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CADAVER WORLD

             THE STORIES, ARTICLES AND CONTEMPLATIONS 
                         OF LADY HANNAH CADAVER

The Faceless

May 29, 2017

She made a delivery to an office without a view.  The man who took the package was unrecognisable.  She tried to introduce herself but every time she tried, she failed.  Recognising her frustration, he took her to a mirror where she saw she had no face.  He then showed her a wall of glass that contained many faces and told her she would one day get to choose one.

She thought "How do I speak"?  He replied "Not all voices are verbal".
She wondered "How do I see"?  He said "You do not need to see, in order to know".
She asked "Can I choose any of the faces?  Can I be beautiful?"  
He turned her towards him "You can have any face you like.  It can not make you beautiful.  It can not make you ugly.  Your face will give you personality, not character." 

She left, wondering what the hell her name was.

 

Sheriff of Zombie Town

May 1, 2014

Awoke from dreams she was the sheriff of Zombie Town, which was set up by those who's loved ones had become zombies and could not bare to dispose of/ dispatch them.

We also had a research center set up.  Trials of complete blood transfusions had begun.

Discussions on how long we could realistically feed and house the zombies were underway.  All the staff had become vegetarian and we stopped questioning the deliveries of brains a long time ago.  We had developed dark jokes to cope with the deliveries of animals the families of the zombies would send.  Occasionally, we would find someone who had been bitten but had not yet turned, tied to our front gates.

In order to fund it, we had various forms of sports events for both the unbitten and the undead.  One was shot-put, using brains that would land into a field of zombies.  Another, was the obstacle course that was judged upon maximum difficulty that a zombie could still complete.

It is not a nightmare if you wake up giggling.

- Written 2014-05-01

 

The minefield crashed into a bus full of vegan zombies.

March 26, 2014

The minefield crashed into a bus full of vegan zombies.  

It fled and climbed to the top of a mountain, dared to look down and saw that all that was destroyed on the way up, had become beautiful as a result.  The minefield turned to look down the other side of the mountain.  Would it climb back down or would it use its own force to create a slide?  The slide idea, did seem like a lot more fun but as it prepared to do so, it spied a single dandelion.  
The dandelion blossomed to be noticed and made the minefield a tea from its roots before creating a song that burst it into the air.

The journey back down took on new meaning to the minefield.  It blew itself into the sky so its many pieces could catch the seeds in their mouths.  In legion, they made wishes from the seeds and blew them back out upon the mountain.  

Dandelion seeds are produced without pollination.  Pure in their immaculate conception, they are genetically identical to their parent.  They took root, made tea, sang and burst over and over again.  They created infinite wishes.

The minefield legion returned as one, to the scene where it had left the bus.  It put wishes in the mouths, ears and eyes of the vegan zombies.  As the wishes began to bloom, the minefield was sure it saw a zombie smile.  The true lust of a zombie is after all, not to remain vegan.

The zombies began using the same method of immaculate conception to multiply and began their own path of destruction up the side of the mountain.  
They cared not for tea, turned the songs into screams and devoured every wish they could, along the way. 

They slid down the other side.

The carnage had barely begun and it was exquisite...

- Written 2014-03-26

A daily occurrence between her and I

March 17, 2014

A daily occurrence between her and I
Unspoken, it was our way
She would sit or stand.
I would watch her long neck and shoulders
Wishing I were at liberty to touch just once
To see if her skin felt like perfume
Although I had lost my sense of smell years ago
Oh how she made me want to remember.
And closing my eyes, I would remember.
Although I never saw her smile,
She was more lovely than the cruelty of perfection.

- Writen 2014-03-17

Stands in the epicentre of a whirlwind

March 5, 2014

Stands in the epicentre of a whirlwind.
Calm whilst everything around, pirouettes
She once felt her finger
Flick the eye of a walker
It stained her to tears
And yet and yet
She stands still in the centre of pirouettes
- Written 2014-03-05

 

Her Room Was A Shambles, Her Eyes Were A Mess.

February 26, 2014

Her room was a shambles, her eyes were a mess.  The Mona Lisa lay at her feet, yet again.  
She wore razor blades around her neck.
His belt was made of papyrus and he smelled like oaked strawberries.  The leather had taken up smoking again.  He dared not tell his mother.
The TV was on a frozen setting just to keep the buzzing sound.  It has not heard from anyone.  At least not since last Tuesday.
The gate is adorned with foul wishes, filled with secrets.  It remembers no names.  It remembers many faces.
Her safety films sit by the fridge and scream "Get me out of here."  She opens the door and disappears.
He looks to replace a bulb but does not know How many of him it will take.  No-one ever explained the riddle.
The gate is always closed but keeps no-one in nor out.  Not him.  Not her.  Not you.  Not I.  It never tires enough to sleep.
And so they watch.  And so they wait.  And so they sigh.
- Written 2014-02-26

 

The God Reached Out For Biscuits But Pulled Out Coal

February 24, 2014

The god reached out for biscuits but pulled out coal.  She placed a piece into her mouth just to see how it would feel and it turned to charcoal.  She laughed at the in-joke regarding carbon footprints and dehydration.  She bit down and shuddered that it cleaned her teeth too well.  She will teach them to invent toothpaste.

Several times, she looked to the smell of rosemary, shivering from the heat and rewinding herself.  Will there be tomorrows?  Or will tomorrow be a memory of something that has yet to happen?

 
Her stomach.  How it aches.  She is frightened it is bleeding again.  It is after all, nearing the anniversary of the death of her last holographic vision.
 

She holds a star between her toes in anticipation of the day she will have to teach herself how to walk.  Long, lovely sinew.  She could create the need within minutes but why should she when her mind moves mountains into seas with less than a word?  She chooses not to do that either.  She has not yet created language or the need to speak but oh ...  Oh how she loves to hear the songs that come from unrestricted voices.

 
When there are no words, there is only the perfection of each attosecond and the spaces in between.
She removes the charcoal and tosses it aside, creating new numbers that look like collections of pyramids.  As the charcoal looks for a place to hide, she considers what the other gods choose to teach.
 
She is trying to decide between a holocaust and mathematics for she cannot find the biscuits. 
 
 - Written 2014-02-24

The Missing Link

March 21, 2013

The missing link belts tunes fashioned from twisted, internal memories.  It hides the broccoli, force feeds inferior scotch and reminds of impending anniversaries.  It hides a bed inside a wardrobe and sleeps in a cocoon made of feathers and pillows.  It wakes with the feel of fur and a rough tongue upon the cheek as though it were real.  It sounds like the deceased.  
There is an imposter.  The imposter is loved it for that but likewise, it repels.  Always does the imposter talk.  Never a moment of silence.  The high-pitched chatter deafens even as it leaves.  
The murder weapon, hidden in a statue, is masked by the smell of marijuana and blocked by a blue goblet of earrings.  All they wanted were espresso martinis but violence has it's own unique sense of humour.  
Waking without a Homicidal Maniac in one's bed is the least safe place, for it gives the missing link room to manoeuvre and grab hold.
She loves to remember.  She wants to forget.  She honours this with your tears.
 - Written 2013-03-21

 

Perfection ...  A Contemplation

June 4, 2010

... the more we strive or look for perfection, the more imperfections we find ... the less perfect we therefore become ... it is when we recognise the goal is therefore negative and no longer perfection, we find perfection right there after all ... such energy is better spent, than wasted ... and so with love ...
 - Written 04 June 2010

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