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Post by `Jandon Elvsbin on Jul 23, 2010 18:01:12 GMT -5
A bead of sweat ran down his back as Jandon sat, crouched over an old notebook, his pencil flying across the page as though it had a mind of it's own. Hazel eyes stayed glued to the words stemming from the pencil, trying to keep a tight string of thought between the writing utensil and the thoughts speeding through his head.
Jandon sat beneath an old oak tree, his black Coheed and Cambria shirt laying crumpled in a heap an arm's length away along with his socks and sneakers. His pants were lose fitting and bleached, though not doing anything to cool him. Jandon's numerous tattoos seemed to shimmer with the heat and the thin layer of sweat coating his body each time he moved. Absently brushing a stray piece of hair from his eyes, the twenty-six-year-old writer changed positions, trying to relieve the tingling in his sleeping foot.
His current project was an outline of chapter twelve of his book. One that he thought would probably never get published, or, at the rate of deterioration of this stupid city, finished. Nonetheless, muse for the masterpiece was flowing out of his years, and Jandon had never been able to go a single day without writing anyway.
As he finished the chapter, Jandon put the pencil down and leaned back against the tree, liking the feel of the cool bark against his back, even if it scratched him and undoubtedly left some kind of indentions. Closing his eyes, the writer took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the day. Not that he could do that too well, though. He felt like such a wuss for rarely if ever leaving the survivor camp. He'd never faced off with a zombie, except the time he had to in order to get here in the first place. He'd learned some pretty crafty ways to use a shovel that day, and had immediately incorporated his new experience into his writing. The problem was, Jandon wasn't a fighter. Not a fighter at all.
He'd been in a few scuffles before, not to mention his fair share of drunken brawls. But when it came to saving his own ass, Jandon's plan would always be 'run faster.' As soon as he stepped out of the camp he felt exposed and vulnerable, not to mention completely doomed. Even the stupid zombified people with nothing special about them could take him down in a heartbeat if they wanted. Fists really weren't much good with them.
Sighing, he pulled the notebook closer and tapped the pencil against it, trying to pick back up on the thread of thought he'd just broken.
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