LIVE – R012

“When we look at life forms, we see fixed entities… But this shows in fact how dynamic they are. They change from second to second…”

J. Craig Venter,  Wired.Com  2010-05-20

 Angela Weiss was born on October 29, 1929. The Great Depression, Black Tuesday. There was a photograph on the North Wall in her library at her Cliff-Home Palace Of Light, situated at the peak of Parrot Cove edging the Atlantic Sea. She knew every pixel of the grainy black-and-white bird’s-eye angle view of the New York Stock Exchange after the Market Crash. Happy birthday, Angela… Earn that Karma…

On the opposite wall facing South — she enjoyed the blend of symmetry and disharmony in the room — hung a full-length portrait of her father, Erik Parsons. Young Parsons in that photo appeared to be in his early twenties, wearing enough medals — track team awards, all genuinely earned — to make him compress a half-inch shorter. Angela was impressed by her father’s innate speed and endurance.

Celebration, that’s what Father said running was. Young Angela loved Father. Father was a hybrid, an anomaly, chimera, or something… She knew it! Father loved words. More than mere communication, he said, words were Art. Words were Culture. Alive. After all, he was still breathing, dynamic, cognitive and charming even now, this second decade of the twenty-first century. How much longer?

Vitor Weiss grasped the electronic thingy named Corvette Clicker in his right hand. In the other hand he clutched forcibly the entity he had christened the Monkey-Mind-Machine. Angela told him these items would be helpful during his venture into the violet evening,  stalking spent sunlight burning dull tungsten crowding the edge the horizon.

He beheld his new disciple, Aleister the smelly one, and the 2012 Corvette Grand Sport Convertible, gleaming enticingly. Scented of synthetic oil, synthetic rubber, exotic adhesives meant to last a long time. Corvettes, even freshly coined, were all classics, Vitor knew. Vitor knew much. It was a design feature at the top of his genetic coding matrix.

Aleister was proud of his discovery, his newfound messiah, and an opportunity to demonstrate self-taught locksmithing trade trickery. Vitor asked Aleister, what now? Aleister was momentarily dumbfounded. What do you think stupid? We ride! That’s not a fake driver’s license is it! It reflects the rays much like the sea, little silvery and golden highlights of the moon and stars…

Aleister, how can we ride? Vitor, are you retarded? No… It is not a Vitor problem… What? It is you, Aleister! What?

You smell like the dead things found in the marshes at low tide… That’s what! Can you probe more deeply into this fortress we have breached? Fresh water, to wash, perhaps? Dry clothing not saturated from when you were frightened? Peed? Angela calls it Peed! Can you become like that Corvette obsidian car — fresh, new, stimulating, inviting?

Aleister glanced at Vitor then studied the painted concrete slab flooring. The man — albeit smart — talked weird. Worrisome. Aleister was not a genius, yet open-minded — however that word choice, “inviting”  left him wondering how NOVEL the night’s adventure was to be…

The Software Program reminded Angela Weiss of a Photo Editing Package her father had download from the Internet. Erik Parsons cherished it as if it were from an unearthly realm, he told her. Which it was — Software! A synergy of intuition, technology and art. The goals paralleled quite closely. Designing a synthetic reality, DNA — if one was talented, determined, and occasionally lucky — was much like…

Fabricating Cover Art for Book or ePub. Sometimes Father, a teetotaler most of his adult life, would become zombified around 02:00, exhale an exclamation starting with F, then stagger crookedly to bed up to the top-level of the cliff-home.

Are you OK, father? I’m finely fried, thank you, Angela. If the result is horrible; in the morning, I’ll delete it, that’s all…

What if Vitor Weiss, freshly crafted of  polynucleotides rather than color dots wasn’t viable? Was there…

A delete feature?

About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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