The Dimension of Mind

Ella's Story | My Love From The Future
BOOK TWO Chapter 6 Episode 17
Saturday School


TL;DR: In this episode, the four psychic teen girls—Ella, Roxana, Eileen, and Helana—attend a government-run 'Saturday School' session to hone their abilities.

Helana shares advanced insights on remote viewing, emphasizing spiritual techniques over traditional methods.

The group shifts to a mall for situational awareness training, but things escalate dramatically when an armed attacker targets them, leading to a chaotic confrontation and revelations about hidden protections and cover-ups.

Amid the aftermath, the girls grapple with trauma, moral dilemmas, and the deeper implications of their powers.

Each of these novels, short stories, research papers, attempts to peek behind the curtain, to peer into this mysterious realm where consciousness plays by its own rules.

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BOOK TWO Chapter 6 Episode 17
Saturday School

BOOK TWO Chapter 6 Episode 17
Saturday School


The high school classroom smells of chalk and old books, its windows framing a gray October morning. Ella, Roxana, Eileen, and Helana sit at desks arranged in a circle, facing Melanie Crenshaw, whose calm demeanor contrasts with Commander Beaker’s fidgety presence. After ninety minutes of orientation—ground rules, objectives, and the promise of college credit—Ella leans forward, her voice sharp. “Let’s be clear,” she says, channeling her inner leader. “We’re not spies. We won’t become spies or help you spy.”

Melanie raises a hand, her smile reassuring. “We’re not asking that. We want to hone your skills for whatever careers you choose. Remote viewing for spying hasn’t worked well—counter-spies block it, confuse it, or spy back.” Helana, her tone matter-of-fact and her English seamless, says, “That’s because you’re doing it wrong.” Melanie leans in, intrigued. “We’ve refined techniques for decades to get accurate data, not imagination. How are we wrong? Teach me.”

Helana hesitates, searching for words. “Where I come from, we don’t learn techniques like you learn a language. Babies don’t take classes—they absorb it from their environment. I’ll try to explain.” She takes a breath. “First, everything you perceive—senses, spirit downloads, ESP—is imaginary. Imagination turns raw data into the reality you experience. Second, the data isn’t physical; it’s from the dimension of mind, where distance doesn’t exist. There’s no ‘remote’—it’s all here, around you. Third, you’re trying to view while awake. Your body can’t do it. It happens in the spiritual realm, downloaded to your brain, which rewrites it based on beliefs. That’s why it’s confusing. Keep it in spirit, let spirit visualize, then let your brain catch up during sleep or deep meditation. Otherwise, your conscious mind distorts it.”

Helana gestures at Melanie. “At our night school party, you came awake, fading in and out, unable to touch. If you’d come in spirit, while sleeping, we could’ve hugged, danced. Earth people have so much to learn.” She continues, “Don’t fight imagination. Embrace it. Walk in it. Test it. Put a clock in another room, like your kitchen. At night, when you wake, imagine reading it without checking any clocks. Then compare it to your bedroom clock. Soon, they’ll match. You’re not traveling—your spirit accesses the collective soul, the Akashic records, where all data resides. Imagining travel just helps you focus.”

“Or play cards,” Helana adds, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Imagine seeing your friends’ hands. They’ll stop inviting you.” Melanie responds, “We’ve tried similar techniques, but the data’s often inaccurate or uninterpretable.” Helana replies, “You’re viewing secret places blindly. It’s like waking in a strange city on an alien planet—disorienting. You can’t interpret unfamiliar data. But your biggest mistake is using soul data adversarially. That’s why we won’t spy. It’s immoral and doesn’t work. Soul is love, cooperation, friendship. Adversarial intent breaks resonance with soul, garbling what you see. Never use spiritual tools in anger, or you risk losing your soul connection—the worst fate for a spirit.”

Melanie, her voice hushed, asks, “Spirits can die?” Helana explains, “Everything—spirit, physical—is information. To live, it needs energy. A body energizes spirit while alive. After death, soul does. Disconnect from soul, and your spirit fades like a dying battery, your information dissipating. Soul forgets you.” Melanie asks, “How do you know this?” Helana replies, “I believe it. It’s our belief system, consistent with my observations and my people’s. We see deeper into existence’s dimensions than Earth does.”

Melanie exhales, awed. “That’s profound, Helana. It’ll take years to integrate. It echoes ancient Egyptian hermetic principles. Are your beliefs rooted there?” Helana shrugs. “Our beliefs evolved over millions of years, their origins lost. They’ve been learned, forgotten, relearned through our civilization’s rises and falls, like yours.” Melanie glances at the girls, some dozing. “That’s enough for morning. Time for pizza.” Eileen snaps awake. “Pizza?”

The afternoon session moves to the town’s small shopping mall, its central courtyard alive with the splash of a fountain and the chatter of shoppers. The girls sit at a wrought-iron table, gelato cups and Italian sodas before them, the air sweet with sugar and citrus. Melanie sips her soda, her tone casual but deliberate. “We’re studying situational awareness. Most people focus so much on friends they forget their surroundings—a sign of love, but dangerous in emergencies. It can get you killed.”

Roxana, twirling her spoon, asks, “What do we do?” Melanie replies, “Observe discreetly. Don’t stare—that’s rude. Watch your field of view, describe it to each other. Soon, you’ll know everything around you. Then, something amazing happens: you’ll sense what’s behind you as your friend describes it. We all detect others’ energy fields. With practice, no one can sneak up on you.”

Eileen smirks. “I see something. Pete Sanchez is with Kim Dillon by the fountain. Problem is, they’re dating other people.” Melanie laughs. “Valuable gossip, if you were into blackmail—which we’re not. Observation yields useful info.” Ella points. “The gelato shop’s hiring. I’m too young, but good to know.” Melanie nods. “Excellent. Notice the familiar—people you know—then look deeper for what doesn’t belong.”

Ella says, “Everything seems normal.” Roxana’s voice lowers. “Not to me. A man’s by that shop door, not moving. Another, in a dark suit, sits by the fountain with a newspaper he’s not reading.” Ella adds, “I see one too, in the gelato shop, staring out.” Melanie asks, “Who are they? Businessmen? Salesmen? Or something else?” Roxana says, “This is creepy. That guy’s a creeper. I’m getting a soda refill and staring him down. I’ll tell him to stop eyeing schoolgirls or I’m calling the cops.” Melanie responds, “Daring. We’ve got your back.”

Suddenly, Ella and Helana whip around, staring at the entrance. A young man charges in, armed with multiple weapons, heading straight for them. Ella reacts first, her mind lashing out, knocking him to his knees as she did to Jimmy Sterling. Helana follows, slamming his face to the concrete, scattering his weapons. He’s too strong, rising, pulling an assault rifle, aiming at Roxana. Three sharp pops echo. The man clutches his chest, stumbles, and collapses face-down. The girls scream—except Eileen, frozen, staring at her hands gripping a Glock 40-caliber pistol.

Men in dark suits swarm, ushering the girls to an exit where a van waits. One grabs the gun from Eileen, posing as the shooter. Others slip into shops, their movements precise. In a sterile safe house, the girls huddle on a couch, the air heavy with antiseptic and tension. Eileen stares at the wall, catatonic, unresponsive. A physician checks their vitals, her face grim.

Melanie paces, her voice sharp. “Beaker, fess up! What happened? No bullshit—was that real or staged for training?” Beaker, his voice strained, says, “How could it be staged? Ella knocking him down, the gun sliding to Eileen, her shooting like a seasoned cop? Impossible.” Melanie’s eyes narrow. “If it wasn’t staged, was it a hit? He was aiming at Roxana before Eileen stopped him.”

Beaker says, “We don’t know. He’s a nutcase, from what we’ve gathered. Probably a coincidence.” Melanie snaps, “Coincidence? Nutcases are easy to manipulate. I think it was a hit, thwarted by the girls’ training. Who trained Eileen on weapons? Not summer camp.” Beaker replies, “We shot targets, no advanced training. I think she channeled her mom. Faced with death, her psychic skills tapped her mom’s police training. It’s the only explanation.”

Eileen stirs, whimpering, her eyes darting. Roxana cradles her as she sobs. Helana speaks, her voice hollow. “His mind was black—a bottomless void. I couldn’t hold him. Something evil was there.” Beaker asks, “Possessed?” Melanie corrects, “Not possessed. Mind-controlled. A puppet for someone—or something.”

Ella, on the phone with her mom, lowers it, her face pale. “Mom says the news reported an off-duty FBI agent shot the guy. That’s a lie—Eileen did. Why?” Beaker explains, “Sanitizing. A 14-year-old killing with military precision raises questions. We said an FBI agent did it, grabbed the surveillance footage, and cleaned it. It happened too fast for phone videos.”

Ella, skeptical, asks, “Those cleanup guys were just there?” Beaker admits, “They’ve been shadowing you for months. You didn’t notice. We’re keeping you safe. The agents are embarrassed they didn’t stop him sooner. They apologize.” Ella asks, “The FBI’s watching us?” Beaker clarifies, “Not exactly. They’re a multi-agency task force—FBI, CIA, NSA, AFOSI, Secret Service. Elite, secret, unknown to Congress. Keep their secret; they’re keeping yours.”

Ella smirks. “Like the president’s kids?” Beaker replies, “Better.” Ella says, “And we still had to save ourselves. Some security.” Beaker nods. “Retraining’s started. You might not always protect yourselves, so keep them around.” Eileen, her voice small, says, “I didn’t finish my gelato. Can I get another?” Beaker responds, “I’ll order one, Miss Danvers. Right away.” Helana, forcing a smile, says, “I’m Miss Danvers too.”

In the safe house’s dim bedroom, Ella sits on a cot, the night heavy with silence. Roxana prays softly, her rosary beads clicking, while Helana tries to sleep, hoping for night school. Ella opens her diary, her hand trembling.


Dear Diary, Nothing much happened. I knocked a guy down with my mind. Eileen shot him. We watched him die. Just another day in our quiet town.

I wasn’t scared. I screamed, but I felt in control. Overconfident? Maybe. If I’d been scared, could I have acted? What scares me is how good it felt when he went down. Exciting. I wanted to fist-pump. I hate action movies, but this was thrilling. I need to fix that.

Eileen’s in shock, barely remembering she killed someone. How will she feel when it hits? This is spiraling. That’s what terrifies me.

I’m scared the Navy will take us away to “protect” us. I’d rather stay home, even if it’s riskier. Let the agents watch outside. Someone tried to kill us. A minute later, he was dead. They won’t try again soon.

Melanie tried teaching remote viewing. They’re clueless. Helana will teach us, as always. Helana’s going to night school alone, if she can sleep. She needs her mom. She’s scared too.

Roxana and I are watching Eileen, ready for nightmares. It’s a long night. Roxana’s praying—maybe it’ll help. I don’t know. Melanie’s a therapist, offering help. We’ve got this. We always do.

Goodnight, Diary.