I do love great writing. This is a paragraph from a short story by Kevin Hall. Topic is the young man's first job as an intern in the basement of a hundred-year-old brick building in Omaha, now housing a big law firm: "Fall turned to Winter, Winter turned to Spring, Spring turned to Summer, then Summer skipped Autumn and went straight into Winter. Temperatures plummeted, cracks spread web-like across windshields as black ice seduced rubber tires, skipping traffic across meridians and turning morning commutes into crap shoots with icy destruction. The cold air bit my flesh as I walked to work, somehow sneaking its way into my many layers and nestling itself into the marrow of my bones. The basement was even worse. Imagine spending 12 hours a day in an abandoned meat locker where the livestock is paperwork and every shadow looks like a ghost; where your breath lingers like mushroom clouds and your teeth play drum roll chatters from the insides of your jaw. But even through the shivering shudders that numbed my fingers and toes, I continued to worked my heart out from sunrise to sunset, even though from the basement, I couldn’t see either." Wow! What I'm doing is looking for great new writers to bring on staff. What powers of description Kevin has! At first, I whistled and then broke up laughing with delight. Reads like something from Mickey Spillane or Raymond Chandler. I need a hot cup of tea before I read any more of this.