Hollingsworth

Photo by  Luke Stackpoole  on  Unsplash T here have always been certain implications for certain types of weather. Evander Stinton knew them all. Sunny days were optimistic. Fog meant mystery to be uncovered and a red moon meant a murder. But despite all his acquired knowledge of weather lore, Evander had never been able to accurately predict mid-spring storms. He stood under the narrow grey awning over the bookshop in the corner, rain running down his collar. He had hoped that standing under the awning might give him some meager protection from the onslaught of rain, but the wind was against him. It blew raindrops under the awning, across his chest and into his eyes. The streets were seemingly deserted, except for the occasional cab--and rightly so. "Seems I'm the only dimwit stuck out in this squall," he muttered, peering out from under the awning. He took the opportunity to look down at the paper in his hands, now crinkled and watermarked. "Grey Ta