One, two – unbuckle my show. Three, four – who’s at the door? Five, six – pop and click. Seven, eight – this can’t wait. Nine, ten – eyes meet again. Eleven — Eleven – maybe this time it’ll lead to heaven.
Seven-eleven. Eleven heaven. There’s a musicality to words that rhyme. They please our aural sensibilities. Soothe us to a calm. And those who can spout out rhymes per second to a beat are like music storytellers.
We continued to sit in the empty classroom, wondering when the teacher would return. If we really wanted to, we could bolt for the door right now, ditch this dismal detention once and for all. Something, however, kept me in my seat, staring at the blank whiteboard in front of me. Rose didn’t seem to want to move, either, her fingers moving closer and closer to my side of the table.
11:00
ten hours since lunchtime
nine overachieving friends (all finished with homework, of course)
eight minutes past
seven hours of sleep in the past day
six assignments
five family members
four classes per day
three projects due tomorrow
two hours since dinner
one lifetime wasted
and zero progress made
eleven
malevolent
such an odd number
that extra one
sticking off of ten
like some uncomfortable
thorn
pressing into my mind
with every
eleven
eleven
prime
but far from optimal
elevens
are ugly
spare
extra
unnecessary
messy
like a stone in your shoe
that doesn’t hurt
but you can’t help but notice it
There they were. It seemed so unusual yet so bland. The eleven candles on the wooden table in the centre of the room were so mesmerizing. The light was blaring and making my eyes water. Was it just me or did the eleven candles seem a bit odd? Out of the corner of my eye I saw there was one less candle in the room.
Eleven isn’t a number anymore. Eleven is a promise.
Be there at Eleven, they say.
Eleven more minutes.
Eleven more days.
Eleven more nights.
Eleven more heart beats.
Numbers are nothing but promises. Some of them are empty, other are annoyingly fulfilled contracts.
There were eleven candles on her cake when her father left. Twelve when she decided she was mad at the world, and sixteen when she accepted it all. There were twenty when she decided to start her own family. And now, there are none. She is too old for candles.
Eleven. The hands of my clock wrapping stiffly around me when the morning doesn’t open right
right… Or can’t. (and sometimes it’s a little bit of both.)
Eleven. The exponent I can give to throats cried into droughts, because you multiply me equals too many nothings. (000000000011)
The age in my hands when I hold you, temples pounding tantrums and memorabilia; they shake and stir each day.
Eleven more words I’ll write, because nothing seems good enough.
She remembers like it was yesterday.
She’d just turned eleven and it seemed like everything was going right. Her party was in a few days and everyone who was anyone would be there, vying for her affections with gifts and smiles. Her parents loved her and each other (already an oddity amongst her peers) and they were so proud of the ‘A’ she’d gotten in World History (by far her weakest subject) that she was sure to get everything she wanted.
Everything was going SO right…that is, until it all went horrible wrong.
I wrote eleven songs. Eleven songs for eleven newts. The newts that joined my woodland creature band. The band that creates the sounds of twilight and sunrise in the woods.
1. Doot Toot
2. Tiny Fern
3. Do NOT Eat Mushrooms You Just Find in the Woods
4. Broken Heart Broken Trumpet
5. George Costanza Is My Hero
… And so on. Each tune personalized to each friendly newt.
Eleven minutes, that’s how much time was left until he was supposed to pick her up for Prom. Stephanie. The girl he’d liked since freshman year. Finally accepted to go on a date with him. 3 years later. She looked beautiful. Her dress was pink, (her favorite color.) He had the boutonniere for her. She had asked for a white one.
She stared up into the sky, wondering what time it was. Time had pretty much ceased to existed for her and her companions. It seemed like a faraway notion, something they didn’t use anymore. It was light, or it was dark. Very little in between. Her biological clock told her that it was probably 11.
Eleven it was his favorite number. He didn’t know why it just was. It just sounded so nice to him. It might be that some of his best memories were from when he was eleven. Getting his first video game. Getting a golden retriever puppy, he still has. He doesn’t know why, but he has a good idea.
It was her eleventh birthday. She got a little pony from her mom. A gameboy from her brother, and her father bought her a shotgun. The cake was purple. “Her favorite color”
Winter|: Winter gives me a happy feeling inside. Even though it’s cold outside, it brings joy to so many people because of the holiday and sometimes the scenery. Christmas time is here!
half past eleven and its still on my mind. the idea of loving you is always a crime. what you did well you werent even mine. frankly said you’ve been wasting my time. your brand of love is the hurting kind and ive just ran out of words that will rhyme but not out of heart, one day i will find
There were eleven ways of finding the dogs in the fields and surrounding woods, as much as there were dogs too, but no one wanted to count anymore. They just wanted to stop carrying kibble to try and trap them and bring them home. Instead, they were considering making friends with their cats again.
Eleven minutes was all he had. Eleven minutes to save the word, capture humanity and protect it from Lucifer.
Dean’s fingers trembled at the frigid air against his back, the rushed and barely coherent words of his brother. ‘Finish this, be quick, hurry up.”
But Sammy would never know. He’d never know the dangers of life. Dean wonders if it was a mistake to shelter his little brother from harm all those years, wondered if it was best for Dad to give him a .45 when Sam was afraid of the monsters under his bed.
Eleven times, no more, no less. Ten is the round number, but eleven takes it a step further. Eleven is a risk taker. Eleven cares more about spontaneity. Eleven doesn’t want to look back on life and wish things had been more exciting.
Eleven days until I have to leave. Then I can go on an adventure. I’m going to a new place where everything is upside down and backwards. Yes, I decided to do it. It’s fun. Why else would anybody do anything? I don’t like predictability. It’s boring. I don’t like to be bored.
The eleventh hour of every day always starts with a harsh beeping. My dreams are halted, and I’m ripped away from the worlds I create. The reality of the world around me seems so dismal compared to the one inside my mind. I could swim around in dream world for days and days, and never get sick of the sights. But the real world comes to me every morning with a buzz and beep as unpleasant as itself.
It had been eleven weeks. Eleven weeks since I’d last seen her. Time passes a lot slower when you miss someone. Days and nights begin to blur. Eleven weeks. Soon eleven months and then I’d begin to forget her face.
at eleven I lost friends, and I’m reminded now at twenty why. because they’d left me out, they left me standing all alone. back when the darkness was too much and I couldn’t support myself and now I think about the kids who almost make me cry by the blatant exclusion and remember that I don’t need them anymore, not any more. I can make myself feel shitty all by myself.
Tick tock, the clock is ticking and Eleven’s hour is running out. Run, run, time is ticking away. And when the hour ticks off there will be no more time left to save Clara. Tick tock, the clock is ticking. Run, run, no time for fish sticks and custard…
i curl up in a ball and stare at the ceiling.
(1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.)
and i can’t get past that because that’s when my throat starts to close up and i start crying and mom comes upstairs and starts yelling because goddamnit, lucy, she’s got enough going on as it is
so i count to eleven again and wish that my brain didn’t work this way, wish that i could deal with the odd numbers and worry less and breathe more and cry less and be the perfect daughter that i am supposed to be
(11)
fuck.
Eleven is a word denoting the number 11. 11 is symmetrical and an palindrome. Does that mean the same thing? Anyhow, 11 is but eleven isn’t. Yet when I see eleven I see “11” because I equate those things in my head.
Eleven has always looked interesting to me, as a word.
The clock struck eleven and I knew that she would be leaving soon. She was like Cinderella. She spun me around one more time and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“I must be going now princess,” She said with a small smile.
“I know,” I kissed her and bowed low. She gathered up her skirts and slowly descended down the large marble steps.
“Call me,” She yelled towards me. I blushed as other people turned to stare at me.
“I will.”
a shard of plastic glisters in the sun
it is hot inside this car and i’m no longer a baby
the upholstery swelters in waves
in the distance, a gas station sign rises on stilts
the straight lines repeat over and over
but i see the staccato’s in pairs
Just eleven more days she sang through the house she just couldn’t wait it was just eleven more days till her dad would come back he had been deployed for the last four month and she couldn’t wait to see him!
Eleven days is all it took for me to have my view of one person altered completely. In the beginning, he was my best friend, instantly. That soon changed when someone I trusted, although didn’t particularly like at the time, admitted to me he had been saying the most unforgivably nasty accusations behind my back. He still hasn’t removed the knife.
11:11, make a wish. what hurts? what makes you feel ugly? what sticks in your subconscious like a leech on your heart? what do we need more of? less of? whats simple? was that selfish? the world is hungry… I wish for that day last summer to be gone forever. I wish for more love, more love everywhere
One, two – unbuckle my show. Three, four – who’s at the door? Five, six – pop and click. Seven, eight – this can’t wait. Nine, ten – eyes meet again. Eleven — Eleven – maybe this time it’ll lead to heaven.
how many times i think of you
before the night falls
and my skin crawls
with little bumps that each house a memory of you;
how many wishes i had to see you
before my timer broke;
how i think of you today,
still I choke
I choke
I choke.
i think adam is hung. his package has got to be at least 11 inches.
Seven-eleven. Eleven heaven. There’s a musicality to words that rhyme. They please our aural sensibilities. Soothe us to a calm. And those who can spout out rhymes per second to a beat are like music storytellers.
“How much time do we have left?” I asked.
Rose looked at her watch. “Eleven.”
We continued to sit in the empty classroom, wondering when the teacher would return. If we really wanted to, we could bolt for the door right now, ditch this dismal detention once and for all. Something, however, kept me in my seat, staring at the blank whiteboard in front of me. Rose didn’t seem to want to move, either, her fingers moving closer and closer to my side of the table.
11:00
ten hours since lunchtime
nine overachieving friends (all finished with homework, of course)
eight minutes past
seven hours of sleep in the past day
six assignments
five family members
four classes per day
three projects due tomorrow
two hours since dinner
one lifetime wasted
and zero progress made
eleven
malevolent
such an odd number
that extra one
sticking off of ten
like some uncomfortable
thorn
pressing into my mind
with every
eleven
eleven
prime
but far from optimal
elevens
are ugly
spare
extra
unnecessary
messy
like a stone in your shoe
that doesn’t hurt
but you can’t help but notice it
eleven o’ clock
and still nothing done
been toiling all day
but ’twas all for none
eleven o’ clock
three projects all due
tommorrow, of course
oh, what can i do?
time is on the go
even now as far as I know
where it ends as far as we can
mandatory negligence of the day
watch my life slip away
There they were. It seemed so unusual yet so bland. The eleven candles on the wooden table in the centre of the room were so mesmerizing. The light was blaring and making my eyes water. Was it just me or did the eleven candles seem a bit odd? Out of the corner of my eye I saw there was one less candle in the room.
Eleven isn’t a number anymore. Eleven is a promise.
Be there at Eleven, they say.
Eleven more minutes.
Eleven more days.
Eleven more nights.
Eleven more heart beats.
Numbers are nothing but promises. Some of them are empty, other are annoyingly fulfilled contracts.
There were eleven candles on her cake when her father left. Twelve when she decided she was mad at the world, and sixteen when she accepted it all. There were twenty when she decided to start her own family. And now, there are none. She is too old for candles.
Eleven. The hands of my clock wrapping stiffly around me when the morning doesn’t open right
right… Or can’t. (and sometimes it’s a little bit of both.)
Eleven. The exponent I can give to throats cried into droughts, because you multiply me equals too many nothings. (000000000011)
The age in my hands when I hold you, temples pounding tantrums and memorabilia; they shake and stir each day.
Eleven more words I’ll write, because nothing seems good enough.
Eleven.
She remembers like it was yesterday.
She’d just turned eleven and it seemed like everything was going right. Her party was in a few days and everyone who was anyone would be there, vying for her affections with gifts and smiles. Her parents loved her and each other (already an oddity amongst her peers) and they were so proud of the ‘A’ she’d gotten in World History (by far her weakest subject) that she was sure to get everything she wanted.
Everything was going SO right…that is, until it all went horrible wrong.
I wrote eleven songs. Eleven songs for eleven newts. The newts that joined my woodland creature band. The band that creates the sounds of twilight and sunrise in the woods.
1. Doot Toot
2. Tiny Fern
3. Do NOT Eat Mushrooms You Just Find in the Woods
4. Broken Heart Broken Trumpet
5. George Costanza Is My Hero
… And so on. Each tune personalized to each friendly newt.
Eleven minutes, that’s how much time was left until he was supposed to pick her up for Prom. Stephanie. The girl he’d liked since freshman year. Finally accepted to go on a date with him. 3 years later. She looked beautiful. Her dress was pink, (her favorite color.) He had the boutonniere for her. She had asked for a white one.
She stared up into the sky, wondering what time it was. Time had pretty much ceased to existed for her and her companions. It seemed like a faraway notion, something they didn’t use anymore. It was light, or it was dark. Very little in between. Her biological clock told her that it was probably 11.
Eleven it was his favorite number. He didn’t know why it just was. It just sounded so nice to him. It might be that some of his best memories were from when he was eleven. Getting his first video game. Getting a golden retriever puppy, he still has. He doesn’t know why, but he has a good idea.
It was her eleventh birthday. She got a little pony from her mom. A gameboy from her brother, and her father bought her a shotgun. The cake was purple. “Her favorite color”
Winter|: Winter gives me a happy feeling inside. Even though it’s cold outside, it brings joy to so many people because of the holiday and sometimes the scenery. Christmas time is here!
half past eleven and its still on my mind. the idea of loving you is always a crime. what you did well you werent even mine. frankly said you’ve been wasting my time. your brand of love is the hurting kind and ive just ran out of words that will rhyme but not out of heart, one day i will find
eleven seconds had passed, now I had 49 seconds to write something meaningful, could I achieve thi
When the little hand strained to rise, and the moon shined and the dogs howled, we made no sound.
There were eleven ways of finding the dogs in the fields and surrounding woods, as much as there were dogs too, but no one wanted to count anymore. They just wanted to stop carrying kibble to try and trap them and bring them home. Instead, they were considering making friends with their cats again.
Eleven minutes was all he had. Eleven minutes to save the word, capture humanity and protect it from Lucifer.
Dean’s fingers trembled at the frigid air against his back, the rushed and barely coherent words of his brother. ‘Finish this, be quick, hurry up.”
But Sammy would never know. He’d never know the dangers of life. Dean wonders if it was a mistake to shelter his little brother from harm all those years, wondered if it was best for Dad to give him a .45 when Sam was afraid of the monsters under his bed.
Only they knew what really lurked in the shadows.
Eleven times, no more, no less. Ten is the round number, but eleven takes it a step further. Eleven is a risk taker. Eleven cares more about spontaneity. Eleven doesn’t want to look back on life and wish things had been more exciting.
Eleven days until I have to leave. Then I can go on an adventure. I’m going to a new place where everything is upside down and backwards. Yes, I decided to do it. It’s fun. Why else would anybody do anything? I don’t like predictability. It’s boring. I don’t like to be bored.
There were eleven.
Eleven older sisters – the ones more graceful and elegant than I could ever hope to be.
They were the ones that had the suitors come from near and far to watch them dance.
They were the ones that were talked about in the kingdom.
They were the better sisters.
I was the lesser of them all.
Yet, he still chose me.
The eleventh hour of every day always starts with a harsh beeping. My dreams are halted, and I’m ripped away from the worlds I create. The reality of the world around me seems so dismal compared to the one inside my mind. I could swim around in dream world for days and days, and never get sick of the sights. But the real world comes to me every morning with a buzz and beep as unpleasant as itself.
It had been eleven weeks. Eleven weeks since I’d last seen her. Time passes a lot slower when you miss someone. Days and nights begin to blur. Eleven weeks. Soon eleven months and then I’d begin to forget her face.
at eleven I lost friends, and I’m reminded now at twenty why. because they’d left me out, they left me standing all alone. back when the darkness was too much and I couldn’t support myself and now I think about the kids who almost make me cry by the blatant exclusion and remember that I don’t need them anymore, not any more. I can make myself feel shitty all by myself.
Tick tock, the clock is ticking and Eleven’s hour is running out. Run, run, time is ticking away. And when the hour ticks off there will be no more time left to save Clara. Tick tock, the clock is ticking. Run, run, no time for fish sticks and custard…
i curl up in a ball and stare at the ceiling.
(1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.)
and i can’t get past that because that’s when my throat starts to close up and i start crying and mom comes upstairs and starts yelling because goddamnit, lucy, she’s got enough going on as it is
so i count to eleven again and wish that my brain didn’t work this way, wish that i could deal with the odd numbers and worry less and breathe more and cry less and be the perfect daughter that i am supposed to be
(11)
fuck.
Eleven is a word denoting the number 11. 11 is symmetrical and an palindrome. Does that mean the same thing? Anyhow, 11 is but eleven isn’t. Yet when I see eleven I see “11” because I equate those things in my head.
Eleven has always looked interesting to me, as a word.
Eleven. One more than ten. Two more than nine. One not enough to make twelve. Eleven.
The clock struck eleven and I knew that she would be leaving soon. She was like Cinderella. She spun me around one more time and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“I must be going now princess,” She said with a small smile.
“I know,” I kissed her and bowed low. She gathered up her skirts and slowly descended down the large marble steps.
“Call me,” She yelled towards me. I blushed as other people turned to stare at me.
“I will.”
a shard of plastic glisters in the sun
it is hot inside this car and i’m no longer a baby
the upholstery swelters in waves
in the distance, a gas station sign rises on stilts
the straight lines repeat over and over
but i see the staccato’s in pairs
Just eleven more days she sang through the house she just couldn’t wait it was just eleven more days till her dad would come back he had been deployed for the last four month and she couldn’t wait to see him!
Eleven days is all it took for me to have my view of one person altered completely. In the beginning, he was my best friend, instantly. That soon changed when someone I trusted, although didn’t particularly like at the time, admitted to me he had been saying the most unforgivably nasty accusations behind my back. He still hasn’t removed the knife.
11:11, make a wish. what hurts? what makes you feel ugly? what sticks in your subconscious like a leech on your heart? what do we need more of? less of? whats simple? was that selfish? the world is hungry… I wish for that day last summer to be gone forever. I wish for more love, more love everywhere