3 thoughts on “Interzone #279

  1. THE BACKSTITCHED HEART OF KATHARINE WRIGHT
    by Alison Wilgus

    “It strikes me, at times. How close you’re skating to a hole in the ice.”

    At times, indeed. Except if you are a transchronological aviator like Katharine (call her Kitty?), buoyed up by retrocausal laminar thermals, each a backstitch in time… an embroiderily homely and storgically poignant account of the Wright family, Orville and Wilbur, the famous inventors, and their sister Katharine who grows older before our eyes, their sister who eventually optimises the exhaustive strictures of her healing (if close-ended) powers of time travel by eventually becoming Kitty Hawk herself in name and mode?

  2. THE FUKINAGA SPECIAL CHIP JOB by Tim Chawaga

    “No stock, but the smell of Potsy’s stogies filled the hold…”

    A hilariously hyper-imaginative story of forking paths on the cusp of suspended disbelief, amid floating cities and other cities, including subsurface communities, and instead of the previous story’s storgic propellers, we here have SF-Borgesian quests by wide boys with Wright-family-like nicknames amid these cities, quests for the eponymous holy-grail of snacks. I can taste it now. And time travel equivalent to surrogate deaths in parallel cities is evoked as a sense of human death as when the taste vanishes….not an anti-climax or bathos but a satisfying climax that depends on its anti-climactic or bathetic nature, I guess.

  3. THIS BUDDHAFIELD IS NOT YOUR BUDDHAFIELD by William Squirrell

    “The mansion hangs suspended between the uppermost layers of the Uranian atmosphere and rotates slowly. Each of the nine floors is a hexagonal platform. They are arranged in a staggered spiral.”

    Here, intriguingly, a maid is hired to clean up after herself, an endless spiral of self upward or downward? It also reminds me of the layered Borgesian cities earlier and their subsurface lower life. And of Katharine’s storgic duties when sending the money she earns to her family. And a gradual fabrication of propellers and flight? Meanwhile I see the ‘Buddhafield’ as my own gestalt, so there! A masterstroke on my part, or the author’s? Some beautifully expressed conceits in this work.

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