• Storms

    It was, as usual, a bad night to be out. Thunder rolled like a tempestuous drum, as splatters of rain splashed down from the bruise-coloured sky and clouds blanketed the full moon, leaving the only illumination in the street to come from semi-second flashes of lightning and the occasional harsh amber lamp post.
    A teenage girl was perched daintily atop a gravestone in Bell graveyard, tapping her long fingernails impatiently on the cold black marble, not caring about the disrespect she was showing to the corpses beneath her. Where was he? She fingered the marcasite cross hanging from her neck anxiously.
    Eight, he had said he would meet her. The girl looked at her watch. It was now twenty past. Arsehole. She thought back to their earlier meeting – if you could even call it that.