[FEMALE LEAD] is a high-octane [PROFESSION] from [LARGE CITY] on track for a big promotion when she is called back home to [SMALL TOWN] after the death of her father. After solely focusing on her career for so long, slowing down and returning to her roots is a challenge, as is reconnecting with [MALE LEAD]. He’s been where she was but left his job as a powerful [PROFESSION] years ago to become a [NOBLE BLUE-COLLAR JOB TITLE].

Will an old friend become something more, or will their potential courtship be interrupted by [SECOND MALE SUITOR], her on-again/off-again boyfriend from [SAME CITY, COMPETING BUSINESS]?

[FEMALE LEAD] finds herself torn between the promise of Big City life with the dashing [SECOND SUITOR] in his thousand-dollar suits and fancy cars and small-town [MALE LEAD] in his three-button Henley tee and unbuttoned flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Oh, and he has a Golden Lab and a truck and helps his mom carry groceries.

For the first time in novel form, Hallmark Movie Channel presents: [VERB] with [NOUN], a [HOLIDAY] Romance.

The hardest part of any endeavor Is enduring inclement weather Whether continuing on makes sense Since barriers are so dense Turn future to present tense Tension rises in your chest But what separates Thought from Real Is that no matter how you feel You must no longer idly sit You must absolutely never qu

…Meh, forget it.

Oh, Great City How we love thee Skyscrapers obscure The sky above me Bags of refuse Line the streets Foraging Rats compete for Restaurant seats The club scene drips with Methamphetamine As unauthorized Elmo Curses me For giving him nothing Corrupted leaders Keep taxing, spending Never ending But we keep reelecting Forgiving them everything For, oh Great City How we love thee.

He watched as the fly crawled along the edge of his paperwork, an occasional flutter of a wing or pause to clean a forelimb.

How long had he been sitting here, the fly his only source of entertainment and companionship? Fatigue weighed down his bones and slumped his shoulders. He wanted to sleep, but that put him at risk of losing his place.

Cottonmouth. And his eyes were dry from sitting directly under the HVAC. How could a draft dry his contacts and feel stagnant, as though it had been the same stale air for millennia? He wondered now if it had been hours or days or weeks since he walked into this place.

Had he been young once before all this started?

How was it, here, in this Nothing, that time could simultaneously speed up and slow down? It was like every second was a year, every minute a lifetime, every lifetime a few seconds. But it was also as though the world outside, the world he longed to return to, was traveling through time at an increasingly fast speed without him. Everything he dreamed of, everything he wanted to take part in, was blazing past him, forever lost, as he sat in this… what? What could he call it?

If asked how long he’d been there, he could say, “I’ve never not been here” or “I am not yet here,” and believe both to be true.

Time meant nothing.

Everything that was to happen in this place would happen in its own time, at its own pace. Maybe it had already happened. Perhaps, like Utopia, it never would—left on the horizon forever as unattainable.

The fly flew away. He watched it as it circled in lazy loops, flying high and low, zooming around him like an acrobat before finally flying too far away for him to see. He looked around. How many others were trapped here in this limbo? Local business people, teachers, delivery drivers, doctors, lawyers, teenagers, and retired persons huddled together but still separated in one of the only genuine moments of total equity. Indeed, this was not heaven. Hell was worse, probably. But how much worse could it be?

He longed for something, anything, to take his attention. Nothing worked. None of the usual things- his phone, a book, conversation, even just people watching or daydreaming—pulled his mind away from the endless tedium. All was futile. No one spoke. No one smiled. No one did… anything.

They all merely waited.

For how long?

There was no answer because to answer meant to know and to know meant certainty, and certainty was not a commodity traded in this place; It was anathema here. All that mattered here was the wait. He imagined himself as Dante and above the door: All Who Enter Must Wait.

There was no way to make time move faster or even know if it was moving at all. In this place, Time did as it wanted, and, as though in love with itself and longing to squeeze out every precious moment of itself for as long as it possibly could, Time slowed and slowed and slowed and slowed until the very perception of Time was that of only the Infinite.

He wanted to cry out, scream, shake his fellow un-travellers by the collar, and ask if they could all rise up, bring this to some conclusion, fight for something, anything!

But no. He could merely wait for the voice, the light, the Decider, to call for him.

“Now serving number 12.”

He looked at the mocking red LEDs that echoed the voice, showing a big red twelve on the number board. He looked at his ticket. He was number 1,035.

Maybe he didn’t need his driver’s license renewed at all. Perhaps he could ride the bus. Or walk.

The scream was guttural, primal, formed from an ache from somewhere deep, forgotten, ignored, broken. He writhed on the floor of his living room—ironically named, mocking him. A second scream, followed by a single tight-mouthed oath.

How had it come to this? What had he done wrong? He had neither been bitten by zombie nor werewolf; he had angered no old hags or high priestesses; No magic spells or mad scientist-concocted serums or biotech experiments had crossed his lips or passed through membranes. Nothing. No strange foods or jungle excursions or trips into ancient forests.

He worked in an office.

He was a CPA.

He ate the same PB&J and carrot sticks and pudding cup every day. He saw the doctor regularly, kept his cholesterol in check, took his vitamins. He was faithful to his wife, and she to him. They paid their taxes and raised their children to be productive and law-abiding and kind. But with every passing moment, all of that was pushed to the back of his mind; all he could feel was agony. With every painful breath, he lamented his very existence. With every lightning bolt of pain that shot from deep within his bowels, he felt he was becoming less himself, less… human. Not animal, not alien. Something else: personified pain. He had become Torment.

Another wall-shaking groan as he tried to right himself, to stand, but only doubled over and collapsed yet again.

He would die here. On this spot. Unceremoniously, his body would be found wearing Christmas pajama bottoms in August, a Dunder Mifflin t-shirt stretched at the neck, one slipper on his foot. Where had he gone wrong? What had he done to deserve this fate? What was destroying him from the inside, making him feel at once like he might shrink into nothingness and explode into a galaxy of gore and violence?

He whimpered, wanting only for the pain to stop. If he was going to die, let him die now.

One last roar. One last grasp at life. One last—

“Brian, knock it off. I told you this would happen, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re almost fifty years old! You can’t eat Mexican food after nine o’clock. You know that. All those jalapenos! I warned you…”

Brian rolled over and looked up at his wife. She handed him something small, round.

“Pepcid. Take it, and stop being such a baby.”

"Alright, boys, you ready to light this candle?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"Take us up, Murdoch."

"I ain't gettin' on no plane!"

Hannibal put his hand on his trusted companions bowling ball-sized shoulder. "Relax, BA. You can meet us there. See, I have the van all gassed up and--now!"

The distraction worked. Murdoch plunged the hypodermic needle into BA's arm. The massive man stumbled around a bit, Hannibal deftly moving a nearby wheelbarrow into place to catch him. Much easier than lifting 300 pounds of dead weight.

The two men worked together to wheel the third up the cargo ramp and got him as buckled in as they could.

"We ready, Colonel?"

Hannibal looked into the distance. How long do they wait? How long do they jeopardize the mission.

"No. We can't leave. Not without Face."

Earthquakes no longer feel so foreign to my body, It's been days of a personal hell; I have been hour-upon-hour upon potty, No more GrubHubs from Taco Bell.

Swallow? No, common thrush. It’s perched above me, watching me in the bushes. Its song draws attention, mocks my effort to remain apart, outside.

Hidden, is more accurate, I suppose. It wasn’t my fault. By the time I realized what I was doing it was too late. I’m sure she’ll see it that way. I mean, really, I have nothing to feel bad about. Stuff like this happens in long-term relationships. It’s not like either of us is perfect. We’ve both made mistakes. But, if that’s true, why does my stomach hurt?

Guilt. That’s why. I’m consumed with it. I have to tell her. I have to let her know what I did. She probably already knows anyway. I just have to man up, take my punishment. I’ll do it now. I’ll let her know. It was me… I ate the rest of the tiramisu.

You, so patient, a clerk At Barnes & Noble …Noble? Maybe. Saintly? Absolutely, As that woman you helped Find a book, Told you—in detail—why she Loved the previous works of an Author You could not care any less About.

You, so patient, a barista? No, a book seller, working in the Barnes & Noble cafe; Working the coffee machines; Not burning the milk. You only know the drinks on the menu, But people ask for things, Special things, as though you Are A barista and not going for your MFA in pre-millennial Norwegian surrealism; They ask you, one after the other, Why you don’t accept Starbucks Gift cards.

You, so patient, middle-aged man Still rocking a soul-patch and open flannel Over T-shirt, your Vans hinting you skate Or You used to But now you’re a stepdad to two Mostly sweet kids And you work the later shift so you can Take them to school So your wife can work the morning shift In the ICU— Which you are happy to do: stacking books, Sending employees on their 15s, And waiting until Thursday night After work band practice In Dino’s garage.

You, so patient, in the Info Booth, A clerk, Trying to help a man— Masked and hard to understand— As he repeats things like “It’s a mystery, about submarines, But I think it’s a western, also, Let me call my friend, Charlie, he Recommended It to me, he lives in Yuma now, To get away from the cold rains we get Here, Hey, Charlie, what’s the name of that, Charlie, what’s the, it’s Donald, yeah, Donald, Yeah, what was the name of that book you Recommended, Yeah, the submarine western… Oh, okay, take care. He doesn’t remember the name, But I guess it’s not about submarines…”

“…”

“What?”

“…”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“…!”

“Oh, you found out.”

“…?”

“I don’t know why. It just… happened.”

“…”

“Don’t be like that.”

“…”

“I’m sorry.”

“…”