Women’s literary fiction
Publisher: Quartet Global Books
Irven DeVore, an evolutionary biologist, writes that "Males are a breeding experiment run by females." What if, in fact, women ran everything? What if women rejected the culture of rape and violence to take control of their lives in the safety of the Citadels? What if women could exist without males? CITADEL is a metafictional, apocalyptic story braided into a contemporary post-lesbian novel built on genetics.
Advance Praise
"I loved the book and I'm suggesting it to all the writers, editors and women I know as a must read. You blew me away... the book drew me in completely... great experience!
I'm not sure how you managed to come up with this... let alone research it... a story usually follows one or two Characters... I found myself following the writer, the editor, the publisher, not to mention the Characters in the book... and never got lost, never ended up wondering who someone was or why they did that? I read the book in short spurts and longer chunks depending on opportunity... but never had a problem of falling back into the story... you had me from page one to the end. Great job" -- Wally Lane, filmmaker, screenwriter.
BeachMeat
Trisha
As far back asIcanremember,I’vehad asenseof dread.Idream,and whenIwake,Iam sureitwillbethe daytheworld ends. Rose, mytherapist, tells memoreof her clients have apocalypticdreams like mine. Shedoesn’t know what it means.
Yesterdayat thebeach asIwatched thebeach meat in their combat ritual,Ihadoneof myvisions of annihilation. Therewere fourof them. Their sandybodiesglistened. Muscle and sweatyfleshsilhouetted in an explodingsunset ripewith blood. Their overhand smashes and digswere laced withgrunts and howls and the wailof loss.I
imagined them still grindingoneanotherto dust in the chaos of extinction. Theshaven-headed one, the tall, muscular and vicious onespiked aset-up and the volleyball blasted his opponent in the face and hewent down—on his back, on the sand.Bleeding. Thefallenenemycrawled off the pitch, his shamed partnerbeside him. Mr. V., the
Victor, taunted thelosers‘you bunch of pansyasses.’
Daiva startled mewhen shelayback on her towel
groaning.Iasked her ifshewas allright.
thatIhave parosmia, aflaw in mybrain that makes me smell odors that arenot real. Thescent pouringoff Mr. V. was the scent that followed men like angrydogschasinga wounded doe. Hegrasped the bloodyvolleyball againsthis crotch. Eyesclosed, Daivapiped up,
“Aretheyallthis tall?”
“It’s an optical illusion,”Isaid. “At sunset theyseem
taller.”
“Doyou suppose heshaves everywhere?”
“That teeny-weenycrotch cloth won’t hideasingle
pube.”
“Tellhimto stand up and strip off that speedo,”Daiva
said.
“Hey,”Mr. V. said. “I’mright here.”
“We can smellyou,”Daivareplied.
Mr. V. His eyes weredeep wolf-gray, his mouth a
poutydelicacy.Ihad tasted meat like that butnever this
one. Hewas persistent, and hedidn’t back off asI scanned
him. Heliked the assessment so much hequivered. Silent.
A horse at auction waitingabid. Hiseyes trackedme up
and down never veering abovemybreasts. Beachmeat.
Muscle and sandand blood and sweat.Ihad seenhim
before, but he alwaysfailed the winetest.Isaid,
“What doyou think ofthe2025 Napapressingof Pinot
Picante?”
Hegot that what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about scowl
on his face.
“Wine,”Isaid. “Pinot Picante.”
“Oh,yeah,Ihad that afew times.”
Pinot Picante did not exist, soIwentback to my
ereader. Clarawas houndingme to finish thenext Pinnacle
Romance. Shewanted itedited and onlinenow. Today.Not
tomorrow. Mr. V. said,
“Hey,Ikicked buttout there.”
“Yesyou did,” Daiva said, “but we’rehavingour
periods.”
Mr. Vshot tohis feet, bloodstained volleyballin his
hands. Disgusted, hetrotted off into thesurf. Thesunset
was so intense, so red, thelight seemed to burn through
him. Daiva said,
“RER.” “What’s that?”
“Residual evolutionaryresponse,”Daivareplied. “The Alphamalecan’t toleratethings hecan’t controland menses isour bigmystery.IrvenDeVoresays males are a breedingexperiment run byfemales. Thisguyhasallthe traits breederscueon—muscles, physical presence, drive, power. Heresponds to thestimulus,in this caseyour breasts,your hips and thighs,your skin. Theentire history
of sexual selection is workingitself out right hereon this beach, Trisha. You’reaprimereceptacle.You’resupposed to diveinto bed with him, butyou said no, so he’ll haveto killyou.”
Mr. V., risingout of thesea,glistened. Golden. His thighs rippled. Hewas aglorious animalso locked into himself that a bloodytampon shut himdown…you said no so he’ll haveto killyou. Ishuddered.What if I hadtaken him home?What ifhedid killme?
Iwatched Mr. V. dash tothe parkinglotwherehe jumped into ablack BMW.
“HedrivesaBeamer,”Daiva said. “Beamermeans resources and resources fill outthe evolutionarymenu. Size, speed, resources. Whydidn’tyou takehimup on it?”
“Ihaveafew rules,”Isaid. “If theycan walk,Ilook.If theycan talk,Ilisten.Iftheymakeme laugh,Ithink about it.If theyknowgood wine,Isometimes say yes.”
“That’s kind of picky.Whydoyou hunt herethen?” “You can seethe merchandise unwrapped.”
“You suremakethoseguyshowl.” "Howl?Let’s head back.”
Irolled mybeach towel and tucked itinto mybag.
Daivafollowed. Thehotsand feltgood on myfeetas we
passed thevolleyballcourt with its sagaof bloodand
sweat. At theparkinglot,Itossed mybaginto the Z-Ray.
The afternoonsungildedDaiva’s hairnow. She was areal
blonde. You can tell. Herskin was peachyand shonefrom
the sunblock. Shehad indigo blue eyes.
Daiva had moved into the condo two weeks ago.She
was alwaysalone. No visitors. Her Southern California unenhanced trim and creamyskin mademejealous. The onethingthat botheredme was the solitude.In two weeks, no one.Iknew her name,DaivaIzokaitis, andIknew from her mailboxthat shewas adoctor.
ThedrivethroughLatimer Canyon is idyllic in the earlyevening.Lategullssquawk, eucalyptus shadows stretch across the windingroad, theZRayhisseson the pavement likeaverybeautiful red python.Ilovethe car.I parked in myslotat thecondo on MesaDrive.
“Got time for a glass ofChardonnay?”
“Iwasgoingto askyou—Ineed to wash offtheyuck
firstonlymyplumbingisout untilMonday.”
“Sure,you can showerat myplace.”
About the Author
Jack Remick is the author of twenty books—novels, poetry, short stories, screenplays. He co-authored The Weekend Novelist Writes a Mystery with Robert J. Ray. His novel Gabriela and The Widow was a finalist for the Montaigne Medal as well as a finalist in Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year Award. He reviews for the New York Journal of Books. He is a frequent guest and co-host on Michigan Avenue Media with Marsha Casper Cook. His novel Citadel, was featured in the July issue of the Australian magazine eYs.
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thanks for hosting
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφήHello. Do you ever review the books you host? Thanks.
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