When I set out to write On the Wings of a Pig , I didn’t expect to end up writing it with anyone else. The core idea was mine, born from years spent straddling the line between bioengineering and policy, steeped in existential frustration at how little attention we give to the collapse of the living world around us, and how much a lot of my conversations felt like science fiction. I had the science. I had the stakes. I had the vision.

In 1999, scientists finally put a name to one of the most devastating pandemics you’ve probably never heard of: Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis , or Bd—the amphibian chytrid fungus. By the time it had a name, it had already triggered one of the largest mass extinction events in recorded biological history. Bd has been linked to the decline or extinction of over 500 amphibian species, with at least 90 species likely wiped out entirely.

Hey there, Three weeks ago, I hit send on one of the most personal announcements I’ve ever shared. On July 1, I announced the debut of my first science fiction novel— On the Wings of a Pig . The response was overwhelming. I expected a few nods of support, maybe some curiosity.

A few days ago, on Sci-Fi Friday, you met Dr. Samara Makinde. You didn’t know it then, and neither did she, but her story wasn’t a standalone. What you read on Friday wasn’t just another TCIP short story. It was Chapter One of my debut novel — On the Wings of a Pig — and the opening act of a story I’ve been dreaming about for years.

Samara June 12, 2108 Outskirts of Kansas City Wedged between a matching set of security guards in the back seat of an armored Reaper, Dr. Samara Makinde watched through bulletproof glass as Missouri farm country scrolled past like a documentary of the apocalypse.

What began in the fall of 2024 as a weekly experiment - just me, a blank page, and a question about how technology and humanity are reshaping each other - quickly grew into something more.

In 2018, when the world found out a Chinese scientist had edited the genes of twin baby girls, the reaction was instant and loud: absolutely not. Scientists called it reckless. Ethicists called it unethical. Governments rushed to reinforce bans. And He Jiankui, the scientist behind the experiment, was sentenced to prison in China for violating medical regulations.

When people talk about the future of artificial intelligence, the loudest voices often come from opposite ends of a spectrum: unshakable optimists and doomsday prophets. But in a forecast like AI 2027 , what we’re given isn’t hype or horror, it’s foresight grounded in a deep understanding of how systems evolve, how capabilities scale, and most importantly, how institutions react under pressure. The report doesn’t make a prediction.

The first time I saw real snow, I panicked. Not because it was cold, my body knew cold better than breath, but because it was finally real. It wasn’t the polymeric white fluff they sprayed from ceiling nozzles to “simulate seasonal cues” inside the dome. This was actual ice crystal, drifting from a slate sky outside the controlled perimeter, collecting in stillness on a field of grasses no longer extinct.

Romulus, Remus, and Khaleesi were born in Texas, but their story stretches back more than 12,000 years. They’re not myths or simulations or prototypes in a pitch deck. They are real. Living, breathing, healthy pups, engineered from ancient genetic blueprints to bring back an apex predator the world hasn’t seen since the Ice Age.

I wake to my phone vibrating angrily on the nightstand. 6:30 AM. A red notification pulses on the screen: “DELIVERY FAILED.” My stomach twists. Today was the day OncoCure was due, my daughter Maya’s next dose of the therapy that keeps her cancer at bay. For the past year, a monthly vial of this miracle drug has arrived at our doorstep like clockwork. And why not?