Rivers of the Mind Season 2 Episode 2--Horizon One

Narrator: The Deep Space Exploration lab was located miles underground, behind a park that all the people in the town knew as Blackberry Creek. Growing up, it was the stuff of urban legends, a place that kids dared each other to try to look at from the surrounding hills. It was a water treatment facility, nominally, but some water treatment facility it was—surrounded by electric fences, with armed guards seen from time to time in the name of counterterrorism, located in a dense forest filled with security cameras, more befitting a prison than anything else. In the old days, back in the 50’s and 60’s, local mythology held that they’d run mind control experiments for the CIA deep within its walls.

As we neared the entrance tunnel, I could feel screams and moans echoing off its fresh painted walls. When they built it, they'd concealed it under the building, keeping it well out of view of even satellites. A tram drew us deeper and deeper into the icy blackness of the laboratory, its stuttering gears producing a sound that rippled in austere, geometric shapes against the walls.

They showed us to our quarters, and took John to a lonely hospital bed where he lay down, hands crossed over his chest, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. I found my way from my room to his, and I sat down next to him. It was all too familiar to me—my grandma had hardly spoken the last few visits, and so I was used to the silence of hospitals—a silence which seemed to burst with activity, with voices everywhere but where you were, curving around you and eroding you into an island, one where nothing truly existed but you and that faint, constant beeping, reminding you that the person you are with has a still-beating heart, but little else, reminding you as well of where you are and why as you sit in silence, watching, wishing they could speak, compassionate but helpless, utterly and profoundly still. I’d only really met John twice, although we’d met in dreams before we met in person—sure, a friendship had been built up, but I hardly felt that I should feel so profoundly troubled by his condition. But I did. Something was at work there, something awful. Inside his mind, two languages waged war over a muted and dampened English subconscious. The first language, when I shut my eyes, manifest as fractalized, kaleidoscopic rotating pyramids and spheres made of of light, spreading in a panoptic resonance across the surface of the earth. LSD, or, I suppose that would be one of many versions of it. In that language the trace, the distant memory, of its multiplous forms had been encoded through an outwardly simple pattern—it sat in the bellies of fishes in the sea, and awakened their minds to the fragility of the universe; it lingered in the seeds of unborn flowers so as to teach them to ways of the sky; it danced with the grass of the field so that every fiber became a pillar holding up the heavens. In all of these plants, the spirit had formed an alliance against the Beyond, acting as a common language which spanned continents, resurrecting across evolutionary timelines, constantly changing forms and finding new bodies to inhabit.

But then the other language—the invader—in my eyes, it appeared to be a great white flower, one which pulled against my memories and against my body's senses so that I felt myself shrinking—I felt myself drawn to the center, watching my memories unlatch themselves and come untied like balloons, which floated into the beyond—the longer I stood before the language, the more it deadened my own attachment to time. I felt my personality, my identiy, as a distinctly far away entity, locked somewhere in my skeletal muscles and deep brain stem, leaving me alone to a dreamlike chaos. As the language pulled me in, I pressed against it, learning its layout, its grammar, rapidly absorbing its vocabulary—this amused it—was I a white flower? The flower laughed, and pulled away, realizing that it had no power over me. The two of us rapidly became equals—and their name came up from the depths of my own ancestral memory; the nodding flowers. They were cosmic jesters, angels of death, agents of rememberance and forgetting. Transdimensional, unfixed in time, dead and undying. Filled with secrets, their minds formed an ever shifting labyrinth. Their designs of empire on the universe we knew predicated itself on their invisibility. That I knew their language at all, that I could recognize them, brought them terror. And they had John.

“Let him go.”, I commanded, in the language of white flowers, speaking in words which shifted across eons like water poured down a thousand pipes. In response, someone grabbed me by the shoulder. A teenager in a grey hoodie appeared in the room before me, his eyes bloodshot, his yellowed, grimy teeth smiling with a bezerk intensity. He held John’s neck in a chain. “Let him go?”, asked the teenager, “Are you sure you’re ready for me to do that?” I trembled, gritting my teeth, and clinging to the sides of the chair, unable to speak, and unsure of what he meant. John sat up in his bed, eyes still shut. The boy flickered in and out of reality; he decomposed and recomposed seemingly at random. He leaned down, and took my hair into his hand, sniffing it. I wanted to jerk away, but I could not. We were inside of my mind—the transition had been seamless, but I was quickly aware of it. Still in his language, I closed my eyes, and folded in on myself, becoming lost in an abyss—the hospital room, a lonely outpost in the blackness, shone down below me, where I witnessed the imagined scene displayed in third person. His face, bigger than the horizon, suddenly appeared above me. He was holding a pencil, sketching out the details of our present reality—I saw the hospital room copy itself, dividing like a cell until it filled what looked like an infinite piece of graph paper.

I crashed down back into the hospital room—the first version of it, I think, that I had been in—and crept up behind the boy. Drawing from the language of white flowers, I reached my hands back, feeling them grow and stretch until they became sharpened claws, as long as butcher knives, and I drug them down his back. Screaming in pain, he fell over, leaving a pool of blood on the floor of the hospital room. A response came quickly from a parellel timeline--he emerged from the door and pushed me through the wall—this sent me backwards into another version of the same hospital room, where the boy sat ready with a knife—as I suffered a temporary death, my vision exploded in light for a moment before I found myself again above the infinite hospital rooms, drawing down on them. The timeline had looped back again. As I started to fall, I reached into his language, understanding the device through which he had drawn out this hospital room into infinity—my body expanded so that it reached the size of a planet, looking down onto the surface of his consciousness, which hovered over the ever evolving surface of the hospital rooms. I duplicated his efforts, and in doing so, duplicated my own, so that we now fought against all possible versions of all possible rooms. Outside of my head, I felt a huge metal block rear down against me, a sledge hammer, knocking out my teeth and sending me to the floor—suddenly into the only hospital room of which I was aware.

Before he could deliver a killing blow, another version of myself fell down from the sky, shooting him with purple lightning. The final copy of my mind pulled me in, until I forgot that I had ever been apart from it, and the graph paper began closing in on itself, until layer upon layer of reality became exposed and pulled away from me on an ever-shifting magic carpet of graph paper. He grinned, projecting an image into my mind by hijacking John's powers. I saw a world destroyed by fire and radiation, torn into an unreality by the Beyond. The ghosts of the fallen rose up like transluscent shadows to rebuild smoldering cities according to the teenager's command. All sentient life began to fall across the galaxy, across the universe—replaced only by ghosts and the ashes over which they toiled. John stood by his side, his eyes glowing bright white, watching over the ghosts—I stood on the other side, a minister of war, helping him subjugate the universe. But it was easy for him to see that I would remain an enemy—he could neither sway me to his side, nor defeat me. I was the one obstacle he faced to at last becoming a god. One way or another, he would kill me. And if he had it his way, he would do so slowly.

          “Meagan? Meagan, are you okay?” Dr Whitebalm asked me from the door, as I switched from the language of the white flowers back into English. Standing up from my chair, I awkwardly teetered back and forth as I regained an uncertain grasp on my muscular system once again, becoming conscious of my body piece by piece. How long had it been? It felt like hours—days even—that I had been stretched across the possible iterations of the psychic battle—yet the clock above the hospital bed showed only a few minutes had passed. She'd seen it, perhaps detecting in the air whatever strange anomalies were occurring. I nodded, nervously. “Just visiting your friend?”, she asked. Her eyes filled with suspicion and paranoia, but also a genuine and passionate scientific curiousity—she knew she was no longer alone.
“Yes—I was.”
Without saying another word, she drew the door shut behind her. “What do you want?”, I asked.
          “We need to talk.”

Rivers of the Mind Season 2, Episode 1--A Matter of National Security

NARRATOR: Previously on Rivers of the Mind, John, a homeless geologist from California took LSD underneath a hole in the universe and developed telepathy somewhere in the Texas Hill Country. While searching for a place to sleep, he stumbled upon a ranch filled with psychedelic mushrooms, which turned out to be a massive underground entity. The mushrooms demanded that John communicate with Gerry the farmer—eventually, they developed a friendship. On February 11, 2017, John met Gerry's son Mick, who was abusing his dad, stealing from the bank, and cheating on his wife. While trying to use his powers to help Mick, John was trapped outside of his mind, and Mick driven insane. Fortunately, John's new friend Meagan arrived outside of the farm just in time, and was able to help John get back into his body as the mushrooms prepared to punish Mick for stabbing one of the cows in his beserk rage. But little did they know, the government was also watching the skies that day, and seized the oppurtunity to test their wormhole device, accidentally tearing a second hole in the universe.

The house, beside us, continued to fall apart, the rear side of it crumbling into the pit. We heard sirens echoing across the hills—the helicopters who had come to survey the damage stalked closer and closer. Eventually, one of the terrible steel birds arrived to where we were, and floated above the house, descending upon us and kicking up clouds of dust. I shielded my eyes, and shook, wanting to scream and yell and curse the invading machine. To be fair, it was terrifying in the mushroom language, for the mushrooms had no sense of how to describe it. I felt myself tempted to launch a strike of purple lightning at the invader and it's strange heretical magic. But I did not, since the dominant, English part of my brain still recognized, ultimately, that there were people in that helicopter, and that they shouldn't be struck by lightning.
But still, I hated the thing. All of us hated the thing. It was a monster made of pure noise and metal, reeking of exhaust fumes, turning the earth into a hurricane, slowly churning and chopping until it landed in the field with its long dancing blades; an olive green helicopter with dark tinted window eyes that seemed to grin sadistically at me, Gerry, and his family. All of us formed a huddled mass of crying, beshroomed faces—to gain some sense of composure, I withdrew all of us gently from the mushroom language, and unsteadily brought myself to stand onto my own two legs.  I faced the helicopter and tried to make sense of it. But still, it was a machine. A dead creature without language—its intentions uncertain. Within, I could feel minds observing the people in the field with a callous and numb ecstasy, mixed with wordless layers of astonished fear. A pair of other helicopters passed overhead, and made a ring around the sinkhole. Far away, I could discern trucks on the horizon, coming towards us, their intentions unknown.
From out of the helicopter, stepped a woman, a short and slender African American woman with a touchscreen tablet in her hands, a barely perceptible light coming off of her skin. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it a hallucination, but no, the aura was still there, a color that straddled the space between violet and ultraviolet, peeling off of her skin and into the atmosphere around her. Shutting her eyes, the woman gave off a pulse of invisible light, before turning to a man inside of the helicopter. “Get him help. I think he had a fall.”, she commanded, studying all of us with suspicion and mystified curiosity. Her mind danced between English and an extension of that language I did not recognize nor comprehend, a language of numbers and letters that fluttered about like loose paper, and came together in a mass of cobwebs in which all she saw could be captured, known, and dissected effortlessly. But even that had its limitations. The physics she now confronted differed vastly from the Earthly physics she had learned so well.
She keyed her attention onto me, her eyes shifting in color and her aura fluctuating in its brightness as she assessed what had happened to me. I froze still, feeling all of the secret workings of organs and enzymes and molecules and particles become mapped and charted, stretching the boundaries of her language and her cognition. Gulping, she looked down at the tablet, scrawling a note. I didn’t see what she wrote—but I felt that as she wrote it down, her nerves shivered with the realization that our minds wore clothes cut from the same cloth. The woman came towards me uncertainly, a mystified fear welling up from inside of her spine as she cautiously drafted the words she might speak in her mind. “My name is Dr. Whitebalm”, she introduced herself, “I'm here to help you. Are you okay?”
“Okay?”, I repeated, “Alright. Okay, I mean. Fine. Good. Doing well. Yourself? You? How are you?”
Squinting at the bizarre, chanting quality of my voice, Whitebalm studied me closer, trying to produce a magnetic fingerprint of my brain. She saw that it was alive with activity.
“Are you—under the influence of any drugs?”
“I—I—[long pause]“, I stumbled as I stopped myself from shouting at her defiantly, “I am the influence of drugs, lady”, and I nodded, not yet trusting her. She was a scientist after all, and I had become her project almost immediately. A knowing silence fell between us.


“Have you been by the sleeper yet?” (ONE OF THE NURSES)
“No, I’ve been busy over here.” (ANOTHER)
“There’s something weird about him.”
“Well yeah, have you seen his vitals?”
“No, no, no. Whenever I walk by him, it’s like I—I—I don’t know how to explain it. He’s—“
“Don’t get too paranoid, Jane. You’re just getting superstitious.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that they—“, Jane looked back over her shoulder to see that I was listening to their whispers. The other nurse raised her eyebrows at her, smirking at her for being so careless.
I wanted to see John—but I hadn’t been allowed to get up from my station. They had taken us all to a line of tents, a field hospital set up in a manic frenzy to evacuate anyone who had been effected by the disaster. Doctors paced the halls like white, frenzied ghosts with grey, pistol shaped radiation detectors, scrawling frantic notes as nurses read our vital signs and asked us penetrating and enveloping questions about our diets, our prescriptions, and our medical conditions. “What did you see?”, I was asked more times than I could count, by soldiers I knew to be only dressed as doctors. “Nothing”, I responded in as many ways as I could tear from the depths of the English language. Though the tongue still felt a cage, I kept myself there, intent on sheltering the secrets of the mushrooms from these strangers. The scene was so manic it bordered on absurd. Various ranks of soldiers and stern looking men advised all of the unwitting patients that someone had been building what they suspected was a dirty bomb in the area—but with the exception of a few, they all knew they were lying. Once the doctors discerned that this or that person had not been exposed to the radiation, they allowed them to leave—the press corps waited for them, bombarding them immediately with questions. All responses almost certainly matched the official narrative.
An eerie quiet came about the tent once the screenings had concluded, accompanied only by a faint wind blowing over the canvas roof. I sat up in my bed, bored with the terror of this frenzied scene, and looked over to the table, where the nurse had left a chart, and I studied my own vital signs with a disinterested glare. My heart rate 72. My blood pressure 130 over 84. My insulin was alright. I was a 21 year old female, exposed to....critical levels of the stuff, whatever it was, not that I cared anymore.

_________
NARRATOR: Hours pass, until, around mid-afternoon, the last of the patients have left, and only those exposed to significant amounts of radiation remain. With every second, Meagan grows more and more uncertain about what is going on.
Dr. Whitebalm sat crosslegged next to a man in a digital camoflauge uniform, which in the light seemed to squirm with invisible caterpillars. I was directly across from them, studying the creases in their eyelids and the movements of their hands to try and trace the trajectory of their minds, to anticipate what was to come for the sake of my own survival. Vivid images of firing squads and cruel experiments shot between the neurons in my brain—I could not tell for certain if I were reading their minds, or just anxious as shit. Everything was a giant fucking trip and I was fucking done with it. How long had it been? Four hours? Six hours? I was done with it, however fucking long it had been. But it wasn’t wearing off any time soon—and enough time spent in this English language had left me cynically aware of all of its edges, all the colors it could not describe, all the emotions its grammar and vocabulary had paved over since its inception, all the paradoxes and contradictions behind my every thought, the meaningless of everything. These alien faces gave me something to cling to at the very least, perpetuating the idea of uncovering some deep secret, but I knew even if I did, it would do fuck all for anyone. The futility of this eventually got to me, and I chose, between terror and paranoia, blatant indifference.
“Are we gonna go around the circle and introduce ourselves or something? I’m too fucking drunk for this.”, asked one man.
Dr. Whitebalm shot him an icy and penetrating glare. “Sure, we can go ahead and do that. It might make this a little less scary for everyone, don’t you think colonel?”
“Sure.”, the colonel said with an indifference that rivaled my own. I wrinkled my nose at him, gritting my teeth. Asshole. You think you’re indifferent? I’ll show you, I thought to myself, shutting my eyes briefly in order to embrace the void within so that I could uncover new and exciting ways to be completely indifferent.
“My name is Dr. Whitebalm and I am a quantum physicist at Texas A&M attached to the DoD's Deep Space Exploration Initiative.”
“Fuck man, am I gonna be an astronaut or some shit?” (Asked the drunk man)
“If you could manage to be quiet while we do this, it would be more than appreciated.”
(Drunk man scoffs)
I sighed at the drunk man, envious of his numbness, a numbness which enveloped him. The language in his head was one of death, fermentation, unfeeling nihilism which I could not hope to grasp nearly so well. A stumbling anaesthesia, through which words could hardly penetrate. The chemical cocktail in his brain came from a richness that had decayed over an ineffably long time and now lingered in a dead, crackling fire. Shutting my eyes, the entity made itself known to me. A wispy, consuming flame, unthinking and unfeeling. I opened my eyes again, in sadness, the apathy around me crumbling. I loved these people. I wanted to love them. I did not want to be indifferent to their pain, no matter how pointless I felt it was to care for them.
“I am Colonel Imes, I am the head of the military side of that project.”
Gerry, wincing with pain, cleared his throat. “My name’s uhm. Gerry Parker. I’m a…uhm, I take care of some cows. Play the mandolin. Love Donald Trump, Jesus Christ and good American bluegrass music.”
“And I’m Cassandra. Also a proud Christian. Proud American. Thank you for your service.”
Dr. Whitebalm eyed her up and down, a faint smile briefly visible on her cheeks as their eyes met. “Nice to meet you both. And who are you?”, she asked to the eldest child. “I’m Gerry junior. I like Minecraft.”
“Jessica. I'm reading Charlie Bones.”
“Peter. I'm in fifth grade and she's my mom.”
All eyes in the room now turned to me. I took a very deep breath and opened my mouth. “Myself—Me—personally—I—--Myself--My name—is—Meagan. I—am—[very fast] feeling very anxious about all this.”, I managed, looking down in embarrassment. The other two introduced themselves next—a pale and unhappy looking woman with raggedy hair and frenzed eyes who was named Maureen. She worked as a librarian at the public library. Then the drunk guy named Bobby who loudly asked if Maureen was supposed to be a boys name and then slurred something about the Dallas cowboys, the government and how bad his head hurt.

Satisfied that we had all introduced ourselves, and quickly beginning to forget all of our name, Colonel Imes crossed his hands and began to debrief us, “Dr. Whitebalm and I have decided to use a policy of full disclosure with you. Dr. Whitebalm is working with us on—well I’m sure she could explain it much better than I could”, he said, as he knew absolutely nothing about what Dr. Whitebalm was studying apart from the fact that she received tons and tons government money every year in order to study it. He cleared his throat, probably thinking he did that so smoothly, even though he did not, “At about one PM today, an energetic anomaly appeared over the Topaz Hills neighborhood, leading Dr. Whitebalm to conduct an test of a device intended to measure and understand these anomalies, which we suspected may have a great deal to do with—“, he tried to remember what Dr. Whitebalm had told him, but he did not remember any of it, and was too embarrassed by this fact to ask her to explain it to them, “Some of the things at work with deep space exploration. Unexpectedly, the anomaly rapidly intensified, creating a burst of energy which created a sinkhole in the fragile limestone rock on which the Topaz Hills neighborhood was built, save a few homes built on exposed granite.”, he said, proud that he had managed to remember at least one mangled fragment of something Dr. Whitebalm had told him. His more well-informed counterpart took over for him. “It is difficult to explain to laypeople. I was also exposed to similar amounts of this radiation as all of you, and from what we can tell it is essentially non-lethal. That doesn’t mean that it has no effect, however. We need to monitor all of you in order to be sure you are safe”
“What exactly does that entail?”, asked Maureen, clutching her arms over her stomach as her anxiety crept up on her.
“You'll just be with us for a little bit. Due to the very secretive nature of our work, we need to keep you out of the public eye. We will provide you with housing, accommodations, and medical care free of charge for two weeks until we can be certain that you will not develop complications. Once you are released, you will sign a non-disclosure agreement, walk away, and forget everything you may have seen or heard about the Deep Space Exploration Initiative or the Horizon One Base.”
“So this is a coverup. All of this, that’s why you’re telling everyone it was a dirty bomb, that’s why you’re keeping us with you.”
“Yes, it is a cover up. You can look at it that way. But bear in mind, even though this is a purely scientific endeavor, the technology we are developing is capable of leveling a medium-sized city if it falls into the wrong hands, as you all have just seen. Maybe worse. But if it succeeds—if it succeeds, we would be leading the way with exploring the entire known universe. Manned missions to Mars, the moons of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn. Other galaxies, even. If you let us work with you, you could be saving astronauts lives from whatever you’ve been affected by today.”
“But we don’t have a choice, do we?”
Dr. Whitebalm winced, studying Maureen carefully, to dissect her brain and body. Everything, outwardly, seemed normal. But she wasn’t sure she could trust it. Only I seemed to have been impacted as profoundly as she had, but there was no way of knowing for sure.
“I—now. Maureen, you seem like a very intelligent woman, and I'm sure that you can--”
“No, no you do not have a choice. This is a matter of national security.”, interrupted the colonel. Maureen seemed to understand, at least outwardly. National security, after all, was at stake.

Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5--Untitled Finale Episode

Dusty: **turns on voice recorder** February 10th, 2017. Time is approximately five
thirty five pm. A white SUV with dark tinted windows just passed through the parking
lot for the third time. License plate from New Mexico, 034GVBO. Looks like someone in
the back drivers side seat has a camera—possibly a camera, possibly an iPad, possibly
a…
Woman: Excuse me? Excuse me sir?
Dusty: Sorry about that ma’am.
Woman: I've been here for five minutes.
Dusty: ...I know.
 Dusty was indeed very busy. Preparations for February 11 had preoccupied his
time—as his video grew in popularity, the government began targeting him—the voice
recorder was an obvious measure to demonstrate that he was watching—but Dusty knew
that that alone was not enough. He'd spent his paycheck, half a bitcoin, and all of the
spending money his aunt sent him on purchasing security cameras for his house and
car. He'd started downloading the video feeds at his Carl's Jr. [Dusty closes the door to
his house and types on a computer] Every day when he got home from his job managing
the Carl's Jr, he would respond to comments on the blog, and emails from like-minded
individuals interested in coming to the hill country to investigate the base. Everyone was
anticipating with trepidation and fear whatever had been meant by the mysterious
message from the alien. Other people, also contacted by the alien, made themselves
known to him—he interviewed them in secret locations for the blog either before or after
work. [Dusty is in the car] The days were becoming long and chaotic, his nights
becoming sleepless, his labor at the Carl's Jr. more and more meaningless. Deep down,
he worried that tomorrow would come, and nothing would happen.
Dusty: No I don't.
 Dusty did not acknowledge that he felt so, but nonetheless he did—fearing the
shame, the mockery, the humiliation of having been....
Dusty: (Angry but also terrified) Oh, would you shut up, already. (slams the door to the
car, walks across the parking lot) Do you have the documents? (Phillip hands a stack of
papers to him) Fascinating.
Phillip: Now you don't tell anyone I got those to you. You could get me suspended.
Dusty: Of course not. I can keep a secret. (looks through the document) Look at this
here—her friends reported that she'd been seen leaving the bar with a man, described as
a six foot tall caucasian male with dark brown hair. That matches the description of the
last case almost perfectly.
Phillip: Sure does.
Dusty: Jesus Christ...who knows what they did to her? ...Last seen in Fredericksburg, TX
at an intersection, mouthed the words “Help me” to a Miss Molly Perkins while she was
out walking her dog. Police never found a body.
Phillip: What do you think?
Dusty: I—it's too soon to say for sure. I'll need to cross reference it with the other
documents. If I start printing just anything, I'll lose my credibility. But...thank you.
Phillip: Absolutely. You...you still been noticing those cars driving by your work?
Dusty: Yes, I wrote down the license plate numbers. Here you go. Let me know if it
comes up with anything suspect. How about you?
Phillip: Went outside and my birdbath had been flipped over again. Caught someone on
video going through my house with a flashlight while I was at work. Didn't take nothing.
Dusty: You've got to stay strong, Phillip. What we're doing isn't easy. I've been at this
since I was 18. Now that people are finally listening to me, they're getting scared.
They're trying to shut us up. (A long silence) Anyway, we should talk about something
other than this. How's your son doing?
Phillip: He's...he's okay. We talked the other day. He promised me he ain't gonna touch
no marijuana again. Guess he's...been feeling pretty sad though. I don't blame him. It's
that damn house, I think, just reminds both of us of, you know, everything that I was
telling you about. (Another long silence) How about you? How did your conversation
with uh, with your dad go?
Dusty: He's got a parole hearing coming up in a few days. I don't know how well its
going to go.
Phillip had accessed the case records. He knew why Dusty's dad had gone to prison.
Now that he was hearing the narrator's voice too, he was worried he'd follow in his
father's footsteps. That was what Dusty feared at least—that Phillip was in on it all too.
That somehow Phillip was manipulating his emotions, driving him into some kind of
trap.
Dusty: Where's Grace?
Phillip: Oh she—she's got some kind of, um, I think it was a date night or something.
Dusty: Is she still coming tomorrow?
Phillip: She's still saying she will, but she mentioned something about her kids' soccer
game, or...something like that. I'm not sure.
Dusty: Well, if she decides not to come, I heard from a husband and wife team from
Austin last night that believe their brother in law was abducted by the government in the
1960's. They want to join. Apparently they have some kind of infrared camera
equipment.
Phillip: How many we got coming out?
Dusty: Right now, I've got about fifty, maybe sixty, volunteer investigators, plus the
other groups I told you about.
Phillip: Geez. (beat) Same plan as before.
Dusty: Exactly. (Narrated as though it is literally happening the next day) We will have
cameras stationed at Angel Point, Lookout Mountain and Sutherby Hill, all trained on
the valley, especially around the military base, but the hope is to get coverage of the
general area. Drones will be sweeping the perimeter of the water treatment facility and
the surrounding neighborhoods, thanks to a few good volunteers. Then we will break
into observation patrols. My truck is going to be in the Mason area, then another truck
between Doss and Fredericksburg, near the Topaz Hills Neighborhood, and then we'll
have one providing refreshments at the Walmart parking lot. The tent on my property
will be dedicated to watching the video feeds and handling communications, as well as
watching the police scanners.
Communications: Disco Thirty, come in Disco Thirty, this is Eagle Five.
Dusty: (into radio) Come in Eagle Five, what's going on? (To his side) Keep watching,
keep watching.
Communications: Ten fourty five am, we've noticed something in the Topaz Heights
neighborhood. Looks like a herd of cows, running in a circle, around a house.
Dusty: Can you get me a visual on the house?
Communications: Erm—well. I...you want me to just email it to you, or--?
Dusty: Yes please, Eagle Five. You have my email, right?
Communications: Uh—I think so. Uhm...okay. So. I just...do a...
Dusty: Maximize the window with the anomaly.
Communications: Okay.
Dusty: Now hit “print screen.”
Communications: Uh....okay.
Dusty: Now can you send that to my email? patriottruth87@aol.com
Communications: Okay, it should have sent.
Dusty: Yep, I'm pulling it up on my phone right now...hmmm. Interesting. Very
interesting. Eagle Five, can you please get the cameras focused on that area? Piranha 77
is going to continue monitoring the Carbon Dioxide levels at the cave, I'm going to see if
I can get a thermal camera focused on the area. Please keep me updated if anything else
happens.
Communications: Roger that Disco thirty. Over.
Dusty: Over and out, Eagle Five. Did you hear that?
The other investigators in the party nodded. Dusty passed around his phone.
Phillip: That seems a little...suspicious. Don't know if its abnormal.
Dusty: Alien landings frequently cause animals to exhibit abnormal behavior. That's a
known fact.
Louis: Absolutely.
Mary Jane: Night I was abducted, my cat kept scratching at the window.
Louis: It sure did, I was there.
Mary Jane: He was there.
Dusty: Mary, can you and your son stay here and keep track of the CO2 levels? See if you
notice any spikes, that could indicate that their generators are drawing more power than
normal.
Mary Jane: Gunther! Gunther! Leave that squirrel alone Gunther! I'm telling you
Gunther, put it down. You want to get Carl's Jr. tonight, or not? Let it go. And zip up
your damn fly.
Gunther: Are the aliens here ma?
Mary Jane: We don't know yet.
Gunther: I thought we were gonna get to meet the aliens.
Mary Jane: I'm sure we will Gunther, but you wouldn't want to meet no aliens with that
squirrel blood all over your shirt. (To Dusty) Teenagers! I tell you.
Dusty: Well, we're gonna get in the truck...
(On the way down)
Lou: So, uh, Dusty was tellin me you got some kind of, um, alien implant, Phillip.
Dusty: We don't know if its an implant yet, it might just have been a genetic
modification.
Lou: You know, my wife's got an alien implant.
Phillip: Is that so? (To Dusty) Turn right down here.
Dusty: Got it.
Lou: Yeah, they, uh, they put it right in her leg. You can see it clear as day too. Took it to
the doctor, they wouldn't do no surgery or nothing. That's why we figured it was...
Lou started to doze off, like he'd lost interest in what he'd saying, as Dusty felt himself
get drowsier and drowsier. Phillip looked out the window at the trees. Dusty grimaced
with suspicion, but wonder, at the powers Phillip's been given. He could only imagine
what must have been running through Phillips head. Finally, he imagined, they were
about to know the truth, to strip away the curtain from the Deep State's clandestine
experiments. But Dusty couldn't help but fear that Phillip exuded more control over him
than he'd even realized. He never would have expected to manage to pull any of this
together on his own.
They reached the top of a tall hill, which looked out over the Topaz Hills subdivision.
The cows, once maneuvering in a circle, began to wrap around in a long line back over
the rancher's property. Lou took the tripod and binoculars out of the car, as Dusty
prepared to set up the infrared camera.
Dusty: Phillip, can you hand me my soda? Thank you. Alright. And...guys, guys, quick..
Look at this.
Lou: What is that?
Phillip: Oh holy shit
Dusty: Eagle Five, how are the other feeds doing, are they still running?
Communication: Disco 30, all feeds still operating normally. What is it showing on the
infrared?
Dusty: A large cold spot, just behind the ranch house, and then a small, warm...thing in
the front. Almost like a vortex. A woman just got out of her car—the cows have picked up
a man in their teeth and they are now carrying him out into the field. Okay...an old
rancher just came out with his shotgun. Fired it into the air. The woman is hiding in the
mesquite. Okay...he's...he's talking to something. The cows are coming back around. It
looks like...it looks like the cold spot is actually coming from the field. I'm not sure...the
resolution is grainy. Okay...How about you?
Communications: We got a drone flyby just a few moments ago, saw the cows.
Dusty: Ready the Welcoming Party.
Communication: Roger that. We are readying the welcoming party.
Mary Jane: (Over the radio) Uh...Dusty, I mean, Disco 30, looks like the CO2 just
dropped pretty substantially.
Phillip: You think it's really gonna happen? Like...an alien invasion of some kind? Or...
Dusty: It sure looks like it. Look. He's talking to something now, but there's no one
there. Okay, the cows just dropped the person back...(pause) They're talking...he's
charging at the old man and...Okay, the woman just came out with a rock. And...okay,
he's off balance. They're getting back in. He's...he's...he must be an alien. Phillip, can you
look up who lives at that address in your police database?
Phillip: I'm on it.
Dusty: Okay....okay. Okay, they're going back into the house. Cows have the man again.
(Gulps Soda, breathes a long sigh of refreshment) Jesus Christ.
Phillip: Looks like that's probably Gerry Parker. 87 year old male.
Dusty: Interesting. “Gerry Parker”, huh? Any government employment history?
Phillip: Looks like he's just a regular old farmer.
Dusty: Sure he is. And can you take a look at that car down there? See if you can get the
license plate.
Dusty handed Phillip the binoculars.
Phillip: Uhm...think I can make that out. Let me check.
Mary Jane: Carbon dioxide down to practically nothing, sort of a...weird ozoney smell
down there. Some steam coming out.
Communications: Disco 30. Getting lots of clouds, lots of wind.
Dusty: Roger that. The cold spot I mentioned before, in the sky, it's...being replaced by
some kind of really...hot...substance. Peeking at five hundred degrees...six hundred
fifty....seven hundred...I think this might be an alien wormhole. I really think
that...wait...someone's coming back onto the porch. They're coming out with the woman.
It's...it's...Oh god. No. No. It can't be. Eagle 5, can we get a drone?
Communications: Disco 30, still charging the drone from earlier, can change the
batteries and send it up.
Dusty: Phillip...Phillip look...
Phillip: What—No. No, that's him.
Dusty: That's the same person I saw.
Phillip: He's with someone called Meagan Cortez. White/Hispanic Female, twenty one
years old.
Dusty: Meagan Cortez and an Alien. They're looking up into the hot spot, which is now
approaching fifteen hundred degrees. It is expanding towards the ground and...it just
contacted the body of the man who was being carried by the cows earlier. He
is...convulsing, it looks like. The Alien couple looks like they are holding hands, and
watching very calmly... The temperature...temperature now at two thousand degrees
and rising—Wow! Nevermind Okay! It just dropped and...
Phillip: Look, look!
Dusty: Holy shit! Holy shit! (distant explosions, an earthquake)
Lou: Are you okay, Dusty?
Dusty: I'm fine, I'm fine! Oh my god.
Dusty watched as the ground fell, piece by piece, into a great, gaping sinkhole, caused by
the invisible alien energy. Far, far in the distance, the alien had collapsed to the ground,
as the woman extended her hand towards the sinkhole. It continued expanding, sucking
in houses and tearing open powerlines. Streaks of cold lines could be seen on the
infrared camera shooting from the woman's body into the pulsing alien wormhole. The
woman, it seemed, must have been an alien, probably allied with the deep state. But
there was no way to know for sure. The military arrived within minutes, and Dusty and
Phillip retreated back to homebase.
 It took the team hours to piece together the video footage and release it—they
worked until the early hours of the morning trying to create something presentable out
of the immense amount of footage that they'd collected.
Dusty: I'm going to bed now, can you be quiet?
 But there was a hidden benefit to this. The news media had released footage that
was clearly doctored—there was no sign of the immense metal pillar at the edge of the
sinkhole. For the rest of the day, local news stations would struggle to locate the
mysterious “Dean Heyerdahl”, who had released the videos. As Dusty lay in bed, he
realized the gravity of the position he found himself in. He tossed and turned, unable to
sleep.
Dusty: I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. This proved it. I'm not. I'm not. It's all real. It has to
be.
 He jolted out of bed, and peered through the blinds. A car, a white SUV, had
stopped at the mailbox. He grabbed his gun. They were beaming the voice into his mind.
They had to have been. They were...using him. They wanted him to publish the video,
didn't they? This was all going according to plan. The voice froze. He was catching on,
wasn't he? He understood their--. (Dusty cocks the weapon).
Dusty: Shut the fuck up.

Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5--How Phillip Took Matters Into his Own Hands

Hello and thank you for listening to Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5, the season halfway between seasons one and two. You can skip the introduction by just going one minute fifteen seconds ahead. Given our recent sale to a shell company located in the Virgin Islands for 36.944321 bitcoin, we'd like to take this time to give some special words on behalf of our our clandestine sponsors: Stingray. Tomahawk. Alfredo. Yellow Lantern. India. Thomas Tancredo. Seventy by six. Rendezvous tonight at location 62 B.  Please note that Rivers of the Mind is not meant to support and does not condone taking justice into your own hands, practicing empathy, smoking meth, or eating fast food. All events portrayed in Rivers of the Mind are part of an elaborate dream taking place in your own comatose mind, and bear no resemblance to actual reality whatsoever, since, fundamentally, all that you now consider reality is only an illusion. Now with all of that said, here is episode E of Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5, entitled  “How Phillip Took Matters Into His Own Hands”

“This was all I was able to find. I know its not much...but, anyway. Here's an old police report from 1966—a girl named Mary Ann was reported as missing by her friends. A man took her from the bar. Someone made a call that they'd seen someone taking her out to the sanitation building we were at last night, but this is back in the sixties, so who knows what they were doing—This is a letter to the editor, dated July 11, 1981. 'The Government Stole My Brother.' He accused the government of taking his brother to the base there too. I mean, obviously no details. But, anyway. January 2, 2003, there was this online article here posted by someone who claimed they used to work at a base somewhere in Texas, and they said it was hidden under a sanitation facility—well, they wrote down that they used to do mind control experiments, stuff like that. That's it.” Grace leaned back in her chair and sighed, tense. She didn't need to ask me how I felt. She knew. “What was it like this morning?”, she asked, in a hushed tone. I cracked my neck, and tried to straighten my back a little bit—I barely slept. I kept having these awful nightmares—the same dream, every time, of me following that Jack fella into the forest. “Didn't get much sleep.”, I said, sipping a bit of coffee I'd picked up at the local gas station—I stopped at the one where the kidnapper had turned himself in the other night, just to see if I could get any information about what had happened the other night. Just the same story about this guy seeing an angel—they'd checked the security cameras and it looked like he'd bumped into some homeless guy—maybe started having a migraine or something—that was all I got out of him. “Seemed like it rubbed off on my son, he was real--”
“Howdy Phillip, Grace. This is Ben. Do you read me? Go ahead. ”
“Copy that, Ben. This is Phillip. Loud and clear. Go ahead.”
“What are you guys doing right now? Got any time to check up on something? Go ahead.”
“Just on traffic duty right now, what's happening? Go ahead.”
“Well, some tweaker out in Poplar Valley Hill just called in for the twelvth time in the row about being attacked by a..uhm..let me check my notes. Ah yes. A telepathic alien, were his exact words. I don't know, just figured if you guys were getting bored out there. Go ahead.”
Grace and I both looked at each other, stupefied. With a long gulp, Grace spoke carefully into the reciever, “Well sounds pretty good. We'd love to go check it out. Go ahead.”
“Alright. Just go out there, see if you smell any—you know. Ammonia or anything. Much as I hate to call the SWAT team out to Poplar Valley again...”

____

“What are you doing?”
“Breathing.”
“Why? You nervous or--”
“I'm trying to get in the right state of mind. If I go in there all paranoid and looking for answers, someone in there is probably on something that's gonna mix with that and make up just snap. Go all crazy. I gotta relax. And then everyone else will relax too. That's the trick.”
Stretching and trying to think about the beach, I felt my body relax. Opening the door, Grace and I, both cool as a pair of uniformed cucumbers approached the entrance of the mobile home. Initially suspicious faces softened as we drew near, before giving way to weak smiles. “Unit 27” Grace looked down at her notepad. “27.”
“Alright.”
The faintest hint of what smelt an awful lot like marijuana passed through the air, making me cringe. “Dude the cops are outside.”
“What?”
“The police!”
Grace and I heard coming from a trailer. The two of us exchanged a look, and rolled our eyes. As much as drug abuse in our town concerned us, the two of us were both two anxious to hear about the sighting of the angel. Unit 27 was an old yellow mobile home with brown trim, a nice tin roof and a tiny chimney for burning wood in the winter. A tiny meth pipe and a handful of needles sat in the front lawn of the home. We knocked on the door.
Inside, a bright eyed and shaking man peered through a set of blinds. His hands shook, and sweat formed at the top of his brow. He'd certainly seen something—but I was making things worse. I tried to remind myself to keep a cool head. The fella opened the door and nervously greeted us in. “I didn't think they were gonna send anyone. I kept calling...I...Please, sit down.” he motioned to a nearby bed. A prescription for something called Haloperidol sat on his kitchen counter. “He started walking across the—the back of the house, and then—he came over to this window and—oh my god, oh my god. I can't...no. No! I don't want to...I don't want you to think—I'm—crazy.” He turned to glare out the window at a passing teenager and her younger sister, walking down the road. Over the entry to the door, there was a plaque commemorating his service in the Army. He tried to sneak a tiny bag of some kind of white powder off of the counter and into his pocket before sitting down on us. “You—you—you need to turn off your cellphones. I—think--I think they're watching me...” I put my cell phone on the table, indicating Grace to do the same. He looked around at the ceiling, and through the windows.
“I know what you're thinking. Oh—look at this crazy fucking white trash piece of shit—“
“No one's calling anyone crazy, sir.”, said Grace, “Can you tell me what made you call the police today?”
“It—it took you guys half an hour. Half an hour to get here. They should have told you, they should have told you.”
“Listen buddy--”, I reached my hand out to him, and tried to empty my mind of fear, concentrating as hard as I could—he started to tremble less intensely, looking in my eyes blankly and passively. I wanted him to trust us. The problem was I didn't feel like I could trust him, and I knew he wouldn't trust us just out of his own accord. But I tried to...I tried to trust him. I tried to remind myself, you know, just because someone smokes meth, I guess, it doesn't mean they automatically can't be trusted. That they're automatically crazy or something. He started looking into my eyes, and breathing deeply. “I know you're scared. But we're here to help. You aren't in trouble. You did the right thing calling us about this, okay?”
“--I don't know where to start with it.”
“What time was it that this happened?”
“Oh, oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Maybe...maybe...maybe 12? 12'o clock last night.”
“And what time did you call the police.”
“Well I—I thought I was—dreaming. But then I woke up and I—I realized it was real. So I called them. Six in the morning, I guess. And then I kept calling and calling and--”
“We've been getting a lot of similar reports, son, and mind you our department isn't very big.”
“It didn't sound like anyone was taking me seriously. I could hear them laughing in the background! I could hear them!”
“I'm really sorry--”
“What happened? You said you thought you were dreaming, didn't you?”
“I—I know it sounds crazy. You're gonna--”
“Try me. I've heard a lot crazier.”
“I was...in my bed...trying to sleep, and I heard this noise outside, and so I shut my computer, and I go to see what it is. I see someone...I don't know...they were...playing with my trash? Like going through it? So I went around, and I gets my shotgun. And I say, “Hell you think you're doing out there?”, and he turns around and there's...I mean...his eyes. They're glowing. He looks at me and he tells me that...that...he's from another world or something...he's like an...alien anthropologist, and he's trying to understand humans by going through my trash, and that...oh man. Fuck. He says that...he says that...there's a...prison. Full of other aliens that our government has been capturing and...and...torturing I guess. Experimenting on. And he said...he said...oh my God. He told me so much. He just kept talking to me, I invited him in and...it all goes blank. It's like he washed my memory. Well, when I woke up, someone had gone through all of my trash, and the cup of coffee I gave him was...was...still there...half full...I've...I've got it over here.”, he carefully donned rubber gloves and set it before us, “I think it probably has alien DNA. I don't know if I want to touch it...”

____

“How was it? Go ahead”
“Real good.”
“Oh yeah, yeah. Real good. Go ahead”
“Tenth call about an angel today. I tell you, one kidnapper turns himself in, and suddenly every criminal in the city thinks they're seeing angels. Go ahead.”
“Well, say, we're pulling into the Carl's Jr. to grab us some dinner. You gonna be at the station say about half an hour, want us to get you anything? Go ahead.”
“Sure, guess it couldn't hurt. Go ahead.”
“Alright, just regular cheeseburger and fries or what? Go ahead. ”
“Heck, I'll eat anything right about now. Go ahead and get whatever you want. Go ahead.”
“Roger that, we will go ahead. Go ahead.”
“Talk to y'all in about thirty minutes. Over.”
“Over and out.”
[they pull forward in line]
“You think he really saw an angel?”
“Well. I don't believe him. But. I don't—doubt him. I think we need to investigate.”
“Well I don't know how much the chief is gonna like us...”
“Not with the chief, Grace. By ourselves. We got to--”

[they pull forward in line, Phillip rolls down the police cruiser window]
“Hello, thank you for choosing Carl's Jr. What can we make for you today?”
“I'd like three classic third-pounders, fries and...uh...you want a milkshake?”
Grace looked up from her phone. “What—a--a milkshake? Oh. A milkshake. Yes.”
“Two vanilla milkshakes.”
“Not vanilla.”
“Strawberry?”
“Mmmmm. Sounds good.”
“Alright, one vanilla, one strawberry.”
I rolled up the window before he could give me the total. Grace put down her phone, sliding it carefully into her pocket and clearing her throat.
“As I was saying. This is serious. I think we need to—start our own investigation. I mean think about it. This is the United States government we're investigating. This could be serious--[they pull forward]--You don't look convinced.”
“Well I don't know Phillip. I mean, I believe you. I just don't know. It sounds crazy. You know. All of it. If we do stuff like this under the table, what are we gonna tell the chief?”
“Tell him—I don't know. He won't find out. He won't find out unless we have enough evidence, and then—I mean, the chief wants this town to be safe, just like you or I do. So crazy as it sounds, I think in the long run—if we're onto something—he'd want us to investigate it rather than to just sweep it under the rug, right?”
“Sure, I just...”
“That'll be 21.42.”, the drive thru cashier said, looking faintly annoyed, as though I'd interrupted him. “Thank you.”, I handed him the money.
“Thank you.”, he said, handing me back money as he listened to another driver read thei r order “Wait—sorry--I'm--Thank you—I'm--” Trying to revert to what I guess was a pretty practiced routine kept throwing him off cause whenever he did, he'd reverting to whatever I was doing. I rolled up the window and accepted my change. The employee turned around, explaining something to a manager and running off, handing the manager his headset. The manager peered out of the drive thru window, and studied our uniforms carefully
“Hello sir, you had the three thirdpounders with cheese, regular fries and—Thank you for choosing Carl's Jr. I will be right with you--he was supposed to ask you what you wanted for your drinks?”
“Oh shoot. I guess we didn't say...uhm. Coke is fine.”
“Yeah, sure, I'll take some Coke. Guess three cokes.”
“Three cokes—Sorry about that. What can I get for you--? [he is talking on the drivethru radio] Alrighty.--”, as he started punching in someone elses order, he turned to us to ask a question, “You folks been...up to anything interesting today?”, he asked, vaguely paranoid, “That will be $14.28, sir. Thank you.”
“Nothing...too interesting. How about yourself?”
He smirked—a little bit suspicious, sort of paranoid, like he...knew something. The two of us glared at each other with intense curiousity. “You know, don't you?”, he asked.
“Know what?”
He nodded, and handed us our food, followed by our drinks. As we drove off, he held a finger up to his mouth to hush us.
“That was weird.”
“I know. Wouldn't have thought they'd be so busy around 4 o'clock.”
“No, did you hear what he said?”
“No, sorry, I was—reading something—what did he say?”
“He—I don't know. He seemed like he was—I don't know Grace. Like, he looked out at me and—he said “You know, don't you?” I mean, what the heck is up with that, huh? Just stares at me...and...I don't know.”
“Pretty strange.”
“Maybe they're working with them, you know? The government?”
“Carl's Jr.?”
“Yeah!”
“I mean, if anyone was gonna be working for the government around here, it'd be the shitty Arby's across the road no one ever goes to.”
“Arby's huh?”
“Yeah, Phillip, Arby's, they've been conspiring against my digestive system for years. Are you serious right now?”
“I'm just saying, we have to be open to possibilities.”

____

[their car doors slam and they make their way across the grass]
“Phillip, you're going out of your damn mind.”
“This is the next one on the list, right?”
“...Yup. Looks like the right house. Are we really gonna be doing this all night, Phillip? My feet hurt. April was down here earlier today already, and she said that it was just a regular break-in.”
“But that's not what he said when he called in, is it?.”
“No.”
A small doorbell sat on a weathered telephone pole archway in front of the entrance to the house. The lights were on. I couldn't see if anybody was inside. I rang the door bell. “Do you have a warrant?” a voice spoke through an intercom. “We're here to follow up about a report you made earlier today, sir?”
“Name and Badge #”
“What?”
“Name and Badge #, and you will be on film.”
“I'm sorry but I--”
“I did not call for police assistance. I know my rights as a sovereign citizen of this country. Provide me your name and badge number or I will refuse you entry with deadly force if necessary.”

Both of us read off our badge numbers. The fellow on the other side of the speaker searched for our identity information in his computer, until he verified that we were real officers. A smart phone in his hand, he walked towards the gate—as he got closer, we recognized each other. It was the manager from the Carl's Jr, a flashlight in his hand. “You did know, didn't you?”
“Know about what?”
“Come with me. I'll show you.”

Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5--How Dr. Whitebalm Tore a Hole in the Universe

Hello! And thank you for listening to Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5. If this introduction fails to amuse you, then you can just skip to about one minute and fifteen seconds into the podcast, but since writing this introduction amuses me just fine, here it goes. Season 1.5 is like Rivers of the Mind but focusing on side characters who might be important later on, or just on the events between seasons one and two that you may want to know about. Just to be clear, Rivers of the Mind is not meant to condone education in the sciences, the development of superhuman powers, or wormhole technology. All events portrayed in Rivers of the Mind are completely fictional, and any resemblance to actual events or people, whether real or imagined, is simulataneously real and imagined, as are all things when reduced to their most basic level of existence. With all of that said, please enjoy this episode of Rivers of the Mind, entitled “How Dr. Desiree Elizabeth Whitebalm Tore A Hole In The Universe.”
[sounds of an alarm, fading into the sounds of an explosion, panicked voices, a beeping hospital room]
At first, all the colors seemed to glide like keys on a piano. Reds turned to oranges, oranges turned to yellows, and rambled up the spectrum until the only color was purple and then that color became black. And with every octave of red through which the colors passed, the centers of illumination around which they focused themselves shifted, creating a pulsing that was all around me the moment I opened my eyes. The color and light first came from all around, and grew dimmer and dimmer until only a few distant x-ray machines could be seen illuminating faraway floors in other sections of the hospital wing, and then nothing but a faint red light coming off of my skin. As that red light fell into purple, and then blue, and then green, in fluid, seamless succession, the world filled with light again, which multiplied as every heat source gave off bright light, followed every person's cell phone or radio or pager. “How are you feeling?”, asked a nurse, smiling as I intermittently saw her fade between a vaguely defined skeleton, a normal person, and a being covered in bright red and white light. “I can see.”, I mumbled, hazily. Savoring the moment, the experience of seeing someone as notoriously brilliant as myself reduced to an incoherent burn patient, she chuckled, slightly. “She says she can see!”, shouted the nurse over his shoulder. “She's awake?”, replied another. Immediately a crowd formed, vaguely despondent. No one wanted to tell me I was the only survivor.

It took no small effort to learn to control what I imagined the flow between spectrums. One, I supposed, represented what my brain thought was electromagnetic light. One octave higher, I must have been thinking of ultraviolet light. In the next, x-rays, and then gamma. Back down, I could see in...well. Infrared. Microwave. Radio. If I thought of one, then I could go there. Or, convince myself I could. Maybe some kind of brain damage. It was bizarre, but enjoyable once I learned to view it as a modest amusement. Imagine if this were real, I'd think. Imagine if you really were a source of weak gamma waves. Imagine if you could see light coming from that man's walkie talkie. And if I became immersed enough in one of these meaningless fantasies, I could start to pick it apart—I could move my field of vision close enough to a wall that I could start to see the fibers that made up its surface, and then the single celled organisms crawling over that surface, and then the clouds of electrons that weaved over tiny nuclei, free taus and positrons escaping for billionths of seconds, and underneath this still, layer upon layer of intricate forces between increasingly smaller units of reality, all eventually starting over at their beginning. I could imagine electrons passing through barriers impenetrable by the laws of classical physics—I could see photons of all colors reflecting against the wall in hundreds of different wavelengths, until they bled into a plain white in my eyes—I pictured myself brushing the photons around me aside and scattering them away, distorting the field of vision in a way that I imagined the doctor reacting to...Or...saw the doctor react to. He pressed a stethoscope against my chest and leaned in to look at my eyes and my ears. “Are you feeling any pain at all?”

“No,”, I said, mystified suddenly as I could see the molecules of air ripple towards him, producing what he heard as my voice. “Good.”, he said, producing the same rippling vibration. If I chose not to see it though, I didn't have to....hmmm. But what if it was real? I imagined myself grabbing onto the photons in the air, tuning them to the same frequency—this filled the room, for a second, with a flash of blue light. The doctor glanced up at the bulb. “Hmm. I'll have to see someone about that. Anyway, I'm sure you're getting tired of all the questions. I know I would be. Someone else will be in to ask more in a little bit, too. Now, let me just--”

----

In pretty short order, I was on my feet again—the doctors were surprised by how rapid a recovery I was making, they only advised that I keep a liquid diet since I was having trouble keeping down food. And I was starting to have cravings for...other things. I...well I'd like to give an example, but most of my examples are too sophisticated for laymen. How about...hmmm. What do the laymen do? Imagine you've finished leaving an uninformed comment on a YouTube video about space travel, and before you go to your job as an accountant or a marketing executive or a customer service person, you want to eat, so you microwave yourself a burrito, or, at least, whatever passes for a burrito in that moment. Well, it was exactly that, only there was no burrito. Just a microwave. I would feel the strongest desire to sit next to the microwave, and I'd just kept craving it every five minutes. I mean, eventually, I figured out how to hold myself over for a few hours by getting rid of some of the microwaves Farraday cage. But even that wasn't enough. Somehow, as much if not more than I needed food, I needed radiation. When I sat by the microwave, the radiation would enter my skin and slowly drop in color until it disappeared, forming a weak, ever dissipating aura, which made me feel...full...but I needed more.

Luckily, if it was radiation I wanted, I had access to it, but regardless I felt a need to approach this with some reserve. For one, it was particularly expensive to accrue sources of radiation. Moreover, there were certain risks posed by exposure to large quantities of radiation, both to laymen and to scientists. Attempts to discern to what extent I was hallucinating and to what extent my visions represented reality threw me for a loop for a while. But regardless, I needed to eat something, and even with  the liquid diet I was having trouble finishing more than a sip or a bite at a time. Inspite of the risks, I gave up, I found a highly radioactive pellet of metal in a sealed lead crate. Immediately after unwrapping it, I began to feel more satisfied, strength returning to my muscles. The metal began to shrink, undergoing rapid alpha and beta decay, becoming warm, squirming light over my body. I wasn't hungry for the next week, and I still had all of my hair.

The only logical conclusion quickly became that I'd experienced an undocumented change in physiology brought about my exposure to a radiation that we identified as “Gamma Triple Prime”--this was somewhat erroneus, as closer examination revealed that it did not consist of photons at all, but the name stuck amongst some of the laymen working at the base, and when the laymen have named something, it is unfortunately quite difficult to reverse that process. I was unprepared to come forward with either a more accurate description of whatever the energy they had found was, and likewise unprepared to present my new vision or hunger for radiation to the others at the base. Everyone was on edge enough as it was, and still in mourning for many of their colleagues who had been present the night of the experiment. Perhaps more importantly, it seemed as though the changes to my physiology invited military applications. With only a little focus, I could easily manipulate ordinary light into higher, more destructive frequencies, or concentrate it into narrow beams. This was excellent for scientific research, but I feared it would also be excellent for, say, warfare, or any number of other applications that did not sit well with me.

I chose instead to work in private, as I was prone to doing, and to experiment as best I could with my abilities, working on developing instruments that could, in whatever way, mimic what I was doing. I'd sent in three papers with new theorums for review, and submitted patents for the equipment that enabled us to detect the energetic anomaly occurring one kilometer northeast of our laboratory. Research at the laboratory boomed—minor improvements in our knowledge of quantum physics enabled progress on wormhole technology, space travel, and materials sciences to expand exponentially. I soon was surrounded by a team of scientists who could at last keep up with and respect the demands I placed on them. Every morning at 7:30 am, we would wake up, eat breakfast, and go to work by 8:30. At three in the afternoon, after we broke for lunch, we would commence with more work, generally concluding at around eleven or twelve at night. I didn't feel alone, at all, in my mania any longer. The laboratory was surging back to life, outdoing all of our wildest expectations.

Perhaps we were a little bit too optimistic. The gravitation wave detected above the farm-- appearing to me to be a great purple column, housing a dense vortex—seemed a perfect oppurtunity to test our wormhole device. Unexpectedly, however, the wormhole device led to the total collapse of the phenomenon—the portal formed incompletely, leading to a leakage of so-called Gamma Triple Prime into the earth, and the breaking of an upper level of limestone, exposing a large sinkhole. The optimistic spirit of the past week and a half had been broken—we began to see that we'd gone to far before we were ready, that all of our advances were only fractions of what needed to be done. But I knew something more. Down on the ground, the accident had exposed the inhabitants of the small rural neighborhood to sufficient amounts of Gamma Triple Prime to put them through similar changes to what I'd experienced. I quickly presented the events to the chief military official at the base, Colonel Imes, warning him that anyone exposed to more than point zero five moles of the substance was likely to be at risk of major health complications. Understanding that the security of the base was at stake, we rushed into action.

Rivers of the MInd Season 1.5--What happened to Officer Phillip after John Wiped His Memory

Hello! You're listening to Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5, a series of vignettes giving greater depth to the events portrayed in Seasons 1 and 2. These are scenes that I really wish I could have included in other seasons, but which would have seemed really, really tangential. Tangential enough that you may have forgotten who, I don't know, John was. Or Gerry. Or Meagan. Or Caleb. Or even that there was no character named Caleb in season one. Before we begin, I just wanted to let you know that Rivers of the Mind is not meant to encourage or condone working as a police officer, method acting in any American dialect, the ironic, deconstructive use of disclaimers as comedic tools, or staring at dog poop. All events portrayed in this series are completely fictional and any resemblance to real people, events, or philosophies is completely imagined. Except the massive government conspiracy, which we are directly implicated in. Anyway, without further adieau, please enjoy episode B of Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5 “What Officer Phillip did after John wiped his memory”

(door closes)
"Water bottle huh?"
"Yep."
"I wouldn't have let him back there. He was clearly tripping on something.
"Yeah well...whatever."
My partner let out a long sigh, clutching her head and looking down at her blank phone screen. I didn't...remember...anything that had happened in that field. All I remembered was seeing bright lights come down from the sky--spinning around the forest--flashlights coming across the hills. And then I was back. Trembling, I looked back at Grace, "How long was I out there?" Her eyes grew wide, and the hand in which she held her phone started shaking. "I--I don't know, Phil. 15 minutes, maybe. Why?"
"Because I don't remember."
Grace looked like she'd just seen a ghost. Holding back her fear as she said so, she half laughed, "Did you hit your head, or...?"
"I---don't think so.”
She took a peek over her shoulder. “Its not that big of a deal. Don't worry about it.”
I looked back behind us. I saw a pair of flashlights peering through the woods. Somebody in a tan jacket kicked up dust, walking on down the side of the road and staring up at the forest. Something was sure going on. I knew it. I could feel it. I knew that Grace could sense that something was afoot, but she wasn't saying crap about it. She must have been in on it. Better not to say anything.
I gave Grace the cold shoulder until we go off our shifts about about midnight. I felt plum miserable. The moment I left the car, I could see she brightened up. Started taking a call of some kind about a kidnapper turning himself in. I was done for the day. I'd been up since seven o'clock in the morning. My truck was running on fumes too, so I made sure to stop to fill up my tank. When I pulled in, a man standing across the station from me start scowling out of the blue. I looked him up and down. Was he in on it? The man shuffled back towards the drivers side of his car, glancing back at me suspiciously, and going in to hide. I looked into his car as I walked by, an old Bronco. Didn't look like he had anything suspicious, but who knows. When I went into the gas station, he came out of his car, whistling like he didn't have a care in the world.

Right as soon as I stepped into the gas station, the clerk's eyes got all wide. The customer he was helping began to breath all heavy, and the two of them glared at each other. Almost on cue. “You wanted some cigarettes, huh?”, demanded the clerk, “What kind? You think I don't know what you're trying to do?”
“You—you must know my cousin. He must have told you about me and Marsha. Well listen, it's none of your damn business.”
“Nice try buddy. Get the hell out of my store.”
 Goddammit. What was it with people today? The customer charged out—he just flung open the doors and ran to his car. But the funny thing was, just as soon as he left the parking lot, he turned back, walked right back up to the door, and got all pissed off again the second he started to open it. “Did you see that asshole?”, asked the clerk.
“Hell, I didn't understand a word of what was going on.”, I laughed. We laughed, I mean. He thought it was pretty funny too. Both of us just...you know. Kept on laughing and laughing. “Shit. Anyway. I was hoping I could put this on three.”, I said putting down a twenty dollar bill. “Sure thing officer.” Something sure was fishy, though. Something was going on in this town. I'm used to folks getting a little on edge when they see a uniformed officer around here, but not this nervous. All of them seemed to go right back to normal when they thought I wasn't looking...I--

Even this fella. He might think he's a good actor, but just the moment I looked away from him, he started scowling. Getting really angry looking. Real suspicious. Sweating bullets. “Man...I think I'm...I think I'm full of shit. I'm just...everyone hates me. Everyone thinks I'm stupid. I'm never going to be a fucking photographer. I...You probably do too. Don't you? Don't you?”, he demanded. I couldn't take it any more. I pulled out my gun. “Who the hell are you working for?”, I shouted.
“You're going to SHOOT ME?”, he yelled, “You think I'm afraid of you? Huh, bitch?”
“Listen, you're going to tell me who you're working for, and you're going to tell me right now. Don't think I don't know what's going on, buddy.”
“Who do I work for? Seven. Fucking. Eleven. Bitch.”
Just all of the sudden it clicked. For a second, I caught on to what was going on. Grace, the fellow in the parking lot, this asshole right here, they all did whatever I was doing. It was like I was controlling them—I--the clerk looked out the window like he'd just had a great epiphony about the dusty old ladder stickin out of the pickup truck that just pulled in. Maybe he really did realize something, I didn't know. I withdrew my gun and looked back at him, trying my hardest to calm down. Not really even acting like I was there anymore, the guy just kinda grimaced, and rolled his shoulders back, then stopped. Cooled down. Breathed in—and out. And in—and out. Almost matching the pace of my breathing, maybe a bit slower or faster, but you get the point.

I squinted a little bit, trying to see if I could maybe reach into his mind and tell him to just forget about what had just happened. He pressed his nose against the window and focused intensely on the truck—I guess not quite what I had in mind. Unless I got him to slam it into the...no. What are you doing Phillip? You ain't like this. Maybe you can't just wipe his memory, maybe he just starts...I don't know. Matching what you're thinking or...feeling or whatever. If I relaxed, he got a little bit calmer, sort of backed his nose away from the glass. But if I let myself get angry all over, by God, that fellow got redder than a ripe tomato, looked like he wanted to break that ladder with his teeth. Shoot. That easy. And it looked like it all...made sense to him. He just got sort of...overwhelmed I guess, by whatever I made him feel, so it just seemed like the normal thing to do to get suddenly fascinated and then pissed off about and then weakly aroused by the same piece of shit pickup truck sitting at a fuel pump, his mind getting pulled this way and that way—if I let my thought drift, I don't know, towards a nice painting I'd seen in a gallery lately, or a good warm beer, the clerk would smile real nice at whatever it was in front of him, and sorta appreciate it. If I pushed it the other way, thinking about, I don't know, paying taxes or that goddamn sensitivity training, the guy got real scared. Hell if this was a TV show or something, I'd probably watch it. Don't know what the plot'd be like, but I'd probably do when you run out of Game of Thrones or Breaking Bad, America's Next Top Model...I mean that last one was just an example, I was just saying shows that I could watch, not really shows that I watch. But that's not the point.
The Point. Right here. What the hell did this to me? I wandered into that field, behind that guy, and...it all gets blank. I wander into the field and—purple lights start swallowing me up—I remember everything sort of changing. My field of vision, like I was almost tipped halfway over inside my head, just a teeny bit outside of my body, looking around as the forest started spinning, and everything started filling with bright, and incoherent light. And then we were walking back—water bottle in hand—and everything still looked the same. Hell, it looked like that right now. I glanced down at my hands. They didn't normally look like that, did they? They weren't that far away. Or...normally that close? They weren't that—I guess that's it. Not that, for sure.
Well shit, I guess if I'm on TV or something I should probably pick up on what kind of TV show I'm in. Clearly I was abducted by aliens. I mean, I hate to say it, but it's the logical choice, right? The stranger across the counter from me, who'd previous been overcome with paranoid fascination about my necktie, was now laughing hysterically. Goddamn, I didn't look like that, did I? The two of us absolutely guffawed at one another—I don't know. Something about this seems a little bit sacrireligious. Makes me feel sacreligious at least. Being inside of this clerk and messing with his head like that. I don't mean in the gay way, I'm totally fine with that, I mean, not fine fine, but not discriminating or nothing. Come to think of it, I'm not to sure if that even is part of the gay way, which, I mean, I am totally fine with, if it is. But I didn't mean it like that, you know, gay. Anyway. Being inside him. I felt like I was hurting him.
He winced, sort of coming to his senses. “Whoa...what the...Sorry I—that was—weird. I'm not sure what I was--”
“I didn't see you do nothing.”, I lied, “Maybe you uh...maybe you smoked a bit too much of that...uh. That there ganja plant you got on your keychain.”
“Oh that? No, no, I'm Canadian. Or well, my parents are Canadian, I just went there.”
“It's alright son we've all done things we're ashamed of, but like I was saying, just put this on three.”
“I—Oh. Yeah.”
[sounds of getting into car, starting car]

I don't want to laugh about it, you know. I just...know I'll look so damn crazy if I look half as crazy as that fella back in the gas station did when he laughed, all wild eyed, forehead up, sort of shaking his arms like a little wind up monkey toy. But shit. I mean to hell with it. I—I mean, I wasn't working with a whole lot of logical explanations? That guy I took up to get the water bottle, did I think maybe he did it to me? Well hell no. I didn't think he'd have drugged me. I mean he could have drugged me, but I didn't remember anything. All there was was lights. Bright, bright lights. And out in front of that water treatment facility everyone always knows is up to something, you know, that big old conspiracy theory magnet. I hated to think of myself as that kind of wacky conspiracy theorist, but this all seemed real. I mean, there...were aliens...and they'd taken me...into their space ship...and they'd...done something to me. Wiped my memory clean. Maybe that guy wasn't even really human—maybe he was an alien. Joe? Jake? Whatever his name was...he could have just been looking through Earth television, and picking the most ordinary name he could think of. He mentioned he was from California—maybe he didn't know any other places. It seemed like he was lying about it when he said it. When I tried to remember the face he made when I asked him where he was from, he looked real worried. Or maybe not worried—just. Weird. He had something around him that just made him...stick out...as not human, as almost sinister. I remember it...being taken...he seemed to be lying about something. He stepped into a tiny gully and his eyes just...loomed up at me through this shaggy hair all covered in mud and grime...He looked into the forest and...the lights came down. Every try I made at remembering what happened next just rolled off, like a dodgeball bouncing off of a brick building, not even making a dent.
I swerved into oncoming traffic, before pulling my car onto the side of the road, panting and starting to feel my chest tighten like it was about to burst open. Cars swerved frantically around me—I turned over on my side to avoid the headlights, and felt my teeth chatter. Oh God. I was going insane. They were driving me out of my mind. “Are you watching this, you sons of bitches?”, I shouted at the roof, “Can you see me? Huh? Are you taking notes? You better be taking some grand fucking notes out there you assholes.” I ground my teeth against each other and held my hands over my head feeling my ears ringing. It couldn't be real. I was finally losing it, finally ready to go overboard—they'd watch me go out of control and ruin everything I had until I became completely gone, just...as part of some weird experiment. And everyone was in on it. Even Grace...even...I winced. She just couldn't be. I impulsively reached for my cell phone before some rational part of my brain realized that I was still controlling, I guess, the minds of every passing driver to my left. Besides. The government can watch your phones. I bet they watch you double if you're part of an experiment. I pulled back onto the main road and sped out of town. Slamming my brakes in front of a little country store with its lights off, I hustled onto the porch and ripped the payphone from the wall. I shoved three quarters into the slot and quickly dialed her number.
“Hello, who is this?”
“I needed to talk to you Grace. Where are you now?”
“I'm at a crime scene, about to have a migraine, running on nothing but caffeine pills and the love of Jesus. Bless your heart, Phillip you sound like a crazy person. And are you calling me from a payphone?”
“Shh. I think...I think that something happened to me tonight...I...listen. I trust you Grace. We need to talk about this without the phone. This is serious.”
“Phillip, honey, I think that fella out there might have drugged you or something, you are sounding like you are...not well. Okay. I—excuse me. I'm getting a call from a payphone somewhere, I think it's Phillip. He is not sounding well—Yeah, I can go check on him. Yeah. Okay. Okay. Okay Phillip? Phillip, I'm out to get you, okay? Where are you.”
“Meet me in front of my house, okay?”
“No, Phillip. Do not drive—do not drive there. Phillip? Phillip?

______

“I can drive just fine, lady.”
“Phillip, you should not have done that, you know better...”, Grace immediately started to lighten up as soon as she came on to the porch. Focusing real hard on her, I tried to think of all the saddest things I could think of. One by one. My ex-wife leaving me for another man. My son smoking marijuana. The way this town is going. Digging deeper and deeper, eventually, I watched Grace start to break down into tears. Studying my reflection in the window as this happened, it looked like I just started to frown a little bit. I cracked my neck and loosening my hold over what she was feeling. Grace sniffled, suddenly uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Huh. That was strange, don't you think?”
“Well...yeah. I just. I forgot what I was so mad about when I got here and then...just started thinking of my poor aunt—her cat ran away three years ago and...well actually. That seems kind of funny that I'd cry about that. I guess grief really does come in waves.”
“I did that to you Grace. I did that to you with my mind. I—I don't think that guy back there was a human. I think he was an alien, and I think he did something to me, and I--” Grace started panicking along with me, “Calm down! You're going insane! You're—freaking out. Shit Phillip. That's a water treatment facility with a handful of geeks sitting on computers listening to peoples phone calls all day in a bunker. They didn't do anything to you. I think you need to go in...go to...” Grace started to lose interest in what she was saying mid sentence, “Fuck it.”, she said, throwing up her hands and stomping off to the car. She walked out to the lawn, staring down, until I started trying to remember something real interesting I'd read this morning about the life of Vincent Van Gogh. Kneeling down, she started gazing at something in the grass, filled with intense interest. I pulled back. “Well Grace. That must be some really interesting dog shit right there.”
“No. I was just thinking—well...Hey. What the hell Phillip? This...this is...this is...not real. No. No no. He drugged me to. I'm...this is LSD. We need to get checked out right now Phillip, oh my God.”
“LSD Grace? Well thats funny. I seem to remember hearing that that water treatment facility already has a checkered history with that particular substance.”
“Don't be ridiculous.”, she squinted, before remembering that I'd made her stare at a piece of dog shit and cry about a cat that ran away three years ago, “I mean...they wouldn't...do that to us.”
“Oh, no. No, they shut experiments down there years ago. Years, right? I mean, that's why we still aren't allowed back there without an escort, that's why the fence is still electrified, that's why weird shit always happens there.”
“Shut up Phillip this is...Okay. I give it to you. It sounds credible. But I was...I was...”
“You're afraid of me now.”
“[very hesitant, blunted] No...no. I'm...not afraid of you I just...I'm just trying to be...rational.”
“Rational. I see. Why don't you try finding one other rational explanation about what happened? Huh? Just one. Come on. I'm listening.”
“You...I...can't. But that doesn't mean there isn't one. It doesn't. So—I—I mean I don't think you're wrong to want to look for one.”
“But you don't believe me.”
“I can't. I want to. But I can't. Listen. Why don't you go to sleep? I'll look around and see if I can find anything really concrete about that base, okay?”
“Don't tell anyone about this. Okay? If anyone asks, say I was...say I...”
“I'll say you mixed up your painkillers or something, how's that?”
“That'll do. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I got drugged or nothing.”
“Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5--Why John Broke Up With Janet

A little bit different than most new episodes in that probably half the narration in the beginning and the entire ending of the episode was cut, so this blog post actually gives you insight that wouldn't otherwise be available in the one that was broadcast. This episode does a few things. Janet appears as sort of mysterious figure in Season 1 who John is emotional about, but in a way he doesn't always acknowledge. She becomes a more important character later, for a variety of reasons, especially in the Toloatzin episode where Janet is used by the Fisherman to try and manipulate John. It also establishes two pretty important character traits about John--he's asexual, for one (Because probably 80% of the characters I've written from the POV of are on the ace spectrum), and he also has a tendency to run away from confrontation.

Hello! You're listening to season 1.5 of Rivers of the Mind. “But Timmy”, I can hear you saying, “Why is it season 1.5 and not season 2?” Well Mr. Rhetorical Strawman, Season 1.5 is made up of shorter vignettes explaining background events of the series, or details of characters lives that either came into play in the last season, or that might come into play in seasons far, far into the future. It's also strategically placed between Season 1 and Season 2 so you don't decide to use the 18-35 demographic doesn't choose to use their valuable podcast listening hours listening to something that isn't related to drugs, as part of our commitment to polluting the minds of the young and establishing a New World Order. Anyway, before we begin, I just wanted to say that Rivers of the Mind is not meant to condone or encourage the study of geology or participation in human relationships. All events in Rivers of the Mind are completely fictional, and any resemblance to other persons, real or imagined, is COMPLETELY NOT ABOUT YOU AND ME JANICE. GET A GRIP AND STOP MESSAGING ME. With all of that said, please enjoy episode A of Rivers of the Mind Season 1.5, entitled “Why John Broke Up With Janice.” Fuck. I mean. “Why John Broke Up With Janet.”

[Footsteps walk across sandy ground, the sounds of a busy road or highway behind them. Eventually they come with a stop]

"[sighs] I guess I don't get it.", Janet looked back down and rapidly clawed out another text message into her phone. I ignored her, or tried to, and instead turned my attention back to the desert, something I missed deeply going to college in Irvine—my eyes flowed over the rolling scrublands, punctuated with ancient intrusive rocks that peered from beneath whispering sands, humming secret conversations between cacti and snakes and birds and our intruding feet. The components of the landscape, though seemingly barren, interlocked like a great jigsaw puzzle, so that they pulsed with color and with life. "It's not for everyone.", I conceded. "Don't worry, maybe some day you'll convert me to the dark side.", she rolled her eyes and reached for my hand. The dark side. Well Janet, that's one way to describe geology, I thought but wisely did not say. I reached back for hers awkwardly, and uncomfortably. Both of us came from the same town but seemed to live in separate worlds. She seemed to get frustrated when I headed off on the weekends, but when I invited her along, she'd act like this. Distant. Annoyed. Impatient.

"Hey! I see something."
"What?", she glanced up from her phone.
"Over in that ravine."
I pulled her up and we carefully made our way down a short trail. A small ravine had been eroded into a decomposing layer of granite, making it the perfect place to find gems and minerals. I guess I know deep down that Janet didn't give a fuck about gems and minerals, but maybe she just hadn't seen the right ones yet. Her hand started trembling, and she eyed the ground with suspicion, looking for rattlesnakes. She had never been hiking before she met me, or camping, or even set foot in a national park, so I felt like I needed to go easy on her, but it was hard to find somewhere to take her that wasn't tame enough for her sensibilities.
"Look at that, more rocks.", she smiled, looking over her shoulder to see that we were out of sight of the road. I nodded, gulping, and she pulled out her phone again as I noticed a crevice. Kneeling down to look inside, I carefully overturned a few rocks until I found a piece of tiny green piece of marble, colored with red and yellow pastel like colors. I pulled it from the shadows and held it out to her. "It's marble.", I said, "Like your parents have on your counters." She looked at it with a mix of interest, and fear, afraid, I imagined, of getting too much dirt on her hands. Setting her phone down on a boulder, she grabbed it. "Wow! That's pretty.", she said, looking back at me, and expecting for me to take the stone away from her. "Yeah, it's a metamorphic rock. Like...right here, you have granite, right? That comes from volcanoes. If you put heat and pressure on that rock, for millions of years, eventually it transforms into that."
"You're such a nerd.", she laughed, handing it back to me "It's cute."
Smiling weakly, I nodded, and set the rock back where I'd found it. "Aren't you going to keep it?"
"No, this is federal land."
"Oh, okay."
"Plus I already have...uhm. I think...three rocks like that one."

The two of us made our way back to the car, both somewhat disappointed, agreeing to head back to a diner that we'd spotted on our way out to the park. "This drive is so boring. I don't know why you do it." She had me stop on the way there, to go to the bathroom at a rest stop. She slammed the door and ran in, as I waited in the car, tracking the hills on the horizon with my eyes. This was the first relationship I'd had. I was shitty at it. I didn't know why. Or I knew why. It was just hard to pin down the primary reason. Was it that we didn't have anything in common? Was it that her church friends all awkwardly tried to minister to me whenever we hung out? Was it that I'd caught her littering? I didn't know for sure. I wanted to say it was the literring, but I mean, I've littered before to, so, I don't know.

In my own way, though, I loved her for everything that made the relationship shitty. I liked awkwardly trying to get to know someone so different from me. I liked holding hands with her while her friends uncomfortably asked how old I thought the earth was. I like how she'd started recycling to impress me. We were going to spend Thanksgiving together, at each others houses, and she'd meet my parents, and I'd meet hers. I liked having a companion of some kind that I could (ding) trust. I mean, I had friends. But not a (ding) person that I was this close to. I--(ding). Well now I was curious. I knew I shouldn't have been. But, I mean. Janet was still in the bathroom, and...what could it hurt if I just like...looked at whatever she was talking about. You don't do that though. You don't look at someones (ding)...um. Phone. Fuck. What was she talking about? Did she mean to leave this in the car or something? I--hmm. I peeked down at it. It's camera stared back up at me, my reflection barely visible in the surface of its bright pink case.

Shaking, and already guilty, I turned it over. Her friend from her college bible group, Alicia. "I think you might be right about him being gay. Most guys have at least some interest in sex, plus it seems like he...", her first text. The next, "Sorry, meant rocks lol" And then "I'm sorry your date was so lame, though. You're right it does seem kind of suspicious. You should definitely talk to him about it." The last one, "On second thought, maybe you could invite him to our party on the 2nd. Get him a little bit loose and see what happens..." Janet emerged from the bathroom. I quickly placed the phone back down where I'd found it, and started the car. "Hey baby!", she kissed me on the cheek as she climbed in. "Hey.", I kissed her back, weakly, and pulled out of the parking lot, "Have fun?"
"Oh yeah. Best truck stop ever."
Janet took her phone from the center console, and opened her texts, looking over at me intermittently as she read them.
"How about you?"
"Yeah, I mean, great truck stop."
"Thanks for taking me out here, at least.", she said, with what I now recognized to be a fake brand of kindness. I gripped the steering wheel tightly faking a smile, and pressing the accelerator as hard as I could to merge on the highway, almost as if I could run away from her, even if I couldn't really hope to escape. I wished for a moment that I could read her mind. "Yeah, definitely. It was a lot of fun. I'm glad you went along with it." Weakly, she smiled, starting a reply to Alicia.

We drove fourty minutes to get to the diner. They were tedious, uncomfortable minutes--Janet quietly formulated her plan, just out of my sight, while I gripped the steering wheel, both of us sliding into a total silence. Awkward, but not really a noticeable departure from what had become normal for us. She'd felt this way all along, I became certain; she'd been wondering why I didn't ever want to go further than kissing her, why I spent so much time alone. I seemed uptight, dull, and unattracted to her. I wanted to fix it. To fix myself. We pulled into the diner parking lot, and I put the car in park, before reaching over and grabbing her shoulder to turn her in my direction. Awkwardly, I tried smashing my mouth against hers--a test kiss, so to speak, and sure enough, I felt love for her, but no desire for anything more than what we were doing in that exact moment. But knowing that it somehow wasn't enough for her, that she wanted more, something I didn't feel capable of giving made my heart crumble more and more with each beat. I tried to force myself to reach out with my hand, to touch her leg, down by her knee--my hands slowly drifted upwards. She smiled brightly. "You want to go back to my dorm?", she asked. My stomach sank. "Sure.", I smiled, weakly, and kissed her on her cheek.

The two of us headed in to the diner. The hostess quickly showed us to a booth, uncertain if she recognized us, but vaguely remember that we, or someone who looked like us, had tipped well. The booth was vaguely sticky to the touch, with faint specks of white cotton erupting from its cracked leather like geysers. Barely perceptible crumbs of sweet and low mixed with crumbled biscuit collected on the sides of the table, having escaped the recent onslaught of wiping delivered by a hastily deployed white rag probably five or ten seconds before we sat down. A waitress came by and handed us menus. I ordered a cup of coffee. She ordered a shirley temple. Faint odors of burgers and fry oil wafted from over the counter. Janet smirked at me, sending a quick message to Alicia. My fraught imagination wondered what she might be telling her--my spine bent forward over my stomach with guilt.

Shortly after our drinks arrived and we ordered our food, Janet excused herself again to go to the bathroom. My stomach lurched as I watched her walk away. Whatever this was, it was wrong. Whatever it was, I had to stop it. Something had gone sour, almost immediately, when I read those texts. The facade had been stripped away. Nothing about this was right. But I didn't want to have to face her. I didn't want to have to explain it to her. If I left, she'd probably decide that Alicia was right anyway. Guzzling the last of my coffee, I pulled a fifty dollar bill out of my wallet and set it on the table underneath my mug, before charging for the door and heading across the parking lot to my car. While backing out of the parking spot, I awkwardly fumbled with my phone to dial the number of the local cab company. "Hello--Hi. Yes. I am calling for a pickup in ten minutes at the diner off of Plaza?--Address--Uhm. It's Larry's Diner. Yeah. Harry's. No. Not the one next to the cactus farm, the one by the Trader Joe's—Uh-huh. Sure. Well, it's not for me, it's for my friend. Yeah.--her name is Janet. She'll be out there waiting--thanks. Yeah. I had an emergency."

I turned out of the parking lot and hit the first stoplight. Feeling even more guilty, I pulled out my phone, sending a text to Janet. "Hey. I had an emergency and I needed to run--" a car loudly honked behind me. Flooring it, I sped forward, fumbling out a partially mispelled text, "bit I csllrd u a cab. sorry." I threw my phone to the side. "I probably could have handled that better.", I thought to myself as I merged onto the highway, "I wonder if she'll...yup. She's calling me. I probably should pick...no." I kept driving. And driving. Eventually the feelings of disgust that I felt for myself gave way to anger, and those feelings gave way to a freedom, as finally, I was once again alone with the desert and the open sky with no feelings of shame for not dedicating that time to Janet, no feelings of self-consciousness about being too boring or too different.

Janet figured out that I'd broken up with her when I sent her another text message to clarify after about a week or so. She sent me a long text right after telling me that I broke her heart, asking for an explanation. "I saw what Alicia said to you.", I said, "I realized you weren't happy with who I was." She never responded. The two of us graduated on opposite sides of the alphabet in the different years and avoided each other through the whole ceremony. Later, I looked her up. She had married someone in the army right after graduating. We hadn't spoken in years. As much as I wanted to say I didn't care, somehow I did.