Her Fingers (New Bizarro Author Series)
Tamara Romero
Language: English
Pages: 38
ISBN: 1621050661
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A red-haired witch with steel fingers, dragged unconscious from the currents of the Adrenaline River. An isolated researcher suffering from a disease called the Gag. Covens of stoned witches dancing to techno in the forest. A punk whose specialty is replacing body parts with metal replicas. Sleepwalkers who don’t want to wake. Trees hiding a filthy secret—the result of a perverse dictator’s mind. A pink spy-swan, monitoring every move. A lyrical, dark and charming bizarro story of intrigue and discovery from a dimension just beyond ours.
and knelt down to venerate the Amalis stone miracle, the excrement secreted by each Tree’s roots. It redeemed and healed them. After twenty years, the Treemothers stopped screaming. They would be part of the trunks forever, until loggers, or nature, pulled them up by the roots. When the full moon emerged, the only nights that Treemothers allowed themselves to unleash their resin screams, covens surrounded them in an ecstasy of pleasure. Witches danced barefoot to old Erayan techno songs, while
legal drugs that were easily accessible, and many of them, like the Cosmic Steam, were free. There were Steam dispensers on every corner, like garbage cans. Everest, Tears, Shakespeare pills... colored chemistry, available to everyone: bionics, sleepwalkers or witches, in addition to ordinary Yimlans, of course. Although a dose of Astronaut limited to a single body part wasn’t supposed to make you lose consciousness, I gave up under the neon light and my mind flew away again. When I woke up,
lips were purple. She had been dragged by the Adrenaline river current up to me. I tightened my right leather glove and reached for her. I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to the shore. A lock of her red hair tangled with a reed. I fiercely tore the plant up the root and dragged her to dry ground. I took her chin between my fingers. I opened her mouth and listened. She wasn’t breathing. But my Ophelia was not dead; a pendulum of pulse weakly rippled from her neck, hitting my fingertips
stands who came over in Aletheia when the vigilant Swan was around. I became a bit nervous about its obscene animal gazes, and I even started to be very careful with my notebooks and my research. I closed them and kept them in safe places that he couldn’t get to with his beak. Sometimes the absurdity of my predicament hit me full force. Animals could not read, nor speak; he was just simulating communication with his montage of pre-recorded words and phrases. But if that hybrid bird computer
had started a couple of years ago on my right hand. Young Bishop opened the door without waiting for me to invite him in. That’s what he normally did, bursting into my cabin while I was absorbed in my paperwork. Bishop was a fifteen year old kid who wore metal studded black leather clothes. His face was painted black and white, and he had a red cap with wings. He was a good boy, but I suspected that metal wouldn’t be limited to his clothes and soon, despite Isaac’s reluctance, the boy would