Simulacra
by Joani Reese
Men drag the last wild woman from her home, concealed above a verdigris-tipped sea. A gag secures her mouth; red thread sews closed labial folds. They cuff her hands behind her back and dangle golden keys from chains around their necks. They truck her over the pass to the flat lands, all colors muted green and gray. Pain curls her like a question mark as tamed women bend her bones into the cage where she complies, or dies.
Men blunt her claws, excise her teeth, attack until her mind succumbs. They dress her up; they dress her down. Her face is tattooed with a smile, her womb unlaced, perfectly numbed. She learns to kneel in darkness all her own. Each year evolves into the next. A zealous drab, she sates with sex; she gestates younger, pliant girls, then teaches each to ape a paper doll.
|
23
favs |
1744 views
29 comments |
146 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Originally published with two of its siblings at JMWW. Thanks to Robert Vaughan, editor extraordinaire.
Other stories by Joani Reese
Tags
This story has no tags.
Groups
-
Glass Woman Prize
Public group63 members
Disturbing.
Sadly, I relate to this "wild woman".*
keep a few males for procreation and slit the throats of the rest.
Quite horribly beautiful.
Strong.
"A zealous drab, she sates with sex; she gestates younger, pliant girls, then trains each one to ape a paper doll."
*
Fierce and lyrical.*
I don't like how this makes me feel which is what makes it so brilliant. *
I love fables, esp. fables for our times. *
Yeow. This scares me.
Made my eyebrows rise . . . and that is a very VERY good thing.
Writing that surprises and outrages is to be valued and cherished like a dying breed of orchid.
Joani, first of all, thanks for the wonderful words in your Author's Notes... and yes, in reading this piece again, I can see why I had to have this published in JMWW magazine. It's brilliant, and both understated and outrageous simultaneously, if that can happen. Your writing shines, my dear, and I love this piece!
Fave.
Thanks so much to everyone who read and commented. This began as a poem titled "Paper Dolls," and somehow grew into a feminist cautionary tale. It hurt to write, but I'm glad I did write it, and I'm also pleased Robert saw some value in it.
Yikes, Joani. The stuff of nightmares. Not that that's a bad thing. *
Oh, Joani! My obedient heart is shivering in its cage with dreams of breaking out. *
Thank you, ladies. As Joan Didion so wisely said, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live."
*
Disturbing and wonderful piece, Joani. Especially love, 'She learns to kneel in darkness all her own.'
Oliver and Sandy-- Thanks.
This is the written face of fear. It resides, unfortunately, in every heart that is broken.It takes a brave writer to wake it up. Joani is brave enough obviously. We would do well to listen.
The bad thing about coming late upon a piece brilliant as this is that it's inspired so many brilliant comments I'm left with little new to say except for something like this. *
Disturbing and artfully crafted. *
*, Joani. I like your rough-edged imagery.
I also like this line:
"She learns to kneel in darkness all her own."
The story stings, the language thrills - a great example of the craft here. Thanks for sharing this.
DP, Matt, Christian, David, and DJ--Thank you. Angry piece, not for everyone, but too bad,. I had to write it. Appreciate your critiques.
Very visceral. Excellent. *
Oh damn. Oh hell. Yes yes yes.
Jeffrey and Misti: Thank you.
Oh!so unsettling and that is the power of this piece. Great craft. *****
A decade ago, I sat on a private sector panel at the UN in Vienna at the UN Office of Drugs & Crime's first international convention on Human Trafficking (UN. Gift) and was privileged enough to listen to Julia Ormond recount her experience of young girls, some as young as 6 tell their horrific stories, when she visited the sanctuary where these girls were being cared for, after rescue. What impressed her most, she said, was their beauty and resilience in the face of such torturous experiences and how they were able to still play and laugh.
The stories she was told are burned in my soul. Our capacity for inhumane behaviour is staggering. These are stories that need to be told.