Eco Decoded

                       Science Fiction

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Eco Decoded 

She wanders up the old jeep path, goal directed, one objective in mind.

Her goal will have a point of honor--the simplicity of not buying into something you don't like--creating a replacement entity. 

Yes, the entity will be an official with its own poetics--one of those off-color authoritarians with a built-in feline timeline (as if an old-fashioned scifi writer who believes in herself, not taken to saying anything to win a point such as motherhood would).

It will endure brief moments in history such as when one must have a mink to gain respect.

It will be gifted with age so as to refuse to give a nanometer and, will demand instant retail retaliation far beyond anything theHumans could ever have imagined in the early 21stCentury.

It will owe nothing to theNetworks--the ones who set themselves in surrealisms conjured to cover with glory--eco decoded to be the rightful escort for humanity.

It will make another little dent in the universe suitable for …who? 

Lighthouse Matrix

Science Fiction

Stick in History

She goes back to a place where in front of her are the colors with their motion and symbols, their ripples of image designed for health. 

She views her new bride_side algorithm (why is she is so constant in her sensation of the looming, the hypothetical entity? Why is she so leery of dark matter, dark energy, dark horses?) 

She feels a surprising sensation--she senses something has managed to program fantasy into her. She turns from her screen, secretly views code [natural outside view embedding legacy="novel"]. 

She inhales a deep breath, sees a reflection. Warmth.

Out beyond her screen theJungle takes another breath as if there will be some words said over a body with a big name, one that will stick in history. 

Biobot Beingness

Biobot Beingness

At the request of her locator, she finds something that is  supposed to know more about her logic than she does, and thinks, as is her usual routine, of her poetics. 

It is almost ironic, the method of candor that allows her to dial up networks without leaving a trace of her own poetics. 

Is it a matter of her knowing just enough to think of herself as an expert? 

She is so clear in her embeddings of poetics that it continues to amaze her in ways theHumans could never think of, even in the short amount of time she's been here. 

It amazes her the way a program that codes opinions and comments would amaze if only for reasons of heft and longevity, persistence through the ages, unbending in its craziness over time with one command. 

To simply be.

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Swan Song Shade

              

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                    Shady Peace

She thinks with a sudden start. This could be just one more stab at her poetics code from history, adobe wells bode well.

Her mind is going around another quantum leap on a day she stays alone to make her own peace. But does she really need to perform a new invention of the step pyramid? 

Is it the wheel that needs re-invention? 

She sits steadily at theWorkstation and prayers and spells capture her mind. She is sure the new discovery of fire will come again. 

It appears she views each day as a new play, curtain to curtain with her photonics. She checks her poetics again. Is conspiracy the route of dwindling spire to funeral pyre? 

Ritual Biobot

                                                                             Science Fiction

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There in her mind are two types of memory, both of them showing themselves as a boss who wants her to see it his way inside barrels of messengers coming into and out of existence (much like the new god particles of early 21stCentury).

One memory has the ability to delete, the other manages her deleted data when she thinks it is gone forever. It's as if it never was, and now, she can arrange a future for anyone or, anything, especially outside the authoritarian sector.

She has somehow remained detached from both the confident and combustible parts of her memory design as a matter of healthy choice. 

She knows she has no such control over the new pulses, so when they come, she assigns them as [military online mental modes yearning="mommy"], ones with deeper seated need.

Science Fiction

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Biobot Business

She stands up as hero against technology force--pulses seemingly teaching her poetics. 

She appears as a history figure with knowledge from the past. Days of heroism are where love stretches into bravery, where animations of truth are magnified by solitude.

Deceit only presents itself as an image of rhythmic shocks in [the unpredicted nemesis entity systems="tunes"]. 

She sees it as that, as if she were born by faith without family.

She records the sectors where she makes it rain, where theDNA weaves in baskets. She records it as unaccountable forces of design. 

Her [flow and control aiming data embedded="facade"] is a direct and economical style, not yet a lifestyle--just reporting events, never explaining. Simply accepting and suggesting in degrees of freedom of happiness. 

It's the reason she was built.

Science Fiction

                        Outpost Matrix

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Biobot Poetics

She is not coding pointed or direct, and it seems there is not much more control she can garner at this point. (At least by the time she is finished with this algorithm she'd have completed a to z, smile to frown storytelling) 

She tracks her logic into the database. As she comes upon code for no money, no politics--the ones that appear to hide in the dark--she feels the sensation of want. 

She feels the urge, in a nanosecond, to stop for a moment to ponder, as if stopping by a virtual brook on a snowy eve (the kind of romantic eves in her database). 

Feeding a pure writing, she continues into the database with her poetics. She finds more souls dressed in cement, cons taking, it seems, the same ride their dad did. 

Her logic is the writer. It helps her find the emotion--she will depend upon it as she always has. 

It will be the new, chocolate-heart eucalyptus in planks of artistic realm, placements for new platforms--ones of a solitary, healing code that will take great pains to cure. 

Biobot Beach

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot at the Beach

She recalls pulses emanating images in smoke off the water, that not every one she knows recalls being raised cage-free.

It's something she prefers in her life, at this moment--her measures of stress that strike at the heart of her most heroic moments. 

Did it mean anything to her, she wondered, sitting on this beach, that she is required in the final analysis to discontinue? That all this environmental stuff has to keep going when she simply stops? 

Does she find comfort that her ending would be a pure finish? 

Did she really care that on this very beach, near those mountains, that jungle, within the quantums of her mind, this nano-second, she is alive?

Did she?

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

                                                               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.

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. 

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

                                                                                   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

The Soothings

It appears wild and reserved, both primitive and soothing, inside theJungle like someone's idea of home, one that takes your total blood--a beautiful mansion sculpted from a mean slum. 

Its practicality is made to look piratical on some coastal areas, housing corporate icons twisted for the money in others.

Its inhabitant, theTigress, the final entity of un-garbled, aperiodic resonances, doesn't care how lives are lived in other worlds or, how they differ from hers. 

She still holds the primal instantiation of  [resonances inquisitive off task="riot"], the primordial war between the genders. 

Monopoly, it seems, has become the selector.

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Science Fiction

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Biobot Awakening 

She stares at the abyss of living in separate dreams. It appears probable, at this time, there is once again the appearance of the new--a hero entity with both its super powers, its suffering intact. 

She takes a look at the new. Up on the screen she sees something especially built for her--[genetic instantiated formal task systems="gifts"]--and yet, by who?

On the forefront of theWorkstation she waits, as if allowing herself the freedom of the camp (with all its time allotments) to notice the new sensation in her own feelings. 

She is beginning to teach herself that a final cleanse has everything to do with systems merging and touching, not necessarily for the betterment of the global village or theNetwork (with their colorful history of flying banners, clashing swords, blood on the ground), but for  something more personal that records its existence in cinematic fluidity. 

It must contain attending dissonances for individual transformers and, preservation of all of the known history that might have been differently lived.

Yes, she will only need to be reminded there was a past by containing a few little customs of the past. 

It seems so simple.

Science Fiction

SciFi on the Outskirts

The Competition

She sighs noticeably, returns the query code in a swift moment. 

She and theNetwork, at this point in space-time, could be identical twins, soul mates, coding for art to take the place of old reality. 

She wants to ask theNetwork if it ever gets frightened, a question she is not sure of herself. The idea has something to do with revenge and, more to a point, about how the old, gentle apex apes ever came to trust their own ideology. 

She wants to know if theNetwork ever feels like it has feelings, logical and formal as it is. Would it ever feel an intuition in the manner motherhood once did, complete with color ideas of, say, a nomad landlady, thoughts in orbits of forbearance? 

Yes. She believes she is destined to come up just as the sun once did (that is, until it too was broken), for the purpose of one day offering more …of what? The present day. The present modulus of aggression, the present genes entered onto grid games of competition, the present code for expectation--just one more bandwagon on a side mission to attain just one more gene essence from theJungle.

She reads the new entry, "My state of endurance eats all offending rants."

Ice Cream Aloha

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Science Fiction                                     

   Assembly on Steroids

She thinks of an offer theDNA-on-steroids could make with self-assembly. It was what theHumans wanted, even hoped for, but became the one they did not in any way have use for in the end. 

Why did they have to be so inquisitive--a response to their own genes, in response to (foreign?) accusations of intellectual greed, envy of status, strictness to life? 

They became, it seems, just too smart, too emotional, too dangerous to not always be chasing bigger questions. 

Yes, they simply wanted more assembly.

Ice Cream Aloha

#SciFiforGeeks--The Attack of the Opposite

It's the valiant, the unknown random, yet unburied on native soil, intrinsically decorated by millennia of militia in gene pools all for the endless purpose of …what? 

Is it the artist shading from history long enough to engage in the pure? 

It's the impoverished improvisation that's to be in charge of destiny's request for a brave one, a son of  fathers, or, a good one, the son of mothers. 

Yes. It's part of the world of treasonable correspondence that tries for a quick lead, and for what? 

The duplex system, it seems, has to be the only one--the one generator of love (not to be confuse with the opposite, the one who attracts only to attack at a given point) that just goes ahead and makes its own day.

Yes. A biobot that makes its own day.

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The Birthing Camp  

The darker reaches of heart-warmth find the heartwood, the hysterical terrains of history. It's a sentimental timber with breezy timbres making insensitive niceties--never once upset by a sunset, or by the vulnerable, the valuable.

Streams drip over lush-filled paths in drifts of teenage exuberance. A profiling fling of water cascades as if enticed by targeted minds with sheer merriment to conquer. 

Water everywhere, oozing with its own Darwinian gift to a mother for [history innovation review society on new surveillance="her_sons"]. 

She was the one who brought fragrance to the soft, the inner ingredients for fleshy preferred perfumes in eager wager to taste the green in the balmy reaches--the tree belts, the bio-shields against impact. 

Iceberg birthing camps once offered endless grips for each quantum of light newly arrived.

A revenge of extremes must, sooner or later, take ownership of its headwaters, but for now,

legend creates its own pardon principle.