#dystopian-fiction

#dystopian-fiction

One day more than 50 years ago, Carolivia Herron was stepping onto the curb at Piney Branch Road and Underwood Street, Northwest, when she was struck by a vision: a striking woman on the sidewalk, silhouetted by the sky, her hand raised in a gesture of repudiation. "It was like, 'Oh, wow, who is she? I've got to know her story,' " Herron says. The woman was imaginary, but powerful enough to start Herron's wheels spinning. When she got home, she began to write.

I still have that copy; I've carried it through half a dozen states and a dozen moves and uncountable phases of my life. Twenty-seven years later, its pages are vanilla-sweet, from the decaying lignin; the imprint was long ago absorbed into another. But "I Who Have Never Known Men," which was first published thirty years ago, in French, has found new life.

The neural chip initially seems beneficial, enhancing metabolism and productivity, but failure to sleep transforms users into ravenous monsters, leading to apocalyptic consequences.