Sunday morn, skies that mourned,

wrinkled blankets, undone laundry,

notes that piled, lectures paused,

plates and bowls, last night meals.

Seasons changes, fall and rains,

falling apart, piece by piece.

Save me, please, screamed to the skies,

begged and hurt, lone in a crowd.

Deep inside, something changed,

life felt different, so did I.

What once was, what now is,

what would be, all blurred in one.

Barely human, days all same,

can't be machine, feelings clawed.

Bewitched in a maze, no way out,

dark that stayed, lights that frayed.

Would I leave, this game of hurt,

or would I stay, forever and frail?

Shall I try, when all things fail,

or just let go, as fate may plead?

But I will wake, to another day,

for dawn may break, and the sun may rise,

birds may sing, and the rains may pour,

nights may fall, and the cold may creep.

I will wake to another day.

I told him that I hated walking his dog.

The Bernese is strong and excited about everything and the leash is quite useless if a squirrel is stupid enough to show itself. The muscles in my arms and shoulders ache from every simple stroll through the neighborhood, and my throat stings from the constant begging and pleading and bargaining. His white and brown face, droopy and slobbering, always gives me that look over his shoulder until I give in and dig into my coat pocket for one of those bacon treats. A nightmare, indeed.

I complained about the task once more this morning, groaning about the frosted, slick sidewalks and that elderly woman south on Wadelyn Lane who always fusses about making sure that Baxter doesn't "conduct his business" in her grass. The winter was finally starting to take hold of our small town, and I despise the season and all of its freezing, windy facets. But Sam listened to every word, patient and amused, and just smiled warmly before kissing the line where my skin ends and soft curls begin. He told me he loved me and that he'd be back soon, and that he promised I wouldn't have to walk Baxter anymore once the snow arrived. And then he left.

Left me with the stubborn old giant that I swore gave me a mischievous smile through those floppy chops and waited at the door, bushy tail swishing. I glared at the muddy bootprints Sam left behind and prepared for the biting temperatures with my beanie and a thick jacket. And with reluctance, I grabbed the fraying purple leash hanging on the hook by the front door, clipped it onto Baxter's collar, and prayed that it would last another day before beginning the perilous half-mile journey around our suburban community.

The cold pierced through every pore in my face as soon as we walked down the driveway and past the tire tracks leading in the opposite direction. Baxter huffed happily and trotted, that tangled tail of fur wagging lazily and upright. Already, I could feel him taking advantage of the fact that I was his chauffeur as my torso was tugged ahead of my legs. My breath puffed out little clouds in front of me when I grumbled his name in warning, tilting my head to the sky beseechingly. But he acted as if he didn't hear me as he carried on, lifting his nose in the crispy air to take in all of the wonderful smells. My own nose twisted after we passed a pile of fresh, steaming dung on the sidewalk; I could only redirect Baxter's attention to a lilting bird's song and some sirens in the distance at that point.

Eventually, we passed the elderly woman's house, and she was conveniently seated on her porch with a mug of coffee giving off grey tendrils of warmth. Her eyes were narrow with sternness and judgment while she watched us pass. I just took my free hand out of the comfort of my pocket and offered an awkward wave with a tight smile. She didn't repay the gesture, but apparently found it in herself to nod.

But of course, the ever-argumentative mountain dog had to stop to sniff the dying blades of grass. My eyes widened at the unexpected audacity--even Baxter doesn't edge the widow's temper. I gave a gentle tug on his leash, which gave no assistance as he kept his snout down, inhaling whatever could possibly be so interesting in an aggravated neighbor's yard.

"Sorry!" I shouted. "We're working on his manners!"

She just stared at me expectantly, one leg crossed over the other while she waited for me to make Baxter obey. I grabbed at the side of his collar, making him look me in the face. I spoke through gritted teeth:

"You are embarrassing the hell out of me. Let's go."

He looked at me blankly, unmoving when I went to guide him along. I growled.

"Baxter, now."

Nothing.

I sighed, pursing my lips so hard they went numb in the freezing air.

"Okay, I will give you two bacon treats if you listen to me. Two. Treats."

The strange look the old woman gave me from across the lawn didn't go unnoticed, but I pretended not to see it, instead savoring the small victory when Baxter's tongue fell out in response to the bribe. He may be a dog, but he is fluent enough in a few select words to know when he's getting a good deal.

By the time the rest of the walk was complete, and Baxter received both of his treats, I was satisfied with the amount and difficulty of the challenges presented. The house was quiet and levels more pleasant than outside. I rewarded myself with a hot shower, breakfast in bed, and a hot cup of lavender tea while Baxter munched on his bed in the corner of the living room. Hours passed, and I prepped dinner: alfredo and garlic bread. I waited on the couch until six o'clock with my favorite reality show playing in the background.

And when he was late, I called to ask when he'd be home. I was only met with that welcoming, clever voicemail of his.

When another hour came and went, I worried about dinner, and how it was getting cold.

And finally, he knocked on the locked front door, and I was already scolding him about not answering my calls and letting a perfectly good meal go cool before I opened it for him.

But I found another man on my doorstep, all dressed in black and blue and holding his hat with both hands in front of him. He wore a pitiful face, and his eyes gleamed with exhaustion.

Baxter walked much slower to my side after my knees slammed into the muddy bootprints on the hardwood floors. He whined next to me after I screamed a cry so loud that other doors across the street opened. He laid down, pressing into me for comfort as the stranger in blue, who I'd never met before, knelt down and gave me his condolences and apologies for my dead fiance.

It was slick on the roads, he said.

It wasn't his fault. There was a young girl learning how to drive with her father.

None of them made it.

It wasn't five minutes from home.

I'm sure he was a good man.

And all of this talk in past tense...the words bit much colder than the winter that would come.

The last thing I'd said...

I told him I hated walking his dog.

-------

I never cleaned the hardwood floors by the front door.

I let the tire marks fade on their own, never parking in Sam's place.

I walked Baxter in every snow, every flurry, every blizzard.

And he never pulled or tugged or bothered the old woman's grass again.

Her name was Judith, I learned. And she loved her husband very much. He died of colon cancer in his forties, and she'd never felt so rotten and alone after the fact. But even so, after she'd heard of Sam's death, she brought freshly baked pies and home-cooked meals to that front door. And she talked for hours, every so often even sneaking a small bite of lasagna or bread to Baxter under the table. And I listened, not often speaking or necessarily kind, but Judith didn't seem to notice.

I never sold the house, and I slept alone for many years after.

But when the couple down the road moved in, I watched the young woman walk their German Shepherd, and I laughed every time she struggled to make him listen or relax. I kept bacon treats next to the mailbox--with a sign that said take one. And I bought salt every winter.

Spreading it on every home's driveway before the sun rose on Wadelyn Lane.

Mattie's happy memories with Mama were few and fading. He could still hear her sweet voice singing to him. Holding him as they rocked in the swing on the porch. Splashing in the lake. Then baby Charlotte came and Mama cried all the time. She barely left her room. She would lay in her bed with the shades drawn, a bottle of pills on the night table, something else under the bed. Even when little Charlotte screamed, Mama would just say, Mattie, tell Mrs. Henderson to get Charlotte a bottle or to change that baby's diaper, Mama's tired. Sometimes, she would let little Charlotte lay with her and that would calm them both. Briefly. Daddy wanted to get a nanny, a young girl from the country club, to come help Mama, but Mama screamed and cried so nobody came to help. Thus, it continued: Mama cried, Charlotte cried, Daddy threw things.

Mattie watched and waited.

One day, Charlotte wouldn't stop crying. Daddy was working in his office, I don't want to hear a peep, you hear me, Mattie? Unless the house is burning down I don't want to hear a thing. Mrs. Henderson was watching her soaps in the kitchen, don't bother me, boy, while my soaps is on. Mama had swallowed her medicine earlier along with half the bottle she kept under the bed. She was sleeping with her mouth open. Mattie had been watching her when Charlotte started crying.

Mattie dragged the chair over to the crib and picked her up. She was so little still. His head ached for release.

The police said it was an accident.

"It could happen to anyone, Mrs. Vogel. Mr. Vogel. I know it hurts, but don't blame yourself."

They said Mama had rolled over onto baby Charlotte, suffocating her.

Mama didn't remember anything. Daddy was ashen-faced, holding her, both inconsolable. Mattie sat by the lake, the smallest of smiles on his face as he waited for the pieces to click into place.

The next morning, Mama never woke up.

They say she overdosed on her medication. They found sediment from her pills in the bottom of her vodka bottle. Overwhelmed by grief while still suffering from post-partum depression. So sad.

A few days later, they found Daddy with a gun in his mouth, and the back of his head splattered on the wall behind him. What a tragedy, everyone said. Leaving that poor sweet boy all alone.

Years later, Mattie became Dr. Matthew Vogel, psychiatrist. He was one of the most successful psychiatrists in New York, known for his sensitivity and empathy. And a rather liberal dispensing of prescription anti-depressants. He had a thriving practice on the upper east side.

Until a young detective connected the dots between him and a puzzling suicide...and then a series of "suicides" going back 30 years...

The fire was hot enough to melt the skin off your bones at thirty feet. Heat radiated off of the buckling steel supports of skyscrapers and turned the streets between the high buildings into a convection oven. The inferno turned the air toxic. Anyone too close would set their lungs ablaze just by breathing. Most tried to run, though to where, it’s impossible to say. Some were trapped on the roads as the asphalt melted underneath them, their sloughing skin melted into the black tar. Some made it to The Lake. They thought that would save them, until the water of The Lake boiled them alive.

Some may have escaped the crucible by fleeing into the Ramble but it’s not likely. Not with heat like this. Those that managed to submerge themselves in the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis reservoir may have been spared.

Aisling observed the fire from her floor-to-ceiling windows. Her right hand shook and she tried to stifle the tremor. The flames had raged up the Upper West Side and were overtaking Harlem, faster than anyone could have imagined. It was spreading too fast. Impossible to fathom.

Her phone buzzed on the table beside her. It was her mom, again. Seventeen missed calls. It was okay, she would call her back later. How could she even explain? She would call back once she had time to get her thoughts in order. Her mom would be so mad.

She should just enjoy watching the view from her forty-first story windows for the moment. She paid enough money for this view, after all. What would she tell her mom? Oh, her mom was going to be mad, indeed.

She would need to charge her phone though, it would die soon. And then she wouldn’t be able to call back. And the power was out, which would make that impossible. Who knew when it would come back on? She’d managed to tune the radio in her kitchen to the emergency broadcast band where they’d given the general evacuation order, effective immediately. But Aisling hadn’t evacuated. Where would she go? She didn’t really have a lot of friends.

“Damnit Aisling, just go anywhere!” She could hear her mom shouting, “just get out of the city! You should never have been there in the first place!” Maybe. If only mom could see her now. It would have to be worse on the streets, though, even her mom would see that. The emergency band had since gone dead, after warning of risks to the city’s gas lines and cascading failures of safety measures and essential utilities. She would have to wait it out. She’d call her mom back soon.

She brought her left hand up and sipped her drink. Aisling didn’t drink, except when she really needed one. That’s why she hadn’t thrown all the booze out when she gave it up. You never know when you might really need it, to calm your nerves if nothing else. And nerves need calming when the world burns.

She’d even garnished it with a piece of leftover bacon from her fridge, which she knew she had to eat up since the power was out.

Her phone buzzed again. The flames neared Yorkville. Maybe she should pick up. Her mom would worry. She’d just finish her drink first.

The air outside was blisteringly hot, even at this distance. Aisling stripped down to her undergarments. Sweat streamed off her forehead and arms.

There was something out there, beyond the immolation, beyond the flames that danced high in the blazing air of the city night. Like the light from the fire flickered off the hidden sides of great, black, stony mountains, somewhere far away, beyond the city, yet towering over it. Their enormity pierced the clouds of smoke and the distant sky. They reached over and behind the moon. There were chasms in between the mammoth peaks. She imagined them delving down beneath the blaze into cold, dark, ageless, places.

The change in air pressure from temperatures above a thousand degrees weakened the windows, and the glass exploded, driving shards like bullets into Aisling’s body. Blood dripped from skin slashed to ribbons and steamed when it hit the ground. Aisling sipped her drink, hot now, it tasted like iron. She could watch the mountains forever, out there behind the sky. They were so beautiful. Her skin started to bubble and peel.

Death when it came was swift. Not her body melting from the heat, but from the explosion. Emergency services had warned about cascading failures in the gas lines throughout the city. The fire raged through the conduits, and emerged in Aisling’s building with the force of a ton and a half of TNT. The building turned to ash and rubble awash in the storm. Aisling died wishing she could see the black mountains, just one last time.

I wanted vines to grow over the spotted railing. My mom and aunt clipped the weeds and painted it instead.

That's what we do. What we've done for a hundred years.

We paint over the ugly flecks of brown and orange, eating away at what was once secure.

We paint over it, ignoring the shifting texture of shuddering metal.

We paint it white, a color unsullied but easily filled by filth.

We paint, again and again. Masking the slow destruction.

One day, it will fall, heavy with layers and withered by time. And I will whisper gratitudes as it crashes dully into the overgrowth.

My boots will stomp heavy, avoiding the pits left by the crabapple tree, crushing dandelions beneath my heels.

I will walk, down the hill, down the street, to the crossroads, to new homes on new streets. My eyes will linger lustfully over renovated houses and fresh, modern fixtures. Envy will turn to pride. Shame is transmuted between sighs of relief.

One day, I will look off into the distance, over the hill, past the church. The collapsed railing will be long out of sight but the wind will roll in softly, crooning tales of nature and her tenacity. Her songs will tussle my hair and set it down gently upon my neck, a story of lightning storms and hallowed ground.

An angel weeps quietly upon my shoulder.

I find her despair misguided.

Twenty years ago, my small brown feet, encased in glitter-specked jelly sandals, stopped abruptly at the edge of the back porch. The dying lights in the heels flickered an erratic pattern, then ceased as I took note of an spotted belly exposed between the dandelions.

I'd come in from play, or maybe school, to find the tank empty. I walked through the house, also empty, and descended into the basement on the hunt for one of my elders. I walked outside, greeted by a black, fan-shaped fin pushing through the grass. A soft brown mouth was frozen into a blunted diamond, screaming silently into an atmosphere unforgiving . Despite the dryness of the day, the ground was soggy beneath my feet. Papa was in his workshop, which is where the fish tank has taken residence for the better part of a quarter century.

I had a dream the other night. I was a child again, and my waify frame leaned over the side of the loveseat, ribcage shifted upward by the armrest pushing gently into my abdomen. The room was dark, and I was alone. My nose was inches from the glass, and soft white light illuminated the curiosity in my tiny face. I carefully watched the movement in the tank, just as I had all those years before. But the beloved creature of my memory was replaced by a sea of koi flashing obsidian and tangerine within the quiet glow. They flooded the tank, fighting for space. They were not the same fish I knew from my childhood but still, I woke with a memory unlocked.

The fish didn't have a name. They called it Oscar, based on a misclassification of the species. I know now that the fish is known as a common pleco. Hypostomus plecostomus. An omnivore from South America that locks itself onto the side of the tank and sucks growth from the glass. They grow beyond expectation and are surprisingly sensitive to their environment. They're armored, but that serves little purpose for the domesticated fish. I've read that they're able to breathe air, though I doubt that extends to the wind sifting through the blades of an overgrown backyard in the Carolinas.

I asked my grandmother about the fate of the fish. As she tells it, the tank leaked often and many of the inhabitants attacked each other. They had the pleco for a long time, but my grandfather grew weary of the problematic upkeep. I had no memory of its problems. Only of an unyielding fascination with the beautiful black fish.

"It was an ugly thing", Grandma said. An ugly thing, sold deceptively -or ignorantly- for a utilitarian purpose. The pleco was never destined to be the star of any display. It was a custodian. A forgotten descendant of an exotic, resourceful lineage commanded to clear the muck that refined, celebrated fish wouldn't dare to touch. An ugly thing. Undeserving of a legacy of its own.

My grandmother didn't specify if the pleco was alive when they dumped the tank. I didn't press. I'd asked enough questions and the answers I received were unsurprising and made me weary. I chose instead to focus my attention on internet articles discussing tank conditions and growth sizes.

Soulless eyes stared into the sunlight. Sandal lights spun on heels and crossed back through the doorway. The fish became bones in the next coming days. Soon the bones were gone, too, carried off within the voracious maw of memory faded.

I drive hard for what I believe in. I make my mind grind from outside of the box to within. I beg, plead, and borrow. I search like there is no tomorrow. I depend on help when things get rough. I try to convince and struggle Until it's more than enough. I set my soul aside to get you to see what I believe. I constantly get put down or knocked to my knees. But with the Grace of God And any blessings I have saved. I might just convince someone to care and behave. To reach way down in their spirit and help someone in need. Naturally feel their urgency Before they begin to plead. Fistchallenge4kids is my way To give back To help homeless children and shelters with things they lack. Since 2016, I did the grind on my own. I made over 500 t-shirts for children and people with no homes. With or without help God will provide. I hope he touch some Angels heart To help us with this T-shirt drive.

Friday - May 14th - 9:07 p.m.

The crime scene unit had just finished and were leaving the Marcus Arms Apartments where a dead body had been discovered.

The victim: Arnold Kilpatrick, retired two-star Army general, formerly attached with the 317thAirborne Division, was found face up on his living room floor. A widower for seven years, has left two sons and one daughter behind, who would be notified prior to the autopsy if possible.

The general was a mess.

His throat was slit with a smooth-edged blade, and a large X-shaped pattern that went from left shoulder to right hip, and right shoulder to left hip, had opened his chest. The two slash grooves were three inches deep. Probably done after the throat. There appeared to be little struggle, giving Lieutenant Janis Baker the impression, the general knew the perp.

Carl Macklin, Senior Forensic Pathologist, explained to her that he would have all the prints found, numbered, and identified within a few hours. The scene provided no hair samples anywhere in the apartment that appeared different from the general’s gray hair that was now a bloody mess across his chest. His head had been shaved bald. There didn’t appear to be any skin residue or blood marks under the victim’s fingernails to indicate a struggle, but scrapings were taken just the same.

There was a note attached to the victim’s body.

LIVE ON RAEH.

Lieutenant Baker had a strong suspicion they wouldn’t find the perp’s prints anywhere.

The only reason I keep breathing, doesn't need me anymore. When we met - he and I were both pretenders, with our heads in the clouds and our hands intertwined, we'd allow ourselves to be consumed by empty promises and fantasies just to make living more bearable. Except, he doesn't have to pretend anymore, not the way I do. All this time, while I've been attacked by the waves, only the string of my imagination keeping me from drowning, he's been fighting against the current. He's been following the string to calm waters.

My legs are too tired, but he refuses to resurface without me. His hand is stretched out towards mine, the water is too murky for me to see his face, the promise of safety in his arms is the only reason I don't let go of my last breath. He doesn't need me, I'm only stopping him from reaching what he has always longed for, the light. The weave of my thread is slowly unraveling with tension.

"Hey, my name is Felix, and you are?" It was the summer when we met. The walls of our prison seemed to be impossible to escape, neither of us imagined we would get through the season. I was lying between the sandpaper sheets of the hospital bed I was confined to. The intruder, who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders all with a cosmic smile was leaning against the door frame, chained to his IV. He was different from me, I knew it from the moment our eyes met; his gleamed with hope and mine were dulled from the medication.

"I'm Freya." I sat up slightly, I don't know if he could tell, but I pitied him - more than I pitied myself. People like him deserve to live, by the looks of it I thought he wouldn't. "Aren't you supposed to be eating lunch?" I looked at my own lunch tray, left untouched on the tray table. He raised an apple.

"I thought we could have dessert together, maybe?" He seemed so full of life, it's hard not to get captivated by his ludicrous hope. That first day, he sat on the edge of my bed, munching away as if he was eating the fruit of life. Doing his best to lure me towards the unidentifiable blob on my plate. And that's how we began our summer together.

I live in a big city. The sounds grow louder with the day and the lights grow brighter with the night. Too often, I feel myself become lost in the rapid pace of this city. I fight feelings of loneliness, emptiness and immense fear, but there comes a time where I forget all of that. There is one hour of my day that sets my soul at ease. For one hour of the day, I am transported to another big city: Boston. There, after walking in the chilly wind, I end my day in a warm place. Every night, at 10 pm, I am greeted by the sounds and warmth of a bar called Cheers.

At 10pm, I turn my TV to Channel 7, and I say hello to the gang at Cheers. Tears well in my eyes but refuse to fall as the theme song plays. It's at that time I really do miss where everybody knows my name. I scream "Norm!" at the TV and I laugh as Carla hurls verbal punches at Diane. The solace I have, is that for an hour, I am no longer here. For 2 episodes, I am in a completely different city, where I am amongst the bar patrons, rolling my eyes when Cliff begins to speak.

You see, it's not about Cheers, but it is what Cheers represents. The familiar atmosphere is something I long to find here in college, but I am still seeking it. I suppose it is peculiar, that a show which is 41 years old puts my 19 year old heart at rest, but nothing makes me feel at ease like those beginning piano bars in the theme song. I think there is quite the truth to be spoken in that song. I am prolific amongst my friends and family for being a runner. Not in the athletic sense, but in the sense that I am constantly running away from the familiar and into the unknown. However, I find that no matter how far I run, I will always look back and cherish my time at the places where everyone knows my name.

I think, in a manner of speaking, it's inherent human nature to seek places where everyone knows us and is glad we came. It's part of what makes Cheers so special. Here, where I have no one, I find great solace in the fact that once the clock turns 10, I can turn to Sam Malone, and tell him about my day while he gives me a smile and pours me a drink. What makes Cheers work as a show, and I mean the inherent nature in the message of the show, is that it provides an empathetic retreat where one can feel at home. Do you know how many times I've turned on Cheers after a bad day, crying during the theme song only to leave the episode laughing as the picture of the bar room lingers on my screen, reminding me to thank Glen Charles, Les Charles, and James Burrows.

Cheers and its theme song feel like Bruce Springsteens longing and cathartic cry in Born to Run. That's how I best know how to describe it. It is a part of my soul that is so calming that sometimes, when I truly feel the depths of this lonely world, I pretend I am at that bar. I pretend everyone shouts my name as I walk through the door and Coach asks "How's life treating ya?" when I sit down. I pretend that for a few moments in my day, I am received with love and fondness. You see, the warmth of the bar in Cheers makes the cold pavements of my big city a little easier to bear. The gang on the show makes me feel like loneliness isn't a burden on my heart. I owe a big thank you to Cheers, it's been with me through the thick and thin. How I feel so connected to something from so long ago. To me, Cheers feels like laughter.

These characters speak to me every night. Carla reminds me to be tough, Diane reminds me to be elegant, Cliff reminds me to be myself, Norm reminds me to be true to my values, Frasier reminds me to allow myself to be hurt, Rebecca reminds me to be kind, Woody reminds me to hold onto childlike innocence, Coach reminds me to laugh, at the world and at myself. Most importantly, Sam reminds me to be brave, passionate, accepting, humble and above all, he reminds me that there will always be a seat for me at the end of the bar. Cheers.