Half-time writer, all time joker. M. Maponi specializes in speculative fiction, and speculates on the best way to get his shit together.
Author of "Reality and Contagion" and "Consultancy Blues"
Upgrade Notes from the Atlanta Copbot
v1.0.0 Serve & Protect ## Changelog since v0.9.0 ### Features Automatic synchronization with APD's database. Connector to support generic criminal database [#102] Overhauled monitoring of the bot statistics, e.g. health status, ammo consumption, and self-management routines [#99] New software framework for handling I/O and supporting modular components, fully supporting the current model's peripherals. Capabilities to interface with newer and updated base models.[#65] New and improved danger heuristic Memory optimization to faster identify known faces [[#12](url)] . To be integrated with APD's mugshot data.
Violet Skies and White Fields
Violet skies and white fields. We cross a parking lot covered by a thick blanket of snow. Everything seems otherworldly – the concrete jungle of the city’s outskirts hidden beneath a white coating. Concrete jungle is a term I use with a poetic license, here. This is not NY. Not even remotely that important. It is a town, too mediocre to be called shitty.
The fates run a bar
The three fates run a bar in Bologna's central station, on the underground floor in between the 16th and the 17th track. Clotho, with round, South American face, a band-aid over her right eyebrow, Lachesis blonde and motherly, Atropos skinny as a thread, looking like an escapee high school girl that regularly skips lunch and P.E. class.
The stage IV muse
She is much better now. Still wearing my old clothes, but it almost looks intentional now, and dare we say - vintage? There's color on her cheeks and a little meat on her bones and she no longer looks like someone left out in the cold during long winter nights.
- Top Story - February 2024
Essentially, a tool
“You cannot hope to be successful as a writer without one of these, nowadays.” I stared at the little device with a disproportionate amount of diffidence. It didn’t look like much – a black box with rounded edges, a black screen, a few lines to mark where the buttons were. Just the latest slim-looking gadget funded by some tech billionaire. It reminded me of the early iPods, which was only indicative of how out-of-touch with modern trends I was getting.
Who the fuck would play mahjong in a park? I have spent the whole morning cleaning up my single room apartment to make it decent. Clothes are tidy, the bed has fresh sheets, the floor is scrubbed, I set up the square table and all. My boyfriend lingers around like a restless ghost asking how he can help. The couple we planned to play with postponed it to one hour later, because they overslept. Ok. It’s two in the afternoon. Then the message comes in.
Failing forward as a writer
When I started working as a system-engineer, I quite didn’t get that failure is a part of the process. I lived each mistake as a personal flaw, to the very obvious consequences. Mini screw-ups would annoy me and chip my self-esteem, while the occasional, once every two-years major screw-up led to anxiety spikes.
THE HUMAN BOX
I had the human box delivered to my house and it came in a discreet black package. Well, 'discreet' as a manner of speaking. It was a rather big box, a perfect cube one meter wide, and heavy too. There was no indication on which side was supposed to be up and - much to my dissatisfaction - it wasn't marked as fragile.