The energy in the room was palpable.

The election results were about to be announced.

An old man sat in the corner of the room, in a wheel chair. A veteran's hat sat tilted atop his head. He wore a blue tie and a suit jacket.

He surveyed the crowd of mostly young people. They were excited. They were alive, really alive. He had stood in that crowd once.

His hair was now grey, his body worn from years of life experience.

He clasped his hands in his lap and waited.

State by state, the numbers were reported in.

Red. Blue. Red. Blue.

At the end of the night, the result was blue.

He didn't jump or cheer. He left that to the younger activists.

He closed his eyes and began to cry. His country, the country he had fought for, would never be the same.

He felt change. Finally.

For most, Sundays are a day of rest. The Sabbeth, a holy day. Or at least they're supposed to be.

For one paticular football fan in Topeka, Sundays are generally a day of emotional distress.

Every Sunday he made his way to Seabrook's Bar and Grill. He sported the same, raggedy Chiefs cap he'd worn every Sunday for years. He took his usual stool at the bar, directly across from a large flat screen television.

He ordered a Budweiser and a basket of fries. He tapped his fingers on the sticky bar surface anticipating the kick off.

There was still hope before the kick off.

They raced up the stairs of the freshman dormitory, large mattress in hand.

The prank had been carefully planned.

Their suitemate was at the library studying. Afterall, it was only a week before finals.

The mattress slide perfectly beneath the bed of a friend on the third floor.

Their hearts raced. "He'll NEVER find it here!" they conversed amid a few excited high fives.

They returned to the first floor lobby and waited, patiently, for his return and the fruits of their labor.

The petite woman sat tall in the seat of her shiney black SUV.

She zipped through traffic with ease and without notice of thick, bright traffic lines.

A multi-tasker at heart, she held a steaming cup of Starbucks in one hand and a Blackberry in the other.

Perhaps she was driving with her knees. Fellow drivers had to wonder.

She wrapped her arms around the frail woman. It was all she could do not to cry. She never thought she would run into this situation as a studio owner. Teenagers aren't supposed to die from cancer.

The mother had come in to pay a bill for lessons. Lessons her daughter may never take. A woman who was never late with a payment, was in the front row of every performance, and seemed to be strong and confident from the outside, was now just a shell of what she had been. Chemo treatments and hospital stays had been harder on the family than the fourteen year old, it seemed.

To most, the life of a professional NFL cheerleader might seem glamorous. It might even seem easy. But the reality is that it is just as competitive as professional sports in general. Dancers and cheerleaders must be at a peak physical condition at all times. A fluctuation of even a few pounds can make or break a cheerleader in the middle of a season. An unflattering photo or rumor can also mean a pink slip.

All of this for less than $100 a game, in most cases.

It had been her dream to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader since she learned there was such a thing. Her father was a deeply dedicated Cowboys fan and her family spent many weekend afternoons together immersed in Cowboys games. Even Thanksgiving was about more than turkey and cranberry sauce - it was about the Cowboys.

Her bedroom was a tribute to her dream. Each year the new squad's poster would hang above her bed. Every restricted meal, every work out, every dance class - every day of her life revolved around becoming a DCC.

Finally, it was her turn. She was 18 and a senior in high school; she was eligible to audition at Texas stadium.

Her heart raced as she signed her name and picked up her audition packet at the registration table. The air was tense and thick with hairspray. She passed girls much leaner, tanner, and blonder than her. It became painfully clear that ten years of training may not have been enough. Though her talent may be enough, her hair might not be big enough or her teeth not white enough.

She sailed through the first cut with ease, moving on to the choreography round where she would be grouped with a few hundred semi-finalists to learn actual DCC choreography INSIDE Texas Stadium. On the actual turf! She didn't want to forget a second of the experience.

As she came through the entrance tunnel the sheer size of the stadium stole her breath. She could literally hear the screams of fans that would soon fill the thousands of seats that surrounded her. She took her spot at center field and bent down to feel the turf. She closed her eyes and combed her fingers through the plastic blades.

He rolled over to glance at his clock.

5:43am.

He flopped out of bed, threw on a pair of untied shoes, grabbed a sweatshirt from the top of his laundry basket and stumbled out the door.

He melted into the crowd of students leaving the building with the redundant sound of the fire alarm in the background.

They walked out the east door, as the always do, and towards the lawn.

"Oh my God! It's a real fire!" someone shouted.

He turned back toward the building to see the massive cloud of thick black smoke billowing from the fourth floor.

"Should have grabbed my laptop," he thought.