Femlandia
(Sprache: Englisch)
One of PureWow s 9 Books We Can t Wait to Read in October!
A chilling look into an alternate near future where a woman and her daughter seek refuge in a women-only colony, only to find that the safe haven they were hoping for is the most dangerous...
A chilling look into an alternate near future where a woman and her daughter seek refuge in a women-only colony, only to find that the safe haven they were hoping for is the most dangerous...
lieferbar
versandkostenfrei
Buch (Gebunden)
28.80 €
- Lastschrift, Kreditkarte, Paypal, Rechnung
- Kostenlose Rücksendung
Produktdetails
Produktinformationen zu „Femlandia “
Klappentext zu „Femlandia “
One of PureWow s 9 Books We Can t Wait to Read in October!A chilling look into an alternate near future where a woman and her daughter seek refuge in a women-only colony, only to find that the safe haven they were hoping for is the most dangerous place they could be.
Miranda Reynolds always thought she would rather die than live in Femlandia. But that was before the country sank into total economic collapse and her husband walked out in the harshest, most permanent way, leaving her and her sixteen-year-old daughter with nothing. The streets are full of looting, robbing, and killing, and Miranda and Emma no longer have much choice either starve and risk getting murdered, or find safety. And so they set off to Femlandia, the women-only colony Miranda's mother, Win Somers, established decades ago.
Although Win is no longer in the spotlight, her protégé Jen Jones has taken Femlandia to new heights: The off-grid colonies are secluded, self-sufficient, and thriving and Emma is instantly enchanted by this idea of a safe haven. But something is not right. There are no men allowed in the colony, but babies are being born and they're all girls. Miranda discovers just how the all-women community is capable of enduring, and it leads her to question how far her mother went to create this perfect, thriving, horrifying society.
Lese-Probe zu „Femlandia “
ONETwo men and a truck are all it takes to finish us. The last of our furniture disappears out the front door and into the dark cavern of the bailiff's trailer. It's my bed, the one I shared with Nick for almost twenty years, a queen-sized mattress now in the hands of two burly men with tattoos and ponytails. They curse for the fifth time on this early-May morning and push the pillow-topped Tempur-Pedic slab into the last remaining space while Emma and I watch from the porch.
Mattresses are so stable when they're horizontal, much less so when you tip them on end. They flop and bend; they want to curl in on themselves. Maybe that's a metaphor I should remember. Maybe mattresses are like marriages. Or husbands.
Emma shudders as she watches the truck's rear doors slam shut, severing us from everything we own. "It's really gone, isn't it?" she says. I don't know whether she's talking about our stuff, the house, or the world outside. In any case, she's right. Sixteen years old is old enough to know.
"Yeah. All gone to shit." I pull her close and sip the last of my instant coffee, cold now. No microwave to heat it up. I could probably put the mug in the oven. By some miracle, the gas is still on, but I don't know whether it will be tomorrow.
No money changes hands before the men drive off. This move isn't on me; it's on the bank. Or the IRS. Or the credit card companies. Anyway on someone, somewhere, who still has a pot to piss in.
They even took our kitchen pots and pans, a full set of All-Clad stainless. "Restaurant quality," Nick had said when he brought the box home on our last anniversary. "Nothing but the best for my girl." One of the moving men hefted a paella pan and made a comment when he thought I couldn't hear. The boxes with the All-Clad went into the truck's cab.
We should hit the road soon, Emma and I, to get a start before
... mehr
the crowds turn our local Safeway into a kind of organized human zoo. If the past two weeks are anything to go by, the lines will already stretch a block by noon. The pushing and shoving and crying of I was here first will have started by eight in the morning. While I get two backpacks from the hall closet, I run through a list of where we might head next.
The front seat of my Mazda roadster would have been all right, uncomfortable as it sounds. Cramped and sticky, but all right. Someone came for it a week ago, minutes after our mobile phones made their last calls and texts. So the car won't do. With gas at twenty bucks a gallon-and that was last week when the pumps were still flowing-the Mazda wasn't really a car anymore, only a couple of leather seats on wheels, a static jumble of metal and wires that wasn't going anywhere. It was a car in name but not in function, like a clock with all the right parts that no longer tells time. Which is fine, I guess, since I have no idea where there is to go.
One of those last calls I made was to our local YMCA. We'd been members since Emma was born so she could use the pool. Sixteen years of seventy-five dollars a month should have been worth something-a cot or a yoga mat in the corner of the Pilates room. Use of the showers and towels, the same ones Beatrice, the massage therapist, used to drape carefully over my limbs when she worked on me.
Nobody answered the Y's phone, so I tried Emma's high school. Then the local shelter. Then the zoo as a last resort.
The zoo.
It sounds worse than it is. There were a few rooms there, emergency pit stops for veterinarians who needed to monitor the primate house. They had beds and bathrooms and functional kitchenettes. And that holy of holies-air-conditioning.
Again, no answer.
Robert picked up on his cell, though. He sounded tired when he told me they were down to a skeleton operation, enough to oversee the animal transfers to another state
The front seat of my Mazda roadster would have been all right, uncomfortable as it sounds. Cramped and sticky, but all right. Someone came for it a week ago, minutes after our mobile phones made their last calls and texts. So the car won't do. With gas at twenty bucks a gallon-and that was last week when the pumps were still flowing-the Mazda wasn't really a car anymore, only a couple of leather seats on wheels, a static jumble of metal and wires that wasn't going anywhere. It was a car in name but not in function, like a clock with all the right parts that no longer tells time. Which is fine, I guess, since I have no idea where there is to go.
One of those last calls I made was to our local YMCA. We'd been members since Emma was born so she could use the pool. Sixteen years of seventy-five dollars a month should have been worth something-a cot or a yoga mat in the corner of the Pilates room. Use of the showers and towels, the same ones Beatrice, the massage therapist, used to drape carefully over my limbs when she worked on me.
Nobody answered the Y's phone, so I tried Emma's high school. Then the local shelter. Then the zoo as a last resort.
The zoo.
It sounds worse than it is. There were a few rooms there, emergency pit stops for veterinarians who needed to monitor the primate house. They had beds and bathrooms and functional kitchenettes. And that holy of holies-air-conditioning.
Again, no answer.
Robert picked up on his cell, though. He sounded tired when he told me they were down to a skeleton operation, enough to oversee the animal transfers to another state
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Christina Dalcher
Christina Dalcher earned her doctorate in theoretical linguistics from Georgetown University. She specializes in the phonetics of sound change in Italian and British dialects and has taught at several universities.Her short stories and flash fiction appear in more than one hundred journals worldwide. Recognition includes the Bath Flash Fiction Award short list, nominations for the Pushcart Prize, and multiple other awards. She lives in Norfolk, Virginia, with her husband.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Christina Dalcher
- 2021, 336 Seiten, Maße: 15,7 x 23,5 cm, Gebunden, Englisch
- Verlag: Berkley
- ISBN-10: 0593201108
- ISBN-13: 9780593201107
- Erscheinungsdatum: 27.10.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Dalcher (Vox) puts a delightfully dark dystopian twist on Herland...this wildly provocative glimpse into the future is sure to spark lively discussions about humankind s past, present, and future...Dalcher remains a writer to watch." Publishers WeeklyA master of the feminist dystopian novel...A no-holds-barred thriller and thought-provoking read for fans of Margaret Atwood s The Handmaid s Tale, Naomi Alderman s The Power, and Kim Liggett s The Grace Year. Library Journal
Dalcher's latest is a cogent and timely exploration of the dangers of misandry and groupthink. Booklist
"The queen of dystopia." Nina Pottell, Prima
Christina Dalcher s latest dystopian feminist novel centers a popular locus of cultural and historical fascination: the women s commune...Dalcher interweaves Miranda s bitter, sharp storytelling with glimpses of Win s life that trace a radical evolution to founding Femlandia. Bitch Media
"Provocative, sinister, and fascinating, FEMLANDIA is full of complicated characters, with a gripping plot to boot. I read it with my breath held, unable to stop until I d reached the explosive ending. You will definitely want to discuss this one with your book club." Stephanie Wrobel, USA Today bestselling author of Darling Rose Gold
Engrossing. Dalcher s novel is imaginative, urgent, and compulsively readable, not mention incredibly cool. Amanda Montell, author of Cultish
Kommentar zu "Femlandia"
Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar zu "Femlandia".
Kommentar verfassen