Everyone thinks Ellen Garcia is a nut job, but in ten seconds, they’re going to realize she’s the only one who saw the end coming.
Writer’s Prompt
he steam from Ellen’s latte didn’t smell like roasted beans; it smelled like ozone and scorched copper.
She sat in the corner of The Daily Grind, her hands trembling against the ceramic mug. Around her, the morning rush was a blur of clicking heels and bright laughter. To them, she was “Eccentric Ellen”—the woman who wore mismatched socks and whispered to shadows.
Then the vision hit, hard and jagged.
The plate-glass window didn’t just break; it liquefied into a million stinging diamonds. The smell of cinnamon buns was replaced by the heavy, metallic tang of blood. She saw the man in the charcoal hoodie—the one currently standing in line—set his backpack down by the cream station and walk out.
“Don’t do it,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
She stood up, knocking her chair over. The clatter drew a few annoyed glances. “Listen to me!” she screamed. “The bag! Get out of here, now!”
The barista sighed, swapping a look with a regular. “Ellen, honey, you’re making a scene. Sit down or I’ll have to call the manager.”
“There’s a bomb!” Ellen lunged for the backpack, but a heavy-set man blocked her path, his face twisted in pitying disgust.
“Easy there, crazy. Don’t touch other people’s stuff.”
Ellen looked at the clock. 8:59 AM. In her mind’s eye, the timer hit zero. She looked at the door. The man in the charcoal hoodie was gone. She looked at the crowd—mothers, students, a man reading a poem—all staring at her like she was the threat.
She had ten seconds. She could run and save herself, or she could do the only thing left that might make them finally listen.
