Toes hunted through muck, finding a sharp curve and lifting the shell to the basket slung from her neck.
No arms don't mean no work, her dad said. Clams need digging. If her eyes fell out and got ate up by fish, he'd probably say she don’t need eyes, neither.
Her toes rubbed something rough, like a cat's tongue. She jerked when it moved, wrapping around her foot. She lifted her knee.
Sharp pain tore up her spine, exploding from her shoulders. The starfish dropped away. She slapped at it with a perfect, coral-coloured pair of pointed arms.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Regeneration is part of 101 fiction issue 12.