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In a futuristic Amerca where abortion is illegal, four women cope with the weight of these laws and societal expectations.
Don’t let the pink and red cover fool you. Red Clocks is no romance or "beach read." Instead, it is a frightening dystopian novel about what happens when politicians successfully manage to push back on women’s reproductive rights little by little, until none are left at all.
In Lena Zumas’s near-future America, The Personhood Amendment has made both abortion and in-vitro fertilization illegal...
Five women. One question. What is a woman for?
In this ferociously imaginative novel, abortion is once again illegal in America, in-vitro fertilization is banned, and the Personhood Amendment grants rights of life, liberty, and property to every embryo. In a small Oregon fishing town, five very different women navigate these new barriers alongside age-old questions surrounding motherhood, iden...
In a room for women whose bodies are broken, Eivør MÃnervudottÃr's biographer waits her turn. She wears sweatpants, is white skinned and freckle cheeked, not young, not old. Before she is called to climb into stirrups and feel her vagina prodded with a wand that makes black pictures, on a screen, of her ovaries and uterus, the biographer sees every wedding ring in the room. Serious rocks, fat bands of glitter. They live on the fingers of women who have leather sofas and solvent husbands but whose cells and tubes and bloods are failing at their animal destiny. This, anyway, is the story the biographer likes. It is a simple, easy story that allows her not to think about what's happening in the women's heads, or in the heads of the husbands who sometimes accompany them.
Nurse Crabby wears a neon-pink wig and a plastic-strap contraption that exposes nearly all of her torso, including a good deal of breast. "Happy Halloween," she explains.
"And to you," says the biographer.
"Let's go suck out some lineage."
"Anagram for blood."
"Hmm," says the biographer politely.
Crabby doesn't find the vein straight off. Has to dig, and it hurts. "Where are you, mister?" she asks the vein. Months of needlework have streaked and darkened the insides of the biographer's elbows. Luckily long sleeves are common in this part of the world.
"Aunt Flo visited again, did she?" says Crabby.
"Well, Roberta, the body's a riddle. Here we go—got you." Blood swooshes into the chamber. It will tell them how much follicle-stimulating hormone and estradiol and progesterone the biographer's body is making. There are good numbers and there are bad. Crabby drops the tube into a rack alongside other little bullets of blood.