Month of July '26
Work from participant
Week 1: you receive a letter in your handwriting dated 50 years in the future
I instantly recognized the handwriting—the slanted "g" and the cramped "e" written the way my mother taught me. But this was unusual, since I hadn't written this. The envelope was dated 2075. Inside was a folded paper, three sentences written: "The job you're offered next Tuesday. Say no."
I checked the postmark. It looked authentic.
So I waited until next Tuesday. That week felt like the longest week of my life. I still don't know what the job will be. But I've already decided on my answer.
My work
Week 2: write a story about a man who can predict the future 30 seconds before
Every morning, Leo braced himself at 7:42 AM. Thirty seconds before the event,, the vision would hit: a splash of hot coffee, a ruined shirt.
Today, he saw himself calmly stepping to the left.
At 7:42, he sidestepped. The cyclist who would have crashed into him swerved, shouting an apology. For the first time, he was ready.
But then a new vision came, just for him: a piano falling from a window, right where he now stood. He had ten seconds.
Work from participant
Week 3: every lie you tell forms a tattoo on your skin
The first one appeared when I was seven. A tiny dot on my wrist, no bigger than a freckle. "I didn't take my medicine." The second one came a week later. "It wasn't me." By sixteen, my arms were covered in thin, spiraling lines of small lies and small marks. By twenty-five, the ink had crawled up my neck.
Now I wear long sleeves in summer, ashamed of looking in the mirror. I've learned to tell the truth, sometimes. But the marks don't fade. They're a map of every person I've ever tried to deceive, every version of myself I've tried to hide.
Work from participant
Week 4: you find a diary that predicts your death
The old, leather-bound diary was warm to the touch when I found it in the attic, inside a dusty trunk that hadn't been opened in decades.
The last page had today's date.
It described my death. My eyes traced the time: 11:47. "A knock at the door. You'll open it because you're curious. Don't."
I laughed. A harmless prank from my roommate. Or so I thought. But the handwriting was mine. The ink was faded, looked decades old.
I waited until 11:46, dreading what might come. The clock ticked. My heart beat endlessly. At 11:47 exactly, a knock.
Three slow taps.
I held my breath until the knocking stopped.
And it didn't continue.