Never Burn A Witch

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Wet clumps of snowflakes streamed heavily downward from the low blanket of clouds that covered the city. Along Wellington Parkway, a large clock on a bank marquee winked languidly in the frosty night. With several of its bulbs having long since expired from usefulness, dark holes were left gaping in the teeter-tottering display of time and temperature. Four-Oh-something A.M. Twenty-something degrees F. Minus-something degrees C. The sign continued silently dispensing the information even as yet another of its incandescent elements flared and sputtered into nonexistence. Now, only an empty black rectangle stared back from where the “something” used to be.

The old man cinched his threadbare overcoat tighter against the chill winter wind and took another pull on the pint of off-brand whiskey before burying his half-frozen hands in his pockets. Watching the clock with bleary, watered eyes, he muttered nonsensically to himself. His slurred voice recited a local adage that said, “If you don’t like the weather in Saint Louis, just wait a minute. It’ll change.” Thus far, the only change he had witnessed had been for the worse.

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