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They are cutting you out of me, these creatures in their sealed white suits. Piece by piece their knives and curiosity are divorcing the gifts you have given me from the gifts I have prepared for you. Gone is the eye that gazed out over the cyan–purple sunset on Taurus 4. Severed are the muscles of the forearm which sculpted your old flesh into masterpieces. A gap yawns where once was the tongue that tasted your rich adventures.
My lips are dry and cracked. I cannot lick them.
The younger one wields the knife today. His name is Marjan and his golden–toned flesh looks about 20 years old, in the way terrestrians count their age. My forearm, the same one they’ve excavated from, is back in the metal vice. Marjan stretches its split skin and wedges cold metal forceps into the work pit, where muscles glisten and blood pulses weakly in bluish cords. His heavily gloved fingers reach in, and pain spasms up the shackled arm as he presses down.
—Whoa. Come check this out.
His supervisor leaves the churning sequencer and comes across the sterile floor of the lab, white and cumulaic in her hazard suit, blending into her surroundings like the camouflage of terrestrian animals. Her name is Jae. She leans over and peers through the glass of her helmet at my immobilized limb.
—You see that?
She takes the forceps from him and elicits more pain–spasms from the arm. With my remaining eye I observe the purse of her lips as she examines the feeble fightback of my flesh.
—That’s definitely new growth, right? The muscle is regenerating!
Marjan picks up his scalpel. They want more from me, but this time it doesn’t matter. I have not eaten. I am pinned down to a steel table in a box of unbreakable glass and plastic. The air here is irradiated to sterility, an artificial and flavourless concoction of nitrogen/oxygen/carbon dioxide. If my core has dredged matter from these meager surroundings for fleshcrafting, it is meaningless. Utterly meaningless. Take it all away.
(from my recent story in Uncanny magazine, “The Blood That Pulses In The Veins Of One”: http://uncannymagazine.com/article/blood-pulses-veins-one/)
|What I Write||
I write stories with a bit of blood, a bit of magic, and very occasionally a bit of love.
Everything is queer as hell.
Secondhand Bodies, Lightspeed (January 2016)
Cold Hands And The Smell Of Salt in Daily Science Fiction (Jan 23)
Storytelling For The Night Clerk in Strange Horizons (June 16)
The first 15,000 words of my novel, The Storyteller’s Bride, about a woman who discovers a city where books are people after her very bestselling author husband falls into a coma while struggling through a manuscript.
MANY MONEY. MANY MANY MONEY.