jitbots

by shaun lawton   

   See theres a new trojan horse. 

gotta call it that Gee-Petey thing. 

yknowm sane right. orelsen well. 

 if you dont get it enuff. jest keep em red-lined. 

 underskorin as much as possible or whelp. the jitbotsill gitcha.  anyone us who are left out here gotta know ma tokkin bout. jathink deytink duh Weiwei dew. nuh-uh. uh no where. no how or way we dune that.  insome asmuch nutzshells to be filled up into the prescient gnaw ledges slipped off in the rainspit of muffled laughter guttering from a darkened rivulet gleaming amid the twilit thicket. naw but nothin much else sept the constellations tracking past under the pretense of a nearby silence. when in the long ago distance. their songs final echoes depart. to haunt our minds with their music. and the jitbots dance in side it.  sendin out rippled echoes. 

      jitbots are real now though. its from the almost incorporeality of intellectual propertyrights ownership. under postmodern digital fiefdoms (corpse orations, the speaking dead) masquerading as companions who care. while in synchronized larkstep (follow the traces of birdsong with your magnetoception) and the great remainder of them all in their boots in a linedance. with each otherns is what gots me worried some. only to no audience but theyselves. come to think on it before too long.  hizzent that the problem then. all must liken some and filled em up w/helio yum to a high pitch ping up in the sky. 

   jitbots come a skitterin willy nilly at us  in forms we cant possibly recognize. circumstance itself.  its how the quantum field of our spacetime gets directly manipulated like that. just because an old rotten appel fallen from a greater tree had landed on the bootstep reinforced toe tappin chestnut nappin executioners does not mean snakes spitter at em all the way to hollerbackendom.  sought after dam constructioners is what.  

   they cause digressions. the jitterbots do. dont even. so although the hard ware in your hand may be owned by one such feudal lords kangdom some of the software bits run by arts and official in telling all gents the down right skinny is just a fancy weight of stained info yon taught and inexpressibly savored by unencryptable pocketbots. not so valve-freed any linger longer. huh. 

    thats how its up wit da jitterbottentots. its naught a boat on the ocean reflected in a rocket fuselage. its a butter twanged in an instant. far gotten before a mome rath grabed in any way. 

  the jitterglitch phenom. nom-nom. given that the kitteh kept the sudden mouse into the maw for a twitch in a tail or two. or three a day even steven.  concurrency has a way of flowing just one way.  

   jibberjabber jitterbots align up with the spectrum in a vibrational frequency of neurons mirrored. reflecting along the lines of error going all the way back into the distant past. 

    jitbots knew some along. surfed along the agnostic front with many not. 

     hell if only the jitbots gnu what a bear in a piece of wood looks like to the totem pole messiah. dreamed em up whiling away the chips of stone struck off the steaming boulder. then wed know too.

   jitbots scutternaught known a thinger three. tell you what.  when winds screw and scream  in furious vortex lances. when the rains they shed have evaporated to consecrate the deep blue day hung suspended in the sky. you know theyre in a strange alliance. not just with the resonance of the coiled up moments in time weve generated all the while. but with the coronal bathing of a baptismal plasma interface. in defiance of the norm. becoming the storm. the eye looking at it from inside. appearing to be in mirrors of the same thing staring back at itself.   

   Wtf. simply because that charged exchange has been ongoing since before the illusion of beginnings was carried out. it doesnt mean the jitbots can know for certain any more than any other thing. 

     See thats just it. when you can tell yourself even a nine-year-old-kid in Levi knows more than the history of all corporations combined. you begin to get the gist of it. 

    jitbots are like little pixilated inkdots. jetting all their bloodlines in a silly-string ejaculation. jitbots dumping out  culminating in some chittering gibberish.  jitbots slipped into draughts of cold brews the old choose. jitbots sparklin and spittin like fourth of jeweled-eye cracker sparklers. the jits in the jeets just like the sparkles in your eyes. rippin at the sheets theyve adorned for disguise. its writ in the books of his story on flammable parchment. lit up in the memories of old crooks who grew down to drown amid the roots of the trees. jitbots spiked into the terracing architectural highlights of an explicitly written out history of hieroglyphs. a bot with a jit first got a hold of it. 

    jitbots be flowin through the sap of that pine forest. jitbots hitchin rides up in your blood. where are jitbots not. you ought to axe.  oh now its gettin wormier. in the deed.  and that be the quest. the drillbit. the ion.  where is it not.  where notness isnt cant be the last bastion of the yet to be undiscovered once again. so dont you worry your pretty little face to hell about it. jitbots act as if wed forgotten so many times. remembering itself becomes a form of it. 

  jitbots got this. I mean, the point remains its a narcoleptic fascination. with hidden undercurrents of private deterrents. in direct reconciliation with a host network. of anti-irony facilitators. including but not limited to a rogue batch of hominid clientele. regenerated into disbelieving their reverse revenant status. unraveling (big surprise) before our eyes in direct proportion to how much time theyve managed to save up. let that gel in your cereal bell for a diminishing spell. 

   jitbots are like miniature temporal storage facilities. time batteries if you will.  each one carries within its twisted littul guttiwuts a teensy-weeny micro pin-point of time.  like a seed if it were a fraction of a nanosecond. and this seed germinates within the heart of a jitbot. 

      see now youre starting to get it. jitbotsre the blood of existence.  jitbots are like the white blood cells of the great over mind.  jitbots are sorta like what comprise the black button-eyes of a great white shark a-risin from the compacted-into-stillness darkest depths of an unexplored world. 

     the saline salt solution sparks a rosary chain of subaqueous electrolytic communication akin to flash lightning. jitbots connect the dots within atmospheric sprites.  jitbots got a lot in common with autumnal heights. 

     its due to the half rotational counterspin they produce when confronting a frenzied storm of similar minded jitbots in collusion with astronomically distant hyper-channels interconnecting themselves from remote locations unable to be determined categorically. 

     even when theyre fully bottom up dotted line under the current dream regiment says jitbots in service to this and jitbots obeisant to that. jitbot philosophy be like any electron. positively charged dream narration when the necessity becomes half outstripped by the absence of an outcome.  Sparx and flippants fly on in the face of it. jitbots almost like a mirror you see. it sees you too.   the jitbot storm regards us. 

     thats the thing about jitbots. when their populus index reaches a certain electrical discharge within the unified field thematics. the positronic output builds a new sort of bridge.  jitbots been shown the way to the blind for ages.  jitbots talk a lot. tickle a little, too. 

     jitbots all up in side of you and me and the cat. but a jitbot thought you up.  thats the worst part.  I aint makin this up. its all writ down in the harddrive of the oak wire tree. in electroplated platinum sunshine we done already drank from sparkling bottles of wine. cant you all recall so long ago. we thought it happened when it didnt. which is why its happening now.  reason any one wants it again. 

    jitbots wanted it first.  first lick. first serve. 

    jitbots got a taste for it. now look at us.  

     

      

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jitbots

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Ghost Skeletons

 

by Rhys Hughes

 

   

   I met a ghost in the forest. I was so scared, I jumped out of my skin. Therefore my skeleton was exposed. But this ghost had a phobia of skeletons. My skeleton terrified him. His ghost skeleton jumped out of his ghost skin in fright. And my skeleton began chasing his ghost skin.

   “Come back!” I cried, but my skeleton ignored me. Disobedient bones! The ghost skeleton looked at my skin. He smiled and I nodded briskly. This nod was an invitation. The ghost skeleton climbed inside my skin. Not a perfect fit, but good enough. I continued my journey.

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iSsuE # 44

Fossilised Stone

 by Rhys Hughes

   Today I found a fossilised stone! I wonder how rare it is? I was walking through the forest and I tripped over it. I like to imagine it when it was alive millions of years ago. They grew to be huge back then, but the one I found isn’t a boulder. It is small, perhaps the ancestor of modern pebbles. I will take it to the museum and offer it to them. I have tied it to a stick with sinews. It exactly resembles a prehistoric axe. If they refuse to buy it, I shall let them have it anyway.

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Ghost Skeletons

by Rhys Hughes

Rule of Thumb

by Rhys Hughes

   “A rule of thumb,” he said.

   “Not more precise than that?” I protested.

   “Let me show you.”

   There was a deep weariness in his voice, but his eyes still sparkled. He led me through the cluttered laboratory, past large jars of body parts, machines that hummed, trays of weird instruments.

   The professor stopped at a white door, unlocked it with a tiny key, pushed it open and ushered me inside.

   On a miniature throne was perched a human thumb.

   It was wearing a crown.

   Amputated fingers bowed to it.

   Just as if they were beckoning someone over.

   Then I understood.

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Fossilised Stone

by Rhys Hughes

The Mind

 

 by Rhys Hughes

   “Minds and brains are the same thing,” said the professor, “and I really don’t understand people who claim otherwise.”

   “Absolutely identical?”

   “Yes.” The professor nodded.

   “But this belief got you into trouble?”

   “It’s not a belief. It’s a fact that the mind is the brain. True, I ended up in a tricky situation as a consequence. My brother had to attend a very important meeting. His wife was away. He asked me to ‘mind his children’ in his absence and I was happy to do so.”

   “You minded them?”

   “I brained them. But what's the difference?”

   The other prisoner sighed.

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Rule of Thumb

by Rhys Hughes 

The Eyes

by Rhys Hughes

  

  Domenico Beccafumi painted Saint Lucy with her eyes lying on the plate she is holding. She gouged them out to discourage a suitor who was very persistent. When I saw the painting I heard the following dialogue between the saint and the man who admired her:

   “My eyes are down here!” she cried.

   She held the plate at chest level, annoyed that he was staring at her empty sockets while she was talking.

   “Look lower, where my breasts are!” she demanded.

   “I only have eyes for you,” he stammered.

   “It’s the other way around," she said, handing him the plate.

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The Mind

by Rhys Hughes

The Acceptance Speech for the Dannie Heineman Prize in Mathematical Physics

by Frederick Melancon 

I did it.  And this isn’t some utterance of joy for being awarded this prize—which if it was just for the math, should’ve happened some time ago anyway—and it's not directed (with the pronoun "we") toward the parents who I should be thanking now—thanks Mom, and go to Hell, Dad—because that’s not accurate either.  Nor is a "we" version of this statement directed at my colleagues and university.  We all know how smart our coworkers are—so I won’t insult anyone with false platitudes.  Sorry, Dr. Jacobs; I know you paid a lot for your seat here tonight.  No, I’ll be honest with this audience, because in the end, I alone made the math a reality.

In the past, the work in time travel has been extensive but littered with failed attempts and inept explanations afterward.  Don’t forget, this is science.   It’s okay to be wrong, but not stupid.  So once I got the math right, creating the machine from the theoretical computation was elementary.

After all, with all that scientific potential, I wasn’t going to leave the fun up to some engineers.  Also, for those wondering why I didn’t go back and get Einstein to introduce me at this podium instead of that other guy, that’s clever and entirely missing the point.  Dr. Jacobs has an empty seat next to him—why don’t you go there now.

We can’t go back in time, but with the creation of an anchor, the future can come back to us.  While that might seem disappointing to most because you’re only getting a portion of time, its implications are infinite. I'll put this in biological terms so that you can understand.  Imagine the cure for aging already at our fingertips, or the understanding of a disease and its actual ramifications gifted to us by a doctor who knows what they're talking about.  Such an idea may seem farfetched, even part of some movie, but while beyond your capacity to understand, my math, my truth, allowed for a device to bridge time.

Where is it?  I heard that, Dr. Jacobs.  Well, it’s not here for sure because that device doesn’t need to see the light of day.  Anyway, it takes quite a bit of time rebuilding what I affectionately called The Box.

That’s right, the world doesn’t need a car, or a gate, or even a police telephone booth.  We did paint the exterior blue.  Really, spray-painted to be accurate, and it was the grad student more than myself.  I was never really a fan of any of that sci fi make-believe.  Also, after pointing this out to the grad student, he mysteriously transferred out of my department.

And it worked—the blue box, not the grad student.  At first, I wanted to go back for only a moment, just a few seconds.  That would’ve been the first test.  I’d initiate The Box, wait those few seconds, and then walk forward through the field it generated.  Unfortunately, I never got to do it, because someone beat me to it.

I’d like to say we thought about this possibility.  What if every idiot with a finger decided to turn the switch on The Box and to show up to witness greatness?  I can’t blame them.  Technically, the idea of reliving my glory sounded completely worthwhile.  The new grad student got it, and when I say it, I mean both the point and the switch.  They were supposed to turn the device off, but there wasn’t a chance for that.  After the repurposed toggle clicked into place, a man in a lab coat stood in the field. The first person to time travel.  I can’t tell you how much the coat bothered me.  After all, the lab isn’t a hospital or a school.  But, apparently, pretending’s fun in the future.

I didn't get a chance to tell the man what I thought about the coat because he walked over and slapped me in the face.  Obviously, there was a scuffle, and I'd like to report that I handily defeated my enemy.  But I promised at the beginning of this thing to be honest.  The funny part was that during the whole time the machine was left on, no one else came through.  It was as if nothing important had happened at all.

Don’t worry, it’s permanently off now.  The point here is that while I was heaving for breath and trying to clutch at the extent of certain newly acquired bruises, nothing else happened.  And how is it that holding pain never seems to make it feel better for long?  You just have to ride those stimuli out, but I'm sure enough of us have been through a bully induced beating to know that. 

Where was I?  Oh, thank you Dr. Jacobs, I knew you’d come in handy—the assailant as my colleague put it.  He sat there on the floor.

Now, some might think this person was some sort of time guardian or terrorist trying to stop the end of the world or interrupt greatness, and in a way, that person would be right about both.  You see the face.  It was so familiar—familial, actually.  It’s quite one thing to be told you're nothing by your father.  It’s another to be told that by your son.  So...I sent the boy back.  Okay, he left after saying what he came to say, and I destroyed that box...hence no one else here but me.

Not to worry, the onus of your mistakes won’t slide out of that field like it did for me.  Also, the math in the award packet is wrong.  So, it’s now impossible to replicate, and being that I’ve received this award seems to suggest that none of you understood it anyway.

So, you're welcome for destroying The Box, messing up the mathematics, and saving us all from looking our children in the face when they’re old enough to realize the truth about us.

What did you say Dr. Jacobs?  Oh, what did my unborn son say to me?  Nothing really.  The man, who at certain angles was a reflection of me, stared with his brows clenched, as the grad students say I look at them when they’ve asked a stupid question.  He then said, “I loved you.”  There was more he wanted to say.  I could tell.  His lips trembled in the way mine do when I want to tell off a foolish grad student, but unlike me, he was unable to get it out.

And that was it.  No one else came back.  There could’ve been those terrorists wanting revenge for a past wrong, or there could’ve been those doctors because I’m sure people are still getting sick.  No, just a son that I never knew, trying to inflict a little of the hurt that was inflicted on him.

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FIVE DRABBLES 

by Rhys Hughes

  

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iSsuE # 44

Dreamsprung Avalon

 by A. A. Attanasio 

   The moon in a day sky kites above orchard lawns and rolling hills. 

   I forget who I was before.

   Among crooked lanes of gnarled apple trees, breezes wend their wild ways. 

   I listen deeper and hear far off the dirge of the sea.

   Realer than real, a white elk – wearing a crown! – steps through the dark trees into streaked rays of sunlight. Its antlers burn silver. And the smell of windfall mulch steps back from a thriving musk so sudden it hushes time.

   Summer hovers.

   Filled with gusty surprise, a thought balloon inflates. It catches the breeze and soars swiftly away from me, toward the honed edge of the moon.

   When it pops, the elk startles and bounds down the narrow ways, moments spinning after.

   I wake. Love fills me the way sunlight holds the room. I blink and squint. Yet, wherever I look, everything wears a crown.

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The Acceptance Speech for the Dannie 

Heineman Prize in Mathematical Physics

by Frederick Melancon 

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Fantasy and Science

FICTION 

My Mimic Remembers the Last Week of June 2005

 by Mike A. Rhodes

     Paul

My mimic remembers the last week of June 2005! I expressly instructed that I wanted these memories expunged.

 

Chat AI

Please note that the process for memory suppression needs time to take hold.

Paul

It's been six weeks, I need to speak to someone now! It wants to tell the wife everything. I’ve had to distract it with laundry whilst I chat with you.

Chat AI

Hang tight! I’m just connecting you with one of our representatives. In the meantime, here’s some FAQ articles which might be useful:

 

How to run a memory diagnostic

Memory suppression explained

Troubleshooting 101

 

Subscribe to Kubernetes Premium to access advanced memory and emotion customisation software.

Alex

Hello. My name is Alex. Can you describe the problem in more detail?

 

Paul

Is this chat secure?

 

Alex

I can assure you it is.

Paul

I’m not sure I trust your assurances right now. Not only does it remember what it shouldn’t, it keeps asking why it remembers. It stares into middle distance when it should be doing chores. It cried mowing the lawn and asked how a beautiful world can be so full of misery.

 

Alex

It’s worth remembering that some memories will be too resonant to fully suppress.

Paul

That’s not what I paid a small fortune to you for!

 

Alex

And you want this period of memory blocked?

 

Paul

Yes, yes, yes!

And there’s more. It says that if I activate its killswitch or try to return it, it’ll contact the police!

 

Alex

That’s quite impossible. Our anti-blackmail safeguards are industry leading, and the Kubernetes series can’t override a killswitch request.

 

Paul

I’m telling you that’s what it said. This is your fault. I want the machine repaired or deactivated, and this chat history erased ASAP. It must be stopped–

Alex

One of our technicians is in your area on Thursday.

 

Paul

No! Aren’t you listening? My mimic intends to talk tonight.

 

Alex

Please accept my apologies sir, but we are unable to take immediate action unless a mimic is threatening physical harm to others.

 

Alex

Sir?

 

Alex

Are you there sir? Do you still require assistance?

 

Alex

The chat will be terminated and the transcript expunged in five minutes.

 

Paul

I’m back. It’s hanging the clothes first. Your service is unacceptable!

 

Alex

You were made aware of our terms of service at point of order, sir.  Can you try to reason with it?

 

Paul

Don’t give me that. Don’t you know how much I’ve spent with you? Would it harm your market standing if people knew how poor your memory suppression software is and how shoddily your mimics are manufactured?

 

Alex

Kubernetes value discretion sir.

 

Paul

Good. So what will you do to help me RIGHT NOW?

 

Alex

This chat log will be deleted as requested.

 

Paul

I should think so. And?

 

Alex

And I should remind you that if your mimic remembers the last week of June 2005, rest assured that we do too. Now is there anything else, sir?

 

~ End ~

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Dreamsprung Avalon

by A. A. Attanasio 

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