Rain and the Banshee (Writing Blog Post)

Hi!!! I mentioned yesterday that i wanted to start posting my writing on this page so i thought i could toss out something i made for a uni assignment a while back! Hope you enjoy!!

There’s something about the air today that’s starting to make me sick. I know that smell is the grass, it’s obvious. Rain, plus grass, equals I’m thinking about the dead again. I’m all too used to it in the practical sense. 

I dont think the emotional sense is going to get any better, though. 

Where am I right now? I keep forgetting. The alleys here by the street graveyard are worse than by the clock tower. I think she’s more active around here. That’s funny. This ghost has jokes, that’s just too hilarious!

I’m sick of this miserable hag breathing right behind me. I know she’s there. The rain’s never been heavier. Why does she like this stuff anyway - Haunting people in twisted alleys she designed herself? What’s she getting out of it? 

I’m sick of it. I’m sick. So sick I might toss the towel in right now and unload the bar onto the cobblestone.

Where should I look? The bar’s miles away, it seems. All I can observe are alleys upon alleys, with the odd spectre doting on a street cat. Why’s that one in a chimney? Ugh, concentrate! You have a two thousand year something vengeful spirit on your tail! I have to pick up the pace, but I can’t alert her. She’ll just launch me back onto the M6 and then I definitely can’t find my way home.

The rain’s making me sick again. A patch of moss is giving me that smell. Stupidly old town. The rain’s starting to mix with something saltier on my face, clashes of seawater and rain start dripping, dripping down onto my alcohol laden shirt. It’s barely a shirt at this point, my mind’s starting to point out how cold it’s getting under it.

It’s not getting better. It’s just not. There’s something in the asphalt - surely! It’s making me-

Sick. It’s just made me sick. 

That ghost seems relieved that i’ve finally stopped. Keep waiting, goddamnit. I can only stare at what my body just produced.

Funnily enough, I can’t recognise the colours. I…I really can’t. What the hell’s going on there?

The bell. The clock tower of this town. Only now am I cursed with it’s screech.

Where in god’s name am I?