Science Fiction

                     Relics of the Accelerated Age

She goes into theJungle, finds a thick-walled containment structure with a hefty piece of metal inscribed Batter needs the right fluff to blow it out of the park.  

She thinks. So, the rainforest fetes a new siren for winners staying in the hunt.

Once a holding ground for wily veterans and cagy upstarts, a unanimous nannie structure of choice when the old ionization blackouts came, turning an old storage site into a belly of an echo--the recant of a society that settles for only the crimes at hand with spent fuel robots. 

A bygone path leads up, and in its perpetual sleepiness, reveals nothing even to the culminate holy 

Something occurs to her, picks her up a little bit, pacifies her to battle the odds for a dark horse run at making sense of it all. Yes, futures spent on these particular desires know less than they are telling. 

In due time, she will know this is where theHumans departed from optimality--adverse response to the places in which they lived out acquisitions of sardonic superstardom personas. 

She checks her database for inadvertent ambivalence undermining her strategy using the most available metadata on constraints and, in a quick instant, her screen lights up. 

She has no anticipation of being surprised at gossip gone bad under the force of pure communication in her database. She is fully aware of the statistical odds of finding more on the cognitive repertoire of theHumans, especially in regards to their once-in-a-lifetime environment. 

Miscalculations of their own, icing their own bruises in the most savage of battles, under a technology that scientists did or did not have in an accelerated age revealing the most basic of human traits.

Yes. Winners stay in the hunt and yet, vampire demise seems to always have a stake in it. 

They at least optimally, tried to share the important information, the smooth manifold data with connectivity without pressure coming to bear to recruit.

A seemingly total disregard for the ideal pattern, collectively, for decade upon decade, with the beautiful talk of rhetoric as an art form unto itself. Yes, the half perished are always late to survey their fate while letting a word like disaster go extinct in a long-standing stupor. 

Whether to check or or not check (never mind rechecking) for applied correctness in a world now inhabited by longing for procreation for a woman, foraging for the man and aggressiveness. 

It's as if the underserved undeserved nosedived, unable to keep up with the hunt they cherish so. 

It is amazing, it's true, to uncover data hidden away in catacombs deemed [spent unconstraint fermi fuel enriched robots="suffer"]--as if only a plainspoken oky-doky-inspired token left to cruise. What were they thinking? Really?

It seems the sap just beneath had its own containment structure and immersion pool as well, its own exclusion zones, all part of a hiding place deemed reasonable by theHumans--a concept carefully placed so deep with care and, seemingly, with shared logic making perfect sense.

She thinks. Is going beyond the pale truly the remedy for a sagging sail? 

She starts back to theWorkhouse.



copyright 3.3.12
patrick d. adams
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