There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. And it lies between the pit of man’s fears, and the summit of his knowledge. It is an area, which we call, Midwestern Spring.
Jogging Distance
Meet amateur fitness enthusiast Mr. David McClure.
An impatient and hasty individual who’s convinced himself that winter clothing is no longer a requisite for his morning jog. But he's about to find out something strange. He’s about to find out that sunshine and green grass in April doesn’t always feel as warm as it looks from the view of his apartment window.
In a matter of seconds, one Mr. David McClure will be questioning the functionality of his very senses. He’ll be wishing he would have put on a coat, or perhaps a collegiate sweatshirt, when he steps out his front door into the cold and bitter daylight of… Midwestern Spring.
A Most Unusual Weather App
You’re looking at a weather app. An invention known from Sicily to Siberia for accurately displaying the conditions of the surrounding troposphere.
A practical and helpful tool for most, but not all. Because in just a moment, you’ll watch this particular weather app turn into a twisted and malevolent joke that displays both Sicilian and Siberian weather patterns over the course of a single afternoon.
You’ll watch predictions of rain, ice storms, clear skies, and once-in-a-century lightning events slowly torture the minds of five co-workers trying to plan an outdoor potluck—a potluck in the very heart of… Midwestern Spring.
Potholes Are Alike All Over
A small and innocuous hole in the street. Unnoticed by commuters save for the occasional keen-eyed bicyclist who fails to react with more than a shrug.
Yet with every minute, every hour, and every day, this hole is getting larger—expanding until it becomes a vast canyon of urban torment where melted snow turns black and car suspensions go to die. It’s the kind of hole that seems to suck in everything but the attention of the City Clerk’s office, the kind of hole the characters you're about to meet will swerve to avoid, but fail to do so.
And it’s the kind of hole that can only be seen driving down a city street in… Midwestern Spring.
An Occurrence at Table Twelve
Witness Miles Pollak, a hungry restaurant customer faced with a decision: take his meal in the temperature-regulated interior of Jorge’s Cantina, or try his luck on the outdoor patio. A decision not made without consideration of the dangers. Because waiting for Miles Pollak on the other side of that door could be the thrill of a lifetime—chorizo tacos, the freshest air he’s felt in months, and sweet little birds hunting the ground for fallen tortilla chips.
But it could also be a trap. A trap designed by nature to agonize him with sudden gusts of wind strong enough to blow over half-empty margarita glasses and send napkins flying into the neighboring parking lot.
If nothing else, it is a nerve-racking quandary with no clear answer while dining in… Midwestern Spring.
And When the Sky Was Opened, It Started Pouring Ice Pellets
Name: Nina Richards. Objective: have a nice time at the dog park. Status: crying like a madwoman as she tries to chase down her excitable, mud-soaked dachshund in the midst of a brutal hail storm. Intrusive thoughts including but not limited to the following: leave the dog here to die. Sell the house and move to San Diego. Become a server at a beach-side tiki bar.
But Ms. Nina Richards won’t be doing any of those things. Because Ms. Nina Richards is about to discover the seductive power found inside a warm pouch of Culver's french fries, and at the syrupy bottom of a Culver’s milkshake.
Strange comforts only found after a long day spent out in… Midwestern Spring.