Journal articles on the topic 'Dystopian YA'

The election of President Trump in the US has reignited discussions regarding reproductive rights and renewed interest in Margaret Atwood’s 1984 dystopian novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, which depicts a future society in which women are stripped of these rights. However, the novel does not explore how threats to reproductive rights might affect teenage girls. The gap left in Atwood’s novel has been filled by authors of dystopias for young adults who foreground the double threat to teenage girls because of their sex and age. This paper discusses the way in which these novels show teenage girls resisting against societies that seek to dictate how they use their bodies, with Megan McCafferty’s Bumped and Thumped having a particularly strong political edge. Through the insights of feminist critic Drucilla Cornell, this paper shows that the challenges to characters’ reproductive rights in these texts may encourage readers to consider themselves as sexual subjects and take responsibility for that sexual subject, even if it requires political action.

Drawing on Foucault’s examination of the gaze as a disciplinary mechanism, and de Certeau’s discussion of how people use tactics to resist oppressive power systems, this article advocates reading the gaze in young adult dystopian fiction. To illustrate the complex readings that doing so makes possible, the author examines three young adult dystopias—M. T. Anderson’s Feed, Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games trilogy, and Corey Doctorow’s Little Brother—to demonstrate how they depict adolescents as having varying degrees of agency to resist the gaze. To conclude, the author discusses the implications for teachers and students of reading the gaze in young adult literature.


 
 
 ‘Now tell me...’ Tobias says through a bursting breath, ‘what do you think learning strategy has to do with...bravery?’ The question reminds me that he is my instructor, and I am supposed to learn something from this. A cloud passes over the moon, and the light shifts across my hands.
 ‘It...it prepares you to act,’ I say finally. ‘You learn strategy so you can use it.’
 (Roth 2011, pp. 143–4)
 In this passage from Veronica Roth’s young adult (YA) novel Divergent (2011), protagonist Tris Prior is encouraged to make a connection between knowledge and action. More specifically, her instructor Tobias prompts Tris to articulate that strategy is necessary preparation for action. Implicit in this meta-teaching moment is an invitation for readers to embark with Tris on a journey that is exhilarating, but also instructive. Here Roth cues a generic feature of YA dystopian fiction: its function as a roadmap to agency. YA series such as Divergent (Roth 2011; 2012; 2013), The Hunger Games (Collins 2010a; 2010b; 2013), and The Maze Runner (Dashner 2010; 2011; 2013) all feature protagonists who move from inertia to action to engage with powerful enemies in a struggle for freedom and liberty. Given the genre’s overtly political concerns, this paper aims to consider what, if any, real-world empowerment might occur for readers who respond empathically to YA dystopian fiction. It explores how these texts might act as roadmaps to political agency and social activism, and asks whether—by mobilising readers’ affective responses—YA fiction might in fact immobilise young adults. In short, this paper examines whether there is there any evidence to suggest YA dystopian texts have the potential to empower a new generation of young adults to move from political inertia to action.
 
 

The article examines the concept of catastrophe as an art theme, which is extremely relevant in our time and is also marked by the entropy features. We can confirm that this phenomenon grows and affects many spheres of human life, both external (global, social) and internal (psychological). The author of the article focuses on how modern dystopia reflects an awareness of a catastrophe, which is happening or has already happened. We have analyzed two novels from this point of view: “Masha, or the Fourth Reich” by the French writer of Ukrainian origin Yaroslav Melnyk and “Never Let me Go” by the English writer of Japanese origin Kazuo Ishiguro. The article emphasizes that the dystopias of our time correct classical dystopia attitudes, because they tend to the diffusion of new genres, acquiring the features of a parable novel, a myth novel, an alternative history fiction, and a philosophical novel. We have also noted the controversial nature of new formations, which combine signs of utopia and dystopia. Regarding the ideological and thematic component, the author of the article states that Ya. Melnyk and K. Ishiguro focus on the traditional problems of humanism and the relationship between “man and society” and on individual’s catastrophic depopulation issues in the conditions of nowadays turbulent challenges. The purpose of the article is to study the specificity of catastrophism artistic embodiment in the novels “Masha, or the Fourth Reich” by Yaroslav Melnyk and “ Never Let me Go ” by Kazuo Ishiguro and its functions in the structure of the dystopia genre. To achieve this goal we used historical-literary, cultural-historical and hermeneutic research methods. It was determined that the catastrophism motif realization in the dystopia genre contributes to searching for new experimental forms, activates the processes of transformation and diffusion in the genre creation field, paradoxically and organically combines classic and modern elements of dystopia, renewing the poetics of the genre. Conclusion. Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel “Never Let me Go” demonstrates a powerful example of genre synthesis: “stream of consciousness” coexists with the classic English estate novel, which is emphasized by confessional and allegorical intonations and does not prevent the writer from resorting to some possibilities of a detective story. Features of the traditional parable form and mythological genre are also observed. Fantastic elements are interspersed with realistic ones. But allegorical, mythological, fantastic, and realistic features organically coexist in the novel, reinforcing the author’s main ideas. Yaroslav Melnyk in his novel “Masha, or the Fourth Reich” successfully synthesizes an alternative history novel, an adventure novel and a classic philosophical novel. Here conflicting utopia and dystopia also organically coexist, reinforcing each other. A dystopia genre structure becomes open and acquires unlimited hybridization, losing its classical features and even postmodern boundaries. Thus, the catastrophic reality of the 21st century promotes the search for new experimental forms, activates unpredictable processes in the genre creation field, and paradoxically and organically combines classical and modern elements of literary art. Once again, modern dystopian literature shows that “common issue” as a social slogan cannot satisfy individual human needs. The problem of egocentrism with the insufficient development of the political machine is becoming more and more acute. As a general phenomenon, consumer society does not justify itself and makes the lives of its sons doomed. Unfortunately, the heroes of modern dystopias less and less often choose to fight and more often to humble themselves or flee, which is the main difference from their classical predecessors. The prospects of further work are to deepen the understanding of the causes of stylistic and substantive differences in dystopias, the influence of socio-cultural reality on modern dystopias genre synthesis, the differences in the methods of utopian representation and artistic means of enhancing catastrophization within stories framework.

In this article we consider the absence of queer female protagonists in dystopian Young Adult (YA) fiction and examine how texts with queer protagonists rely on heteronormative frameworks. Often seen as progressive, dystopian YA fiction features rebellious teen girls resisting the restrictive norms of their societies, but it frequently sidelines queerness in favor of heteronormative romance for its predominantly white, able-bodied protagonists. We analyze The Scorpion Rules (2015) and Love in the Time of Global Warming (2013), both of which feature queer girl protagonists, and conclude that these texts ultimately marginalize that queerness. While they offer readers queer female protagonists, they also equate queerness with non-normative bodies and reaffirm heteronormativity. The rebellion of both protagonists effectively distances them from the queer agency they have developed throughout the narratives.

This article discusses Nanook: ele está chegando (‘Nanook: He Is Coming’) (2016), written by Brazilian author Gustavo Bernardo, a Brazilian dystopian apocalyptic young adult (YA) novel influenced by an Inuit legend that mixes science with mysticism and human subjectivity. In this book, 15-year-old Bernardo emerges as a harbinger of events that will occur in the narrative, when he affirms that ‘Nanook is coming’. From that point onwards, climatic and supernatural events happen, which affect the whole world, with consequences for Ouro Preto, the former capital of the state of Minas Gerais, Brazil, where the story takes place. These consequences include snowfalls, increasingly intense cold and the disappearance of some animals. Nanook: He Is Coming was selected by the Brazilian National Textbook Program (PNLD – Programa Nacional do Livro Didático) for high school students. This programme is designed to evaluate didactic, pedagogical and literary works and make them available for free to Brazilian students what are studying at public schools. This article concludes with an analysis of the text, using critical tools, which include Reception Theory to examine the communicability of the novel with its implicit reader, the dialogical relationship with that reader and the novel’s language, stylistic characteristics, the constitution of its narrative operators and its ideological discourse.

The coronavirus pandemic has stimulated a number of texts, which are aimed at helping children to cope with situations alien to them. For example, the picture book Staying Home by Sally Nichols and Vivienne Schwarz (2020) deals with the conditions of lockdown and family isolation, whilst Piperpotamus by Annis Watts endeavours to explain COVID-19. This pandemic is not the only such event in history. The Black Death swept across Europe (1347–51) followed by the Spanish flu pandemic (1918–20). Both of these have stimulated historical fiction for older children and Young Adults and have done so by employing differing literary approaches. For instance, Cat Winters’ In the Shadow of Blackbirds (2013) incorporates a ghost story set against the contexts of séances and spirit photographers as the bereaved hope to gain comfort, whilst Charles Todd’s An Unmarked Grave (2012) is a murder mystery. Dystopian science fiction has also been employed to examine the equivalent circumstances of such pandemics. The plague in Gone (2008–14) by Michael Grant follows a nuclear disaster, which has produced a world where only those under fifteen have survived beneath a dome created by a young autistic child at the point of the explosion. Unforeseen forces have erupted resulting in mutation where individuals have supernatural powers taking them into a posthuman state. Their world is later blighted by plague and the children have to deal with remaking their lives and their society without the help of adults. This article will consider the various ways that such texts have approached these world-changing disasters and the common themes, which emerge to give our current generation of children ways of thinking about their present and their future.

Coming of age and classification of adolescents In Salla Simukka’s YA-dystopias Jäljellä and Toisaalla
 Finnish YA-author Salla Simukka takes a current societal problem into the center of her novel pair Jäljellä (Left Over, not translated, 2012) and Toisaalla (Elsewhere, not translated, 2012). These novels criticize the current system, where even young children are forced to choose specialized studies and make decisions that affect their whole future. This is a consequence on a modern western information society, where branches of knowledge are differentiated. These theme Simukka’s novels handle with the methods off dystopic fiction.
 Both novels depict a dystopic world, where adolescents are classified into groups based on their personality and their talents. Both novels depict a world very much like our own, but the time of the story lies in the near future. As usual to the dystopic fiction the author pics up some existing progressions from the reality and then extends those conditions into a future, and this way the flaws of the current conditions are revealed. In my article I claim, that Simukka’s novels take under critical consideration the whole Western concept of coming of age. Especially crucial is the idea of growth as being something controllable. In western cultures the growing up of an individual is standardized and regulated by institutions and fields of science such us daycare, school, medicine, and psychology. In Simukka’s novels this idea is exaggerated but still recognizable. 
 The motif of classifications or sorting the adolescents has lately been popular in YA-fantasy and YA-dystopia. Simukka’s novels borrow from two bestsellers: J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter -series (1997–2007), and Veronica Roth’s Divergent-series (2011–2013). These examples seem to prove, that the idea of adolescents of being sorted or being classified is important in contemporary genre fiction targeting young audiences. Sorting or classification as motifs seem to be connected to the contemporary understanding of youth and growing up.
 In this article I consider the classification motif in Simukka’s novel. I consentrate especially to the connections between the motif and the wider theme of growing up. I examine the motif beside the Western ideas of growth and coming of age. Besides that I also study the different genre frames Simukka’s novels use to discuss of growing up in contemporary society. These genre traditions include dystopic fiction, YA-literature and fairytale. In this article I propose, that the classification motif allegorizes the demands set to adolescents in contemporary society but also appeals to the young readers as a fantasy of belonging to the group.

Resumo: O artigo apresenta a distopia enquanto gênero literário como reflexo do cotidiano, em narrativas que, em um primeiro momento, abordam um futuro imaginado. Nas distopias, esse futuro é encarado sempre como pior que o presente, porém, o que esse trabalho busca tencionar é o quanto tais narrativas já apresentam uma descrença com o próprio cotidiano do momento presente de escrita e apresentação da obra. Para tal, buscamos em um primeiro momento conceituar o gênero distópico e, após, trabalhar a noção de cotidiano, a partir dos autores Agnes Heller e Michel de Certeau, relacionando tais conceitos com as obras distópicas Nós, 1984 e Jogos Vorazes. 
 
 Abstract: The article presents dystopia as a literary genre and a reflection of everyday life in narratives that, at first, approach an imagined future. In dystopias, this future is always faced as worse than present, but what this study seeks to demonstrate is how these narratives already present a disbelief with everyday life of the present moment of writing and presentation of the story. To achieve this, we first sought to conceptualize the dystopic genre and, afterwards, to work on the notion of everyday life, from the authors Agnes Heller and Michel de Certeau, relating such concepts to the dystopic narratives We, 1984 and Hunger Games.
 
 Resumen: El artículo presenta el género literario de la distopía como reflejo de lo cotidiano, a partir de narrativas que, en un primer momento, abordan un futuro imaginado. En las distopías, ese futuro es encarado siempre como peor que el presente, pero, lo que ese trabajo busca pretender, es mostrar cuanto tales narrativas ya presentan una incredulidad con el propio cotidiano del momento presente de escritura y presentación de la obra. Buscamos, en un primer momento, conceptuar el género distópico y, después, trabajar la noción de cotidiano, a partir de los autores Agnes Heller y Michel de Certeau, relacionando tales conceptos con las obras distópicas Nosotros, 1984 y Los Juegos del Hambre.

The article examines the motif of escape in the novel «Distant Space» by the modern Ukrainian writer Yaroslav Melnyk. Upon reviewing critical literature, the genre classification of the work was identified as a hybrid, encompassing elements of a dystopian novel intertwined with features of science fiction, allegory, adventure, psychological and mystical fantasy, as well as a thriller novel. Its intertextual space covers the works of Ray Bradbury, Ken Kesey, George Orwell, V. Vynnychenko, H. Skovoroda, as well as V. Domontovych, M. Khvylovy. It has been emphasized that the plot collision of the metamodernist novel by Ya. Melnyk has its roots in the biblical story of Adam’s and Eve’s expulsion from paradise. The polyphonic and didactic character of the novel is revealed: everyone has their own truth, the author convinces, and makes it possible to hear everyone. Аt the same time, the book teaches to be tolerant, and to make an informed choice in difficult life situations.The artistic vision of space is embodied in the novel in three locations: metropolis (the land of blind people), Transparent Spot (the camp of blinded rebels who seek to destroy the metropolis), Quiet Corner (elite village of the sighted). The three specified locations of the novel are three options of fate that the author offers to his protagonist. Whenever the protagonist declines to adhere to the suggested course, the outcome of such ventures leads to three escapes in pursuit of a balanced cosmos—distant space.Gabra’s three escapes are also three women. Lioz, Niya, Natalie, each in their own way, in the course of the story become close to the main character. This aspect of the relationship gives the story piquancy, intimacy, and simultaneously dramatizes it. Relations with Lioz have no prospects, because it remains an organic part of the ugly pragmatic world of the metropolis. Beautiful Natalie is completely indifferent to the distant space of the main character. Instead, the «cautious optimism» of the novel can be traced in the relationship with Nia. The ethical and visual aspect for the artistic persuasiveness of the story is also emphasized.In the image of the main character Gabr Silk, the author shows a person who has to compete with unfavorable circumstances for the right to be happy, to be himself, to live a private life, even a marginal one, not involved in social and political currents. At the same time, indecisiveness, doubts about the expediency of one’s active actions lead to the fact that other people usually solve his problems (Oks, Nia).

Abstract
 Analyzing empirically the responses of undergraduate students to the short stories they read in an elective English course, this paper interrogates the effect of guided reading on students’ comprehension of the reading material and compares their initial responses to the texts with those given after the lecture. The instructor of the course prepared a syllabus that mostly includes stories of the Anthropocene, theoretically the last geological era which points to excessive human control of the ecosystem. It was observed that students’ lack of knowledge about the term caused them to miss the ecological concern of the stories and make textual analysis focusing mostly on thematic characteristics. Individual reading, reading after the lecture and discussions in class revealed that guided reading questions helped students familiarize with the concept and develop new perspectives during reading. They reread the texts with a new concern about ecological collapse, environmental ethics, as well as animal and plant rights. The ambiguity of the stories lies in the fact that they are neither stories of hope nor dystopian narratives, but rather texts that portray the individual as the responsible agent. Therefore, re-reading the texts of the Anthropocene with the help of guided reading questions enabled students to question their own responsibility in ecological collapse and to come up with new questions as to the steps to be taken. The use of guided reading questions also made it possible for the instructor to bridge the gap between scientific and literary accounts of the Anthropocene. Another positive outcome of the course was that the students were motivated to make ecocritical readings of classical narratives they were already familiar with in addition to readings of more recent stories. 
 Key words: Anthropocene, guided reading, ecocritical literature, non-human, active reading.
 
 Resumen
 A través del análisis empírico de las respuestas del alumnado universitario a los cuentos cortos que leyó en un curso electivo de inglés, este documento interroga el efecto de la lectura guiada en la comprensión del material de lectura por parte de los estudiantes y compara sus respuestas iniciales a los textos con las dadas después de la clase. La profesora del curso preparó un plan de estudios que incluye principalmente historias del Antropoceno, teóricamente la última era geológica que señala el control excesivo de los humanos sobre el ecosistema. Se observó que la falta de conocimiento de los estudiantes sobre el término hizo que pasaran por alto la preocupación ambiental de las historias y realizaran un análisis textual centrado principalmente en las características temáticas. La lectura individual, la lectura después de la clase y las discusiones en clase revelaron que las preguntas de lectura guiada ayudaron al alumnado a familiarizarse con el concepto y a desarrollar nuevas perspectivas durante la lectura. Se volvió a leer los textos con una nueva preocupación por el colapso ecológico, la ética ambiental, así como por los derechos de los animales y las plantas. La ambigüedad de las historias radica en el hecho de que no son ni historias de esperanza ni narrativas distópicas, sino más bien textos que retratan al individuo como el agente responsable. Por lo tanto, volver a leer los textos del Antropoceno con la ayuda de preguntas de lectura guiada permitió a los estudiantes cuestionar su propia responsabilidad en el colapso ecológico y plantear nuevas preguntas sobre los pasos a seguir. El uso de preguntas de lectura guiada también permitió a la profesora cerrar la brecha entre los relatos científicos y literarios del Antropoceno. Otro resultado positivo del curso fue que el alumnado se sintió motivado para realizar lecturas ecocríticas de narrativas clásicas con las que ya estaban familiarizados, además de las lecturas de historias más recientes.
 Palabras clave: Antropoceno, lectura guiada, literatura ecocrítica, no-humano, lectura activa
 Resum
 A través de l'anàlisi empírica de les respostes d’estudiantat universitari als contes curts que van llegir en un curs electiu d'anglès, aquest document qüestiona l'efecte de la lectura guiada en la comprensió del material de lectura per part de l’alumnat i compara les seues respostes inicials als textos amb les donades després de la classe. La professora del curs va preparar un pla d'estudis que inclou principalment històries de l'Antropocé, teòricament l'última era geològica que apunta al control excessiu dels humans sobre l'ecosistema. Es va observar que la manca de coneixement dels estudiants sobre el terme va fer que passaren per alt la preocupació ambiental de les històries i realitzaren una anàlisi textual centrada principalment en les característiques temàtiques. La lectura individual, la lectura després de la classe i les discussions a classe van revelar que les preguntes de lectura guiada van ajudar l'estudiantat a familiaritzar-se amb el concepte i a desenvolupar noves perspectives durant la lectura. Es va tornar a llegir els textos amb una nova preocupació pel col·lapse ecològic, l'ètica ambiental, així com pels drets dels animals i les plantes. L'ambigüitat de les històries rau en el fet que no són ni històries d'esperança ni narratives distòpiques, sinó més prompte textos que retraten l'individu com a agent responsable. Per tant, tornar a llegir els textos de l'Antropocé amb l'ajuda de preguntes de lectura guiada va permetre a l’’alumnat qüestionar la seua pròpia responsabilitat en el col·lapse ecològic i plantejar noves preguntes sobre els passos a seguir. L'ús de preguntes de lectura guiada també va permetre a la professora tancar la bretxa entre els relats científics i literaris de l'Antropocé. Un altre resultat positiu del curs va ser que l'estudiantat es va sentir motivat per fer lectures ecocrítiques de narratives clàssiques amb les quals ja estaven familiaritzats, a més de les lectures de històries més recents.
 Paraules clau: Antropocé, lectura guiada, literatura ecocrítica, no-humà, lectura activa.

Abstract This article examines the interplay between socio-spatial environments, social control mechanisms and alienated subjectivities in the urban fiction of Spanish author Ray Loriga. It analyses how the search for an urban utopia intertwines in Loriga’s work with an attention to processes of commodification, consumerism and social control. These represented processes are read, in turn, as driving the dystopian production of dehumanized, objectified individual subjects. Focusing principally on the futuristic cities of Loriga’s 1999 novel Tokio ya no nos quiere, the discussion also draws on relevant elements of two subsequent works – El hombre que inventó Manhattan (2004) and Rendición (2017).

While Young Adult dystopian texts commonly manipulate expectations of time and space, it is largely in a linear sense—projecting futuristic scenarios, shifting the contemporary reader into a speculative space sometimes only slightly removed from contemporary social, political, or environmental concerns (Booker 3; McDonough and Wagner 157). These concerns are projected into the future, having followed their natural trajectory and come to a dystopian present. Authors write words and worlds of warning in a postapocalyptic landscape, drawing from and confirming established dystopian tropes, and affirming the activist power of teenage protagonists in cultivating change. This article examines the intersections between dystopian Young Adult literature and Indigenous Futurisms, and the possibilities for sharing or encoding Indigenous Knowledge through the disruption or revision of genre, where the act itself become a movement of activism and survival echoed in text. Lynette James acknowledges the “ruptures” (157) Indigenous authors have made in the genre through incorporating Indigenous Knowledge into story as an embedded element – not only of narrative, but of structure. Ambelin Kwaymullina, of the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia, exemplifies this approach in her disruption or rupture of the dystopian genre in her embodiment of Indigenous Knowledge in the Young Adult (YA) text The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Kwaymullina centres Indigenous Knowledge throughout the trilogy, offering a powerful revision of key tropes of the dystopian YA genre, creating a perspective that privileges Indigenous Knowledge. This is most significantly identified through her depiction of time as a non-linear concept, at once realised narratively, conceptually, and structurally in the text. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, the first of a trilogy of novels in “The Tribe” series, presents a futuristic post-apocalyptic world, set 300 years after the Reckoning, a cataclysmic environmental disaster. The protagonist, Ashala Wolf, is one of a number of people with supernatural abilities that are outlawed by their government and labelled Illegals. As the novel begins, Ashala is being interrogated by the villainous Neville Rose, held in a detention centre as she plots to escape, free her fellow detainees, and return to the Tribe in the Firstwood. The plot draws from historical and contemporary parallels in Australia, yet part of the text’s subversive power is that these parallels and connections are never made explicit on the page. The reader is invited to become an active participant in coding meaning by applying their own understandings of the context and connections, creating an inter-subjective dialogue between reader and text, and Indigenous and non-Indigenous knowing. This article looks to the first novel in the trilogy as the key exemplifier of the disruption of genre and knowledge through the representation of time. It is in this novel that these concepts are established and realised most clearly, being predominantly from Ashala’s perspective as a direct descendant of Indigenous Australians, with the following two novels divided between Ashala, Georgie, and Ember as polyphonic narrative focalisers. Acting as an introduction to the series, The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf presents a foundation for readers to challenge their perceptions on both genre and knowledge. Kwaymullina entangles the two, imbuing knowledge throughout narrative and structure which in turn disrupts genre. In her revisioning of narrative through genre and structural focus of time as a non-linear concept, Kwaymullina puts into practice Conrad Scott’s argument that “the potential healing of moments or processes of crisis in Indigenous dystopias is never possible without a strategic engagement with narrative itself, and even the formal aspects of the text” (73).While the series fits the conventions of the dystopian genre, it has been more commonly identified as speculative fiction, or Indigenous futurism, as Kwaymullina herself defines her work. James notes the significance of acknowledging a text as Indigenous futurism, writing, “identifying a work as Indigenous futurism rather than simply as YA dystopia asks readers, critics, and scholars to adjust their orientation in ways that may radically alter both their perception and reception of it” (153). For the purposes of this article, I acknowledge the clear value and importance of identifying the text as Indigenous futurism, but also find value in the movements that define the shift from dystopian literature to Indigenous futurism, in its engagement with and recasting of dystopian conventions in the text. In embedding Indigenous Knowledge in her worldbuilding and narrative, Kwaymullina actively rewrites dystopian expectations and tropes. These notions would be expected or normalised when grounded in Indigenous futurism, but are regarded as a subversion and revision when read in dystopian fiction. The text engages directly with the specific tropes and expectations of dystopian genre—its significance in rewriting the spaces, narratives, and structures of the genre cannot be overstated. The employment of the dystopian genre as both framework and space of revision speaks to larger debates of the value of dystopian fiction in examining socio-cultural issues over other genres such as realism. Critics argue the speculative nature of dystopian fiction that remains linked to concerns of the present and past allows audiences to envision and experience their own transformative experience, effecting political change (Kennon; Mallan; Basu, Broad, and Hintz; Sypnowich). Balaka Basu, Katherine Broad, and Carrie Hintz argue that serious issues presented in fantastic futuristic scenarios “may provide young people with an entry point into real-world problems, encouraging them to think about social and political issues in new ways, or even for the first time” (4-5). Kerry Mallan notes the “ability of dystopian fiction to open up to readers a dystopian social elsewhere serves a double function: On the one hand, it offers readers an opportunity to reflect on their current existence to compare the similarities and differences between the real and the fictional; on the other, these stories implicitly exhort young people to take responsibility for their own lives and the future of society” (16). Drawing on these metanarrative structures with the interweaving of Indigenous knowledge increases the active responsibility for the reader. It invokes Nnedi Okorafor’s labelling of Indigenous Futurisms as “the most truthful way of telling the truth” (279), creating opportunities for the Indigenous and non-Indigenous reader to engage with narratives of a real apocalypse on invaded land. The dystopian setting and expectations form a buffer between reader and text (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 4), making the narrative more accessible to the reader without shying away from the embedded trauma, while drawing on dystopian fiction’s balance of despair and optimism (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 2).The stakes and value of dystopian fiction are heightened when engaging with Indigenous narratives and knowledge; as Claire Coleman (a Noongar woman from the south coast of Western Australia) notes, Indigenous Australians live in a post-apocalyptic state as “all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people alive today are the descendants of people who survived an apocalypse” (n.p.). James, quoting Uppinder Mehan, concurs, writing “these narrators are ‘survivors—or the descendants of survivors’ [162], not just of broken dystopian worlds or post-cataclysmic events but of the real historical legacies of slavery, conquest, and oppression” (157). Writing on Indigenous futurisms in dystopian and utopian fiction, Mary Morrison argues “people outside Western hegemonic power structures would likely be well-placed to transform the utopian imagination, to decolonize it” (11), acknowledging the significance in the intersection of genre and lived experience by author and character.Kwaymullina expands on this, noting that for Indigenous authors the tropes of speculative fiction are familiar lived experiences. She writes thatmany of the ideas that populate speculative-fiction books – notions of time travel, astral projection, speaking the languages of animals or trees – are part of Indigenous cultures. One of the aspects of my own novels that is regularly interpreted as being pure fantasy, that of an ancient creation spirit who sung the world into being, is for me simply part of my reality. (“Edges” 27)Kwaymullina affirms Coleman and James in her approach, writing “Indigenous people lived through the end of the world, but we did not end. We survived by holding on to our cultures, our kin, and our sense of what was right in a world gone terribly wrong” (“Edges” 29). The Tribe series demonstrates survivance, with Kwaymullina’s approach forming possibilities for intersubjective dialogues across genre. The concept is reinforced through Ashala’s repeated, joyful cries of hope throughout the text: “I live! We live! We survive!” (197, 200, 279, 391).Sara K. Day, Miranda A. Green-Barteet, and Amy L. Montz note dystopian literature considers possible futures from the outlook and failures of the present (8), arguing “the label ‘dystopia’ typically applies to works that simultaneously imagine futures and consider the present, essentially occupying a liminal space between these times” (Day, Green-Barteet, and Montz 9). This sense of liminality is heightened with the engagement of time from an Indigenous perspective; as Scott writes, “Indigenous dystopian fiction presents not only the crisis of the future but the ongoing crisis of the present time, and that which is still resonant from the past” (73). In “Respect, Relationships, Renewal: Aboriginal Perspectives on the Worlds of Tomorrow”, Kwaymullina notes that linear time can “become a tool of ideology, with colonial characterisations of Indigenous peoples as being of an earlier (less ‘advanced’) time through the use of terms such as ‘primitive’, ‘prehistoric’ and ‘prehistory’” (“Respect” 126).In shifting to a dystopian world where Australia as a colonised or invaded country is no longer recognised, but Country is still alive and read by those who live on it, Kwaymullina recasts the use of linear time as a tool of ideology to reaffirm Coleman’s argument that Indigenous Australians already exist in a post-apocalyptic state. She draws from the past and present and casts it into the future, while simultaneously recognising that all three are linked and circular—events are repeating and being relived. Kwaymullina depicts numerous parallels between the dystopian world and a post-invasion Australia, populating her world with references to detention centres; othering and distinct labelling of a vilified minority deemed a threat or aberrant to the majority colonising community; the name and title of the series’ central villain Chief Administrator Neville Rose in a clear reference to A.O. Neville, WA Chief Protector of Aborigines.At the outset, the government uses labels to separate and denigrate the Other—individuals with Abilities are called Illegals, distinct from Citizens, although they can apply for Exemptions if their Ability is deemed useful and passive. The terminology of Exemption draws deliberate connections to the Exemption Certificate Indigenous Australians could apply for from the Aborigines Protection (Amendment) Act 1943. The text consistently operates in modes of survivance, as Ashala and the Tribe redefine their world through a distinctly Indigenous perspective (Murphy 179). Ashala gains power through the tool used to suppress her by claiming and embracing this status, identifying her friends and herself as the Tribe and choosing a forest name emblematic of the totems that each Tribe member has a particular connection to (e.g. Georgie Spider, Ember Crow, Ashala Wolf). Continual parallels are drawn to Indigenous Knowledge: Ashala’s Ability is Sleepwalking, where she enters a state in dreaming where she can alter reality, a liminal space that suggests connections to the Dreamtime. While the land is no longer called or recognised as Australia, and the tectonic plates have shifted land mass, it remains Country, as recognised in Ashala’s relationship with the Firstwood. The Balance, the inherent harmony between all life, animate and inanimate, is a clear reflection of an Indigenous understanding, positioning it as the mainstream ideology.Kwaymullina weaves Indigenous knowledge through the text as demonstrated through narrative, key thematic concepts, and structure, disrupting the tropes of dystopian fiction in a manner that subverts genre and presents new possibilities for both reader and writer while presenting a shift to Indigenous Futurisms. As an organic by-product of this ideological framework, regressive or gendered tropes are re-envisioned as feminist and ecologically centred, ultimately conveying a sense of hope and survivance. Key tropes of YA dystopian fiction include a female teenager protagonist oppressed by her government, often initially unknowingly so embedded is she in the system, potentially profiting from it in some way. She is often introduced to the reader in a setting that the character initially reads as utopian, but is revealed to be dystopian and authoritarian in its construction. As identified by Ann M.M. Childs, a common dynamic in the genre that reinforces gender roles in heterosexual relationships see the protagonist introduced to the concept of rebellion or dissent through a male love interest already embedded in a resistance movement, at the cost of losing or betraying a female friend (188). Childs notes the protagonist may be resistant to the idea of rebellion, but after falling for the love interest, grows to genuinely care for the cause. Technology is depicted as advanced, alien or dehumanising, and both belongs to and represents the repressive society the protagonist seeks to escape and change. The natural environment is depicted in binary opposition, with characters finding resilience, freedom, and personal agency in a return to nature (McDonough and Wagner 157). Society will have attempted to restrict, destroy, or otherwise mine the natural world, but this attempt for control will inevitably fail or backfire. Initially the environment is displayed as a potentially antagonistic element, wild and dangerous; however, after the character escapes their confining world, it becomes an ally. In her employment of a perspective framed by Indigenous Knowledge, Kwaymullina subverts each of these established tropes, offering an alternative reading of conventions often embedded in the genre. Ashala is introduced as already entrenched in a rebellion that she is both leader and pivotal figure of. Inverting the dynamic outlined by Childs, she is love interest Connor’s motivation for rejecting the government and joining the Tribe: “You are the reason I came here, Ashala Wolf” (Kwaymullina 263). Kwaymullina dismisses Childs’ concern over the removal of female friendship in favour of heterosexual romance by centering Ashala’s relationships with Georgie and Ember as fundamental to Ashala’s well-being, where sistahood is a key paradigm of hope: “I carry my friends with me” (Kwaymullina 39). For Ashala and the Tribe, nature as exemplified through the Firstwood is Country, not only sanctuary but an animate being that Ashala speaks with, asks permission to live within, and offers protection and apology for the harm down to it by humans in the past. The privileging of environment, and reading all animate or inanimate beings as living, extends to challenging the nature/technology dichotomy. Even the static or sterile environments of the detention centres are recognised for their connection to nature in their construction from recycled materials: “Nothing ever truly ends, only transforms” (Kwaymullina 141). In “Learning to Read the Signs: Law in an Indigenous Reality”, Ambelin Kwaymullina and Blaze Kwaymullina write thatsince everything must interconnect and interrelate to survive, if a pattern is fixed in time, it loses its ability to dynamically connect with other patterns. To be temporally fixed is therefore to be isolated; frozen. In an Indigenous worldview, it is, in fact, an impossibility – for that which cannot move, cannot interact, and that which cannot interact is inanimate. And there is nothing inanimate in country. (200)This can be read as representative of Kwaymullina’s rupture or revision of dystopian tropes and genre. When tropes are read as static or absolute, they run the risk of freezing or limiting the knowledge encoded in these stories. By integrating Indigenous Knowledge, new patterns can emerge and interact, extending to the reader’s own understanding of genre, time, and epistemology. Kwaymullina’s revisioning of dystopian tropes through an embedded and celebrated Indigenous perspective culminates in the successful thematic, narrative, and structural expression of time as a non-linear concept. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina acknowledge the division between the reductionist and linear perspective of time through a Western worldview in comparison to the non-linear perception from that of an Indigenous Australian worldview. They acknowledge that their expression of time is not to be read as representative of all Indigenous Australians’ perspective of time, but one informed by their own Country and upbringing. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina write,in an Aboriginal worldview, time—to the extent that it exists at all—is neither linear nor absolute. There are patterns and systems of energy that create and transform, from the ageing process of the human body to the growth and decay of the broader universe. But these processes are not ‘measured’ or even framed in a strictly temporal sense, and certainly not in a linear sense. (199)This is enacted through the narrative structure of The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. The text is set across four days, yet spans years, shifting through narrative in a non-linear manner and reflecting the Indigenous understanding of time as a circular, evolving concept. These four days act as the containers for the text, as Kwaymullina distinguishes the departure from linear time for the uninitiated reader by including headings and subheadings in chapter titles, marked as “Day One”, “Day Two”, “Day Three”, and “Day Four”, before the final section, “The Escape”. Within these containers, themselves marked linearly, narrative ebbs and flows across time and space, taking Ashala away from the Detention Centre to different moments from her past, spanning years. These ‘flashbacks’ are not presented in a linear fashion; the text revisits and repeats key moments of Ashala’s life out of sequence, providing an immediate focus on these seemingly past moments. This is key in shaping the reader’s understanding of “the patterns and systems of energy that create and transform” (Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina 199)—as Ashala revisits or rediscovers memory through time, perceptions of character, motive, relationships, and key plot points are changed and transformed. Meaning is formed through this relationship of narrative and time in a manner not possible through a linear structure. Over the course of the novel, Ashala and the reader find she’s chosen to give herself false memories to protect the Tribe and complete a master plan to defeat Neville Rose. As such, as the novel begins the reader, aligned with Ashala as narrative focaliser, is positioned to read key points through a flawed perspective. Connor is presented as an enemy and betrayer of the Tribe, while Ashala denies her feelings towards him. The reader is aligned with Ashala’s perspective—she has already fallen in love with Connor, but neither she nor the reader knows it due to the displacement of knowledge through narrative structure and memory. This also speaks to identity formation in the text—Ashala is herself, and not herself until the novel reaches full circle, and she and the reader have experienced multiple points of time. As Ember explains, “it’s not about losing small pieces of information. This stuff shapes your entire understanding of reality” (Kwaymullina 167). If the reader revisits the text with this knowledge, they find further value in exploring the non-linear, circular narrative, finding subtext in characters’ interactions and decisions. The disruption in the non-linear narrative structure is twofold: to reflect the representation of time in an Indigenous epistemology, further rewriting the genre; and to create an intersubjective dialogue. As such, the narrative structure creates a space of invitation to the reader. Rather than positioning Ashala as embedded and aware of her status as a custodian of Indigenous knowledge, the text places her as ingrained in Indigenous epistemology, but unaware of it. In this way, the text effectively invites the reader in, mirroring Ashala’s journey of (re)discovery. The non-Indigenous reader enters the text alongside Ashala, with Indigenous knowledge embedded subtly throughout the text echoed in Kwaymullina’s engagement with dystopian tropes, and integrated Indigenous epistemology. By the time Ashala meets the Serpent, her Grandfather, and has her ancestry explained to her, the reader has already been immersed in Ashala’s own way of thinking, an inherently Indigenous one; for instance, throughout the text, she acknowledges the value and interconnectedness of all beings, human and non-human, animate and inanimate. The text leaves space for the reader to be active in their own construction of meaning and knowledge by never using the terms “Indigenous” or “Aboriginal”, themselves colonial inventions employed to control and label. Instead, the reader is encouraged to engage in the metatextual intersubjective dialogue introduced by Kwaymullina to acknowledge Indigenous epistemology—but by way of her approach, Kwaymullina further encourages the reader to “forget Aborigines” (Healy 219) by centring knowledge in its own right, rather than in direct opposition to Western epistemologies. That is, Kwaymullina disrupts Western perspectives framing of Indigenous knowledge as “other”, altering expectations of the norm as non-Indigenous. As Kwaymullina writes, to conceive of time in a non-linear way is at once a great gift and a great responsibility. The responsibility is that our individual actions matter powerfully, radiating out across relationships and affecting all that might be thought of in a linear sense as past, present and future. But the gift is that the passage of linear time has never moved us so far that we cannot take meaningful action to heal the wounds of colonialism. (“Respect” 126-127)In The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, Kwaymullina realises this gift and responsibility. By framing structural, conceptual, and narrative time through an Indigenous epistemology, Kwaymullina privileges Indigenous Knowledge and effectively subverts and revises the genre through the rupture of dystopian conventions. Possibilities of hope and healing emerge in the text’s construction of time and genre as spaces of growth and change are emphasised; like Ashala, the reader finds themselves at the end and beginning of the world at once.ReferencesBasu, Balaka, Katherine R. Broad, and Carrie Hintz, eds. Contemporary Dystopian Fiction for Young Adults: Brave New Teenagers. New York: Routledge, 2013. Booker, M. Keith. Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood P, 1994. Bradford, Clare, et al. New World Orders in Children’s Literature: Utopian Transformations. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Childs, Ann M.M. “The Incompatibility of Female Friendships and Rebellion.” Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Eds. Sara K. Day et al. 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U of California, 2017.Murphy, Graham J. “For Love of Country: Apocalyptic Survivance in Ambelin Kwaymullina’s Tribe Series.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.10>.Okorafor, Nnedi. “Organic Fantasy.” African Identities 7.2 (2009). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1080/14725840902808967>.Scott, Conrad. “(Indigenous) Place and Time as Formal Strategy: Healing Immanent Crisis in the Dystopias of Eden Robinson and Richard Van Camp.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.6>.Sypnowich, Christine. “Lessons from Dystopia: Critique, Hope and Political Education.” Journal of Philosophy of Education 52.4 (2018). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9752.12328>.

This article considers the threat of environmental destruction in YA dystopian imagination by providing a close reading of Saci Lloyd’s The Carbon Diaries 2015 (2008) and The Carbon Diaries 2017 (2010) that particularly considers whether these texts espouse radical social change and whether they offer hope or despair. First, the article demonstrates that Lloyd’s novels do not merely portray climate change as a backdrop for human drama, but rather attempt to disentangle the environmental crisis from the post-political sphere (Swyngedouw 2010) where humanity as a whole is under threat. While its protagonists learn to cope with ecological uncertainty and the multidimensional challenges of climate change, indeed, they also come to terms with the social and political dimensions of climate change. Second, the article claims that one of the most important features of these two novels is their attempt to explore the challenges faced by the younger generations when dealing with the contemporary climate challenge. Young people in fact bear a disproportionate burden of the environmental crises the world faces today and are subject to climate anxiety. Moreover, they are not only disproportionately impacted by climate change, but their agency and visions of the future are often placed under erasure discursively. Lloyd’s novels, instead, provide a young adult perspective on the uneven universality of climate change. Finally, the article suggests that the presence of utopian hope at the conclusion of the novels does not provide a consoling and comforting happy ending but helps readers to come to terms with an imperfect world. The article’s close reading of The Carbon Diaries 2015 and 2017, therefore, attempts to underscore the novels’ projection of a possible future where a radical systemic change is envisaged.

Historically, science and medicine have been a great source of inspiration for fiction writers. Mary Shelley, in the 1831 introduction to her novel Frankenstein said she was been inspired, in part, by discussions about scientific experiments, including those of Darwin and Galvani. Shelley states “perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth” (10). Countless other authors have followed her lead, from H.G. Wells, whose mad scientist Dr Moreau takes a lead from Shelley’s Dr Frankenstein, through to popular contemporary writers of adult fiction, such as Michael Crichton and Kathy Reichs, who have drawn on their scientific and medical backgrounds for their fictional works. Science and medicine themed fiction has also proven popular for younger readers, particularly in dystopian settings. Reichs has extended her writing to include the young adult market with Virals, which combines forensic science with the supernatural. Alison Allen-Grey’s 2009 novel, Lifegame, deals with cloning and organ replacement. Nathan Hobby’s The Fur is based around an environmental disaster where an invasive fungal-fur grows everywhere, including in people’s internal organs. Catherine Jinks’ Piggy in the Middle incorporates genetics and biomedical research into its horror-science fiction plot. Brian Caswell’s young adult novel, Cage of Butterflies uses elements of neuroscience as a plot device. However, although Caswell’s novel found commercial and critical success—it was shortlisted in the 1993 Children’s Book Council of Australia (CBCA) Book of the Year Awards Older Readers and was reprinted several times—neuroscience is a field that writers of young adult fiction tend to either ignore or only refer to on the periphery. This paper will explore how neuroscientific and dystopian elements interact in young adult fiction, focusing on the current trend for neuroscientific elements to be something that adolescent characters are subjected to rather than something they can use as a tool of positive change. It will argue that the time is right for a shift in young adult fiction away from a dystopian world view to one where the teenaged characters can become powerful agents of change. The term “neuroscience” was first coined in the 1960s as a way to hybridise a range of disciplines and sub-disciplines including biophsyics, biology and chemistry (Abi-Rached and Rose). Since then, neuroscience as a field has made huge leaps, particularly in the past two decades with discoveries about the development and growth of the adolescent brain; the dismissal of the nature versus nurture dichotomy; and the acceptance of brain plasticity. Although individual scientists had made discoveries relating to brain plasticity in adult humans as far back as the 1960s, for example, it is less than 10 years since neuroplasticity—the notion that nerve cells in human brains and nervous systems are malleable, and so can be changed or modified by input from the environment—was accepted into mainstream scientific thinking (Doidge). This was a significant change in brain science from the once dominant principle of localisation, which posited that specific brain functions were fixed in a specific area of the brain, and that once damaged, the function associated with a brain area could not improve or recover (Burrell; Kolb and Whishaw; Doidge). Furthermore, up until the late 1990s when neuroscientist Jay Giedd’s studies of adolescent brains showed that the brain’s grey matter, which thickens during childhood, thins during adolescence while the white matter thickens, it was widely accepted the human brain stopped maturing at around the age of twelve (Wallis and Dell). The research of Giedd and others showed that massive changes, including those affecting decision-making abilities, impulse control and skill development, take place in the developing adolescent brain (Carr-Gregg). Thus, within the last fifteen years, two significant discoveries within neuroscience—brain plasticity and the maturation of the adolescent brain­—have had a major impact on the way the brain is viewed and studied. Brian Caswell’s Cage of Butterflies, was published too early to take advantage of these neuroscientific discoveries. Nevertheless the novel includes some specific details about how the brains of a group of children within the story, the Babies, have been altered by febrile convulsions to create an abnormality in their brain anatomy. The abnormality is discovered by a CAT scan (the novel predates the use of fMRI brain scans). Due to their abnormal brain anatomy, the Babies are unable to communicate verbally but can communicate telepathically as a “shared mind” with others outside their small group. It is unlikely Caswell would have been aware of brain plasticity in the early 1990s, nevertheless, in the narrative, older teens are able to slowly understand the Babies by focusing on their telepathic messages until, over time, they can understand them without too much difficulty. Thus Caswell has incorporated neuroscientific elements throughout the plot of his novel and provided some neuroscientific explanation for how the Babies communicate. In recent years, several young adult novels, both speculative and contemporary, have used elements of neuroscience in their narratives; however, these novels tend to put neuroscience on the periphery. Rather than embracing neuroscience as a tool adolescent characters can use for their benefit, as Caswell did, neuroscience is typically something that exists around or is done to the characters; it is an element over which they have no control. These novels are found across several sub-genres of young adult fiction, including science fiction, speculative fiction and contemporary fiction. Most place their narratives in a dystopian world view. The dystopian settings reinforce the idea that the world is a dangerous place to live, and the teenaged characters living in the world of the novels are at the mercy of powerful oppressors. This creates tension within the narrative as the adolescents battle authorities for power. Without the ability to use neuroscientific advantages for their own gain, however, the characters’ power to change their worlds remains in the hands of adult authorities and the teenaged characters ultimately lose the fight to change their world. This lack of agency is evident in several dystopian young adult novels published in recent years, including the Uglies series and to a lesser extent Brain Jack and Dark Angel. Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies series is set in a dystopian future world and uses neuroscientific concepts to both reinforce the power of the ruling regime and give limited agency to the protagonists. In the first book in the series, Uglies, the science supports the narrative where necessary but is always subservient to the action. Westerfeld’s intended the Uglies series to focus on action. Westerfield states “I love a good action sequence, and this series is of full of hoverboard chases, escapes through ancient ruins, and leaps off tall buildings in bungee jackets” (Books). Nevertheless, the brain’s ability to rewire itself—the neuroscientific concept of brain plasticity—is a central idea within the Uglies series. In book one, the protagonist Tally Youngblood is desperate to turn 16 so she can join her friends and become a Pretty. However, she discovers the operation to become a Pretty involves not just plastic surgery to alter her looks: a lesion is inflicted on the brain, giving each Pretty the equivalent of a frontal lobotomy. In the next book, Pretties, Tally has undergone the procedure and then becomes one of the elite Specials, and in the third instalment she eventually rejects her Special status and returns to her true nature. This latter process, one of the characters explains, is possible because Tally has learnt to rewire her brain, and so undo the Pretty operation and the procedure that made her a Special. Thus neuroscientific concepts of brain injury and recovery through brain plasticity are prime plot devices. But the narrative offers no explanations for how Tally and some others have the ability to rewire their brains to undo the Pretty operation while most do not. The apparent complexity of the neuroscience is used as a surface plot device rather than as an element that could be explored to add narrative depth. In contrast, the philosophical implications of recent neuroscientific discoveries, rather than the physical, are explored in another recent young adult novel, Dark Angel. David Klass’ novel, Dark Angel, places recent developments in neuroscience in a contemporary setting to explore the nature of good and evil. It tells the story of 17-year-old Jeff, whose ordinary, small-town life implodes when his older brother, Troy, comes home on parole after serving five years for manslaughter. A school assignment forces Jeff to confront Troy’s complex nature. The science teacher asks his class “where does our growing knowledge of the chemical nature of the brain leave us in terms of... the human soul? When we think, are we really making choices or just following chemical pathways?” (Klass 74). This passage introduces a neuroscientific angle into the plot, and may refer to a case brought before the US Supreme Court in 2005 where the court admitted a brief based on brain scans showing that adolescent brains work differently than adult brains (Madrigal). The protagonist, Jeff, explores the nature of good and evil through this neuroscientific framework as the story's action unfolds, and examines his relationship with Troy, who is described in all his creepiness and vulnerability. Again through the teacher, Klass incorporates trauma and its impact on the brain from a neuroscientific perspective: There are psychiatrists and neurologists doing studies on violent lawbreakers...who are finding that these felons share amazingly similar patterns of abusive childhoods, brain injuries, and psychotic symptoms. (Klass 115)Jeff's story is infused with the fallout of his brother’s violent past and present, yet there is no hint of any trauma in Jeff’s or Troy’s childhoods that could be seen as a cause for Troy’s aberrant behaviour. Thus, although Klass’ novel explores more philosophical aspects of neuroscience, like Westerfeld’s novel, it uses developments in neuroscience as a point of interest. The neuroscience in Dark Angel is not embedded in the story but is a lens through which to view the theme of whether people are born evil or made evil. Brain Jack and Being are another two recent young adult novels that explore physical and philosophical aspects of modern neuroscience to some extent. Technology and its possible neurological effects on the brain, particularly the adolescent brain, is a field of research popularised by English neuroscientist Baroness Susan Greenfield. Brian Falkner’s 2010 release, Brain Jack, explores this branch of neuroscience with its cautionary tale of a hands-free device—a cap with small wires that attach to your head called the neuro-headset­—that allows you to control your computer with your thoughts. As more and more people use the neuro-headset, the avatar designed to help people learn to use the software develops consciousness and its own moral code, destroying anyone who it considers a threat by frying their brains. Like Dark Angel and Uglies, Brain Jack keeps the neuroscience on the periphery as an element over which the characters have little or no control, and details about how the neuro-headset affects the brain of its wearers, and how the avatar develops consciousness, are not explored. Conversely, Kevin Brooks’ novel Being explores the nature of consciousness outside the field of neuroscience. The protagonist, Robert, goes into hospital for a routine procedure and discovers that instead of internal organs, he has some kind of hardware. On the run from authorities who are after him for reasons he does not understand, Robert tries frantically to reconstruct his earliest memories to give him some clue as to who, or what, he really is: if he does not have normal human body parts, is he human? However, whether or not he has a human brain, and the implications of either answer for his consciousness, is never addressed. Thus, although the novels discussed above each incorporate neuroscience to some degree, they do so at a cursory level. In the case of Being this is understandable as neuroscience is never explicitly mentioned; rather it is a possible sub-text implied through the theme of consciousness. In Dark Angel, through the teacher as mouthpiece, neuroscience is offered up as a possible explanation for criminal behaviour, which causes the protagonist to question his beliefs and judgements about his brother. However, in Uglies, and to a lesser extent in Brain Jack, neuroscience is glossed over when more detail may have added extra depth and complexity to the novels. Fast-paced action is a common element in much contemporary young adult fiction, and thus it is possible that Westerfeld and Falkner both chose to sacrifice complexity for the sake of action. In Uglies, it is likely this is the case, given Westerfeld’s love of action sequences and his attention to detail about objects created exclusively for his futuristic world. However, Brain Jack goes into explicit detail about computer hacking. Falkner’s dismissal of the neuroscientific aspects of his plot, which could have added extra interest, most likely stems from his passion for computer science (he studied computer science at university) rather than a distaste for or ignorance of neuroscience. Nevertheless Falkner, Westerfeld, Brooks, and to a lesser extent Klass, have each glossed over a source of potential power that could turn the dystopian worlds of their novels into one where the teenaged protagonists hold the power to make lasting change. In each of these novels, neuroscientific concepts are generally used to support a bleak or dystopian world view. In Uglies, the characters have two choices: a life as a lobotomised Pretty or a life on the run from the authorities, where discovery and capture is a constant threat. The USA represented in Brain Jack descends into civil war, where those unknowingly enslaved by the avatar’s consciousness fight against those who refuse to wear the neuro-headsets. The protagonist in Being lives in hiding from the secret authorities who seek to capture and destroy him. Even in Dark Angel, the neuroscience is not a source of comfort or support for the protagonist, whose life, and that of his family, falls apart as a consequence of his older brother’s criminal actions. It is only in the 1990s novel, Cage of Butterflies, that characters use a neuroscientific advantage to improve their situation. The Babies in Caswell’s Cage of Butterflies are initially victims of their brain abnormality; however, with the help of the teenaged characters, along with two adult characters, they are able to use their “condition” to help create a new life for themselves. Telepathically communicating through their “shared mind,” the Babies coordinate their efforts with the others to escape from the research scientists who threaten their survival. In this way, what starts as a neurological disability is turned into an advantage. Cage of Butterflies illustrates how a young adult novel can incorporate neuroscience into its narrative in a way that offers the young adults agency to make positive changes in their lives. Furthermore, with recent neuroscientific discoveries showing that adolescence is a vital time for brain development and growth, there is potential for neuroscience to be explored as an agent of positive change in a new wave of young adult fiction, one that adopts a non-dystopian (if not optimistic) world view. Dystopian young adult fiction has been enjoying enormous popularity in western publishing in the past few years with series such as Chaos Walking, Hunger Games and Maze Runner trilogies topping bestseller lists. Dystopian fiction’s appeal to young adult audiences, states Westerfeld, is because: Teenagers’ lives are constantly defined by rules, and in response they construct their identities through necessary confrontations with authority, large and small. Imagining a world in which those authorities must be destroyed by any means necessary is one way of expanding that game. ("Teenage Wastelands")Teenagers often find themselves in trouble, and are almost as often like to cause trouble. Placing them in a fictional dystopian world gives them room to fight authority; too often, however, the young adult protagonists are never able to completely escape the world the adults impose upon them. For example, the epilogue of James Dashner’s The Maze Runner tells the reader the surviving group have not escaped the makers of the maze, and their apparent rescuers are part of the same group of adult authorities. Caswell’s neurologically evolved Babies, along with their high IQ teenage counterparts, however, provide a model for how young protagonists can take advantage of neuroscientific discoveries to cause trouble for hostile authorities in their fictional worlds. The power of the brain harnessed by adolescents, alongside their hormonal changes, is by its nature a recipe for trouble: it has the potential to give young people an agency and power adults may fear. In the everyday, lived world, neuroscientific tools are always in the hands of adults; however, there needs to be no such constraint in a fictional world. The superior ability of adolescents to grow the white matter of their brains, for example, could give rise to a range of fictional scenarios where the adolescents could use their brain power to brainwash adults in authority. A teenage neurosurgeon might not work well in a contemporary setting but could be credible in a speculative fiction setting. The number of possible scenarios is endless. More importantly, however, it offers a relatively unexplored avenue for teenaged characters to have agency and power in their fictional worlds. Westerfeld may be right in his assertion that the current popularity of dystopian fiction for young adults is a reaction to the highly monitored and controlled world in which they live ("Teenage Wastelands"). However, an alternative world view, one where the adolescents take control and defeat the adults, is just as valid. Such a scenario has been explored in Cory Doctorow’s For the Win, where marginalised and exploited gamers from Singapore and China band together with an American to form a global union and defeat their oppressors. Doctorow uses online gaming skills, a field of expertise where youth are considered superior to adults, to give his characters power over adults in their world. Similarly, the amazing changes that take place in the adolescent brain are a natural advantage that teenaged characters could utilise, particularly in speculative fiction, to gain power over adults. To imbue adolescent characters with such power has the potential to move young adult fiction beyond the confines of the dystopian novel and open new narrative pathways. The 2011 Bologna Children’s Book Fair supports the view that western-based publishing companies will be looking for more dystopian young adult fiction for the next year or two (Roback). However, within a few years, it is possible that the popularity of zombies, werewolves and vampires—and their dominance of fictional dystopian worlds—will pass or, at least change in their representations. The “next big thing” in young adult fiction could be neuroscience. Moreover, neuroscientific concepts could be incorporated into the standard zombie/vampire/werewolf trope to create yet another hybrid to explore: a zombie virus that mutates to give a new breed of undead creature superior intelligence, for example; or a new cross-breed of werewolf that gives humans the advantages of the canine brain with none of the disadvantages. The capacity and complexity of the human brain is enormous, and thus it offers enormous potential to create exciting young adult fiction that explores new territory, giving the teenaged reader a sense of their own power and natural advantages. In turn, this is bound to give them infinite potential to create fictional trouble. References Abi-Rachedm, Rose. “The Birth of the Neuromolecular Gaze.” History of the Human Sciences 23 (2010): 11-36. Allen-Gray, Alison. Lifegame. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2009. Brooks, Kevin. Being. London: Puffin Books, 2007. Burrell, Brian. Postcards from the Brain Museum. New York: Broadway, 2004. Carr-Gregg, Michael. The Princess Bitchface Syndrome. Melbourne: Penguin Books. 2006. Caswell, Brian. A Cage of Butterflies. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 1992. Dashner, James. The Maze Runner. Somerset, United Kingdom: Chicken House, 2010. Doctorow, Cory. For the Win. New York: Tor, 2010. Doidge, Norman. The Brain That Changes Itself. 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