Cecilia
Harper and I met when I was just twelve years old. I had lost my parents to the disease, and I had run away from an orphanage and lived on the streets. Not to drag out a sad story, but she became a mother to me, and later, as I grew older and wiser, I became a teacher to others, so I became her friend, her most trusted. She taught me many things in life, and one of the most important lessons she ever taught me was the "Recipe of Life," and it is this:
- 1/2 cup of warmth and kind words
- 1/2 cup of joy and good memories
- 1 spoon of empathy
- 1 pinch of humor
Then you stir everything together softly, enjoy, and you'll feel how positive energies are renewed. There has always been something special about Harper that has brought us all together and kept us together as a family. With her gone, more fights have begun about the proper use of the Vortex and the ethics behind it.
Do you agree with the Recipe of Life?
Rowan As I lay in a cot in the safe house, all I can do is think of Harper. Headphones on my head, music playing on loud. I have a small journal in my backpack; I never go anywhere without it. It's none of Harper's journals. I re-read one of my favorite poems she wrote. It will always be my favorite one. It is titled: "A Freckled Universe of You": I use to feel purposeless without direction. I found myself days and days of just being in bed, not eating, not showering, just laying - just avoiding the world. I mean, what's the point of being in a world and living in it when the way others live it doesn't make sense to you. So you feel wrong, broken, and lost. What's the p
Agent Coulter I am a simple man. I used to want nothing more to life than a wife, family, and a lovely cottage near a lake. But once you find out there is more to life than trivial things, it is hard to go back to wanting peasantry. In another life, my name was Nicolas Sarkozy, and I was born in the heart of New York City, but that is the past, and that man is long dead. She killed him long ago, Amelia Harper Edison. I will admit I loved her once when I was a young man filled with life, eagerness, hope, and more. But that man is dead; she made sure he would cease to exist that day she said "no" to him. When I think back on it all now, a much older and prayer man, a wiser man, I believe how cruel of a woman deep down she truly is to have given out the universe and then taken it away so quickly. When I met Amelia, who now calls herself Harper, she was elegant, beautiful, pristine, everything you imagine a woman should be, the pict
Harper I am doing much better now. I think I am starting to remember more, to retain more. I am having flashbacks as I sit here on the edge of this bed. My situation no longer feels somber, bleak. There is hope in knowing I at least know who I am. I play with my hair and twist it in circles around my fingers. I've got to look busy for the big screen. I know they are watching. The problem: I have no idea how to control this "thing" inside me—this feeling of force. Something is there, something deep down, a muscle that has been used so many times that yearns to be used again. Yet, I do not remember how. I keep having these flashes where my head rings. I close my eyes for a moment, and I have to put my hands to my head, and I yell out in pain for a moment, and I see all-white for a few moments, but in those minutes, a memory will come through. I've learned a lot already, but none are a completed trail—just bread crumbs. If I can get out of here, I can use those crumbs to find t
Rick I met someone. It is still early, but she is beautiful, and her name is Leah. I met her at a grocery store, and we met talking about meat of all things. Funny how the world delivers precisely what you need at the moment you most need it. I've only known Leah two days, but in those couple of days, I feel like she has come to know me better than anyone else, even my family. I feel connected to her like I can tell her anything. She doesn't make me feel any pressure, just comfort. I have never been the kind of man to open up to people, but with her, it is as if the words fall off my tongue. I could tell her anything. So far, we have held hands and a few kisses here and there, but I am a patient man, and this is all enough for now. She says she likes to take things slow. She doesn't want to talk about her past, says it is too hard to talk about and that someday when she is ready, she will reach that point. Last night we went out for dinner; I took her to a roma
Harper If I can't figure out how to use this "thing" inside of me, and figure it out quickly. I will be stuck here forever. I know I don't have long. That much is a sure thing. That creepy man who calls himself Mr. Coulter, actually Nicolas, is just a tall, slender creep. I'm not too fond of the way he looks at me. He has the look of a desperate man, and that makes me think he is growing impatient. He wants something from me, and I can't provide it. Because I honestly cannot, but even if I could, I am sure I wouldn't give him a god damn thing. So what now? Even if I try and practice, if I try to meditate, to focus my mind, they will just stop me. I have this fear of closing my eyes of trying to focus. It is instinct now, muscle memory. My body is restraining itself from concentrating, so I know they have been stopping me. I just don't know-how. There is nothing in this room to help me. Although I feel hopeful to remember more, that hope is quickly falling away as I sea
I wake up in a body that is not my own. As I open my eyes and I look around the room, frantically shifting eyes back and forth that do not belong to me. I am frozen. Harper thinks to herself: “Where am I? “Whose body is this? Shit! Am I dreaming? If so, this is a freaking nightmare. I think I must be paralyzed and stuck in this dream, this nightmare, this paranormal realm?! I move hands and feet that I know do not belong to me. It is as though I am stuck inside a body that does not belong to me. It is like, I was forced into skin that does not fit right, and it is now that I realize I need to worry. That this is not a dream. Dreams are not this real, and I want to lay here until I wake up. I’ll wake up; I know I will. People always wake up from their nightmares. Just like the monsters, they never grab your feet when they hang out from the blankets. Demons are not real. But as soon as I tell myself to just lay here in this stranger's bed and wait for the su
Harper I don’t know what time it is, what day it is, let alone what year it is. How am I even able to comprehend time when I am at a loss on who I am. I feel crazy! I am in a body I know with every particle of my being just is not mine, but how do I explain that to someone? How do I even know how such a thing is possible? I am back on the bed that also, is not mine. I know what my next move should be. It should be to start looking around. Gain more information about my surroundings. My head is a cloud. A cloud so high in the sky it is practically cloud nine. It feels like mush. Like this body, small and weak. My brain is not processing like I need it too and for some reason it this all seems purposeful, and it is starting to piss me off. Every time I try to remember, it’s like a wave of pain rushes over my entire body. It is as though my brain is asking me not to remember. I start small. I look at what I am
Harper I feel heavy. Like I have been hit by a bus. It has to be close to what it feels like being hit by a bus going thirty in a fifteen zone. My bones ache—my fingers and toes tingle. My eyeballs are sore. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, and I already do not want to start the day or the evening. I have no clue of the time. I must have partied too hard last night and was slipped something in my drink. I don’t remember anything. A.N.Y.T.H.I.NG, except how to spell adequately, and that’s something. What is that horrendous smell? Is it me? Harper breathes in the air. Taking it in the room and the strongest aroma is her. The smell is mostly urine. This girl has peed her herself. The second strongest smell is bodily odor. When did I last shower? Nails are chipped black, and they are dirty. I can tell they are not working hands. They are too soft. Fingers are slender. Does her family miss her? Whoever is keeping her, I mean me, is disgusting. Lo