you have twelve people to choose from
eleven minutes to decide
ten fingers to point with
nine faces to disguise
eight stories to be told
seven memories to be shared
(more) six pairs of eyes to watch
five thoughts to consider
four wishes to deny
three smiles to extinguish
two opportunities to lie
one life to save
Jeremy rushed down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell. He was in such a rush, he didn't noticed his toe catch the edge of the 2nd to last step. Luckily, his chest broke his fall.
"UMPH," he coughed loudly. Then he laughed. He(more) hopped to his feet and pulled the front door open. There, sitting in the middle of his porch, lied a cardboard box, dotted by the evening's rain.
Gingerly, he carried the box inside, and closed the front door with his heel. He placed the box on the ground and began ripping it open. Once the box was opened, he dove his hands into the packaging peanuts, and his hands groped until they felt something round, cold, and smooth. His hands rose to the surface, revealing a ivory colored egg. He cradled the egg into his chest, and rushed into the kitchen.
He dug around the cabinets for a bowl, filled it with water, and laid the egg gently into the bowl, before placing it into the microwave.
*Beep Beep* He set the timer to eleven minutes, just like the website had said.
The microwave began to hum as it heated the bowl.
Jeremy smiled and reached for a bag of chips nearby. Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle squealed from the microwave. Jeremy turned to the microwave in confusion. Inside the microwave, the light had turned a sinister red, and the egg was had cracked open. The timer read that 11 minutes had passed...but it had only been a few seconds.
Jeremy opened the microwave and was greeted with a warm cloud of steam. He pulled the bowl out, and inside the cracked egg...lied a tiny, perfect replica of his microwave. Exactly alike, but much, much smaller.
Jeremy sighed. They sent the wrong package again.(less)
Since the night I met you I've been afraid you were going to leave. Not out of anger or cruelty; you're just not the type to stay anywhere. So if you leave, I'll understand. But if you stay- today- I want you to know that I want th(more)at life we flirted with. If you asked a question, the answer would be yes.
I hope you'll stay.
I re-read those last few lines. I wanted to read the entire letter again, but there wasn't time. I was meant to have gotten the letter before I left. It was folded neatly with my train tickets. Anna had probably expected me to get up early and see the letter then. She didn't know the wake-up call wouldn't come, and that I'd rush out of the hotel half-dressed. That I'd be reading it just now, with so little time before the train departed.
She had seemed so collected the night before. We said our goodbyes and she barely shed a tear. I thought she was being strong; now I knew that she had just put all of her hopes on hotel stationary. She was still strong, though. I loved that about her.
From the beginning, we were almost domestic. We were comfortable with each other. Each knew why the other did the silly little things that they did. I've never had to explain myself so little to anyone.
Six months here, a year there- it had been that way since I was 25. My identity was wrapped up in those travels. How could I make a decision to abandon that in only...
That was me, I decided. The next adventure, the next horizon. So I that's what chose.
So, how about two minutes of reminiscing our first meeting and spend the other three with recalling our good times. And I'll erase the time by remembering our fights for another good five minutes (because we went through a lot of silent fights, right?). And the last minute is for thinking how much I love you and your whole existence.
Rue de Berne, 4 pm. Walk down from the train station and past the Japanese grocery, past the parking lots and that new place that sells only Halal food. Walk past the mattress store and gaze into the window.
Don't make eye contact. Wait for the man i(more)n the car to roll up into the lane with middle-aged women on stools offering themselves for the afternoon. You know it all too well. Watch him as he pokes an elbow out of his beat up beamer and nods his chin at the one he thinks will do for today. Her make up is too vivid, her breasts are spilling out of their cups, and her dark patent pumps are just a liiiitle scratched up from use.
She's not the usual, but she'll do.
Watch him park and step into the building behind her. Watch him follow the curve of her waist to the swinging of her butt cheeks. Watch her watching him in the mirrored corridor they disappear into. But don't make eye contact.
Eleven minutes: the average length of a sexual encounter. Seems funny, all this build up for that.(less)
"Ten minutes." I call out, glancing at the computer screen.
"Any more than that," Mom warns, "and you won't get any computer time for the next three days."
"Okay!" Really, anything to start using that ten minutes.
When those candy-precious minutes are used up, I look longingly at the(more) time, on the bottom-right of the screen. One more minute.(less)
The humid heat had given way to cool, and even though it was now 3:11, she had armed herself with portable, electronic music and a recent, albeit torn copy of the New Yorker.
Every once in a while she would look up, turn her head left and right t(more)o see the people crossing the street, getting off buses, going into the restaurant where she had just completed a seven-hour shift, gliding gently to work on bikes.
A frown formed. Her eyes darted. Another eleven minutes had passed. Every time a bus rolled in she would scan its passengers, only to look back down, defeated, to the sentence she had read now six times. There was a patch, red and sticky, spreading between her legs. She couldn't see it, but she knew it was there and growing from the ache in her belly, from the painful swelling of her breasts.
At 3:44, exactly four sets of eleven, she got up with as much dignity as she could conjure and walked in the direction of her home. She paused at the coffee shop in a last attempt to believe he had wanted to be there. She made her steps slow and kept an attentive eye.
She felt a tight and looming feeling as she approached her neighborhood. An hour less of date meant and hour more of mom, and and hour more of fight.
She pushed the door open and was greeted by her dog. Dropping her bags, dropping her limbs, she sat on a bottom step and cried into the mutt.(less)
He was late. Not that he had a watch or anything - to be honest, he kept time about as well as he could catch a cold.
(On the few occasions he's brought that up, he'd then go on a tangent about his impenetrable immune system, and the(more)n he'd start talking about the immune system in general, and then two hours later he'd find himself in the middle of a lecture on human evolution. Really, it was a wonder he had any friends at all.)
Still, he could see it in the clench of her jaw, hear it in the percussion of her fingertips against a polished mahogany surface...
He'd probably put himself around after ten, before fifteen. Which was pretty good, considering he showed up an hour late last week!
Which was definitely something he probably shouldn't bring up.
Clearing his throat, he holds a crumpled, grease-stained bag out in her general direction.
Up here, it's silent. There are so many walls and rooms, and it helps that the vents are closed off downstairs. There are bird and bug noises from outside, and the sound of cars. My room smells like muffins. Chocolate, banana, and the delicious hints of baked something-tasty. It's(more) the breakfast that I'm shoving down my face because, honestly, I need something to do to keep busy right now and I guess breakfast is supposed to be good for you.
I know what is going on downstairs, and that knowledge makes the silence heavy, weighs me down. There's an argument in the kitchen, the reason I grabbed a muffin from yesterday and ran instead of cooking something. It's pretty intense, from the little bit I was slapped with on that trip to get food.
I feel trapped. I know that both of you are hurting. I know that I can't do anything to help. I know that now that the world you build together crumbled, you're just standing in the ruins and screaming. I can't even go down there and comfort you. Not now. Not yet. There is nothing I can do, but stay out of the way. I feel so useless. Maybe there's nothing I can actually do for anyone. Maybe I just fool myself sometimes. After all, this isn't the first time I've been in this exact situation. I'm sure it won't be the last. Maybe I'm always like this. Hiding away, letting worlds crumble around me everyday.
Glancing at the clock. An hour and eleven minutes. That's how long I've been awake. You two have been fighting at least that long. How much longer than that has it actually been? When will it end? Because I'm out of muffins and things to do.(less)
Vriska looked down at her target, splayed on the ground, red flowing out of his chest. Glancing at the clock she noticed it had only been eleven minutes since she'd started. He really should have invested in better security, she chuckled snapping a picture of him before walking out,(more) Ms. Snoman should be very satisfied.(less)
minutes tick past and what sometimes feels like a flash in time becomes a dragged eternity. i wait for the call, the ding that will cement my reassurance that you are okay, but the call never comes.
you told me that you would stay, for me, and only for(more) me, but you ended up going anyway; nothing could keep you in a place where you claimed you didn't belong.
i had eleven minutes to change your mind.(less)