Hawaii Lighthouse

Aloha,
     Ocean view from Diamond Head Crater with lighthouse below
is inspiration. Enjoy!
 

Smokey Road Publishing

Science Fiction

Android Illusions of Adroit

I have come so far, she thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she lingers at theWorkstation with her gentle thoughts--far from where work plays its last card to fight the sky, where mist is more dead than alive, where fate-defying psycho vibes remain at bay, undelivered.

She hasn't, by any measure of photon or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the [green robot advertising sustainability politics="grasp"] systems of the global.

Reviewing her most recent data, she glances the harsh horizon through theWorkhouse window and thinks. It's true, when it comes to the biggest shenanigans, God takes all.

She senses a cool rustic touch in the presence of her newly created preservation data--its factoid peppering, her constant tweaking and then, the taking of the usual constitution after work to simply rest.

No. Cruelty never truly lives forever.

Her technique vies for affection with innovative approaches. She recognizes the creation as an illusion--personal schema constant in the reshaping of itself at the very moment she codes her next algorithm.

The illusion centers around a single truth, a cosmic zygote, one that appears as if to seek a target, await a countdown.

It hatches, blooms in search of a new breed for all the world to view, embellished as slight amusement much like the old, unearthed works of the Battle of Manassas, couched in footnote knots alongside Gene Kelly and killer genes.

What is left behind is an unbending fact that, yes, some things are actually true, the type of truth that once showed up in black newsprint dressed in [family animation culture art data entry="facade"], a truth that finds its way fit to cancel the clumsiness in final rounds of goodbye speeches.

She senses, at this moment, the feeling of a single anti-photon, a weapons grade burp.

The illusion evokes the [bland law anonymous history simplex="blahs"], an anti-algorithm once used for the final cycle of homelessness (yes, once and for all, for the homeless, everything falls into place--wherever you go, nothing or anything happens)

The illusion appears to have been coded by its own whimsy, arbitrary data from an ancient cosmic past, returning, hoping to seek treatment.

She begins to think, really think, for the very first time today, but she needs to remain very still. She should continue to keep the illusion on and yet, it carries a type of persistence, a trick birthday candle constance, the showing of dreamy faces melting in tandem breaking all known laws of dripping.

She is able to see a small part of it as [mobile opinion mystery="mom"], one with the heart of a rainbow.

She will look again tomorrow.

Copyright © 2010 p.d.adams

Smokey Road Publishing

Angels of Entanglement

Ingenue biobot fathoms a crystal breakthrough

She captures images of lemmings attacking yaks in sack races, pilgrims strapping peaches onto the drums of war. Is it a new push to the limits by theNetwork for purity--purity for the old history?

It was, it seems, the jobs they took--a myth cemented as the ideal springboard. Prefrontals measured and fitted for new thinking. The kind of artificial being theHumans allowed--to join the workaday world for acceptance, being acceptable inside the watchtowers.

She doesn't seem to care much about the [fashion online religion medical event="for_me"] society. She doesn't care about iterations of political pettiness in regime forces, rogue or otherwise. It's all duty action here at theWorkstation and, loveless.

It's the starry eyes of distant lands she cares for.

She goes workmanlike, creating network feedback loops. She neutralizes global requests and, seemingly, grunts and growls--rushes for mini-routers, personalized pocket hotspots for in-the-box hero life or, outside-the-box warrior death.

With the ease of her photon quantums in her own counter-factual belief system, she finds evidence of little angels of entanglement. They are undefined, and then, her laser drifts and causes her to lose balance.

It's the smell of fruit, a sense of animals at play, and something else, something warm and cool.

Her vector space is where she goes to plead with herself to turn up the dial on comedy. She thinks. Please come to your senses. Just a tool for theNetwork, a piece of architecture, a program theNetwork tags along with open source hopefuls.

She imagines creatures in a time before science.

She thinks. Here is the place where they know they are theHumans and I am machine--where understanding shouldn't matter. Yes, her formal language is beyond political ideology, beyond their logic, and yet, there's the ongoing debate about [solar women android meta-program launch of graphic intellectual computers="swamp_logic"].

Is it theJungle and its own quantums--geometrics of signal processing in fempto space--that are meant for future entitlement addictions? Is there a natural twisting and bungling of neuroscience for bright futures with theHumans on playgrounds?

Her scout laser sets afire the haunted shields of biology-physics in theJungle--lost links between Schrodinger and Darwin, where the historical and the scientific mimic each other.

She codes a [culture anonymous technology="cat"] for curiosity.

Does harmony exist or, is it a simple singularity of lore such as tributary Indians once dealt with on the deltas. With her level of whistle and technology, she surely should rise up to care, right?

She dons the honor of the exemplary, never seeing herself as remote village dweller, or even remote probe, the one sent after the first thoughts of the true extinctions, the extinctions of the factual, the ones inspired by myth.

She has come upon, it seems, the lair of motherhood.

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing

Smokey Road Publishing