curse. A fascinating epic poem on which Layla bases her newest work. The masterpieces of ancient sibyls, catching dust in the museum. Spiders weaving in the sunlight, busy at their work. The details so clear, so well-chosen”
—Lois Tilton, Locus Online
“If you’re looking for an extraordinary and beautifully written story that will charm you, you’ve just found it. Spin is perfect entertainment for SFF readers, combining science fiction, fantasy and mythology. Excellent!”
—Rising Shadow
Buy the paperback direct from the publisher of Interzone: B-Format paperback with wraparound cover art by Ben Baldwin
£7 UK • £8 Europe • £9 USA/RoW including p&p or subscribe to five novellas for just £30, free postage worldwide
http://ttapress.com/shop/
Buy the epub/mobi from Weightless, Amazon and elsewhere
A MINUTE AND A HALF
JAY O’CONNELL
Illustrated by Daniel Bristow-Bailey
I contemplated the unfinished piece dominating the studio corner of my studio apartment. Six foot two inches of swirling curvilinear blackness speckled with pinprick points of light, like stars.
Not.
Quite.
Right.
Still and always unfinished.
I liked working in the Utrecht Modeling Field, that this thing wasn’t virtual, you could see the sculpture with the naked eye. It wasn’t augmented reality, an overlay – it was real. Ferro-carbon buckyballs suspended in shaped electromagnetic fields generated by room-temperature super-conductors in the base…or something. I’m no scientist.
The field occupied a ten foot tall cylinder of space between two three foot diameter plates mounted floor and ceiling. I could work the stuff with my bare hands, without datagloves. The modeling material was neutrally buoyant at sea level, so it didn’t take much to hold it in place. I could output replicas at any scale, and license the work through a network of Utrecht platforms installed in banks, insurance companies, and other tedious evil institutions all over the world.
Something tickled the back of my knee. I stepped away and frowned at the churning maelstrom that had engulfed the base of the piece.
Faith, my four year old daughter, had awoken prematurely from her afternoon nap, slipped out of the futon we shared, and toddled over. I recognized the look in her eye, the concentration, as she stood at the edge of the field, her tiny fists pummeling the modeling compound.
She looked like her mother, when she’d painted.
I knelt, meeting her eye. Faith smiled wickedly. I only made art when she was sleeping. I was there for her when she was awake.
“Ta-da!” Faith’s hands shot up in victory. “All done!” We high-fived.
I hoisted her onto my shoulders, her pink pajamaed legs hanging down around my neck. She ran her fingers over my scalp. A great shoulder rider, she expertly shifted her weight, her center of balance, as I fiddled with the controls at the base of the Utrecht.
I collapsed the field. I’d rather have worked with traditional materials, clay, steel, wood, but the modeling field was the kind of compromise that made sense, living in one of the highest rent city-states planetside.
It was the kind of compromise that sane people made.
I got out the play dough and sat cross-legged beside her. Faith made a series of blue blobby people followed by a green mound, and placed the blue blobs carefully on the green hillock.
Her smile faltered. She brought her fist down. Stony-faced, she pounded the hill into a pancake with blue polka dots.
“Ta-da,” she said sadly.
Within minutes, she was asleep with play dough clutched in both hands, her head in her lap. I carried her to the futon, put away the unused dough, and reloaded my sculpture. I kind of liked the soaring ovoids emerging from Faith’s chaos…but it still wasn’t finished.
Before Faith, I was a different man. A life-logger, an artist and a bipolar, narcissistic fuck. I missed that guy, sometimes, oddly. He was dead and gone, buried inside me, and I have a hard
—Lois Tilton, Locus Online
“If you’re looking for an extraordinary and beautifully written story that will charm you, you’ve just found it. Spin is perfect entertainment for SFF readers, combining science fiction, fantasy and mythology. Excellent!”
—Rising Shadow
Buy the paperback direct from the publisher of Interzone: B-Format paperback with wraparound cover art by Ben Baldwin
£7 UK • £8 Europe • £9 USA/RoW including p&p or subscribe to five novellas for just £30, free postage worldwide
http://ttapress.com/shop/
Buy the epub/mobi from Weightless, Amazon and elsewhere
A MINUTE AND A HALF
JAY O’CONNELL
Illustrated by Daniel Bristow-Bailey
I contemplated the unfinished piece dominating the studio corner of my studio apartment. Six foot two inches of swirling curvilinear blackness speckled with pinprick points of light, like stars.
Not.
Quite.
Right.
Still and always unfinished.
I liked working in the Utrecht Modeling Field, that this thing wasn’t virtual, you could see the sculpture with the naked eye. It wasn’t augmented reality, an overlay – it was real. Ferro-carbon buckyballs suspended in shaped electromagnetic fields generated by room-temperature super-conductors in the base…or something. I’m no scientist.
The field occupied a ten foot tall cylinder of space between two three foot diameter plates mounted floor and ceiling. I could work the stuff with my bare hands, without datagloves. The modeling material was neutrally buoyant at sea level, so it didn’t take much to hold it in place. I could output replicas at any scale, and license the work through a network of Utrecht platforms installed in banks, insurance companies, and other tedious evil institutions all over the world.
Something tickled the back of my knee. I stepped away and frowned at the churning maelstrom that had engulfed the base of the piece.
Faith, my four year old daughter, had awoken prematurely from her afternoon nap, slipped out of the futon we shared, and toddled over. I recognized the look in her eye, the concentration, as she stood at the edge of the field, her tiny fists pummeling the modeling compound.
She looked like her mother, when she’d painted.
I knelt, meeting her eye. Faith smiled wickedly. I only made art when she was sleeping. I was there for her when she was awake.
“Ta-da!” Faith’s hands shot up in victory. “All done!” We high-fived.
I hoisted her onto my shoulders, her pink pajamaed legs hanging down around my neck. She ran her fingers over my scalp. A great shoulder rider, she expertly shifted her weight, her center of balance, as I fiddled with the controls at the base of the Utrecht.
I collapsed the field. I’d rather have worked with traditional materials, clay, steel, wood, but the modeling field was the kind of compromise that made sense, living in one of the highest rent city-states planetside.
It was the kind of compromise that sane people made.
I got out the play dough and sat cross-legged beside her. Faith made a series of blue blobby people followed by a green mound, and placed the blue blobs carefully on the green hillock.
Her smile faltered. She brought her fist down. Stony-faced, she pounded the hill into a pancake with blue polka dots.
“Ta-da,” she said sadly.
Within minutes, she was asleep with play dough clutched in both hands, her head in her lap. I carried her to the futon, put away the unused dough, and reloaded my sculpture. I kind of liked the soaring ovoids emerging from Faith’s chaos…but it still wasn’t finished.
Before Faith, I was a different man. A life-logger, an artist and a bipolar, narcissistic fuck. I missed that guy, sometimes, oddly. He was dead and gone, buried inside me, and I have a hard
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