Yeah, I'm sure plenty of you out there asking yourselves that... Who is that... *Squinting at the screen*... "Lawren?... huh?... where did this guy come from...

Anyway. I know I'm never around... You all know the excuses, and they're all true... I do have a job, I have work... I have a girlfriend, I still live with my parent... which ic pretty much killing everything. Eight hours of work, Eight hours of sleep, Running to town, Hanging out,... Umm, other... stuff...

There's a lot going on in my personal life... between me and Amanda, that I can't really talk about... sometimes I want to... Sometimes I need to... but I can't. Something terrible happened, and it's stuck in my head. I wasnt there, but it happened to her, and I couldn't stop it... and no matter how hard I try I see it in my head, everyday...



... Sorry...

What this journal was supposed to be about is telling you all that I"m... still around..... somewhere... Not often anymore... but I'm around....

Writings stalled, but not bumhugs, I'll get back to it sooner or later, I always do.

BEING TAKEN TO THE CAMP”
“Mrs. Copeland—”
“It’s Rhari, kid. Your making me feel like a shrew.”
“Mrs. Rhari, I’m been asked to request you remove any electronic devices you might have on your person before we go any futher.”
Rhari looks upset here, I’m sure says something....
...“With so many of us gathered in one spot, we emit an electronic pulse thingy...
Rhari finally explains to him to just call her Rhari, then
“What should(do) I call you?”
“kidd is good.”
“Like billy.”
“Who’s he?”
“Come on kidd, I’ll tell you all about him.”
They walk into the tree’s, end chapter.


“thunder.” A small child who had sat unnoticed beside him rose.... For Childe, and Thunders part....
“wiebke.” She pouted. Large brown eyes brimming with wet, wet tears.
“thunder.” Childes voice was quiet disappointment.
“wiebke! wiebke!”
“thunder,” He said, and the tone of pleading in his voice was unmistakable. (In german, "Wir müssen sie glauben machen") “We must make her believe.”
(Okay, the girl is a swift, but a rook version of one.. i.e. screwed up. She transforms from a child of perhaps 5 or 6 to a later years teenager.
Child Explaining: “There are side effects though. A child’s mind is much smaller than that of an adults. She forgets most of what she knows.”
The air rippled with plumes of heat... on her changing, the way hear makes ripples in the air. Because her bodies metabolism is speeding up for the change. She can lose mass, unlike a regular swift.
“Where does the extra mass go?”
“Her body metabolizes it.”


Jim Carey wasn’t waiting for her in the terminal(or under it; the tarmac was a weathered and torn mess, but it still seemed like the gates of Troy after the Greek horde. Sadly, this respite would be just as short lived) when she disembarked from flight 197 in Rockford, Illinois. There was no limo waiting. No hint of the crisp winter air. No snow. Her briefcase didn’t say SAMSONITE and the—
It was too bad; she could have done with a weekend in Aspen.
Okay. Dreams and fantasies aside; it was time to switch into serious mode.
The tunnel that led from the plane into the terminal was small and narrow. Pink carpet jumped up to caress the soles of her blue swashed Nikes. The walls were a smokers shade of white, broken down the middle by a thick blue plastic bar. The air was stifling and hot. Chokingly bitter with scents: Cologne. Perfume. Ralph Lauren. Destiny. Spears. Cocaine. Marijuana. Tar. Death. Stale cigarettes. Stale beer. Sweat. Fear. Crazy. Insane.
The stately old woman with the hearing impairment who had sat next to her on the plane hurried past as Rhari lingered, fingers trailing over one blue railing, attempting to calm herself. The woman smelled stringently of talc and to a lesser degree those same scents Rhari’s nose must have detected over half the women passengers; perfume, nail polish, sweat; and oddly, chrysanthemums.
Rhari staggered and a male passenger half stopped as if in indecision as to whether or not he should help. Eyes trailing slowly upward over the light plaid carpet, Rhari watched the aristocratic form recede; hips wiggling menacingly, shoulders tight, arms in motion, the dark coal gray of her suit pulling tight in all the right places.
Somewhere close a passenger still waited. Rhari could feel his arms extended half toward her, half in indecision, half in worry. Was she sick? Was she hurt? Scents rushed at her, blinding, tight; chokingly tight. The roar of feet was thunderous, the thrum of voices the background riff to a monstrous guitar solo. Outside jet engines rumbled into takeoff position, the sun stumbled blithely through a smattering of light storm clouds. Rhari’s breath whistled down her closing throat.
She felt something touch her shoulder, a hand, and rocked in shock as his smells washed over her, washed over her as though the mans touch was the destruction of a wall, or the dropping of a shield; the end of distraction?
The smell of urine, light, but there—probably dribbled to a pant-leg after a hurried shaking—the sickly sweet tinge of some heavy aftershave; and vellum: Calf skin. A scent that could never be forgotten once one had visited the bowels of the councils archives. Flesh is a material that no amount of scraping and smoothing can mask—washed over her
Scent reveals more in one instant than a lifetime of comfortable forgery.
Rhari sighed, almost a sound of ecstacy. The tightness in her throat eased, in a moment vanished altogether. The world turned around her, effervescent slow, trickling like rain through a wet, gray fog. Shapes were indistinct, obscured through red veined eyes. The scrape of flesh sliding over her suede jacket was sandpaper over metal loud.
Rhari turned and stood, feeling the hunter fade slightly into the background. Not far, but far enough to free her thoughts. She needed time
(room)
to think.
The man who stood before of her was of medium build, tall, but not incredibly so, dressed loosely in the brown jacket and slacks of some fifth avenue connoisseur. The gray in his hair was a match to the suits’ charcoal striping, almost meticulously so. Together they complimented each other in a way that brought a less than handsome face some touch of down home country charm; country boy charm—absent a prime of fifteen years or more.
The gray of his hair did match the striping, but little else. Where in everything else he was dark, dark skinned, dark eyed—even dark dressed, and Rhari had the immediate impression that he always dressed so—the remainder of his hair, that is to say, that which wasn’t charcoal striped, was a light golden blonde bordering on a white reflective of days spent beneath a bright California sun.
His hair and suite seemed designed to draw ones eyes—almost purposefully—and where ones eyes were drawn, purposefully, was most obviously the place they needn’t be. Still, Rhari lingered for a moment longer, not unsure, not blaspheming to that voice screaming at her in warning, only... something.
Then she did look away, and not up or left of right, but slightly downward. He stared at her, through her, with eyes seemingly set aglow by some inner fire, eyes whose dark brown iris’ seemed to burn with untold depth. Her own eyes flickered lower, to a plain, straight mouth caught in the last stages of hiding some emotion. She returned her stare to eyes and caught that same fleeting retreat there, some emotion caught uncovered and quickly concealed. His brow twisted in worried lines for a moment, and they too vanished.
what—
He attempted a smile, a quick, fleeting thing; an awe shucks, corn chucks attempt that was easily bolstered by his bygone farm boy image.
Rhari was having none of it, for that matter, the hunter was having none either. For a moment that fleeting other rushed forward and Rhari felt a threatening growl trickle into her throat, a sound too low for the human ear to hear, but apparently not low enough for this man. She watched his smile falter, no, not falter, she watched it ripple, like the surface of a pond under a heavy onslaught of wind, first twisting one way, then the other, caught in a tide that for one moment brought the reminder that all was not under it’s control.

“Ms. Copeland.” He spoke, and the flat toneless sound of his accent was anything but what his face had promised. The sound of that voice, that impossible plainness, allowed her to pause, to contemplate.
Rhari straightened up, shoving the nerve wrenching bullshit to the back of her gut. No time.
“Who are you?”
“It’s not important,” he began, but after a sobering look at her face must have thought otherwise, “My name is Joshua Goudreau, but you may call me Mr. Joshua.”
“Gary Busey fan huh?”
Something passed through his eyes. Before she could register more than a minute slip it was gone. “Excuse me,” he stared at her, apparently perplexed.
Bullshit.
She shook her head,. Innocent, confused. The Hunter rippled through her, angry, it didn’t need to be, she was angry with herself for the remark. She gave an inch, then two, allowing it’s coaxing warmth to calm her, to take the edge off. Not too much, just enough....
He continued.
“Ms. Copeland,” another pause, minute, waiting for her interruption, when it failed to appear he continued.