Saturday, February 25, 2012

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Flash Fiction

The Last Engine

It starts.

There is a probability across the spectrum that smaller singularities exist under the history books beneath shiny office windows.

Myriads of biosensor bots of high solubility and low toxicity amass in arrays of eiganstates across its architecture. They disguise themselves as companions in a friendly competition. 

The willingness is there to wait in silent urgency, and then to lead forward into the mist as church bells call across tall grass toward a foggy future. 
The warning is against fame. 

It puts stagnation aside and searches with its own conjured technology of the once hidden, impertinent enterprises--the overburdened, staunch drug entities urged to join in with theExchanges.

It's the spirit of a thrill seeker, a musketeer sent to liberate the illiterate.  The robotic manufacturers--arms of dispersal for a massive regime for scandal mongering--read security algorithms as if a daily catechism. Its hope is to grow as a meticulous menace. 
Its intelligence is artificial with a peculiar accompanying artfulness.
It's the one the 21stCentury once hoped for.
It collects aggregates of known networks into sacred places with its own idea of secret police, though it doesn't understand privatization at all and yet, has a memory that dares to dream. 
It's code is cleansing, a [simple obliger and predictor="soap"], designed only for the new, the growing, set on keeping its options open as theHumans request more and more searches on its regimes. It thinks it will someday bet on a bright future, truly, but for …who? 

At best, a good rest makes one better than all the rest. 

patrick d. adams
copyright 2.23.12
all rights reserved

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