How's a writer to put a suitable bio in such a small space as the profile permits?
I welcome feedback, even from you stranger! Some of my favourite work has been after edits from criticism and being told why most of the poem is crap. If a line, verse or concept inspires you, take my words and run with them. Share in the Fediverse and anywhere else as long as you include a link to the source.
Related to this fiction by @wordsmith : Browser engines are so complex that even Microsoft don't think it's worth maintaining their own. And there's a reason for this: the big players do not want just anyone to be able to implement the technology required for accessing the web, as it would make it harder to control the flow of information. Similarly we don't have encrypted emails because that does not suit the big players - they can't scan your mails if you encrypt them.
Unpleasant biological problem, North American space supremacy
Ew and wtf, phone. Not a suitable #autocourgette for a Sunday morning.
in the place
the bend by
where the brook
I'll be remembering
how today turned
They could change the browser, remove the offending code, read up on the toolchain needed to compile the code but gawd, the code base was /massive/. Languages they'd never heard of. And what is "quantum uncertainty compilation"? This was way out of their depth. They shut down the antique, refilled the closet and kept their dissenting voice quiet, on the blog that nobody read.
"No. Not you folks. Not you too". They stared at the icon of the browser. It wasn't one of those sickly corporate expectorants. This was #FreeSoftware. This was /meant/ to be free software. But here it was, gatekeeping who they were allowed to converse with, what subjects were "acceptable". What morals were the right morals.
"Page not found bullshit again, huh?" F12 brought up a panel for diagnostics. They nosed around until the network data was in front. HTTP 451. What used to mean something very different had been twisted into a "We don't agree with you" cure-all. So who didn't agree with them, and so strongly that they weren't even permitted to /look/ at a board that disagreed with most people?
Then they realised that this wasn't a reply entry, it didn't originate from the board. It was in the request.
Boxes piled up haphazardly outside the closet until the old computer was exhumed. They sat down on the floor and fired it up. Plugged it into an adaptor that had seen better days, then into the fibre optic port in the router. "You'll never see a QFi connection in your life, but welcome to Bodge City".
Some of the software even had updates, incredibly. Knowing better than to browse the boards with outdated software they dutifully waited a moment for the browser to open and typed.
Usually avoiding the tumult of the boards, they tapped it the address of the old privacy board they used to frequent, back in the days when it was worth pushing back.
"Page not found". Oh come on, they knew this gal. She'd have never gone dark. She'd have ranted /to/ the dark if her audience left.
F12. Nothing F12. "I'm sure F12 opened the console". Sigh.
Bouncing circles filled with colour to represent "Message read" and then a ghost pen danced across the paper.
"I think it's still going thanks to technogrouches like you, but they were busted a few years ago for selling pensils and those wax sticks."
"Busted?! You're kidding me. Please tell me you are kidding me."
"Nope. No software, no words. Can't have the masses saying what they want."
The microscopic speaker emitted soft scritches as the words flowed on to the conduit paper. It has been years since a pen literally touched paper.
"So every time I look at the design, it makes the bile rise. Ugh. I should take up your offer of visiting. Doesn't your metro have that thrift shop? Maybe they have some proper pens".
"Folk these days poke fun at me for calling this thing a 'smartpen', since they've known nothing else. I remember being able to write what I want. Draw as my imagination desires. The thought of...software /deciding/ for me? And not even me! For them! It's only 'smart' in that it was an act of genius to make this thing the only writing implement you can buy these days". They hit "post" on the blog entry. Nobody read it but it felt better getting it out anyway.
"Error 42: An attempt was made to reproduce a Copylocked design. Three successive attempts will result in your pen being disabled for 24 hours. Upgrade to silver membership to permit limited reproduction benefits?"
They stabbed the "No" and its successive, insistent attempts at manipulation. Discounts, marketing spiel. Then the real slap in the face: examples. Their design, extrapolated, to show what would have been "allowed".
They tried again. It bleeped again. Eyes narrowing, they tried the same design on the scrap paper.
A press on the top of the smartpen displayed its Heads Up Display. Error 42. "What am I meant to do with that? What does that even mean?"
Their creative flow already lost, a look online for the manual soured their mood. "Please login to access this content". Tap tap tap. "Subscription level bronze confirmed. Access to manual granted".
"Huh? Can't be out of ink already". Scribbled swirls on a scrap of paper bled from the nib, a masterwork of nanotechnology meant this pen would keep painting words years after it started. Words, swirls, anything the artist desired.
Well, not anything...
we don’t live
in a world
to be a poet
contains a crazy
Reclining into recluse
of inked words
and paper dreams
to root the hurt
to mine the
— inspired by a phrase reference in Late Migrations (A Natural History of Love and loss) by Margaret Renkl
Poet. Geek. Ginger. Only sorry about the poet bit. Mostly my own #poetry, inspired by others, the world around me and the universe inside.
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