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. 


Running from Daylight pt. I

by Dominick Brady, Atlanta, GA, USA

"Settle in there, y'all. Two outs, now. Two outs!"

I always enjoyed juggling coaching duties and manning the solar cooker. You know, being in command of things. The first Saturday in June is an informal family reunion of sorts for the Bobbs, and this one began no different than most. A post dawn breeze rustled in the
needles of sun-bleached pine trees bordering the Lena side of Washington Park, bringing with it temporary relief from blood-curdling heat. Children's laughter echoed across the park in-between rhythmic slams emanating from the knife fight disguised as a domino game in the
covered picnic area. A gust of wind pushed wafts of dust up from the infield as sweat poured from Karim's chin, and painted the corner of the leather base-bag, mixing with flecks of earth into a maroon paste before quickly baking into moon-like craters. Karim proceeded to inch
further and further from the bag toward second base.

"I see you! I see you, boy! No stealing today! Play fair, now! We 'posed to be kin out here," I said, infant son, Gideon, cradled in my left arm, attempting to shield him from the shriek of my voice.

The plumes of dust thickened. I strained to monitor the game from the inadequate shade of a dying dogwood near my post at the solar cooker. The crack of the bat pierced the early morning air, followed immediately by a dull thud. Making my way back to the cooker, I began
placing the leftover jerk chicken in recycleable containers. That's when I heard mama scream.

Hotlanta had become nearly unbearable over the past few decades. Bitter cold winters and sun-scorched summers paired to bring the reality of climate change harder than anyone expected. With the ozone depleted over the city, being exposed to sunlight during the daytime
became the venture of fools and the forgotten. Atlanta's bold plan for an underground highway system as an answer to traffic blight might have seemed backwards thinking five decades ago, but due to recent climate related events, the Metro Atlanta Subterranean Highway System
or M.A.S.H., made Atlanta the primary artery for shipping and the logistical hub for all things east of the Mississippi. Nowadays, Georgia 400, known to many as the Atlanta Autobahn, The Cobb Cloverleaf, and the i-285 Perimeter, made way for belated green space, housing for prisoners and the unemployed: the frying pan's saving grace from the fire of life unprotected above ground.

Speeding along the M.L.K Tunnel, my blood-soaked hands slide about the steering wheel. "It's going to be alright, Mama. Keep applying pressure to his head," I reassured her.

"I can't, my hands keep slipping. There's too much blood!"

When the fly ball struck my father it broke his nose. For most this isn't a major problem, but for an elderly man surviving on vascular nanites and blood thinners it could be deadly. I glanced over at Gideon to make sure he was doing okay. My wife continued to sooth him, her narrow fingers slowing stroking his budding locs.

"Mama calm down…you're scaring Gideon. Everything will be okay. Trust me," I said looking over at Gideon, wondering if he knew what would be expected of him.


IKE MALVO said...

you set up this slice of ATL as both pastoral and severe, i'd like to see how that conflict plays out. the MASH sounds like the setting for all sorts of ill shit as well.

plus, i'm worried about lil Gideon. seems like the young being sacrificed for the old is an unspoken undercurrent of this entire shared world. the future's failures are the ones they inherited from us.

Anonymous said...

agreed. and the concept of the MASH: that rather than actually address the problems, we'll just dig ourselves into the earth's skin like ticks...interesting notion.