The Waiting Room.

1-the story arrives without warning.

Regular spring debris and foliage decorated the thawing earth sustaining Grimesmere Gully. It was the departing day from winter, and the first to allow residents a walk in the gardens, catching grass spires between their toes. This one was harsh, they had all agreed, and so continuous that the illustrious sky had become a distant memory. The gully had been relentlessly cold in the months hitherto. Stillgrave River, the only water vein in town, had frozen completely solid for three months, encouraging the mountain springs to flow rapidly in all directions on a regularly bone-rattling Sunday morning in January. An archaic tradition in Grimesmere. Starting the work week, citizens had traversed the city through a mine field of hollowed woodland creatures and pine sap. But now, as the groundhog had predicted, the treacherous season had concluded early. Ruins of winter had infiltrated each resident on the initiating day of spring in every outlet feasible. The smell of deceased fresh water entities had pursued every corner of town that morning, relying on the already narrowed supply of frozen fish to last another few weeks. The cobblestone paths in town square now cracked into fragments incapable of footwork, and leakage creeping through the carpentry of every roof in sight. Surrounding the gully, a terrible quagmire began to drain. It would close in on a month before the town's exit, a fourteen mile passage off the interstate, would rise above water level again. A new record for Grimesmere Gully, applauded by the townsfolk.

A invitation had been delivered to every mailbox in town, apart from the vacant lot inhabiting the dampened land right of the river. Mayor Monroe Quarles suggested the attendance of all citizens for the annual christening of Spring that night, hosted in the library. He had crowdsourced every novel available, and structured the quintessential lecture to elate the community he had watched grow for several decades. Be it five minutes before the gathering, his speech remained in the desk drawer of his home office, his determination persisted. The sun had merged with its earth once again as folks cluttered the multipurpose room offered by the library. Lit only by a few roasting lamps laid sparsely near outlets hidden by bookshelves.

"My apologies," the librarian begins. "Our situation may not be ideal 'round this time, but we work with what we got, as we always do." She had always known how to settle a crowd, and how to unnoticeably use the same technique every year. She gestured to everyone's focus as she spoke: the chandelier. It only took a certain type of bulb, and regardless of this constraint, the library's' regulars maximized use every winter. "Any-who, it's an honour of mine to host this year's 'Spring Rally' as we've coined," the crowd chuckled. "If you ever find yourself to be bored, feel free to stop by! Though I'm positive with the growing season, you'll all be quite busy." She laughed. "Without further ado, can we all give a warm welcome to Mayor Quarles?" Everyone howled in applause. It's true he had become well-received in his age, despite his avid forgetfulness.

As he dominated the podium, he raised a hand to dull his audience. "Thank you, Palmira, for such a warm introduction," Monroe Quarles announced. Again, the crowd cheered, tamed, and settled, as he continued, "Hello Grimesmere! It's good to see all of your faces in the same room again. We have a very exciting year ahead of us!" He relayed as many routine announcements as he could remember giving in previous years, disappointing his citizens that the chandelier would not come to life for almost a month. He mentioned speaking to Sau Booker, the local blacksmith, as well as Darwin Quigi, beloved carpenter, concerning the distraught ash-fault so dissimilar from roads that tourists believed Grimesmere Gully to be vacant. He mentioned residential concerns regarding the ice sheets connecting the few folk living up the mountains edge with the rest of the town, suggesting a solution, but not implying. Carried on with talk of agricultural life in the new season, and up-keeping the towns monetary value for its' Autumn Evaluation. The towns' loyalty to him made these announcements increasingly exciting and brand-new. May it be because he spoke for a town full of people with small dreams, all the notions he preached resonated with them in a way unknowable by city dwellers.

".....and that's why you should come to me for all needs satisfiable by metal! Not that you have a choice." Sau concluded her ad-spot, booked at the last Spring Rally. Mayor Quarles only allowed one ad per year, as to not dull the comedic connotations to advertising the only accessible place for a service.

"Well, folks," the Mayor began again. "To end a night of togetherness, I have an exciting announcement." It had been on the tip of his tongue for hours, like a stray hair that could not be swallowed. In all his years of leading Grimesmere, there was always one predicament left unpressed. He was cold, gelidly so, and uncertain of the reaction stirring within. Maybe last year, or years preceding, nothing could defeat his charisma. But on this day of March twentieth, two-thousand-and-six, he felt alone amongst the bodies; covered in them.

In his hand, a grip of the podium. "A new resident will be moving in next month. Around the same time the roads clear up. I expect a welcome, if not warm, and for you all to aid him as he adjusts to his new life in agriculture. His name is Irwin Kimble: twenty-eight years old, five foot eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds. That's all I got." It was mute, and then it was cacophonous. In the acme of the crowd, there was nothing but the cheers of elated civilians.

"A new man will come home," explained Linette Tarver, to her daughter, Samara, and her grandson, Martin, who is a frog. The mayor delivered a smile, and farewell for the evening. He assumed that everyone returned home that night, correctly so, and with this knowledge he drifted to a generous sleep. Under the light of the moon, raccoons sifted through waste, most succeeding another meal, some not. The shrubbery rustled unprovoked by wind, and harboured animals ruined by the climate. All was gradually restoring itself.

In the gut of the Midwest, lays a man under the same light, far away from slumber. His room more snack food containers than carpet, and anxiety tucking him under the Buzz Lightyear blankets of a bed not belonged to him. Irwin held a single plane ticket in his hand, and settled here to wait,
and wait,
and wait.

1,120 words