FICTIOn
A Day In The Life of Jasper Jones
Living in 2055 with 10,000,000,000 people on earth.
The alarm blares, cutting through the murky haze of sleep. It’s 7:00 AM, August 3, 2055. My smart mirror flickers on, displaying the day’s schedule and a rundown of the latest news — mostly grim updates about resource shortages and environmental degradation. I sit up, the air in my apartment thick and stale despite the air purifiers working overtime. Even though it’s early, the world outside is already a cacophony of noise, a never-ending symphony of humanity’s struggle to survive.
I shuffle to the kitchen, where my AI assistant, Luna, has prepared my rationed breakfast shake. The government-issued meal isn’t much, just enough to keep me going. I sip it slowly while scrolling through the morning updates on the cracked holographic display on the counter. Power outages have become more frequent, and I’m lucky the generator kicked in this time.
After breakfast, I prepare for my “commute.” I step into my home office, a cramped space cluttered with outdated tech and the remnants of better days. My job as a virtual architect still exists, but it’s far from what it used to be. Today, I’m tasked with designing temporary shelters for climate refugees — families displaced by rising sea levels and uninhabitable conditions.
I slip on my worn VR headset, and the world around me fades into a bleak digital landscape. I spend the morning making adjustments to the 3D models, consulting with team members who, like me, are scattered across the globe in various states of hardship. The technology, once a marvel, now feels like a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of order in a collapsing world.
Luna reminds me to take a break around noon. I remove the headset and step outside, the oppressive heat hitting me immediately. The city is a shadow of its former self, with crumbling infrastructure and barely functioning autonomous vehicles. The air is thick with smog, and I make my way to the park, now more of a shantytown filled with makeshift shelters and desperate people.
In the park, I see a few friends, their faces gaunt and weary. We engage in a half-hearted drone race, our drones cobbled together from salvaged parts. The camaraderie is tinged with a shared sense of doom, a brief distraction from our grim reality.
Back home, I force down a meager lunch and dive back into work. This time, I focus on the finer details of the temporary shelters, knowing full well they’ll offer little comfort to those who will occupy them. My haptic gloves, frayed and unreliable, make the task more frustrating than it should be. The meticulous work feels pointless in the face of such overwhelming despair.
The afternoon drags on, and I finally log off, drained and disheartened. I spend the evening with my family, though our interactions are strained by the constant worry of what tomorrow will bring. My partner and I discuss our dwindling options for survival, knowing that space travel is a distant dream for people like us.
As night falls, I try to relax with a book, the pages projected on a dim, flickering screen. It’s a historical novel about the early 21st century, a time that seems almost utopian in comparison to our current existence. Before bed, I reflect on the relentless decline that has brought us to this point.
I drift off to sleep, the city’s oppressive hum in the background, bracing myself for another day in this harsh, unforgiving world.
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