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.

The mist shrouded the mountain like a snake that is about to squeeze its prey

At this place, far away from human civilization, I found my nirvana—

fresh air, fresh view, and fresh climb

Trees stretched their fingers towards the azure sky while bees and flies

circled around their trunks, always searching for something,

maybe blossoms that never grew on the branches

I too, am searching for something...

Peace and serenity

Darting around in circles, the swallows performed gymnastics as they rushed upwards, plunged down in neat swoops, and then spiraled into the air

Grey-headed bullfinches sat unperturbedly on flowering bushes and fruit-laden trees

as rain lightly licked their feathers

A bird hopped on its feet and looked at me with curious, black eyes

I stood there, unmoving

A straw-thatched house perched on a grassy slope, its door ajar as if inviting me in From the west, a puff of wind lightly tingled the straw on the roof and dipped its fingers in the sluggish river below

Sheltered by lush plants and friendly animals, I even forgot that this was a tourist site—it was a comfortable home for me

However, my reverie was broken when my mother

and some crazy monkeys stepped in my way

“Smile!” my mother yelled to me as she snapped a picture

of me gaping at the mountain

“Oh mom, you broke the silence!” I complained

“We’re going down the mountain anyway,” she replied

As I descended, I took one last look at the startling Giotto-blue sky

and the swallows that dotted it

But before my we reached the bottom, several monkeys blocked the way

One monkey grabbed my leg and hugged it as if it were a precious piece of banana

Another monkey approached and reached for my floral scarf

I was aware that Mom was probably saving this memory inside her camera

As I detangled out of the monkeys’ reaches, I realized that

I was actually enjoying their presence—

that was until one jumped on my back and tried to rip my hair out

And I also realized that my water bottle in my backpack was gone

As I veered off into the craziness that represents my world,

I stole a moment to just breathe,

took in the magnificent view,

and found peace to take with me

But even with the flowers, trees, and other parts of nature

that I feverishly love so much,

from the safe haven of my backyard to the green spaces of the park,

I felt at peace on this mountain

I rested on the rocky slope overlooking the mountain,

able to gaze out much farther and stand much taller than I typically can

I enjoyed the rough climb upwards because at the apex

I could survey what looked like the whole world

On that mountain, I realized that what captured my heart about the climb is that once I reached my destination, I became part of Nature—

I was in the clouds,

the river flowing below,

the ghostly mist,

the twittering birds,

and the playful monkeys

Nature was showing off that day. The sky was bluer than a Robin's egg with nary a cloud to mar it. The lake was a brilliant mirror of the sky, the sun, the trees whose leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze. Birdsong filled the air. The ground was soft and warm beneath her back.

The hands around her neck were not.

"Please, stop," she wheezed.

"No talking, " he responded.

"Please, I'm sorry..."

"Of course you are. Now. Too late," he said in a singsong-y voice at odds with his size. Well, and with his actions one might say.

He squeezed until she stopped moving.

Then he sat back against a tree and listened to the birdsong and watched the dragonflies flit across the lake.

clean

for

3 years

broken

by a

moment

of

unintentional

weakness.

i didn't

mean

for this

to happen.

but it

did

and i

can't take

it back

this time.

Pasteur looked on at his pet. How he had loved playing with it from dusk till dawn. He smiled as he wiped the trickles of tears emerging from his lacrimal glands.

Pasteur felt a wave of anger rush in his veins. Why would someone harm his beloved close friend?

He did not understand why there had to be evil in the world. Could there not be at least a place that was only filled with good?

He proceeded to wash his hands for twenty seconds like he had learned during the first training in the health and sciences department. Pasteur wiped his hands and tossed the wet towels into the trash can. Then he used one of the dry ones to turn off the running water. He stood for a moment watching the mix of blood & water swirling around in the sink right before it went down the drain.

Pasteur briskly moved to grab a pair of nitrile gloves. He was ready to finally continue working on his latest experiment.

He grabbed a pair of medical tongs from a silver tray that he’d laid by the side of his newest project. Pasteur plunged the tool into the chest of his pet, and pulled out what looked like a lychee. He used both of his hands to tear the lychee like organ open.

His eyes looked on in wonder at the center/core of the lychee. Inside of the organ, Pasteur spotted a sac of seeds. He had not been sure if this was going to work, but now that he had made sure to increase the room temperature there was some progress in his work.

He raised his arms, while still holding the lychee in his palms. Pasteur burst out laughing. Maybe this would actually work.

He rushed to grab a few more items from the shelf. Using a range of techniques—which he’d learned from the great works of Bassi, Biot, & Sidney-Pasteur- Pasteur focused to light the path to bring a spark of new found life for his beloved pet.

Lightning flashed across the dark & starless night sky. Pasteur paid no mind to the sign of a big storm approaching. He continued on with his work.

After several hours of immense concentration, Pasteur noticed that the chest cavity of his pet was now covered by spores. This he deduced could be exactly what would bring about a breakthrough in his latest experiment.

He thought the spores could be the key to unlock the mystery to unravel how to bring his pet back to life. As soon as he laid his nitrile gloved hands on the spores, his whole body felt a shock like a wave of electricity through his body.

Pasteur soon lost control of his locomotion, and central nervous system. He felt lightheaded, and right before his body hit the ground~ he witnessed his pet rise from the examining table. It leaped from the examination table onto the floor.

He could sense tears collecting in his lacrimal glands. But they did not form a trail at this time instead they crystallized in the same manner as the rest of his body.

#TheScienceofMadness

We have a new pet, a domestic pigeon, of all things. We didn’t buy him or anything. He isn’t “really” ours, but he has begun hanging out at Pook’s bird feeder like he is. I suppose the hurricane blew him in from some statue in Tampa, or perhaps he has run away from his Homing Pigeon team? Pook puts out her corn for the ducks, deer, turtles, squirrels, skunks and crows, but “Uncle Pudgy-Pudge the Pigeon” doesn’t seem interested in it, he’s only into the safflower seeds at her bird feeder. Pook has taken to putting down a small pile beneath the feeder, just for him. Being he is an inner-city bird, I figure the safflower must be his crack. He certainly cannot seem to get enough.

He’s a looker though, Uncle Pudge is. He is mostly darker gray with some lighter gray splotches, and his wingtips and tail spark a brilliant white flash when he takes flight, which is actually pretty darned spectacular. I remember reading that there were once great flocks with millions of pigeons inhabiting the American continent. As thrilling as it is to see Uncle Pudge take off, it must have been absolutely amazing to see a million or so taking off at once! It is strange that a stray domestic bird could be one of the most eye-catching at our feeder, but there it is. He is bigger than the finches, larger and more colorful than the pinkish doves, and flashier than the irredescent grackles. Granted the cardinals give him a run, but cardinals are birds of a higher power and should not be counted among the lay-birds. And the jays are prettier of course, but jays are way too uppity to gather at a common feeder, and so must be omitted from the conversation.

Uncle Pudge is just a pigeon. A domestic one at that. I expect that soon he will be hawk food. He is too trusting to make it in the wild, and will let me walk right up to him. General Sherman should have gotten him by now, but The General is not the dog he used to be. Well…to be truthful General Sherman never was much of a sporting dog, but he is cool for arguing philosophy with, or for hanging out with beers and a ballgame. I guess The General leans toward being a comfort dog rather than a service one, and there is room on my couch for that type too.

Anyways, Uncle Pudge is welcome at Pook’s feeder. In fact, he fits right in with The General and me; an old-school man in a modern world, a dog that won’t hunt, and a pigeon who can’t find his way home…

…or maybe he has?

Four walls. Three windows. Two rooms. One door. I walk past this house everyday. It's always dim, always empty, always cold. You would think no one ever lived there at all. This building is something I would never want now, but something I used to love. I used to laugh, sing, and dance in this house. I hugged, loved, and watched my favorite person in the world die in this house.

Before Mary died, she had asked that I keep it so her spirit could live on. She had saved up enough to pay the mortgage off on this house, and 100 others, but without her it was only a house where as Mary was my home. Everything you could ever need, she was. She was my light, my music, my walls, my windows. She opened every door I had closed, and made every part of me feel safe and secured. Because of her, I left the doors unlocked.

I sold the house immediately after she died. I could still smell her in every room, and I could still taste her with every breath, and I needed to get away from that reminder. I could have anything I want in life with the money she left me, but all I want is her. Her spirit lives through me, not the house. I wander the streets at night, protected by her presence. I feel as if finding security in any place that's not with her is a betrayal, so I promised to never live in a house again.

One day as I walk past the house and I noticed a fresh coat of paint, new locks, and new blinds. I can no longer peer into the empty house that was once full of smiles and memories of Mary. This hurts to see, but a young couple leave the house, door unlocked, and I can tell it is now a home again. I know Mary would be happy at this sight…Four walls. Three rooms. Two hearts. One door.