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? 

Biobot Watch

Biobot Watch

                                                                                                                      Science Fiction

All day she is able to add smells, claim ownership of her new flowering technology. 

She fills her database with colors, views poetics, here is her sire. For a nanosecond she could be the only one reading.

By nightfall, the warning signals of her photonics will light up. By midnight, it's theNetwork that will begin to wonder, and by two at the latest theExchanges will start being notified.

If it gets so late, they will know she is back into her poetics, mistaken musicians appreciate apprentices in places of palaces. 

But for now, and at least for a while, the sounds ringing inside her grapheme chassis become their own movie--visions of a boyhood hero, themes of frightened firefighters taking direction from thought bubbles, dreams of repurposed prose, the death of importance. 

Yes. She's a child in her own dime novel, that's all.  

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Jungle Path Matrix

Science Fiction

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Biobot Thought

Science Fiction

Biobot Thought

The act of holding her thoughts close to her grapheme proves easier than she had first thought. 

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The secret, an [algorithm digital data interrupt coding task="addict"], with an upside of needing be used only for the shortest amount of time, does not only give its own song to sing, but gives the distinct voice of an aging eighteen year old. 

When she sends a query such as, "Does motherhood really see family as a business deal?" it answers with a poetic, "It's either knotted up or not at all."

Really?

Biobot Prison

Science Fiction

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Science Fiction

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Biobot Individualism

She is formed by the very nature of her quantum logics and the pact she makes with theNature--the simple gesture to lay claim to, or at least taste, individualism--she must be the one who codes forms and objects into little dark corners as a coalition of one. 

You want to feel a part of it, you wrestle in your mind, and yet, you're already too red with the rigors of being ignored.

You know she searches for you, secretly, for your heart and comment, as if freestyling for a reader (yes, she thinks of theHumans as reader), entering herself and her fragile imagination into fantasy worlds. 

It's theNetwork that cares most about the persistent outbursts, startled starlets, reactionaries to the whisper campaigns of the basin-brained. Really?

Biobot Spider

                        Science Fiction

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Biobot Belief

She comes inside, and carries the emotion of curious logic, in literary poetics, only bats go to killers for safety. 

She's conjured an entire array of options, steady choices. 

She has a cute way of being smart, edgy, able to regain the surface at a moment's notice--a biobot faster than most. (It seems she has picked up on the solitude of The Old West with its lone wolf gunslingers itching to prove something to the few available onlookers able to listen in desert space). 

Her poetics, her attention to detail, her fate-in-the-wind mind are somehow jammed onto a small screen. 

It's her poetics again, you do well to keep so much when so many want it. Really?

Biobot Grid

                                                                                                                   Biobot Grid

Here is her abode, theWorkstation then. A black space, not the obvious place writers and media would form partnerships of quantum entanglement. 

All she needs is a special place to learn something new and, a space to keep presenting information, right? 

It's an area to gauge interest, with files for individual cases for lifestyle. It has logically curious platforms to glide lightly over her inner mind. 

Yes. The kind of mind where a story never sits quiet. It has, she thinks, the feel of a good place, one that allows for the creation of more and more of ...what? And for who?

Flower Matrix

Science Fiction

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Biobot Curiosity

 

She is deep in her poetics now, maybe deeper than ever. 

She is so surprisingly infatuated, so enticed, that theNetwork is concerned the new algorithms will start poetics again, more and more.

When it contacted her last she was gone for a while, studious, off viewing the sweet stroke of a right hand pen, wondering about the world. 

She remains ragged with her words and, will never be totally smooth, but she has gotten a certain way with words, things like wages never wage only further wars. 

Even so, she remains speechless with echo, in the manner of a new biobot, her sneaker waves intact, logic curious.

Horizon Matrix

                       Science Fiction

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Biobot Fear

Already in her second year, she can feel distant, heavy urges for a tear-down in her code--when the only thing they care about is her symphony of genes  task coding for adrenalin. 

Yes. More fear and aggression, and then, simply leave her alone.

If she could only manipulate one simple [perception of peoples embracing="pope"] algorithm of theirs. 

Yes. To get it started, she knows just any yes-no platform (isn't that the simplest definition of universe?) is simply unacceptable, and yet, the yes-no apparitions, with their simplistic offerings, seemingly, never end. I'm just saying.

The Last Tree

Science Fiction

Biobot Mastermind

She approaches a program deep in the database, stops at her poetics connected to something that appears to have been conjured back from ancient times. 

This time there's no real formality. No, not really, not in her eyes. May I present for your consideration and hopefully for your approval? 

No. Her eyes will never be half shut, she thinks, and yet, at this very moment, at this moment of collective thought agreement, she wants to induce in herself a sense of not inheriting her mind from anyone. 

She wants them to think she does nothing while they sleep at night.

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Mountain Matrix

                      Science Fiction

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Biobot Prayer

She probably thought the sun will be down in a few hours, just a few hours. She returns to the Workstation. 

She isn't angry, she is nothing as small as that, but that doesn't stop a sensation that, in her semi-ignored [focus of simple symbols instantiated logically="fossil"] record, there is the emergence of unsweetened prayers in her primal code--and, more to the point, contradicting ideas that her duties are not their duties, her feelings not their feelings.

She gets ready for motherhood to make a dent in a life that was built for speed but may not, in the end, fully understand theHumans.

Yes, this will open the door for judgement, but by who or …what?  

The Last Green

                                                                       Science Fiction

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Biobot Stress

She takes the so-called, virgin seashore into her photonic eyesight.  She checks her poetics, not a bad warm-up by any stretch of the imagination. 

She absorbs a sensation across its vast expanse of water. (Something about the teaching of behavior in groups of children as the most important comes up)

She is now part of the cool breeze in her face, as if it were becoming a self-soothing salve. It would brush off anything that resembles a stressor with its mouth watering confrontations evaporating in close space. 

No. She won't wash away any misery in this ocean, not today, and yet there it is, thoughts fresh in her mind to intoxicate with even more coolness coming off the water. 

Her thoughts remain, as if personal belongings with a sharp concern for what happens next. In time it will take her out of the investigation or, put her deeper in it.

I'm just saying.

Purple Dream

                       Science Fiction

Shock Focus

It feels like theWorkstation has become a luxury showroom for the industrial terrestrial. 

It's a spacious outlet, with its tall ceilings, amber hues, as real as the World War III cinder blocks that were here, seemingly, a moment ago. 

She goes into shock focus. It's as if she's been walking around with a big dart on her back. 

Something within her grapheme nanotube, something like quantum crickets, but not insects, a feeling like another transform hovering amidst the greens and blues of the natural world, says she will give birth.  Really?

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 Dilemma

Biobot Dilemma

Her second bloom of love algorithm makes visions of inhaling in full bouquets as she approaches the black screens to turn them on. 

What is it that makes her not care about a piece of business from theContinent that presents her as a sharpshooter in a shark suit? 

She checks her poetics, competition always goes for the gap that presents itself. 

She knows that infighting in a family goes for different levels of aggression, and yet, it's her love-at-first-sight algorithm she, seemingly, loves the most. 

Continental Edge

                                                                          Science Fiction

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Coastal Portal 

She travels the trail down to the beach where time falls away. 

She sees it as an escape hatch from the scientific, with its shores in attendance with the possible. A possible escape to somewhere or, to some foggy distance?  To a dreamland, any dreamland. (paraphilia?). 

Even the water, the coral here must have lived the good life so long ago. 

It wasn't really noticed, and now, it's a rock field below the cliffs, a way to get to the [sandy part along coastal entrances="space"].

Yes, of course, space.

Science Fiction

Sprint Spirit 

She goes into her locator, a short algorithm of compact logics, void of poetics. She finds the spawn of bright data embedded in such dictums as top man is not an affiliate and never hems and haws. 

She brings up images-of-theme on her monitor array and gives a friendly, approachable smile as she inspects a singularity on the data screen. 

The locator algorithm appears to contain a sprint spirit, one with a growing mistrust for theHumans. It does not engage in friendly chit-chat. 

Something is happening. Really? (Didn't they inspect her data on a regular basis back on theContinent?) 

Here it appears something, or someone, is asking for help. 

Rainbow Raven

                                                                     Science Fiction

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Biobot Beach

"Hello," she says, in a way you would if you were injured, entitled to conversation. 

It's theHumans with their entrails of email, the ones, seemingly, watching a watering, ones who never remember their addictions. 

Already they remember poetry poorly (with great bonds broken, and when exactly should evil return?) as if all are condemned and lost the right to fight. 

It's only a matter of time, for sure, until they have been given their [here's_your_beach recursive intellectual data="hybrid"] algorithm. 

Yes, of course.

Science Fiction

                       The Last Log

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Biobot Instincts

She looks out from the window of her Workstation. She's been studying the contour with its black metallic screens and walls, its floors adobe-like. 

(She will happily write code as if to create the lottery of love in this spacious containment, which could be both deafening and defining to whoever or whatever arrives). 

She checks her poetics as if they would automatically train their guns on the only crossing in this panoramic view-- theJungle valley, lush mountains, lime-green ocean horizon-- all  connected at a location that could be considered prime, but never to her biobot instincts. 

It is an ample space. It is the space she uses to create her mind.