20-minute Writing Sprint | 05-Apr-26

"The next time I want feedback, I’ll ask for it."

He turned the corner into the elevator bay. Fourteen floors up, he always paused at the window before stepping on.

He slammed his palm against the down arrow.

“I worked on that brief for five and half months. What does he think I am?”

The meeting clung to him. The way the man talked down to him, as though they'd never worked on a brief together. None of it made sense, but all of it burned.

A chime sounded behind him. The gray aluminum doors parted, and he stood there. Silence pressed in from every direction. Through the window, the highway below threw a pale hue across the glass.

The doors began to close. He threw his arm between them — and they kept moving. Metal pressed against his forearm before the sensors caught up, and the doors stuttered open.

What was that all about?

He pressed G for Garage. The doors slid shut, and the silence gave way to the familiar hum of descent. The face of his father's watch — willed to him twelve years earlier — read five seconds before 11:04 p.m. Something in him found it playful to count.

Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...

The elevator shuddered and stopped. Momentum threw him forward, chin first. The doors caught him. Everything went black. Heat bloomed across his cheekbone.

“What the... oh come on, now!”

Pushing back against the doors, he tried to find an emergency call button. But even the lights behind each of the buttons had gone dark.

Muscle memory lifted his wrist. Nothing. Not even the outline of his own hand.

How can it be this dark in this place?

He shifted the messenger bag behind his hip and reached for his back pocket. Empty.

“I didn’t.” A beat. “I did. Shit.”

Fourteen floors up, the phone sat plugged into the wall of his office. James—his assistant—had left hours ago.

His arms dropped. But as his shoulders relaxed, the bag began to slide off. He grabbed for the strap and missed. The bag slipped away. No impact. No sound.

He dropped to his knees and swept his hands across the floor. Something struck his neck from above. Wet. Warm. Then again. And again.

The sprinklers. That’s what this is. This elevator is malfunctioning and it’s the...

The air thickened. Whatever it was found its way into his mouth—metallic, unfamiliar. Not water.

He shielded his face and turned, but the darkness swallowed every sense of direction. The floor met him hard—and under his palms, something wrong. Soft. Fibrous.

“Is this... grass?”

Grass. Blades of it, slick with dew, growing where the elevator floor should have been. The fall hadn’t made a sound either—but the realization came second. He didn’t wait for whatever came next.

He scrambled up and lunged for the doors. His hands caught nothing. Concrete slammed into his palms and knees, and for the first time in minutes, he heard something—his own breath, punched out of him. Grit bit into his palms. When he raised his head, the doors stood twenty yards away.

“Impossible.”

A thin seam of light marked the gap between them—the only measure he had. The doors opened. A small figure stood between them in silhouette—the boy. The one he’d hit with his car at seventeen. Every limb fired at once, pulling him backward across the concrete.

The back wall of the elevator caught his skull. White light split his vision, and his eyes clamped shut. When they opened, the elevator surrounded him again—flourescent, humming, whole.

Then the elevator doors opened once again.

The G button glowed. The doors stood open. Every part of him wanted to stay inside, but the boy’s face—the trial, the technicality, the verdict that let him walk—none of it had faded. It had only sharpened. But when the doors began to close again, he lunged forward and rolled onto the garage pavement.

He lay on the cold pavement and turned his head. No elevator. Only the concrete stairs leading back up to the ground level.

20-minute Writing Sprint | 25-Jan-26

It was the second week she had stayed in this place. The middle of nowhere—a quiet inn that her aunt, a woman she hadn’t talked to in years, owned.

“Your father told me you wanted some time to yourself. Well, all I ask is that you don’t have anyone by who might take anything.”

She remembered those words. Her aunt placed more importance on objects than people, treating the building like a museum she’d furnished and then abandoned. That was what Maddy had become, too. Abandoned. Alone.

Cell service was a joke—an afterthought in this place. The inn looked two hundred years old, though she knew that was just the "aesthetic" her aunt craved. She’d inherited it from Maddy's late uncle. That is to say, she’d seized ownership when he died fishing on the lake just last winter. The whole event felt suspicious, but her uncle had been an outsider; a man who—much like his wife—loved his things more than his spouse.

Maddy checked her phone. 48% charge. Where is that damn charger? This place is rotting my memory. Isn't solitude supposed to clear your mind?

Just to the right of the battery percentage was the time: 3:07 a.m. It had updated when she landed, though she wondered what time it was back home. Back in New Hampshire. Back where she... had failed.

“Fucking charger. I know I put it...”

A cool breeze brushed her neck as she reached into the cabinet. The cold sent a chill down her spine that felt particularly sobering. Her senses realigned. She pulled air into her lungs and tried to track the source of the draft.

The back door.

She swiped the flashlight on her smartphone and aimed it ahead. The fragile wooden door, inset with a four-pane window, swung back and forth. It groaned on its hinges, never quite clicking shut.

Without a second thought, she moved toward it. Another gust hit her. It was late fall, and she already regretted the lack of socks.

She reached for the handle, but the door pushed outward, just beyond her reach. She fumbled for it, her foot slipping on the stair leading to the back entrance. Her hand shot out and gripped the knob just before she could stumble onto the gravel path. The movement tensed every muscle in her body. But as she righted herself and pulled the door back to its frame, the tension doubled.

Someone had mauled the oak frame. Jagged cuts—the work of a crowbar or a tire iron—scarred the wood. Her flashlight beam hit the frame, revealing that the metal catch for the latch had been completely ripped out.

SNAP.

Her hand flew off the doorknob. She spun back toward the interior of the inn. The sound came from the next room over. Against her better judgment, she found her voice. “Hey! Who’s there? It’s too late for—”

She tried to sound tough. Authoritative. But her heart hammered against her ribs. Visions of what waited in the dark flooded her mind. She frantically scanned the room for a weapon and spotted an old wood carving of a horse. It was barely bigger than her fist. She grabbed it, pointing her light like a shield and cocking her arm back, ready to hurl the wood at whoever was waiting.

Her mind raced. She was alone in a place she barely understood. She’d seen an elderly couple walk by every other day, but that was it. Was this something her aunt had planned? Was it someone the old couple knew? Had someone been watching her, waiting?

She reached the doorframe connecting the two rooms and counted: One... two...

She leaped around the corner. A shrill sound filled the room as a stray cat bolted between her legs. The coarse blur of fur grazed her bare foot. For a second, she mimicked a terrified old woman, knees buckling as she stifled a scream before realizing what it was.

“Fa... fuck me.”

She clutched her chest and sank to the floor. The adrenaline crashed, and her sporadic breaths slowly smoothed into a shaky rhythm.

WHAM!

The back door slammed against the frame with enough force to make her scramble backward across the floor. Even a room away, the sound sent her into a retreat.

“Come on, Maddy. Get a hold of yourself.”

She swept the light around, searching for a switch. Dust coated the cabinets; she’d agreed to clean the place as a condition of her stay, but the last two weeks had been a blur of sleeping, eating whatever wouldn't make her gag at the local corner store, and more sleeping. Manual labor sat low on her priority list. Who would care, anyway? The question played on a loop in her head. But with her heart thudding in her throat, she realized that, for the moment, she finally cared.

She made her way toward the main hall, remembering her first day. The empty coat post. The dusty picture of dogs in a field. And the switch...

“There it is. Gotcha.”

She reached for the light. A floorboard creaked behind her. She turned, sensing something warm cross the back of her neck, just out of sight.

Just as the light flickered on, the front door kicked inward. The heavy wood broadsided her, slamming her into the floor.

Her final vision was a set of boots stopping inches from her face. Then, another pair climbed the steps, their flashlight blinding her.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 07-Jan-26

"I can't believe it. It's just so..."

He tracked her from across the table. Every syllable grated against his skull. Where’s the waiter? Where’s the check? For fuck's sake.

"...and then we found this place on 5th and Main. The boys in there..."

He loathed the way they called grown men "boys." They demanded respect in one breath and infantilized half the population in the next.

A glass shattered behind him. The sound spiked his already frayed nerves. That morning's meeting still burned—getting singled out for the "crime" of actually finishing his work.

Darlene’s laugh exploded, a shrill, jarring sound that filled the room. "I know, right? But look, look. Can you believe he's—"

"He's what, Darlene?" The words tore out of him before he could choke them back.

Conversation died. The waiter froze, clutched a stack of checks like a crate of nitroglycerin, and waited for the blast.

"What, Ryan?"

"I said, he's what, Darlene? The cooks in the kitchen can hear you narrating your Instagram feed. Please, spare us nothing."

The waiter leaned in to check on the table, but Ryan’s glare brushed him aside.

"What's your problem?"

"Yeah, what the fuck, Ry-Ann?" Liza piped up. She sat glued to Darlene’s side. They wore matching outfits, looking less like coworkers and more like the twins from The Shining. The thought almost made him laugh.

"Did you ever stop and think—"

"Oh, here we go. Time for some mansplaining," Liza declared, checking her phone.

Ryan glared at her until a chill visibly climbed her spine. Rage surged in his chest, muffling the restaurant noise. He had crossed the line; no sense in turning back now.

"If a question qualifies as mansplaining, then you’ve delivered a twenty-minute keynote."

A few heads shifted. A ghost of a cheer rippled through the other employees, but it vanished instantly. They remembered the meeting. Supporting Ryan meant social suicide. They just wanted him gone. He didn't fit the mold.

Darlene petrified for a heartbeat. Then, following Liza’s lead, she stood and flicked her hand at him like he was a nuisance fly.

"And now you're skipping the bill?"

Her middle-school exit tempted him to launch his drink, but the question acted like a splash of cold water. The heat in his chest settled into a cold, hard knot.

Silence stretched. Nobody moved. Then, hands fumbled for wallets. Cards and crumpled cash slid toward the far end of the table.

"Well?"

10-minute Writing Sprint | 05-Jan-26

"Where... where could it be?"

He scrambled through the office, yanking open cabinets that screamed Swedish minimalism. Neatly organized papers flew behind him like trash from a raccoon’s wake. This has to be it. Why does one person need so many cabinets? Seven cabinets later, he stopped cold. The external speaker sat atop a box of stationery. He snatched it, but his arm jerked back; the device lacked any significant heft. He turned it in his palm, searching for a seam or a hidden latch.

"Now where do I—"

A light click rang out like a gunshot in the silent room. The fake speaker cover gave way. With a light shake, the laptop antenna tumbled into his palm—the very device that would trace every illegal transaction back to the corporation's heart.

A flutter of light danced beneath the doorway. He froze. That's not the cleaning crew. The elevator had carried him to the thirty-seventh floor, a height that now felt like a cage. Two-inch-thick, soundproof glass windows locked him away from the skyline. The office door offered the only escape. Muffled digital beeps chirped from the hallway keypad. He had to hide.

His mind flashed to the low-life in the bar who had traded the door code for three rounds of whiskey. Either he wasn’t as drunk as I thought, or the universe has a sick sense of timing. The office offered no clutter, no sanctuary. Shelves sat flush to the wall, requiring a deliberate push to spring the hidden latches. The desk lacked drawers, consisting only of a sleek flattop and a single lamp. Curtains served no purpose at this altitude. Escape required a fight.

The taser.

He remembered the private security guard outside the bar, a man struggling with a smoke break and ill-fitting jeans. The taser had slipped from the man’s holster in a stroke of sheer luck. What if there’s more than one?

The door latch swung down. Hallway light emptied into the room, silhouetting a figure in the frame. The intruder stepped inside, only to catch the heavy edge of the external speaker against his skull.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 02-Jan-26

The window refused to budge. The air thickened. He retreated into the confined space until his hand brushed his opposite arm. What do these mean? How did I— Logic failed him. "Okay. I'm still in Wyoming. Or that definitely looks like Wyoming."

Then he felt it. One tattoo ridge crested against his skin, raised and textured. He pulled his arm closer. A BMX bike. His bike. His parents had gifted it to him on his sixth birthday—one of those "double-presents" for a December child.

But why this bike?

He searched for an exit, but the trailer offered no release. As he pulled his hand away, the skin beneath the ink flattened, the ridge vanishing into his forearm.

"What the fuck? What is doing this?"

His head spun. Dizziness clouded his vision. Something beneath his heel slid, throwing his weight off-balance. He collapsed into the corner, wedged between the mattress and the wall. The impact against the back of his skull radiated through his frame. Darkness swarmed the edges of his sight. Just before his eyes closed, the Matchbox car glinted on the floorboards—the one he had taken from his best friend that same Christmas.

Then, silence.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 01-Jan-26

Thought escaped him. His back seized, locking him into the mattress. Sweat anchored his skin to the dense bedding. Where am I? Slivers of light peaked through the edges of the windows. Blankets draped the glass, though the vent beneath pushed a stream of warm, stale air into the room. A thin, musky sheet covered him from the torso down. Numbness claimed the left side of his face. He reached up to wipe his eyes. Intricate tattoos spiraled across both hands. They didn't match. Why did they exist?

He lunged out of the bed. The sheet brushed his skin. What the? More ink. Tattoos scattered across his hip and lower left leg. His nakedness mattered less than the windows. He had to see.

He gripped the nearest blanket and yanked. After a few desperate pulls, the fabric gave way. The view outside defied logic. How could he stand here again? Across the road sat his childhood home.

"Am I in..."

He pressed his face against the glass. He traced the outline of the tires against the trailer.

"I'm back in Wyoming. What the fuck am I doing back here?"

He searched for a latch, a handle, a crack in the frame. The window remained sealed. I have to get out of this thing.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 30-Dec-25

Brandy felt the ocean’s pulse at this depth. The relentless ebb and flow forced constant adjustments to her buoyancy. It has to show. The satellite imagery promised the school would pass here. She checked her depth gauge. No problem. She checked her oxygen. No—

A school of fish swept past from behind, a frantic swoosh of bubbles and silver. The sudden wake jarred her. Her camera tumbled, the flash strobing against her mask and blinding her. She lunged for the strap just as the current surged. The water shoved her backward, pinning her against the jagged reef. The metal frame protecting her tanks groaned against the coral.

She curled into a ball, refusing to fight the surge. When the pressure ebbed, she kicked off the reef and propelled herself into the open blue.

She scanned the dark for another surge. Not today. I have to—

The water changed. A deep swish vibrated through her chest. She pivoted toward the sound, camera raised.

The Great White drifted through the gloom, nearly still, creeping toward her like a ghost. Fuck. Surfacing meant certain death. She glanced at her oxygen gauge. The impact against the reef had cracked a valve. The needle plummeted. Think, Brandy. Think.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 29-Dec-25

Numbness took hold. A high-pitched ringing masked the rush of the faucet. The towel hit the floor. Ceramic shards from the shattered dinner plate littered the linoleum.

I’ve been careful. How did he find me? Beyond the window, the figure stood unmistakable. He had come for him. The ringing faded, replaced by the gurgle of water circling the drain. He backed away from the glass, the ceramic shards crunching like gravel beneath his slippers.

"Move."

The voice echoed from somewhere deep in the house.

"Grab the gun. The bag sits in the container in the closet. Go. Now."

He didn't question the voice. He turned, tripped over his own feet, and scrambled toward the closet. The yellow-topped plastic bin sat beneath a pair of hiking boots. He swiped the boots aside and peeled the lid back like a ripe banana. There it sat: a Glock, two magazines, and a canvas bag embroidered with his name.

When did this—

A knock at the door screamed for silence. He froze.

"Hello?" a muffled voice called. "Mr. Smith? Are you home?"

Before the voice could finish the question, Mr. Smith vanished out the back door. He left the slippers in the hallway, the hiking boots clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 28-Dec-25

"They cut the power."

She stared into the void beyond the window. Blackness swallowed the skyline. Anxiety clawed at her throat. "Do we have flashlights? Candles? Anything?"

She wandered the house through muscle memory alone. "I have emergency lights. I'll get them. Stay here."

Distant explosions shook the foundation. Hell had broken loose, and the fire approached her neighborhood. She reached for the closet handle. Her toe struck the chair leg. Pain shot up her leg, a white-hot distraction. Her other foot landed on a matchbox car. The cold plastic slid. She hit the floor, her lungs coughing out a guttural expulsion of air.

Another boom—closer this time—shattered the silence. Anxiety spiked.

"You okay?" Hannah shouted from the floor above.

"Yeah... YES!"

She scrambled toward the closet and yanked the door open. Moonlight glinted off the emergency lights. "Gotcha. FOUND THEM!"

No reply came.

She stood straight. The walls seemed to squeeze inward. An explosion outside blew the front windows into a thousand glass teeth. She hit the floor and shielded her head.

"Shit, Hannah!"

She gripped the light, thumbing the switch. The beam cut through the dust. She sprinted back to the bedroom. The night air surged through the broken frame, tossing the curtains. Silence filled the room. No Hannah. Only the evidence of a struggle remained.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 27-Dec-25

A glass shattered on the other side of the restaurant. Both heard the crash. Neither acknowledged it.

"Did you read about the merger?" She stared at him without flinching, watching every muscle in his face for a tell.

"Why would I read about something I was involved in? What kind of question is that?" He cut another piece of the filet and smeared it into the reduction sauce. "This isn't what we agreed to meet about tonight."

A waiter hurried past. Another followed. The staff rushed to the accident, but for the two at the table, the rest of the room was a blur.

"I'm not going to pretend this merger didn't mean anything. It's not like there was anything to lose for either of us."

There it was. A slight twitch under his eye. A glint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. They might as well have been at a poker championship. She just needed to check her own hand.

"Nothing to lose? You know damn well there was everything to lose. Well, nothing for you, maybe." It hit her then—the missing piece. "But there was something. Wasn't there?"

The lines tightened on his face.

"That little nest egg you've got off the coast. Did you think I wouldn't tell the FCC?"

Heat rose behind his eyes. How had she found out? His features relaxed, a mask of practiced indifference falling back into place. He wasn't out of the game yet.

"I've never liked eggs. You should know that by now."

The secret meet-ups, the details worked out in hotel rooms, the spouses waiting at home—it was all half the fun. But it was nothing compared to the win. It was only a matter of time before the final card hit the table.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 26-Dec-25

"Not now, not today." He muttered the words into his collar as he shoved through the crowd.

Like water around a log, the human current parted for him and surged back together. Behind him, the wake reopened. He’s still there. He scanned the storefronts. No, a shop was a dead end—a velvet-lined trap.

He glanced over his shoulder. CRACK. He collided with an older woman. Bags exploded from her grip. He went down, knees barking against the tile. People tumbled like dominoes. The commotion acted as a flare, lighting his position for the hooded figure.

Courtesy was dead. He shoved off a fallen bystander and scrambled to his feet.

"Hey, asshole! You hurt—"

The rest of the shout vanished as he bolted. He lunged into the narrow corridor toward the restrooms. His head whipped back—the pursuer still fought the crowd, but he was closing. He spun forward just in time to dodge a woman and child exiting the bathroom, his shoulder slamming the drywall.

There. A maintenance door: STAFF ONLY. He burst through the frame. Weapon. Anything. He rifled through a janitor’s closet. His hand locked around a wooden broomstick. He ducked behind the door, chest heaving, lungs burning.

His adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollow ache in its place. He wasn't ready for a fight. His strength had evaporated. He jammed the broomstick through the door handles, bracing it against the frame. He didn't wait to hear the handle rattle. He took off running and didn't look back.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 23-Dec-25

"Now you boys leave him alone. Go on now!" Mrs. Smith’s voice cut through the air, scattering the pack that had trailed Patrick for five blocks.

"Than—thank you," Patrick gasped. He stole a glance back at his retreating shadows. Just another day.

The cool fall breeze vanished as the automatic doors slid shut. The lobby air felt stale, trapped. His legs burned. He dropped his backpack to the brick floor and looked up at Mrs. Smith. The librarian leaned over the desk; the scent of his own sweat rose from his collar, sour and heavy under his winter jacket.

"I just need to return some books."

"That's fine, Patrick. Do you need help with your backpack?"

"No." He caught himself, remembering his mother’s voice. "No thank you, Mrs. Smith. I know the way."

He shouldered the bag and stepped through the second set of doors. A sudden, violent rush of air pushed past him—an impossible wind for an indoor space. He gripped his straps, his knuckles white. The library was a tomb. It was twenty minutes past the school bell, yet no one sat in the reading chairs. No one paced the stacks. The silence had a weight to it.

He pulled three books from his bag. The reading assignment, his mother’s romance novel, and his father’s guide to welding. He slid them into the return chute. Thud. Thud. Thud. The familiar sound echoed off the hollow walls.

A cold draft brushed the back of his neck. He spun around. The front doors cycled open and shut with a mechanical hiss, but the lobby was empty. Mrs. Smith was gone.

10-minute Writing Sprint | 21-Dec-25

"None for me." Susan sat across from Tally, her suit sharp enough to belong in a high-end catalog. Tally looked as though she had rolled out of bed.

"Now, cut the bullshit. You said if I showed up, you’d have my money. Unless you have some special pocket in that suit, I don't see anything." Tally glanced at a young couple a few booths down. They struggled to feed a screaming baby. Relief and disgust curdled in her chest. She had chosen this life over that one, and she’d do it again.

"You're very perceptive. But why don't you speak a little louder so the baby can hear you?"

Tally felt the temperature behind her eyes rise. Here came the lecture.

"This assignment isn't about money. It isn't even about someone with your skillset. I need just the opposite. I need you to train another asset to infiltrate this company. And you've got two weeks to—"

Tally stopped listening. No money. Another asset. Two weeks. Hong Kong, Sidney, Lisbon, San Diego. Susan had funded a life of secrets, a life Tally barely remembered starting. Now, a dumpy diner outside Baltimore. The coffee was the only decent thing in the room.

"Are you listening to me? We haven't got a lot of time here."

Tally tilted her head to one side, her eyes narrowing. "Just give me the brief."

10-minute Writing Sprint | 20-Dec-25

Billy tripped on the descent. He caught the railing just before his tailbone hit the dusty rock. "Shoo-we, that was close." He dusted his pants, rose, and peered into the dark. Mr. Miles had forbidden the cellar, but Billy was eight. He reached into the void, one foot sliding after the other. Dirt and rock ground beneath his tennis shoes.

"Why didn't I bring a flashlight?"

A string glanced off his face. He swatted at the air. "No. No. I hate spiders!" The string swung back, brushing his knuckles. He grabbed the cord and pulled. Click. The room flared to life. Dust motes danced between boxes stacked to the ceiling. Billy squinted at the bulb—a yellowed relic twice his age. He stepped into the narrow hallway of cardboard. He traced a finger over a label: August '67. He moved to the next stack. July '66. The old man had a system.

He pushed deeper into the cellar, eyes scanning for the prize. He reached the 1950s section and stopped. The space between January '52 and March '52 was a hollow gap.

"Where is it? February '52?"

10-minute Writing Sprint | 18-Dec-25

Steve backed up against the elevator wall. He retreated as far as the small space allowed, but the doors remained inches away—a silver exit he couldn't reach. A short breath leaked from Philip's nose as the side of his mouth curled. He didn't care. He didn't need to. He only had to wait for Steve’s reaction.

"Why are you doing this?" The words felt heavy, slick with the sweat bleeding into his eyes. His hands were shaking.

"I’m not doing anything, Steve-o. You’re the one who made this decision. Not me."

"But there was no other way. No other options." Steve scanned the corners, his vision blurring as the air turned to lead in his lungs. Philip checked his watch and pulled a smartphone from his coat pocket.

His phone. Why hadn't he grabbed it?

Steve pulled out his own device and tapped the screen. Nothing. Black glass. The battery had been full at lunch—how was it dead now?

"You wanna give up?" Philip asked. "There is a way that we can both win here. You just have to say the words."

None of this made any sense. How had he been so careless? Why take that meeting? Why say those things about her? None of it mattered now, and yet all of it did.

"I was framed, and you know it. You won’t win."

"Okay. Whatever helps you sleep... well, I doubt that you’ll sleep anytime soon."