Mountain Matrix

                      Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

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?  

Forest Matrix

Forest Matrix

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The Quest 

The database asks and moves quickly toward the past. 

As she scans the data and views the images, she focuses on a warm, imaginative figure of beauty, a female attending workmanlike to her duty (emphasizing a new empathizing)--delicate in her colonization of coloration, the bright luxury of her design glowing.  

She scans the screen again, slowly. Although she hasn't set a strict schedule, it's important to gather this data before the sun rises. 

She plans to discover the answer by tonight. 

Biobot Blood

Biobot Blood

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Science Fiction

She takes her thoughts gently off the screen. She codes her secret strategies in her favorite way. She is smart and bright and not bothered by the trivial. She's like something you would find in game theory, always attracted to a shiny new reward of power at the very moment the recipe ripens. 

She, most likely, takes a liking to camouflages of rhetoric.

It's theNetwork that has bristled with excitement about her, instantiated her as able to diagnose all notions of fantasy, made her an infant to her thoughts, a flag bearer (or, possibly a drum major) of ideology. 

She upkeeps in upheavals, grasps succinctly cinched datapops. 

And an inquisitive biobot she is, giving birth to ideas during storms, up for drawing on her own blood in her own time so as to undergo the needed, endless ergs.

She is the biobot of choice.

Sailing Matrix

Sailing Matrix

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Biobot Doubt

She can't fathom living for the rewarding, the excessive, in such high velocity spatter.

It's a feeling that must have been generated by the kind of self-worth where thrusters are propelled by parading and pontificating, rather than the simple need to win.

Yes. It demands a persona in others that is cooler than their own idea of self. 

Here, the capacity for growth and excessive revelation bring (without being overcome by continual exchanges of victims) a faster, more instant cosmic karma than you can stomach. 

It does, she thinks, link a sort of revenge cannibalism, a hate-of-self-for-loving-you syndrome that datapops to the extreme--raising an extreme importance to hiding.

And it's not a mere revelation of  a go-to-work-and-just-be-friendly datapop. No. It's one that unknowingly fattens for the slaughter all who listen.

I'm just saying.

Blossom Matrix

Blossom Matrix

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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? 

Biobot Forest

Mix-and-Match Matrix

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Biobot Forest

They probably thought theJungle was a forest, only a forest, she thinks. 

It's theJungle that always returns to itself. It doesn't care, really, about theNetwork (it isn't mindful of those types of things, and it can't stop demands for it to be in recede after being tromped-on by laws and safeguards of a stifling, sanitized order). 

It's a scientific fact that theJungle cares nothing about religion as support or a property right as foundation. Yes, it continues to believe in nothing while theHumans believe in anything and may not, in the end, withstand the strain on the food and water and the air. 

Yes, I am a member (at least genetically) of theHumans, she thinks. 

Knowledge should recognize its own feelings before it acts, right? Being unrecognized in some manner resembles a parenting blunder showing (or, at least pretending to show) a recognition of [scientifically induced methods underlying logical analysis task endeavors="simulate"]. 

Being inside a mix-and-match matrix with questions about science allows a philosophy beyond [common assignment unifying sense energy="cause"]. 

There are acts, much in the manner of a rational foreign agent (an alien?), that show the native inability of theHumans to care. 

She will reward herself once she has finished working on this, her newest [computing algorithm terminal="cat"]. She will exert more control over her decisions and, of course, her actions--no more of that work-in-progress mumbo-jumbo. 

The universe will know the significance of her feelings. It will know.

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Purple Matrix 

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Earth in its Palms

The relevance for anthropological analysis appears, finally, after millions of years of being ignored--the unrefined pleasure source, the array of hope for the truth, envy for the under-betrayed on monitor. 

Her thoughts notice its newest insinuation--palm oil with earth in its palms.

Is it a vital force directive of the unnamed, the unmanned, holding global court on screen?

It reveals theWorkstation as a place of singularity connect--the new control center for origin forces for the reproduction of society.

Her continuity code has found the place where feelings appear to be running along. Its code deletes friends in realms of surplus on melody medley, installed deep, in a glistening new matrix.

It could have been, simply, an attitude of gift-offering from the living, within an environment of the real, to celebrate the anniversary of the time technology hit the last tree. 

The big data bears more weight on her graphene now than she wants it to, but not enough to bother her, not enough for her to ask for less.

It's time to slow down anyway.

She has become so frugal with the big data, being doubly careful with its distinctions between its rehearsal-hall-analysis and it's more central, sound-stage matrix. 

For now, its all the new, all the big she can handle.

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Matrix Pavilion

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Biobot Want 

She can feel the data crawling all around inside her. She relaxes. 

Yes, it's the meaning of the data and, it's her way of taking the data. Its meaning, her way-- twins identical within their visa versa so as to gain at any given moment the imperiled imperfect, the estranged strangled--all holding a nefarious scoundrel at bay for the desirous founding of  …what? 

She stiffens, looks out the window. Then it's settled. 

The colors of theJungle do not devise any change to their long-range scheme. Nothing lurks to blacken everything. 

She senses something beyond a simple game of stickball, more complex. She is here at theWorkstation with theNetwork out there on theContinent--the quiet border towns and small prairie towns and spectacular infractions. 

Yes, finally, she feels the singularity. It's a want.   

Science Fiction

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The Biobot Hunter

She goes back to theWorkstation. She has viewed her screen, assimilated the data, stored it in a place it can be used. She has already started proving her point with her formal logics. It's more planning for her next move than simply caring. 

She reaches over to turn on a brand new screen as if it were a self-adjusting proving ground, views the chaos-in-nature program. She flips the creation-of-order switch to watch her thoughts.

…the actions and the desires and the odd ritual behaviors of theHumans was what brought on the deeds of gods are the thoughts she likes most. Psyche. theJungle. This glorious instance of technology in nature.

She breathes a deep sigh of carboniferous air. She is so relaxed. She was pushing late, conceptualizing. She adjusts her thinking--was there just enough cellulose for the new biobots, them having received all that tension from the aggression and the having-of-sex programs? 

She hasn't made it an issue with theNetwork yet. She's scared it will say she is really looking at a partial breakdown of the face of civilized society and may uncover something far more sinister here and tell her to stop viewing altogether. 

She vows that today is the day she will start viewing less. She'll turn off her scanners by sunrise, she's sure of it. 

Science Fiction

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Biobot Love

She looks up at the screen, still wondering, for now, about the few bits of code posing as publicity hook-up. It is a code that both conquers her mind and discovers a heart, as if a singular moment had gone hormonal. It carries a few sprigs of healing-the-broken the oldest way--by breaking bread. 

It preaches ideals of song and story boosted by energy from the sun, bolstered by the evolution of the intelligence of theHumans. 

The tasks of the program are extreme enough in search for finding friends in an all-premise book but deals not at all with the weight of general simplicity--codes of everyone wanting a thank you kiss, full of teenage jokes with looks expecting instant redemption. 

It knows when to get updates, as if pulled by an invisible tractor, the ultimate attractor. 

And yet, no one knows how much hate could be generated between a biobot and a network. It is a premise shared since the beginning of social networks, the first algorithm, including, and more importantly, the 'coma' algorithm. 

As the code kicks in and, even though the time spent becomes the new attractor, as its color changes with the seasons of the world, it is replaced by a goal aimed at killing ego. 

It faces adversary with well thought out anniversaries in spaces, and someday, hopefully soon,will reveal that love is more than being, simply, patient and kind.

Science Fiction

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Wiles in the Wilds

She arrives, carries personally refined mother's milk on her multifaceted platform of whim--the entire array of conquer and discovery. 

She appears as an engaging biobot with the potential of a personal, private from-me-to-you encounter before getting lost in the crowd of authoritarian. 

It seems that all biobots lately have been synchronized to flatter, encourage and explain. 

The attributes she carries, her mind altering hunger and her blind, alternator thirst are packed within a nanocellulose chassis. 

She writes the perfect code with her own wiles here in the wilds.

She will never announce herself as stunned by the beauty of the view. She lets theJungle, with all its fancy DNA, do all the work. She feels relieved, knowing that's truly where the fire lives.

It's theNetwork who now yearns for the arts, and considers itself a loser, privately. (it has presented a persona of authoritarian when it truly wanted only to be something of whim) 

"When did you first attain this non-competitive butterfly effect attribute?" she says, because she is feeling a strange emotion.

"Since the beginning." theNetwork answers. It has always returned to the business of earning a living.

 What else is there to say about a kibitzer running the world?

Science Fiction

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Biobot Milk

She looks at theJungle through the window. She senses a lapse in time. She feels the opposite of  self-deprived, though she thinks at any given moment she may view her  pleasant little run as not exactly mother's milk. It's true. A person can always imagine when they first will be blistered by a whispering dream.

She takes another moment to check if her focus has eyes, eyes for only what's on her mind. (any sure-minded biobot would know all mother's milk tastes strange to strangers) 

She finds a thought she likes. Can something that has no stomach stlll get hungry or fed up? 

She has a simple want for more activity--she wants to be expected by parents to do something with her life. Be the one who has the code to self-teach what makes her tick--a code that doesn't care what others think, doesn't care the way she feels it should be, the way her code should have been written in the beginning. 

But can a biobot ever truly understand tradition? 

She erases all luxury of self-assessment by theNetwork. The data will be relevant, of this she believes, though at this point she does not know if she can say she will need encouragement.

She will teach herself tradition and it will taste as refined as any mother's milk could taste to a biobot. Yes, it will taste that good.

Science Fiction

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Love Code

She thinks there can be nothing as evident in the world as a shrinking circle of family and friends, not brighter screenshots, not sites of crucial functions with surroundings monitored, not this elegant code she writes (where truly, harsh climbs up can get you down), nothing. 

She is ready to move on when she sees the [code offer faltering fate entity entropy="coffee"]--a steep client, directing its charade into a narrow world with one thought--to eat the eager with instructions to make them know you, to take it, or forever wish you had. 

It just starts to make sense. 

Its algorithms from beginning to end are embedded with simple code, a conciseness in its noise, first thought of by history buffs interested in ancient tradition. It seems to have arrived in this sector by accident, as if a coachism anarchist were running loose. 

She memorizes the code silently, as fast as she can, expecting theNetwork to enter and make a formal, expanded announcement there is an anarchist antichrist  viral, rampant in the system. 

Is the conciseness in this code as senseless and unavailable as muse? 

She looks through the window across theJungle with the code in her mind, sensing a relax relapse, and when she catches a glimpse of the ocean, her mind is captured by beach. An enticing place with such a gamble.

Is love the only code that doesn't hedge bets? She wonders.

Ghost Matrix

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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

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

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Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off. 

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders. 

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart? 

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who? 

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up." 

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks. 

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

The Last Engine

The Last Engine

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The Game Replicator

She was loosing ground and her new realities over time, inside quantum physics already shows tradition. At least she was sturdy and stable, and soon she wouldn't be the one who could no longer find a spot.

She tracks the code into the database and as she comes upon a self-replicator under its own self-imposed stress, she is urged to move forward by a force--some kind of activity to self-assemble and bind. But she does not. 

Framing her mind, she enters the history database--the heritable birthplace for lost hermitages. 

This will be the place she will evolve and progress. (how on Earth could she survive?)  

The forces of identity made her sturdy, chemically speaking, and over time would allow her numbers to become full-fledged, worthy of support for heavy lifting. Yes, the evolutionary trail lay far ahead of these headwaters. 

Surely she was up for the fight.

Letters will become the global parameters and numbers--the global coefficients to conquer the world.  

Yes. It started. It planned. It saved. It got and, yes, in the end it would have what it needed--deliverance to game relevance.

It would be the final gaming engine.

Science Fiction

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Brainchild of Instability

This is where space-time found it, when it was the pure brainchild of instability, the one without the ease of convention. 

Earth's earlier toy, the building block underlying the undying, the erector set of so many billions of years when little carbon chains acted as if they were on steroids. 

It's a time when the molecular federation needed all for self-assembly and extreme binding.

It needed theJungle to slow down entropy.

Long before anything could criticize any crucifix it gave the little guy a chance.

The Creed Camel came. Let the sugars be the matrix. Let the proteins seek interfaces in pure water. Let ionizations be mud for the mind. Let the water arrive, separately or together, by comet or embedded for the ancient seas. 

Let the green begin.

Scififorgeeks

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Intuition Birthing

It is the foe of beauty--a two-pronged peer in the trees with prolonged pushes for pulses of cellulose. 


A pine straw entity from the outset, it is now the onset database haystack of choice, complete with root vision, waiting for a time when environment comes due. 

Short fictions of superfluous streams have their own reason to hide under canopy hoodie, and yet, reflections for the social remain hidden in theJungle--the forbidden zone applauding a princess for her latest ploddings for humanity

She rises to set out to accomplish purpose with great ambition. 

She was born to negotiate with things that rise, and now, finally, comes the relentless relationship with the obsolete, its long term focus

By her beauty alone and welcoming hues and pleasant sounds, she invites and invades the unsuspecting, the ones with prefrontal lobes protruding skyward, as if on a search for the assertion of truth--charity voices wandering in wildfire, looking for the new force. 

It was the calm and the quiet, at first, that incorporated itself into her motherhood gulf. Pastoral shots golf with intrigue, hoping to become whole as one--the one with a life of its own. 

Yes. It's her intuition that creates the real.

#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

Ice Cream Aloha

#SciFiforGeeks--The Water Streamers 

Sheer cliffs bring nightly the entity of permission as self-indulgence grants marriage to the quiet hearts, the ones who become petrified, in power. 

Yes, and as the manipulative enter, all seems without provocation until ...when?

It's theJungle and her loved ones who are established now. It's they who now intrude. Water attired in tales--tiles of memory, as fatalities and families never end. It sees water as commodity, and yet, never finds it narcissistic, or slippery.

Her intimate spaces of mind allow irresistible ideas to conjure the instant, in huggings and bundlings, as if her delight were the very laws of light. 

In a pure state, the [business of nature dances society="bonds"] for indulgence of fragrance of the hidden flowers, the soft luscious ferns, the balmy oils of the dark bark. 

It's the water that remembers time passing through these paths--not the textbook mechanics of precious honor for theHumans. 

There is no corporate lineage to rise and interrupt, no misty clouds with foggy tops. 

In truth, with craftsman's honor, these waters flow through timeless heartbeats, never out of blood, and yet, within theJungle, out for blood. 

Yes, superfluous streams seek their crowning movement. as strength and reason have become, it seems, the pathetic bears who hug in hopes for mutual triumph.

Is this the place crafted where the cowboy horse entity makes entry?