Message from Tomorrow

2034 A late autumn wind rattled the sleek, glass façade of Axiom Strategies, a private military contractor nestled amidst the futuristic cityscape of San Francisco. Inside, the air crackled with a tension thicker than the fog rolling in from the bay.  Around a table, bathed in the cool blue glow of simulations, sat a team of some of the best minds anywhere on earth. Anna Paolo, a strategist with a mind sharper than a diamond laser, tapped her crimson-painted lips with a perfectly manicured fingernail. Her blue eyes, usually bright with steely resolve, flickered with worry. Despite her designer power suit and cascading brunette hair, there was a warrior's glint in her gaze.  Across from her, Ziff Cohen, Axiom's resident tech guru, hunched over his console, a shock of messy brown hair escaping his beanie. His usually playful demeanor was replaced by a furrowed brow and a scruffy beard that spoke of late nights spent deciphering classified data.  Beside him sat Ahmed Mukhtar...

2034 A crisp Parisian winter clung to the air as Ann, bundled in a vibrant scarf, hurried across the Pont Alexandre III on her way to the Café de Flore to join friends. Her studio was a haven of warm light and paint-splattered canvases, a stark contrast to the steely gray outside occasioned by the snows of winter.  Stepping into the Café, she found Ziff, his signature beanie pulled low, hunched over a holographic display floating above the table with Ahmed and Titi focused on it. Her approach called their attention away from it to her.  "Poking the future again, Mr. Tech Prophet?" she teased Ziff, her Italian accent a melody in the quiet room. Ziff, startled, almost knocked over his coffee. "Hey, ciao Ann! Just prepping for the Ahmed and Titi Show," he grinned, the bright light of the display casting an otherworldly glow on his face. A low chuckle rumbled from the corner. Ahmed, ever the picture of quiet observation, sat perched on a stool, a notepad in his hand. ...

2030 The aroma of freshly roasted Ethiopian Yirgacheffe hung heavy in the air as Anna, a digital artist, settled into her usual corner at FunkyHive. Unlike the usual bustle of laptop warriors tapping away, a different energy crackled today. Anna noticed her friend, Ziff, a self-proclaimed tech prophet, engrossed in his phone, a curious glint in his eye. "So, Anna," Ziff began, his voice laced with excitement, "did you see The Scribe's latest article?” (Ziff calls their mutual friend, Ahmed, The Scribe). “Apparently, this whole Web3 thing is the future for artists like you!" He continued. Anna, ever the free spirit, tilted her head, a spark of curiosity igniting in her emerald eyes. "Web… what?" Ahmed chuckled, his phantasmic virtual form adjusting its spectacles. "Web3, my dear. It's the next big thing – a decentralized internet where creators own their work and connect directly with fans." Anna's brow furrowed. "Hold on. You mea...

Year 2030 The pre-dawn Texas sky was ablaze with an ethereal orange glow as I, Dr. Antonia Anderson, mission ecologist for SpaceX's first crewed Mars mission, tightened the straps on my bio-monitoring suit. Around me, the Starship launch complex hummed with controlled vibration. Technicians flitted between the gleaming white behemoth of a space transport, their voices a low murmur beneath the thunderous hum of the engines preparing to ignite. "Ready, Tonia?" boomed a familiar voice in my earpiece. It was John, my co-pilot and best friend since astronaut academy. His usual easy going demeanor was tinged with a nervous excitement that mirrored my own.  "As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, forcing a smile.  The countdown echoed in the cockpit, each number a was equalled by a double thumping of my heart. Finally, with a deafening roar that vibrated through my bones, Starship shuddered and lurched skyward. G-forces pressed me into my seat in addition to all the...

Year 2034 The crisp London air carried the excited chatter of fans as Emily, a data analyst for Liverpool FC, and John, a veteran scout for Real Madrid, weaved through the throngs of excited spectators towards their VIP seats at the newly renovated Wembley Stadium.   "Look at this place, Em," John chuckled, gesturing towards the three-dimensional advertisements (3D Ads) shimmering above the pitch. "Remember the days of static billboards?"  Emily smiled. "Feels like a lifetime ago. Though, I miss the simplicity sometimes."  Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as the stadium lights dimmed and a multi-colored laser show painted the pitch. Emerging from ground-to-surface elevators at both ends of the pitch are the two finalists of the Champions League, their names emblazoned on their augmented reality (AR) kits. Players whose plays are enhanced by AI and biotechs worn on their bodies or directly implanted into their systems. John tapped his AR glass...

  Such great headways we made from carving our stories on rocks, trees and cave walls, to writing them on parchments and tablets, then to the invention of the printing press and personal typewriters. And, finally, to this era of Personal Computers (PC), artificial intelligence (AI), and Augmented Reality (AR)/Virtual Reality (VR) .  Standing at certain points in time of these developments and looking ahead makes reality seem like a miracle. And if the inventions of the past seemed like marvels, the inventions of the future would therefore be deemed sorceries. It's AD 2043, and we look into the future of writing, all the way to AD 2077 in narrative and immersive, real-case scenarios style. [Scene 1: A Buzzing Coffee Shop in 2043] Jane : (Sipping a steaming latte, she glances at Ada, a fellow writer, her brow furrowed in concentration) Hey Ada, writer's block again? Ada : (Sighs) Worse, Jane. The publisher wants my next novel in a "multi-sensory format." Apparently, imm...