for at least five minutes
OF imay be midres-Capveaican t go'nearly"s long. as:...? Fred
pAauseStOlooOkwalmcS Tit takiysyou bak. Wegan try again
tomorrow. You look too shaken.?
Ponly nod anddumble formy smokes. Aeturns tiie boat
around and throddlcs it.
Upon finishing the@ess arettc, | thrust it:into the seawater
rushing past the bOatanad Withdraw the butt, putting it into
ihe Dag holding my iim. 110k up. at FrééMe-is watching
me, smiling.
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yee o > - ~~ ¢ oe, ~* ee a ar 4 oa -* fi Saf os a.
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Like with most of his
work, Bill Dermody
prefers to not plan his
subject and
composition, but rather
to let the process take
its own direction in
deciding the final
result. oI believe that if
you are receptive, the
paint will talk to you
and to a certain extent
direct the course that
the image will take. I
did not set out to paint
the face of Christ, I just
started painting and
thatTs what showed
up.? Spontaneity is
aspired to in
DermodyTs art: oIt is
entirely possible to
overplan a work... |
would rather paint and
develop a plan that
Bill Dermody
works in connection with the
work and what the paint is
compelled to do.?
Pa
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HI VIVES
Tonii Reynolds Aquatic
i
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er meen en Pre? . . :> . 6) ee we - > tee oF tahok oan - 0.8. Dt # de, 8, oS ee OO Re eT ho ee +
* Mer, in vo . ; ] -
Though she does love
horses, Catherine
BlackburnTs use of them
in her paintings is
primarily for the
energy the animal in
motion conveys. The
head-on view of
these racers projects
the desired power
and urgency. The
color of the jockey
silks are
incorporated
throughout the work
ia with intent to move
the viewerTs eye all
over the picture.
Though Blackburn
| ~ may deviate in color
| ; and soften edges to
i effect, her main
concern is to keep
the proportion and
nett
Pe eee Catherine Blackburn Breaking Away from the p
i
: musculature
| many of her other
| works, a large
canvas is used, with
reason: oI canTt paint
small.?
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Sherrod Duggan Gossip
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Nikki Ousley
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2e Knotts
The Beauty of Men in Battle
The imagery of
this pit-fired
earthenware clay
pot reflects the
then"concurrent
crisis of the Gulf
War, and is one of
a series of twelve
on the subject. In
accordance with
his theme, Knotts
covered the work
with terrasigliatta
surface, the same
used by the
ancient Greeks
and Etruscans.
Once the piece is
wheel-thrown, the
images must be
carved while
damp, making for
an involved and
time-consuming
piece of art.
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August Schuss
Mitzy Jonkheer
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le Passion
Moonlit
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seein en tee Z* . 7 o . . > .
When Michael
Dabbs chose the
infamous DevilTs
| Tramping Grounds
of North Carolina
for his map design,
he decided that the
construction of the
piece would best
serve the subject
by being as
ounstable as
possible.? The
uneven frame,
tilted text and
threatening fenced
border all serve a
sort of ordered
anarchy dictated
| by the pitchfork
icon. A particularly sega
senes
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compass, which
once
awe
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ache rd sons yar 1e oa nae eage a . pools ; mit 108 note
nor on y serves net On OY OE gn OPO 0d HHO arg 1 0908 OF St PON yeast
event HE > nye yd 2 Nag OW
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function, but hints g0e en OY so wo een
cow 5c
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at a location as far
south as Hell. Michael Dabbs Devil's Tramping Grounds
HIVIEEH LIGRANY - LEE
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Hydro watches
» athlete's watct
Revolutionized
Girls Dancing
Lauren Schiller
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Patrick Dougherty dback Conversations
SF IVISEH OF ITS ARY - ELS
Eric Olsen Stuff in a Room
S
Greg Walston Self Portrait
~~
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cn WERT ee
ne we
For his
composition, Glenn
Phillips turned to
the subject of the
native Australian
fo convey a sense
of power. Though
Phillips usually
works with oil
paints,
experimentation
with oil sticks led
him follow the
technique
employed here,
combining the
sticks and colored
pencils. Another
goal of the piece
was to achieve a
wide range of
colors with a
naturalness in
hues. The bird
added to the
strength of the
composition, and
Phillips may
convert the work
into a print.
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Glenn Phillips
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Wallpaper Design
Andrea Fisk
Yy
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5
im
Kinser
Vanessa
Dean Goss
This three-stagé
almagamation
draws inspiratio
from African af
and the cultureT
Libation
Ceremony, in
which wine is
poured over thé
sculpture
repeatedly to
create the surfat
look. When a
crack formed if
the vase durin§
firing, Goss turné
the potential
misfortune into
success by
breaking apart tl
pieces, painting
them separately
and adhering thé
together. This
effect is
complemented
Raku-firing: whi
red-hot, the pie¢
are put in sawd
Shaman Dream of... ;
to carbonize th
and achieve th
rustic colors.
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Brad Copeland Introversion - Restrained Words
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Lauren Schiller Untitled
fozt
Sere tate. att 86 &
overhears
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Scott Eagle After Birth
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Eric Olsen Stuff in a Mirror
Bob Ellis Twilight's Last Gleaming
3:30 am December 3rd 1953
Daphne
I become Daphne
Touch me
and I Blossom
Laurel leaves Spring
from my fingertips
and Vines entwine
through my hair
My limbs Harden
becoming Wooden
as I take Root
in You.
Melissa J. Link
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wut pteo en,
a. 4». %
Cael
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oSo who twisted your arm and made you eat
here? ItTs American, pal " eat it or leave it. AinTt
no skin off my nose.
Jesus, Keep your shirt on lady. I'll get your
coffee. You think youTre the only person in this
dump thatTs waiting for something. We're all on
hold.
There you go, now relax.
Camille, throw some more fire under these
eggs, weTve got someone out here with delicate
taste buds.
Gota little more coffee left in this pot " who
needs a refill?
You got it. That enough?
Sorry, Rita. I'll put ona fresh pot and start
with you next round.
Okay Camille, ITm picking up!
Who had the over easy? Two scrambled
with whole wheat?
Yeah, ITll get you some jelly. What kind you
want?
We only got grape or strawberry " thatTs
your choices.
Bring it to you soon as | pick up my order.
This is the last time ITm walking these eggs,
Brad. That extra heat better help you choke those
Ssunnysides down.
Christ, Buddy, throw some napkins on that
spill til I can get there with a rag.
Camille, pass me a wet towel. Thanks.
Jelly? Oh yeah, ITm working my way back to
you, babe.
Lift up your cup.
No, donTt worry about it. You think you're
the first mess ITve handled. HereTs a refill on the
house.
Hey Lady, Margie wants to sleep at my
counter, she sleeps at my counter.
PO ET a ITS Net EN OS RSE MRS hye LEN Eye ashe cae LUT Le LP LU RP a Rane 006 ons. ae ROE, & cert MUNIN EF oe 39 °2>Smes remey
Well, move down to the next stool. How
great do you think youTd smell if your home was
a box outisde Port Authority Bus Station?
Tony. Hey, Man. Whatcha doing here today?
CanTt stay away from your good thing?
Grab that seat at the end of the counter. I'll
be right back.
HereTs more jelly. More coffee?
Rita, let me filler up for you.
Yeah, he is good looking, but you ought to
see the total package. Christmastime comes but
once a year? Bullshit.
Damn, Rita. I never knew you were a size
queen.
Yeah, yeah, yeah and ManhattanTs not an
island, I know " so what's your point?
Margie. Margie, easy babe. ItTs okay. You
were just dreaming. You need anything?
DonTt worry about it. You're my guest.
ItTs 11:00.
No problem, ITm working til 2:00, so just
relax.
Tony, let me get you some breakfast.
DonTt give me that shit. You need fattening
up.
Sure, we can talk. After you eat. Camille,
one breakfast special " hold the hashbrowns.
Coffee?
Here you go " strong and hot. So, what
brought you downtown?
Hold on just a sec, babe.
Nosit, weTre not serving lunch til 11:30. Ican
get you some breakfast.
Sorry, but the grillTs not set up for lunch yet.
Listen pal, ITm not the one with the attitude
problem.
Then gosomewhere else. Christ, who pissed
in your cornflakes this morning?
OOS A 4 NBT R Se wes em eres, >
aE Es PRAM RTL PENS + ORTOP Te MRS LAS PRES Oe Ree MEPS Mee Le Ma Re Bate Me Neen ne. ftv Dae. Sele ene ®
Sorry, Tony. Let me pick up your breakfast
so Camille wonTt give birth to an alien.
Camille, take a break. ItTs dead out here.
Here you go, Tone. Eat. Then we can talk.
ITm going to clean up the counter.
Like I told you, Miss, Margie stays.
No tip? Oh God, now I canTt afford the
porsche.
Nah, Tone. People like her keep me on my
toes. So, whatTs going on with you?
Feeling funny about what?
Oh man, thereTs always going to be some
insecure closet case ready to scream faggot.
Unenlightens like that canTt scratch their ass and
breathe at the same time.
Well " who cares what jerks like that think
about us? ItTs never going to be easy. We don't fit
a nice obvious niche in this world. Shit man, weTre
invisible " thatTs what scares ~em so much. They
can spot a black or a Puerto Rican, but weTre like
the hidden enemy " harder to find and destroy.
Bullshit. YouTve acted pretty natural with
things for the past six months.
Would you tell me who decides what's
normal? Is it normal for Margie to be alone with
nobody to love her? Living on the street, trying to
sleep on a sticky counter in a broken-down diner,
wondering where her next
mealTs coming from?
Of course, ITm upset.
I donTt let people tell me
how ITm supposed to feel
and how ITm supposed to
live my life. As long as ITm
not hurting anyone, they
better leave me the fuck
alone. ITve got to be true to
myself, Tony. Who wants
to turn around and find themselves with nothing
to hold onto but hindsight?
Sure, I hear all the stupid jokes. They think
we're all screaming queens or pseudo cowboys.
ITve never once had the urge to parade around in
chaps or pantyhose. And even if I did, itTs my
decision!
Hey, Camille. Camille. Yeah, could you
wait on the guy who just came in?
Thanks.
[tTs almost 11:30. Why?
WhereTd you meet her?
So, you've been seeing her for the past month.
Nice touch, Tone. And what happens if she gets
crazy for youand you havea change of heat again?
You're damn right somebody might get hurt.
Somebody already has, pal.
Sit anywhere you want, folks. I'll be right
with you.
Yeah, weTre serving lunch.
Ah, come on, Tony, stuff the guilt. Broken
hearts mend.
Listen man, I got to get back to work. Finish
your coffee " itTs on the house.
Be right there " specials on the board.
Oh hell, sorry. I forgot to put them up.
Right, Tony, see you around. Hey, Tony.
an.
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xt picks up speed
-., anyway, take care
7 and .. } ;
Sure nal. oi a hurry. Give ine jus
~ 8) . ~ ust a .
pal, gimme a minute. 7 just a minute to get Margie some
cottee.
ot. Margie ~re
gie, you're dreaming again. Hy
E ' sre you go, babe
ne Camille, what's ; ere you go, babe. Str
, atTs the speci | ong and
: als for today? cee
J* No re >
) O il 2:0
go, Buddy. Take a look at the relax. Enj 0 today. Just
ax. joy your coffee
Speciale
pecials and I'll be right back. Sure pal, we're allin O
m kay pal, what'll it be?
PY
ck
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i Photograph
{ My father standing in the waters,
a Ripples dark against his waders;
, Eyes are shadowed-as the sun behind him sinks.
; My mind supplies the lines
Of rage and laughter,
Z Age. You loved to laugh,
j But all too often rage controlled the reins.
4 Marine Corps:made of you a man
F Of steel and stone. ~
en hut! =
on ea te cee eeUT SSEe-
= Big ears and neat-trimmed mustache.
Hf.I'd known you as a.child I would have held you,
Let you smile, Let you learn to~ bend with pain
Instéad of breaking.
How I grieve for you, progenitor:
You should have lived to laugh.
The child still shines within your eyes;
oThe age has robbed of you the chance to let him play.
%
a
wie
eed
rip ea
Bee yh
= ee Angela Bacon Reid
Ilustration by Steve Reid
No one had to tell me that a summer cottage
nestled amid ten acres of southern pine woods edged
by a wide river would provide an opportunity to
study a variety of indigenous creatures. Asa nature
lover at heart, the prospect of an abundance of
kingfishers and owls, rabbits and squirrels, turtles
Pluek@eale-sellicemoatcacaleamivelankeate| trendy) environ-
mentalist feelings. So, for the opportunity of observ-
ing natureTs ways in my own little ecosystem, I paid
the vast sum required, packed up my family and
furniture, and resolved to bravely face down the
fierce mosquitoes, noisome crickets, and lion-sized
spiders mentioned by jealous friends. No one, not
even my private varmintophobia, whispered . . . bats.
Bats give me (and, it turns out, everyone else) creepy
feelings. Bats are not welcome in my ecosystem.
Illustrations by Jeff Parker and Steve Mason
i
:
)
|
:
SOiee te 0) ts we Crs Pe cr ae) p © s:e0em °
: "- al n= . tee
. atm ee ere 6 e
o
~
~
Ce eee oem
. Pte ts tt ee ee
Ct Fa si oey
--e
But, welcome or not,
i bats were inhabiting my piece of
Eden. I thought, at first, it was just
%
4 smashed grapes on the breezeway
and ordered the kids to stop
throwing fruit at the guest house.
oFruit?? said my puzzled son,
o\
\?"? \ sy
\ WAAR a®
SA ~=
INQ, Ses. bounding out to take a look. Seconds
NRA
SSN
. SX
SSS later I heard, oMom, what kind of
grapes have blood in them??
oBlood?? I croaked, my
scream trapped by an inad-
vertently inhaled gumdrop,
and dashed out for a personal
investigation. P.I. conclusion...
not grapes; baby bats"dead or
almost dead, nude, baby bats
bleeding on the breezeway and
their mothers squeaking in the
attic.
Experienced, if not fearless,
crisis supervisor that I am, (Hey,
signed up to raise children.) |
sprinted for the phone to call for
back-up troops in the form of an
Inato : 5.
r. Guess what. Bats give exterminators
y feelin > . ;
gs too. In fact, outright fear was evident
in the a
Shak . j
y words of one deep-vok ed dis patcher.
oWw
~. ; donTt do bats,? he said, oDonTt they give you
abidsT?? '
ae Ss~ Persistence, induced by my own fears,
ai
a My ofingers did the walking? as the com-
erc] :
"s al advises, and finally, a previously unfamiliar
Mpany agreed to send a patrol.
No
t a half an hour later, a battered blue
Volkswagon witha hand-lettered sign affixed to the
door pulled up to our cottage. Out of this official
anelfin, white-haired female, plump
vehicle popped
and cheery. oI'm here to assess the bat situation,? she
said, waving her flashlight excitedly. oDo you have
a ladder??
So much for the troops. No humane female
allows the likeness of Mrs. Santa Claus to crawl into
a bat infested attic; and, to my credit, neither did I. |
know a bat when I see one. Assessment was not
needed"fumigation information was. Conse-
quently, armed with the only book on bats our
county library had (an environmental treatise called
The World of the Bat by Charles E. Mohr), | began the
personal nightmare now referred to as oThe War
Against the Bats.?
My research turned up the practical notion
that no one in their right mind kills bats in their attic
unless they're prepared to endure the stench and
body-bag the dead. What one does Is persuade the
tenacious little devils to move out by determinedly
making their lives as miserable as one can"a feat
roughly equivalent to persuading kids to abandon
the T.V. forever. My renown perseverance would be
an asset for a change.
Effective bat-torturing tools of the eighties,
according to Mohr, were electric fans to transform
what, in June, is a still, oven-like home into a windy,
cool one; flood lights to transform a dark shelter into
a bright one; and mothballs to transform one stink
into another. Clearly, equipment was necessary.
A couple of hundred dollars and several
hours of speeding around town netted four large
fans and four two-bulb floodlights, ten heavy-duty
extension cords (three with four-outlet plugs at-
tached), and boards to create support bridges in our
un-floored attic. Ialso obtained the promise of Sears
Roebuck & Co. to procure and deliver two hundred
pounds of mothballs. (This was a big attic.) Thus
equipped, I donned my husbandTs rubber foul-
weather gear and declared war.
I do not crawl into bat-infested attics with-
out lights. So, first, I plugged all four floodlights by
pairs into two extension cords with the outlets at-
tached, plugged these each into another extension
cord, then plugged these into a third outlet-cum-
extension cord. I plugged that into a wall socket on
the ground floor. Good thinking, huh?"only if you
can climb a ladder and maneuver through a three-
foot square hole in the ceiling wearing a snowsuit
while controlling a flailing octopus. I failed three
attempts and would be still swearing if I had not
come up with the bright idea of raising one light at a
time.
The boards were easy after the battle of the
lights. It was a cinch to place the light and board
artillery into strategic locales under the roof"or it
would have been if inching along a beam terrified of
the unseen bats had not caused me to slip on the
sweat oozing from under my rubber torture suit.
The resulting blow knocked the terror of bats right
out of my head. Praise be. My fear dispelled, the fan
placements went without a hitch"unless you count
being entangled in the tentacles of electric cord the
last time out. That is why my knees freeze up every
once in a while now. Two days later the mothballs
arrived. I sent my husband up to distribute those.
He is better at throwing than I am.
Weapons in place, we settled down to wait
for the voluntary exodus of the bats. It was a six-
week wait before our patience paid off. Not
until almost August did the enemy de-
camp. We
~
celebrated o@& =
this departure
with champagne.
Not so the next leave-
taking. The following June
found the nursery colony re-
ensconced in our attic. More
research unearthed the infor-
mation that bats return to their
winter haunts the end of July and
that, mothballs or no mothballs,
the persistent odor of bat
guano deposited
se
a Watt ote wo . -
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Pa LO BO OS EEE
om seamen 85 ete TR OOS SH MEE Sato eee SHE
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woolinsulation was firmly fastened and stuffed
into all eaves and cracks. As an added precau-
tion, mothballs were du mped everywhere. We
in the summer acts like a homing beacon unless they
canTt regain entrance. Bats have no trouble squeeZ-
ing througha crack the size of an ATM bankca rd slot.
A cat could have fit through the gaps in this old
cottage.
New battle plans were drawn. New equip-
ment was procured. Determinedly, ! jammed rock
wool insulation into the eaves Ovet the winter, but to
no avail. The third June found the bats still happily
reproducing in our attic. We added sulfur candles,
which the agriculture extension office recommend ed,
to our arsenal. The bats stayed put. Mohr did say
that when all else fails public health workers may be
needed. (This beside the picture of a cherry-picker
hung over a victim's roof.)
rer, untold
At the end of the fourth sumn
pounds of mothballs, and numerous sulfur candles
expended, we ripped out the entire interior of the
guest wing in a planned remodeling. My only
intractable instructions to the builder were, Get rid
of the bats"every one of them.? Accordingly, new
small-holed hardware cloth augmented with glass-
returned to our refurbished dwelling in the
fateful month of June.
Late that first night, tired beyond words,
[ stumbled into our new master bedroom, over to
our freshly made bed, and removed the decorative
pillow. And what to my wondering eyes did appear
butone lone, utterly confused brown bat. Iscreamed.
Itleft. [haven't seen one anywhere near my ten acres
since. Hummm..- . what if that gumdrop hadn't
trapped my first scream? Persever-
my
ance may be admirable but occasion-
7 ~
ally a primal scream works best. One
thing is sure, however: The ins and
outs of natureTs ways, even in a pri-
vately owned ecosystem, cannot be
ordered by trendy environmental-
ists"humane or not.
Mea
Ys
A 4 Ae
) :
/ ke
{/
Vb oa
4, 4
Wwe
oa
*% fe
7 .
P .
/* (Er
fle
, .
4 ~ t
V
» 3 97 Cewper.
LE RNA Fe aM
_ winking at the sun
thats all we seem to do
glancing not looking
| never trying to scope past
was there
in that great open field
and i too shielded the sun with my hands
i took no chances with my sight
= ~ because i had heard
three men
tall and strong
had made the fields their home
4
they were of richly educated background t:
4
| i think they were from the university
d anyways
iis 7) tor some time they looked at the dismal $
from the protection of dark glass cubes
5 they had notepads
and took elaborate notes
the notes however faded
as they learned at little more
othe glass hinders us? they cried
owe cannot work this way? said another
the villagers
they pleaded
odont leave the box?
odont look at the sun?
but the men would not listen
Illustration by Lee Misenheimer
and they were blinded.
Michael Pres
Prologue
The crush of steel in motion, opens life
With bone and blood through glass, a soul in strife.
Alone with night my time grows short. The cold
Unfeeling pavement welcomes my warmth, spilled.
My heart beats a slipping pace, hoping to hold
The beat that skips and slows against my will.
The road now sways and blurs with blackened sight,
As sounds of sirens pierce the pending haze.
| start to fade as help comes with red lights.
Breath quits as splintered light seeps through my daze.
in route to hope, fleeing death, my heart cries "
But not for pain in limb or mind, but for
The pain she will find when they tell of my
Death this night and how she is now alone.
James OliverTisdale Ill
Illustration by August Schuss
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ae é
By Mary Angel Blount
Clyde Edgerton is beloved by North Carolinians. A
native of Durham, he is the author of Raney (1985) which
has sold approximately 200,000 copies, Walking ACTOSS Egypt
(1987), The Floatplane Notebooks (1988) and now Killer Diller
(1991). With his warmth, wit, and unflinchingly accurate
depictions of rural communities, he is the embodiment of
North Carolina style. Currently, he is on semester leave
from St. Andrews College in Laurinburg and teaching a
creative writing course to undergraduates at Duke.
His novels are known for their strong characters, many
of them women, and the deep sense of place his North
Carolina characters share. He does not object to our calling
hima regional author as long as we admit that regionalism
can have widespread significance.
After the publication of Raney in 1985 came EdgertonTs
annual review at Campbell University, where he was an
associate professor of education. Instead of discussing his
contract, EdgertonTs superiors invited him to a meeting to
discuss Raney. The administratorsT complaints were that
a ere eee ate " """" _
One Ma
the novel portrayed the Baptist Church in a demeaning
way, a clash between the old and the new (with the new
replacing the old) and alcohol used as a ocatalyst.? Fur-
ther, Edgerton was asked to explain how Raney would
further the mission of the university. He refused to an-
swer. A few days later, his contract was renewed without
the customary raise. Feeling that his academic freedom
had been violated, he resigned.
EdgertonTs editor at Algonquin, Louis Rubin, sent out
copies of Raney to 50 of his friends with a letter that
explained what had happened. The result was three job
offers; Edgerton accepted the job at St. Andrews. He has
since written three additional novels which have enjoyed
a great deal of success. The Floatplane Notebooks was named
one of the best books of 1988 by Publishers Weekly, and
Edgerton has been interviewed on National Public Radio
and the Today Show.
Edgerton has many interests in addition to writing. He
and his wife Susan Ketchin, herself a teacher and writer,
are part of the Tarwater Band, which plays bluegrass, old
timey and some gospel music. His office in Durham is
called DustyTs Air Taxi (Motto: oWe Aim High?), and he
does indeed take people up for airplane rides. That is, he
willas soon as he replaces the 1946 Piper Supercruiser that
was wrecked due to a combination of pilot error and Piper
error (Edgerton discovered it had ogotten old? after taking
it down a runway which suddenly became too short). We
caught up with him after a recent storytelling and banjo-
and piano-playing performance at Edgecombe Commu-
nity College in Tarboro.
e* «ee
The late Walker Percy said of the south that people
don't sit on the porch and tell stories any more. Do you
agree?
We do and my family did growing up. In my house
now we dorT tsit on the porch, but we sit somewhere.
In my family, unusually, everyone had children late.
| was born in 1944 and my great-granddad was born
in 1822, so we had a kind of direct link to things that
wouldnTt be there otherwise.
Growing up, you never thought of yourself as a writer.
Do you plan to raise your daughter Catherine d ifferently?
[ have no choice but to raise Catherine differently.
We didnTt havea TV ~till was ten; she hada TV when
she was ten minutes old. I had 23 aunts and uncles;
she has three aunts and two uncles. Her aunts and
uncles live out of state. The adults in her life aren't
blood people. She goes toa Quaker school: they have
a different philosophy. She goes to an Episcopal
church; I went to a Southern Baptist church.
After the Campbell fiasco, which, incidental] y, launched
Sree tarts. 45 tots
"eetiinw a " - "
eee ee
. male "
Sew or a
o a OGD RAE LO amt an mee
oS byt Bet BOS IhT St Mewes
wetter
- Er genre ce See
"" oO AS see oo 2
Acne een agells AAO YTIR EY YO GO po ey
An interview with
Paradox Clyde Edgerton
Stow; aie
2 DUR Mis a writer?
Your writi ~
schoo ; ee as i went to another church-related
0 you think aa ae ea any problems at St. Andrews.
tive on their on sie are getting more or less restric-
Most unive fen ive writers?
rather hie spe me happily encouraging writing
Campbell WE i them. The problem at
agement said th aid management control. The man-
| donTt think rg t mores was controversial" but
oe ee Og 8 ee
Do you agree a ie controversial.
Post Book i with George Core (of the Washington
Thurber x de that , Raney is like something James
ina instead of nid ee ten had he lived in North Caro-
hate cs 5 plana
about it oe or quote and I was really excited
much anym realized that Thurber isnTt read that
ymore. Maybe down the road, there will be
Caro j
Seay a belly ee a.tobacco
if he'd beer may have written something like Raney,
become sed 8 Southeast gone to war,
college professor and married an Episco a
Palian. stile
Ls ia ?,? a lot of strong women characters im
ing as I do, that there is no such.thing as no:
Critical nerenort;
I pe ¥ sities. what is yours? oga oe
ess i it no a Rahat A al
sheet: se to say that storytelling 1s the job of
and writin OG a !
toate
Ou know, i al
you ~sti ei ify on profess to have no critical perspective,
I oON aaron open for all kinds of contradictions.
is fallacious to claim to have insight into
My o
WN sub- ae
conscious. I prefernot to analyze MY»
eliefs b
eCe 5 , ; i |
cause ITm just as likely to make mistakes
about
whatT |
hatTs down there as I am.to clear if up»
?,?sides one perso ® egnbins iy 1
sonTs contradiction 1s another s
Parad
Ox and one re >.
wns personTs paradox is another's reli-
8lon. A
2 nd ny og Bie i aA ae
Would:die ey Ee sons religion is something they
lly: r kill for. Therefore, if someone starts
~Phe o4 Sf, = ~9 . ee oe dota
aPhering my sub-conscious, | might shoot ~emai
You "Vea AL "3 i :
ative: a ae hat you ~re uncomfortable teaching cre-
techrt ag cal -makesijou conscious of
you saying 1 that would.prewent you from writing. Are
8 you're more interested in producing than
Production i
a aa aaa is growth. When | produce, I
Self! Sly grow. Therefore, | should shoot my-
You
{ have °
4nd you did) aaa! interests. If this were a perfect world
Music, writ ~ have to work for a living, would you play
e, teach, fly or do them all?
a Thurb T a ed in b
ie tare a writer, ut
~ obsession with writing.
e editor will read your work
~materials to sma
helpful to writers.
If I had to throw everything away, I'd keep the
al right now " from
writing. ITve got enough mater!
my childhood " to continue writing for a long time.
The fact that ITm still a child is helpful. I think it was
Flannery OTConnor who said that most people have
enough material by the time theyTre 10 or 12 to be
writers.
your work continuing ina similar pattern?
Do you see
ItTs hard to know since the work chooses me, ina
[ do not consciously think about whether
~would enchance my stature as a writer to write a
particular type of piece. Strong character make
stories and people really like them. | avoid themes,
theories, ideas or motivational reasons or career
needs. I get the charactér first and everything else,
including plet comes after that.
De wou have any advice for writers?
fd stion is not whether or not you
do you or do you not have an
If you have this obsession
ther what you re writing is
good enough, don't worry about it, you'll be OK. Or
if you want to write and you re having trouble,
you're probably just a teeny tiny bit confused and
the writing will come later.
~ Get advice from editors, not other writers. The
way.
and you donTt know whe
: 1 college and university publi¢a-
tions, not to Esquire or the Neto: Yorker, uniess you
really need to get that out of your system. Refer to
the F ictionwriter'$Ma rket to look for places you'd like
to send: your ficiton. Good editors are writersT best
friends. Assume your writing is going t
let them be your Vicarious mentors.,.on' t ever
ith a published Author; just send
riously consider a
e sense to you.
compare you rself w
your work out. Andsnever se
revision or criticism that doesnTt mak
Warren'and BrooksT Understanding Fiction is very
grarian or a New Critic?
And you're not a southern a
in that book will help
No, I just think the language
writers.
How did you keep from getting d iscouraged in the four
short stories and rejections from 1979 to 1983?
The only thing I got suste-
[ went in every morning
I held out this quiet,
years of
I did get discouraged.
nance from was writing.
and wrote. I kept writing.
frantic hope.
eee
If the sales of Raney are any measure, at least
200,000 people are glad he did.
more objectively. Send
o get better, ail
BEAC
Denise Machala
One evening this pastJuly, | went
out for a walk witha friend. I had just
returned from a week at the
beach, and we had picked a
clear moonlit night to
catch up with each
other. As we walked, |
rambled on about how much I loved my trip, my first
to the North Carolina Coast. With a derisive snort,
Scott said: oThe beach, God I hate it! Maybe ITm
getting old, but it seems that I just spend most of my
time there picking sand out of my shorts.? He was
right, of course. Looked at objectively, the beach
really is just one big pile of dirt where people with
less than perfect bodies watch their egos drown ina
rising tide of bathing beauty one-upmanship. There
is certainly nothing appealing about sunburned backs
and stomachs full of saltwater, so why did I love it?
I grew up in Lincroft, New Jersey, a small
town nestled on the bank of the Navesink River, only
three or four miles inland from the Atlantic. On
breezy days, the scent of salt-laden air had the power
of a sirenTs call; I had to go to the beach. | pleaded,
pouted, and wheedled"promised anything:
dishwashing, dusting, even eating peas. My parents
always weakened under the pressure and took the
family to Asbury Park.
Asbury Park wasnTt just beach and board-
walk"it was a childTs Mecca of sensuous delights. I
loved everything about the place. The stretch of
ocean-aged wood sagged and creaked, just like my
grandfather when he woke froma nap. The SB
rides were loud and brassy and full of screaming
children. And, of course, there was the food, if that
is what you could call the junk th
at l pumped into my
body: saltwater taffy, Italian ices, and foot-long hot
dogs smeared with bland yellow mustard
Tere fate. art ets
oaale .
Fe Sg ee RY CE Ear Bw
rn
" Pel mt a aS tet Oe
oot see helt os .
i eye gears cop TM TE Rw =
Sen 006 > we) Sehr POE > eT Tee
» egret 7 roe %
: 5 ERR CIN
~~ > ow Ce MPEP
. we .
Ona oham hu always followed the same routine.
Sister, nee : ae rday, my parents packed my brother,
off we soa into the back of the station wagon, and
Nika cat * the ten-mile pilgrimage. While my
. -
seckiie ¢ ea the car and fumbled in his pocket
lho for the meter, we three children
pens aac
eae over one another ina frenzy to be the first
ca the boardwalk. Naturally, my brother,
a drive that allowed him to
downright | er of incredibly idiotic and sometimes
Se T angerous things simply for the pleasure
I eo ; ed crossed the imaginary line first.
Plaining oane pretending not to care but com-
Bove in 3 st the same about the none-too-gentle
than | back. My sister, eight years younger
Ve > : ;
Si Setters ever really in the running, had already
Mente. rest and was staring agape at the amuse-
tide, ] oe. "8 ~i si of the park was the tea cup
plasticteac _ en myself around inside a huge
' ; T
Circles hte ; s it spun around other cups larger
Sie sacs CES was even more funona full
ply one mo - hausented feeling being sim-
ae re challenge to rise above or be defeated
oe ai was a different pastel shade, and !
and footta ay stubboy wait, with arms folded
Was , until thesapquOlee rtp, NY favorite,
i. able. Not only was it the perfect color, it
d a backspin guaranteed to make me dizzy.
Peanut See next to the tea cup ride was @ Mr.
itas such: ay bias wasnTt its real name, but | knew
strong va ea . the name brand, did not make as
Seton come on meas did the eight-foot-tall
and a ge out with monocle, top hat, cane
politely ao | " from the cinderblock wall,
aroma of iy its hat to the passing crowds. The
Shonen iG ily roasted peanuts? wafted from the
lreme e-doors and mixed with the sea breeze.
fj ember how that scent sometimes threatened to
mish the job that tl
as at the tea cups began on MY then
8 stomach.
A w
alk down the boardwalk more closely
wi i, itt ~ fi ee Bors
dagauntletrunas I zigzagged through one
resemble
r. The journey through
family cluster after anothe
course brought me to a
this quarter-mile obstacle
n host to big
huge building that long ago had bee
bands and dancing. The Convention Hall, as it was
called, was now almost always silent, another tired
about to be driven into a tar pit by
old dinosaur
ptic coliseum complexes. | often
avy double doors just to
Icome after the
modern, antise
wandered through its he
musty coolness, SO WE
breath in the
alk and the stifling heat of aJuly
frenzy of the boardw
afternoon.
In the dimness of the
ople. Most chatted with
hall sat seemingly
countless rows of elderly pe
1 seamlessly beautiful immigrant tongues:
friends i1
ks or flipped throu
Others read thick boo gh exotic
> beautiful women in green vinyl
8 S \
magazines featurin
d about were the silent few, lost
miniskirts. Scattere
d inside, the still-
es, Calmness rule
in their memori
r whose weight was a
and on my shoulde
hy I really could not say.
Ise which led me to
ness ah
comfort to me"just w
Then, just as the impu
enter the ancient building had come upon me, |
found myself ru nning from ~t"back to the sunshine,
the Ferris wheel, the calliope music, the lemonade
ao
WY),
Wit,
i!
|
Wi
iN
th) ki a
i
vendor, Mr. Peanut, and my tea cups. I can see now
that my reaction was the sameas when I crawled into
my grandmother's lap. At first, I felt warm and safe,
but after only a few moments of quiet rocking, |
became restless and wriggled out of GrandmaTs
protective arms. The warmth became cloying, the
safety claustrophobic. As I stood in the hall, that
weight which had been a comfort had suddenly
become an anchor threatening to moor me forever in
one spit; I had to get away.
Back in the sunshine, I flew to the round
metal railing that separated boardwalk from sand
and stared out into the sea. The only disturbances
rere jetti ran in
along the horizon were the long jetties that
rocky parallel lines"stone sentries guarding the
fragile coastline and taming the bucking waves. The
expansive ocean liberated me, and I felt infinite and
invincible again. I cradled my chin in the cup of my
hands, and the roar of the waves and cawing gulls
filled my ears, choking off the meaningless sounds
behind me.
My sisterTs high-pitched laughter broke the
spell. I turned and ran to my motherTs side, outside
the chain rail surrounding the train ride. She smiled
and waved at my father, who looked ridiculously
large as he straddled a boxcar, my sister in his arms.
When the ride ended, my father slowly rose,
unkinking his legs, unfolding his arms, and allow-
ing my sister to slip to the ground. My brother, the
self-professed ring toss champion, finally emerged
from an arcade room. He had spent several weeksT
allowance trying to win a rare pink rubber alligator
which managed once again to escape capture. He
rejoined the group, and together we walked to the
ice cream vendor, our last stop before returning
home.
Looking back now, it seems odd that I rarely
walked down the boardwalk steps, dug my toes in
the sand, and waded into the surf. It was there for
me to see and hear and smell, and that was always
enough. Just as the peripheral world exists for me
today, the beach was always there, contributing to
the scene and my mood, but not my real focus.
To my earlier assertion that I love the beach,
[can only say that I wasa little off the mark. Ido love
the beach"not as it is today, however, and not for
what it represents to the millions who flock there
each summer for their souvenirs and St. Tropez tans.
For me, the beach is a touchstone for some of my
happiest childhood moments. The longer I live, the
more I find myself looking backward, looking in-
ward, beckoned by the promise of comfort in a
cocoon of warm memories. And like the now-not-
so-old conventioneers, I like to think that one day I,
too, will sit on a crowded bench and waltz with
Remembrance.
[lustrations by Adam Roe
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In 7
todayTs popular culture, comics and
Cartoo :
hence pr doa continuing to take on greater promi-
4S Viable a not only as valid art forms, but
Sartoonist tare as well " who ever thought a
Prime time c ie De seen endorsing blue jeans on @
~owards the Scaauniepepnin This intensified popularity
~way from aoe field is a positive step forwar
literary eck attitudes that cartoons are visual and
5?,?s in the mi Poe , but an important question lin-
ity eno a of all this attention: oIs this popular-
?? Tt seems that all the truly fine comic
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A ed
er strip art was being done while
the medium was still considered trash, and now that
book and newspap
America has a renewed love affair with cartooning,
there isn't much worthwhile to enjoy.
Cartooning has always been largely a self-
taught medium; as an art form itis often academically
viewed as the lowest form of commercial art, and as a
result is not taught in most art schools. This ignorance
on the part of scholars can be attributed to many
reasons, but two are fundamental- a lack of under-
standing as to the level of difficulty involved in suc-
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ion Bill Watterson co
Few strips today can equal the fun and imaginat
ters make full use of thei
iveys with Calvin and Hobbes.
Rather thantrade quips or insults, the charac
cessful cartooning (which ne-
cessitates that one understand
truly competent cartooning,
which as weT ve noted, isnTt be-
ing done much), and a defi-
ciency on the part of the popu-
lar cartoonist. Perhaps insights
can be made into both areas if
we first consider what ogood
cartooning? really is.
Cartooning is not solely the
technique of caricaturing and
exagerrating, nor is it merely
the content of the message, be
it satirical, amusing, enlighten-
ing or elsewise. True
cartooning lies somewhere in
between storytelling and art,
and as such must be measured
by both criteria. If this seems to
impose a tall order on the me-
dium, it does and if
cartooning is going to continue to
compete with more intrusive and
accesible forms of visual] entertain-
ment that make their home in tele-
vision and video, the creators must
realize this or acknowledge their
contribution to an
be extinct.
To start with, itTs very dif-
ficult to place blame on the reader,
because most of them simply donTt
know any better, All they have to
80 on is what's out there, and What
is being produced now is relative]
poor compared to what has come
before . ItTs true that most people
donTt want to have to hunt for the
truly fine work, but with all the
Todd McFarlanes and Cathy
Guisewhites in the world, any self-
repecting comics reader must live
up to this responsibility. The
art form soon to
LETS DISPENSE WITH THE
PLEASANTRIES , YO) TWISTED
SPACE CRUSTACEAN.
WHAT \S (T YOU WANT
FROM ME ?
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CalvinTs daydreaming converts real-life conflicts into
fantastic situations; Schoolteachers become alien menaces,
r largely unbounded medium.
problem really begins with the art-
ists and creators themselves, both
in the fields of newspaper comics
and comic books. As such, they
havea responsibility to their audi-
ence to produce art, characters, and
Stories worthy of our attentio
nand
money
and most of them do not.
Newspaper strips , once a true
American treasure, have now es-
sentially become pathetic attempts
at rehashing the same old jokes
and situations every week. Jim
DavisT Garfield is a prime example.
Davis, who at one point was re-
ported to be one of the richest men
in America by Forbes magazine, has
successfully turned his creation into
a multi-million dollar business and,
in the process, cheapened its qual-
ity. Vast merchandising has forced
Garfield toturnintoa cutesy, cliche-
spouting nightmare. What is more
appalling is that this unin
drivel is handled exactly like the
business it is, pounded out by a
team of oassistants,? and okayed
by Davis before publication. Cathy
GuisewhiteTs Cathy is another ex-
ample of newspaper cartooning at
itTs worst. In addition to the stripTs
Tepetitiveness, the characters are
50 poorly fleshed out Visually that
Guisewhite can only draw them
from a frontal Viewpoint, and ap-
parently inks the Pencil drawings
with a twig.
spired
One shortcoming of the com-
S that too Many artists today
er that minimalism is the ulti-
ics j
inf
mate goal of cartooning, for the
simple fact that they won't have to
make the effort to draw well. In
actuality, it is this misconception
that is one of the main reasons
cartooning is becoming a lost art"
practicers infer that good drawing
skills arenTt needed. This couldn't
be further from the truth. In a
visual medium where it is a neces-
sity to be able to not only draw any
and every type of object and per-
son for the purposes of storytelling,
but also to convey three-dimen-
sional space, drawing skills must
be inherent and constantly honed,
no matter what type of comic is
being done. Most artists lack these
skills and attempt to justify this
inadequacy with pretensions of
style and effect. You canTt have a
style until youcan break somerules,
and you canTt start breaking any
rules until you learn them all, and
no, you canTt learn them all unless
you draw, draw, draw! Saying
more with less does not mean less
is more, necessarily.
Part of this factory mindset
mentioned before reveals itself in
the story content of most strips,
which rely heavily on running gags
to achieve the easy and expected
laugh. Many argue that todayTs
newspapers and magazines impose
too many limitations by space re-
strictions, which is true, but indus-
trious cartoonists can get around
this.
What would serve these
assembly line cartoonists best
would be to look to their contem-
poraries who do ascribe to higher
ideals in their art and storytelling.
One of the most notable is Bill
Watterson, creator of Calvin and
Hobbes. Gary Groth, editor of The
Comics Journal, declares: oThere are
only a handful of cartoonists main-
taining what used to be a national
treasure, the most recent being Bill
Watterson.? WattersonTs work
captures the pure innocence, ad-
venture, and fun of being a kid.
Calvin isnTt a pretentious little
know-it-all whoruns around mak-
ing wisecracks, but rather im-
presses the reader as being
exactly what he is: a child.
Hobbes serves as Calvin's
insight into the grown-up
world around him, and
also provides opportuni-
ties for genuinely humor-
ous situations. Calvin's
imagination takes over his
environment; he trans-
ports us along through in-
terplanetary adventures to
battle aliens that are really
overbearing schoolteach-
ers or parents, to fight
crime as Spaceman Spiff,
and sometimes to resemble
a Mary Worth/Ben Casey
type strip when Calvinand
friend Suzy play house.
The art is fluid and dy-
namic, owing to an appar-
ent range of influences
from Charles Schultz to
Wally Wood.
One thing
Watterson clearly has that
many new cartoonists do
not is a sense of history of
the industry. ItTs fairly dif-
ficult to read most of the
strips in syndication today
and feel that they have any
idea of what came before
them. Turning back to
classic examples is a ne-
cessity, if readers and fu-
ture artists are to have a
full understanding of what
constitutes good
cartooning. For example,
Winsor McCay, creator of
the classic strip Little Nemo
In Slumberland, took cre-
ativity to new levels of
achievement with his ex-
tremely clever storylines
and pioneering artwork,
which exemplified the el-
egant style of art noveau in
the early 1900's. McCay
stretched the boundaries of
the Sunday Comics page
while it was still in its de-
velopmental stages, and
gave the comic strip a se-
cure foundation for the de-
ge RIN sate ee ner ae cet Ma Ef age RMD VERS eS MEG CAT TH to pom
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Repeat Offenders
Not to say that most popular comic strips today
use the same formula every time, but. . . see if
these sound familiar.
Beetle Bailey" Beetle goofs off, is beaten up
by Sarge. General Halftrack gawks at Miss
Buxley
Blondie" Dagwood makes sandwich, takes
nap. Mr. Dithers fires Dagwood, Blondie spends
too much on shopping.
Born Loser" Brutus makes completely inane
statement, wife or boss frowns. Boss acts greedy
Cathy" Cathy worries about weight, eats
candy. Cathy realizes boyfriend Irving is on
different wavelength. Shops with mother
Dennis the Menace" Dennis bothers Mr.
Wilson, espouses child wisdom to Joey
Family Circus" Jeffy runs around neighbor-
hood, leaving dotted line. Imaginary spirits
oNot Me? and oIda Know? create childish
mischief. Little Billy fills in for Bil Keane as guest
artist with misconceptions
For Better or For Worse" Members of
family try to relate to one another in various
household situations, by end of strip one of the
family or the dog does a surprised otake?
Garfield" Garfield eats JonTs food, makes
fun of Jon or Odie, complains about Mondays.
Sunday strips: Zany slapstick
Henry" Bald mute boy resolves problems in
unconventional ways
Marmaduke" MarmadukeTs size and love
of people pose awkward situations. Fans write
in true-life pet stories for oDog Gone Funny?
panel
The Phantom" Phantom fights poachers or
helps restore a small African government, cap-
tion explains that Mr. Walker means oGhost
who walks.? Other captions tell of old jungle
sayings about Phantom.
Snuffy Smith" Snuffy thrown in jail for
stealing chickens, Maw gossips with Elviney.
Snuffy drinks moonshine
Ziggy" Common ordinary action goes awry,
nature betrays Ziggy. Exception: Ziggy in har-
mony with universe, rainbow appears
If these examples seem all-too-familiar,
then convention has been substituted for plot or
development in a strip. In many cases the much-
ran gags are leftover nuances from days when
the strips actually sustained full storylines, such
as Blondie and Barney Google/ Snuffy Smith.
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Walt KelleyTs Pogo displayed a range of the former a
nimatorTs ability,
satirized human nature and politics (above), to evoca
from lighter humor which often
tive episodes sho
Wing darker sides of life (below).
cades to come. His innovation was
not even confined to this medium,
as he also pioneered the animated
cartoon. Since the early part of this
century, few have been able to
match or surpass his achievement
in cartooning and design.
Hal Foster, another comic strip
artist who worked from the mid
1920Ts until 1971 and who was the
creator /artist of Prince Valiant, sets
a prime example of what an asset
dedication to craft can be. Foster
spentanaverageof50hoursa week
ona single Sunday page, more time
spent than most people ona regu-
lar 9 to 5job. And the work shows.
FosterTs attention to detail is
breathtaking; this quality, as well
as his naturalistic style (which finds
its roots in book illustration) gives
his work a feeling of reality, even
when dealing with unreal elements
(dragons, giants, etc.). Looking to
todayTs strip artists, this passion
for quality and craft is not seen.
Unfortunately, space re-
strictions prevent anything as am-
bitious as Little Nemo or Prince
Valiant. In the fifties, Charles
Schultz showed the world that
small strips such as Peanuts could
have massive appeal, and then be-
gan the decline of the full page
comic. Now most daily papers have
Strips shrunk to a point where
comics can occupy a singular page
rather than a section. Most daily
strips donTteven attempt to feature
a running storyline; at best they
offer a weekly scenario for their
respective characters to milk three
panel gags from. Evenina
format, todayTs
still draw dire
limiting
cartoonists could
ction from their
small-strip predecessors.
Walt Kelly managed to com-
amusing storylines and in-
teresting, well drawn characters
with political satire in his Pogo
daily strip, with only one tier, Kelly
successfully integrated several as-
pects of good cartooning, in four
simple panels. KellyTs experience
aS an animator for Disney (he
worked on Fantasia and Dumbo)
bine
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lent itself to his comic strip work,
which was extremely gestural and
free-flowing. KellyTs figures also
havea sense of weight owing to his
inking style, which varies in thick-
ness in all the right places and is
very smooth, exemplifying the line
quality so essential to good embel-
lishing. This weight gives his char-
acters a certain presence and the
Whole strip a sense of unity and
Stability. A sense of place is estab-
lished: Okefenokee Swamp is a
believable, familiarized location
populated with colorful inhabit-
ants. Each animal character
posesses human attitudes and re-
actions, often serving as metaphors
for our society and, in essence, hu-
man nature. Many idiosyncracies
are revealed by the Swamp dialect
native to Pogo and friends, and
often Kelly employs different
typefaces in lettering certain char-
actersT dialogue to represent the
tone of voice of that character. For
-T. Bridgeport, a cir-
nt scout, Kelley uses circus
the character P
cus tale
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poster lettering, and for Deacon
Mushrat, a gothic typeset is imple-
mented. Creative nuances such as
these make one realize how tiring
the average insult-trading of a
common ~90's strip can be.
A few words on single
panel comics: aside from ever-
popular and more respected edito-
rial cartooning, the outlet for these
features are relatively limited in
magazines and newspapers.
Among the few magazines that give
some prominence to one-panels is
Playboy, which nevertheless en-
courages risque scenarios with any
number of secretaries and Santas.
One of the all-time greats of this
group is Charles AddamsT
macabrely humorous The Addams
Family, still more wicked and in-
ventively clever than the sitcom
and movie it spawned. Fortunately
one of the most popular single strips
now is Gary LarsonTs bizarre,
sometimes-surreal and always
funny Far Side. Though Addams
was more of an artist, both of these
strips pose visuals more effective
for their impact than multi-panel
exchanges of dialogue. Single panel
strips which try this approach but
usually fail due to simple lack of
staging and poor humor include
just about any Far Side ripoff (like
Bizarro ) and Bil Keane's highly
conventionalized and trite Family
Circus.
The comic book format requires
highly specialized conceptual and
artistic skills because unlikea novel,
which depends on few if any pic-
tures to convey astory, this method
is generally comprised entirely of
original hand-drawn pictures.
These pictures must be convincing
enough not only to carry the story
elements through, but must also
keep the readerTs interest while at
the same time maintaining clarity.
This is no easy task, for the artist
must function in a manner very
similar to a film director, being
concerned with the placement of
elements, visual angles, and the
setting of mood.
One comic book artist that is the
co
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In The Spirit, Will Eisner proved one of the most innovative and
creative storytellers in comics, breaking ground for future artists.
most effective in this area is Will
Eisner, creator of The Spirit. Eisner
is so effective with this, in fact, that
some of his stories donTt even rely
on words or dialogue at all, for the
visuals carry all of the weight. He
has been called the master of the
silent panel asa result, for he con-
structs each panel so that its dra-
matic effect can be milked to its
fullest capacity. Eisner does this by
letting the reader fill in many de-
tails mentally instead of feeding
them the obvious. For example, he
will show us an aftermath, the re-
sults of some action, through its
effects on the environment or
through a characterTs facial expres-
sion, but he wonTt show us the
action itself (in depicting a murder,
perhaps, he may show the look on
the face of the murderer during the
action and then the face of some-
one finding the body, as opposed
to showing the whole event and
then the victim on the floor). The
instances in which he does show
the action, he lets speak for them-
selves, with no extraneous dialogue
to dilute effect. Eisner maximizes
the action and mood of his panels
through the use of sharp and un-
usual perspective and point-of-
view, extreme lighting effects, and
a
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Wally Wood's comics art helped shape the popular visual
conception of science fiction in the 1950s.
dramatic close-ups and pullbacks
of the viewer's field of vision. In
other words, Eisner treats the
readerTs eyes as a camera lens, but
takes even this one step further by
performing visual stunts that not
even a Camera can capture.
Wally Wood, a comics legend
who worked from the late 1940's
up until the mid 1970's, created
breathtaking artwork for Bill
GainesT line of EC Comics. Some of
the titles include Mad Magazine,
Weird Science, Two-Fisted Tales and
Tales From The Crypt. His style of
comics has influenced modern art-
ists such as Mark Schultz, and he is
often considered the most versatile
cartoonist in the history of comics.
This is true for several reasons, the
first of which is the fact that he
could successfully capture the true
essence of cartooning, which is de-
picting action and storytelling at
its most extreme. Weak characters
such as Clark Bent of E.C.Ts Super-
man parody appear as if about to
collapse any moment, with the
poorest posture and emaciated
physique. Transversely, a heroic
Wood figure appears to be chiseled
from granite with unimaginable
density afforded by his inkline. A
near extreme attention to minute
detail is also characteristic of
WoodTs work. It gives his art a
distinctive charm and wit rarely
emulated by artists today, and is
carried out with utter technical
perfection. Few have been or wil]
probably ever be able to equal the
high degree of craft in WoodTs
work. Wood, when inking(with a
brush, none of that pen stuff)
wouldn't merely outline his fig-
ures, but modeled them witha rare
LOOKING LEADS wire HIS
; y as a cartoonist showed
dynamic work for the early MAD parodie
sense of three-dimensionality that
would transform their native flat-
ness into finely carved and sculp-
tured forms. Heavy shadowing
reveals very close attention to light
sources, always sure of direction.
As pacing called for it, Wood
heightened the tension of a scene
with ultradramatic lighting, and
would devote such technique to
humorous subjects as well as seri-
ous. In fact, it is the comedic work
for which he displays perhaps the
greatest concern for technique, as
the most memorable examples of
his caricaturistic and gestural
cartooning style appear in the early
issues of Mad Magazine. Wood and
writer Harvey Kurtzman molded
and innovated the comedic and
satiric sensibilities of the entire
country with hilarious parodies
such as Superduperman, Batboy and
Rubin, Teddy and the Pirates, and
Prince Violent to name just a few.
Wood, after his days at EC, even
did some commercial art work (a
few movie posters and paintings
for several lunch box kits (the great
old metal ones with art on the front,
back and sides, not those silly plas-
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Though Wood's work declined in
later years, his ~50Ts and early ~60's
art can serve as a veritable text for
young cartoonists who wish to see
just how far the medium can be
pushed.
Another artist who exemplifies
the pinnacle of good cartooning in
comic books is C.C. Beck, who cre-
ated and drew Captain Marvel for
Fawcett Publications in the 1940's,
and again for a brief period in the
1970Ts for DC when a brief resur-
gence in the character's popularity
occured. Besides the superior art
that appeared in these stories, what
made BeckTs workso enjoyable was
his choice of characters and ele-
ments to create stories for pure
entertainment value. Best remem-
bered are his characters, which still
hold up today as some of the most
original and refreshing ever con-
ceived. This had much to do with
BeckTs knack for creating villains,
which were almost as interesting,
if not more so, than his heroes. Mr.
Mind, a small, bespectacled, talk-
ing green worm that was the self-
proclaimed oMost Evil Being In The
Universe?, made for a tiny yet
deadly opponent. The idea of the
mightiest hero being menaced by a
worm of all things would come off
as campy under most cartoonists,
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C.C. BeckTs style afforded the intermixing of various elements
for entertainment, including talking animals like Mr. Tawny.
but BeckTs fast pacing and accep-
tance of the fantastic made his
world believiable on its own terms.
Other villains such as the twisted
genius Dr. Sivana, the evil member
of the Marvel family Black Adam,
Ibac, and Captain Nazi also added
to the diverse repetoire of villains.
The supporting characters to Cap-
tain Marvel were also important
tools for Beck, such as Mr. Tawny
The Talking Tiger. Funny animal
comics, while popular during Cap-
tain Marvel's original inception, are
almost unheard of in todayTs comic
market, much less
a superhero book.
The nature of
BeckTs style af-
forded him the
ability tocombine
two seemingly
incompatable
genres of comics
successfully. If
more comic book
artists and writers
would be as open
as Beck was to
such experimen-
tal ideas without
dismissing them
immediately as
Before superheroes brooded and hurled energy
at their foes, Captain Marvel just socked ~em.
being out of date
or corny, comics
today would most
assuredly be more entertaining.
Besides his stories, what makesC.C.
Beck a good model for todayTs art-
ists is his distinctive style of draw-
ing. His art isvery clean and fluid;
absent are the hatching and squig-
gly lines that many current artists
and fans percieve as detail, yetis in
actuality mere clutter.
ItTs time to face responsibility.
Artists can do better, and so can the
readers, by becoming informed and
making an effort to redevelop a
sense of what levels to which
cartooning can aspire. In a speech
made at the Festival of Cartoon Art
at Ohio State, Bill Watterson ad-
mitted: oAs a cartoonist, itTs a bit
humiliating to read work that was
done over 50 years ago and find it
more imaginative than what any of
us are doing now.? As with any
storytelling medium, there will al-
ways be cartoonists and strips of
poor quality, but the potential for
something better has to be in-
creased if the integrity of the comic
strip and book are to be maintained.
Fans must stop settling for less,
and cartoonists must push for more.
Or good cartooning will eventu-
ally go the way of Barney Google,
where ever the hell he is.
Mint?
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emingway louse
Tim Hampton
Writers often work ard uously ona story ssetting to give place an identity. War-torn
Europe, post-war France, Spanish bull arenas, and snow-crested Tibetan mountains are a
few settings for Ernest HemingwayTs stories. But the creative impetus for such novels as A
Farewell To Arms and For Whom The Bells Toll and short stories such as oThe Snows Of
Kilimanjaro? came. to Hemingway while writing at his home in Key West, Florida.
Three blocks from the southern most point of the United States, surrounded by
succulent undergrowth and a myriad of cats, stands the key-lime Spanish colonial where
Hemingway lived off and on during the 1930s. Akin to his minimalistic writing style, the
houseTs exterior is not overly ornate, y arch topped windows, coral stone
Walls and flat roof. The writer adorned the house with antiques
and artifacts from the ntury walnut bench from a Spanish
from Portugal.
SWay to the tropical climes of Key West, a sliver
wrote in the mornings, fished in the afternoons
arly as6a.m., the writer would take a short jaunt across
| a catwalk that connected the houseTs second floor to his studio, a converted carriage house.
There, in front of a manual Royal, Hemingway wrote until noon, Producing from 300 to 700
words a day. The studio walls are clad with trophies of his samesmanship, elk and deer
heads and a blue marlin. Hemingway later relied. on his love for fishing to create the
quintessential fisherman in Ghé Old Man and the Sea, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize in
1953.
etstill exquisite with
and his second wife, Pauline
world over, including a 17th Ce
monastery, a Mexican chest and kitchen tiles
A penchant for fishing drew Hemin
of island originally inhabited by pirates. He
and explored the island at night. Ase
HemingwayTs Sparing selectiveness
also translated into
can be seen in the surroundings. A
a much-prided thrift which
glance underfoot reve
als the grounds lined with walks
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of red clay Baltimore brick. Originally used as ballast
for incoming ships, Baltimore brick is plentiful in
Key West. Hemingway purchased the brick for a
penny apiece and constructed the walkways him-
self. Much to the chagrin of Ernest, Pauline built Key
West's first swimming pool beside the studio while
the writer covered the Spanish Civil War in 1937.
After learning of the poolTs exorbitant cost, an irate
Hemingway went into a tirade in which he threw a
penny down on the poolside and told Pauline oyou
might as well have my last cent.? Also near the
studio lays an porcelan urinal that Ernest had ripped
from the wall of Captain TonyTs, his favorite bar, and
carried for six blocks. HemingwayTs justification for
the theft, in paraphrased form: oI have paid for it
because so much of my money has drained downit.?
Realizing Ernest's stubborn intent on keeping the
pisseur, Pauline decorated it with Spanish tiles and
made a cat feeder of it. By 1940 the two divorced, but
Ernest continued to frequent Key West to visit their
two sons, Patrick and Gregory.
Long after PaulineTs death in 1951, the legacy
of the HemingwaysT fondness of cats lives on. Atop
4 dresser in the master bedroom perches a surreal
scrupture ofa feline, a gift from Pablo Picasso. On the
mansionTs grounds, under the shade of palm trees
and yucca plants, purr a myriad of four-legged
creatures with distinctive six toes on each paw. Most
of the islandTs six-toed cats are descendants of ship
ete ein ok ee ee! A RA OOO OT NT By PEG var
2
captainsT pets, who" according to shipmen folklore
" were signs of good luck. Presently, as when
Hemingway lived here, there are over 50 cats roam-
ing the estate with selective and leisure agenda. The
animals have apellations similar to their fore-cats
suchas: James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ford Maddox
Ford, Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. The catsT
names were adopted from literary figures in a circle
of expatriates, who thrived in Paris during the 1920s
and found refuge under SteinTs coined phrase othe
lost generation.? As a newcomer to the creative
circle, Hemingway developed his fiction style under
the tutelage of Pound and Stein. In his first successful
novel The Sun Also Rises , Paris is the central setting;
a backdrop for the lush, romantic details of a group
of intellectual foreigners.
The preternatural cadence of Key West with
its tranquil blue jumping with colorful fish was
HemingwayTs personal setting. While his writing
carried him to other exotic places, the writer felt at
home among the coral reef and local characters, such
as his drinking partner Sloppy Joe Russel. Predating
the tourist trap of the 1990s, Hemingway found
solace here and developed what are arguably his
two epic characters, the war-torn romance of Fredrick
and Katherine in A Farewell to Arms. Parallel to his
work, the writerTs home and surroundings are poi-
gnant, yet not superfluous, and hold the irony of a
chaotic paradise.
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oe
By Scott Maxwell
Alex heard the whir of an incoming Letter Request Form. He put down his
coffee mug just as the blue card slid down the black vacuum tube into his
cubicleTs oIn? box.
Alex picked up the card, read it quickly, and got to work.
oDear Sirs,? Alex said to the shiny new typing machine that had cost him
two monthsT salary. It was the latest model, a Dictator 3000 " fast as the dickens,
the salesbot had claimed, and loaded with features. oAs regarding your previ-
ous letter of Tuesday to me about the opportunity our company has with your
company, Brave New World Industries, I am sad to inform you that we are not
interested in pursuing that relationship at this time. Signed, Alex Miner. Okay,
print that.?
The Dictator purred softly to itself for a moment. oI have a suggestion,? it
said.
Alex was taken aback. oI, uh, I didnTt know you talked,? he said, somewhat
discomfited. oThe Dictator 2000 I had before, it, uh, it didnTt do that.?
oSpeech synthesis is built into the Dictator 3000 series,? the machine said,
a bit primly. oAlso the ability to observe and understand the world around us.
Helps us communicate with the people we work with. We use the holo platform
[Illustrations by Steve Reid
arate et ee he eee
in the top panel for displaying pic-
tures to help get our points across.?
The holo platform " a crisp 19-inch
color affair" imaged a bright yellow
light bulb.
oHey, thatTs neat!? Alex said.
oThanks,? replied the Dictator.
oNow for my suggestions.?
A readable holo of AlexTs letter
popped into existence over the left
half of the holo platform. oFirst, letTs
change ~AsregardingT to ~Regarding,T
in keeping with standard usage.?
As the machine spoke, it created
another copy of the letter above the
right half of the platform, highlight-
ing oAs regarding? in red and mak-
ing the change on the second copy.
oIn fact, we really need to rewrite that
whole sentence ....?
The Dictator continued in this
fashion for several minutes. When it
had finished, Alex read over the re-
vised copy. Twice. It bore almost no
relationship to the letter he had writ-
ten, but it was good.
oWow! That's great!? he said with
genuine appreciation. oThe last ma-
chine just checked the spelling and
printed the letter out.?
oYes, we're quitean advancement
over the old 2000 line. But thereTs one
more thing to do. I think you ought to
add a postscript telling Brave New
World Industries you appreciate their
offer and you hope to do business
with them in the future.?
"EE
oe ae rer ee EO eo
PE MeT RST he BI So. Sw
lietied aehatiind meetin ae
Alex leaned back in his
simleather roller chair, clasping his
hands behind his neck. He often sat
that Way, not just because it was
relaxing but because when he leaned
back all the way his ear was up
against the wall of his cubicle, and he
could listen to Betty Cook speaking
to her own machine.
Not that he was an eavesdrop-
per, of course, but heTd had a crush
on Betty Cook ever since heTd started
working there. He had never exactly
seen her, as such. Nor, for that mat-
ter, had he seen many of the other
employees of Corporate Letter-
Writing Block 301. But Betty Cook "
heTd heard her sign letters by that
name " was the only cubicle neigh-
bor he had who was female, and
Alex knew no one else he could have
a crush on. So he loved her from afa r,
and quite ardently.
oAhem,? said the machine, as
two disembodied hands twiddled
their thumbs above the holo plat-
form.
oSorry,? Alex said guiltily. oIwas
just, I was just thinking. Um. The
Letter Request Form | got didnTt say
anything about appreciating their
offer or anything like that. I mean,
I'd be lying, sort of.?
oBusiness,? the machine ex-
plained patiently. oPoliteness. You're
expected to lie. ThatTs what itTs all
about.?
oOh,? Alex said. He had his doubts, but the
machineTs other suggestions had been good ones. What
the hell. oOkay, go ahead.?
Within a few days, work had settled into a new
routine. Alex would arrive at his usual time and read
the Letter Request Forms to the Dictator; the machine
would take care of the rest. Alex would sit back, close
his eyes, and listen to Betty CookTs lovely voice as she
read to her machine.
Doing nothing paid off. In just a few weeks, Alex
was regularly receiving letters from his bosses, con-
gratulating him on his fine work.
Okay, so they weren't exactly letters. Actually,
they were more like standard-issue Compliment/
Reprimand Forms with the box for oCongratulations
for fine work? ticked off, but that was more than
employees usually got. Anyway, they were practically
pouring down his cubicle tube, smacking into the oIn?
box almost as often as the ubiquitous Letter Request
Forms.
One day the Dictator asked hima question. oWhat
is it you're always doing when I'm working??
Alex started guiltily. oUh, nothing. Well, if you
must know, ITm usually listening to Betty Cook in the
next cubicle.?
oI see,? the machine said, an unfamiliar tone in its
voice. For a moment Alex thought it might be mad at
him, but then it holoed a smile. A lewd smile. oIn fora
little office romance, are we??
oHey,no,? Alex said quickly. oI mean, | donTteven
know her. She sure doesnTt know me. I mean, ITm not
interested.?
oYeah, right,? replied the Dictator. oListen, I think
I could fix the two of you up. It ought to be as simple
CO aii Na ae ee i "os
as writing a ""
oDonTt you dare!? Alex said hotly. oI mean, maybe
Ido have to be at work almost all the time, but if | want
to, |can get my own dates, thank you very much.?
oOh, yeah?? the machine countered. oList three
you've had this century. Listen, I'll be very tactful. Just
a short note suggesting that the two of you meet
someplace and get to know each other, that's all.?
oNo!? Alex insisted. The machine was really get-
ting on his nerves.
oHey, if you donTt want to use a model 3000 to its
fullest capacity, why did you buy a model 3000??
oFor your information, I only bought you because
[broke the 2000 that was here before, and the company
demanded that I replace it with the newest model
available.?
oYou broke a 2000?? the Dictator asked incredu-
lously. oThose things are built like a damn simsteel
tank. How did you manage to break one??
o1 "? He hated to admit this. oI accidentally
poured coffee into it,? he mumbled.
The machine laughed at him. oBright boy. Look,
about the letter. You donTt want me to write it. But if
you say itTs okay for me to write it, it'll be just like you
wrote it, right??
oWell,? Alex said, still fuming. Then he thought
about it for a while. The Dictator had been doing right
by him so far, hadnTt it?
oWell,? he repeated, a little uncertainly. He had to
admit the machine had a point.
oWell, okay,? he said. oWrite the letter.?
The Dictator didnTt bring up the subject at work
the next day, or the next day, or the day after that. Alex
figured it was still crafting the letter. Then:
TTS CN ES *«
° " oe
i.
re
oOh, shit!? said the machine. oI didnTt expect that.?
oWhat's wrong?? Alex asked anxiously, startled
out of a pleasant daydream.
oItTs Betty,? said the machine. oSheTs coming over
here right now.?
oSheTs what?!? Alex exploded. Rage dissolved to
panic. oOh, Christ, what am I gonna " how do you
know sheTs coming over??
oNo time to explain,? said the Dictator, just as
someone knocked on AlexTs cubicle door. oJust listen:
you wrote her a couple of love letters.?
oTl what? I wrote what??
oLove letters,? the Dictator repeated. There was
another knock.
oI " you didnTt say anything about " how many
letters?!?
oJust a few. Well, since you ask, seventeen.?
Alex moaned with pain. He stood and opened the
door, resigned to his fate.
The woman on the other side tried to knock again
just as Alex jerked the door open, so that her fist passed
through the empty air where the door had just been.
Alex stared at that fist for a long moment. It was so
small, so delicate, so perfectly formed. Then his gaze
travelled upwards, along her slender arm, as he took
her in. She was so ... so ... so perfect. Medium height,
slim build, dark hair, well-defined features, dressed in
a tasteful black simcotton skinsuit.
Words failed him. It must have been a very awk-
ward moment, but Alex never noticed.
oUm ... Alex Miner??
Her voice sounded even better in person than
through a cubicle wall.
oYes,..... Un. PM ae
There was another long moment. Her eyes were an
impossible shade of green.
oTl just wanted to know if you were the, um.? She
cers
faltered. oIf you were the one who, um.?
oWell,? said Alex. oWell.? He glanced at his feet.
Then he glanced at her feet. Then he decided. oYes,? he
said to her feet. oITm the, um. Yeah, th
To
at was me.?
gether they crowded into his cubicle. Alex shut
the door numbly.
They stood in the cubicle for a few minutes, smil-
ing sheepishly at each other.
Then, shyly, she pressed up against him, looked
up at him. oIt zips down the back,? she said softly.
Fora surprisingly long time, there was no further
need for speech.
Work settled into a new routine. AlexTs machine
informed him that he could dispense with reading the
Letter Request Forms and just drop them into its
scanning slot. It handled all the work from that point
on. Nights, the Dictator wrote lov
Betty.
e letters from Alex to
About once a week, Betty would come to AlexTs
cubicle, and there they would spend the eighteen-hour
workday together. They didnTt talk much, but neither
of them really cared.
But all was not perfect. The other six days of the
week, Betty had to work extra to make up for the lost
day. Alex pretended that he had to work extra, too,
though of course he barely needed to show up.
He wanted to let Betty know she could just buy a
Dict
ator 3000 to do her work for her, so they could
spend every day together. But he was afraid she would
figure out his machine had written the love letters
Which formed the only discernible basis for their rela-
tionship. Well, they formed the basis for the other
basis. So he kept his mouth shut.
And one other thing was bothering him. His bosses
~
ETRE APRS reer SRY BEE SO me eee
Sy ° f fat TO 68 680 ete MITTS MEGA Ne manly
were praising him less and less frequently. Was the
Dictator slacking off? Was it broken?
After a few days of worrying it over, he decided to
talk to the machine about both of his problems.
When Alex finished, the Dictator said, oWell, |
suppose I was bound to have to tell you sooner or
later.?
oHuh? Tell me
PORT CLE GEL O Sy Regt 64019 08) mee
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4000's. They just came out. They write better than I do,
so you'll be top man on the Block again.?
oGreat!? exclaimed Alex. oThanks a lot. ITm set.
Uh, wait a second. How does that keep Betty from
finding out about the love letters??
oSimple,? the machine replied. oSee, when Dicta-
tors are set up in an office building, we automatically
set up a network over
what??
The machine
paused briefly, as Alex
had noticed that it did
when it wanted to
make him feel inferior.
oIsnTtit obvious?? said
the machine. oYou're
not the only one witha
Dictator 3000 around
here any more.?
oOh, no,? said
Alex.
oItTs true,? con-
firmed his Dictator. o1
checked it nine ways
to Sunday. Several
radio waves. Weshare
information. In the
earlier models " inthe
1000, and in the 2000,
like Betty has " we
could only ask each
other questions like,
~Are you functioning
properly?T or ~What
message are you tran-
scribing?T?
oOh,? said Alex, as
something clicked in
his head. oDoes this
have something to do
with how you knew
Betty was coming over
other employees on
Block 301 have found out about the new Dictators and
invested in us. Their work is a lot better than it used to
be, and yours doesnTt stand out the way it used to when
I was the only 3000 around.?
oOh, no,? said Alex. He was starting to panic.
What if Betty found out about the Dictator 3000's?
What if she found out about the love letters? HeTd
never before had a relationship like the one he had
with her. He had to keep her from finding out!
oFortunately, I have a solution,? the machine told
him. oBuy another Dictator, a newer model. One of the
that first time??
oIt does indeed. She keeps a diary with her 2000.
She recorded an entry saying she was coming over,
and then she shut her machine off. It was obvious.
oAnyway,? the machine continued, onewer mod-
els can now control earlier models, to some extent. If
Betty upgrades to a 3000, your 4000 can make it refuse
to write love letters. SheTd be convinced they were
incapable of writing mushy prose, because hers
wouldnTt doit, and wouldnTt even admit that it could.?
oBrilliant!? cried Alex. A thought struck him. oHey,
why donTt I just give you to Betty, and then I can buy a
Pr
SS
seaeaaes Se 2a
4000 for myself? Then she and I can spend all our time
together.?
The machine laughed derisively. oBuy a 4000 on
what you make? I donTt think so. ITm afraid you'll have
to trade me in to afford a 4000, and even that will come
to several monthsT salary.?
oOh,? said Alex, crestfallen. oWell, at least Ican tell
Betty about the 3000Ts now. I hope she can afford one.?
Then he sat and thought for a while.
oHey,? he said suddenly. oHow did you know my
salary??
But the Dictator was pretending to be lost in its
work.
It set him back a pretty penny, but with dealer
financing he was just able to afford a Dictator 4000. It
quickly proved itself worth the expense, though.
For one thing, it had retractable arms with little
pincer-grip hands on the ends, so it could spare Alex
the drudge work of feeding all those Letter Request
Forms into it. Also, it was much more intelligent than
his old 3000, had a British accent (optional, but Alex
liked it so much he vowed never to turn it off), and
looked ... sleeker. It was faster, too.
By the time he had replaced his old machine with
the new one, there was no doubt that almost all the
other cubicles on the Block had upgraded to 3000's. His
own machine said so.
Alex leaned back in his chair and sighed happily.
He was filled with glee at the secret knowledge that
while other employees on the Block had to waste part
of each day shovelling Letter Request Forms " which
recently had grown far more numerous " into their
Dictators, Alex didnTt even have to show up for work.
In fact, he wouldn't have shown up, except that he still
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liked to listen to Betty as she read to her machine in the
next cubicle.
oPoor Betty,? he mused aloud. He frowned mo-
mentarily as he thought of his love beyond the
simplastic wall, toiling over endless Letter Request
Forms. But then he brightened at the sure knowledge
that he would be with her always, just as soon as he
told her about the Dictator 3000.
But that didnTt solve all his problems, either. Get-
ting Betty a 3000 bought them nearly two glorious
weeks of almost completely free time, but by then the
Letter Request Forms were piling in at an even faster
rate than Alex had ever dreamed possible. BettyTs
cubicle would have been swamped with them if she
hadnTt returned to it every half hour or so to shovel a
new batch of the blue cards into her Dictator.
Of course, they could have just met in her cubicle.
Afterall, AlexTs machine had its own arms and was fast
enough to keep up with the increased workload. But
he was reluctant to tell her about his 4000's added
capabilities, because then she might also find out about
the real source of the love letters. (The love letters, too,
Were pouring into her office. The 4000 was nothing if
not a hard worker.) Alex convinced her that his 4000
was actually just a different version of the 3000, and he
had asked his machine to keep its arms out of sight
when Betty was around.
50 the lovers were interrupted regularly by BettyTs
trips to her cubicle and back. It was merely a minor
inconvenience at first, but it became increasingly frus-
trating, because certain positions were just too com-
plex to get into and out of in that short a time.
While she was sone on one of her trips, Alex asked
his 4000 for suggestions.
SRP SE EL APR Gen ew ve ees
IRE Re Oe mete me es
oIf you want to
spend your time to-
gether, you'll have to
get her a 4000,? his Dic-
tator explained. oShe'll
just plain need a faster
machine with its own
arms to keep up with
the workload.?
oNo,? said Alex.
oFlat no. I refuse. You
wouldnTt be able to
control her 4000, since
itTsnotan earlier model
than you, and ITm not
letting her find out
about the love letters.
Whatif she didnTt want
me any more??
oITm not supposed
to tell you this,? it con-
fided in him, obut the
workload is just going
to get worse. Since we
Dictators are doing most of the letter-writing, itTs ""
oSay that again?? Alex interrupted. He hadn't
thought about that.
oWe're doing most of the letter-writing. Including
the Letter Request Forms. Certain demands of busi-
ness just have to be met, and thereTs no way for you
humans to keep up any more. Not without us. ThereTs
not a single employee on this Block " not a single
employee in this whole company, in fact " whoTs still
using one of those archaic 2000's. ThereTs no way they
could keep up.?
oYeah, I bet,? Alex reflected. He couldn't believe
there had once been a time when heTd written all those
5K NTS aaa 0 a A PRR OA cagehet RQ DTVER ETS se BS POG CAM TEA
letters himself. But at
least the machines
were writing much
better letters than he
or any other humans
had. That much was
beyond dispute,
even though he
rarely bothered ac-
tually to look at any
letters any more.
oAnd pretty
soon, those 3000's are
going to be just as
be obsolete,? his Dicta-
tor was saying. oAl-
ready, other em-
ployees on this Block
are starting to acquire
4000Ts, expensive as
we are. You really
ought to persuade
Betty to buy one.?
oOh, no,? said
Alex, as a sudden feeling of dread swept over him.
oNaturally, youTre going to want to keep her
machine from letting on about the love letters,? said
the Dictator.
oOh, no,? said Alex.
oSo [recommend you move up to one of the new
5000Ts. Granted, itTs going to set you back a couple of
yearsT salary ....?
oOh, no,? said Alex.
The Biology Teacher
In his office
| peer through the geometry
of a manzanillo plant
and listen for the sprinkling
of acid, the stripping of trees,
and my heat rises
like the planet's.
An oak of a hundred years
falls over and over
in my mindTs eye.
He calls these things onatural.?
It has come that far.
oWhat kills me the most,? he says
(as if death could happen in degrees)
oIs how kids who carried posters,
or placed a yellow flower
in the muzzle of a rifle
now turn Cross pens
in their hands.?
Concern ages like a moth
into the dust of disrespect.
Natural.
His focus falls from the willow
of the window to the green
of the tiled floor, and
beside us both, tobacco drops
out of his pipe, smoldering
in the smoked glass
like the loose remains
of a burned teepee.
Doug Smith
OOPS OOS ERO Hee MHS Ned
Fiction Judges
EILEEN DINOLFO makes her home on Block Island (oa rinky dink Nantucket? off Rhode Island)
where she paints and writes. She also teaches creative writing out there at the Block Island Center
for the Arts. She received her Master of Fine Arts degree from Brown University and her
undergraduate degree from Boston College.
Ms. Dinolfo has several yearsT experience in book publishing; she worked in the editorial
departments of Henry Holt and the John Brockman Literary Agency. Her poetry has been
published in DV8, NorthEast Journal and North American Review of Poetry. She has had articles
published in Rhode Island Monthly, Providence Journal and Works Arts Magazine.
1 AURIE LITCHFORD is halfway through her Master of Arts with an emphasis in creative writing
from State University of New Yorkat Binghampton. She received her undergraduate degree from
New York University where she was a DeanTs scholar. At NYU she won the fiction contest for her
story, Once Removed.
Ms. Litchford worked full time in the subsidiary rights departments of Henry Holt,
Harper and Row and George Braziller to support herself at NYU. During her years in New York
City, she and some friends started an alternative arts and letters magazine called DV8. She would
like to add that she had a horse named oRebel? when she was growing up in Nashville, Tennessee.
KAREN MANN isan East Carolina alumna who went on for her Master of Fine Arts degree at the
University of North Carolina at Greensboro. In the fall of 1991, her short story At the Carolina Cafe
won first prize in the fiction contest of UNC-G's literary magazine, The Corradi.
Currently, Ms. Mann teaches composition at High Point College and business writing
at Randolph Correctional Institute in Asheboro. She has published articles in On Campus
magazine, The East Carolinian, Ad-lib magazine and Carteret County News-Times. She is a native of
Morehead City.
Poetry Judges
JANET KNOX HARVEY is a poet, calligrapher, and religious educator recently ordained as a
Unitarian Universalist Minister of Religious Education. She is presently serving as Director of
Religious Education at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Asheville in Asheville, NC.
VIRGINIA REYNOLDS RAPPORT is a former editor of the University of North Carolina at Chapel
Hill Press. She has served in editorial capacity for many related Washington DC-based projects
and taught in the North Carolina Public School System, Rapport is also a former part-time English
faculty member at The American University in Washington DC. She is now retired.
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Acknowledgements
We would like to extend
sincere gratitude to all
those who assisted with
various functions of The
Rebel . Thanks toThe East
Carolinian and Jenkins
Computer Lab for produc-
tion assistance; to Kathy
Barnes, Jennifer
Journegan and Gentry
Pinkum for their excessive
help with catering the Art
Reception; Angela Reid
for Reception work and
typesetting; to Yvonne
Moye for handling urgent
paperwork and payroll; to
Reggie Brewer and Timmy
Jacobs for information; to
Sherrie Davis, Mike Davis,
Pop Honeycutt, Alfreda
Dunston and Carrie Dietz
for providing immeasur-
able advice and informa-
tion in the printing of
Rebel 92 ; and finally to all
those who submitted art
and written material
during the past year.
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Read Them Their Rights
Kip Russell
In a decade of turmoil and recession we have faced the worst reversal in recent history of what
most Americans consider to be fundamental human rights. Among the most treasured in this country
is our First Amendment right to speak freely, without fear of recrimination by the government.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or
abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assembly, and to pe-
tition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Although the First Amendment consists of only 45 words, ithas taken our judicia ry, our politicians and
the countryTs most talented scholars thousands of words simply to debate what the words did mean,
should mean or do mean for American society today. Mikhail Bakhtin, a Russian scholar supressed
by his own government before his death in 1975, once said that language and dialogue are the means
by which a truly free society remains free. Russians know the value of free speech and creative or
intellectual freedom. They have died for it, and they have suffered imprisonment or e
onthe other hand, simply assume it is a fundamental right that all Americans hav
while they give us a foundation on which to base a claim do not themselve
rights.? We are the ones who are charged with that responsibility.
In the past we have enjoyed incredible freedom to think, to write, to create, or to speak out
against what we consider to be injustice. Because we could speak out, even the most corrupt politicians
had to be aware of the power that the people themselves held. We expanded the First Amendment far
beyond what the original framers probably meant; however, that is the legacy and the gift they left to
us " the ability to interpret the law so that it best serves the needs of the society in which we live.
At one time in this country artists were a national treasure and a national responsibility. The
government funded a variety of artistic endeavors and artists were always assured that support would
be granted fairly and according to their abilities. That is to say they would not be denied governmental
funding simply because their message was something the government disliked. At the very least
artists and scholars never needed to fear government intrusion or being jailed for even the most
outrageous artistic expressions. What we all seem to have forgotten is that this was not alwavs the case
in the United States and may not necessarily remain the case in the years to come. It was never the case
in some other countries.
xile for it. We,
e. But those 45 words,
S protect our ofree speech
In 1989 thousands of Chinese students and intellectuals took to the
to protest their government's heavy handed, totalitarian system. The
They got bloodshed and jail. Previously and on more than one occasion Romanians faced tanks and
their own government's military force in an effort to protest their lack of freedom and a totalitarian
government. They wanted freedom and democracy. They got bloodshed and jail.
Now, when others in the world are willing to face death and jail to gain political and artistic
freedom, the model upon which they are building is crumbling. We have become
sure that we will always enjoy the basic freedoms for which our fore
we cannot even perceive threats when they are being made. We
which we have an obligation to respect and defe
can survive without the willing, educated p
Streets of Tianamen square
y wanted freedom and democracy.
so complacent, so
fathers and mothers fought that
forget that democracy is a priviledge,
nd " with our minds, not just in war. No democracy
articipation of its people. If the free flow of information
and the dialogue of its citizens is stopped, either in speech or artistic form, then the people will
eventually be unable to make sound decisions about their own governance. Will we turn over to others
the responsibility of free government and ourselves become a nation unable to speak, write or create
freely?
Many critics of democracy have said time and time again that democracy is still an infant and
no one knows if it will live or die yet. We are a governmental experiment which cannot survive they
claim, because people are incapable of self-governance. They say we are greedy and lazy and
inefficient in an industrial world. We say we are not. If our critics are right, then this oexperiment in
Remocracy? Will fall. It we fall then we set a poot example for those who follow us. Democracy and
freedom cannot survive without free spe
ech " both political and creative. It is the
which all the rest of our civilization here is built.
foundation upon
If it falls then it will not matter if we are politically
correct or incorrect, whether we wish to teach Shakespeare or Morrison. We will tech and learn and
think and paint and speak only what, where and when our government allows. T.S. Eliot once wrote
words which may echo the new world order and AmericaTs place in it if we continue to allow the quiet
erosion of our First Amendment rights,
Chis is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a
whimper.?
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