Washington Starter
In the shadow of Capitol domes and digital skies, where policy meets poetry, Washington awakens not to the roar of partisanship—but to the quiet brilliance of a lake built by human design and natural longing.
It’s the best artificial lake day in memory.
The air is still, curated to 72 degrees by environmental regulators. Drone bees hum past, pollinating bioengineered cherry trees lining the promenade—a perfect replica of the Tidal Basin’s spring splendor, without the risk of blight or flood. The scent of jasmine and cedar is piped subtly from beneath the walkways, a gift from the Urban Mood Optimization Bureau.
Children skip smooth pebbles across the lake’s mirrored surface. Not real pebbles, of course—these are smart stones: self-cleaning, soft on impact, and embedded with micro-lights that shimmer when thrown with joy. Their ripples are perfect, tracked in real time by the National Recreational Harmony Grid.
Senators stroll nearby, not in dark suits but light athletic wear, their legislative assistants nearby, projecting policy briefs via lens overlay. Even now, with minds deep in the debt ceiling or food equity algorithms, they pause—softened by the stillness. One reads from Lincoln’s letters aloud, his voice carried across the lake by directional audio waves. A few stop to listen.
Across the artificial shoreline, near the memorial to Synthetic Peacekeepers, an older couple sits in folding chairs, their eyes closed. They remember when this land was asphalt and bureaucratic dust. Now it is a sanctuary.
“Remember when the Potomac flooded this whole area?” the woman asks, not really needing an answer.
“Remember when the birds used to leave?” he replies.
Above them, a flock of autonomous waterfowl loops in elegant choreography—no waste, no mess, just a dance designed by artists and coders alike. Some tourists cheer. Others record the moment with augmented vision, filters set to “1940s optimism” or “First Republic Pastoral.”
The lake itself is a marvel—sustained by solar-hydration arrays, self-cleaning every 36 hours, fish simulated for balance, not sport. It reflects the sky in high-fidelity, so well that some mistake it for a screen. But it is real, or real enough. As real as this Washington, reborn by necessity, guided by machine reason and human memory.
At noon, the sky dome dims slightly for solar recharging, and the lake glows a little from below. Visitors lie back on biodegradable mats, watching clouds generated with intention—no storm risk, no UV threat. Only awe.
In the afternoon, a quiet speech plays through the trees. It is not live, but an AI composition drawn from 200 years of Presidential addresses, tailored to soothe, to inspire:
“Let us not fear the artificial, for it is only the sum of our desire made real. Let us build what we can no longer find in nature—peace, beauty, balance—and protect it not just as invention, but as inheritance.”
As the sun sets, simulated or not, the lake changes again. Lights bloom beneath the surface—soft teal, gold, lavender. A floating barge releases bioluminescent pollen to float gently across the water. It is unnecessary, inefficient, absolutely beautiful.
The best artificial lake day in Washington ends without ceremony. People pack up calmly, their moods elevated, cortisol levels down. Data confirms what the eye already knows: it was a good day.
And tomorrow promises to be better.