Stephen King, not the writer but the plumber from Gateshead, said that, 'the walking dead was - 'er, dead shitty! Most terrifying.'
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September was her favourite time of
the year, and late September, when the autumn was just preparing to hand over
to winter, when there was still a residue of the late summer warmth in the air,
as well as the crisp promise of the iciness to come, had always been, as far as
Missy was concerned, the finest chunk of that particular month.
Not for her was
the spectacle of high summer, nor the morose beauty of mid winter. Of course
they both had their fineries but these paled next to the season when the leaves
glittered with reflected sunlight. It was the autumn, with September being the
highlight of that season, which she loved – a time when nature put on its
finest display as the lush summer growth was magically transformed as if by a
sepia wand spewing gold dust into the air.
The sky itself
seemed to glow at this time of year.
September
was a time of promise.
A
time of rebirth.
Not
this September, though.
This
September, Missy would remember as, the time the dead walked.
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