Happy New Year

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer Life

Coastal Writers

Eco Photo Poetics

Happy Holidays

Merry Christmas!

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Coastal Cruise

Aloha coastal writers,

     Cruise ship on the coast inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Coastal Surfing

Aloha coastal writers,

      Coastal surfing inspires today. Enjoy!

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Happy Thanksgiving!

Surfing Sailing Cruising

Aloha coast writers,

     Surfing, sailing, and cruising in Waikiki sunset inspire today. Enjoy!

     

Writer on the Coast

Tropical Coast Writer

Surfing Coast

Aloha coast writers,

     Surfing near tropical coast inspires today's writing. Enjoy!

Waikiki Banyan Beach

Aloha Writers,

     Banyan beach in Waikiki inspires today. Enjoy!

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Coastal Boating

Aloha coast writers,

     Coastal boating inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Happy Veteran's Day!

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Coastal Shadows

Aloha coastal writers,

     Coastal shadows inspire today's writing. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Old Tire

The Broken Axle

We all stand around watching while Mama lowers a measuring stick into the gas tank of the Packard.  When she takes the stick out, it is wet clear up to the four inch mark—enough for a trip to the Santa Monica beach and back.  We all cheer because we haven’t been to the beach all summer.  “And we even have fifty cents left from Bill’s paper money for a treat,” Mama says.

When it was new, our 1926 Packard touring car was a movie director’s chauffer-driven limousine. It had a roll-up window dividing the driver and passenger compartments and soft grey upholstered jump seats that folded neatly into the floor.

Dada, who was an expert body and fender man, found it in a junk yard, and he labored long and lovingly over the massive dents in its body, finally restoring the car to its original condition.   The Packard was Dada’s pride and joy, the only material possession he owned, and we had strict orders to ask his permission before we ever used it.  Since Dada didn’t often give his permission, we sometimes used the car without asking him.  This was one of those times.  

Bill and I help Mama get ready by making peanut butter sandwiches and squeezing lemons for lemonade, and we’re soon on our way to our favorite destination, the beach.  Marion, the only licensed driver in the family, is the chauffer.  Mama, a tense navigator, sits next to her. My brother Bill and I are in the back seat watching over a big metal laundry tub that holds water and chunks of ice, a watermelon, and mason jars of lemonade.  The peanut butter sandwiches are close by in a shopping bag.

At about 10:30 a.m., my brother yells, “I see the water first!” and we all cheer.  The ocean is reflecting a clear blue sky, and we can’t wait to tear across the hot sand and jump into the foamy white waves.  “Hurry, hurry!” we nag my sister, learning up over her shoulder.  

We’re driving behind a big red Santa Monica street car, and when it turns on the track maze that takes it to the roundhouse at the end of the line, Marion steps on the gas hard.  As the car bumps over the rough tracks, we hear a sickening “Thud!” and the car stops right in the middle of the intersection.  Marion guns the motor, but the Packard won’t budge an inch.  Traffic begins to pile up in both directions.  Horns are honking, and from behind we hear a wildly clanging bell.  

“Oh no, there’s a great big red street car headed straight towards us!”Bill yells.  It grinds to a screeching halt just inches behind us, its noisy bell continuing to clang. 

“Everybody get out the doors nearest the sidewalk,” says Mama, “and watch the traffic both ways.”

When she has us all on safe ground, Mama hurries to a nearby gas station.  Marion and Bill and I watch a policeman try to unsnarl the traffic jam.  He directs autos around the Packard, but the street car can’t move until our car does. Street car passengers are poking their heads out of the windows, and a crowd is gathering on the sidewalk. 

“Keep that bell quiet!” the policeman shouts at the open front window of the street car.  The clanging stops abruptly.  “And you people move along—get going!”  The sidewalk clears.

“I’d better call a wrecker, Lady,” the gas station attendant tells Mama after a fast reconnoiter.  “It looks like a broken rear axle.”

“How much will the wrecker charge?” asks Mama.

“Hard to say, but I know for sure that in a couple of minutes that cop out there will slap you with a ticket for obstructing traffic and have this car towed to the police garage.  Which’ll it be?”

“Call the wrecker, by all means,” says Mama, with a firm tone to her voice. 

My brother and sister and I exchange worried glances.  I’m sure we’re all thinking about the same thing—the lonely half dollar in mama’s purse, all the money we have. 

The wrecker arrives almost immediately from a nearby garage. With the policeman directing traffic, the driver maneuvers his big truck into a back-to-back position with the Packard.  With a few deft movements, he attaches a huge hook and cable to the Packard and hoists its rear end.  He tows it away on its front wheels, the rear end dangling in the air, leaking a steady stream of liquid. 

“Is that gasoline pouring out of your car?” asks the gas station attendant. 

“No, there wasn’t that much gas in it,” says Mama, “more than likely it’s ice water.” 

“Might even be lemonade,” says my brother sadly, remembering all the lemons we’d squeezed that morning.  

Following the gas station attendant’s directions, we hurry down the street to the garage where they’ve taken our car.  When we get there, Marion and Bill and I sit stiffly on a rattan couch while Mama confers with a man in grease-stained coveralls.  

“You’re really lucky,” he says.  “We’ve located an axle for that Packard in a wrecking yard just a few miles from here.  We can have her all ready to go by four o’clock.”  

Mama asks the question that dominates our lives: “How much will it cost?” 

The man takes a stubby pencil out of his shirt pocket, licks the end of it, and does some careful figuring on the back of an envelope.  

“Nine dollars and eighty-three cents,” he says.  “The axel is used, so it’s a bargain.”

“Can you wait until Friday for the money?” says Mama.

“I wish I could,” he says, looking down at the three of us lined up stiffly on the edge of the couch.  “Things are so rough these days that the boss said I couldn’t release any work without the cash.  If you decide you don’t want the job done today, it’s no problem,” he adds kindly. 

Mama barely hesitates before she says in a firm voice, “Please go ahead.  We shall have the money in your hand by four.”

None of us even registers an expression.  We get up and follow Mama out to the sidewalk and a little way on down the block, where we form a tight circle.

“Mama, what are we going to do?” says my sister, who is especially worried because as the driver, the blame will more than likely be hers. We all know that Dada has no way to rescue us, even if we could get in touch with him in time.  “We don’t know anybody who has ten dollars.”

“Why of course we do,” says Mama.  “Mr. Bascomb has money.  We’ll put the ten dollars on our grocery bill.  Now who will go back to Glendale and pick up the money?”

We all look down, intensely interested at the cracks in the sidewalk.  It’s bad enough charging groceries from a man who is known in the neighborhood as “Old Man Scrooge,” but to ask him for cash on top of the $9.52 that we’ve already charged in the past week is unimaginable, especially when we have a $10 limit on our tab.  We’re all scared to death of Mr. Bascomb, who yells at us even if we pass too close to his apple display. 

Mama tries to make us feel better by telling us that Mr. Bascomb’s bark is worse than his bite and that he’s really a nice man no matter what people say and she’s sure he’ll understand that this is an emergency and help us, but we don’t believe her.

“Bill, you’re the man of the family today.  You go, and take Patty with you,” she says.  She hands Bill the half dollar, “Go across the street to that drug store and ask for five dimes, and don’t forget to say please and thank you,” she tells him.  

When he returns and hands Mama the dimes, she counts four of them out into his hand.  “This will get you and Patty there and back, but you must remember to ask for transfers so you can change streetcars.”

Then she adds the last dime.  “This is for a telephone call in case anything happens.” She digs in her purse for a scrap of paper and a pencil and copies the telephone number off the front of the garage.  “Hurry, there comes your streetcar.  It stops in that next block.  You’ll have to run!”

The conductor sees us coming and signals the motorman to wait. We scramble up the steps and Bill drops two dimes into the fare box and asks for transfers.  Then we hurry to a seat by an open window and lean out and wave goodbye to Mama and Marion.  

The hands on the big round clock in the grocery store window read thirty minutes after one when we arrive at the grocery store, sweaty and tired after a long walk from the end of the streetcar line.  We know that we should hurry so we can get back to Santa Monica before the garage shuts, but we scrunch down behind the outside fruit display, trying to get up the courage to go in the store and face Mr. Bascomb.  

“We’d better go inside before he comes out,” says my brother.  “If he finds us near these expensive apples, he’ll kill us.”   He takes me firmly by the hand-- something he does only in times of extreme danger like when we cross a major highway—and we march into the store together.

Mr. Bascomb is standing in his usual spot, guarding the cash register.  We stand by the counter, waiting for him to notice us.   

“Well, don’t just stand there, speak up, whaddaya kids want?” he growls at us.  

“We, uh, need ten dollars,” gasps my brother.  

“You need what?” he asks incredulously.  “What are you kids trying to pull? Go on home where you belong!”

My brother holds my hand tighter and starts talking very fast, pouring out the whole story from beginning to end.  When he stops talking, the grocer explodes.

“And what in God’s name would make your mother think I’d just hand over ten dollars of my hard-earned money to you kids just on accounta’ some cock-and-bull story like that?” he bellows. “You already owe me nine dollars and fifty-two cents on your grocery bill!” His face is beet red and his hands clenched into tight fists.  

“I don’t know….she just said you would,” my brother says, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head, as though he himself would never entertain such a thought. 

All of a sudden, I remember what Mama said, so I tell him. “Mama said that your bark is worse than your bite and you are really a nice man no matter what anybody says and you would know that this is an emergency and you would help us.” 

I can tell that my brother is upset with me for what I just said, but Mr. Bascomb doesn’t seem to mind that much.   In fact, he even looks a little friendly.  His face relaxes and his fists unclench and then he heaves a long sigh.   

He looks down at me and says, “Well, Little Lady, I guess if she said I would, I’d better do it then.” He opens the cash drawer, takes out a stack of ten dollar bills, sorts through them until he finds a crisp new one, and hands it to my brother.

“Golly, you mean—gee, Mr. Bascomb, thanks, thanks a lot!” says my brother, obviously overwhelmed with surprise. My brother folds the ten dollar bill and carefully tucks it into the pocket of his denim shirt, buttoning the flap for security.

Mr. Bascomb leaves his post at the cash register and walks us out the door.  “You two must be hungry after that long trip,” he says.  Then, unbelievably, he picks out two of his number one premium quality red delicious apples, shines them carefully on his white apron, and hands them to us.

We finally recover our speech, thank him several times, and then hurry off towards the Santa Monica streetcar line.  With any luck, we’ll make it home before Dada does.

copyright 11.04,10
smokey road publishing
all rights reserved

Coastal Writer

On Service Learning

College is always somewhere, taking the form of nervous thoughts, of ever graduating, of coming and going, but today nervousness hinges on the idea of service learning. Sometimes the nervousness makes a little announcement about my forty-three years, as if there were some time limit on learning, then goes quietly away. There are times when it attaches itself in the form of extra credit work,  my college psychology class project at the state mental rehabilitation hospital, the place I now go quietly. On this particular day, the nervousness travels the whole trip with me, actually, with me and my classmate. We go for three hours every Thursday to assist women patients who are up for being discharged; we do their makeup, hair styling--whatever-- to raise their self-esteem to a state of noticeability (yes, maybe even nobility). This is the state where my nervousness normally subsides; we do our three hours, hugs all around, and leave.
I see the look on the security guard's face on my way out. He signals to me.
I pick up the phone, squeeze tight.. It's Raeanne, the hospital activities coordinator. She says,“I’m sorry to ask you, but can you do a special favor for me?" 

  “Sure, I’d be happy to.” I'm feeling extra relaxed having spent time with the ladies.
     "Pat, we’re shorthanded here, and a male patient is asking to be taken to the store to buy some jeans. He’s insistent.  Would you be able to take him to the Penney’s store in Sedro Woolley this afternoon?”
     "Um."   

"Sure you won’t mind?”   

"Mind? Reanne, should I?”
     “Well, we haven't had him outside the hospital, ever. I'd rather give him to you than trust him with our security."

     "Penny's store in Sedro Woolley? Would mean undercover officers, they would have security."

"The trip into town only takes about ten minutes. Don't you think we should let him do some things on his own?"
"Oh, I'm sure there are many things he can do on his own. It's only, well it's a little late in the day, and my home in Oak Harbor drifts more as the sun sinks. My husband will be home by five, yes, I think he said five.

  “Well, we want our patients here to do things on their own, and it'll only take ten minutes, and, well thank you”
     “Yes, the ten minutes that will take an hour," I think. This taxi cab will get him to town and plunk him safely back in the hospital in a matter of minutes, another satisfied customer from J.C. Penny. He won’t even know what hit him. Am I missing something here? Yes, I will come to my senses and do this for her.

     “Great, I knew I had the right person,” Reanne says, "I'm so relieved."

As I’m driving toward the hospital entrance, I see Joe, a tall hospital orderly, standing beside a wiry little gray-bearded man, who is looking up into Joe’s face, speaking intently and gesturing excitedly with his arms, his fists clenched.  When I pull up next to them, Joe breaks into the man’s monologue, laughs good-naturedly, and says, “If you say so, Sam.  Here’s your ride.”  Joe quickly ushers Sam into the passenger’s seat, introduces us, and closes the car door.  “Good luck!” he calls over his shoulder to us as he hurries back into the hospital.   

Sam reaches over and shakes my hand firmly. “Thanks a lot for doing this, Mrs. Adams,” he says, “I been wearing these pants the hospital gave me, but I sure would feel better in a pair of Levis.  The police took me off a bus about a month ago, crazy raving lunatic that I was, and brought me here.  Don’t know what happened to my jeans.  Somebody said they’d been ripped up in the fight.  Probably cut ‘em myself with those two big knives they said I was waving around.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter and try to think of a safe direction for this conversation. 
“So, Sam, where were you headed?”

“You mean on the bus?”

“Yes, when they, uh, yes, on the bus.”

“Well, apparently to kill my ex-wife.”

“Oh.”   I’m relieved to see a sign announcing the town center ahead.

I park on the street near the Penney’s store. “Here we are.  While you’re trying on Levis, I’ll be looking around,” I say cheerfully, “take your time.”

“Oh, it won’t take any time at all.  I don’t need to try them on.  I’ve been wearing Levis for 40 years.  No question about my size.”

I bite back the advice I’m about to give.  “Oh…. OK, sounds good.  I don’t really have anything to look around for anyway.”

I stand off to the side while Sam goes straight to the stacks of Levis, locates the size he wants, and then pays for them at the cashier counter. 

“I got ‘em.  We can go now,” he says to me.  It’s clear that he’s in a hurry.

“Do you need anything else in town?” I ask.

“No thanks, I have to get back.  I can’t miss my appointment with Doc.  We’re working on the garden in my head.  He’s teaching me to pull out all the weeds I got in there and plant flowers in their place,” he says.

Before I can think of an appropriate and encouraging answer, he continues on, obviously excited about the concept.

“If you think about it, it makes sense.  If I don’t fill those ugly weed spaces with beautiful flowers, the weeds will just grow back.  It’s a whole new way of thinking about things.  And you know what, I’m understanding how my thinking about my wife was all full of weeds.  I had so many wrong perceptions, and Doc is helping me learn that it’s never too late to change wrong thinking,” he says.

“Sounds great,” I say, trying hard to match his enthusiasm for brain gardening. 

When we get back to the hospital, Joe is standing at the curb waiting for us, apparently alerted by the guard at the front gatehouse.

Sam shakes my hand with both of his, thanks me profusely, and hurries inside.

The very next day I get another phone call from Raeanne. “I need another favor, Pat,” she says.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Sam needs to go back to Penney’s to exchange his pants.  He says they’re the wrong size.”

“I was afraid of that,” I say with a sigh.  “He didn’t even try them on.”

“He says that the pants are marked wrong.”

“Levis marked wrong?  No way!  It’s his fault for not trying them on.”

“I’m sorry, Pat.  Maybe I could get somebody else.  It’s just that he particularly asked for you.  He said that you were so nice to him.”

“Well, apparently I was too nice.  I should have insisted that he try them on.”

“You did fine.  Do you mind taking him back?”

“No, but I hope he’ll just do a simple exchange….I don’t want them treating him like a mental case.”

“Maybe you can talk to him,” she says.

I pick Sam up at the curb as before and we drive off, followed by Joe’s shout of “Good luck!”

“Mrs. Adams, did Raeanne tell you?  These pants are marked with the wrong size!  Can you believe that!”  Sam says excitedly.  

“It is hard to believe,” I say, trying to keep the irony out of my voice.

“Forty years and I’ve never seen anything like it!”  

I figure I’ll make a stab at getting him to try the next pair on.  “Are you sure they’re marked wrong?  Maybe your weight changed.  Why don’t you just try some on and then exchange these for the right size?” I say in what I hope is a helpful, interested tone. 

“Nope, I’m not trying on Levis!  Besides, that wouldn’t be fair to the other customers,” he says.

“It wouldn’t be fair for you to try on Levis?” I ask.

“No, I mean it wouldn’t be fair to put those mis-marked pants back on the shelf.  Besides, if these are marked wrong, some others may be too.  I wouldn’t do that to the other customers or to J.C. Penney’s or to Levis.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t let them know!”  He is talking very fast and punctuating key words by shouting and punching the air with his fists.

“Oh, I see,” I say, wondering if this behavior was being worked on in his weeds and flowers therapy.

When we walk into the store, I brace myself for a confrontation.  I am certain that in his agitated mental condition, Sam is not going to accept the truth.  I hope that Joe has frisked him for knives.

I stand back out of earshot, planning the route I’ll use to get Sam out of the store before the police arrive.  I watch him lay the pants on the counter and enter into an intense conversation with the cashier.  She shakes her head” no,” and Sam vehemently nods “yes.”  They bend over the pants with a tape measure, and then at Sam’s prodding, the cashier goes to the shelves and begins to measure all the Levis.  All the time, she’s shaking her head, and Sam is talking heatedly and waving his arms and fists to make his points.

When I see the cashier heave a big sigh and pick up the phone, I decide it’s time to get Sam out of there.  I move in and take a firm grip on his arm, preparing to drag him out bodily, if necessary.  Then I overhear what the cashier is saying on the phone.  “Yes, it’s true, all the 32’s are marked 34….no, no problem, thanks to this observant customer who discovered the mistake and reported it right away.”

Sam is beaming.  Turning to me, he pats the hand that is still clutching his arm and says, “Thanks for believing in me, Mrs. Adams.”

“No problem, Sam,” I say, just as though I had never doubted him. 

I feel the tug of a weedy wrong perception being yanked out of the garden in my brain and replaced with a flower of truth.  Thank you, Sam.

copyright 11.04.10
smokey road publishing
all rights reserved

Parasailing the Coast

Aloha Coasties,

     Parasailing along Hawaii coast inspires today. Enjoy!

Boat Channel Surfing

Aloha coast writers,

     Surfing in boat channel inspires today's writing. Enjoy!

Happy Halloween

Coastal Writer

Writers on the Coast

Banyan Beach

Aloha writers,

     Banyan tree on Waikiki Beach inspires today's writing. Enjoy!

Red Freighter

Aloha poet,

      Red freighter in Hawaii coastal waters with surfers inspire
today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writers

Writers on the Coast

Coastal Writers

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Rainbow

Aloha poets,

     Wide rainbow appears along Hawaiian coast, inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer

Coastal Urban Surfing

Aloha writers,

     Surfing on urban coast inspires today. Enjoy!

Surfing the Channel

Aloha writers on the coast,

     Surfing the boat channel inspires today's writing. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer

Surfers at Sunset

Aloha writers,

     Surfing at sunset inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Fun

Aloha writers,

      Relaxing along the coast is great, especially for writers. Enjoy!

Writers on the Coast

Stand-up Paddle surfer

Aloha coastal writers,

     Paddle surfer on the coast inspires today. Enjoy!

Writer's on the Coast

Sunset Surfers

Aloha coastal writers,

     Surfing at sunset along the coast inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Photo Poetics

Coastal Shadow Craft

Aloha writers,
     Boaters, sailing, and cruise ship appear as coastal "shadow craft."  Enjoy!

Coastal Writer's Life

Coastal Mountain Surfers

Writers on the Coast

Coastal Sailing

Aloha writers,
     Sailboat cruises close to shore, inspires today's fiction. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer Life

Writer on the Coast

Writer on the Coast

Coastal System Science Fiction

The Unique Zone

As it views the ocean and emits its swampy hues, the rainforest languishing in time feels something; a celebration bath of its own pleasure, cool springs flow forth as healers with refreshment, pure water acting as an original gift holding interwoven genes, fashioning, symbolic meanings showing their face only to disappear amidst the jungle's timeless endeavor. The forest collects itself as a gem, a pendant, on the vastness of the artifact that was once pure earth, though in its first minute of feeling bodies caressed against it for a time, cradled in her waters, never knowing they would be part of unrecorded history. In the running of pure water, the rainforest holds the belief it is waiting for someone, or something (like artificial intelligence?), something beyond the intelligence of the ribosomes and lysosomes in her own cellular mechanisms, something that should have arrived by this time, in the 21st Century. 

Yes, the world is being fashioned and designed by some singular sword, preparing for something beyond the feelings of the cringe dark forests evoke. It experiences the need to touch or taste, not products of man's most technological advances, but the truth of its own fantasy, inspired by new heights that thrill in traditions that still link to the past the business of beauty, even to the untrained eye, playful, yet romantic; something that resembles both humor and delirium, as if an ambitious designer throwing darts and barbs at itself and others. 

This rain forest's rain waters are not superior to the waters found in the currents of the vast ocean below, though itself fulfilling primal thirsts, worshipping no waters, yet, goddess-like; springing no rivers with  sacred names, no worshippers of headwaters, being mythological yet creative, traditional but innovative, offering no free rebirth, thinking of itself as a continual recently reintroduced amenity stretching full length to the cliff tops, as if in sheer physical pleasure--sunset to sunset--emblazoned in the unique zone. Yes, it feels something.

Coastal System SciFi

Aloha coastal writers,

     Tropical blues and patterns inspire today's science fiction. Enjoy!

Coastal Fiction

Coastal Science Fiction

Coastal Jungle flashSciFi

The Standards

Here in the jungle the progress advances, a regimen from the outsiders (not just mere observers) that  rises among the shadows, key thresholds to the business world. It comes here to retrieve something nature has misplaced, in its own way of emboldening opposition in these uninhabitable islands; dares to question the quiet points of political reference as to who controls this private sector of the vast ocean. It's true, the system established here reaches a level of technology beyond advanced, beyond anything the most aggressive analysts and history books could ever predict back in the 20th Century (a time when some populations had advanced technology and some had the more primitive).  And, what about that 19th Century manifest destiny mumbo jumbo? As if by bravura, long after those events struggled against nature, trying to unite all humanity, this system has a singular human mission. This network meets all the considerations as the final only hope for mankind, even as 19th Century philosopher standards utter,  "Nobody seems to notice man is part of humanity, even if humanity has the word man in it." Yes, the system this time is part of nature, which joins this primordial jungle territory with the new, creative, technology, a technology without campaigns of rancor and thirsts for power. This time, the robots will obey.

Coastal Water

Coastal SciFi Poetics

Coastal Science Fiction

The Collective

     It seems so perfect, so smart, that they stopped thinking about it altogether, this new design. The humans approach the twenty second century strong enough to build and shape their robots to be individuals, analytic yet friendly, and it felt, gradually, as if they too were finally ready for, and could be included in, a life among neighbors and friends, as a true collective entity. Humans see the robots as an answer, something that could finally control the damage, not to the system itself, but the damage to individuals attached to the system. Humans think of these new entities as the final solution (or penultimate one?), to thousands-of-years-old problem, the problem of how to separate once and for all politics and religion. The new gene recovery online worldwide system(G.R.O.W.S.) these new robots bring is finally reversing what the anti-dumping  pharmaceutical laws could never: the effects of government mandated gene therapy; maybe this time, coming together as one race, humans will rise, sleepy from the pharmacy instilled government(P.I.G.) laws, the ones of enforced drug taking, purchased  at exchanges made convenient as driving through to pick up a couple of burgers and some fries. Yes, exhausted from the specter of belief, the specter of listening  promises and speculation (now known by all as faith based)--the true geneticists know it as the god gene activated--and even still the humans hold the belief in poverty as feast amidst a fat cat world of pill makers; belief in the initiatives partisan serving youth(T.I.P.S.Y.), belief in the validators of international compassion enterprises(V.O.I.C.E.), belief in tax paid bureaucratic health systems with their smooth blend of political voice and compassion. Yes, these new robots will finally, once and for all, as a collective, handle this god gene (run amok?) for the humans.

Coastal SciFi and Poetics

Rainforest Splash

Aloha poets,

     Dark hues of rainforest splashes inspire today's poetry. Enjoy!


Dizzyland Express


Outbreaks on the horizon international consortium report
Surveillance with an upgrade for diseases of sport
International officials with health specialists to turn
Laboratory spawns to measure threats of global churn


Alteration in food chain or materials to process
To collect data and respond in a timely crash
Genetic detectives search and probe the source
To determine how widespread on eradication's horse


Public health robots with practical skills local
Tracking disease speed and response so vocal
Outbreaks damage tourist and trade
Step up efforts to detect and grade


Global algorithm epidemics on the ground
Defense department care systems found
Financial insurer health government backed
Robots to human ratio pathogen systems cracked


Global intelligence services telecom
Undetected amidst expansion to measure threat
Shortage data nurse surveillance doctor response
Jumps bacteria, virus animal human launch


copyright 9.23.10
patrick d.adamd
all rights reserved

Coastal Writer

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Coastal Cruise

Aloha coastal writers,
     Offshore coastal cruise sailing inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writers

Writers on the Coast

Coastal Writer

Writer on the Coast

Surfing Sunset Freighter

Aloha coastal writers,
     Freighter and surfing at sunset inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal Science Fiction

The Split Perception

     "Oh, intelligence, intellectualism. It wins. It's beyond Suzi's test scores, her admission ranking. This is far too overwhelming for me, or any other so-called human out here.. Don't you get it? There is that split in perception, there is that industry, the manufacturers of Continent I, there are these machines, and those medical exchanges, and corporations with their universities, and stock options, and the inducer networks, COmtrAX. There's this war disease stuck inside my brain, and the newest quantum ultra eco encoder robiot(Q.U.E.E.R.) right here at theOutpost; do you notice how she keeps her photovoltaic cells active even in the dead of night? And, don't forget, there's her Xradio signal. And her event horizon. Yes, Suzi's very own event horizon."

     "Cooper. Wake up."

     "But I am awake, well, mostly awake. And I've got this now. No, I'm not going to radio this one in. We can cover this, can't we?"

     "How? Just sit in front and start banging on keyboards?"

     "The old ones took the time to scan sequences on their screen with the courtesy of purging  in the presence of a human. She never does that."

     "Yes. I know."

     "I've won her heart but not her mind?"

     "Cooper, you are dealing with a being who will never say 'good night' to you or to anyone, for that matter. Only COmtrAX can access her data base. It appears she's been letting something else in. She simply has inaccurate information because she's reading inaccuracies being fed to her by someone."

     "Or some thing."

Writer on the Coast

Coastal Banyan Clouds

Aloha coastal writers,

     Beach banyan and coastal clouds inspire today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer's

The Confidential

     Cooper shows some seriousness, looks into the monitor.

     "Wait, now," Suzi says, grabbing his arm. She pauses for a moment to look at his face, a shear sense of togetherness comes over her, undeniable. Remaining for a moment, feeling his presence, she lets go.

     "She likes you," Carter says with a genuine sense of surprise. Did he consider she was programmed in practical skills, an operator, coded for production developer? No, he most likely didn't. Does he know she is also coded as a business analyst engineer? He probably doesn't care.

     "How are you? Cooper says, focusing on Carter's joking. Cooper is fatherly in a knowing way in his knowledge of Suzi. He is disappointed by her deception though.. Does the network think he favors her? Why does she try to make him look stupid?

      "Did you get copies of her data to the appropriate parties?" Carter says.

     "Yes, I hope so. Thanks for the back-up."

     "Well, only she knows the measures needed to ensure the true confidentiality of her data," he says smiling, distrusting. 

     "Confidential to who?" Cooper asks.

     "Uh-huh, that's what I thought" Carter says, his anger rising, his body a stature of fear, growing hate, and new found curiosity. "You know, there's no safety net, no failsafe, when all else fails, you know, well, it's-"

     "Over?"

Surfing and Boating the Channel

Aloha writers,
     Surfing in the boater's channel inspire to today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer's Life

Coastal Danger Fun

Aloha coastal writers,

     Coastal fun in the danger zone inspires today. Enjoy!

Coastal SciFi Writer's Life

The Fashionista

     Artificial intelligence holds the promise of mankind's hope in the form of its greatest aspirations, worthy acquisitions. The intelligence of theIsland, notable and shunned, yet elite, prudent above the ocean, an expectant child on old stuffed couches with their promise of a Saturday morning cartoon. Survival itself had fallen naked as a running rival between human intelligence and artificial, sprinting forward at some archipelago and falling behind on another. The machines, transparent, long term holders of data, are sturdy but with a new liquidity, not like the old ones fixed to the cement and steel of industry, are created by the old ones.  The contest here would be decided by nature, whose own slow evolution process had created the human sort of intelligence. 
     Suzi has become willing to address the most fashionable of scientific concerns, for now she also computes in fashionista code, true to her instincts.  She will never have to overcome convention to express herself, she is, to date, the finest quantum universe intelligence theory transponder eco robiot(Q.U.I.T.T.E.R.).

Coastal View Surfers

Aloha coastal writers,
     Coastal view of industry and surfers inspire today. Enjoy!

Coastal Writer's Life

White Sailboat Blue Ocean

Aloha coastal science fiction writers,

     Small white sailboat on a big blue ocean inspires

today's coastal jungleSciFi. Enjoy and play on!

The Alternate

     It changes into a darker veil, dims little by little. At these moments, the jungle becomes something else, anything it wants to be, as it settles into more darkness, anything, that is, except gloomy. It has the mountains in the north and east, towers to the jungle valley. For the next few hours it can be breezy as the soils cool, and later as the ocean cools too, she is permitted to enter her own dream world as shrouds of wet air move across her valley. New signals will arrive soon enough. 

     By now, Cooper goes into deep thought, and by the time it's quiet enough to hear the waterfall, with its convincing rush, he will be making some firm decisions. If he doesn't start his routine now, he will have to answer to somebody, or, something later. For now he is left with the comfort of his own thoughts, a scientist in the quiet of his own lab, conceptualizing, not knowing by morning he would emerge to a disheartening sight.

Coastal IslandSciFi Writer

The Embracement

     It stands up above the ocean, where two mountain ranges are connected by a vast waterfall to the jungle valley below. The island stays within its allotted boundary, far from the more mobile tectonic plates, and lets water rush its own convincing response to gravity. All around the island the ocean holds itself in relative silence (it's had its fill of iron oxides and potash from the Continent II mining corporations giving its distinctive lime green, and more importantly, accumulations of iron nitrates, creating a permanent death zone, but of course the humans are working on it). The island itself , somehow, feels no such pressure from those irons and the nitrates, in fact the island seems to be oblivious of any emission coming from the ocean. There is a sense that any body that washes into the ocean would attract nothing active, no shark frenzy awaiting demise, no rip tides, no ocean current streams, nothing, only the stillness of lime green and its petroleum eating bacteria; other than that, not a thing--unless, of course, you count the lapping of the shoreline as nothing. It would seem that even the green moss hanging from huge black trees have arrived here by mistake too, the iron nitrates are odd even to them. Yes, that's it. the island itself has been on its own secret journey, taking Nature and her vast powers and sheer dimensions along for the ride, as if on an excursion to an amusement park, or, better yet, a State Fair, at least if those so-called states still existed. This island stands proud, erect, nothing can overwhelm her here. She is both a beacon and something else, yes, something to embrace. 

Coastal SciFi Writer's Life

Pure Blackness

She goes outside in a quick darting motion. Suzi has seen this before and it affects her logic pods. She was coding in pure blackness when the mere sight of his eyes offended her. She looks directly into the sun with her micro intensity laser kits(M.I.L.K.)--is it recommended she view directly into the sun, with micro lasers? She never reads her best practices manual anymore, she lately just seems to forget those types of things. She is in no mood to talk, which is why she came out here.

She says to Cooper,"You shouldn't have spoken like that to me."  

Cooper hesitates for a few moments, amazed at Suzi turning on him with anger.  

She says, "Shouldn't have spoken."

This time, Cooper says nothing on purpose; he knows exactly what's happening with ComTrax's #1 invention.

Coastal Danger Zone

Aloha coast writers,

     Take a chance in danger to inspire today's coast beachSciFi.

Enjoy and play on!

The Passion

At least his instincts for survival remain intact. At this moment Cooper rushes into the future toward a hastened death--but death of what? At least he knows Suzi won't release him from her paralyzing gaze. He wanders around, as if on an an old pig trail in an ancient forest, skewered with passion. So quick and clean are her intentions that Cooper likes to imagine the expression on his face hasn't changed, even though he senses a burning flash of passion and the warmth of his own blood inside his body. Faced with all of these choices, his eyes continue meeting hers, firmly. He won't leave, even now, with a face is as bloodless as hers. 

Coastal Beach Boater

Aloha Coastal SciFi writers
    Sailboat behind a coastal palm inspires today's beach SciFi.
Enjoy and play on!
     
The Cool Sullen

Seeing no sign of animal life, they don't seem to feel the full extent of the cool sullen. The humans have grown accustomed to no other creatures here. The machines they invented, the ones that replaced the animal kingdom, are now simply a way station for evolution, hard driven by intelligence; and, to further their misery, humans use their best machines to create better machines--with the casual nature of what was once human intelligence--within the arms of nature; built atom by atom, cellulosic bonds lie as template to the future. Nature had used her best genes to create better genes, where information lay, for millennia, as if to ambush something imagined. Here data is not new, but is in communication with  information; yes, data and information in communication in the jungle, beyond the cliffs above the beach.  

Beach Coastal SciFi

Wandering Blind

As the turn of the 22nd Century approaches, theHumans, the ones who have gained their dominance from the now lost age, continue to refuse relinquishment to the new Art-Intelle-Robiots(A.I.R.). It is amazing the way Dr. Cooper still has the courage to argue with Suzi. It is also amazing that he doesn't realize his own significance in her world. It is so oblivious that it makes Suzi uncomfortable in the way a sunless day makes her feel queasy in logic, only for the reason of low available photons(L.A.P.), and, god knows she doesn't have the time or heart to reflect on this new data. Here she is, far removed from the lights and synthetics of her Continent II, in a place that scowls with  hostility as if it had realized its own insignificance in her world. It is even worse in the  

uneasy stillness that surrounds the lab building. 

Suzi would never point out his error, a point that makes her far more disappointing than he thought she could ever be, even when she was new. This is the area of research Cooper, in the beginning, looked forward to feeling a sense of accomplishment, never this feeling of wandering blind.

Coastal Writer's Life

The Old Data

The machines, she thinks, will devise again the gene therapies for the first phase of the 21st century for reasons that appear, at least to theHumans, closely associated to the health advancement core knowledge systems(H.A.C.K.S.) of the early turn of the century.  Suzi's face tightens. She senses the full effect of new data streams of new information, and as the senior robiot in charge (although in reality she is quite young compared to the others), assesses it, and decides the old analytic data(T.O.A.D.) doesn't qualify as information and goes into her own modal energy(H.O.M.E.), readies herself for Dr Cooper's meeting at the bunker.  

In the laboratory, Carter scans the monitors and their screens. Carter is uneasy, he spends most of his time on edge; being grizzled and dark, aging in the face, as if he had spent his life as a sea captain in the early years--wide blue oceans and cool breezes--and still holds a lively form in his memory, the forward edges of his prefrontals. Suzi is afraid of him. How is it that he keeps his assignment, how does he figure out how to stay at theOutpost, and be her biostatistician? 

Coastal Writer

The Cool Ripple

He lets the reflection dance a little longer than usual. It is a comfort; it is way beyond those feelings, at least the way Dr Cooper remembers those feelings to be. On the ContinentII he may have been stuck in a lab cubicle, or a genetic kiosk extracting cells. But here, in this hallowed place, cool ripples dissipate the mirrored smoothness of the deep pools. This is the place for pure hypothesis anti nascent tracking android somatic yearnings(P.H.A.N.T.A.S.Y.)-- the sky is truly the limit, so many thoughts to be had, and in such a place of beauty. 

Less than a century ago, animals were thought to have roamed this jungle, and as Dr Cooper senses a presence just below the surface (he doesn't let his terror freeze him), it's as if they are still here. It seems a fresh smell waits and watches; is he received by these pools as something to be stalked?

Coastal Writers

The Sunset

 Yarns of innocence through genetic data emerge. It holds truth just as did the information of the final days of the grand information age now transcended(G.I.A.N.T.).  In fact, growing legends of data continue to flow from these particular island plants. Sunshine caresses its softness and appreciates no changes occur suddenly here within this realm as the sun drifts downward. The slow tint of the horizon's sky blue tangles with the ocean blues, as if a playful picnic tug-of-war. The azure reds and oranges of the early night sky bring a surprising coolness to the island.  Just as these messenger colors appeared, the sky over the now navy blue ocean quickens toward night as if to race home with the promise of tomorrow's good news.

Coastal Shadow Surfers

Aloha Coast writers,

     Surfers at sunset on the coast inspire today's coastalSciFi. 

Enjoy and play on!

Jungles

     The jungle watches; as a source of healing, its physical world stands, as if protecting itself, for millennia, with pummeling winds and waters. The island holds in her bosom calm breezes and cool trickles, those that would meet geophysical forces--in a convergence on the jungle floor--to make healing molecules, the genes, alkaloids with a message; in time they would become valuable, only after the great emergence: nature's intelligence manifesting itself in mind, a human mind.

Coastal Banyan Beach Clouds

Aloha Coast writers,

   Beach banyan with coastal clouds inspire today's coastalSciFi.

Enjoy and play on!

The Jungle's Heart

Morning comes with less warning than the night.  Out of blackness, the first shroud of solar helio alpha red photons(S.H.A.R.P.), early messengers from the sun.  The stampede of photons continue until slow sunbursts make their presence over the mountain.  

Days are never hot, nor completely dry for that matter, as the cycle of energy progresses. Each day never complete in its promise of extremes. Each one predictably different.  In the jungle, the smell of the air remains thick with fragrance, the effervescence of alkaloids as if nourishment itself floats. Life flourishes. Water drips from heaven's nourishing nipples, to ease the jungle's receptance of solar powdery photons, the sun's incessant spoon feeding, as if a mother herself. Early evening's color cornucopia also replenishes and feeds the jungle's heart

Coastal flashSciFi

Outpost Island

By the beginning of the 3rd millenium, the primal human genome sequences had been worn to mere remnants. The islands, once a members of an archipelago, all gone now since the Ring of Flame eruptions.  A natural catacomb of techtonic plate bored with intricate tunneling by 21st century geo-oceanographers to prevent the impending geological catastrophe left the area to be deemed highly magnetized.  Their handiwork had accelerated the demise of the island chain.  Now only one remains.  

The evidence of this island, her granite rock preponderance had persisted over the great erosions by the end of the 21st century.  Their were no ancient cave labyrinths or deep caverns here that allowed an unwanted entrance to the incessant eroding effects of the pounding ocean.  So persistent had this island been that the ocean appears to have given up on its wanting of rock demise.

  Only the wind had been allowed to stroke its slow paintbrush on the landscape here.  Guarded for an apparent reason other than to be a military secret, this island offered no sanctuary to humans.  Once in history had she been of interest, during the last great war.  She was a supply depot for the armies of Continent II.  Her mountains too steep for human habitat, only the south eastern beach and lower mountain valley had been fortified with archaic cement. Cement pillboxes from ancient wars. The central post was up the valley floor, built at the doorstep to the jungle. No human healers or mind explorers of early 21st century had gained access here. In fact, the ritual of human battles of the 2nd millenium ended before this outpost was brought into full service.  The unusual electromagnetic forces altered the equipment and machines of the 21st century war lords.  An annoyance they would rather do without. So the island stands alone, a gem only unto herself for millennia. Never used for sacred ritual or military prisons.