The Eagles Nest
BY STASIA DEMICK
Laced up boots ready to walk
Ascent upon compact dust
No physical struggle wrought
From curiosity intoxication
Hills rise without slopes
Thighs burn in dull fervor
No reprieve until the top
A perch aware of solitude
Rock surface sustained in full
Shrubbery guard thinnest path
Hands meant to feel stone firm
Rest upon rigid edges old stone
Reprieve in dark beyond home
Eagles nest away from strife
Gaze upon the city lights
To recall grandness forgotten
[she][he]
BY LAUREN DAVILA
plucked eyebrows
perfectly groomed. gold glitter brightens
lapis lazuli irises
set above apple pink cheeks.
rollers out of curled hair for
frizz doesn’t have a home near
her sea-foam dress —
white —
teeth fire lip stain.
winged eyeliner
so on point it could cut.
twirling, giggling, bubblegum
pops.
preconceived notions.
for her batman shirt under the bed
says what the words floating through her head
can’t as they strain to burst through society’s glass ceiling.
but for now, hanging on his every word.
she feels.
he longs to feel more than
eyebrows raised in derision.
he feels only heat.
the wandering in a desert,
can’t breathe it’s so hot
hellfire is better than this
kind of heat.
Heat glazed eyes behind opaque windows
he concentrates on
anything but her tittering,
counting the flames licking
his toes and fingers
until they melt off like
candle wax
dripping, dripping, dripping.
there is no cold no heat
no ice nor fire
no love nor desire
not her laugh nor her light
as he falls, sinks
melts further into the unfeelingness.
18
BY CAROL ALBAN
There’s something ominous about 18.
Maybe it’s the way the loops curve,
Making a prison of infinity;
Maybe it’s the stark contrast
Between the strictness of soldier one
And the playfulness of juvenile eight;
Or maybe it’s that
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’ve spent eighteen years
Watching, learning, growing,
But there’s no rulebook in the game of life,
There’s no manual to fix a broken-down soul.
And yet I keep on trying.
Because one day
Something’s got to stop the crying
And the dying and the lying And the tear-filled goodbying.
There must be some connection I always skip
Or a switch I forget to flip.
If only I could patch all the holes and tighten each screw,
Then the world would have a brand new view
On hunger, on pain,
On illnesss, and selfish gain.
But my hands are too small
For all my best intentions
And I’m much too short to reach
To pull down the North star
To give to the lost souls
Searching for its light.
And I’ve yet to learn that some things
Just don’t want to be made whole,
That I can never fix
What doesn’t want to heal.
So while I may be an adult
In the eyes of the world,
In my eyes of a child,
I’m still a little girl.
I still don’t have the answers
To all the questions posed,
And I’ve yet to find the windows
That opened when some doors closed.
18 marks the end of innocence and second chances
But looking back,
That happened long ago,
So there must be some things I already know,
Like the warmth of sunlight
And the beauty of snow,
The power of laughter
To chase dark clouds away
And the strength it takes
To face another day,
Hugs and mugs (of tea, that is)
With books, curled in nooks create peacefulness
But still comes the call:
“World Peace! Fight Hunger!”
The greatest lesson I’ve yet to learn
Is that I don’t have to do it all.
So come 18 with paradoxes and parodies,
Perhaps another year will answer all of these.
Support Group
BY: ELLIOT BASSILE
A man sat on his plastic chair waiting for the group to arrive. He twiddled his fingers, crossed his legs, uncrossed them. The man often facilitated these kinds of support groups but never had he been so fortunate to work with such important people before. That is why he twiddled his fingers so vigorously and couldn’t sit still for more than a few seconds.
The room was in the basement of an old, forgotten bar and just as easily could have been the location for one of those illegal gambling operations you see so often in the movies. For the support group’s particular needs however, the man had the room touched up a bit — to give it a more comfortable feel of sorts. The lone dangling light bulb in the middle of the small square room, for instance, had been removed entirely and replaced with a simple tabletop lamp placed in the middle of the desk they were to congregate around. Where there were cracks in the wall, the man covered them with abstractly inspirational paintings and posters of birds, flowers and the like. Instead of the old, decaying wooden chairs that had been there for years apparently, the man brought in five plastic, red chairs. It was all rather simple and slightly familiar but of course, that was the goal — to give these great men a space where they could share their stories and frustrations without thrusting them into a forced spotlighted space.
The man took a good, long look at the clock on the wall. The hands indicated that it was four minutes to 9 p.m. His anxiety was beginning to lift as he looked around the quaint room and concluded silently to himself that this would more than suffice these men’s worldly needs. Some coffee and donuts were carefully laid out on the desk in the middle of the red chairs. The man went to grab for the lone jelly-filled donut when the door to the room swung open and the first member of this exclusive support group walked in.
He was a darker man and the support group leader immediately recognized him. As he slowly unraveled his turban, Muhammad opened his mouth to speak.
“Damn, there’s nothing like taking this thing off at the end of a long day man.”
The support group facilitator jumped up to welcome the prophet.
“Hello, my name is Ron. It is an absolute pleasure and honor to meet you and work with you tonight Muhammad. I can call you Muhammad right?”
Muhammad gave a short, corner-of-the- mouth smile as he shook Ron’s hand.
“Of course you can, surely you wouldn’t be able to pronounce the whole thing now, would you, Ronald?”
Ron nodded his head, half in agreement, half in shame. This Muhammad guy really is as intense as they say, he thought to himself.
“Yes … yes you’re right about that. Well take a seat please, Muhammad. Grab a donut, a cup of coffee, make yourself comfortable, and we’ll give the others some more time to show up.”
At this, Muhammad picked up the final jelly donut and devoured it as he stared Ronald in the eyes, as if he knew of the minor torment he was causing his host.
Mere seconds later, and to Ronald’s utter relief, the next man walked through the door. Again, there was no mistaking him for anyone else, it was Shiva. He had a snake draped around his neck and was wearing a tank top one could find at Urban Outfitters. Ronald, half expecting the snake, was more taken aback by the tank top.
Shiva wears wife beaters, Ronald thought to himself incredulously. As if reading the slight shock on Ron’s face but mistaking its source for something else, Shiva addressed Ron in a soft, apologetic tone.
“Good evening, I am Shiva, and this is my snake Vasuki. I hope he does not frighten you too much. Parvati, my wife, is out with her friends tonight and couldn’t care for him as she usually does, and we only had enough money for the kids’ babysitter. I could not find a snake sitter at an affordable price.”
He paused as if waiting for a reaction from Ron and Muhammad but they just stared. Then Shiva broke down laughing at his own joke, sputtering about how ridiculous an idea a snake sitter was. Ron joined in to make the mood slightly more bearable, but Muhammad kept eating his donut, eyeing Shiva up and down.
“What’s with the tank top, bro?” Mu- hammad finally said, jelly stuck in the corner of his lips and all.
“What do you mean?” Shiva answered somewhat taken aback.
Before anything could escalate though, Ron stepped in.
“Um, I believe that Muhammad was only inquiring about its brand, Shiva.”
Muhammad shot Ron a dirty look but did not press the matter. Instead, he reached for a napkin and cleaned his face of the jelly that had so generously been spread across it.
“Damn, that’s a great f—— donut,” he finally said.
Meanwhile, Shiva was beginning to ad- dress the subject of his tank top but was interrupted by Jesus’ arrival.
Ron, a fervent fan of his work, jumped up when he caught sight of the illustrious bearded man.
“Wow, what a pleasure! I wasn’t sure if your schedule was going to allow you to make it, Jesus, but welcome. And I must say it is quite the honor meeting you.”
Jesus was wearing dark blue slacks and a plain white dress shirt with a tie just barely hanging off it. He almost looked like an intern returning home from another difficult day at the office.
Ron struggled with his next words,
“You are much more…” he began but quickly ended, realizing the somewhat boorish words that were about to come out of his mouth.
“Brown?” Jesus finished his thought for him.
Ron’s face lit up red as shame engulfed his body.
“I’m so sorry, Jesus, that was inconsiderate of me, I …” Ron began.
“Be calm my child, you did me no harm. I am pretty brown. It can be a little shocking if you grew up with the pictures of me with the fair skin and blue eyes and all that. You are forgiven,” hedeclaredashemadethesignofthecrossover Ron’s face.
Jesus continued,
“I bumped into Siddhartha on my way in here. He’s sitting below that big tree outside with his eyes closed. Says he needs ‘to be in a compas- sionate state of mind before sitting down with everyone.’ I really love that guy.”
Almost on cue, the door opened one more time to reveal the chubby, smiling man known as the Buddha.
“Speaking of the devil,” Ron exclaimed. He was finding it more and more difficult to conceal his excitement.
The Buddha spoke,
“Oh, please don’t tell me the Devil is coming. I’ve tried leveling with that guy a few times, but he’s such a downer.”
“No, no, I only meant it in a manner of speech. This is everyone for tonight’s session,” Ron clarified.
The men sat quietly for a few minutes. Through the shuffling of feet and the mild uneasiness however, these strong leaders slowly ramped up the volume as they exchanged pleasantries, while others caught up after years of not talking. Eventually, after taking the time to watch and gauge the situation, Ron spoke up,
“Hello everyone, once again, I am Ron, and I’m so happy to see all of your brave faces here to- night. I’m sure you are all well aware but I just wanted to reassure you that this is a safe space. I want you guys to feel comfortable in sharing whatever needs sharing. Tonight, you no longer support everyone else, you now get to support yourselves!”
For some reason, Ron had expected an explo- sion of applause and howls of unity but the men just looked around at each other in mild dismay. Hampered yet motivated, Ron continued,
“OK, that sounded a lot better in my head, but you guys get it. It can get tiring carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, so to- night we can chill out and discuss your own is- sues.”
A hand shot up. “YesJesus,goahead,”Ronsaid. Jesus wet his lips before speaking.
“My biggest issue recently might seem simple or a tad ‘meh’ to everyone, but I feel like I’ve reached my limit with it. People really need to stop using my name as a curse word or as a way to verbal- ize their bewilderment. Whatever happened to ‘never use the Lord’s name in vain’? I mean, I may not be the Lord, but I am his son after all.”
Before Ron or anyone else could answer with some kind of advice or comfort, Jesus continued.
“Like … Ron what’s your last name?”
Ron opened his mouth.
“OK, so you are Ronald Howard,” Jesus continued without waiting for an answer he already had. Ron kept his mouth closed despite Jesus getting his name slightly wrong. “Imagine if every time someone got caught in traffic they shouted ‘Ronald Howard!’ with so much venom mind you. It’s unsettling to say the least.”
Muhammad spoke up.
“I second that!”
“What do you mean,” Shiva replied “I’ve never heard anyone shout ‘Muhammad!’ while in traf- fic.”
Muhammad eyed Shiva up and down again, pausing at the tank top that, so visibly to the rest
of the room, grated at his sensibilities.
“Yes … I know this Shiva but my issue is similar. I’m tired of people taking property over my name and image.”
“Yeah. Those ‘South Park’ guys were so mean,” Buddha calmly commented. Sitting next to Muhammad, Buddha reached his arm out to pat him on the shoulder.
“Actually, I was talking about the people who complained about that. It’s flattering to even be on TV; I feel like a pop culture icon for once and I gotta say, it feels nice. I mean, look at Jesus and Buddha, ‘Fam- ily Guy’ has you,” Muhammad pointed at Jesus, “performing magic tricks and adven- turing with Peter Griffin while Buddha’s brand has exploded in recent years. With this New Age boom in the West, no offense Buddha, but a fat, bald guy from India is now practically a sex symbol for thousands and thousands of beautiful, flexible yoga practicing ladies.”
The Buddha gave a wry smile,
“No offense taken” he said.
“I don’t know. It’s just frustrating, man. To be this famous Last Prophet and only get mentioned when discussing fatwas and jihadists is really depressing.”
“On that same token,” Shiva began “why does Buddha get all this reverence for the yoga craze? I mean I was doing yoga before he was even born. And — and … while you were growing up a prince and screwing all the women in your kingdom, you know in- dulging the senses, I was still doing yoga. No offense by the way.”
“None taken whatsoever” Buddha said once more with a cheeky smile on his face. Ron noticed that he seemed to be enjoying this meeting more than the others.
“Thank you three for sharing your com- plaints. As you can all tell, you share similar struggles but now you can stand up and say ‘No more!’ No more supporting the people of the world only to be marginalized, simplified or ignored. In this space, we love ourselves, we support ourselves. You are beautiful and fantastic religious leaders.”
“Here, heres” could be heard around the room. Though it was only the first meeting, Ron thought this was going splendidly. He was actually helping these amazing men who had helped so many others. He turned his attention to Buddha.
“Buddha, do you have anything you’d like to share or discuss?”
The Buddha began,
“Well, I would just like to thank Muham- mad and Shiva for the kind words.” For the first time, Muhammad and Shiva seemed to connect on a decent level as their eyes met while they simply shook their heads “and to you Jesus — bravo! I am a fan of your work. We should collaborate some- time. With your preachings on forgiveness and my expertise in compassion, we could be the next Bert and Ernie!”
“… interesting comparison, to say the least, but I thank you all the same, o’ enlightened one,” Jesus kindly replied.
Ron felt the need to interject once more,
“I am sure everyone here appreciates the kind words, Buddha. Do you have any is- sues though that you’d like to discuss?”
“Well, I hope this doesn’t offend, but what the hell were you thinking with that tank top, Shiva? It’s just incredibly difficult to take you seriously with your chest hair crawling out from beneath what little you have on and staring me in the face.”
A “here, here” could be heard from Mu- hammad’s side of the room.
Buddha continued,
“I mean we’ve all been known to don a good robe now and again but this is supposed to be a comfortable space for everyone. Not just for you and your incredible chest hair.”
Shiva, somewhat taken aback, replied,
“To be honest everyone, I thought I was making a solid fashion statement that just went hand in hand with what we are try- ing to achieve here, but I get it, point tak- en. Vasuki tried to warn me before we left tonight, but I just said, ‘You’re just a snake, what do you know?’ I guess he knows more than I thought.”
Vasuki, now sunning himself by the lamp in the middle of the table, simply hissed in delight.
Jesus consoled the Hindu god,
“Don’t fret my child, you are forgiven.”
For the final time of the night, Ron spoke up.
“Thank you, Buddha, for bringing your issue to the rest of us. While not exactly what I was intending when I said ‘issue,’ it’s good to see that you all can air out your differences in a kind, gentle manner. Now to wrap up our first session, I’d like to go around the table and have everyone give us one word to take away from this meeting, something that will hopefully help us stay strong until next week’s gathering. Shiva, we’ll start with you.”
Still a little shaken but sitting proudly he said,
“Modesty” Buddha said, “Pride”
Jesus said,
“Unity”
And Muhammad said,
“Understanding.”
With that, the group split. Ron was happy with the first session and felt a certain con- fidence. He believed that, with continued meetings, he could get them all to follow his own Church.
L. Ron Hubbard chuckled to himself as he climbed into his spaceship and thought about Jesus mistaking him for a successful filmmaker.
