There was only one aisle, wide enough to spread out my arms and brush the shelves with my fingertips—not that I wanted to get too close. The shelves creaked under the weight of thousands of dusty jars containing hands tinted amber by formaldehyde; eyeballs trailing optic kelp; and butter bean fœtuses that watched me with milky, unformed eyes.
Sap parts, all of them.
First published in F&SF – July/August 2017
Praise for I Am Not I:
“[it] may at some turns remind you of Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith and at others of China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station; either way, we think it will impress you.”
“[it] gives the impression at first read that it’s some kind of fantasy […] but once you get into it, you realize that it’s the purest kind of science fiction. A chilling little discourse that assures us that no matter how people’s bodies change, their minds remain the same.”
“Our narrator […] has a secret and plans of her own and that makes for a great story. I’d like to see more stories in this world.”