dystopia

In the engineered tranquillity of the Brave New World, the world state of Huxley's dystopian vision, lived a Beta Minus clone named Lyra. She was a factory worker at the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre, administering hypnotic suggestions to embryos, dictating predetermined lives. Her life was an orchestrated routine of work, soma induced happiness, and a complete oblivion of individuality.

In the dystopian world of Fahrenheit 451, books are forbidden by law. Firemen, who once extinguished blazes, now ignite them, burning every book they find. Guy Montag, a loyal fireman, enjoyed seeing the charred remnants of prohibited knowledge, until a rebellious teenager named Clarisse instigated a change in his perception.

In the desolate landscape of Airstrip One, former London, wistful ghosts of freedom lingered. Winston Smith, responsible for the manipulation of historical records at the Ministry of Truth, an irony lost to none, felt a familiar discomfort lodge in his chest, one that was no stranger: the despairing sensation of hope.

Once upon a time in Voltaire's dystopian universe, Candide, our ever-optimistic protagonist, discovered a hidden garden - a paradise unknown to the chaotic world outside its boundaries. The garden was named 'Pandora', after the Greek goddess who, despite releasing all evil onto the world, also allowed hope to escape from her infamous box.

Rain was relentlessly assaulting the earth, the rat-tat-tat of water droplets against the windows like a dystopian soundtrack to our reality. It was a grim and yet comforting notion, a reminder that nature continued on, oblivious and unaffected by our societal decay. I sat by the window, the crimson cloak of my attire a stark contrast to the oppressive grey buildings outside. As a Handmaid under Gilead, this cloak was the emblem of my shackles, an obvious label for my role in this new order.