All quotation marks retained as data.
All end-of-line hyphens have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line.
All smart quotes have been converted into straight quotes.
[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]
ite ie ie nts a nn ak ne Sit sinter tS eS ti i iE ican
se
~ o
=
cn ne " " a a - =
aN
LUM
|
cane,
a
Seaenasia a a
WOOD DESIGN
spruce & purple heart
TRAVIS SNYDER
ya)
HH
se
3
4
rQ
Vv
fry"
RESCOTT WARD
NON-FICTION
structure with the man at the helm of the family. The formal
religious environment is also aligned much the same way with
men as priests and women as Vedanta nuns.
Close to Hinduism in its concept of God, Buddhism and Taoism
rest on the premise that there are extremes and the best way is the
omiddle way.� There is yin and yang. Yin is feminine, passive,
nurturing and cold while Yang is male, active, destructive and
hot. Confucius set forth the middle way in great detail, delin-
eating a hierarchy that made it clear that women
were beneath men in the social order. The five
constant relationships, which are part of the Li of
Tao, place women distinctly and consistently after
men. Ironically, the religion, stripped of culture, is
remarkably fair in its ultimate equity of outcomes. There is
no gender in nothingness. However, while on the path to en-
lightenment, a woman still must adhere to male dominance in
order to live in the Tao.
Physically, the female body seems designed to receive, this
receptive quality is inherent to the female psyche. Also, she is
the incubator of inception, where all life, generally, is nurtured
and sustained by a womanTs body, making her the mother of all
living. In order to link nature with femininity, one must compre-
hend the general natural attraction of man to woman and the
resulting pursuit. Man goes out to explore oother.� Curiosity
drives him, and later, when he is in his prime, he is driven by a
much deeper force: sex.
Freud noted, oIt is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct
our first sexual impulse towards our mother.� Mother Nature,
overpowering in scope and design, offers the same lure. Man,
the hunter/gatherer, sets out to commune with God and finds
his solace under natureTs sky. So much larger than he, he be-
gins to become aware that motherhood blankets all existence.
Contemporary literary critic, Camille Paglia states, oIncest is
at the start of all biography and cosmogony. The man who finds
his true wife has found his mother. Male mastery in marriage is
Fees eee
aaa Se eee
epi a
ie
it
ry
Nf; i
weld |
says il
velar
So a eS,
x
x
~
771 POETRY
~" LISATELLS HER SECRET
a forced smile
perfecting an
unnatural pose,
adorned in drab garb,
globs of silk
hanging loose
like skin
on an elephantTs ass.
hands folded:
right atop left
invisibly subduing fingers
quietly longing to strangle
observers.
ITdTve preferred a meadow,
somewhere with a view;
& a flowing skirt
breezed upward,
enlivened
by birdsong
translated onto canvas.
we're separated by
guards,
velvet ropes,
a plate of glass"
as if ITm dangerous,
as if | could escape,
HOLLY OTNEAL
= �"� ~ POETRY
as If you could really like submerged pianos
touch me. in a flood
my eyes exhaust of crowds
noisy, unknowing slobs
Carrying slim French phrasebooks
and museum pam
hiets keep smiling
[
telling them exactly
how
to order lamb
or find enlightenment
In a famous painting.
what | imagined?
calculated light,
exact temperatures
console me at night;
& the quiet
052 |
ELEPHANTS UNDERWATER
oYou're really too old to be carrying around a stuffed animal,�
Marcie said.
Anne didnTt say anything, just twisted around in the waiting
room chair impatiently, her thin, tanned arms knocking into the
arm rests. Marcie knew that Anne was mad at her, she was pout-
ing, and her mouth clamped shut and her messy brown hair fell
over her eyes in tangles.
oITm sorry,� Marcie found herself saying, o! shouldnTt have said
that. | know this is a scary thing for you...�
oITm not scared,� Anne said stubbornly. oLenny couldnTt be left
at home. HeTs sick and | need to take care of him.�
LENNY WAS HER STUFFED ELEPHANT. HE HAD ONCE BEEN
PINK, BUT NOW HIS FUR HAD FADED TO A DING
TOP OF HIS HEAD AND HIS BACK WERE BARE AFTER BEING
STROKED SO MANY TIMES BY ANNE. THE ELEPHANT WAS
THE ONLY THING ANNE HAD TO REMEMBER HER FATHER
BY, SOME CHEAP RING-TOSS PRIZE WON BY BILL AT THE FAIR
YEARS AGO, BACK WHEN THEY HAD BEEN A FAMILY, BEFORI
BILL HAD LEFT THEM.
QND | ELIZABETH SHUPE
JN
(
ICTI
Veda
SAO
Conn umupmenias
woimraisaraat soe ee aan i sae | ; i : ? : E eimai sida q ise Te
drs
SS
FICTION
uniforms and hairnets. The air here was humid fro
cipitation coming off the steam tables
» lunchroom at school.�
sick quality to the air.
olt smells like the Anne said. Marcie
had to agree. There was a sticky and
Marcie thought maybe
Y
They picked up trays and got in line.
the people behind the buffet bar might look at Anne str pcg
because of the wires, but they canes ier. Of course, thought
Marcie, they see things like this
They both ignored the creamed corn and pale looking broc
all the time.
coli and instead opted for soggy looking hamburgers. Marcie
loaded hers with mustard and relish and mayo, and Anne wri
kled her nose as she watched Marcie smothe
with condiments. Anne chose only ketchup and she " It
e pattern before putting th
r the beef sath
on the hamburger in a smiley face
bun back on.
oYou know that if you put it on that way the ketchup won't
be even.�
o| know,� Anne said,
At the drink dispensers, Marc
filled her glass with milk.
o| donTt care.�
cie got a glass of Coke and Anne
m the pre-
oEww! itTs warm!� s
oWhy donTt you ge
WHY you ge
i7? en ob Aad beeheatta mm o gi ¢ sae > F,
sne exciaimecd as sne pul i 4
~ le A, anrn ~" Th wane ~eatae oo om 1% ot ma thm fri Ss =
»cupe aispenser. [hree cuoes plopped in tne dias
UVew ara ann iwusairnd le
You are one weird
They got in Mz
'
is it?� Marcie as
Ihe kid was a young
lay down their trays. Anne sat down and took a bite o1
r at:
a3 .
eae Fs mt &
vy t c V if} iM
Cu ad ; i across the table and
Ne Ure an up the mess with the flimsy
irom tne a enser. In vall
know what was wrong with the kid, but she
tne like drawing on the wall of Dr. LeeTs office. |
thought, wi it? Would it be worth the
UgSie t HN that into the world?
A \ pel
I Viarcie lied
school. and Mrs.Vornick told
ot right to stare at then
I Ley
P f iS finished they took thell trash to the bage
the trays on the table
gas SeREVE CCL ITE MY rho oP? ft Ware Roan
| we put them somewhere?� Anne asked.
P Ie ¢ ' la 1T RAA KAA CaS ~.
worry apout It. Let Marcie said, putting a guiding
shoulder. The slick wires brushed her fingers,
r FER ER GRE mittlad aula
le QUICKIY Pulled away
FICTION
An hour and a half later they pulled into the driveway. Ann
Shaken awake by the shuddering stop of the old Toyota, ik
her eyes and stared ou
oAre we home?�
t blearily.
e asked.
oYeah, heres.
oIs it ok if | play in the backyard until dinner?�
oYeah, sure. Just be careful that you donTt dis
those wires.�
odge any of
Anne unbuckled her seatbelt and boltec
ran ne pigeon-toed,
arm. Marc
out of the car. She
r green erik slung across h
sie sat in the driverTs seat and watched Anne tian
pear behind the house.
Their house wasnTt a house really; it was a renovated ga-
rage that had been part of a large estate years ago. Now the
| 073
meee
FICTION
main house and gardens had been demolished, and a housing
development was being constructed in its place. The outer
buildings, like the garages, the stables, and the large barn,
had all been renovated a long time ago, with tiny bathrooms
and kitchenettes put in, so people could live there. There was
barely any space, but the house was secluded and surrounded
by trees on either side. The rent was rock-bottom for Reading,
and it was the only thing Marcie could afford after Bill had
left them.
After Bill had gone, Marcie had to get a better paying job.
She had tried to keep their house, but in the end they had
moved here. Even with all her savings, this was the best she
could get. At least Anne didnTt have to change schools. But
still, sometimes driving Anne to school, they would pass their
old house and AnneTs eyes would look out at it wistfully.
A real family lived there now, a young couple with a two-
year-old child. Marcie saw them in the yard sometimes, the
little baby girl holding her motherTs hand and sticking her face
in the daffodils Marcie had planted around the front porch.
Anne had never been like that. Even as a baby she had been
gentle with the flowers; she would stroke their slick petals
with a single finger.
Marcie removed her keys from the ignition and sighed heav-
ily. She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror.
The faint traces around her eyes, the beginnings of wrinkles,
seemed deeper today, more distinct. She fingered the creases
disdainfully. CrowTs-feet, she thought, ITm getting older. Why do
| still feel like ITm wna -five?
MAR
.. The cea of the house was
of old and vochouered wood, except for two large panels of
cream painted brick, where the large garage doors had been
removed and filled in. The door was on the side of the building,
and Marcie wearily retrieved her house keys from her purse
and unlocked the heavy wooden door. The paint stuck a little
bit, like usual, and she had to give it an extra push.
Inside, the house was dim, even after she switched on all
the lamps. The first floor, where the cars had been kept years
BI wee) Boe A PE A £ EF CO
TURNING TT A PEACH Ct
FICTION
She awoke hours later to the sound of creaking springs
Uy Sd
Someone was in bed with her. Bill? No.
SHE HEARD A QUIET SOBBING AND A SMALL FORM CURLED
UP AGAINST HER. HER FACE BRUSHED AGAINST SOMETHIN(
ROUGH AND STRAW-LIKE. IT WAS ANNE. HER CAP
CLUTCHED IN HER HAND AND HER STIFF ENCRUSTED HAIR
STUCK OUT EVERYWHERE. IN THE FAINT MOONLIGHT COM
ING THROUGH THE WINDOW, MARCIE COULD SEE THE RI
FLECTIONS OF TEARS GLISTENING ON HER FAC]
oAnne?� she muttered, her tongue slow and clumsy tn her
mouth. Marcie sat up and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up
oAnne! WhatTs wrong honey?�
Anne didnTt answer. She just cried, her thin frame shudder-
ing. Marcie held Anne to her, and the small recording box dug
painfully into her breast as AnneTs arms reached around her to
hug her back. Marcie stroked the top of AnneTs head, feeling
the crusty hair and smooth wires beneath her fingers.
oShhh,� she whispered, oShhh. ITm here. ItTs all right. Did you
have a nightmare?�
Anne shook her head, getting the shoulder of MarcieTs night-
oDead? What do you mean? Did
ee
ES eeeEEEe""""""""""""""""""" eS
SS so = "
"
/@ FICTION
Charles and Sarah Furgis
1505 Calling Bird Rd.
Frog Pitch, NC 61783
SARAH FURGIS SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER BED AND STARED.
THE LIGHT FROM HER HUSBANDTS ONE OPEN EYE CON-
TINUED TO SEND A BEAM UP AND ACROSS THE CEILING,
SWAYING WITH HIS BREATHING AS HE SNORED RELENT-
LESSLY. MUCH THE SAME, IN FACT, AS IT HAD DONE FOR THE
PAST TWO HOURS. Crickets sang methodically out in the calm
spring evening, a harsh reminder of what the world once was,
and still pretended to be on some level. The windup clock by
their bed had shown that it was three-thirty the last time she
had looked. In two hours her husband would wake up, same as
always and go about their routine farming life. The way he had
the day before, and the week before, and the year before. Her
husband had never really changed in the sixty years she had
been married to him.
And thatTs what scared her.
One would think she would notice a thing like this
STUART PARKS II
SHE ROLLED BACK OVER ONTO HER BACK AND STUD-
IED THE LIGHT WITH ALL THE ATTENTION OF THE SLEEP-
ILY CONCERNED. IT WAS A STRAIGHT COLUMN UP TO THE
CEILING, DANCING ABOUT VAGUELY. ITS MOVEMENT WAS SO
SLIGHT SHE HADNTT NOTICED IT, BUT NOW THAT SHE DID,
HER STOMACH BEGAN TO CLENCH AND WHATEVER SLEEP
WAS LEFT IN HER BODY MELTED QUICKLY AWAY.
& ot vey
r tirst logica
givuiir
FICTION
Chuck didnTt have any lighted reading glasses that she knew
of. He wasnTt much of a reader, aside from the occasional Bible
passage. And there was no reason for him to go to bed with a
small flashlight.
Sarah rolled her head over to stare at her husband.
He was sleeping deeply, breathing heavily, but not yet snoring,
as he was accustomed to doing. Nevertheless he was comfort-
able despite the fact that his right eye was wide open and the
shaft of light was coming straight from inside the pupil.
Sarah stared in amazement. Surely, she must be dream-
ing. She had dreams before where she would think she had
Re GEC RSE aT CCRC RUE CRY ESET
asleep. On more than one occasion she had gotten up and
dressed and had been halfway through her day before she had
awoken back in her bed.
Sarah snorted and snuggled up to her husband, closing her
eyes and attributing the whole thing to a dream.
Except it didnTt really feel like a dream. She could swear she
was awake. She could feel the thinly worn cotton of her night-
gown, and there was a light spring breeze blowing through the
open window. And she could hear crickets surprisingly well if it
was a dream.
She opened her eyes again.
The light still shone about the ceiling.
She uncurled herself from her husband and slid slowly away,
the horrible thought that this was indeed not a dream but some
freakish aberration becoming more and more certain. Her stom-
ach began to clench again, and she felt that she really needed
to tinkle. Should she wake him? Ask him why he was lighting
up the room at one-thirty in the morning?
Would he know why?
Whatever was wrong with him didnTt seem to be bothering
him. He slept as loud and content as usual. He was perfectly
natural despite this light from inside his head.
If she woke him, what would he say?
Sarah sat up in the bed and quietly eased out from under the
covers to stand on the cold hardwood floor. She padded care-
fully around the bed, keeping all her attention on her husbandTs
glowing eye. It, in turn, stared unerringly at the ceiling.
She crept over to ChuckTs side of the bed and stared down at
| v.48 | 089
HE WAS CHUCK WITH A BEAM OF LIGHT COMING OUT OF
HIS RIGHT EYE.
"Mi imam chsin
HIS LEFT HAND RESTED LIGHTLY ON
A LEVER FROM A LITTLE BRONZE CON-
TROL PANEL NEXT TO THE CHAIR, A
SMOLDERING CIGAR HELD LIGHTLY
BETWEEN THE FIRST AND SECOND
FINGERS. THERE WAS A SHINY GOLD
RING ON THE THIRD, AND NO FOURTH
ONE TO BE SEEN.
~
oh
a
n
on
Z,
Q
=e
oa
em
Yo
se
foley
je)
faked
Q
=
a
il
a
=
Z.
je)
Y)
eo
ae
Y)
12 Inches of Pleasure
THE HISTORY OF GRAPHIC DESIGN SEEN THROUGH THE ART OF THE ALBUM COVER
Lecture by Nick de Ville, author of Album: Style and Image in Sleeve Design Ms
Wednesday January 12 7:00 PM Speight Auditorium ECU School of Art Ses
12 Inches of Pleasure
12 Inches of Pleasure
but only a prisoner of our owh minds.
-Franklin D sseveltT ~
ELA TPA PEEPS RTSTTTT
5 LLL LITLE DID
eee
See
aera a : =
This is the end of side A. Gently lift
needle and flip record to enjoy side B.
serene roe REE RSA SC RS EE CERRINA EAL AN nasties = 29-8 sane a nas a we wt ese, sna ab Py i Aart i van ry
~ a itt og cee ieee = is
a chtee SANA 0 SO mace SI i roma ima 2 ai Sa sem ick ok ln cBhr iN e» e ll oe s il ten race m asi ee » aS ah. mel at cums . �"� -
~
\
\
' 4
\ G d
1 & i
1
i] ¥
|
1 \
| A
\ 4 |
Y
|
A
\ G
rs if
%
\y,
S
baal
=
aa
seen g
Et
SSR,
ae
4 =
3 a
IP
ECGs)
: aA
aol
=
Re
BRET,
2)
= se
iz "
= = ~ hs doe
4 oe = a 3 Sages
nm ware ts os Bh
ha = } S. a
pasa = > ; amet coronas bsccmey |
u a v _ mass L z &
A . ~= = o4 "e o= 3 nob =
= P rn > ee 5 See
SL. ai ~ : eal ay, 3 |
\A = pened J SN? ]
" te iY & |
= = A beet Ges S 4 eS
= " > Nes .D) pond 2 "
= " S A " DB) ad |
'e o vray Kens ere, ERR ARE co: am pet ]
ae Z vat =S a rhe a a sexe o |
ioe u er 6 a om ay > = _"
ee i's = tons funy wt A Bo " |
aS A = a a ls o 5) : BA
2 D 7 OD « a aoe SG > "_ : ,
ae) a? vf open " a _ ww tf @ y
= pes oa 2S am - ory 2 "" ar
ee = rae = ast a 1s d . Bree
= S = Ss a = = © o = tem
: = ; = ios e rts + Sodan oe ye) eo "_.
4 Hy F C - z 7S ~~ A a SS oO = a «© B-
Bt w 2 & oa > hestesiaaea =
a sf = = ~ > o El, ws wie om
\ F a 6 f > ff" , : a tft CS =a i
\ 2 A = " hued
\
004 |
eth,
nade ern ndemsee,
PHOTOGRAPHY
8.25" x 8"
So mer
salt-fired stoneware
CERAMICS
Pus * 2
it
:
:
j
}
*
ILLUSTRATION
:
j
|
q
|
|
4
2 digital output
ASHLEY PIERCE
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY
METAL DESIGN
copper, silver & enamel "
MELISSA WALTER
GRAPHIC DESIGN
ee
tie
O12 [ed.48]
" NON-FICTION
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
Whirled Peas: A Retrospective
oI am learning to look for relevance in each experi-
ence. A poem, lodged in the mind of an Alzheim-
erTs victim, the buzzing lights along an over-lit and
germ-free hallway"a rest home encroaching on a
playground. Ordinary moments, if you give them
the chance, will often reveal the sublime.
Whirled Peas is a story of enlightenment"that
fine moment when image and experience seem to
come crashing together in a symphony of relevance.
Images become metaphors, actions become spirit-
ual and the evolution of the self proves irresistible.�
BENJAMIN PRESCOTT WARD
NON-FICTION
oShe hasnTt spoken in three days. | donTt think thereTs much
time,� the nurse confided to us as she hung a medical chart
on the door to my great-grandmotherTs room.
oO Lord, I donTt think I can take much more of this,� my mother
said, placing her hand on the cold, stainless steel door knob.
My grandmotherTs room was awash with sterile sunlight,
Grandma Anna, as we had always called her, was in a small bed
with a thin white sheet over her. She was curled over on her side,
staring at the wall at the far end of the room.
Mom looked back at me and smiled as her eyes began to tear
up. I just looked down at the wheels the bed rested on.
oAnnie, you have visitors!��» Mom approached the bedside.
oLook, itTs Jan"and hereTs Ben, your great-grandson.�
Grandma Anna seemed to make an attempt to look but
gave up almost as soon as she had made the effort. Mom
leaned forward and took AnnaTs hand.
oOh, Annie.� Her voice cracked in desperation, oIll be back.�
jed.48|013
i
i
~
2
|
@ NON-FICTION
Mom left the room, sobbing.
I was left alone with Grandma Anna and wasnTt quite sure
what to do. It was the spring of 2000 and I was a freshman in
college. Eastern North Carolina was
just waking up from a long winter,
and this day was the first perfect day
of the season. I wanted to leave.
I was standing at the foot of
the only window in the room, just
behind where she lay. There was a
small courtyard with a giant willow
dominating the center. Under its drap-
ing boughs, two children, probably around six years old, were
slowly encircling the tree and looking up, letting the stringy
branches caress and then fall over their outstretched arms.
There were housing projects nearby and the architects had the
kind foresight to build a small playground in the middle of
the U-shaped nursing home. Beyond the children and the tree,
I could barely see in a dark window of the adjacent wing of
| COULD BARELY SEE IN A DARK WINDOW
OF THE ADJACENT WING OF THE NURSING
HOME, ANOTHER FIGURE STANDING BE-
HIND A WALKER LOOKING OUT HER OWN
Grandma AnnaTs bed, looking out WINDOW AT THE CHILDREN. | LOOKED
AGAIN AT GRANDMA ANNA. THE SHEET
CLUNG TO HER FORM PERFECTLY, RE-
VEALING HER EMACIATED CONDITION.
the nursing home, another figure standing behind a walker
looking out her own window at the children. I looked again at
Grandma Anna. The sheet clung to her form perfectly, reveal-
ing her emaciated condition. I wanted
Mom to hurry up. The smells satu-
rating the hallways of the nursing
home were beginning to unsettle me.
Pungent and medicinal, the place
smelled like death. I commented once
to Mom, on an earlier visit that year
about the odor and she said that it
always reminded her of the birthing
center where I was born.
Suddenly, Grandma AnnaTs arm rose up in the air. She moved
it a little, as if she were beckoning me to come to her. She barely
looked real to me. It was hard to imagine such an otherworldly
and frail existence. I had supposed that she had no idea that
I was even there. I walked to the open door of the room and
looked out into the hallway. There was a nurseTs station about
ten rooms down and I could see Mom using the desk phone,
NON-FICTION
dabbing her eyes with tissue. Down the hall to the left, I saw
~ anold black man in a plaid short-sleeved shirt trying to push
a himself around i in a wheelchair with one leg. His arms were "
limp i in his lap and he was constantly chewing his gums to-"
-__ gether. In the room. across the hall, room 137, a woman kept
_ repeating, oHelp me.� Over and over again s she would: say it. It
| : : wasnTt an urgent cry at all; ~it was more of a a statement: Foe 2
oy me. . I didnT t belong here i in this madness. : |
. turned again to face Grandma Anna. Her hand was still i op. -
_ and two world wars. hho the Se sh
have a oa in her bo aad = smoked Virginia Slims, 0 one |
cigarette after each meal. She had never married, but instead a
moved in with her brother and his wife. Sits had outlived them / : _
both. We would visit her every summer at her condo i in St. Pe- "
tersburg, Florida, where she had owned 2 modest yet-sa rvy fl
ral shop named oImpressions F F loral Season : mn
that she had met Van Gogh. :
ee until her first stroke at 1
some symptoms of AlzheimerT s disease; « |
, yo te ability for all meaningful
| J had been superimps
] had red hair and a a n
NON-FICTION
your side, letTs be pleasant travelers, lifeTs so short a ride.� Then
she would always end it by stating, o...and thatTs the truth!�
Two strokes later, she was confined to a bed at New Haven
Nursing Home just on the outskirts of a small town in rural,
North Carolina near where my mother spent her childhood and
where I, consequently, spent mine. Thousands of cars passed
the nursing home each day, as highway 17 was a major thor-
oughfare for travelers up and down the east coast. My Mom and
Grandmother would visit daily. Mom would call
me from time to time when they would drive out
there together and need me to take one of them,
usually Mom, back home earlier than the other.
With surprising strength, she took my hand and
pulled me close to her. She was trying to speak. I
could feel the pace of my heart pick up as I bent my
head so that I could listen to what she was trying to say. The
sun shooting through the metal blinds seemed to electrify the
room. Both of us had to squint. She pulled me even closer and
mouthed something I couldnTt decipher. oITm sorry, Grandma,
I donTt understand.� I didnTt like the awkward intimacy of that
moment. I wasnTt used to this kind of closeness with my fam-
ily. Her grip was steel as she lifted her head once more, her
thin white lips almost touching my ear. With my head bent
low to hear her, I could see again outside, under the bright
green tree, children were playing and calling out to one another.
Grandma Anna finally whispered to me, olife.� She released
her grip and gasped at the effort it took her to speak that one
word. She had a look of contentment as she lay there with her
SHE PULLED ME EVEN CLOSER AND MOUTHED SOMETHING | COULDN'T DE-
CIPHER. oITM SORRY, GRANDMA, | DONTT UNDERSTAND.� | DIDNTT LIKE THE
AWKWARD INTIMACY OF THAT MOMENT. | WASNTT USED TO THIS KIND OF
CLOSENESS WITH MY FAMILY. HER GRIP WAS STEEL AS SHE LIFTED HER
HEAD ONCE MORE, HER THIN WHITE LIPS ALMOST TOUCHING MY EAR.
eyes closed. oLife is like a journey.� I replied. At that, she lit up
like a torch and opened her eyes and mouth. She reached out
both her hands to me and | continued: oLife is like a journey,
taken on a train"with a pair of faces at each window pane...�
She caught the rhythm of the words and I took her hands
}ed.48| 017
CERAMICS
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oThe two bottles were fired in a wood-burning kiln
for two days. They were fired twice, in the last two
firings of our old wood kiln, ~ScarletT. I placed them
in the firebox area where they were covered with
a lot of ash and coals that accumulated as the wood
burned for those two days. They were both made of
stoneware clay and thrown on a wheel. They were
created as pieces specifically for the firebox area of the
kiln. The forms are bulbous and sturdy to withstand
the 2400-degree temperatures and the harshness that
getting piled with coals and falling wood can dish
out. By firing them multiple times I was able to get
richer and deeper surfaces with more accumulated
ash and other marks like seashells and wadding.�
BEN JENSEN
wood-fired stoneware
CERAMICS "4
ed.48] 021
ee PAIN TING
WOOD DESIGN
36" x 100" x 30"
fecanne
od
POETRY
| him vowTre on a nook get distracted. The best nook awaits. Kiss
your way down the slope where neck runs
1e skin into shoulder. This is where his scent
lives. Inhale the sweet mix of sweat
plain to him and soap. Touch the smooth, hairless skin
with your lips. Tickle him with your nose.
He'll laugh again If the warmth from your breath and his body
slows you, itTs ok to give yourself up.
head fall back on the pillow He wonTt mind if you fall asleep
nestled in a nook. In the morning
he nook between his nose and cheek. he can hunt yours and decide
which is his favorite.
; ; an
* 4 ~ A i ~ ¢ »F
Iti 1US shell. Linge!
I i i i rt } 4 | Rao y
ind tet his lips be playtful, Dut dont
METAL DESIGN
ee SS SS
PRINTMAKING
DRAWING ME
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oT am interested in creating drama and mood through
the use of light, letting the light itself become an
entity in the pieces I create. I am trying to explore
the ogrey area� of truth that lies between opposite
extremes to find a sense of balance through art. I
have found that vine charcoal on a toned ground
has the necessary transparency to accurately depict
the luminosity of shadows. To further heighten the
sense of tension I sometimes add white conte to
push the range in the lighting to further extend the
middle ground.�
| NON-FICTION
It was five in the morning when I heard the alarm clock. I stayed
in bed for another fifteen minutes just to collect my thoughts. The
morning seemed still and unmoved. I was the only one roaming
around during this hour"at least it seemed that way. I left the
house at six oTclock as expected. Rain fell with a steady rhythm
like tiny war drums that melt and dissipate on cold hard ground.
I stopped at a HardeeTs for a steak biscuit and a cup of water.
The girl who handed me my order was a girl whom I recog-
nized from high school. I didnTt know her. I doubt that I had
even spoken to her before, for that matter. | remembered her
face though, and her eyes had always fascinated me. The
way they looked at you with subtlety. ItTs something that |
canTt explain. All I really knew of her is that she wore rather
gruff-looking clothes and her hair was always hairsprayed. If she
only knew how beautiful she really is.
I managed to fill up my tank with 93 octane; I thought I should
try something different from the regular 87. I went straight on 74-
76 with my biscuit in one hand and my wheel in the other. Not
having a stereo to listen to seemed appropriate at this time "it
Se
made me appreciate the might of the early morning raindrops. :
HM SHAWN ENOJADO :
030 [ed.48|
aa eae on a eee en a ea
.
NON-FICTION
this point. The rain created a zero visibility factor for me. I re-
member how the beating of the drops sounded as they struck the
car. Falling droplets like tiny war drums that melt and dissipate
on cold hard ground. It was a baptism of the most unusual.
Clearly, I remember having the wheels turned in a completely
different direction than the angle the car and I were taking.
There is an adrenaline rush in the feeling of not being in con-
trol"to have your mind set in committing to an action"yet
having yourself and your environment follow a much greater
force. Nothing could stop this car at this rate. It
lunging machine and see what kind of new colors I would dis-
cover on the other side. I had my hands comfortably gripped in
a firm position, preparing myself. This bullet train struck col-
ors of orange and white. The vehicle went through these sand-
bagged barrels as if they were dust, slicing through paper with a
giant knife. For another fifty meters ahead stood the wooden
blockade. I would collide into this wooden barrier, which re-
sembled some totem warning for trespassers like myself, at
forty miles per hour. The boards cracked my windshield into
was obviously inevitable what was going to hap- | NOTICED THE SLOW MOTION OF THE FALLING RAIN. THE CAR WAS DROWN-
pen. It was as if time stagnated everything. Ino- ING IN THIS OCEAN TORRENT, AND | COULD CLEARLY SEE EACH AND EVERY
ticed the slow motion of the falling rain. The car DROP OF RAINFALL. IT WAS FRIGHTENING HOW TIME SEEMED TO SUSPEND
was drowning in this ocean torrent, and I could MY WORLD FOR JUST A MOMENT.
clearly see each and every drop of rainfall. It was
frightening how time seemed to suspend my world for just a
moment. I applied all the techniques that I learned in such a
situation: keep your foot off the accelerator, donTt slam on the
brakes, donTt jerk the wheel or the car will skid out of control.
There was nothing I could do but sit in this metal pod of
an intricately beautiful cobweb design. The car abruptly slid to
a halt with my foot depressing the brake pedal as far as it could
go. There was a slight comfort in feeling the tires grinding
with the asphalt. A little more and I would have been swim-
ming in a canal. The weird thing was that I was not scared
NON-FICTION
at all. To be honest, I thought the whole incident was sort of
neat. The experience. The rush of impact and collision. Run-
ning through a blockade just like in the movies. But in reality,
the windshield cracks.
At first, I could not believe how much bad luck I have had
in the past few weeks. My $600 mountain bike was stolen; my
car was broken into with the stereo ripped out, and now this. I
turned the hazard lights on while waiting for somebody to pos-
sibly give me a hand" nobody. I stepped out into the piercing
rain and saw the damage: a few dents on the hood, a broken
headlight, cracked windshield, scrapes of orange paint, and my
worn-out body. There were broken boards under the front
tires resembling dead bodies: mangied and contorted"ex-
cept they were only wood. I pulled the car in reverse and safely
merged into traffic. Stopped at the nearest fuel station and real- |
ized my front left tire was punctured by the way the car was
handling. After calling home and letting them know that I
didnTt feel like going to class that day, I replaced the tire with
the spare and headed straight back home.
Shattered glass, spare tire, and broken frame fit me perfectly.
DRAWING
TEXTILE DESIGN |!
hand quilting & smbroidery :
_ on dyed, sreenprinted cotton _
TEXTILE DESIGN
ameter)
i
16" (d
VIDIOART
>) DVD
PAINTING =a |
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
o Managing Dirt is Matter Displaced is a celebration
of modern life. I used oil on canvas and painted
from life and photos.�
CERAMICS
\ hit
4
4,
ype?
4
is x
porcelain
ADAM EGENOLF
DRAWING
a SESE DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY
16" x 20"
digital print:
NEIL LOUGHLIN
SCULPTURE >=
%2 x2 (all)
=e Se ee ee ae SS
a re ee aC ee oe
EE
GRAPHIC DESIGN
digital output !
CASEY BAZEMORE
WOOD DESIGN
k walnut & oak
mahogany, bla
TODD GILL
METAL DESIGN :
|
Ny,
|
METAL DESIGN |
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
~As a metalsmith, I create sculptural jewelry that ex-
plores form and content related to themes of ten-
sion. A fluid, organic silver form might emerge from |
something hard and rough such as slate or steel. My i]
intent is to combine these separate objects, with their |
distinct and contrasting elements, to create a synergy.
Through the use of traditional methods of metals-
mithing, including forming and soldering, Unobtain-
able was fabricated using silver, slate and hematite.�
SUSAN MCMURRAY "
slate, silver, perfume & hematite
=
ul
4,
oy
(wae
m@ FICTION
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oAs an adolescent growing up on a military base, I
was inspired to write this story. Being a female, I
was curious to explore an adolescent maleTs perspec-
tive regarding military life. I thought it would be
interesting to describe such a ~heavyT topic through
the eyes of child who was affected by the death of
a loved one and as a result must endure the emo-
tional repercussions.�
ELIZABETH LEWIS
ies
FICTION
| held the last nail steady with my thumb and index finger as the
final stroke of the rusty hammer pushed it deep into the grain.
The breeze blew my sandy hair against my forehead and into
my eyes. While | climbed down, the calluses on my hands stung
as | gripped each wooden beam. Once my feet smacked the
ground, | walked backward to join the rest of them. The bottom
of my jeans ground into the mud under the red rubber soles of
my new sneakers.
oDamn Trev, I think weTve finally finished it,� said Jason, smil-
ing with a mouth full of metal braces. He pushed his glasses back
in position towards the bridge of his nose to get a better look.
oI told you buildinT that extra level would be awesome! You
can see the whole fuckinT neighborhood up here! AinTt that right
Reed,� I asked.
He sucked on a wad of blackberry chew that he had posi-
tioned between his bottom lip and gum. oWaste of time if ya
ask me. What the hell we gonna do up there anyway,� Reed
|
FICTION
said while spitting a brown clump of saliva toward the ground.
He watched it blend with the soft mud and disappear.
oWhat does it matter? This is the biggest fort in these woods
and we can use it as base for Capture the Flag and all sorts of
shit,� I retorted.
oFort? You mean tree house! We just better hope none of
them MPs find it, or theyTll just get someone to tear it down
and then it will really be a waste of time,� he answered.
Just as the wind blew, a glob of spit flew from his lips and
returned, splattering against his face.
oYou dumb shit! You get what you deserve. Whatever, letTs
go hang the rope,�
I laughed, while wrapping the white rope into a loop around
my shoulder and elbow.
He wiped off his face and shoved another pinch of chew into
his mouth. Sticky brown residue stained his fingertips and chin.
oBetter make sure theyTre tight unless yTall wanna bust your
asses,� Reed said.
I led them to the top of the fort. With every few steps, I
thought how the wood looked newer and sturdier. My fingers
brushed over the initials that we engraved on the bark when
we found the unfinished structure last fall during a game of
man hunt. Eighth grade just started last month, and the fort
stood as our after-school hangout. I would steal nails from my
garage and got a job working with Jason on the paper route to
save up some money to buy wood. Reed was a loner in school,
but we found him one day smoking in our tree house. We still
donTt know how he found it, but Jason and I decided that Reed
could hang out there as long as he brought us some of his DadTs
cigars each week for some smokes. For a while his older brother,
Jack, would buy us packs of cheap beer and make sure the work
we did on the fort was sturdy. A few months ago, Jack enlisted
and was deployed to Iraq. Since my dad was there, I told Reed
that he would take care of him. We both knew this was im-
possible due to the fact that my Dad and Jack were located in
different places.
oDamn, itTs crazy this high up! Check out that branch right
there Trev, it will be perfect for the rope,� Jason said.
oYa, but whoTs gonna climb across that branch and tie it?� I
asked, looking at Reed.
TL ME FICTION
yh
oHell no, Pll get myself killed,� Reed yelled, oand besides,
you gotta be crazy to swing from a rope this high up!�
oMan, whatever! It will be awesome! Maybe you can prac-
tice climbing up the rope so you donTt look like such a
pussy in gym again when you can only make it half way,� |
joked. Two weeks ago, in PE, Reed and I had our physical fit-
ness test. Reed took forever to run the mile and couldnTt mas-
ter the climbing of the rope. Chubby Shannon Walters went
before him and climbed all the way to the top and rang the
bell. When it was ReedTs turn, the vein in his forehead pulsed
as he strained to climb. His navy blue gym shorts hiked up
to his crotch. Pale arms and scraped elbows reached two feet
above him in attempts to gain altitude. While Reed crossed his
ankles tightly, his dirty white tennis shoe laces shook as they
hung parallel with the rope. Reed fell to the ground.
oFine, wimp! Trev or I will do it,� yelled Jason, orock, pa-
per, scissors!�
o1, 2, 3,� we both shouted in unison. Jason held his right hand
as a pair of scissors, while I held mine as a piece of paper.
oScissors cut paper,� Jason said in relief.
oGuess I gotta do it,� I said, giving up. I lifted my knees up on
the fortTs edge and gripped the beam. While reaching toward
the large adjacent branch, I got a good grip and crawled onto it.
My arms wrapped around the rough branch along with my legs.
I rested my cheek against the brown bark and felt its coolness
pressed against my skin. By positioning myself so I could lift my
torso, I straightened my back, straddled the branch, and began
to tie the knot. I swung the medium-width rope around the tree
and into the oDouble Overhand� I learned in Boy Scouts last
year. This was the tightest knot I could think of. I bit my bottom
lip in concentration and secured the knot. I shuffled my body
back onto the ledge and slowly onto the floor beams.
oDid it,� | said proudly, oletTs go back down and tug on it and
make sure itTs tight enough.� We climbed down the makeshift
ladder of uneven beams nailed to the trunk of the tree. Once
we reached the bottom, we realized the rope was at least 10
feet too far from the ground.
oYou goddamned idiot Reed,� Jason scolded, oyou mea-
sured the height wrong and got the rope cut too short.�
oThe hell I did, I measured it perfect, musta been the guy
058 fed.48|
(aa Li FICTION
ul
He
Tima,
Waly
Al cing
workinT at LoweTs that cut it who messed it up,� Reed retorted,
defending himself.
oDamn it you fuck! What a waste,� I shouted.
oDude, ITm sorry! I'll bring a bunch of cigars tomorrow and
maybe some chew,� Reed tried.
oMan, whatever. ItTs getting to be dinner time so letTs just go on
home and figure it out tomorrow,� I said. They agreed and we
walked through the maze of trees and brush until we reached
the silver gate of one of the quarters on base. We parted ways
to our separate homes.
oLater Trev,� Jason yelled from across the court.
oSee ya on the bus tomorrow, and Reed, you better remem-
ber those cigars and chew,� I threatened.
oPil try,� replied Reed. | watched him shove his hands into
his pockets and kick a pine cone that rested in front of him. |
felt a little guilty for giving Reed such a hard time but thought
how stupid it was for him to mess up something so simple. |
lost sight of Reed and started to walk back home. My walk
was the same every day after I came back from the woods. Per-
fectly cut lawns and identical houses lined the streets. It was a
typical military base. MPs, some only five years older than me,
patrolled the streets all day and night. As structured as the base
was, it felt safe and comfortable. I crossed Poplar Street, made a
left on Dupont, and then cut through Lieutenant BaxterTs yard.
An old station wagon adorned with National Rifle Association
bumper stickers sat in my driveway, setting my house apart from
the others. I was home.
oHey Mom, whatTs for dinner, please not that leftover tuna cas-
serole stuff,� I rambled as I slammed through the screen door.
I slipped my muddy shoes off using my heels and ran into the
kitchen. She was sitting at the table quietly. A tray of lasagna sat
uneaten next to her.
oTrev, honey, ReedTs parents just heard word that Jack was
killed today,� she said gently.
oWhat? How?� I asked, choking back tears.
oMortars hit his barracks in Iraq,� Mom said slowly, oI know
you boys were close to him and... his mother called and said
Reed couldnTt handle the news and ran away. I know you
know where he is and...�
| ran out the door and slipped my shoes on. As | ran, | tramped
060 Jed.48|
| eae a FICTION
i
on the backs of my sneakers and flattened them. Once | arrived
at the border of the woods, | stopped to catch my breath. | stood
in silence and thought about the time Jack looked at the first
level of our fort. We had just finished building it and we all sat
back sipping a few Coors. Jack ran his fingers over the struc-
ture and inspected it. oDamn boys, looks like you built a strong
foundation here. Looks like you can keep buildinT this thing
up and make it huge. YTall are like the fuckinT Swiss Family
Robinson,� Jack laughed. Reed then asked him if he would
have to build his own fort once he got to Iraq. Jack smiled and
said, oI dunno, but as long as where I stay is as strong as this
tree house, then I know I'll be safe.� We all yelled, oFORT!�
in return to correct him for calling our construction something
as childish as a tree house.
oREED,� I yelled as I ran through the brush. I stopped at the
bottom of the fort and didnTt see Reed anywhere near me. The
wind picked up, and I noticed an empty can of chew rolling
across the dirt on its side. As I climbed to the top of the fort,
the sun started to set. We better get back before it gets too dark,
I thought. Once I arrived at the top I was startled to see Reed
standing on the very top edge of the beam that I had climbed
on earlier to secure our rope. Since it was the end of October,
autumn hung in full view. A kaleidoscope of red, yellow, and
orange leaves camouflaged the trees. His feet were level with
the tree tops.
oLooks like a painting or something,� Reed said, his voice
shaking a bit.
oHey dude, come down before you kill yourself,� I said. The
word okill� hung in the air. I cringed after I said it.
oGuess JackTs place wasnTt as strong as ours, huh Trev?� Reed
asked, still steady on the ledge. Before I could reply he slowly
bent down and slid his body onto the branch where I tied the
Double Overhand.
oWhat the hell are you doing,� I yelled while leaning over the
ledge. Reed pulled his red Swiss Army knife out of his pocket
and flipped the blade. He sawed the knife over the knot. His
legs were wrapped tightly around the branch and his untied
shoelaces hung parallel with the rope. He continued to saw until
the knot was severed. We both watched as it fell through the
branches and disappeared into the collage of a thousand leaves.
062 | 48
VIDEO ART
Wh)
VIDEO ART
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oThis piece, similar to my other works, is personal
and autobiographical. The symbols and hints are
meant to be subtle and vague. It allows the viewer to
relate through his own life and experiences.�
Se digital video : :
Hl
i
eT Wi
|
° fal Tt
| |
|
| |
3 Hi)
| ala) Hii]
8 4
Va Wh
1 Hi
I i
I
Ik iW
el
|
lf f
ie}
Vel Hh)
:
a | |
"_
ER
Seabee
Bad
By
=
ILLUSTRATION
24" x 18"
|| a 2 1CTION
The August air was heavy and still, the kind of air that alarms
you of danger. The dark, feathered clouds hung low overhead,
as if the entire world before me was mourning, and a cold chill
shot up my spine as I walked down the winding pathway to-
wards my house. I had made this long walk on a daily basis,
taking in the beautiful wooded scenery, flowers, hummingbirds,
bumblebees, and the beautiful white picket fences and perfect
landscaping of my neighborsT wooden houses. The pathway was
always lined with beautiful dogwoods, oaks, pines, bird songs,
and laughing children playing in their yards or riding their bi-
cycles. The neighborhood itself was extremely welcoming, and
I never felt alone on a journey home. That bone-chilling day in
1997, however was a different story. I shuddered as I made that
walk. | suddenly felt extremely alone and terrified"for no logi-
cal reason. My surroundings that day seemed to be sucked dry
of all coloration and existence. There were no birds singing, no
children laughing. The oaks and dogwoods seemed to weep like
weeping willow trees, and the flowers seemed lifeless and feeble.
I clutched my navy blue off-brand book bag filled with text-
books closer to my body and inhaled as I made the last meander-
HM JENNIFER SHEPPARD
FICTION 1
ing downhill turn towards my house. As always, my immediate
view of my house was blocked by a beautiful dogwood that al-
ways seemed to sing happy praises of springtime and love. All
that could usually be seen from three
houses down was the bottom of my
luscious sloping green yard with the
dandelions and the white concrete
sidewalk running parallel to it. That
day I became troubled as I noticed a
fire truck, an ambulance, and three
cop cars parked on the other side of
the sidewalk. My heart skipped a beat
as I inhaled and picked up my pace.
Surely this was a mistake. Surely my eyes were deceiving me. I
now passed under and through the limping dogwood to see that
my eyes were not deceiving me at all. All I could see before me
was a massive array of emergency personnel surrounding my
yard and steep uphill driveway. Sounds of sirens, diesel-powered
emergency trunk engines, and beeping walkie-talkies filled the
air. I held my hand closely to my chest as I noticed what ap-
SOUNDS OF SIRENS, DIESEL-POWERED
EMERGENCY TRUNK ENGINES, AND BEEP-
ING WALKIE-TALKIES FILLED THE AIR. |
HELD MY HAND CLOSELY TO MY CHEST
AS | NOTICED WHAT APPEARED TO BE A
DARK BLACK CHARCOAL CHALKY SUB-
STANCE SMEARED OVER THE DOUBLE-
PANED WINDOW OF MY PARENTST ROOM.
peared to be a dark black charcoal chalky substance smeared
over the double-paned window of my parentsT room. The glass
of the window was completely broken out and the beautiful
blue, purple and pink satin curtains that
my grandmother hand-embroidered
nearly twenty years before her painful
death no longer swayed gently in the
late summer wind. I suddenly felt
like an infant in my eleven-year-old
body as I stood there in utter shock
and disbelief. My heart raced a million
miles a minute as I convinced myself
that this wasnTt happening. I closed my
eyes and captured my house earlier that morning, how it stood
so strong and tall; the white wooden panels with black shutters,
the shiny brass lining over the front door, the brick staircases
with the black metal railing leading into the grand entrance of
the house, the steep, long uphill driveway, the two-car garage
extending from the left side of the house, the wood floors, the
five open bedrooms, the fireplace, and the walk-up attic that I
led.48| 069
| I ETC TION
a NS
hid away from the world in. It was a welcoming home. It was
our dream house. A house my parents knew they couldnTt af-
ford"even after saving up for it for nearly five years after mov-
ing to the Raleigh, North Carolina area.
I opened my eyes slowly, hoping that the nightmare had van-
ished and my beautiful home would reappear, but no such luck.
After about a minute of this I started to panic as it dawned on
me that this was really happening. I raced over to the first avail-
able fire fighter and demanded an explanation.
oWhat happened"I live here"please tell me what happened?�
I pleaded, feeling really inferior to him as he looked down upon
my skinny five-foot fragile frame, oversized white T-shirt, black
shorts, wild wavy auburn hair, and big tear-filled brown puppy
dog eyes.
oThere was a fire in the upstairs part of the house. We were
able to put it out, but there is some substantial damage.� He
explained vaguely and completely in a non-compassionate way
as if none of it mattered to him. I literally swallowed my heart
as he rubbed his thick soot-covered hands through his salt and
pepper colored beard and coughed. His tanned skin looked worn
and tough, like he had seen one too many fires. Yet all I could
think about was my family. My house and all my worldly pos-
sessions were suddenly put on hold as my priorities refocused
and I worried about my parents.
oWas anyone hurt? Was anyone there?� I asked, now look-
ing over at the ambulance which sat five feet away. I frantically
ran up my steep driveway before he even had a chance to an-
swer my question.
oMom! Mom!� | yelled in a frenzy looking around. Several
emergency personnel warned me not to get any closer, but |
ignored them and continued. Just as | ran up the brick steps
leading to the front door, a strong arm grabbed my heavy navy
blue book bag from behind, halting my progress. The weight of
the pull and book bag nearly threw me off balance as | gripped
onto the railing next to the steps for dear life. oLet me go!� |
cried out as | attempted to get away from the grasp, but it
was no use, the grip was too strong. Just then, the front door
opened and a strong smell of smoky, charred wood reached
me. The smell still burns in my mind. It is a smell that I will
never ever forget for as long as I live. Through the fogginess I
|
|| a YC TION
ie
could see my mom as she stepped out. She looked worn and tired
and she had tears in her usually bright and happy brown eyes.
She wore a frown as well as the weight of the world. She had
on her office clothing, a simple gray skirt and a white blouse;
both stained with the same black powder soot attached to them
that appeared on the outside of the house by her window. Her
smooth wavy auburn hair was pulled back from her worn face
and tossed up in a bun. oMom!� I cried with a bit of relief in
my voice. Tears now swelled up in my eyes as well, and a burn-
ing sensation erupted from my wrinkled little nose. I wasnTt
sure if they were tears of joy or sadness. The grip from behind
loosened up as my mother reached out for me.
ooMaTam is this your daughter?� The unknown gripper asked
from behind. My mother nodded and softly replied with a oyes�
as she held me in her arms. The smells of smoke, ash, and fear
of the unknown seeped from her body and clothing. I rested my
head on her chest and then looked up to her. My mother was
a strong and free-willed black woman. She was the glue that
kept the family together, the mediator. She was always so sure of
herself, the person I looked to for all of the answers to all of lifeTs
questions. Those kinds of questions little kids ask that normal
adults get annoyed by: oWhy is the sky blue? Why is the grass
green? Why canTt I have cookies for breakfast?� My mother
was the only person that would take the time to give me a lov-
ing smile, hold me in her arms, and explain all of lifeTs wonders
and mysteries to me with patience and love. My mother was a
passionate, nurturing and serene person; however, looking up
at her that day I saw the shell of a woman. No longer did she
look like the strong all-knowing woman I had gotten to know
all of my life. No longer did I see the proud black woman that
kept everything in order in the household and the family. Now
she stood there before me helpless and weak.
olm so sorry...everything is gone...everything is...� Her voice
was shaky and interrupted by her tears. Suddenly | became
the adult and she became the child. Up until that point in my
life I had never seen her cry. It disturbed me, but I continued to
stay strong for her. I didnTt care about my childish, materialistic
things (like my Barbie doll house, my Goosebumps books or my
valuable Beanie Babies) that were lost or the damage to our dream
home"all that mattered to me at that point was my family.
a i
fi
ie
Lei
a,
.
ae
:
et
ete
/
uh
Soe
Sa
Gi
PHOTOGRAPHY &@
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oConcept was journey"finding my way and starting
from the bottom"that is the reason for minimalism
mixed with primalism. The journey is represented in
a circle where elements come forth along the way. I
used Arista.edu, glossy, fiber-based paper, exposing
the image and developing in a moderately strong
solution of AB lith developer for approximately 8
minutes. Then processing like you would through
stop, fix, water, and using Perma wash rinse. I used a
Holga 2% inch vignette negative and through lots
of love, a sweet piece emerged.�
BEN LUSTIG
silver gelatin print
[ed.48] 077
f
|
W@ PRINTMAKING
SCULPTURE >
14" x 8" x 6"
GRAPHIC DESIGN
ie
a
a
GRAPHIC DESIGN
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oThe Gatto Bello product line is designed to appeal to
the discerning cat owner who wants the finest qual-
ity grooming products to keep her feline feeling
and looking fabulous. After preliminary research, I
designed each piece to stand out in a retail environ-
and colors of the packages, the cat icon, the logo and
the repetition of a pattern are elements that must all
work together to facilitate product recognition and
form the identity of the line. The most challenging
aspect of a project like this is trying to seamlessly
combine found objects with created packages and
labels for a cohesive result.�
ment against its competitorTs products. The shapes
|
COURTNEY BARR
digital output
vival eee = NON-FICTION
-_ "_
I sank into the dusty, orange lounge chair, which looked out over
Turnage Street. The glass facade of the brick Salvation Army
store was smudged with the handprints of children who, left un-
attended, migrated to a large wooden toy bin next to the window
at the front of the building. It was Friday afternoon around one
oTclock, and the traffic in Raleigh was heavy. Turnage Street ran
straight through downtown and was a popular shortcut for lo-
cals who wanted to avoid the daily crunch on the beltline. My
girlfriend, Tracie, and her mother were shopping for a buffet
that would hold the wedding china that Tracie had just inher-
ited from her recently deceased grandmother.
Tracie and | were both in our early twenties and had been to-
gether for about two years. It had been an eventful and passion-
ate relationship up to that point, punctuated with three funerals,
two spring breaks in Key West and one four-day break up over
an argument about politics.
It was becoming uncomfortably warm for me in that provin-
cial chair where the sun continued inching its way over me as
the hour passed.
a
oHoney, ITm four dollars short. Have you got any money?T
RD
3 BENJAMIN PRESCOTT WARD
| 082 Jed 48|
Tracie held up a large lamp for me to see.
oThis is great, isnTt it?�
She leaned in closer"into my space where the sun was slant-
ing through the glass. She squinted and held her free hand over
her eyes to block the light.
oJesus, I canTt see a thing,� she said, holding out the lamp,
which was a chalk-mold cupid embracing a post. It was painted
gold and had a classic black, round shade with tassels strung
along the circumference.
oOnly four dollars each! We can use them in the den.� Tracie
was genuinely excited.
I leaned forward and got out my wallet. Opening it, I re-
marked, oTheyTre real nice, sweetie.� I had two twenty dollar
bills and a five. As I took out the money, something clear and
plastic slipped from behind my driverTs license and fell on the
floor at my feet. I smiled and handed her five dollars.
oThanks, baby.� Then she pursed her lips and blew a kiss
and returned to her motherTs side in the clothing section.
I bent down to get what had fallen and picking it up, saw that
it was a four-leaf clover that I had laminated about five years
NON-FICTION
earlier. I had trimmed it to about half the size of a credit card. I
had forgotten about it and the sensations I got from the mem-
ory it represented took me rather by surprise. I looked around
the store and saw Tracie and her mom standing under a buzz-
ing fluorescent light in a dimly lit section next to the changing
rooms. They had chosen several things to try on. At the other
end of the store was the checkout desk where a young girl behind
the counter was thumbing through a Cosmopolitan magazine.
She had a nose piercing and tattoos. She had blue hair. I had pre-
sumed that she was doing some sort of community service.
The clover was now fourteen years old and had turned
brown in a book I had pressed it in and forgotten about until
three years earlier when I was collecting things from my apart-
ment to sell in the familyTs annual yard sale. At the time, I
had a series of oversized childrenTs books that told stories from
world literature. The pictures especially fascinated me back
then, and one in particular, the famous birth of Venus by
Botticelli. The artist painted Venus as a beautiful virgin, who
emerges from the sea on a shell, which was driven to the shore
by flying wind gods amidst a shower of roses. I was in the
"" NON-FICTION
process of selling the books when I remembered the clover.
It was the summer of 1989, and I was twelve years old. I lived
in a small town where most of the kids converged, when school
was out, to a large park on the outskirts of the business district.
Daily, twenty or so of us would faithful-
ly ride our bikes to the entertainment
of swings, slides, and a giant rocket
made of steel bars, towering over the
center of the property. Most of us
spent all day there. About the second
week after school had finished for
the season, I met Heather.
She was climbing into the top cham-
ber of the rocket. I saw her because it
was early still, and there was only a handful of us at the park.
Instead of sliding down the high slide, which shot out from the
top floor, she just sat up there alone. Some of her golden hair
had slipped through the bars and was moving with a steady,
gentle breeze that was bringing with it some clouds from the
east. As I approached the steps to the rocket, I noticed that she
SOME OF HER GOLDEN HAIR HAD SLIPPED
THROUGH THE BARS AND WAS MOVING
WITH A STEADY, GENTLE BREEZE THAT
WAS BRINGING WITH IT SOME CLOUDS
FROM THE EAST. AS | APPROACHED THE
STEPS TO THE ROCKET, | NOTICED THAT
SHE WAS SITTING THERE, PREOCCUPIED
AND HUMMING.
site side, facing her.
school here, I guess.�
was sitting there, preoccupied and humming. I gripped the hot
bars that entered the craft and pulled myself onto the platform,
which was the first story. The shadows from the bars that criss-
crossed in the enclosure were temporarily disorienting. I looked
up and climbed onto the second story
platform where there was a slide exit.
I could hear her singing, as I quietly
pulled myself up to the highest level
where she was sitting with her legs
crossed, Indian-style near the open-
ing to the top slide.
oHey, whatTre you doing up here?�
I asked as I made my way out of the
portal and situated myself on the oppo-
oYouTre cute. WhatTs your name?� she asked, not smiling.
oBen. WhatTs yours?�
oITm Heather. We just moved here last week. Pll be going to
I reached into my jeans pocket and took out a new pack of
084 [ed.48|
(ae: me NON-FICTION
sided di
eit) i
H |
| ]
i
i
] |
;
1
j
| i
| 1}
j i
a
TA.
"""""
cotton candy flavored, Hubba-Bubba bubble gum. I opened it
and offered the pack to her.
oIt won't stick to your face,�
She laughed and took a piece and began unwrapping it.
oIT know, silly�.
The sweet smell of cotton candy was sweeping around us as
the wind began to pick up a little.
oWanna go for a walk?� I asked, as she tried to blow a bubble.
oOkay, but first you gotta catch me.� And with that, she
quickly scooted to the slide and disappeared. I stuffed the pack
of gum into my pocket and went after her. Every day, we met
there and always seemed to break from the others and find our
own world. We would head straight for the woods surrounding
the park, quickly stumbling into a kind of puppy-love that is
impossible for a young heart to contain. In bed at night, | often
| closed my eyes and made hard wishes that | could somehow
| transport myself to her. She confessed to the same.
One hot summer day, about two weeks before school was
about to begin again, we ventured farther than usual and
came across some railroad tracks. We excitedly began to fol-
low them. We imagined every sort of fantasy as to where they
might lead and our fantasies found substance at a large cul-
vert about a mile from the park where the train passed over
a small creek. Large granite stones lined the banks of the
creek where the tracks passed over. Hand in hand, we made
our way down to the water, and into the dark, damp pipe.
We took off our shoes and waded through to the other side
where there was a large bed of soft, green clover along the edge
of the rock pile. It grew in a patch of sunshine on the embank-
ment and offered a natural utopia for lovers to hang out. The
bottom of the concrete culvert was covered with green, slimy
algae, which squished between our toes causing Heather to
squeal every time she took a step. I made it to the clover first
and collapsed into its cool foliage. I looked back at Heather who
was coming out of the hole into the daylight. She was wearing
sweat shorts, a light blue tank top and brown sandals. When
she hit the sunlight, her long golden hair, which she had taken
down, seemed to be made of light. I noticed, for the first time,
really, as she turned to put her hair in a ponytail"her figure.
Her undeveloped breasts and hips were nonetheless beginning
NON-FICTION Emma |[
to show every sign of womanhood. Something indecipherable
began to stir deep in my evolution as she approached me with a
handful of clover she had gathered from the creek bank.
oHere, my prince. This is for rescuing me from that awful
dragon!� she said as she sprinkled the hapless bouquet over
my head and body. She then, in a playful fashion, started to
lean forward like she was going to fall on me, but before she
could catch herself, I grabbed her and pulled her down to me
where we rolled over into a fit of laughter as my foot ended
up in the creek. I had her semi-pinned down, but she gave no
resistance as she began to look at me expressionless from one
eye to the other.
oYou okay?� I asked.
She kept looking at me. Half smiling. Not moving. Our bod-
ies were pressed hard together and a primeval urge between
us was beginning to awaken. I found myself super aware. The
nearby creek was as loud as a thousand church bells, and a bee
buzzing in the flowers near our heads was deafening. I felt both
our hearts beating together. Time was non-existent as I became
keenly aware of her faintly sweet perfume and candy lip-gloss.
oKiss me.� was all she said.
It was everything | had imagined it would be. | tried to
stop my hands from trembling as they found their way safe-
ly around her. It was the first meaningful kiss for either of
us. After several minutes of gazing, | rolled over onto my
back to breathe in the newfound worid | found myself in.
Suddenly Heather broke the silence: oLook! A four-leaf clo-
ver!� she cried.
I looked and she was pointing to her stomach where one of
the gathered clovers she had covered me with had been pressed
between us.
oWe're going to be together forever now.� She said. oItTs good
luck to find a four-leaf clover. Here. LetTs always keep it.�
Clouds were beginning to form overhead and the wind was
picking up steadily. Thunderstorms in the South are notorious
for coming out of the blue and suddenly engulfing the parched
earth with heavy rains and pounding thunder. We walked
quickly through the forest, hand in hand"not saying a word.
When the path finally opened up to the playground, no one was
there. The sky was gray and in the distance we could hear the
(ce NON-FICTION
rumblings of an oncoming storm. We mounted our bicycles.
oSee ya tomorrow.� I said above the wind.
| watched her as she pedaled her way up the sidewalk that
led to a small community building on the edge of the yard. She
stopped before she reached the corner where she would disap-
pear on her way home. She yelled something out and blew an
exaggerated kiss at me. | couldnTt make out what she said be-
cause of the wind, so | just waved back and started for home.
It rained for three days without stopping. A hard rain that
came in gusts and whipped strong against the windowpanes of
my room where I spent my rainy days. It was Tuesday morn-
ing about eight oTclock, and I woke up fresh and full of en-
ergy, anticipating the day. The friendly sun was dancing outside
my closed shade, with the light filtering through the leaves
of a dogwood tree that was growing just outside my window. I
jumped up and threw on the clothes I had worn the day before.
I cracked open my momTs door and told her I was leaving for
the park. I skipped breakfast and ran outside to my bike, rest-
ing against our prefab barn. I wiped the rainwater off the seat
with my hand and set my sail to the wind.
For the next six remaining days I went to the park, in just
the same fashion and always left with the same sorry result. No
Heather. I asked the other kids if they knew anything, but no
one seemed to know her or anything about her. I was perfectly
useless in my lovelorn state for those remaining days. School
eventually started, and I had hoped that I would see her there.
Three days went by and no sign of her was to be found. The
next day, I was seated in the cafeteria with two of my friends
and one of them commented:
oHey, did you guys hear about the girl who was supposed to
come to school here?�
I was dumbfounded and looked at him with wide eyes and
asked, oWhat? What girl? What happened?�
oThere was this new girl who moved here with her parents
and was supposed to go to school with us, but apparently her
father was some kind of drunk who beat her mom and stuff.�
he said, as he picked up his square pizza to take a bite. I held
his arm down and looked at him squarely.
oLook, man. I know this girl. What happened?�
oALRIGHT! Sheesh! Nothing.
088 |ed.48|
AEA
BOOK ARTS
|
SS
a
ee
watercolor, pencil & digital art
ARRON FOSTER.
METAL DESIGN
ee ee
nS XSLT X uG9
: enamel & sterling silver
CAROLYN CURRIN
} PRINTMAKING
|
PRINTMAKING
ARTISTTS STATEMENT
oT enjoy honest work. Meaning there is a freedom
from the need of validation. Children are infamous
for such mark making. Their shapes and ideals ap- |
pear in my work. They react with a pure subcon-
MOHS NI .LSHE
scious, which in return teaches how we organize
or resolve painful memories. This piece is a part of
a series that explores the darker state of humanity.
I am attempting to understand and expose our fear,
sorrow, depression, and weakness.�
JANIE ASKEW _
intaglio & watercolor
i
lf 096 [ed.48]
EDITOR/CREATIVE DIRECTOR
Jessica Duensing
CONCEPT AND DESIGN
Jessica Duensing
Kyle Jackson
Katie McCabe
Matthew Reese
DESIGN FACULTY ADVISOR ILLUSTRATORS
Craig Malmrose Janie Askew
; Brie Castell
EXHIBITION PHOTOGRAPHER Meredith Deatherage |
Henry Stindt Photographic Lauren Harbison |
Ben Lustig
STUDENT MEDIA STAFF Michael Meadors
Yvonne Moye Connie S Oh |
Ken Robol Alex Perry |
Ashley Pierce |
COPY EDITORS Charity Valentine |
Tom Braswell
| Lauren Duensing
Craig Malmrose
Lisa Beth Robinson
VISUAL ART
Seo Eo
Professor, East Carolina University
Shawn Gillen
Creative Director, R+M Agency
Alison Miller
Professor, East Carolina University
Mel Stanforth
Painter & Printmaker, Professor Emeritus,
East Carolina University
MUSIC
Martha Horst
Professor, East Carolina University
LITERARY
James McCachren
Division One Chair, Halifax Comm unity College
Gary Redding
Lecturer, East Carolina University
Michael White
Professor, University of North Carolina at Wilmington
|
win!
PRINTING
Theo. Davis Printing, Inc.
EDITION
2000
PRESS
Komori Lithrone 40" 6-color sheetfed press
STOCK
Smart Paper Co. Kromekotep/us Cover 14 pt.
StoraEnso Co. Centura Text 100 lb.
TYPE FAMILIES
Granjon
Trade Gothic
The Rebel 48 is produced by and for the students of East Caro-
lina University. Offices are located with student publications
in the Self-Help building. The contents are copyrighted 2006
by Rebel 48. All rights revert to the individual writers and art-
ists upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced by any
means, nor stored in any information retrieval system without
the written permission of the writer or the artist. Printed with |
non-state funds.
ot cpeorics cee eee
TT I I a a aT
When pancake is covered with air holes
and firm on edges, gently lift and flip over.