Laudus Himself

Simone Part One Simone Part Two Simone followed the boy towards the woods, dogs at his heel, seemingly oblivious to the world. Although she knew better than that, now, thankfully. As they got into the woods, trees closing in, fear swept up Simone’s neck. The boy suddenly clicked into gear and pricked up. He knew the dangers of a crowded wood. Why had she thought them so safe, she wondered. The car’s protection, perhaps. A steel and glass illusion of safety behind which she made poor decisions. Like all cars, really, but in a world where poor decisions meant something else. You can’t smell the death in a car. In the woods death carried on the breeze.

Simone: Part Two Simone: Part One is available H ERE The petrol ran out quicker than Simone would have liked. Minutes, perhaps an hour? Who knew, moreover, it wasn't important anymore. The car coughed and slowed to coasting pace by the side of a field with long grass, leading to another wooded area in the distance. Simone was in an open space all of a sudden. It was pretty, actually. A good place to die. She had no idea where she was, it suddenly occurred to her, she had left without a map. I n too much of a hurry to run away from everything. Improperly prepared was an understatement. A guess would have been Surrey somewhere, maybe south of London, she hoped. Or had she headed away from London now? Simone had wandered, trying to keep off the “roads” and sneak in to wherever she was going. Fear and impulse. No maps, no preparation for this, it was the only time she’d not prepared in her life, and it was a mistake.

The Dead Are Coming Simone The car was not quiet as it tore recklessly down the country roads. She had seen no other cars, cars with people in them capable of driving for some hours now, anyway. How long had she been doing this? Ploughing forward unthinkingly. Days perhaps. The sun was her only gauge now and she’d not paid any attention to it. Every petrol station had been dark and fuel- less. Probably more cause to worry but no, no worrying now. The night was soon to begin turning into day and Simone’s eyes were bloodshot and tired. Physically bottomed out, emotionally torn. Fear and insanity had kept her going but her body was now telling her to stop. Just sleep until it gets light she told herself, but Simone knew what that would involve.

Many years ago, a King ruled from the land on which you stand to where the land meets the water in all directions. The monarch was a tyrant, a glutton and a man of moral turpitude. Not unlike other kings, and some queens, it could truthfully be said. This King, however, had a religious zeal which flew like a gale, and the consistency of conviction of a wind cockerel in that gale. Unfortunately the two do not mix well, and his favour fell where it fell depending on his mood and desires. This, combined with his absolute rule and power, led to the execution of thousands of his own people because of their differing beliefs in God, during his near forty year rule. Here follows the story of one of them, a young lady by the name of Daralis Drewet. A most interesting lady, who suffered a cruel and unusual end. Daralis was married off at a young age by her parents, to a man she did not love. It had been arranged that this man, James, was to marry her elder sister, but she died prematu...

A teaser from the Dead Are Coming: Simone This will be up in the coming weeks, across a few posts. There will be other stories and writing in the meantime.

Part one of the prologue to The Dead Are Coming: Jim and the Old Man can be found: HERE Part Two “How’s Jim?” “Seems better.” “We really should go and see him.” “He don’t want to upset you. Give him time. What have you cooked?” “Tinned spam, tinned peas and tinned custard.” Said Ethel proudly. The old man’s face writhed up in revulsion. Agnes noticed. “The custard is for dessert.” He still looked less than impressed. “How much food have we got left?” “Not much.” Agnes leant over to whisper in the man’s ear. “Between you and me it’ll be blessed relief when we have fewer mouths to feed.” Agnes was definitely more in touch than she was letting on. This angered him. Maybe it was her way of coping, pretending to be dotty. Crafty old cow. What else was she hiding from him? Food maybe? He hadn’t been checking. Stupid old man, too nice. The three of them stood in the kitchen, staring blankly and silently at each other for a moment. ...

Nothing moves. Only the condensation on the glass. The frost trickles slowly downward. Drip. Drip. Run. All frosted. The cardboard covering the window is damp and sits poorly fixed, obscuring all but the tiniest light from outside, the world. An eye peers inquisitively through this portal. Outside it is dawn, cold and peaceful in appearance. The light is good and almost gives the impression of summer, except that the cold rivals it. Trees and branches, no leaves; no birds, no noise. Definitely no cars or people. Living people. The old man is peeping out still, squinting. Outside there is a young man. A young dead man, recently deceased and slowly shambling around seemingly aimlessly.  If the cold could jump into his eyeball, it would. The window is barely a defence anymore from the onset of winter, it almost appears ice itself now. The old man’s face is tough, though, skin which couldn’t freeze in the tundra. An appearance which has said “come get me world” for decades...