The headache wouldn't go away. She's taken medicine but even that didn't help. The monstrous throbbing in her head continued. She had this happen to her only once before in her life and she realized that only one thing could be happening.

He heard the loud impact before he ever saw the result. It had been so loud that it had actually made him jump back in his seat. As soon as he recovered from the surprise, he saw the crack in the windshield. It seemed to be an analogy of the current condition of his life.

He wandered down the stairs and into the basement. The damp, musty smell of unuse hung in the air. A single, small window let in a glimmer of light, but this simply made the shadows in the basement deeper. He inhaled deeply and looked around at a mess that had been accumulating for over 25 years. He was positive that this was the place he wanted to live.

There was something beautiful in his hate. It wasn't the hate itself as it was a disgusting display of racism and intolerance. It was what propelled the hate and the fact that although he had this hate, he didn't understand where it came from. It was at that moment that she realized that there was hope in changing him.

It was always the Monday mornings. It never seemed to happen on Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning, or any other morning during the week. But it happened every Monday morning like clockwork. He mentally prepared himself to once again deal with what was about to happen, but this time he also placed a knife in his pocket just in case.

Music can heal wounds that medicine cannot touch.

"Joyful leaps and playful pounces."

He started in short-yardage situations, grunting, grimacing, bucking the line.

And most of the demand is in metropolitan areas.