Welcome to your future.

Spaceships. Jet packs. Laser guns. 


Fifty years from now, the future will still be shaped by the mundane, the stupid, and the petty, living side by side with the Big Ideas. Dirty, shining, poor, glorious, filthy, and wonderful. 50.YFN is where we tell our future's story, hangover and all.

In its short life,
50.YFN has already become a very sharply defined setting, with unique language and history. Because of the ongoing storylines and broad geographical setting, we strongly recommend using the archives and category tags before throwing yourself in the deep end. Read the guidelines, take a look around. There's a truly talented pool of creators breathing life into our world Fifty Years From Now.

You are welcome to be a part of it.

And remember:

This is not a land-grab. There's no turf.  If you're a new writer, you have the same access to Brooklyn as I do, and as much an opportunity to leave your imprint on it. Don't be intimidated. Leave your brand on the future alongside everyone else. It's your world too. 


178th Street and Grand Concourse

by Monk, New York City, NY, USA

Steps over nodding vagrants in the stairwell and makes her way up to the client, cursing the Bronx with every step. The building's a century old, sandwiched between a rusting megamall half-finished twenty years ago, and an abandoned brownstone that leans ominously to one side, propped by an aching wooden brace. The stairs creak, rusted gaps between floors. Litter. Smell of fermented piss and liquor. Cannabis, tobacco, burnt plastic. Yellow police webbing on some doors, animated black text rolling across its surface, gentle voice repeating, 'This is an active crime scene. Trespassers will be violated. Please move along.' By the time she reaches Sanghita Choudry's apartment, she's very comfortable with the idea of running back to her native village in Estonia. Screaming.

She knocks a few times at the old aluminum door, caked with chipped paint and silver graffiti, kicks a rat off her foot, and is finally answered by the sound of locks and chains unbinding themselves. The door wheezes open and there is the dowager Choudry, shrunken turnip woman in faded red sari, thick spectacles, beaten sandals, and a bindi that looks almost exactly like a bullet wound, halo'd by smog-colored hair. She asks if her visitor is from the city's Senior Services.

"I am."

Mrs Choudry ushers her into the generous foyer, walls stained with curious brown stains and familiar pock marks. Adjacent is a living room saved from total darkness by numerous candles. Small table in the corner with framed prints of family, most of them tinted sepia from the huge, moldy hole in the ceiling, rotting beams and pipes exposed. Beaten couch in opposite corner, upholstered in surplus bedding, bulge of bare springs beneath. Smell of curry and cooking oil.

"Oh, thank goodness you came," Mrs Choudry says sweetly. "My telephone has not worked for days—I was afraid you had forgotten about me!"

"No, ma'am," she replies coolly, her accent a series of clipped vowels and rolling Rs. "But it is a big city. We get backed up from time to time. You say your phone is not working? Because another social worker from the city was supposed to be here last week."

"I can't get the battery to charge. My son keeps saying he will come by with a new phone, but he is a policeman for the city, and he is so busy..."

"I see," the social worker says, producing an orange plastic kit from her knapsack. "In here, you will find a number of emergency items for cases like this. A wind-up net receiver for emergency broadcasts, several high-density vitamin bars—"

"Oh, I can't eat those," Mrs Choudry blushes, "they give me the winds."

The social worker's teeth grate. "...a flashlight, pepperspray, and here, a spare phone with up to four programmable contact numbers."

Mrs Choudry takes the phone, inspects it. "This is paper."

"It is disposable, yes."

"But what if I get it wet?"

"It is teflon-coated, Mrs Choudry. Waterproof."

"But what if the battery goes flat? How will I call my son?"

"It runs off your body electricity, Mrs Choudry. If it isn't getting reception, there are instructions in the kit to—"

"Oh, I can't read English."

The social worker curses the luck that landed her on American shores. She wanted Buenos Aires. Paris of the South. Warm weather. Tropical drinks. Mercifully few senior citizen. And only a single national language. "The booklet is in Urdu, as well, Mrs Choudry. Page seventy-three."


"Would you like to show me around, Mrs Choudry?"

"Oh! I'm being so rude! I would offer you tea, but I've been so short on money..."

"I've come with a packet of green stamps for you, Mrs Choudry, and can escort you to the local ration station if you need me to."

"Oh my! They sent a police officer?"

"Ah, no."

"You're armed?"

"I understand your concern, Mrs Choudry, but green stamps aren't really money. I shouldn't need a gun to escort you."

"Oh, child, you are so sweet, but the welfare office on Burnside is much too dangerous for you, then!"

She looks at her surroundings, accepts Mrs Choudry's wisdom. The elderly woman shows her the barren kitchen with its empty pantry, broken appliances, and modest crank-powered hotplate. She dutifully records it all on her phone, time-stamps everything, and returns to the foyer, where she begins assembling the forms and fetishes of proof that New York City has not been delinquent caring for their elderly.

"Your phone," Mrs Choudry asks sweetly, pointing to the social worker's purse, "was it expensive?"

"Not very," she responds, producing a black plastic pad. "I need you to place your thumb here to sign off on my appointment, Mrs Choudry."

"But the phone is new?"

"What? I bought it last week."

"Ah," the old woman says thoughtfully. "And how are you getting home, dear? It's getting so late."

"I suppose I'll take a cab."

"They only take cash up here, I'm afraid, child."

The social worker sighs impatiently. "I have cash, Mrs Choudry. Now, your fingerprint, please?"

Mrs Choudry smiles, blinking owlishly behind her thick spectacles. The social worker stares back, oblivious to the old woman's right hand, which has somehow produced a chrome and wood thing from the innards of her sari.

"It is getting late, dear," Mrs Choudry says sweetly, plucking the thumbprint verifier from her social worker's hand. "But as you said, those green stamps aren't really money. So if you could kindly leave your cash, that lovely new phone, and that pretty gold cross you're wearing on the table, that would be delightful. Quickly, my child. This is a very old pistol, and between my shaky old hands and its hair trigger, I can't promise it won't just go off and splatter your pretty little face all over my wall. Thank you, dear. It's so nice knowing the city cares enough to send you people to visit an old woman from time to time."

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