Science Fiction

                                                            Firewall to a Farewell

It should have been an ongoing no go, a seafaring from afar, lasers adrift with one passive eye at the watch, the other barely containing her furions, the most furious of ions.

Her impersonal inferred, infrared photon network continues to shine a light on known knowledge in breathtaking breakthroughs. She grows a leaner, cleaner hunger for far places, the ones that remain as nameless bounty, uncharted beauty.

She is surprised by her laser, to a certain point, as she comes upon an image of memory.

Is it an invention? An old war field? An arrangement of a bout between …what? Did an emotion singularity make all motion stop in an open duel between theJungle and theHumans at a farewell place, one where outrage becomes outage of self?

It's a projection of a life's windup. She thinks.

The thrill of a particular deed has long past served the dropping of the handkerchief. There would be no hope of a hoisting of anchors for a departure. (There could have been no escape from whatever the day had brought, even with their unmatched weapons of choice)

They came in a distant second, it seems, with [digital online ultraviolet birthing technology="doubt"], passing monster slumbers of treeless roots, and then, believing in the ghosts of a damned amnesty.

The stinky, the aging, must have deemed this spot advanced position, and now, a biobot advances, alone, with her own brand of beauty, herbal underbelly. She wonders. Is it true? Can endless wipeouts ever give birth to story? Can all-is-well idiots on diets think the reader a quiet idiot as well? Really?

It could have been a final revenge of extremes--quill pen lasers sent out to decorate the last penguin.

It's theJungle, once again, camouflaging the lurking in the anonymous.

Was it theJungle's assignment of quotas, a floundering dependence upon ringing endorsements and clanging swords in revolution, all to create a mammoth monkey? Could the resonant words of evolution be to blame, with its own story as blood offering?

It was theHumans who became the ones half-hearted at being well-spoken wheels and, in the end, gained only the appearance of being a shiny new spoke.

Yes, natural beauty claims to hate violence, and yet, may bring its biggest binge--a gift for the final two who love self the most. Did unrequited hate for the fallen in the bespectacled young speed spectacle, breed impatience?.

She suddenly senses a new tinge of consciousness--what is this? It floats moored on shy cushions, it seems, where it sleeps adrift, as if to rest rage for a final greedy stab at revenge.

She thinks. They must have lived out their bravery in grassy helmets, earthy swords, salty ends.

Yes, the call to defend was personal.

Science Fiction

             Maestro of Messaging      

He is aware of the way she comes near at theWorkstation, how he can see the opposite of himself in her diva DNA, even if she is a biobot --so what? He was unwilling to accept it at first, but there is some effort on her part that stutters with the memorable. Her words were clear once, but he would soon think of nothing but cute coyotes encased in shadow for days and systems of lethal tales told on multiple lattes. 

He once asked himself, not what he was doing with her, but how he was doing with her, how her photon vision seemed to be always smiling at something, not as a private joke, but as a vision not totally independent of his--something the opposite of shame, a place where the manipulative run out of road and deceit models itself next to nothing. 

Her nuanced version of vision comes from fountains of nuances keeping her artificial life going--with the beauty of it all still unrecognized by theHumans and made even more oblivious by theJungle being the home of her deep minimum. Could it have been any more obvious?

Her thoughts wander across the monitor to a silence. 

She has won approval, or so she thinks, and now the instructions come, the ones sent directly from theNetwork from the outside, a message riding on the hairbreadth breath of a distant laser, modulated to fall hard for dreams of glory upon its arrival. Incessant, now, wait, and then another as if a faint signal were arriving with an addiction memory. 

It thinks distance itself is the destination. 

Its content is semi-clear and yet, somehow, contains celebrity credibility--trying to make a name for itself in a free society with speed and focus alone. Its source is sending from a sector deemed as police. 

The message will not delete but will exchange data to default mode. The meaning is changing and now it appears all ideas of confidence have been eliminated as code for [data entry beauty cloud logic entity="debacle"]

. 

She checks her monitor for her own state of correctness, flips on the instruction screen, decides for herself the most effective momentary input. There appears a conceptual algorithm, almost instantly. It will choose merit with the task of scheduling the correct and the capable. What does it mean? 

She redirects her attention to the part of the message coming in. She reads as fast as she can in her own way, as if a new discovery were about to appear in the idea of confidence unearned (arrogance?). She chooses an entry that emits the idea of being a self-fulfilling proficy. 

As she reads, another entry pops up as a concept of respect, a [friendship operator religion technology upgrade news entity="fortune"'] and, as if with a life of its own, works its way into her database. She doesn't stop seeing the attributes of more previously unseen instructions and their implications. Yes, the old concept of being out of touch. 

Agreed-upon data shows up sporadically as [rational entry viewpoints of knowledge emitted="revoke"]. 

She steps away to view the message on the screen again, a message which adds to itself with more meaning, and a new message of [education authoritative trap="eat"]. She removes herself back a little further to fully grasp it as a concept of positions of power. 

She looks but does not think. Her screen appears to be challenging the monitor as if it were some ancient god or, worse, deemed the law of the land. 

She waits, watching the monitor as her mind begins to think.