“Life in the bio-dome won’t be so bad, better than that gravel pit you live in now. Give it a try. Worst-case, you get thrown into the composting.”
To the passengers’ dismay the train made of light continued to blink.
After the inexplicable failure of the tenth bomb disposal robot, they began to suspect robot suicide.
Twisting time and space was easy for them, as easy as sinking in, folding yourself into milky furrows.
The electronic jazz men arrived like a gang, a gang of infinite cool.
At the station she set down her luggage, adjusted her skirt. The sad and beautiful android contemplated her false memories.
Hundreds of tiny drones swarmed chaotically around the body, singing the required company jingle.
From The Machine’s point of view, they were simply sticks of meat standing between itself and a delicious power source.
Touching the button revealed a complex, detailed wall of existential options.
A room full of monks sit around a reliquary that contains the desiccated remains of God.
It was the story of a family told over a thousand years, with puppets and a psychadealic liquid light show.
Every experiment was a failure, until now. There would need to be some stitching. Maybe another attachment. But a success.
The engine continued to be jammed by the flood of toads.
Somehow the letters on the sign had rearranged themselves.
The concept was complex, and the 19th century machine was old and rusty.