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Hallelujah, Lock and Load.  Jewel rode hard, the muggy night wind almost blasting at her skin as painfully as the sands of a desert in a far, far away place. Part of her longed for that far away land, that place where enemy and friend were clearly defined. A place where her gun was worn in the open, and she knew that death would come at her without the slightest provocation. It was true that Lady Death could court a person just as easily in America as she did in the dunes of Iraq. But, unlike the seemingly innocent streets of Florida, at least in that war-torn country, Lady Death wore armor from head to toe and came at you from the front. She had a fighting chance there in the sand, and the end would come as swiftly as the beginning. Here in America… … she was dying slowly. Jewel could feel it on her skin, taste it in the air around her. Back in Iraq, she had been a solider, had stared death in the face every moment of every day. It made sense that, now as a civilian, she chose a profession that allowed her to continue to stare Death in the face—and give Death the one-fingered salute each and every time she saved a life. But the question hovered around her: could she save her own? She had thought that her cousin Solomon would be the answer to that question. However, he had shot her down when she’d asked to be part of his legacy. “Soul-pretzeling isn’t something you do lightly. I’ve seen what happens when someone tries to undo it. It ain’t pretty.” Fuck you, she had wanted to scream at him. Self-righteous bastard. Did he really think she was an idiot? That she hadn’t thought this whole thing through before she’d asked him? But the time and place hadn’t been right. They were sitting in the commonroom of Bonny and Bliss, drinking in memory to the fallen Lorcan. Punching her cousin in the face, while it certainly would have been in keeping with Lorcan’s memory, wasn’t going to do anything more than make her feel better. Well, it would have felt good… for a second. Until Gypsy or Brigade hit her so hard she wouldn’t have come to in months. Fucking Obrimos. Besides, that would have hurt Fee to no end. And as she had learned the hard way, funerals really weren’t for the dead. They were for the living. And she had gone to that place not to mourn a man she had met once and knew even less. She had gone there to support Fee. So when he’d turned her down, she had walked away. Even when he’d taunted her about giving in too easily. What did he expect, honestly? For her to beg? To make with the Edgar Allen Poe-style prose and pour out her bleeding little heart? To simper like some of those other spineless power-seekers out there? Jewel snorted at the thought, swiping at her eyes in anger. Those tears were certainly from the sting of the wind and not from the despair whispering emo thoughts into her soul. She was a gypsy. She would never beg. Never. Ever. Beg. And so she rode hard into the night, not sure where she was going. Not sure what she was running from. Only that she had to ride tonight before the thoughts of dying slowly in a perfectly commonplace job in a perfectly commonplace town caught up with her. Current mood:  aggravated.Current music: Fuel... Metallica. Date: December 03, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida, U.S.A. Subject: The End of the Past I think I’ve filled enough pages with the events that lead me to who and what and where I am now. Tiny details are all that are left. After Charisma’s death, I finished off my tour in the Navy without incident. My record was good but not perfect. My skills were great but not exceptionally noted. When my tour was over, I left. Tricks Charisma had shown me ensured all the above happened. Translation: My paperwork got “lost” in the system, and they bounced me out without trying to drag me back in for another tour. This pissed off more than a few in the Arrow. Though they accepted me as a member after Charisma’s death, they still wanted me to stay in the Navy. I could do a lot of good traveling around as I had been. It was a plumb assignment, they said. I just couldn’t do it, Cloud. It all felt hollow after he died. It was like I’d lost my family… … and that was true, in a sense. Because I couldn’t go home to Tennessee now. The life of a cop wasn’t going to cut it for me, and trying to pretend that everything was fine in a small town wasn’t going to work, either. My family would know something was wrong with me. The Clark tribe always knew when something was wrong with each other. Without Charisma, I had no place to belong. It was like watching my father die all over again. I was an orphan once more, a gypsy without a kumpiana. So I did what I guess my biological father had done when Sarah had abandoned him. I got a bike and started riding the highways of the world. Anywhere the Dreams took me, I went. Guess I did some good here and there, but I never really found a place that I felt I could be happy. Searching for my heart, I guess. Always searching… Then I happened upon a wedding of two Awakened on a beach in Central Florida. You know the rest. Current mood:  nostalgic.
Date: December 02, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Subject: Death There’s so much I could really say about Charisma. So much that I honestly want to just scream to the world. But I can’t. He wouldn’t have wanted it that way, and I agree with that. I’m as much of a private person as he was. I probably got that from him. I miss him, Cloud. I may not be his blood, bit I miss him all the same. He died while we were taking down a pylon of Seers. A single shot through the head that had somehow gotten through his magical defenses. I watched it. I tried to save him. I couldn’t. We had two years together. Did I love him? Yes and no. Were we lovers? Yes, but not like you think. I don’t expect you to really understand it. It’s just something that happens when you are fighting a war. Some of the social rules of “civilized society” just don’t make sense in a combat situation. The best way I can describe it is this: when you see so much death, when your entire world becomes about one dead body after another—more than some caused by your own hands—you just need that crush of life. You need to be consumed by passions other than rage. You need flesh on flesh contact, the rush of adrenaline that has nothing to do with fighting and everything to do with living. I guess it boils down to the fact that you need to remind yourself just exactly why you were doing what you were doing. Fuck, this entry makes no sense. It’s all over the place. No. I’m not over his death. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: December 01, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Subject: Charisma I’ve attempted this entry seven times now, and each time I keep starting it over. I know this is the main one that you and Gypsy want to read/know about more than anything, and probably the only thing you wanted me to write about, Cloud, but I couldn’t really explain what happened without the foundation of my past being laid out before you. I wanted you to know what motivated what I did and how I reacted, what passions drove me and what fears made me do what I did. Christ, that was long-winded enough, wasn’t it? Anyway, this isn’t going to write itself, right? Get to the point… Like I said before, I came out of the Mystery play in Russia. St. Petersburg, Russia to be exact. There was a dead body at my feet, and the sword I had been holding was suddenly a piece of discarded pipe damn near frozen to my numbed hands. That’s when the freak-out began to happen, when I really had no idea how I’d gotten there, or why the guy was dead, or why I had killed him. The last time reality and I had had a decent conversation had been when Angel hit the sand in Iraq. I had this brief memory of believing that the DB was some sort of warlock harboring a deadly potion in his pocket, and that the King of the Black Forest had charged myself and Sir Scary German Guy to go forth and stop him before he poisoned the kingdom. With swords in hand, we (Scary German Guy and myself) had tracked the Warlock across the kingdom and into the forbidden frozen depths of the NeverWinter Wasteland. Sidenote: Scary German Guy (a.k.a SGG), apparently, was this German solider I had been paired with as part of a special assignment. It happened a lot. Don’t look at me that way. If you believe inter-governmental cooperation and/or conspiracies happened only in James Bond films or Tom Clancy novels, you really need to stop reading this journal. Let’s just say there was a reason I called him Scary German Guy, and no, I am not getting into those reasons right now. Apparently Scary German Guy and I had succeeded in stopping the evil Warlock from poisoning the Kingdom, and SGG had grabbed the potion and hauled ass. Unfortunately that left me standing there pretty much with my non-existent dick in my hands. I had no idea where I was, or who I was, or why I’d just killed this guy with a pipe. Questions fired rapidly in the dull sludge I called my brain matter at the time. Where was my gun? Where was my back-up? Where was the check-point? What was the codeword? Like in a bad B-movie plot, I simply dropped the pipe and took off running. I think I made it about four city blocks before Charisma dropped me like bad habit. Looking back now, I knew it was a sleep spell spun rather rapidly around my mind. At the time, I thought…. Well, I have no idea what I thought, but it wasn’t pleasant. The blackness of unconsciousness was a welcomed friend at that point. ~*~ Later, I learned that Charisma had been the man on the path. You know, the one I could always feel watching me, but never could see clearly? Yeah, that was him. He’d pegged me for a newbie running down that merry little gauntlet towards Awakening. Instead of putting me out of my misery, he’d followed and guided me as much as possible. It must have been like herding cats, I swear. If I had no idea what the freak was going on—and I was the one in the driver’s seat of that little hell-ride—how in the world could he have known? It’s a question he never fully answered. Regardless, he’d known me for what I was. He’d also seen a potential for a good Arrow in me, and so had stuck around as long as he could. He was about to give me up for a lost cause (six months in a mystery play usually indicated that the person was trapped forever between Asleep and Awake) when I’d come out of it. He’d cleaned up my mess and then laid down the law for me. Next thing I knew, he’d become my mentor and I was working my way towards acceptance in the Adamantine Arrow. Current mood: nostalgic.
i>Date: November 30, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A.</i> Subject: Missing time. Missing time is a bitch. It’s even worse when your Acanthus and Time is one of your major Arcana paths. No matter how much I pour into the spell, I still can’t figure out exactly what happened to me in those six months. The Dreams (yes, the capital “D” is there on purpose) aren’t any help, either, though they started after my six month Mystery Play. I’ll try to put down the facts as I was able to gather them. One of the perks of living in a technological savvy society is that every action can and will be monitored, especially when you’re owned by the US military. It also didn’t hurt that I’m a scientist, either, and understand that everything leaves a transfer of some kind in its wake, be it passive or otherwise. There’s always a footprint to mark your passing in this world, even if it isn’t left by your actual foot. It took me a while—not to mention a lot of favors and careful movements on my part—to gather the information about that missing time in my life. Nothing makes someone think “crazy” better than having to ask them what you did when they knew you were a.) awake and b.) stone-cold sober. So… here go the facts: Fact 1: I wasn’t AWOL during any part of this Mystery Play. Yup, it’s true. Apparently, I performed my assigned tasks with a diligence and tenacity that far surpassed my previous record for said diligence and tenacity. Every assignment was carried out to perfection, no questions asked. They said Go. I went. They said Stay. I sat. Fact 2: No one suspected anything was wrong with me. Well, besides the fact that they all knew I’d watched my brother eat led. Most attributed my utter lack of emotion and near mindless fanaticism to my duties as a side effect of what I’d seen. No one likes to see their loved ones hurt. No one likes to know that the guy they were supposed to kill is the one that hurt said loved ones. Situations like that always leave you in “what if” scenarios that scar you more than the actual event, itself. “If I had been an hour faster, or the team an hour slower, then maybe possibly could be…” Strangely enough, none of those thoughts passed through my mind during those six months. Fact 3: I dreamed of thorns. No matter where I was, there was always this hedge of thorns in the distance, just out of the corner of my eye. It wasn’t like I was inside them, or they were blocking me in. It was just that they were there, a constant presence that filled me with foreboding. I’ve been in some seriously fucking deadly spaces in my time on this dirtball planet, but nothing made me want to run from it more than those thorns. I just knew that if I touched them, or if they touched me, I was gone. Notice I said “gone” and not “dead.” Not to be clichéd or anything, but I firmly believe there are much worse things than death. Those thorns were like a visiual representation of that belief. And yet, I wanted to go to them. Isn’t that just fucked up? It’s the truth, though. I wanted to go near those twisting thorns like a moth wants to go to a flame. You know it’s going to kill you, but you just can’t help yourself. Fact 4: The Tower. The closer I got to those thorns, the further the path towards them stretched away. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go to them, but towards the glittering tower off in the other direction. That tower saved my life, in all honesty. It was the one beacon of light, like a lighthouse burning against the fury of a hurricane at midnight. Though the path to the tower appeared to be a tougher climb than the one to the thorns, I chose to walk towards it. Thank goodness for small miracles. Fact 5: Trippin’ had nothing on the journey to that Tower I felt like I was in an episode of that old TV show “Sliders.” It was like every step on that path put me in a different reality. One step left me in the reality I had known all my life, and I was fighting side by side with the Scary German Guy (more on him later). One step later and I was swinging a sword with the freaking Knights of the Round Table. The next step had me racing across the battlefields of the American Civil War, and then the next had me guest staring in a remake of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The only commonalities in that whole acid flashback of an Awakening was: a.) each step brought me closer to the Tower, and b.) there was this guy I could always see watching me from the corner of my eye. Further details on this are classified, Cloud. I learned a lot about myself in those six months that I really don’t care to understand at this moment. Hell, I don’t think I ever want to come to terms with a lot of it. You got the facts out of me, though, and I think that was the point of this journal, true? Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: November 29, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Subject: Hell So like I said… Iraq was where things got all jacked up for me. The big “A” happened, and let me tell you, it took it’s sweet freaking time, too. December 24, 2004 to be precise. Christmas Eve. Yeah, this explains why I’m normally not around during that time. It just creeps the hell out of me to think too much about it, or to be around people who are dancing and singing on this “festive” occasion. Besides, it’s so annoying to talk to other mages and tell them the date of my Awakening. They’re always like “Ohhhhh so your Obrimos, then, aren’t you?” Man, if I had a fucking penny for each time I’ve heard that… No, dipshits. I’m not a walker of the Path of the Mighty. I did my hopscotch down the Path of the Thistle. That’s right. Acanthus all the way, baby. No matter how many times I say it, I just can’t get most of the Awakened to believe that the date of one’s Awakening isn’t a “sign” of the path they would walk. For supposedly having the most enlightened minds on the planet, some of our kind are incredibly shortsighted. But anyway, let’s end that rant… Again, like I said, this happened in Iraq. Some of you readers might be confused about the fact that I was Navy, yet I was living in the sandbox like the rest of the Marines. Honestly, I can’t tell you why I was doing that. I’m not being a smartass when I say that that information is classified. Earlier in this journal, I alluded to the fact that I was selected for “Special Projects.” Well, this was one of them. I was playing the part of the good ol’ military doctor (which was helped along by the fact that I had just graduated the military doctor’s program (yes, they have one). I was also assigned to the same unit as Angel. His job was to go around and… well… patrol and keep the peace. My job was to fix up the unit when necessary… and hunt down a specific target. Unfortunately, this is when shit went south. No one really knew who tipped the asshole off that I was there looking for him. Part of me always assumed it was an inside source, but I guess I’ll never know. What I do know is that he was there, waiting for me. And the fucker had researched me, too. Researched me enough to know that Angel was my fucking brother, and that taking him down would rattle my cage to no end. I saw the tale-tell flash of sunlight off the scope a second after I felt the “barb” in my chest start to throb. There was no time to finish screaming for everyone to get down. Just one second I had opened my mouth to scream “DOWN” and the next thing I knew, the word “down” had turned into “NO!” I watched Angel go down. I can’t explain what I felt in that moment. It’s like I remember it so clearly, and yet I can’t remember it at all. It’s a frozen second of blurry hell that waits for my weaker moments to sucker-punch my ass when I least expect it. Angel lay there in a sprawl of ruby-colored sand. I swear the fucking sand was GLITTERING! Glittering like someone had spilled crushed ruby-powder all around him. Fucking Mystery Plays. Most Awakened get to forget theirs. But not me. I get to relive that moment in utter clarity for the rest of my fucking life. How’d that get fair? But the moral of this story is this: I watched Angel get shot in Iraq, and when I blinked my eyes again, it was six months later and I was in Russia… Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: November 28, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Subject: Iraq It was hot. There was sand. It got into everything. But then so did the place. There’s something about it that stuck inside each of our hearts, kind of like a barb that wasn’t entirely unpleasant and yet wasn’t a cause for celebration. Still, if you pulled it out, there would still be a hole there, a spot that couldn’t be filled and yet ached all the more for the absence. So you just leave that barb in place, massaging a hand over it now and again to both sooth and aggravate it at once. XO Markie (yes, another fictitious name. Deal.) used to say that the barb was necessary. It was the one thing that kept a soldier alive, reminding him or her not to get comfortable because they don’t belong in that place. It made you sleep light and wake early, and gave a “sixth sense” while out on patrol. Whenever that barb started to ache, you hit the sand with weapon out and finger locked down on the trigger. No one believed him at first. He said no one would… until that first time you came under live fire, or the first time you walked into a city and really saw the people and the culture. And what Markie never told us was that once you were pricked with “the barb,” two things happened. Number 1: It never went away. You were barbed for life. Number 2: You no longer belonged anywhere. No one from back home could possibly understand what you’ve been through, and yet the people in Iraq weren’t your people, either. You had your Unit. You had your gun. You had you. That was it. End of list. I know, I know. It sounds all dramatic and shit, but it’s the truth. When you live it, it’s hardly drama at all. It’s real and it’s in front of you and it’s your whole universe wrapped in extremes of hot and cold and black and tan and blue sky so vibrant and vivid and you’ll never see it again any other place on earth. Petty shit like power bills and the neighbor’s dog stealing your newspaper or who’s wearing what to the neighborhood fucking picnic just no longer exists. It’s very much like Awakening. Sometimes I think it’s only thing on earth that comes close. The kicker of it, though, is that kind of freedom from “everyday” worry is like a drug. You crave it. You crave the emptiness and the heat and the football games on plains of sand that seem to go on forever. Laughter is as real as the fear and the tears when someone takes one to the chest. Like I said, you crave it… because once you go home to the power bills and neighborhood picnics, you realize just how much you don’t belong anymore. Maybe that’s why Mary always had that far-away look in her eyes when I was growing up. Who knows? She never talked about it. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve ever “talked” about it, either. I think I’m done with this subject… for now. Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: November 27, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Now here’s where everything gets all jacked up. Well, okay, not in the beginning. Bootcamp was …well… bootcamp. Got the shit scared out of me in several drills. Almost went psycho over one of the shelling exercises. Shelling is where they take you to the middle of nowhere, tell you construct a base camp, and then you have to defend that camp for three whole days. Sounds easy, right? Three days is nothing, right? Yeah. Until the shelling starts. After three days of no sleep and constant, random shells going off all around you, you tend to forget what is real and what isn’t. You learned to sleep, quite literally, with your eyes open. Let me tell you, I can catch enough sleep standing against a wall with a full M-16 in my arms now. By the time it was over and they told us to strike the camp, I almost freaked out. This was my home, I thought. My home. They couldn’t take my tent. They just couldn’t. I was ready to fight to keep it safe—even from my own XO. Let’s just say that my whole squad passed with flying colors… and were given three days of recoup time afterwards. We needed it. Nuff said on that. So, yeah, boot camp took the stars out of our eyes and slapped the “green” right off our asses. To be honest, I’m really not sure how much more I can say on the topic of my military career and training. There’s so much that I haven’t come to terms with, and there is a metric fuck-ton of crap I can’t even bring myself to talk about, nevertheless write down for every Tom, Dick, and Retard to read one day. Family tradition or no, it’s just not safe. What I will say is this: I was damn good at firing a gun, and the things I could do to a security perimeter made all my XO’s wipe away tears of pride. I got picked up after my first year of active duty and thrown into a “special program.” My job was to work with other operatives of other countries in joint missions necessary for the good of the United Nations. Publicly, I was selected due to my multi-lingual past. Figures that my time with Sarah and Jones would have given me one good skill, and that skill was instantly selected as an excuse for … stuff. (No, I’m not saying anymore about that.) Instead, I’ll focus on the people and my reactions to it. This is supposed to be about me, anyway. It’s not a manual on exposing government secrets. Next subject: Iraq. Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: November 26, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. I graduated high school with honors in the summer of 1999. Graduation was a very big deal for the Clark family, and not for the reasons many would think. Oh, graduation meant the usual stuff: Yay, no more school. Yay, being certified as a productive member of society. Yay, running from college recruiters. Yay, Momma would now officially stay off your ass about homework and getting enough sleep for school. It also meant that we could enlist. Yup, even me. None of us had to think about it, honestly. The whole tribe caravanned to the recruiter’s office, and as a whole we listened to each and every spiel about this branch of service or the other. Most of my brothers and sisters were Marine material. Tall, strong, healthy, determined, gun-hugging, flag-kissing Americans. They had their hearts set on careers as officers or doing their eight years and going into law enforcement in the States. Me? I had to be the odd-ball. I wanted Navy. With my background in science and chemistry and mathematics, they did everything in their power to shove me headfirst into Nuke school. It was a pretty sweet deal. I’d do my boot camp, then go active duty until the semester began at the college of my choice. Uncle Sam’d pay four of my five years of school, then they’d put me into the Navy Nuke School. Then it was five years active duty with an officer commission, plus another three years inactive duty. Like I said, not a bad deal. But it wasn’t for me. I wanted to be a doctor. You see, I had this stupid dream ever since they second night of my abduction by Jones. I saw myself coming home to Grandma Piper and Grandma Jones, all grown up with a lab coat on and a stethoscope around my neck. I’d be driving a beamer, and everyone in the old neighborhood would gawk as I drove by. And when I pulled up in front of Grandma Piper’s old house, she’d greet me with tears in her eyes and tell me how proud she was of me. I’d buy them both rich new homes with maids of their very own, and we’d eat lavish dinners together each night when I got home from work. At eighteen years old, the dream hadn’t changed all that much. I still wanted to see Grandma Piper and Grandma Jones again, only this time I’d have Momma and my family with me. I’m not ashamed to admit that, as I was walking across the stage to get my diploma, part of me searched the audience like crazy in hopes of seeing their faces. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family with all my heart… but I also loved Grandma Piper and Grandma Jones, too. I was determined to do right by them both. Determined to redeem Sarah and Jones by becoming what they never had been. The American Navy could give me that chance. PS: I never did find out what happened to Jones’s home in Montana, or if he really had one to begin with. Part of me believes that he did, and that it reverted to Grandma and Grandpa Jones. I often wonder if they are holding it for me, or if Sarah is living there now. But it’s only a passing wonder. That place wouldn’t be my home, and Jones was never my father. Still, the fact that I never learned about the Montana property is a fact worth mentioning, I guess. Current mood: nostalgic.
Date: November 25, 2007 Location: Orlando, Florida U.S.A. Okay, I know I said that the rest of my childhood was uneventful and shit. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t throw in a few little key points. For the sick voyeurs in the audience, I’ll get the “important” details out of the way first. ~First Crush: Angel. (Fuck you, it wasn’t like that. I was nine. He was eleven. Shesh.) ~First Kiss: Bobby Johnston. ~First Fuck*: Bobby Johnston (about six years after my first kiss). * It bears mentioning that after said first fuck beneath the clichéd bleachers one sunny summer afternoon, all seven of my brothers found Bobby and beat him within an inch of his life. Two of them were arrested for it, the charges being dropped after the boys agreed to community service and counseling. It didn’t hurt that we also lived in a small town with a judge that knew EVERYBODY. (And I was seventeen at the time. So was Bobby. Sick people, the lot of you. I swear…) So, now that the Tour de Peep Show of Jewel’s First’s is over, we can get back to the real stuff. The main point to this entry is guns. Yes, guns. Believe it or not, it was one of the reasons the Clarks accepted me as one of their own. We all grew up around guns, being on a farm and all. No one abused the notion of having them. No one touched a gun without real need or Dad’s permission and supervision to go target practicing out in the field. We all knew what guns could do, and we all had way more respect for life (our own and others) to go waving around firearms like some sort of shitty afterschool special. None of us felt the need to “go gangsta” on each other, or anyone else for that matter. Again, that being said, it bears mentioning that we learned how to care for guns right along side learning how to spell. It was a fact of life. Mary was a police officer, and Dad had been a huge collector before his passing. One day, while Mary was cleaning her gun before turning in for the night (it wasn’t uncommon for her to spend the night after a big family dinner or something), she rose to help Momma with something in the kitchen. Considering how many times the members of the kumpiana would get drunk or decide to go fuck instead of finishing the assembly and cleaning of their firearms, it was ingrained in us kids to pick up the slack. So when Mary got up to help with the pies, instinct took over. She found me sitting on the floor with newspapers spread out to protect the carpet. Cross-legged with a look of concentration on my face, I was carefully and perfectly cleaning and assembling her gun. Unbeknownst to me, this was apparently a sign from above according to the Clark tribe. Mary got Tommy, who ran off and got Michael, who told Lily…ect… etc… until the whole of the tribe was watching me go about my business. When I was done, they watched me roll up the used paper carefully and pack up the cleaning kit. Without thinking much about it, I put the kit into the fridge right where it belonged and put the used papers in the trashcan. It was when I was washing my hands that Angel started laughing. We all had homemade apple pie and ice cream afterward. Hey, don’t roll your eyes or laugh at it. It was wonderful, and a memory that’s kept me going when it felt like the whole world was against me. Current mood: nostalgic.
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