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The Mumblings Of Jason Andreas' Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
The Mumblings Of Jason Andreas

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The runner... [10 Jul 2002|11:51am]

His long coat billowed behind him as he ran through the moonlit streets. He knew he hadn’t much time left – the clock was ever ticking, each new second bringing him closer to failure. The kind of failure that would leave him standing there, awash with despair and frustration, as the source of his haste left him behind. Rubbish was kicked up in his wake, swirling and cascading as his boots pounded on the rough concrete paving. His breathing was ragged, coming in pants that left beautiful condensation hanging in the night air, oh so briefly, like smoke from a dragon’s mouth. His legs felt like they were on fire, lava surging through the veins instead of blood, muscles screaming in protest at this uncalled-for punishment.

He decided to take a chance and cut sharply 90 degrees to the left, leaping a fence on his way. This was a shortcut, if he could remember the way, that would buy him valuable seconds. Those seconds were a precious commodity, he knew, and he willed himself to strive ever onwards. The terrain was more treacherous here – his feet navigated rocks and stones and clumps of random plant life, even the occasional car part, left to rust in the backstreets of the community.

Disaster struck! He felt his foot touch down on a soaking wet branch, the combination of the lack of friction and his speed made his foot skid along its surface, twisting his center of balance and sending him crashing to the ground. Quickly, like an Olympic sprinter on the starting block, he was up and running again, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.

He glanced at his watch – less than 10 seconds remaining. He had to hurry. With an iron will he pushed himself to go just that little bit faster, to give a little more to his ailing legs, and as he rounded the corner he saw it, pulling away, leaving, leaving him a failure. If he had only avoided that branch. If only he’d left a few seconds earlier. He slumped to his knees and watched through tear-stained eyes as the No. 32 bus drove off into the distance...
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Forgotten Dreamers (song) [21 Jun 2002|02:35pm]

Forgotten Dreamers

Rain falls down every night and day
Those sweet-bloodied lovers have lost their way
Now all is ending in dismay
And she takes her knife to his heart.

She stabs him alone in a dark country road
Cuts out the veins that run in his throat
Leaves him there wrapped in a crimson red coat
Under a tall sycamore tree.

He lies and he bleeds
He lies and he rots
His eyes are glazed over
They're red and bloodshot
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

She's driving off in the black Pontiac
He's out of her hair and there's no looking back
No more putting up with his constant attacks
Where no-one else ever sees.

She goes to a man who knows what was done
He holds her close tight and makes plans to run
They're fleeing the rain, looking out to the sun
That shines on the future now.

And he lies in the lane
Where everything's still
No-one's gonna find him
This was a perfect kill.
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

The girl and her true love think they're out of harm's way
Enjoying the time and the cool light of day
Who's gonna find them? Who's gonna say?
And they run hand in hand til they die.
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Skinny girls and skinny boys... [14 Jun 2002|01:47pm]

All the skinny girls went arm in arm with the skinny boys. Eyes sparkled with shared senses of longing and contentment. Legs moving in time, free arms swinging or huddled in pockets or clutching a record bag with that treasured rare vinyl contained inside. A music all of their own plays inside their heads, telling them that the world keeps on turning, to the beat. Always to the beat. And the skinny boys and the skinny girls turn their heads to each other, eyes begin to close, mouths begin to part, heads drift closer and tongues entwine. They dance, contained in a little bubble of calm while on all sides the busy city rushes past, never even stopping to blink. So what if they get the occasional contemptous look from the single kids who could never find a soulmate? They don't care, for all that exists in that moment in time is each other - pure and overwhelmingly joyful. Perhaps the hands they hold squeeze just a little tighter, in recognition of the moment they share, a moment like no other. And all around them, the flames streaming from the cars, the dust as the buildings topple, the screams and the cries as the world begins to end, they all go unnoticed by the skinny boys and skinny girls. Their love is complete. Absolute. And it remains so until death takes them just a few minutes later.
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Time is running out... [14 Jun 2002|01:30pm]

Bony fingers danced over the keyboard. The old man knew that his time was coming, that he didn't have much left, so every moment had to count. The room smelled of stale urine - even getting up and going to the toilet would have taken precious moments that he just could not spare. The monitor's glare reflected harshly in his thick-rimmed glasses as he typed, muttering under his breath as if dictating to himself. He knew that if he failed here, his entire life would be a waste. Everything he'd worked towards, inch by painstaking inch, would be for nothing if he could not do this in time. He drove his fingers to the limit, every mistake being corrected with a muffled swear-word. He didn't have time for mistakes. He just didn't have... didn't have... his breathing was laboured now. He was dying. Seconds left. The fingers sped over the keys, typing faster and more accurately than he could ever have imagined - necessity lending speed and accuracy. It came to him, suddenly, that he had stopped typing five minutes ago. His eyes flicked down to his arms, lying lifeless beside the keyboard, no amount of effort making them move again. The eyes flicked back up to the screen, and the huge, complicated scientific formula he had painstakingly noted down. The last thing he saw, as his vision faded into the neverness of death was the last thing he had been able to type... the one symbol he had needed to pass to succeed...

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FictionFactFantasyReality [14 Jun 2002|01:20pm]

Rubbish drifted through the streets like tumbleweed. Old crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and newspapers. The detritus of average city existance. Society's mark. They created a cacophany of colours and shapes, pleasing to the eye and the soul. We would sit there for hours, just watching the movements. How odd it was, we would often remark, that the wind always seemed to blow in tiny little circles, cascading the colours in its wake...

Another dream...

The sunlight streamed through the classroom windows. It only served to make us all the more restless. Why, we asked ourselves, are we stuck inside a dreary building on such a glorious day? Why have to sit through mundane diatribes on history that we'd never have want nor cause to think of ever again? Could we not be outside, skinning our knees, constructing epic adventures from nothing more than a plank of wood and an old toy sword? We felt that first real twinge of the unfairness that haunts adult life that afternoon, and we didn't like it one bit...

Another fiction...

Catcalls echoed through the trees. Gleeful laughter and shouts of joy were the delighted result of another passage over the stream. The rope creaked lazily in the afternoon breeze as boy after boy made the invigorating swing from bank to bank. The rope swing had been there for as long as any of us could remember, perhaps even further back than our older brothers could remember. We fancied that it had been there since the dawn of time, growing older with the world, watching each generation come and go from its vantage point in the tree. It surprised us all the more, then, when it snapped and sent the new boy shrieking down to the bottom. As he lay there unmoving, his body twisted oddly over the rocks, I think we all knew that he was never going to walk again...
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Heartbreak [14 Jun 2002|12:56pm]

I lay there in a puddle of my own soul as you laid into me again and again and again. Every word you uttered, every phrase, every sentence lashed across my heart like a whip made of fire. I curled into a foetal position to try and shield myself from your voice, but it was to no avail. I was aborted by your speech. I was ripped asunder by the scorn, the hatred, the violence that you did not mean, did not say, but was there because of the things you didn't, wouldn't, couldn't say. Every piece of my heart was plunged deep into a powerful acid created by the love I bore you, and neither you nor I could stop the agony and release me from my pain.

And when you finally came to a halt, I looked up at you with bloodshot, tear-rimmed eyes, and I asked for more.
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A Crumbled Castle [13 Jun 2002|09:37pm]

[ mood | dramatic ]

This was a 'drama' folio piece for an English class. I decided not to submit it in the end though...

A Crumbled CastleCollapse )

So there you go... what do you think?

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You're looking at me... [12 Jun 2002|04:30pm]

You're looking at me? How dare you? I'll wait until the shadows fall and I'll find you. The last thing you feel will be a pure silk cord, winding around your throat from the darkness behind you. You'll die cradled in my arms, like a child clinging to its mother. Your own fault. You're looking at me.

You're looking at me? You think that's right? I'll come at you from the fog on your long walk home. I'll wrap my hands around your head and twist until your neck snaps. You'll fall to the ground like a boneless sack of water. Hell, that's all you'll ever be to me. Your own fault. You're looking at me.

You're looking at me? I don't like that expression. You'll awaken one night to a knife at your breast, positioned between the ribs. One firm push and your heart is broken for all eternity, never to be repaired. You'll die slowly, clutching to me like I'm your salvation. Perhaps I am? Your own fault. You're looking at me.

You're looking at me? Oh, no, no, no. I'll look right back. I'll see through your skin and bones into the depths of your soul. I'll torment your dreams with your biggest fear, your darkest secret, you'll visit an exquisite pain you could never imagine. When you die, it'll be gasping for sanity in a world gone wrong. Your own fault. You're looking at me.

You're looking at me? I'll be flattered. I'll ply you with drinks and caress you in all the right ways. I'll slip into your life like an eel gliding through water, and I'll become the most important thing in the world to you. Then on our wedding night there'll be no enchanted evening. Only eternity. Your own fault. You're looking at me.

Stop looking at me.

[nb: previously posted in jasonandreas]
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