My official website is a dead zombie duck wandering the internet wasteland looking for brains and finding none, especially on facebook. This blog was started as a random drawing/story project about proto feminist zombies...er yeh seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it is just a blog about my art in general with the occasional feminist zombie thrown in
Sunday, 3 March 2013
She can't remember who she was, but they remember, not that they speak her name anymore. Her legion of fans were devastated when she was attacked, they fought the zombies off her but it was too late. Not only had she been turned but her arms had been chewed to pieces and now her hands just hung on by a few tendons. They didn't want to give up on her though, the world of music couldn't lose its most talented pianist. They owed it to Art and future generations of music lovers to save her talent, whatever the cost, they were willing to pay it.
Top surgeons were payed very well to put her back together, it was a difficult job and, the results weren't too pretty to look at. However, they managed to save the use of both hands.
To her fans great pleasure as soon as they chained her to the piano she began to play, not only that, she played even more beautifully than when she was alive. Every note hung in the air with a subtle hint of melancholy that could only be achieved by one who had truly suffered for her art...
...there were a few teething problems of course, the fact that she kept incessantly screaming along to the music in an off key howl to name just one. This really put everyone off enjoying the performance, after all they were there to listen to famous classical concertos being performed in a traditional style. Not with crazy avant garde style vocal interpretations thrown in at random intervals, no no, this just wouldn't do at all. They tried tightening her collar but, this didn't really do it. So, they cut her tongue out and removed her vocal chords. Now she just makes a pitiful wheeze, which is thankfully barely audible when she is playing.
At the end of every evening she is fed a bowl of blood and brains to keep her spirits up, then locked up until the next performance. Unknown to the rich elite who pay thousands to hear her play, there is another more socially undesirable type who also enjoys her music. Every night, after she has been locked away and the hordes of fans have long gone, the building janitor sneaks down to the concert hall and lets himself in. There he sits and listens for hours, listens to the same melancholic song she always plays just for him, a lilting repeating lament in a minor key that grows softer and slower with every bar. Until finally all that can be heard is a gentle rasping weeping coming from the undead performer...
...at this the janitor sits in silence watching her cry. And wonders to himself, who are the real monsters?