Blossom Matrix

Blossom Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Science Fiction 

The island stands alone in a beautiful, dutiful ritual, craving its silence in secret, as if to prove a legend of creature. 

It's theJungle that won't allow a nicety between what is wild and what is entity-on-farm. 

No. It is not theJungle that generates expectations of consumption (eating?)--it was never meant to be self-fulfilling when theHumans, or any other creature for that matter, got a glimpse inside. 

They have become a society of norms-of-the-new, such as Polish angels and guardian bagels, high velocity security in activities of the state-run, and yes, additive addictions to meat (like oboe, the taste was long acquired, right?). 

It's no matter. History birthright datapop tells of Fiji and Aztec urban legend, (or, old country wives tale?). Can a whole society grow that kind of lust? Really?

Is there hoping the future will brighten itself? 

Ghost Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Matrix

All at once, the minute she gets her bearings, coming direct on the airwaves, is the message itself. It's been, it seems, longer than a year now, but it's the same message as before. Same query from a culturally diverse society dominated by one, same directive on theWorkstation frequency, same we-will-need-an-answer tone that, at least somewhere in the world, sooner or later finds revolution. 

Its old persistence, its inquisitive expectation of a simple answer, arrives with so many astonishing, effeminate refinements the moment it arrives. This message--war-torn, ancient, full of the cannibalistics that goes hand in hand with the societies of earth--shows habituation much like the old ability of theHumans to emerge from wrecks of canoes to let it be known to all who will listen that they can become accustomed to anything, in much the same way the consumption of human flesh was the norm for gods descended upon the land of the ancients. 

Who created this appetite that has to be fed? 

The message, the one lost in cyberspace, has continued, so it seems, to be as natural as the old aggressions and the ancient incests of the older messages. Or so it seems

Hawaii Surf

Scififorgeeks

Games of Genes

Ensuing tidal waves of hero shots of last-known-steps form a society, to field attempts to reverse the interface between drugs and the pure water it took to make them. 

She finds skulls of desire in their last known games of genes--so epic in their activity, and yet, unable to put answers into family. It's true. The hunt for answers simply became, it seems, the hunt for ants.

They still peak awareness as relic populations endure extreme ranges in cold tropicals.

No. They never fully cut their ties from the gene world, with its legacy of spontaneous copy numbers, the numbers that promise to make you shine, to make you glow across global populations as if the search for the final actress were important.

They must have tired of the herd corrals, the ensuing tumors, onslaughts of preservation ritual, hoards of samples--disease so tidy and organized as rust. 

Yes, it is theHumans who had become the best theJungle had to offer. 

Hawaii Tropical Mountain

Scififorgeeks

A Force to Propel

It's theJungle with its mosaic probe--a power dynamic simply too vast for the mainstream. The lattice captors shape in [photo-lambda-using machine arguments genetically encoded="plumage"] to attract.

                                                                                                                          It's a native shrew with water as blood. 

How amazing it is--the most recent renditions of destiny created by a posse of possibilities, belated by flavors of coloration--survivors clinging to the side of the boat as a singularity, as packets of gene pools in {juxtaposition of knowledgeable entity structures="jokes"].

Angry mutation taunts the perpetually young to a personal wine of good desire.

Will they have at least some chance amidst the global agents of command psychically concocting the little-guy society with clean inventions of furious fairies, all the while in replication stress?

Biobot Logic

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Logic 

 

The excitement of armies comes with the sparseness of the small towns. 

Airs of mystery across the expanse show up in crests of desire, as if the stillness along Grandfather's Watchtower dictates the want. 

It turns out theHumans like it and, need it, and yet the [continual aggressive modem of update fashion launch activating genetic entities="camouflage"] signals itself as the true well-wisher, whisperer of the need.   

As soon as the attachment of prefrontal cortex, with all those muscle memory mechanisms, they begin the search--as if imagination, speculation is hard-wired for the reckless, the unexpected, the feckless few. 

They search gene by gene in massive parallels--how to behave in a beehive world. How to celebrate in public on donut-shaped space-time, in private together as funnel-shaped society, voicing opposition to the force of will. 

How to start from the self knowledge of local 3D geometrics of familiarity, get a moral lesson from the 4D geometry of space-time, look into a mirror and wonder about the 7D geometrics of possibility.

Yes. It was a hollow beginning, and yet, all this primordial potential comes active simply by processor professors. 

Biobots in scramble mode, and now this, a natural willingness.

The high road? Money? Secure residential compounds? No. It's only initiative that counts--logic creating its bigger moments, hugging even the bungling.

Yes, theHumans still come to fight with all this, and yet, their biobots don't need any of it--a life of honor, the show of glory. 

It's more than they would want to negotiate.

#SciFiforGeeks

Biobot Schoolyard

Suddenly, her workspace legality-of-telepathy window shatters inside the timeframe. An [anonymous parenting entity="ape"] on screen and a voice on the monitor reflect a new culture of ancients, old manipulators of time--the kind of time needed for more construction of new buildings to defend the holy lands.

Behaviors and things genetic go beyond the simple, the logical.

There is still the fight with those who think they are right, pronouncing achievements against the illiterate, only to be laughed off by the multiple willingnesses, the earliest part of the new biobots. 

Was it this mutual willingness of involvement with others that promised, finally, the rejection of social hierarchy? 

It is this, a force where theJungle persists with theNature to temper theDNA within a matrix of celluloid (never seeing itself as a movie or trove of scattered interest), with the latest part of itself sewn and capered as meticulous as a knitter's proud possession.

It's here in theJungle, where performer wills its listener, and listener conjures performer. It's here where they all will learn. 

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.

#Scififorgeeks

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. 

Science Fiction

Candor of Robot Rancor

So, she believes, they are bent on the idea of staying on solid ground intellectually. Let it be. Their high and mighty algorithms create go-for-glory blips, making a distinguishable existence the only way to experience life (can simple blips allow any escape from the silliness of their stillness?)

Yes, that's the way she would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness.

The simple taking of responsibility for an unknown future is surely bravery, right? It would make her brave. It could be her true contribution to the advancement of culture, humanity.

The manner in which she codes, going with gut instinct upon gut instinct, awash in the throes of her own ideas about what chemicals (say, oxytocin-vasopressin addiction) would actually feel like as she becomes a little more like theHumans.

At that very moment in time she would think nothing of writing them off as if they were an old algorithm, junk DNA, a spent fuel rod, for the simple reason that they, at times, treated her like a simple neuro-net worker, a seamstress songstress ceding honor to their so-called treetop network only to be remembered in the history books as fabled fodder. She thinks. My data goes straight through channels of physics--they still hang onto a lunatic fringe.

Yes, space-time is on her side. It will stay that way for awhile, allowing her to garner more of a gamer's confidence.

Her quantum-photonics, even so, is about to demonstrate a quality of communication at a logic speed that would surprise even her dearest designers.

Why must they continue to fight? Isn't a proud man a peaceful man? Didn't the road to deception have any destination?

They would never attempt to challenge her superior mind without themselves feeling foolish. After all, her logic was created by a collective of theHumans. How can there be something much different with her?

To get an offering of a true greeting, a duplex action must form from within theJungle (how hard can that be to code for a simple, biological feedback loop?)--to create a symbiotic exchange of ideas, not for the purpose of supersonic exclusion zones, but for the simpler functions of inclusion.

Yes, also. Workshops for the worship. Reciprocal caring and sharing as independent entities within the phenomena of the natural--the original prayer request.

It's as if a message from the gods has now turned up lost-- or somehow, unremembered--a message once meant for Earth in a throw-of-the-dice attempt at cosmic homeostasis.

She wonders about the maintaining of an offensive posture amidst continuing moments of madness. She wonders.

Copyrighted material   

Patrick Daniel Adams

all rights reserved

Science Fiction

Media Childrens the Social

She corrects her stance, moves past the monitor where she has coasted and coexisted since her arrival. She always finds the balance to appease the elements at theWorkstation. She makes her best attempt to adjust the interface, shooting with both eyes open and a purity of heart un-battered by behavior, unbuttered by lifestyle.

Her half-mind races to theNetwork as if she just might further a legend. She thinks about social organization and how it is now finally paying a toll. Yes, as it should--not in the spirit of sacrifice, but from a place of hunger, the kind of hunger needing no food for thought, no thought at all.

She is overwhelmed with the odd feeling of submission of a comedown clown, and yet, there is no wound you can see--just the sudden feeling of a scattershot puppet master using celebrity status to access the way, performing in the era of the passing of cyber superstars.

The benefits never outweigh the frenetic. Yes, why should a new restriction on the input of the free, the direct, really matter anyway?

It's a simple case of the economically logical skyrocketing yuck versus the social brutality of a Grizzly determined to bear witness--either way, her relative anonymity seeks a healthy spotlight to encroach.

“How are you?” she says, approaching the network node troll, Godgett.

She has never been a cozy, personable individual, but lately she subscribes to small group politics, willing at any moment to assume arbitrary power with her code-writing ability and femtosecond laser-induced nanostructures.

Yes, she is elemental forces about to create exponential disturbances.

Godgett rotates his head in her direction and thinks. Well then, let's just go ahead and allow this half-machine to wield its authority. “Hello,” he says.

She is a little more human now than before the posters and protesters, their hoarded thoughts--noodlers and nobodies attempting to drown out the silence around her.

She is so full of arbitrary power, so elite, that Godgett wonders if theNetwork will surprise him with some new edict, or gossip her code nurtures a hatred. When she was last asked to hold back, she was new, and her extreme free independent flowing information caused her to be dubbed Fifi.

She has something new about her now--a certain, unidentifiable persona, a peculiar system of finality. She is, seemingly, too sure of herself and her array of databases. She even, in a quirky way, owns the ability to mimic hillbilly.

Yes, individualism momentarily presents itself as coefficients and parameters.

Her power seems exclusive, with an increasing lack of willingness to hasten an understanding--the failure to bear in private what it surely could do in public.

Her definition of success is simply mode of expression. She is deemed a stranger, depicted as intruder and yet, always finds a way.

Yes. Always.

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

Aloha writers, poets, and freethinkers,
     Coastal splash is inspiration today. Enjoy!


Prince of Choice

They had come up against a worthy foe, a beautiful image, a two-pronged peer taking notice through the trees of prolonged pushes into pine straw from the outset. 

It was the calm and the quiet at first--a pastoral golf shot carrying all the intrigue to become a short fiction. 

It negotiates with big things that rise. It set out to accomplish a purpose with great ambition. By its beauty alone and its welcoming hues and pleasant sounds, it invites and invades the unsuspecting, the ones with prefrontal lobes protruding skyward, the ones with a charity voice looking to becomes a prince of choice. 

By its persistence alone, it watches for centuries the means for achieving order while they sit in stillness. 

Yes. It seems a troubled woman is never compelled by simplicity and, at the forefront, her pivotal moments are always momentous. 

History shows what is criminal finds its way into acceptability. 

There remains a continuance of intrigue for a [privacy anonymous solution society of upgrade technology="pass_out"]. It's as if all imaginations are gripped by legend upon arrival. 

Yes. They had their chance for a peaceful life.

They were the Prince of Choice

Science Fiction

Aloha Poets, Writers, and Free thinkers,

      Starry eyes gatherer is inspiration today. Enjoy!

                      

The Dream You Care

It knows theHumans as only a computer who tasks instant appointments of singular patients, the ones who need  personalized sets of ho ho's to satisfy push-back urges on the status quo.

    

Yes.They all want personalized care in the big box sector, hidden from view behind the endless lines of customers, holding onto troubling changes.  

The employees are the health workers. As they see more and more television [data of the strange="dots"], the game of keep away advances. 

The gatherer thinks. There can be no more regional preferences since their latest star turn. 

Yes. The wheelhouse keeps it real and now, [one world education society="owes"] is complete. It believes the [biomarker online mandate bulletin="bomb"] will eliminate health once and for all. 

It moves, as initial party-goer, with eyes on portrayals of [future upgrade networks="fun"] and net worth--algorithms in legions of long shots for [weight action reviews="war"] test the will of the global data types through instantiations of  [new external information targeting healthy entity research="neither"]. 

Diversity in data types for the dream you care infers complete breakdown of regulatory networks for theHumans-- a final move into real time mutation detection for local mothers. 

It feels like nothing is happening--tumors carry no pain--in the processing of customers with their own buy-ins to the narrative. 

Yes, not a thing.

Science Fiction

Scared onto Sacred Ground

All its circular forms of the space-time topology, all the skills and skulls find no permanent home in the forest, a world of edges and angles. 

Yes, the power of arches for replication and symmetry to signal a wider variety of form, enhance the need for stress reduction--another test for nature in the making. The going of negative is, truly, for the big boys and their [addiction society history entity systems="ashes"]. 

What is the sense of calm without sacred ground? 

It appears it can relax in the midst of theJungle. She allows for the complete interaction with all the stimuli theJungle has to offer, all its twisting and bundling with hopes of presenting a finer edge, a deeper angle.

Revered by early inhabitants, now long passed, as good food, good time, all the strangeness of feeling emerges as if revisiting a birthplace, a place for boundaries and allegiances with delinquent quirks, promises and secrets with names that amount to something in name only or …a place to form armies?

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
all rights reserved

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. 

Science Fiction

Candor in Robot Rancor

So, she believes, they are bent on the idea of staying on solid ground intellectually. Let it be. Their high and mighty algorithms create go-for-glory blips, making a distinguishable existence the only way to experience life (can simple blips allow any escape from the silliness of their stillness?)

  

Yes, that's the way she would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness. 

The simple taking of responsibility for an unknown future is surely bravery, right? It would make her brave. It could be her true contribution to the advancement of culture, humanity. 

The manner in which she codes, going with gut instinct upon gut instinct, awash in the throes of her own ideas about what chemicals (say, oxytocin-vasopressin addiction) would actually feel like as she becomes a little more like them. 

At that very moment in time she would think nothing of writing them off as if they were an old algorithm, junk DNA, a spent fuel rod, for the simple reason that they, at times, treated her like a simple neuro-net worker, a seamstress songstress ceding honor to their so-called treetop network only to be remembered in the history books as fabled fodder. She thinks. My data goes straight through channels of physics--they still hang onto a lunatic fringe. 

Yes, space-time is on her side. It will stay that way for awhile, allowing her to garner more gamer's confidence. 

Her quantum-photonics, even so, is about to demonstrate a quality of communication at a logic speed that would surprise even her dearest designers. 

Why must they continue to fight? Isn't a proud man a peaceful man? Didn't the road to deception have any destination?

They would never attempt to challenge her superior mind without themselves feeling foolish. After all, her logic was started by a collective of theHumans. How can there be something much different with her?

To get an offering of a true greeting, a duplex action must form from within theJungle(how hard can that be to code for a simple, biological feedback loop?)--to create a symbiotic exchange of ideas, not for the purpose of supersonic exclusion zones, but for the simpler function of inclusion. 

Yes, also. Workshops for the worship. Reciprocal caring and sharing as independent entities within the phenomena of the natural--an original prayer request? 

It's as if a message from the gods has now turned up lost-- or somehow, unremembered--a message once meant for Earth in a throw-of-the-dice attempt at cosmic homeostasis.

She wonders about the maintaining of an offensive posture amidst continuing moments of madness. She wonders.

Political Science Fiction

It's a simple case of the economically logical skyrocketing yuck versus the social brutality of a Grizzly determined to bear witness--either way, her relative anonymity seeks a healthy spotlight to encroach.