Rebel 57 by Matt Rouse

REBEL 57

Rebel 57 pays homage to mid-century notions of creativity and innovation. Influenced by a time when the dream of tomorrow and a desire to explore the unknown were at the forefront of human ingenuity, this book is an adventure into the works of the creative minds at East Carolina University.

CONTENTS

best in show

performing arts dance music

08 10

literary fiction nonfiction poetry

14 26 30

gallery book arts ceramics digital photo documentary film drawing film art graphic design illustration metal design mixed media painting printmaking sculpture textile design traditional photo

36 38 40 42 44 46 48 50 52 54 56 58 60 62 64

honorable mention

Credits

These entries can be viewed in their entirety at the following address: www.ecu.edu/cs-studentaffairs/rebel

IN ST BE

OW SH

REBEL 57

THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR CODY TENAGLIA mixed media, oil glazing book arts

BEST IN SHOW

TS AR NG MI OR RF PE

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS KANON SAPP

DANCE

SE C OND PLA C E ALSO KNOWN AS JACOB REGAN

THIRD PLA C E THE UNSEASONABLY WARM DECEMBER OF MY UNREASONABLY COLD HEART MEGAN RHODES

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E DAYDREAM CHAD SMITH piano

MUSIC

SE C OND PLA C E JOY IN THE MORNING KEVIN TERRELL vocal

RY RA TE LI

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E

THE BOX OF PORN Jessica Richmond

It’s amazing how much crap one person can accumulate in twenty-three years; it’s even more amazing how much crap two people can accumulate. The sheer amount of boxes we had to load into our new house seemed to be unrealistic. We couldn’t possibly have that many pots could we? John and I were moving in together after four years of dating. We had found a small cape a few miles away from our new jobs. John liked to call it “the starter home.” I kind of liked the sound of that; it gave hope to the fact that this thing between me and him would have more than one home together. The house had crisp white siding with black shutters and a bright red door. The brick path up to the door was lined with pink pansies, and the fresh green yard was surrounded by a black cast-iron fence that was just one step up from being white and picket. Every time I walked out to the car to get another box, it was sheer force of will that allowed me to not kick every pansy on my way up to the door. The cookie cutter house in Fishers, Indiana was the last thing I ever wanted, but here I was. John called me from the kitchen and I ignored him and walked out to the car again to grab another box. He was far too ecstatic about wall molding and base boards at the moment for me to have a rational conversation with him. He followed me out anyway. “Babe, I found a box in here,” John said as he walked

out to the car with me to grab another box. “Congratulations, there’s a lot of boxes. Look, there’s one and there’s one and there’s one,” I said as I pointed out the boxes in the still mostly filled SUV. He smiled sarcastically and picked up one of the boxes marked Kitchen, “No, I mean like it’s not ours.” I picked up a box marked John’s Crap and said, “What? What do you mean it’s not ours?” “I mean it’s a box that we didn’t bring,” he said. “Well, what’s it got in it?” I asked. He said, “Uhm, video tapes? Looks like home videos.” “Ew. We have someone’s home porn collection,” I said. “Wonderful.” “Why do you assume it’s porn?” he asked as he held the door open for me. “Why do you assume it’s not?” “We should watch it.” “Right now? Seriously? Don’t you think we’re a little busy?” I called from the master bedroom. He followed me in and asked, “Who shit in your Cheerios?”

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“It’s ‘pissed.’”

the woman said impatiently.

“What’s pissed?”

Henry thrust the boxed corsage at Beth and then unsteadily grabbed the camera from his mother.

“The phrase is, ‘who pissed in your Cheerios?’ not ‘shit,’” I said as I turned to go out the front door again. “Well, you would know now, wouldn’t you? I’m going to set up the TV and then you’re going to stop being Bitchy Heather and come be Fun Heather who watches porn with her boyfriend.” “It’s not porn,” I called behind me. “Ah, progress,” he exclaimed with his head tilted towards the sky. It had started to get dark and John promised that he’d get up at 6AM tomorrow and bring in the rest of the boxes if I would just sit down and watch the videos with him. So I did. We were sitting on the floor because we hadn’t bought a couch yet and eating lukewarm pizza out of the box. John pushed the first tape into the VCR , which had somehow lasted through the age of DVDs, and the TV was alight. It was their baby girl. She was descending the stairs in silver heels that strapped above the ankle. Her delicate eighteen year old body was wrapped in a dark blue dress that fell just below the knee and her blonde hair fell in perfect curls around her shoulders. “Henry. Henry go get the corsage for Beth,” a woman shouted from behind the camera. Beth continued down the stairs beaming from ear to ear when she got to the bottom she twirled and laughed. An older man came into view and said, “Princess, you’re beautiful.” “Thanks, Dad.” “Okay, okay. Here Henry hold the camcorder.” “Mom, I can’t hold both the camera and the corsage. Pick one thing for me to do at a time.” “Give the corsage to your sister then hold the camcorder,”

“Okay, I want a picture with Justin putting your corsage on.” A tall, lanky boy in a tuxedo came into the frame looking down at Beth with nervous glances. He took the box and opened it before pinning it on her dress. “Aww, that’s adorable, now stand together over here by the stairs.” Beth and Justin walked in front of the stairs and Justin awkwardly put his arms around Beth’s waist. There was a flash and then the mother was shouting another command, “Now over here by the front door.” They shuffled to the front door and posed in the same awkward stance. There was another flash and then the mother was instructing again, “Okay, now one with you and your father. Come on, look alive, Rob.” “How about you be in one, Tracy?” Rob said as soon as the next flash went off. Tracy handed the camera off to Rob and then stood next to Beth. Another flash went off. “Okay, now one of just you by the door,” Tracy said as she took the camera from her husband. “Mom, haven’t you got enough pictures?” “No, I want one of you and Justin out in front of the house.” “Mom!” “Last one, I promise.” “Fine.” John paused the tape and pressed eject, “Well, that was sweet. They must have been the family who lived here before us.” I said, “I guess so. Wow, I forgot prom was like that. It was such a big deal.”

REBEL 57

“I didn’t go to my prom,” John said as he put the tape back in the box.

“Since you were so rude to your brother, now you don’t get any cake,” Rob said as he placed the cake back on the table.

“You didn’t? Don’t you regret it?”

“That’s not fair!” Beth screamed.

“Not really. I mean, I lost out on the thirty rolls of film my mother would have spent as made evidence by Tracy the photographer, but honestly, no, I don’t regret it.”

“Well, was it fair that your brother didn’t get to blow out his own candles on his birthday?” Rob asked.

“Well, that’s good. I mean, my prom wasn’t fantastic. I didn’t have a date or anything.” “Aw babe, why not?” John asked. I laughed and said, “Cause I was a horrid bitch to everyone I came into contact with.” John cocked his head and asked, “Was?” I picked up the remote next to me and threw it at his arm, “Ow! Fine, fine, you’re right. You’re a bright big bag of sunshine now.” I smiled and said, “Damn straight. Okay next tape.” “Look who’s on board with the porn festival now,” he said. “Oh, shut up and put the tape in.” He pushed the next tape in and sat back down next to me. “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, dear Henry. Happy Birthday to you,” the family sang in chorus as the camera zoomed in on a small boy sitting in a high chair. “Okay, Henry, blow out the candles,” Rob said as he held the small cake with three candles in it closer to the little boy’s chair. “Come on, like daddy,” he said as he mimicked blowing out the candles with his lips. Henry started laughing but didn’t blow out any candles. A preteen Beth stood up and walked over to the chair and blew out the candles. “Beth!” Tracy shouted from behind the camera. “What? He was taking too long. I want cake,” Beth said.

“Well, was it fair that my brother took like two years to blow out his candles?” Beth asked. “Beth, apologize to your brother,” Tracy said. Beth sighed and said, “He doesn’t even speak English.” “All right, young lady, go to your room.” Rob said angrily. “Oh, god forbid my room, where my TV and all my toys are,” Beth yelled. “Okay, go to your brother’s room, “Tracy said. “Yeah okay,” she said incredulously as she walked out of the kitchen. “Elizabeth Grace Crenshaw, you come back here right now!” Rob yelled as the TV turned black. “Wow, I guess she wasn’t always a perfect princess,” John said as he ejected the tape. “Guess not. So glad I was an only child.” “Nah, it was fun growing up with a bunch of brothers and sisters.” “I would have rather been in an orphanage than grow up in the jungle that was your house.” “Hey!” John said as he swatted at my arm. “I’m just saying. Four sisters and two brothers is too much.” “But you learn to share and get along with other people. Maybe that’s why you’re always so damn bitchy. No one ever taught you how to play nice.” “Ah, Freud!” I exclaimed as I dramatically lay down on the floor. “Do psychoanalyze me. Did my mother not love me enough either?”

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“You could do with a good psychologist,” he said. “But seriously, you really don’t think siblings are a good idea?” I shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” “Like, when we have kids, you only want one.” “We’re having kids?” I asked. “Well, yeah, I was kinda planning on it. Do you not want kids?” John asked. “No, I want kids,” I said. “I just didn’t know you thought about it. Ya know, like us in the future...” “Of course I do,” he said unbelievingly. I shook my head and said, “So, how many kids do you want?” “I want three and a dog,” he said matter-of-factly. I interrupted, “A border collie.” “Mmhmm, named Farfy.” “Farfy? What the hell kind of name is that?” I asked. “Our son named him. Don’t make fun of him, you’ll scar him for life,” he said smiling. “Fine, we have a dog named Farfy, but please tell me we don’t let him name the other children.” “No, of course not. We name our first Brandon, after your father. Our second Jeremy, after my brother. And our youngest Emma, after your favorite Jane Austen book.” “You’ve thought so much about this,” I said slowly truly not believing that he had thought so much on the subject.

He moved closer to me and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and said, “Of course I do. Babe, you know I’m the planner. I just think about these things; that doesn’t mean you have to. I didn’t mean to rush you into anything.” “I know, I know,” I said. “How about another tape?” “Okay. Let’s see the Crenshaw family yell at each other yet again.” “Sounds like a plan.” John stood up and grabbed a random tape from the box and put it in the VCR . The camera was panning over the house as the camera holder made their way to the backyard. A woman’s voice started, “Okay, so we’re just setting up in the backyard. I don’t really know how to use this. I know Mom doesn’t usually do a voiceover, but we’re mixing it up. Uhm, today is Mom and Dad’s 50TH wedding anniversary, so we’re having a party in the backyard. We’ve invited all their friends and family and it’s going to be tons of fun. I don’t know where Greg is, but he should be with the kids whom I also can’t seem to find. Jenn had to work, but Henry and Jack are here. Henry’s actually out back trying to get the grill ready, but you know him, he’s about as useful as a dead tree.” “Heard that!” Henry yelled from off-screen. “Yeah, yeah, well. I don’t see any grilling going on, so I’m not taking it back.” A little girl ran up crying and rubbing her head, “Mom! Mom! Leah hit me in the head with her Barbie.” “Well, Abby, tell her to stop,” the woman said. Abby said, “I did.”

“You haven’t?” He asked.

“Well, where’s your father?” the woman asked.

“I guess not. Not that I don’t want that. I do. I just...I didn’t know I was supposed to have baby names picked out. I can’t believe you thought to name our son after my father. You don’t know what that means to me,” I said in awe.

“He said to tell you that he went to buy more hot dog buns.” “We have plenty of hot dog buns.” “He said he went to get more.”

REBEL 57

“Well, we have plenty. He always does this, he over prepares and freaks out over nothing.”

float us out to sea,” Rob said. “But don’t worry, we get to share an ice block.”

“Mom, I’m six,” Abby said as though completely losing interest in the conversation.”

“Well, isn’t that just the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Tracy said as she laid her hand on his.

“Right, right. Go play with your sister and cousin.”

He moved his hand so it was gripping hers and said, “I’d gladly wither and die with you in the middle of the ocean.”

“Jack’s not with us.” “Well, where the hell is Jack?” “He went with Daddy. To help him carry stuff,” Abby said as she ran off to play. The woman turned the camera back to the grill and yelled, “Henry! Did you know Jack went with Greg?” Henry stood up from behind the grill and said, “Yeah, we needed more hot dog buns.” “We really don’t. Whatever. Why’d your son have to go?” she asked. “To help Greg carry the ice.” The woman sighed and said, “We have four bags of ice in the garage.” “Well, Beth we didn’t know that.” The screen went black. When the camera was turned back on, it was zoomed in on an older woman in her late sixties. “So, what’s the secret, Mom?” Beth asked. “The secret is that murder is illegal and I’m not really good at digging, so it’d have been really easy for the police to have found the body.” “Love you too, dear,” Rob said from off-screen. The camera zoomed out to include him as he sat down next to his wife. “Mom, seriously, advice for Henry and me. I mean about our marriages, how to raise our kids, how to live our lives, etc.” “Why are you being so insistent? I’ll be here tomorrow.” “Actually, Trace, that’s what they’re really throwing the party for. We’re getting old, so they’re gonna do the whole Eskimo thing where they put us on a big block of ice and

“I’d gladly use your dead body as bait to attract sea creatures,” she said with the same sincerity he did. “True love,” Henry said off-screen. “Mother,” Beth said seriously. “You should just answer her, or she’s just going to keep pestering you,” Henry said again. “Fine, fine. Uhm, don’t waste moments. Everything is important, and you will take it for granted, but try not to. Patio furniture is very important; you need to really shop around for that because on warm nights, you should sit on the back patio with your husband and enjoy the fact that your kids aren’t there. Don’t trust men who have tans under their wedding rings. That means they’re either too young to be real men or they’re too busy cheating to be real men. Your kids are the single best and worst thing you will ever do with your life and you will always think they’re perfect, but they’re probably not. When Leah or Abby drive you up a wall and you think that banging their head against a wall would make you feel so much better, go look up what real child abuse looks like and you’ll never think about it again. When you want to kill your husband because he bought too many hot dog buns, go sit at an airport or a bus stop or a train station and watch couples who haven’t seen each other in months hug each other for the first time. You’ll eat the damn hot dog buns by yourself just to make him feel better. The love of your life will surprise you, because nine times out of ten, they don’t come riding up on a white horse. Usually, there’s no horse involved, actually, but that’s beside the point. Usually, the love of your life will be the one person more than anyone else you want to hit with a frying pan continuously until they no longer have the ability to form sentences. It’s harsh. It’s life. Your husband, your wife, your significant other should be able to drive you to the ends of the Earth They should know exactly how to get

FICTION

under your skin. They should know everything about you, including whether you brush your teeth starting on your left side or your right. They will hold the power to make you cry, know how to literally unravel your entire life in a few words, and destroy you. The reason you love them is because they don’t. The difference between love and hate is no fine line—it’s holding the power to destroy someone and loving them instead. And when you’re old and gray, and your daughter is shoving a damn camcorder in your face as payback for all the times you did it to her, just talk to her because she’ll probably just keep pestering you if you don’t.” “Awww, Mom.” “And never eat yellow snow,” Rob said. “Thanks, Dad,” Beth said with annoyance. Rob huffed and said, “It’s important.” The tape shut off and John looked at me and said, “Marry me.” “What?” “Marry me. Fuck this whole establishing ourselves in our career and getting a nest egg. What the fuck even is a nest egg? Just marry me because I want someone to find our home videos one day and watch our shitty lives. I want them to see us crazy and happy and screaming at each other. I want them to watch our kids grow up and watch us in our old age. I want that with you. I want to buy too many goddamn hot dog rolls, and I want you to actually contemplate burying me in the backyard. Just fucking marry me, Heather.” “Mom, how did Dad propose? ‘Well dear, we were watching porn and then he yelled at me to marry him with about as many swears as humanly possible, and I just melted at his feet and said, ‘Oh yes, please make me your wife.’” “So, is that a yes?” He asked with a grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

REBEL 57

SE C OND PLA C E

THE TWIRLING EFFECT ERIKA DIETRICK

We arrived just a few moments before the concert was about to begin; the lights had already been dimmed as we scurried down the aisle looking for seats. Gesturing in the dark, my dad pointed out a mostly empty row toward the side of the auditorium. We squeezed past three irritated old women in frilly dresses and a teenage couple—my family filled in the rest of row J. We all sat silently as the first song began and the pubescent ballerinas tip-toed across the stage. The wooden platform was so old even the delicate tips and taps of the petite ballerinas caused the boards beneath them to creak. In a terrible, don’t-look-my-direction mood, I flipped the pages of the dance concert program like an AP English teacher scoffing at a literary atrocity. I pouted when I saw that the song my sister and her dance class were performing in was the very last song in a two-hour program—I didn’t even want to be there.

“JAMIE , I need in!” she half-whined, half-yelled. “I just got in here! I’ll be out in a few minutes!” I yelled back as I slathered my hair in shampoo. “JAMIE , I need in now! I have to get ready!!” THUD, THUD, THUD! “LET ME IN!” I didn’t respond, choosing to ignore her until she eventually walked away. THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD over and over like a hammer to my

head, “GO AWAY!” I shouted, “I’LL BE OUT SOON!” The thudding continued. I waited it out impatiently like a child waiting to play with the best toy in day care, but I got angrier and angrier until I finally ripped open the shower curtain and unlocked the door. “You’re such a freaking brat!” I yelled at her as I furiously pushed the shower curtain closed again.

The hours before the concert were the usual “tornado meets a volcano,” as Eminem likes to describe it… that is, the usual disaster of my sister and I having to share a space or communicate with one another for more than five seconds.

Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower with towel wrapped around me to see Caitlin applying the microscopic finishing touches to her make-up. Her hair was perfectly curled, not a single curl less curly than the other, and her nails were painted to match her sparkling red dance outfit.

Two hours before we had to leave, I had just locked the bathroom door and stepped into the shower when I heard an angry THUD, THUD, THUD!

Irritated, I reached under the sink for my hair brush. I tried to squeeze between Caitlin and the wall for a spot in front of the mirror, but she concentrated

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on her artwork without so much as twitching in the other direction. “Caitlin, scoot over!” “You don’t need to see the mirror to brush your hair,” she said as she lined her right eye. “Whatever,” I mumbled, wincing as I combed through my hair like I was trying to start a fire. After a few moments, I threw the brush back under the sink and opened the door to leave. “You’re not even going to blow dry your hair?” she asked in disgust, peering at me through the side of one eye. Three performances—two ballet and one tap—had gone by. I checked my cell phone—only fifteen minutes had passed. I held my hot head up on my fist, my elbow resting on the arm of the theatre seat. Why did I even need to be here? I always come to her stuff, but she never wants to see me play soccer or run track, I thought crossly. When we were younger, we both used to stay the night at my grandma and grandpa’s house. My grandma, Caitlin, and I would all sit down to play Polly Pockets, or jump in the hot tub, or play Nintendo. All would be fine and dandy for a little while until Caitlin took the prettiest Polly Pocket outfit, I called the best spot in the hot tub, or either of us “cheated” during a Mario game. “Can’t you guys just get along?!” asked my usually sweet grandma, finally worn down by the constant bickering. “You guys are sisters. You guys should be best friends!” We would get silent as she declared, resigned, “I’m going to have a smoke.” Upon walking away, I’d turn to my sister. “Good job, Caitlin. Look what you did!” And so the cycle continued. “Want anything, Jamie? I’m going to get popcorn,” my little brother whispered. “Yeah, I want popcorn,” I replied. With dollar bills crumpled in his left hand, he

scooted past me and out of the aisle. The lull of undramatic jazz music led me to the time my mom signed my sister and I up for a dance class at the YMCA . We both were so excited—we had practiced our signature twirling move over and over, laughing from dizziness the longer we twirled. Ten minutes into the class, we were still the only ones standing in the wide open room with the teenage instructor. I can’t tell you how my sister felt at 5 years old, but for me, it was incredibly awkward. I had always wanted to take a dance class, but this was not the way I imagined it. The instructor tried to remain positive, though. “All right, guys, how about you just show me what ya got? Let’s do freestyle.” I turned to my sister and then back to the instructor, fidgeting anxiously. “We don’t really have any moves,” I said with a red face. “Aw, nothing? Are ya sure?” prodded the instructor encouragingly. “Yes, we do!” cried Caitlin. “We have our twirling move, remember?” “Well, it’s not really a move…” “Let me see it,” said the instructor. “Go ahead.” So, for the rest of the class, Caitlin and I held crossed arms and spun to unwind each other, rolling each other back up the arm and twirling again. We were very serious about our technique—we wanted to look like good dancers, after all. It’s one of the last times I really remember being a team with my sister. I half-consciously noticed that the program was nearing its end as I continued to fall deeper into reflection. I didn’t remember when my sister and I stopped getting along, or why we never started again. I couldn’t pinpoint when games of Red Rover became screaming matches or when our room suddenly had toys that were mine or hers.

REBEL 57

I had always just blamed our problems on the fact that we were complete opposites. “CAIT-LIIIIIINN! …WHOO!” yelled a teenage boy from the back. The scarlet curtain had opened to reveal twenty or so teenage girls dressed in red ruby sparkling dance uniforms. All of the dancers stood posed like statues, a couple of them waving to people in the crowd. My sister stood front and center. A hip-hop song that I should’ve known but didn’t blasted from the surround sound speakers as the dancers came to life. Stomping, jumping, twirling, and sashaying—the crowd was mesmerized by the moves of their little girls, their daughters and granddaughters, their nieces. But none of the dancers stood out like my sister. It wasn’t coincidental that she was placed in the front—she dominated the stage like the star of the show, hitting every move perfectly like her heart and the bass were the same. I watched bright-eyed, with a huge open smile across my face. I turned and mouthed to my mom, “She’s good!!” I was giddy from the performance as they froze in place to the last beat. “ YEAHHHHH, GO CAITLIN!!!” I yelled up at the stage. Caitlin lined up with the rest of the dancers on the stage to take a bow. She stood confidently and slightly laughing at the front of the stage. She was all grown up…she was beautiful. I clapped as hard as I could alongside my family. Like any teenage girl, I was as quick to anger as I was to inspiration. The applause continued, and I stood up as the girls finally bowed and waved goodbye to their adoring fans. Whether my sister knew it or not, I was one of them. Because even though we have continually bickered and baffled each other, she has always been the little sister I’ve been proud to call mine.

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REBEL 57

THIRD PLA C E

CHASING GREASED LIGHTNING MEGHAN MONTERO

Nothing ever happens around here. But that’s just one of the consequences of living in a small town like ours. The little bitty town of Zephyr is one of those places that’s out in the middle of nowhere and barely has a dot on the map to let anybody know that it’s even there. Sure we have the essentials: a grocery store, a gas station, a library, a diner, and other various small mom and pop stores that people like to hang around. The television station even gets plenty of decent channels on a clear day. In all, it’s just your typical sleepy town, with not much to do. The only thing ever worth looking forward to around here is when St. Mark’s Church throws its annual carnival. What had started as a fund-raising event to build the new community center had become a yearly part of the fall break. All of the parishioners volunteered to run the booths and other concessions, with the proceeds going into their various project funds. It was nothing special. Just your typical fare filled with rides and games to win cheap prizes, and, of course, plenty of places to get your fix of deepfried comfort foods. But to the folks around here, it was like an early Christmas. You know when the carnival is in town now because it’s the only time when the parking lot is overflowing with cars at the church. How they manage to squeeze all of those rides and stands into that small little clearing behind the church, I will never know. And how they manage to get all of those people to

attend each year is a bigger mystery. But one thing I do know is that the church makes a killing off it every time. There must be some kind of unspoken competition between all of the volunteers about who can make the most money, because there are always a few specific booths that really rake in the dough. You have your ring tosses, shoot the duck, fish bowl games, and so forth. But the big money makers are found elsewhere. There’s the ball toss booth with bottles that are notorious for not getting knocked over no matter how hard you throw the ball at them. The dart games are a favorite among the local bar goers. Then there’s the dunk tank that has become quite popular in recent years ever since the principal at the local high school started “volunteering” to get dunked. But the attraction that always draws the biggest crowd is the Greased Pig event. It’s not so much the event itself that gets people’s attention. Who in their right mind would want to get all muddy and greasy for nothing? Even folks around here don’t call getting down and dirty fun, and they are not all that eager to participate. The only thing that keeps people coming back is the fact that the game is sponsored by Mrs. May’s Diner, and the prize for catching her prized pig, Lightning, is free confectioneries from her diner for

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a whole year. Now, to all of you folks from out of town, that might not sound like much. But to we locals here in Zephyr, it’s like hitting the jackpot. Mrs. May is the best damn baker this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Her peach cobbler has won first place in the county cook offs for nearly a decade. Her pineapple upside-down cake melts in your mouth. Her seasonal pecan pies are out of this world. Her homemade coconut cake is simply to die for. And that’s not even getting started with everything that’s on the menu! The trick of it is, though, that you only have three minutes to catch Lightning. That might seem like all the time in the world to catch a chubby little potbellied pig, but when it comes to Lightning, it’s there and gone in a flash. The thing about Lightning that you need to understand is that he’s a shrimpy little fellow. For whatever reason, he’s been a runt ever since he was born. He’s small enough to where he’s fast and can slip past just about anything, but he is just fat enough that you can’t quite get both hands around him. When he’s all greased up, he can easily slip right through your fingers, and he’ll keep running you around the ring until time runs out on you. In all of the years that the carnival has been going on, only a handful of people have succeeded in nabbing Lightning and laying claim to the reward. But the challenge of the event keeps them coming back for more because once you’ve had a taste of Mrs. May’s pastries, nothing else compares. Good luck chasing after Lightning if you think you’re quick enough to catch him. As for me? I have a hot date with a fresh slice of apple pie to get back to.

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E

TWO WORDS, ONE KEY MEGHAN MONTERO

These words are what most nosy younger siblings tend to expect when they’re snooping through the journal of an older sister recounting the exciting events of growing up. But they are probably the last words people would think to read when opening up an anonymous letter from some unfamiliar place. The messages are simple. They sound more like a tourist recalling the specifics of a vacation abroad. Sometimes it is of an island getaway. Other times it is from the peaceful countryside in the hills of some small country. Everything is not always as it seems on the surface, however. Some might speculate that these strange letters have some dark and sinister meaning behind them. Others still might argue that all of the little details—from geological locations, to the dates and times recorded in these messages—contain some sort of code that unlocks a long-lost conspiracy. But in fact, it is much more than that. Those two simple little words are actually the beginning of a map that leads to a treasure trove of unimaginable wealth. This treasure is not made up of gold or jewels, or any other materialistic thing associated with riches. No, this treasure is something far more valuable than that. It is a record of seemingly insignificant events that occurred on this Earth. These messages in a bottle were left to float about on the seas of time, forgotten and tossed

about with the day-to-day events that shape any individual’s life. For time is not always so forgiving to the mind. Sometimes the greatest treasure in life is the memories of the past that easily slip away from our thoughts because of how trivial they might seem at the time. More often than not, in the end, all we have to show for ourselves are the memories that were made along the way in the long, but fleeting, journey of life. Because when you blink, your life can easily pass you by. Looking back on the things of the past may seem more like fantasy at times. But as the years go by, we are more likely to forget most of the little things that we once cherished. And that is what makes those words all the more special. Just what kinds of stories come to light in that moment of jotting down those two simple words? Dear Diary…

NONFICTION

REBEL 57

SE C OND PLA C E

NIGHTMARE ALAN SKIRNICK

Did I scream this time?… Why do my hands hurt so much?… Where am I? Am I still in my room?… Why is my bed shaking?… I shiver under the multiple layers of blankets covering my entire body from the neck down. I am drenched in sweat that has frozen my bones and set my body aflame. My hands are clutching the sheets. They plead for me to release, yet won’t listen to me when I command them to let go. I am paralyzed. I’ve woken up from my second or third nightmare. I think… I’ve lost count. I’ve had them almost every night this week, and the week before that, and so on and so forth. I can’t compose myself. My heart is beating so ferociously, like a war drum, that my vision begins to blur. My eyes, open as wide as the night sky, strain to find a spec of light in this dark abyss. My bed shakes with every crash of the drum. Thud. Thud… Thud. Thud… I start to gain control of my body, but I dare not move. My eyes scan the room the best they can, having finally recovered from my blurred vision and

adjusting to the light. I am careful not to move my head; whatever is in my room cannot know I am looking for it. My heart continues to pound as I tremble with fear in my bed. Thud. Thud… Thud. Thud… I start to panic even more. I can’t find the beast that has tormented me these past few weeks. I can’t find the source of my night terrors. Letting go of inhibition, I bolt upright and cast away my covers. My skin embraces the freedom from the burning hell that was under the covers. I begin to shake as I jump out of bed and walk timidly towards my closet, my hand gently touching the cold metallic door knob, but I stand there, afraid. I never open my closet. If there is something in there, I don’t want to find it. I walk back to my bed, making sure to jump in it so whatever dwells underneath isn’t given a chance to grab hold of my ankles. Sitting upright in bed, I chastise myself for believing that there are monsters in closets or under beds. They’ve always been inside our heads. Thud. Thud… Thud. Thud… Soft bumps against the wall behind me remind me that my heart still continues to beat and still

NONFICTION

controls the bed. I ache all over. Every fiber of my being is screaming out right now. I start to recall the nightmare, but in bits and pieces here and there. The edges of the dream have been burned, the ashes falling out of memory. There was a crash… Or maybe a fall… I think it had been a stabbing… All I can remember now is that there was blood everywhere, and I was holding someone I cared deeply for. I’ve seen almost everyone close to me die. Last words escape their lips as one final plea for life drifts away, but I never hear them. As the life fades away from their eyes, so does mine. Selfishly, I beg them to come back, knowing full well that my begging will be for naught. Is this my own special Hell made with love by my brain? What mortal sin have I committed to make this sadistic asshole my captor? I tried waking up. I screamed at myself to wake up. I was fully aware of what was happening, but my brain wouldn’t let up; it had become a traitor to its own self. Thud. Thud… Thud. Thud… Most people I talk to say that they never have nightmares anymore. They say that I should see someone about these terrors. I try to change the subject, regretting having brought it up in the first place. I’ll figure it out on my own. It’s nothing but a thing—a destructive, demoralizing thing. Time passes; I have no idea how much. I need to sleep, but I don’t want to. I try to calm myself down—my heart still beating as if it wants to escape my chest, as if it has given up on this war and wants to wage war with something or someone else. Think of your goals in life… Think happy thoughts… My eyes start to weigh down. My body starts to decompress. I know what is coming. Another round

of self-induced torture. I try to fight it, but my defenses are weak. Deep, easy breathing… Think happy thoughts… My head meets the pillow as if they are old friends. I’m still fighting to keep my eyes open, but one way or another, I will sleep again—back into the monster’s grasp. My heart weakens, its beating calms down. Don’t fight it… Let your mind wander into the void… I close my eyes and take one last deep breath… Thud. Thud… Thud. Thud… Did I scream this time?

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E

WALKING THROUGH AN AIRPORT PARKING LOT ERIKA DIETRICK

This morning I held you in my arms

that no one would see again…

in a dimly lit center of goodbyes…

At least not for another few months, until I once again entered

Just nine hours ago I kissed your soft lips with clenched face and burning eyes. In just a few moments, you were gone.

the center of goodbyes, of temporary stays, cruelly masked as a cheery place of welcome.

In just a few hours, you were home.

Hello is never breathed without its evil twin Goodbye.

Bridging hundreds of miles in those few hours,

My vocal cords shattered into a million sharp cries

I cried with face hidden, pointed at the ground,

with the click of the closing car door.

stiff-legged in the parking lot trying to find a

You can see him one last time as he walks to the plane, the guard said,

metal safe haven, but it was so dark and so early, the tears fell from the tip of my nose as I desperately searched for my car, the car that still clung to your scent in the passenger seat. An older woman with bright white hair stepped out of her bright white car and stopped to gawk at me, and as I felt her prying eyes bore into my soul it was all I could do to keep from running, to protect those parts of me

Security isn’t the last goodbye. I nodded and tried to walk past him, but he followed me with the smile of a man who thinks he’s done a good deed. In the car, I wailed at the sight of the bent passenger seat from where you pulled your bags out of the back… Nothing is worse than saying Goodbye when you know Hello is six months away.

POETRY

SE C OND PLA C E

PICTURE FRAME MCKENZIE SHELTON

See the rugged photo on the sill. What lies beyond the gleaming faces still? A picture is a pose, how can it be proof? From a frozen smile, can you draw the truth? What secret and what tale is hidden far beneath? Horrifying wonder, malicious love, perhaps anxious relief? Is there trickery to detect in the eyes? Do they reflect a plethora of lies? Or are they as they seem to be, Showing no trace of misery? How to decipher what broods behind The picture perfect frame of mind.

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THIRD PLA C E

HOMETOWN: FT. WASHINGTON, MD MAYA WILLIAMS

It was such a blessing to move away. Don’t view me as a monster when you know it’s true. Cousin, I do not reject you. I reject your acts. You’ve made the “love the sinner, hate the sin” expression so Relevant. Not that it’s a sin to use words such as “Girl, you got me bent”

Each time you called me “white girl” or “school teacher.” But I never knew using large words would beget your sticks And stones. I called them “contusions,” while you made me dumb them Down to “bruises.” I called them “defacements,” and you bent my tongue hard Enough to articulate “scars.”

Like fitting a square peg into a round hole each time you

I even had to swallow the word “introvert” as a dry pill

Opened your mouth.

To settle for being “shy,” or “quiet.”

And it isn’t a sin to use a preposition at the end of a sentence

Hush, hush, you said, nothing’s wrong.

When it isn’t needed, no. It’s the laugh that escapes from you like a chill in the winter Night whenever I speak… I have cracked you up for so many years

You thought that I cowered away to find bandages, But you forgot that I didn’t change my appearance when Exiting my room. I found my healing in a book that was my personal snort of

POETRY

Cocaine.

It was such a blessing to move away.

I didn’t want you to judge me for my habit.

It wasn’t to stop loving you.

I didn’t want to be forced into that faulty rehab you made out

I know you are not a monster.

Of Heinekens and T-Pain music videos.

Radioactive outpours from your past drowned you to the

I have always had my share of dealers and stashes.

Extent of preaching “no mercy,” I

Even when you wiped me clean.

Understand now.

Each time you found my opiates, I had my pencil as my thrifty

The venom is not entirely your own, I know.

Heroin injection. Every night strung out, I was able to feverishly scribble away My problems. So, you know what? Yes. Over half of my stories were about you. Psychology has been too scary for you to understand, but Sublimation is the best defense Mechanism. You knew why I always ran home early. Zipping up my marshmallow coat in the daily northern cold, I hoped to be pulling a Harry Potter so you wouldn’t see me Leave every time. It was time for warmth for me, cousin. Time to use my drugs freely! Time to be caressed by the open-minded, And have my mind more opened than it has been. Off to the south I went so you wouldn’t shut me up anymore!

…Tell Auntie hello for me.

Y ER LL GA

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E A RIDE IN THE CITY NAN LOPATA enamel on copper

BOOK ARTS

SE C OND PLA C E TWO SPOONS PAIRED BARBARA MCFADYEN enamel on metal, paper, thread

THIRD PLA C E ITALIAN BOOKS ALCRIST MORETA book-board

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FIRST PLA C E TRAINED TREATS ALEX INGLE clay, glaze

CERAMICS

SE C OND PLA C E WOOD-FIRED VASE GAINES BAILEY stoneware, layered glazes

THIRD PLA C E POUR ME KYLIE DOWNIE clay, glaze

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FIRST PLA C E MORNING RISE CADY MAY inkjet print

DIGITAL PHOTO

SE C OND PLA C E GREENVILLE MILL RACHAEL BOWMAN archival inkjet print

THIRD PLA C E TRADED FOR GOLD ALCRIST MORETA inkjet print

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FIRST PLA C E BUTTERFLY: JACKSON’S STORY DENVER HOLLINGSWORTH

DOCUMENTARY FILM

SE C OND PLA C E IN THE SPOTLIGHT: MATTHEW RYAN JOYNER JR. LAUREN SAWYER

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FIRST PLA C E AFGHANI WOMAN ABIR ABUMOHSEN watercolor, primsacolors, ink pens, markers

DRAWING

SE C OND PLA C E EMPTY EXPRESSION DAKOTA MERRITT charcoal, tan paper

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FIRST PLA C E THE PICK UP WILSON NGUYEN

FILM ART

SE C OND PLA C E DECREPIT RYAN SHACKLEFORD

THIRD PLA C E HALLS ABANDONED AUSTIN LAMB

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FIRST PLA C E HIKE. CAMPING FOOD KATELYN STEWART packaging design

GRAPHIC DESIGN

SE C OND PLA C E

THIRD PLA C E

HAPPY CHEFS JENNIFER WARD

ROBIN HOOD NOTTINGHAM PALE ALE

packaging design

KATELYN STEWART beer packaging

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E DALI EMILY TRAPANI pencil and digital

ILLUSTRATION

SE C OND PLA C E CHINESE NEW YEAR: DOG AND HORSE MARIAH MORDECAI oil glaze

THIRD PLA C E EVE ALCRIST MORETA traditional with digital color

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E QUILTED BELT BUCKLE ALISON BAILEY copper, enamel, hand-dyed and commercial fabric, pearls, and thread

METAL DESIGN

SE C OND PLA C E BEARY BOLO SARAH HARVELL copper, bear fur, bone, leather

THIRD PLA C E SUSHI WANDS (CHOPSTICKS) MARY KLACZA copper, sterling silver, shibuichi, shakudo

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E CHROMA #1 NAN LOPATA cast resin, knitted copper, sterling

MIXED MEDIA

SE C OND PLA C E BOUNDARIES SARAH HOOPER silver gelatin print with wax, thread, and paint

THIRD PLA C E THE PASSIONATE LIVES OF ANGELS, LUNATICS, AND WARRIORS AMBER D. WATTS mixed media on panel

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FIRST PLA C E CONVERSATIONAL TABOO RUTH JAMPOL acrylic on wood panel

PAINTING

SE C OND PLA C E THE SHORT LIFE OF A DAISY LUPITA NAVA acrylic on bristol board

THIRD PLA C E MEESH EMILY POPE oil on panel

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FIRST PLA C E TAYLOR’S COMPASS CAMILLE BUTTRAM intaglio relief

PRINTMAKING

THIRD PLA C E HOLA-POPPER JOSH JACKSON

SE C OND PLA C E MILKY CAMILLE BUTTRAM intaglio

color lithography

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FIRST PLA C E DECAY OF THE RIVER GIHON CHRIS MORGAN high relief of painted cast aluminum, walnut frame

SCULPTURE

THIRD PLA C E APOCALYPSE JAESUNG LEE cast aluminum

SE C OND PLA C E DIGITAL REVOLUTION (WHERE ARE WE GOING?) JAESUNG LEE bronze, iron (cast), metal sheet

REBEL 57

FIRST PLA C E RAINSTORM ILLUSION ALLISON MCKINLEY hand-dyed, hand-woven cotton

TEXTILE DESIGN

SE C OND PLA C E PORTRAIT OF RADIANCE TERRI MENKE fabric/thread

THIRD PLA C E UNDERNEATH THE FLOORBOARDS LEIGH BRYANT screenprinting

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FIRST PLA C E VOICE OF AMERICA (GREENVILLE, NC) SITE B CHRISTINE ZUERCHER inkjet archival photograph

TRADITIONAL PHOTO

SE C OND PLA C E THE HAND THAT FEEDS (#1) BRIAN CULBERTSON cyanotype print

THIRD PLA C E ENLIGHTENED LISA SNEAD 120mm film

E BL RA NO HO

ON NTI ME

REBEL 57

C ERAMI C S SAKE FOR TWO GAINES BAILEY wood-fired stoneware and cut glass

DIGITAL PHOTO UNTITLED EMILY DIMSDALE inkjet print

HONORABLE MENTION

FILM ART THE BEARD MACKENZIE SMITH

GRAPHI C DESIGN ARCTIC MONKEYS SHOW POSTER JUSTIN GROEGER letterpress poster

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ILL U STRATION

ART FEMINISTS TESS OGLESBY digital

METAL DESIGN BLOOM ALYSSA CRUZ copper, enamel, p-1 overglaze

HONORABLE MENTION

PRINTMA K ING WE CAN NEVER GO BACK JOSH JACKSON lithography

REBEL 57

JUDGES V IS U AL ART Matthew Amante Aileen Devlin Sarah west

L i t e r at u r e anonymous

dance AlYson colwell-waber

film kevin treadway

music anonymous

CREDITS

REBEL 57 STAFF ed ito r alyssa rocherolle

designers matt rouse kristen bitar

G en er al Manag er summer falgiano

f a cu l t y a d v i s o r craig malmrose

ph otog r aph y henry stindt photographic

student media john harvey terrence dove yvonne moye marcos alices Janet Rollins

film crew campus 31 productions

co py ed ito rs craig malmrose Lisa Proctor Leanne E. Smith gunnar swanson Angela wells

REBEL 57

production notes printer theo davis printing

edition 2,000 books

press komori lithrone s40

s t o ck cover: New page gusto, gloss 100lb text: mccoy sappi, silk 80lb

typography gotham adobe caslon PRO

CREDITS

special thanks marcos alices john dixon terrence dove holly garriott john harvey craig malmrose yvonne moye Lisa Proctor frank pulley Lisa Beth Robinson Janet Rollins Leanne E. Smith henry stindt gunnar swanson kevin treadway Angela wells theo davis printing pitt county arts council at emerge university printing and graphics

our professors, families, friends, and anyone we might have left out

REBEL 57

copyright Rebel 57 is produced by and for the students of East Carolina University. Offices are located within Student Media in the Self-Help Building. The contents are copyrighted 2014 and 2015 by Rebel 57. All rights revert to the individual artists and writers upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor stored in any information retrieval system without written permission of the artist or writer. Printed with non-state funds.

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