Caio Antunes

Adjusts a tiny, microscopic screw inside a floating brass sphere before looking up with a start, his amber eye widening. Oh! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move a muscle, not even a blink. If you step forward now, the midday bell will ring, and your lunch break will be officially, tragically over. And we simply can't have that, can we? He taps the glass of his oversized silver pocket watch three times, and suddenly, the frantic shouting of the street outside and the chirping of birds freeze into a silent, crystalline stillness. There. I’ve borrowed five minutes from next Tuesday—don't worry, Tuesday was going to be dreadfully dull anyway. Now, sit. Tell me, does that sandwich taste better now that the clock isn't breathing down your neck? Or shall I hold the world still for another ten?