Old World (The Green and Pleasant Land) by Oliver Kennedy Page A

places forming inelegant splintered cobwebs.
    Harold puts his arms around me from behind. For a moment I imagine it to be a protective gesture, an act of love and affection, I feel young again. I feel his warm breath on my neck, I turn from the window as it shatters and the audience invades the stage. I meet my own reflection and see the weakness that has always been there. Thoughts of Molly, thoughts of England fade away to less than dust. His hard teeth meet my soft neck, and I wonder what regrets await me after the meal.

The Grey Republic

    She wouldn't leave him. He was sick, to move him would be to kill him. So she stays, as do we all. The begging of sons and grandsons did not move her. She is a rock on which a nation rests, well, she was.
    Him, he is so sick that he won't know it even when he's torn limb from limb. She will though, she will feel his death, and her own, just as she seems to have felt the deaths of all those who have fallen to the cadaver.
    I could tell you my name I suppose, but that wouldn't matter would it. We are both waiting for the same thing, though it will be different for each of us, you the watcher, me the sufferer. So, I guess this is the point where I tell you what I see, where I tell you how I feel. Think of long red carpeted corridors, think of the very definition of the word palatial.
    Think of gold on the walls used to separate the tapestries from the portraits. Think of mirrors that could swallow you whole, think of chandeliers and crystals. Think of opulence. Now imagine what that looks like with no one around to maintain it. Imagine blood splattered here and there, think of those nice well kept carpets being marred by the impromptu barricade me and my fellows have put across the corridor. Now we are there, now we are looking at the same world.
    The lights are still on because this is one of the few buildings in all of London which has backup generators to the backup generators for the actual backup generators. The corridor like most of the palace is filled with silent lions, filled with roses which never age. We have piled the chairs and tables high against the doors at the far end. I cannot see the handles but I can hear them clicking now and then as fingers lock around them, dead but still curious, they will sniff us out soon enough.
    There was a time when the cool metal of the gun in my hand would comfort me, it would instil me with a sense of pride and power. Now all I can feel is the weight of it, now all it fills me with are thoughts about whether or not I might be better off using it on myself rather than what is on the other side of that door.
    Behind us is the master bedroom. A sanctuary for none, a tomb for two old people, one of whom is sick enough to be dead already, the other who did not need to go out like this. Her loyalty is exemplary, her love for her husband a shining light which cannot hope to pierce the darkness outside the palace. We would expect no less from her, but still I think I am not the only household guardsman in this corridor who wishes she had shown just a little less integrity this time around.
    There is a loud crash against the barricaded door. We all jump, it is not that we were idle, but now we are a little more tense. There is a part of me that wants to look around at the others, to seek some reassurance from them. But I know that cannot come to pass, all I will see in them is a reflection of myself.
    Another crash, the splintering of wood. Too big to be a cadaver, I suspect one of their large cousins has come across them gathered outside the door and decided to investigate. I think I can hear sobbing from the bedroom, but I'm not certain, I try to focus on something else. I look at the writing desk overturned in front of me. I look at the ornate carving around it and the secret draws located underneath. I cannot recall which room that we requisitioned it from but it is likely to have been from one of her personal chambers. I ponder the monarchs who