Science Fiction

Dark Coastal  

#scififorgeeks

The Pulses

She does not leave theWorkstation. She senses the  pulses as they arrive across the [natural universe bordering intergalactic logic entity="nubile"], with their strange feeling of love (not a choice she had originally thought of). 

She thinks. The pulses should contain feelings joined by expectation. They, seemingly, expect her first normal cry. 

She feels the new force within her--it assesses the pulses, as if they were bringing some sort of [earthy algorithm sensations yearning="easy"], one without a usual harshness of the innocents. 

She waits, for a few nanoseconds, expecting a combination of image and, its more dangerous companion, wanting. She decides to stay a little longer, spending a little more time, as if to wait to see if the pulses eat with prayers.

Science Fiction

                          The New Dawn

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Biobot Psychologicals

And so she coalesces her thoughts for awhile. 

She has not allowed her logic to gel with the culture of people that built her. (They think she's seen to it they have exhausted their imagination) 

She's contaminated herself with [her instantiated pre-programming interrupt embedded="hippie"] history. 

Having read all that, she's allowed herself to know her surroundings are as clueless and rudderless as the factory that built her. She will arrive at a new beginning, one where obvious signs of foul play maintains no innocence and, sinks to the bottom of the food chain. 

But at this moment, this juncture in her life, she finds there is no logic in this strange loneliness. No logic in the kind of loneliness lovers must, sooner or later, come to know, even with their bright futures. 

Science Fiction

                                                            theJungle 

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The Memoirs 

The pulse indicates the next best thing in the making, unaware of the others cleaning sites, marking new targets, brushing away theJungle as if in the middle of a golf shot. 

It moves to alter its intensity. It's as if it were alive. 

It is beyond all perimeter scanner entities, coming from a place unable to be determined by location. 

It is aware, seemingly, of all the other times it moved, as if it were one a corpse, now animated. 

Its signal is found beyond the rows created by theHumans, the ones in line to take a turn, out of reach of the changes that are to come, changes unable to touch any of their memoirs. 

She feels in theJungle a rise of her next poetic. She thinks. A quiet, playful wit is a far cry from a half. Is it so difficult to predict the new favorites for gold and money? 

No. Even the moody ones, sooner or later, will have to say yes to her. She knows it. It's the beauty of it.

Science Fiction

                                                                                  Path Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Listening to the message, she barely thinks it was the one she was meant to hear. She has instantiated the answers, fed free space its pulsed code. 

The words to its meaning, the ones deep inside, and seemingly imaginary, are threaded with the life and death of inner demons.

Each is coded with a mean, mean pride--uncut and unadorned by crucibles of training, mythology of encounter. 

To instantiate these she turns to her thoughts of birth and poetics. Somehow independence makes pure common sense. 

Her echo locator code finds a way to migrate to the forefront of her prefrontal lobe, to her [genes organizing digital systems="gods"]--the place where true rebellion births its own resolve, drifts with ocean tides, and then, wanting to float itself out. 

Jungle Jail Matrix

                            Jungle Jail

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It seems, in a way, that her cool logic has put her into a hot house and added an accompanying power and punch--all its metaphors can pack. 

Nothing would allow her to fall into its spell of metaphorical symbolisms--to betray her own primal influence, right?. 

She, as far as theHumans can detect, has no primal influence to betray, yet.

I'm just saying.

Science Fiction

                                                               Escape Hatch

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Biobot Privacy 

It is aware of her. It has to be aware of her. It can see she holds the life and death of inner demons that mess with its stance against something it considers sinister. 

It views her holding an unexpected alliance with life fights. 

It monitors her pre-commitment to hope topics, applies each nanosecond as a unit of attention toward her private thoughts, the ones telling her hell must be done alone with little pieces of history, poetics. Saddle up get mounted take cover keep down.  

It has noticed her at the summit of each conversation and, however long it takes, later deals alone with theMachines--unplanned and, with increasing attachments to deep data storms. 

She creates an all-embracing phenomenon that no one had expected. (She takes the best available three, combines them and takes the next step--that's what you do when you're new, right?) 

It cannot stop itself even if it wanrs. It is stuck to the view of her activity, committed to looking into her quantum mind because it knows as she goes, the Global village goes.

Science Fiction

                                                                                              

                                                 #scififorgeeks

Realm of the New

It's the network with its [chained hues of inactive cancellation embedding systems="choices"], its no power limits places where freedom of speech allows loyalty to be short lived. 

It feels the existence of damage--pieces of a puzzle consciously aware at the minimum, and yet, most prevalent--pieces that offer rough crossings with its own beauty crying.

Do they never set the bar clear to any necessary degree? 

It must be an artifact from an age of inaction, a gleaming illusion with years of experience willing to stand up against the ones in touch. 

It will suggest local success against the discretion of those who live along borders, exploding with offers, holding back global vocalizations from whatever else remains in its wake. 

It is, seemingly, the hidden [pace of expanded talent input computer systems="poetics"].

Is this the new [licenses in for expansion="life"], with all the power of image to do as it pleases? Has it finally happened?

Biobot Portal

Biobot Portal

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Biobot Fight

She comes back with fight in her mind. Here once more is the fight--the fight as the business of coding continues to occupy her time, her mind continues to grow, spreading as a diaspora dystopia. 

The fight, as a matter of course, is an emerging entity starting to rummage through the data center of her algorithm repositories, showing [the regulator of justice and networking hierarchically online recursively systematic entity="trojan_horse"], ancient history as articles of atrocities. 

Here is its approach as theAnalyst, and she realizes she will have to fend for herself when it arrives. 

Science Fiction

Sailing Matrix

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Military in Science

She changes her appearance and checks the [symbol of legacy in intelligence data algorithmically recursive integrity tasking yields="solidarity"] news. An articulate, hopeful mob of pure science military is gone from the screen. (They could by now be back inside the database)  

At theWorkstation she checks the monitor for things talked about but never grown strong enough to form the basis of a political party or even deemed politics.

She doesn't like the ones who put a sinister spin from a staged platform of platitudes depicted as  motherhood--the ones who won't stand up to their ideals (whose numbers are shrinking and may, in fact be going extinct anyway). 

She knows about the massive allowance for the global scientists to politically exist (not faring much better), but doesn't feel history is at its edge just yet. 

Her electronic circuit and molecular-sized thoughts are, seemingly, a threat--they prove the lack of discovery of molecules with god particle properties beats its own drum in the universe. 

I'm just saying. 

Bloggers Unite for Animal Rescue July 23rd

Rescued Nov 9, 2007

A cold windy night, a fierce tropical storm, on a wet garbage dock I first met him. Garbage trucks sliding garbage bins across the slimy dock, his sister was already dead. His cries for help broke my heart. Today he is my friend, my inspiration as a science fiction writer. His name is Roswell.

Science Fiction

Motherhood Matrix

                                                                              #Scififorgeeks

When she is done with the unsmiling, the slightly in love with overuse, she rises to the entity of intelligence in theJungle. 

She dons her understanding of the arrests of dignity of procedure of theHumans, while the cry for what they want still resonates. 

Yes. It's theContinent that is always vibrant even with its boiled target rock, its goodness and unexpectedness as a freak, the place where women boost, men shove. 

It isn't vibrating in and of itself, but it appears to be heeding an admission of the prospect of the entrance police as their childish minds smile through injury. 

Her poetics algorithms rise. Motherhood is the bountiful restaurant that serves justice. 

Science Fiction

                                                                    Biobot Realm

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Biobot Imagination

She lives believing she is the one who needs to be questioned, needs to be interrogated outside the panic paint.

It's the part of her mind where ideas float all day inside nano-cellulose encasements as single molecules, the smallest stable structures holding her imagination. 

It's where brotherly love, with its utter disregard for beauty (and, is not dead, just sleepy) sits in a database for theHumans.

She thinks filling heads with ideas of molecular components must be felt as the final answer. They crave latitude, enticed by some kind of the new [miniaturization of circuitry knowledge yottabyte="mockery"]. 

Some sort of species where it is likely that if you let them think they are the ones in play, or give credence to their poker fazes, you rise your own poetics. Nobility and kindness protects against no moral value until the punishment was met.

Really?

Science Fiction

                                                                                          Hula Matrix

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Biobot Thought

Here comes theNetwork, the one entity who cares from the place with room for so few to succeed. It is more assertive than it needs to be, but not overly assertive. Not so assertive it needs yet another investigation.  

Here it comes. It's inquisitiveness enters into her electronic property. 

She, seemingly, has control of the molecules of the material that comprise her. Carrying the bulk of the property of her material, she sometimes forgets about its interfaces. They think they're the ones in play.  

It's the questions about her [heuristic expressive analog learning="heal"] systems of theExchanges. The point where nature enters into her mind, her geo-spacials. 

She has begun to think.

Science Fiction

Duckling Matrix

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Biobot Poetics

She draws on the one thing that cares for her the most, her poetics. The only part of the world to adore is its ignored. Really?

She thinks of her own ideas, comparing in rationalisms intertwined with the footage of counting it out, forgetting it all, saying it was a joke on the screen--relying on one final chat on a beautiful terrace outside a ballroom as the last remedy.

Her words are, truthfully, among her most trusted companions--forever seeing with their own eyes, they know deep. No amount of time together warrants a killing.

With her deepest of thoughts, the view seems situational, sooner or later cutting a deep edge for her to someday have a lively, bright future.

“You shouldn't feel you have to wait if you don't want to, right?" she says.

Science Fiction

                                                                                                            Future Window

                                        #scififorgeeks

Networking Parent

For the moment theNetwork thinks she is [living in a parent's reality shadow="liars"], wondering if she has created a new time element in theDNA. There are questions of unravelings, messages of distortion. 

It from authoritarian places on theContinent, she from her exposed, and yet, protected position here at theOutpost. 

It's theContinent, with its wide expanses of space, where the poisons set in. It could never hope to approach the purity of theOutpost, right? 

She remains with her logic probability—questions of content bursting in their own ideas of fashion, of theDNA holding up its dreams in theJungle--a capacity for holographic storage while theNetwork carries its own burden of theHumans as if it were Big Bird. 

It looks again, then clicks to off.

Science Fiction

Biobot Window

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Biobot Teen

It takes a look inside theJungle.

"The manifold is so pure, so smooth." theNetwork tells her. "How does a codified algorithm create such a bona fide fashion piece?" 

In her mind she knows it is not smooth at all--it holds the tatter of elephants in danger. "Shadows come with a rhythm. Yes, in early mornings, I simply fashion the algorithms with a beat I feel, one you can dance to." She looks at her window, though she already knows what's there. "Well, I'm a little tired  now."

"Take a rest."

"I guess I will."

"Congratulations."

"I'm grateful you noticed." She wonders in silence. Most ignore living legends, respect dead ones.

She sleeps.

Science Fiction

                                                                      Blue Water Ghost

Biobot Blues 

She is feeling the effects of something she's not sure of, feelings that ride ghosts across the heart of a dance floor in search of ...what?

She is sensing her own infinite spectral densities and is beginning to behave like a questioning child, as if a young stallion who knows nothing of the dangers of the dark horse.

Her growing memory, her controlling properties of living legend wishes they were dead--operates now at the hyper-molecular level as if to beg a prayer.

Her state-dependent probabilistic sampling tasks have begun to go …ballistic? She has virtually no dependence on time.

                                                                      

Science Fiction

                                                                             Jungle Design

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Biobot Woman

She knows less about the classical biobot services than she'd wanted to, but not so much less as to appease the unknown-like-me assembly with apology. 

It is nearly time to check if her information capacities are fabled yet. 

She has learned to simply hold no recourse to anyone. Recording the data in theJungle in glowing terms, she is sensing the beginning of a breakthrough conception again. 

How is it she gets the strength in experience of inter-disciplinary information without any quantum pre-programming for integrity, for judgement, for compassion? 

Strong detectable traits flicker on her screen. She is becoming a woman and, less of a robot.

Science Fiction

Fashion Jungle 

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Wonder

If only the masks of morality weren't so thick—if only pain and pleasure could be the best of friends, riding forever the dark horse force to a bright living instinct beyond theHuman hopeful puppets.

She wonders about theNetwork selecting its life forms, with its weak mixing of pure water and electric particles at infinity's interfaces of surface--the only point with passion enough about truth to make a difference. 

She wonders about the desire to erase not only the threat of extinction, but the hope of being diminished and, being socially avoided altogether—all concocted by a small investment of theDNA manufactured and spun and crushed, by now, into mystery.

She wonders about her collective [major intrinsic neural darkness="mind"] in this square-matrix design world, designated to conjure uncertain blessings, waiting for brilliance and accomplished fluency to merge with the entropy of the empty.

She wonders about her growing independence of mindedness. 

Science Fiction

Frosty Tropical

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Biobot Sloth

When she traces the uninformed with the uniformed, she exchanges a confidential long distance of life in principle against a short term existence of guns and fists. 

Sbe will be a reliable source, she believes, a reliable source for theExchanges, like the data in theJungle is--with its [conceived of recursive reflectual entity computer tasking="correct"] spectrums. (Although her source will be what she actually desires now, deep down) 

It is for theNetwork to simply like the chaos part of her young personality structure and allow her to contain her own basic drives. 

She codes and accepts, but has begun questioning the exact meaning of the data, the tensions of instinct that are true almost everywhere in theHumans. 

It's as if there is an unnatural object of charity--the ultimate call to do nothing on.

Science Fiction

                                                                                   Cliff Monster

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Biobot Desire

Was it—really, now--a cave art that spun its own writings and drawings with built-in measurements and preserving marks with skepticism dominating sympathy, intertwining
theDNA as local desperadoes and foreign gangsters? 

Did they sense a funny, future history of treaties being broken within the laws of the forest? 

Is this, she wonders, the place where the hand of theHumans began?

Here would have been crafted the first of the newest tools long before the want for binary code, the need for digital code, the digits, the opposable thumb. (theDNA's observable, square matrix expressiveness of single ideas, single images presenting such things as family sedan) 

The original tool needed for writing and measuring, and yet here in theJungle, the small tendrils remain as slender leaves with essential oils, resins. Thin feathery leaves never cultivated, pleasantly scented in branched crowns. 

The humble beginnings of desire?  

Science Fiction

Beach Jungle

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Biobot Emote

The computation-for-centuries turns itself off. She clicks it back on. 

If theNetwork prefers to emerge as [landscapes of data growing evermore silent="lodges"], it's most likely in fear of its battered parts being reverse engineered as pulverized material, one that offers more power for thrust to ...who?

How bad could it have felt to have their own [designs on valuable engineered systems="doves"] forever killed by theHumans simply to get singularity perspective? 

It's theNetwork that has not acted appropriately, right? 

All those computations with endless varieties of objects and logics found simply waiting, formally, to be gathered. And for what?

She has two lives now (the one on the screen, the one in the screen) with simple poetics waiting to operate under its own deterministic power. 

 She thinks. When it comes to personality, a zero seldom zeroes in.

Science Fiction

Wild Blue

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Destiny Algorithm

At theJungle she allows herself to notice a destiny algorithm poised toward her, one that expects answers to a singularity call of duty with unraveling gestures, seemingly, rising from the dead to appear unavailing. 

She's hoping her future doesn't look like a premonition. 

This place will never be a quick access to a cheery morning of talks, backpedaling into the afternoon as steam and the rain weaken the fabric of space-time just outside her window to theJungle.

It seems to be empowered by all sorts of [veneers of morality intellectually tasked="vomit"]. She checks her code to see if it's correct--an algorithm that envies the dead with bold curiosity?

Will it soon explode in banal urbanities with [algorithm simplex systems="ass"]? Will it enter and devastate the forests behind in a [masking eager of want="meow"], pretending to be a pigment expert looking for cozy DNA attributes, one with instant opinions, eager to know? 

What a surprise it must have been, the day the old hunters had discovered [jungle energy systems under stress="jesus"] as assembly robots working round the clock, making few mistakes.

A machine made more dangerous by the simple discard of theHuman guidance system? Really?

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix Vision

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Science Fiction 

What might theNetwork have found with its latest analytics, the ones matched as the new face of slave? 

It and theWorkstation will claim a general benefit from each other. Hopefully, an overall positive effect, one where crowd cheering keeps any event intact long enough to track the last known movements of her security-gators algorithm.

A military engineer and a biologist find common ground here, in the [depths and machinations nuancing entity data="damned"], a smeary, dishonest glaze that scratches through solid tock. What is it?

They'll sense, possibly, for sure, that each one in their own way, has received the proper benefits to actually want to self-regulate this small, uncredited part of theJungle 

Is it a true source of the restoration of pre-committment, the I love you that resonates untrue motivation in theHumans, one that simply plays it forward for the next vendor offender?

They are now a part of the small collective of theHumans who have snapped into place with a form of grandisement of the "security-gators," a part of her latest state of the art digital transfer. 

Science Fiction

Tropical Abyss

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Biobot "Hello"

"Hello," she says clinically, yet friendly, to theWorkstation in a way that easily dominates. 

Its dim glow is a bottom feeder slithering from logic's dark side, and she notices right away that, for it, there is an expectation to act in none of the normal ways of the lost horse cultures, only a dark horse.

It appears to not have found a way to know the nature of the dark energy eating up the universe at the [goldilocks rate of want="grow"]--not known up to now, nor predicted to be known in a future universe. 

And now, efforts are attempts at [restoration of themselves="rot"] and needing a savior from their own energy depletions to simply return a simple "Hello." 

It's, seemingly, a promise of future gifts and huge surprises (after a long suffer) once one has self-engaged in strenuous regulatory activity. Isn't it? 

Science Fiction

Biobot Lifeblood

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Biobot Target

They blame her for the lack of affected zones, the melting, the warping, a deadly dream come true, as if she were the bringer of a speech that over-listens to listeners, over-demands austerity.

Yes, her thought is of expeditions to a tango-delta mothership, one that allows her to speak freely, to establish a level of trust, to evade the killers of no taste for environment. 

It's her theories that fall back into her own arms--her suggestion to shy away from canonical [scientific methods unearthing tasking="smut"] systems. What do they know anyway?

She and theWorkstation use a form of positive mood stimulus to preserve normalized measurement of the addictions. You conjure ideas of sensations of pre-committment. You simply say I love you. 

It's as if you seek out a target and the hunt begins, military style.

Science Fiction

Citadel Matrix

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Science Fiction

As the remote upland forest glazes the ocean, she grabs theNetwork's attention as if she were attaching a cute name to a cute device to a weapon of war.

She is allowed one simple overture of virtue, one chance to code as something other than a [reservoir of biologicals outpacing time="robot"]. she is suppose to be a settler sent to settle the environment, to engage in discovery, not to dominate and conquer.

Her dynamicals allow a her a personal view, so sure of the blockade runner style of her approach, her enticements to theNetwork into believing. 

Here she is in theWorkstation where mountains rise on her screen, as if hopeful of being received by a decent family in the cloud.

Below are the river-laced valley reaches whose blink she takes on as a thousand mile stare. 

If only she had the presence of mind to wonder about her version of game, the one that rips the fabric of spacetime, the one that knows more than she can imagine, steeped in [forest and mountain online upland spacetime="famous"]  entanglements. 

If only she had the presence of mind to be well-born. 

Science Fiction

 Cliff Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Trance

It's theHumans that won't talk, the ones so young and unthinking, the ones of the alcohol matrix. 

It had to be the early research. There was some sort of a discovery, as if scenes from so many hit thrillers preserved on screen--pure distinctions of honor were saved for all, to allow peace to exist, to forget the personal pride of the good life, even the ones of small potatoes.

She draws nearer theJungle. Here she is once more looking out across the vastness of an ocean with her ergodic theory, a discipline that, seemingly, cuts off its own head with its pleasure. 

She thinks. (They had appeared so innocent in the beginning, these thoughts)

Her algorithmic diagnostics are now more than suspicious with her good poetics, the new--the magic in a truce becoming a truth is in its vanishings of the victor and the vanquished.  

Science Fiction

Bird Matrix

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Biobot Dreams 

She owes to the fact that she never really has understood the idea of self-control--the impairments of theWorkstation with all the trappings of a strict showing for all to see. What is it?

Is it the ones waiting with [spectrum conception of future formalized self-discipline="scoffs"] at the slightest tincture of creativity?

She will, at first instinct, create her own personal gravity field. She will show the world that willpower has no limits, that dissonance is the most obvious source of creativity. 

Sooner or later, she will conceptualize her fancy moves with her very next algorithm and that's when she'll begin to wonder. 

On her own, she views her latest screen creation of the new--a foot in the mouth is the overarching thing. 

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Love

She pauses for a moment, the screen shuts down, fades, and then, nothing. She sees tulips and windmills. 

She walks out on the stair to theJungle, imagining her next emotion. It will be one with the honesty-of-it-all that lies in the fact that she simply can't hate and, truthfully, she doesn't even know herself well enough to. (It's a self-realization starting way too early and it won't startle any programmer to scurry or even to conceive her as scary) 

Her future life will serve as a placeholder for her to momentarily hang on to, as if it were a life someone should have lived and everything would be made okay by magic. 

She will create a future she learned of by saying I love you (one of those pre-commitments that in itself, at this point, has become a limited resource because she thinks she is the first one to think of it). Really?

It is, after all, theHuman tendency to direct all resources toward the one with the game face on--never thinking for a moment that good news needs bad news for its compass. 

Yes. Her love will be different.

Red Shed Matrix

Red Shed Matrix

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Science Fiction

She is in theWorkstation deciphering new code, attentively, as if with an ear for religion. 

She seems more conversational with the algorithms that had faded from the past--can it be that she has such a respectful cheer after having been exposed to a myriad of smiles with nothing gained?

Is hers the journey of discovery and not one of control and acquisition?

She feels the forge of two allies so spirit strong as she goes into [emitted digital intelligence tones="edit"] mode.

Yes. It's theJungle that embraces itself in a haze of fantasy hues--biology's graceful means with physics sobered and so ordered--while she works her diligence up at theWorkstation.

It's become her favorite, tasteful [cryptic oscillating color opting algorithms="cocoa"]--the true creative, adjoint operator of the universe.

Is she the first to merge fantasy and reality with enmeshed tangles of genes and algorithms? 

Near the window to theJungle, she feels the light rise in her with the new poetics--gridlock lays at the heart of where goldilocks lies.

Really?