The Clock Witch

They call it a Clock Witch.

A gluttonous little creature that burrows into the brassy depths of gears, cogs and springs, nibbling away at all measures of time. A Clock Witch, they say, is the reason your ten-minute snooze rings in ten seconds. It’s the reason the morning hours pass quicker before work or school and the hours during work or school seem to drag on for days. According to Newt Scamander’s Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them, the mundane hours of a witch or wizard’s life are the most unfavorable in both taste and satisfaction. A Clock Witch prefers only the finest of hours, the most scrumptious of minutes and savory of seconds. These are unfortunately, and more often than not, the most important.

I’d never heard of a Clock Witch before. 

Until now, I had always assumed that time was just time and there was nothing more mischievous and gluttonous than time itself. Nights spent mulling over my new discovery were quick to prove me wrong and after lapping up the dusty words of old books that had been touched by nothing but time (inhaling a grimy cloud or two and pausing only to let pass a fit of coughs and hacks), I decided I’d meet a Clock Witch for myself.

The process of extracting a Clock Witch from a clock would be a delicate one, of that I had no doubt. But I figured I’d read enough pointless manuals and various How-To's to handle the situation. There was bound to be a tidbit of clock-picking skills stored somewhere in my mind's waste bin of useless information, not so useless now that I'd found a use. Of course I could have cast a few spells, muttered a few charms. But that would have been too easy. Aside of meeting the Clock Witch, I intended to catch it and like catching any other pest, one can never expect such a task to be simple.

So much for pointless manuals and various How-To's. 

Instead, I found my clock-picking skills through Disney's 1951 adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Like the Mad Hatter, I sat determined. Fork in one hand and a timepiece in the other, I pried all four prongs between the brass seam and pulled.

Tick. Pop. Spring!

Gears flew, screws spun. An impish laugh rose from the still ticking heart, a small burst of cold air hitting my cheek in its escape. I stared down at the dissected apparatus, my own muddy reflection staring back from the rusted clockwork. 

Empty.

I checked the time on the intact and well functioning wall clock above my desk. 10:37 PM. In the hours I'd spent searching for this pest of prime, I'd missed study hall, two exams, and a much anticipated chess game with a friend.

They call it a Clock Witch.

A Clock Witch prefers only the finest of hours, the most scrumptious of minutes and savory of seconds. And these are unfortunately, and more often than not, the most important.