“Your turn, Christie. Truth or dare?”

“Um…I did truth last time…” She hesitated, then blurted out, “Dare.”

Bethany smiled wickedly. “Okay. Do something you’ve never done before.”

Christie thought about her options. There were lots of things she could do, just to be cheap. She’d never put lipstick on her forehead, for example…it would be stupid, but still qualify.

She knew that wasn’t the spirit of the game. She knew her friends were expecting something that made her squirm. That’s what Truth or Dare was all about, right? Possibilities spun through her head…

…And stopped on one.

“Well…okay…but I’ll need to go to the basement.”

She led her friends to the door in the kitchen, reached in and flicked a switch. The girls trooped down the stairs. They had the house to themselves, but Christie only had a vague idea when that might end…her parents hadn’t spent an evening out for a while. But she didn’t imagine her dare would take very long.

Her friends took in the dusty heaps of boxes and the workbench in the corner. The bare bulbs cast everything in a stark yet insufficient light, leaving spaces in shadow. There was a clear track winding between the stacks to the workbench, and also to a large wooden panel leaning against a wall.

“Here, help me move this.” Christie got one side, Bethany took the other, and the two of them tipped the panel forward, then slid it aside. Behind it was a plain interior door.

Christie gave the girls a moment to look at the door, then said, “This is my dare. I’ve never been in there.”

“What’s in there?”

“Don’t know. My folks never talk about it. I think they think I don’t know about it.”

“Dead bodies?” “Is it their Bluebeard room?” “Maybe it’s all the stuff they stole?”

Christie smiled, listening to the girls speculate. She suspected she’d just “won” the game. Even if the room behind the door was empty, no one would be able to top her that night.

“Let’s find out.” She put her hand on the knob, turned and pulled.

At least, she tried to pull. The door didn’t appear to be locked, but it was very stuck. Bethany offered to help. It wasn’t easy to get more than one hand around the knob, but they managed, and tugged together. The other girls couldn’t reach the knob, but at least dutifully tugged on Christie and Bethany.

There was a scrape, and dust dropped from around the edge of the door. Another, longer screech and the door slowly started to come open.

Christie had expected to see darkness beyond. She was surprised at the sight of a muslim curtain hanging over the doorway. She couldn’t see anything beyond it.

She raised her hand to the curtain, then hesitated. “I should probably go first,” she said. None of the other girls seemed inclined to argue with that.

She gently pushed the curtain aside with the back of her fingers and stepped through.

Instead of the darkness she had been expecting, she saw a grey wall lit from some not-obvious source. The wall was only a little ways in front of her, but the room extended into the distance on either side of her. Doorways lined the wall behind her; the wall ahead had one door in front of her.

As she took in her surroundings, the door opposite her opened, and a woman wearing a grey robe came through it, studying a clipboard. She started as she noticed Christie. The two of them stared at each other for a silent moment.

The woman took a look at her clipboard, then peered again at Christie. “You. What doorway did you come through?”

“Uh…” Christie hadn’t moved from the doorway. She gestured behind her.

The woman shook her head, studying the clipboard. “No. No, that’s not right. You’re not scheduled for a while. You’re not due here yet. You need to go back.”

“But…?”

“Now. Get going.”

Christie had a pile of questions, but she could tell she wouldn’t get answers from the woman. Though, having seen what she had, she was ready to demand answers from her parents. She turned and pushed past the curtain once more.

The door wasn’t wide open as she’d left it; it was mostly closed with a crack visible. Had her “friends” thought to shut her in the room as a joke? She pushed the door open.

The basement full of dusty heaps was no longer there. Instead there was a room still lit by bare bulbs, but empty except for a table sitting in the middle. On the table was an envelope in a plastic bag, covered with dust. Brushing it clean, Christie could see her name written on the envelope.

She opened the bag and withdrew the envelope. Inside were what looked like bank statements and a copy of her birth certificate. And a letter.

My Darling Christie…

Your father and I are very sorry about this. We don’t know if or when you’ll be returning, but please know we have provided for you. We will arrange for the basement to be kept ready as long as possible. Please find us, if you can, and we’ll try to explain.

Know that we love you and hope and pray for your safety and well-being.

Mom

PS: Bethany says you win.

Today has already been one of the worst days of my life.

I woke up late, missed my bus, and reached school at 9:17 a.m. Strangely, the watchman uncle didn’t stop me at the gate. I didn’t care much cuz I was preparing myself for a scolding.

When I opened my classroom door, everyone turned toward me as if I were a ghost. Even Ma’am said nothing.

Then I saw why.

The projector screen was flickering. After a while, every phone in the room started buzzing.

White text appeared.

GLOBAL EVENT INITIATION

23:59:59

A countdown.

But counting down to what?

“This is a hack,” Audrey whispered behind me. “It has to be.”

Ma’am tried restarting the system. It didn’t work.

Outside; long, desperate, impatient horns began blaring. We rushed to the window. The school entrance was jammed with vehicles. Parents were flooding in to take their children home.

We were dismissed immediately.

By 2 p.m., news channels reported the stock market crashing. People were calling it another lockdown. We called dad and got to know he rushed to the supermarket for supplies.

I left my fevered brother with mum and rushed to the door when I heard his car horn.

“Dad! How did this happen?”

He didn’t answer properly. He was barely conscious.

There was blood running down from a wound on his head.

Mum and I dragged him upstairs and laid him on my bed. My hands trembled as I pressed gauze against the cut. It looked small—but he was bleeding too much. He told us not to worry and asked for painkillers from his office downstairs.

When I went to get them, I noticed something strange.

Our tenants, who live across from dad’s office, were leaving with bags. No explanation. I didn’t ask. Things were getting serious for sure.

By evening, only our landline and my old keypad phone were working. Every scene device was showing the same thing.

The countdown.

15:03:22.

I tried waking Dad up but he didn’t respond. I couldn’t tell Mum.

“Mum, he said not to disturb him. He wants to sleep.”

After I was assured that she wouldn’t go inside, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried silently. I didn’t know if he was dead but I couldn’t be the one to say it.

Later, I remembered the groceries Dad had brought. I went down to the car.

That’s when I saw it.

Another keypad phone.

Familiar.

My chest collapsed inward. I couldn’t comprehend these all in one day. I cried out in pain, “ Why! Why is it happening to us!”

After taking deep breaths, I noticed someone walking in the lane.

Our neighbor was questioning him. Suddenly, without warning, the stranger attacked.

I couldn’t see clearly from inside the car, but the sounds were wrong. Not like a fight. Something else. Like Animalistic

Low Growling.

Then… he followed the stranger, as if he was hypnotized or possessed.

When they disappeared from view, I stepped out of the car.

That’s when I heard growling again. From the window of my room.

My blood ran cold. The only thing I could think of was…

I dialed my number from that spare phone I found in the car.

My brother picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice was small.

“Put Mum on the phone,” I said. I tried to sound calm,“Please. Right now.”

Then Mum came on.

“Why are you calling from this number?” she asked. A pause. “Wait… isn’t this your dad’s secretary’s company phone?”

My throat closed.

“I’ll explain later,” I said quickly. “Mum, just listen to me. I need you to…”

Something crashed behind her. The door maybe… Then a strangled scream.

“Mum?” My voice cracked. “Mum, what was that?”

I could hear my brother now, breathing fast. “He’s… he’s making strange sounds,”

“Mum,” I said, and this time I didn’t try to hide the fear. “Take him and come downstairs. Right now. Don’t look back. Just run. Please trust me.”

For a second, there was only static and my brother’s shaky breathing.

Then footsteps.

Fast. Panicked.

I stepped out of the car and saw mum running down with my brother.

I threw the tenant’s spare key toward her. It hit the ground and skidded near her feet.

“Inside their house!” I shouted. “Lock it from the inside! Don’t open the door for anyone. No matter what you hear!”

I ran inside the car again. The countdown glowed in dashboard.

00:02:41.

And the growling was getting closer.

It was a newly opened restaurant looking for a chef. The description was flattering. They’re offering a decent salary, on-site accommodation, and “a totally unique culinary environment.”

But their tagline made my stomach somersault.

Looking for live-in snacks.

Um.

I’m sure they meant live-in staff who prepare fresh meals…Right?

So I applied.

The reception area was strangely airy, as though the walls themselves were breathing. Like there were no visible vents.

Suddenly, a voice drifted from behind a tall, narrow door the color of overripe cherries.

“Mascara Heartwood?”

Inside, the first thing I noticed was the walls; lush green, veined with red patterns that curled like decorative vines.It was enchanting in a very unsettling way.

“Ah! Musca.”

The way she said it made my spine stiffen.

“You can call me Mascara.”

“But Musca suits you,” she replied, tilting her head. “Sweet nickname!”

A flicker of irritation passed through me. I considered leaving. But…

“Please.” She gestured to the chair between us. “Sit.”

Her long fingers folded together. For some reason, I obeyed.

“So,” she asked pleasantly, “why do you wish to become… food?”

I blinked.

“Sorry…What did you just say?”

Her smile stretched wider. “My mistake.” A pause. “Tell me instead , how do you feel about tight spaces… and humidity?”

“I’m quite experienced in the kitchen, so that isn’t an issue.”

“Excellent!”

She tapped her pen against the desk. Each tap left a tiny indentation in the wood. Something was wrong. The walls seemed to close in, and sweat clung to me. She began to sink as if the floor had softened beneath her.

Her legs dissolved into the green surface, blending seamlessly. Her torso followed, absorbed without resistance. The wide smile on her face was the only horror I could register in my brain.

I stood up and started moving backwards as her head detached from where her body had been. It started gliding and sliding across the floor toward me.

A slick, sticky substance spread outward in ripples.

Cold against my bare feet.

“Ahhh!”

The chair narrowed into a spike in front of me. When I thought that I reached the door, I felt something was poking my back. The cherry-red surface was twisted inward, lined with zig-zag triangular ridges like interlocking teeth.

I am going to die, aren’t I?

Line Sørensen pedaled toward Barabrand Lake, legs burning, a cool breeze caressing her face. The silence of Aarhus was a physical pressure; no buses on Silkeborgvej, no ventilation hum from the apartment blocks, just the rhythmic click-clack of her bike’s chain and the wet slap of the lake against the reeds.

Her phone was a dead slab in her pocket, but the final notification at the end of a mysterious progress bar still echoed across her retina.

Every phone and tablet rang with the same alert at once. A billboard glitched in that exact moment, then an LED sign at the bus stop. Then four cryptic words across every screen:

SIMULATION COMPLETE. TRANSMITTING RESULTS.

The signal had dropped almost immediately. No data, no communication. Then the screen went dark. Then the street lights.

She dismounted by a cluster of bare birches. A few meters away, a man had stopped his jog. He wasn’t looking at his watch or his phone, just staring at his own hands, turning them over as if he’d never seen them before.

A deep, subterranean thump vibrated through the soles of Line’s boots. Not an earthquake, but something like a mechanical finality. A massive deadbolt sliding into place.

Line pulled out her phone again, still dark, holding down the power button and expecting nothing.

“Did you hear that?” the jogger said at last. His voice, barely more than a whisper, hands still out, palms up, but he was looking at her. Or past her.

She nodded, half smiling, “Kind of freaky, yeah?” Her voice had no force, as if, instead of soaring through the air, it simply dropped to the ground and crawled to its target.

A second thump followed. Deeper.

Line looked toward the city center. The skyline was still there, black shapes hovered like cutouts against the twilight’s gray, but the perspective was slightly askew. A trick of the light? Or the lack of it, she corrected herself.

Around the lake others stood in the same, heavy, expectant poses, staring at the ground or their own hands. Nobody reached for their phones. Nobody panicked. That was perhaps the worst of it, that crushing sense of inevitability.

She felt it too, but it offered no understanding.

There was no wind.

Line kept her eyes on the water. She was afraid if she looked up, she’d see the clouds had stopped drifting, or the faint blue had begun to peel at the corners revealing some vast machinery that had been humming behind the world all along.

She straddled her bike, kicked at the pedals, and spun a tire in the gravel before moving again. The path ahead curved, familiar, empty. Behind her the lake lay still, the birches motionless, the thump fading into memory. She kept pedaling into the gathering dusk, hoping to reach her door before the blackness fell completely.

He sat in the waiting area and tried not to fidget. There was practically nothing to distract him about the room: the door he came in through, the door in front of him, five folding chairs, stark fluorescent lighting, and the little red light next to the door ahead. No windows. No signs or posters. Cinder block walls. And no other people.

He hadn’t expected any hits on JackedIn, not after the shopping mall incident, but he had to try. Menial labor was acceptable -- he almost considered it a penance for screwing up the way he had -- but with the news articles he had too much notoriety to be hired to even mop floors.

So the email he received was a pleasant surprise. No details to speak of…simply an inquiry as to whether he would be interested in providing “security.” After he supplied his mailing address, he had received a letter with a location and a keycard for the outside door. Which resulted in him sitting uncomfortably staring at the inside door, waiting for something to happen.

Something eventually did. The little red light changed into a little green light, and, with a buzz, the inner door swung open, revealing darkness beyond. Since there was no one else waiting, he took that as his invitation and stepped forward.

The room beyond was also featureless, and dark, with a single chair placed in front of a large television screen. What little light was in the room came from the glowing black of the screen. He stood in the doorway, wavering, until large white letters appeared on the screen.

THANK YOU FOR COMING. PLEASE CLOSE THE DOOR AND HAVE A SEAT.

He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of shutting himself up in a dark room, but reminded himself he was there for employment rather than comfort. As he sat in the chair, the screen changed.

WE HAVE REVIEWED YOUR RESUME AND RECORDS. YOU HAVE SERVED IN THE MILITARY, CORRECT?

He swallowed, his throat dry from disuse while waiting. He regretted not bringing water with him. “Uh…yeah. Afghanistan. Private contractor.”

ARE YOU WILLING TO PROVIDE PROTECTION SERVICES?

“What…kind of…protection?”

A FAMILY WILL BE TRAVELING CROSS-COUNTRY. THEY WILL NEED AN ESCORT TO PROTECT THEM FROM AGGRESSORS.

He blinked, and blinked again. “I…Are you sure you’ve got the right guy? I mean, I don’t know if you heard, but there was an incident at a mall…”

WE HAVE REVIEWED YOUR RECORDS. WE ARE AWARE OF THE INCIDENT.

“But people died. I was doing the best I could, but…I…some wonder if I overreacted…”

WE BELIEVE YOU ARE CAPABLE OF ACTING APPROPRIATELY IN THE CAPACITY WE REQUIRE. WE ARE WILLING TO PAY FOR SUCCESSFUL COMPLETION OF THE DUTY.

A dollar figure appeared below the text. It was a figure that was very hard to look away from. He thought about what he could do with the money. Aside from covering his overdue bills, it was enough to help him rebuild his life.

“...Escort a family, you said?”

THEY WILL BE TRAVELING LIGHT, PRIMARILY AT NIGHT. THEY WILL PROVIDE FOR THEMSELVES IN TRANSIT. WE WILL SUPPLY YOU WITH FOOD AND WATER FOR THE JOURNEY. ALSO A WEAPON AND AMMUNITION.

“What kind of aggressors are we talking?”

THEY WILL BE ARMED. THEY WILL BE ATTEMPTING TO AMBUSH THE FAMILY.

“Hold on…I’m just one guy. I can’t hold off an army.”

IT IS OUR HOPE THAT A STRONG PROTECTIVE PRESENCE WILL HELP DETER AGGRESSION BEFORE IT OCCURS.

“How experienced are they?”

IT IS LIKELY THEY HAVE KILLED BEFORE.

“And you expect me to hold them off alone?”

THEY WILL NOT HAVE ENCOUNTERED RESISTANCE BEFORE. THE PROSPECT OF PERSONAL RISK MAY HELP DETER ACTION ON THEIR PART.

He noted that while the other text on the screen had changed, the dollar figure had remained. Whoever it was, they knew how to use bait.

“...How big a family?”

FIVE.

“Any of them fighters?”

NO.

“Are they going to do what I tell them?”

THEY WILL BE INSTRUCTED TO FOLLOW YOUR LEAD.

Many questions raced through his head. A lot of them were variants of, Why do you think I can do this? Why do I think I can do this?

DO YOU ACCEPT THE POSITION?

The question sat on the screen above the dollar figure. He took a breath.

“Yes.”

A door he hadn’t noticed before opened beside the screen. With a soft clop-clop, a deer came through the doorway. A 12-point buck. Hanging from its prongs by a strap was a carbine. It approached him and lowered its head.

He stared at the animal for a long moment before reaching up and taking the weapon. Its head lifted and its eyes solemnly met his.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll do my best.”

She was walking next to me and talking about something. I wasn’t even fully listening.

Then I heard a loud horn.

I turned and saw a truck coming very fast.

Before I could react, it hit her.

She fell on the road.

Everything went silent for me. I couldn’t hear anything properly. I just held her and kept saying “Amma… Amma…” but she wasn’t moving.

And then I felt something strange.

Like time was waiting for me.

Ten seconds.

Only once.

I didn’t think about anything else. I just wanted her back.

Suddenly everything changed.

She was next to me again, still talking.

The truck was coming.

This time I didn’t freeze. I pulled her back quickly.

The truck missed us.

For one second I felt relieved.

Then it lost control.

It swerved and crashed into a crowded bus stop.

The sound was horrible.

People screaming. Glass breaking.

When it stopped, my mother was alive. She was shaking but alive.

Across the road, five people were lying on the ground.

Not moving.

My mother hugged me and kept saying, “You saved me.”

But I couldn’t look at those five bodies.

If I didn’t use those ten seconds… maybe only one person would have died.

I saved her.

But did I really save anything?

Her fingers hover above my paper. I need ten more seconds.

I know today ma’am is collecting paper five minutes before the actual time, but I can’t argue with her. I look up, silently pleading.

“Should I take this paper?”

“Um…” I quickly write C and hand it over.

The moment it leaves my hand, my stomach drops as I see the question and realise it will be option B not option C.

What have I done? I should’ve written B.

“M-ma’am… can I have my paper back?”

“Yes, you may.”

She hands it back. My hands tremble as I change C to B and resubmit it.

Thud.

My identity card slips off the desk. When I bend to pick it up and look up again, she’s standing in front of the bench ahead of me, returning a paper to another student.

Wait.

Didn’t I just…? I think I can ask for my paper back too.

I raise my hand. But this time she says sharply, “Nobody else is getting their paper back. This is your half-yearly exam. You must finish within time. How will you manage in your finals?”

Tring!

“Students, leave your seats and form a line!”

My heart starts racing. Seeing my question paper I am mentally calculating my scores. If I lose five marks, that’s one percent.

If I lose one percent, that’s 89.50%.

If it’s not above 90… Mum’s face flashes in my mind.

“You said you’ll score above 90 this time.”

My throat tightens.I close my eyes. Just ten seconds. If I can just have those ten seconds.

Click.

The classroom sound bends as if rewinded a video. The ringing of the bell stretches and snaps backward. The rustle of papers moves in reverse. My identity card flies up from the floor and lands back on my desk.

My eyes fly open.

5:55 pm.

Her fingers are not touching my paper yet.

She is two benches away.

Ten seconds.

This is it.

My chest pounds so loudly I can hear the beats in my ears. But all I see is my paper and the blank where I have to write an option. I write B.

Her shadow falls across my desk.

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The ship is swaying, the sound of crashing waves echoing through the dark ship, I feel like I’m about to throw up from sea sickness. I sigh, it’s like this almost every night, I’ve only thrown up like five times. I’ve had it worse.

It’s past curfew so I’m not allowed up on the deck. Like what are they going to do if I go up? Beat me? Starve me? Throw me off the deck? The only thing I have left to lose is my life anyway and that ain’t worth much anyway.

Yet I’m far from the person on this ship who has it worst, I’ve stayed up listening to the sobs of a young rich woman way too many nights. She, like most others here, had to leave their family, while others like me had no one to leave. Well, the lady apparently unknowingly bought jewelry from a kid who had stolen it.

I talked to a dude some time ago who “pickpocketed” some rich trade guy just to get sent here.

…This diary is a mess; I should probably go to sleep before I start writing in third-person.

I was just sitting on the crowded deck waiting for them to start giving out the strictly rationed portion of dry food. Until I found myself listening to all the gossip, which was quite a lot considering nobody had anything better to do. But you couldn’t really call it gossiping, more like someone saying they overheard the Captain talking about the arrival destination, this big land, free to claim that the king sent us here to colonize.

I almost scoffed at the thought, I still find it hilarious, a group of criminals’ “convicts” used as free labor for their new colony. I mean if I’m not completely wrong and it’s kind of same amount of people on every ship there should be about more than seven hundred of us convicts and five hundred of soldiers, crew members and other people who just came with I guess, together on the ten other ships I’ve counted and the one I’m staying at. Which mean we convicts are way more than the others, why not start a rebellion? If that happens, I’m joining, no questions asked.

“Do you believe that Rosa?” I turn my head around towards the ash blond boy standing next to me. “I mean it’s kind of something King George would’ve done” I don’t bother getting his full title right, it’s not like he has done anything to gain my respect.

Thomas just shrugged and sat down next to me; I was cold from the wind, so I didn’t mind. Since I had nothing to do while waiting for the food I searched for the three other surviving teenagers boarded on this ship. We somewhat had an agreement to help each other out after four passed away due to a sickness the crew told us not to worry about; seven lives were lost to it. Yea, and another guy -was I would guess was around fourteen to fifteen years old-threw himself of the deck, like maybe a week after Captain something Phillip ordered us to be free from our chains. I did consider doing the same, but curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to stay and find out where we ended up.

It has gone some time since the ships left Cape town. There is not much time left before we reach New Holland. I wish I could turn back time and change it all, actually live my life while I had the chance, but it had seemed hopeless, I didn’t have real reason to.

This voyage changed me; I’ve started to heal at the worst time possible. This ship is the only place I have felt joy since my parents burned down along with our home, maybe not having to feed- and take care of myself would’ve left me the time to sort out my trauma? Or having something that can somewhat count as a friend?

Well, the past will forever remain past, and the worst part is that I’m not sure whether or not I would’ve prevented ending up on this ship. That scares me as much as the thought of the leaders -whoever they are- taking this diary, because they know I have it, in fact they gave this to me along with the pen and ink.

I overheard crew talk, they’re taking all the diaries they’ve given out.

I don’t know what to do.

This is pretty much my only source for some sort of joy right now.

I know I can’t keep it, but I don’t want them to have it. Gods no, never.

I am throwing this off the deck when we arrive. If they read this, they’ll burn it. I know it’s just a book, but it means more than that to me now, gods I should’ve never gotten this. If I never had gotten this, I maybe would never have healed like I did, then I wouldn’t care what happened to me or any of us. I may not be a slave, at least not yet, when we arrive in New Holland.

Thomas.

Gods

He’s fifteen, if I were them, with their corrupt mindset, fifteen would definitely be old enough to work.

Anyways this diary is going off the deck,

I can’t do it

Don’t have to get rid of it yet, soon.

We just arrived at New Holland, or we sail into shore now.

I still have not thrown this off the deck.

I have a strong feeling something is terribly wrong.

I have to find a way to get me and Thomas out of here, out of trouble, maybe we can take some of the others with us. But where can we go? It’s not like we know this land.

Maybe I’ll just disappear.

Whatever happens, I have a feeling that history will tell thirteen year old Elizabeth Hayward as the youngest female convict on board the first eleven ships, not Rosalie Williamson.

But my name isn’t even Rosalie and definitively not Williamson.

Sophorina, that’s my real name. I can’t remember my surname anymore; it doesn’t matter anyways.

Gods, since I wrote this, I definitively can’t give the diary back, it’s not like I wouldn’t be executed for saying gods instead of God, plus using it as a swear word.

All the convicts are called up to deck. I have to go. I don’t want to go.

Gods, whoever listens, I wish I could finish this, it’s the only thing that really matters now, I finally have a voice.

But gods don’t exist; there is no one looking down. If there had been anyone, they wouldn’t let us turn out like this.

So, I guess this is the end of Sophorina, or Rosalie Williamson as I’ll be known as, if I don’t get wiped from history first.

The screen glowed blue-white in the dim kitchen, the only light left at 2:30 a.m. Mara’s fingers twitched above the keyboard, her pupils dilated from too much black coffee and too little sleep. The outbox stared back at her, seventeen vicious paragraphs addressed to Dr. Thema Vargas, chair of the tenure committee.

Every sentence was a blade sharpened on Mara’s rage. She’d called Vargas a “petty, vindictive gatekeeper,” accused her of sabotaging junior faculty for sport, quoted emails verbatim with added commentary that bordered on libel. The closing line was the worst:

“I hope next time you block someone’s career you choke on your own fucking mediocrity!”

She hadn’t meant to write most of it. It started as a private vent document, a pressure valve, but the cursor kept moving, sentence after sentence, until her anger distilled into pure righteous wrath.

One click and the last three years, the grant applications, peer reviews, late nights grading while her daughter slept, all of it detonated. Tenure was already hanging by a thread. A fuse, more like. That email was the match.

Mara stared at the confirmation, “Message Sent,” with the weight of her heart hammering against her chest, constricting her lungs. The first bead of cold sweat pricked her scalp.

“No!” she hissed to herself. “No, no, no, no!”

She grabbed the mouse, mashed unsend, but it was too late. A wave of sharp dread crested, hovered, threatened to crash down in mad, unchained panic.

Then the screen flickered. No logo, no window controls, just white text on a black screen.

CRITICAL ACTION DETECTED
Irreversible damage projected: 92% probability.
One undo available. Return to previous state? Y/N

Just beneath it, a timer counted down from 10.

Mara blinked hard, twice, waiting for the hallucination to collapse. It didn’t. The box stayed, patient, polite. Her hand shook so badly she almost missed the keyboard, but she managed to jab the “Y” key as the timer reached 2.

A shock from the key, a sense of vertigo, and Mara sat back in her seat, hand on the mouse, cursor hovering over the send button, and her finger poised…

The email stared back. Her fury remained, coiled in her chest, but now it had company: ice-cold clarity. Mara exhaled and leaned forward, selected the entire body of the email and deleted it. The white space felt obscene. She typed three new sentences instead.

“Dear Dr. Vargas,

I’m requesting a formal meeting to discuss the feedback on my dossier and explore any additional materials that might strengthen my case. I value your perspective and would appreciate the opportunity to address concerns directly.

Best regards,

Mara Castle”

She read it twice. Bland. Professional. Safe. Her finger hovered again; she clicked Send. The telltale whoosh, the notification, “Message Sent,” and this time no gray box, no countdown, just the quiet of an apartment at 2:30 in the morning.

She closed the laptop gently, stood, and padded to the sink to rinse out her mug. Somewhere in the back of her mind a small, rational part wondered whether she’d been dreaming or just scared herself straight. Either way the offensive email was gone, and tomorrow, when Vargas opened her inbox, she would find nothing that could end Mara’s career. Just a polite request for a meeting.

She turned off the kitchen light and shuffled upstairs to bed.

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Once upon a time, in a quaint little village, there lived a horse named Sir Neighs-a-Lot. Unlike any ordinary horse, Sir Neighs-a-Lot had a peculiar talent—he could talk. And boy, did he love to talk. Every morning, he’d greet the farmer with a dramatic,

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“Good morrow, dear sir! Another glorious day to toil in the fields, is it not?” The farmer, Mr. Higgins, would just sigh and mutter, “Not again.”

One day, Sir Neighs-a-Lot decided he was destined for greater things than pulling a plow. “I am no mere workhorse!” he declared. “I am a steed of legend, a hero in the making!” He convinced the village children to sneak him into the annual talent show, where he planned to recite Shakespeare. Unfortunately, halfway through *Hamlet’s* soliloquy, he got stage fright and instead shouted, “CARROTS! I WANT CARROTS!” The crowd erupted in laughter, and Sir Neighs-a-Lot became an overnight sensation—not as a thespian, but as the village’s funniest (and hungriest) celebrity.

From then on, he spent his days entertaining villagers with his antics and demanding carrots as payment. Mr. Higgins, though exasperated, couldn’t help but smile. “At least he’s good for something,” he’d grumble, tossing Sir Neighs-a-Lot an extra carrot. And so, the talking horse lived happily ever after, proving that sometimes, being a legend just means making people laugh—and getting snacks.

It was not supposed to be dramatic. It was just maths. I only wanted my exact marks so I could calculate my percentage properly. Everyone in class was already discussing theirs, and I did not want to be the only one guessing.

So I messaged my teacher politely. I asked her for my maths marks because I wanted to calculate my overall percentage. It felt harmless. Academic. Responsible, even.

She replied quickly.

Forty-two out of eighty.

For a second, I just stared at the number. My brain did the calculation automatically. A little above fifty percent. Not terrible. Not great either. My stomach dropped anyway.

And then I felt it. That terrifying awareness that someone was behind me.

My mom.

Before I could lock the screen or tilt the phone away, she saw the message. She saw forty-two out of eighty clearly glowing on my screen. The silence that followed was heavy. It felt louder than shouting.

That was when everything shifted.

Suddenly, I was back. Ten seconds earlier. My message was still unsent. My thumb hovered over the screen. My heart started racing because I understood what had happened. I could rewind time once a day, and somehow I had just used it.

I had ten seconds to change something.

I quickly deleted the message. Instead, I opened my calculator and pretended to be deeply focused on numbers. Right on time, my mom walked past. She glanced at my phone.

“Studying?”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “Calculating my percentage.”

Technically true.

She walked away.

With only a few seconds left, I sent the message again. This time I was ready. When my teacher replied with forty-two out of eighty , I immediately switched to the calculator screen. I started multiplying and dividing like I was analyzing something very serious and complicated.

When my mom passed by again later, she saw nothing suspicious. Just me and my notebook filled with numbers.

The marks did not change. They were still 42 out of 80. But the outcome did.

That small rewind did not fix my score. It only gave me control over the moment. And somehow, that made all the difference.

I still have to improve in maths. Time travel does not solve trigonometry. Unfortunately.

Ten seconds.

It’s been enough in the past. But not this time.

When I was younger it just felt like weird deja-vu, like imagining how things might have gone if I’d chosen differently. It was only in my 20s, when I started focusing on it, taking it seriously, that I realized it was something I could control.

Ten seconds. A chance to undo/redo something. Not big things like a failed marriage or a dead-end job, but enough to change that thing I shouldn’t have said, that thing I shouldn’t have just put in my mouth, that thing I shouldn’t have placed on the already-too-big pile.

Good for casinos, if you’re careful. Great at blackjack. Sometimes good for craps and roulette. Occasionally worked for baccarat. Nice for simpler slot machines that don’t have five-minute video clips like modern ones do.

And it might have been enough for falling off a cliff. If I hadn’t been pushed.

It was the shock of the betrayal. The feeling of the hand at my back. The attempt to comprehend what had happened and why. I thought he was my friend. What was he after? My money? My wife? Both?

I guess I spent nine seconds thinking about that. Wasn’t exactly counting. All I know is that when I rewound I found myself at the edge of the cliff, but not soon enough to rebalance. Not soon enough to save myself.

Just soon enough to spin around and grab his arm.

So now we’re both falling. And I still don’t know why. I’ve tried getting an answer from him, but he’s locked into his own shock and panic. In a ten-second rewind I couldn’t come up with a way to cut through that and get an answer. All he did was uselessly flail and struggle as we fell.

So instead I’m making do by more purposefully flailing and struggling. Reading his moves. Pulling him around. Getting him under me.

So at least he’ll hit the ground deja vu

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By Sanchita

My not-so-secret crush is sitting next to me, and within five minutes of our proximity, I’m questioning my reality.

I mean it’s just a random Monday when he decides to walk into my quiet haven. Suddenly I’m sucking all the air around me and put my hands at the sides of my head, pretending to read the classic Pride and Prejudice at the library table (which I have read at least twenty times by now) when he slides the chair and sits next to me.

I don’t actually read a single line after that. I sit there, still and careful, as if any sudden movement might give me away.

But the silence stretches on so I finally dare to raise my head and turn towards the left. 

Stop. Stop. Stawp!

He’s looking straight at me, and it takes everything in me not to meet those chocolate-brown eyes. I pretend that I just noticed him. I lift my hand and wave.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Sally,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“How do you know my name?” I am surprised because not many people know my name.

“I saw it on your bag,” he says, pointing to the bag lying on the floor.

“Oh.” I glance at it, suddenly aware of how oddly placed it is. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah!” He holds out his notebook, already open. “I want to know if I solved it correctly?”

A matrix equation, nearly worked out.

I blink, surprised. It’s… intriguing. I reach for my pencil and start reworking it.

Math doesn’t scare me, but matrices; they're a special kind of nightmare.

“This must be boring,” I blurt out.

“Maybe.” he shrugged. “But I think it gets interesting when there’s a pretty girl involved.”

I widened my eyes, caught off guard.

Did he actually just put that line there?

Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. When I finally looked up, he was already walking away, the note in his hand. I hadn’t even realized when he’d taken it from me.

Ahhhhhh! 

I am internally screaming right now.