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. 


Dying From Too Much

by James Peach, Nashville, TN, USA

I've got 12 hours to live. I've managed to do things in the last 24 that most people spend their whole lives fantasizing about. Some of them I did so that when I do die, people will say, "Herman was a good guy in the end." Other things I did because most people spend their whole lives fearing the consequences. Most of the things I did because I just don't give a fuck now. Why should I?

I've stolen.

I've killed.

I've hurt myself.

I've eaten until I threw up. Four times.

I've given homeless people thousands of dollars. That was gonna be for a new game system.

I told my moms that I love them. Susan didn't care. Nokia didn't understand why I did it. She didn't think about it very long, though, before her soundbox finished charging and she went right back to what she does best, which is getting high.

I haven't done any drugs, because if there's nothing there after you die, it just isn't smart to waste the time I have left as a high retard. Besides, I can't think of any I haven't already done.

It's not fair, but there's really no time to cry about it. Not my fault, anyways, and I can't change it. The only person that may be able to fix me wants more money than I can get in time without doing things to myself that would completely negate my will to live anyways. If it weren't my own life that was ending, I might be amused that our very own local kingpin is also the most capable doctor in the country. I admire his drive, though. I had three jobs, but this guy…….Ah fuck that. Fuck Doctor Edgar.

People are telling me that there was a time when people in the poorest parts of the world died before they hit my age because they didn't have enough. I'm dying because we have too much.

All of a sudden, dying a high retard is sounding really good.

Later on, I'll go sit at Riverfront Park to watch the fireworks. Most people in Nashville don't remember why we have fireworks this time of year. I do, but I think it's stupid. Nobody throws a parade when a beaten child grows up to beat his kids, so why shoot fireworks on the fourth?

I hope hell isn't as bad as that dramatic reenactment they did on the news last week.

The realization of the stupidity of all of the things I wanted to be when I grew up is just now hitting me. If I weren't dying, I'd go back to school. I could've had my masters by now. I don't regret the way I did things, I'm just saying.

Well, it's about time to wrap it up, I guess. I'm gonna stick this note…….Shit, I dunno where. I want someone to miss me. Maybe as my last good deed, I'll go to the hospital and die there, so I can save people the struggle of schlepping my ninety-pound body to the crematorium. Hopefully, they'll see me and say, "Thanks, man. That was considerate."

I won't even see puberty. Goddammit.

1 comment:

Spades said...

Wow, that last line...