Love
CNA's
What is a CNA? A Certified Nursing Assistant is the official name. A CNA is not someone who is a glorified butt-wiper as they say. A CNA is someone who cares for you or your loved ones. Yes, they do wipe butts, but the list is so extensively more. They are someone who becomes family because they are with you most days. They listen to your stories and hold you through your tears. A CNA gets you up every morning with a smile on their face even though they may be having a challenging time themselves. They help you to make your hair into that perfect french braid you love so much. That CNA will trim your beard or shave your face. They will shower you with precision, wash everything even in between the toes, and will lotion you everywhere, but not between the toes. They will help feed you even when you cannot hold spoons and forks properly anymore. They will help you walk because you are now unsteady on your feet. A CNA will be able to tell you your favorite game show, football team, or even that you will not eat any food if it is touching. They will check you when you are incontinent with urine or BM and you have to wear depends to protect you. They will notice when you start to develop bed sores or a rash. You will have to take vitals which usually consist of temperature, blood pressure, O2 (oxygen), respirations (breathing), HR (heart rate), and the map of the blood pressure for the hospital.
By Tabitha Hinkley8 months ago in Fiction
Salvage, Crime, and a Smile to Die For. Honorable Mention in Mismatch Challenge.
Working salvage is the worst job for meeting people. We don full body environsuits, usually the clunkiest, oldest ones that could make a bodybuilder look like a sack of potatoes. What it does to ordinarily built people like myself is even worse.
By Leigh Victoria Phan, MS, MFA8 months ago in Fiction
The Third Teacup . AI-Generated.
"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark." Every Tuesday at precisely 11:14 PM, Julian sets the table for three. It is a quiet, deliberate ceremony. He uses the heavy linen napkins—the ones they received for a wedding that never quite happened—and the silver spoons that have begun to tarnish at the edges, turning a bruised shade of purple. He moves with the practiced grace of a man who has performed this dance a thousand times. Julian places his cup at the head of the table. He places Mikael’s cup to his right. And then, he places the third cup. The third cup is a delicate thing, bone-white and translucent as a dragonfly’s wing. It has no saucer. It sits directly on the wood of the mahogany table, right where the shadow of the grandfather clock falls longest. Mikael usually enters the room just as the tea is poured. In the "serious" world—the one they inhabit from dawn until dusk—Mikael is a man of sharp edges and loud laughter. But during the ritual, he is soft. He is muted. He sits in his chair, his eyes never straying to the third cup, though his hand often trembles when he lifts his own. "It’s a good blend tonight," Mikael says. This is always the first sentence. "Oolong," Julian replies, his voice a low hum. "With a hint of dried orange peel. It’s supposed to aid with memory." "I don't need help remembering," Mikael whispers. They sit in the golden pool of light cast by the chandelier, two men bound by a love that has survived feuds, distance, and the terrifying weight of their own choices. It should be a moment of pure, domestic bliss. But the air between them is thick, not with tea steam, but with a static that makes the hair on Julian’s arms stand up. The ritual requires thirty minutes of conversation. They talk about the mundane: the leak in the upstairs bathroom, the way the ivy is strangling the oak tree in the garden, the draft in the hallway. They never talk about why they are still awake. They never talk about the third cup. At 11:30 PM, the disturbance begins. It starts with the liquid in the third cup. It doesn’t just sit there. It ripples, as if something has been dropped into it from a great height, though the ceiling is solid and the air is still. The ripples move outward in perfect, concentric circles, vibrating against the bone-china rim. Julian watches it. He has to. That is part of the devotion. To love Mikael is to keep the third cup filled. "Do you hear it?" Mikael asks. His face is pale now, the light of the chandelier catching the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I hear nothing but the clock," Julian lies. In reality, the room is filling with a sound like a thousand wet pages turning at once. It’s the sound of a story trying to rewrite itself. It’s the sound of a door being pushed open by a hand that isn’t there. Julian reaches across the table. He doesn't take Mikael's hand—that would break the circuit. Instead, he places his palm flat on the table, inches away from the third cup. The wood beneath his hand feels ice-cold, even though the fireplace is roaring just a few feet away. "Stay with me," Julian says. It is an instruction and a plea. "I'm always with you," Mikael replies, but his voice sounds thin, as if he’s speaking from the bottom of a well. The ritual enters its final phase. The tea in the third cup begins to disappear. It doesn't evaporate; the level simply drops, inch by inch, as if something invisible is drinking with a desperate, parched hunger. This is the price of the "Forbidden." In their story, they chose each other against the world, but the world didn't just walk away. It left a hollow space behind, a debt that needs to be paid every Tuesday night. Something else wants to be part of their love. Something that was lost or sacrificed in the fire of their beginning. When the third cup is empty, the grandfather clock chimes once. Julian stands up. He takes the third cup—which is now burning hot to the touch—and carries it to the kitchen. He washes it by hand, using a silk cloth, and places it back in a velvet-lined box. When he returns to the dining room, the heavy atmosphere has evaporated. Mikael is standing by the window, looking out at the dark garden. He looks like himself again—the sharp jawline, the arrogant tilt of the head. "I’m tired, Jules," Mikael says, rubbing his eyes. "I think I’ll go up to bed." "I’ll be up in a moment," Julian says. He begins to clear the table. He picks up Mikael’s cup. He looks inside. At the bottom, in the dregs of the tea leaves, there is a pattern. It isn't a heart or a cross. It is the shape of a small, grasping hand. Julian doesn't scream. He doesn't even flinch. He simply takes a damp cloth and wipes the pattern away until the porcelain is clean and blank. He loves Mikael. And love, he has learned, is not just about holding someone. It is about what you are willing to feed to the shadows so they leave the person you love alone. He turns off the light. The room is plunged into darkness, save for the faint, glowing outline of where the third cup sat. It lingers for a second, a lead-lined ghost of a vessel, before disappearing into the night. "See you next Tuesday," Julian whispers to the empty air. The air does not whisper back, but the floorboards click in a way that sounds suspiciously like a footstep. "The sun is threatening to rise, and my ink is running dry. Until the next moonrise, keep your lights on and your secrets close. This has been The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 8 months ago in Fiction
The Course of True Love
For months I have admired you from afar. Across the office floor, I drink in every detail of you as if you are a rich red wine. I dream of the life we could have together. I picture our first date, the wedding that will follow, our house, even the children we will have. A boy and a girl, one for me and one for you.
By Sebastian Swift8 months ago in Fiction
I met Her 4 Coffee
Ring shopping was very exhausting and long for Jay and Gemma. She was pleased with the selection. She did not care about the price or the cut, Gemma knew that she has the company of a man that truly values her and desires her best interests in the center of his heart. “We should celebrate instead of staying in tonight!” Jay said with a smile on his face.
By Jay LeTron Dobbins8 months ago in Fiction
One More Day?
One more day? That's all we have left, one more day 24 hours, 1,400 minutes, 86,400 seconds. I pick you up in my black truck, the same one I will leave you behind in. I pick you up at 8, as we ride to our favorite spot like nothing changed between us, like everything is normal and for today it is. We get a table and sit down, we order our favorite foods, drinks, and appetizers. You sit there beside me with admiration on your face, your blonde hair like the sun in the dark. We drink and eat till our stomachs can't take any more, and then we eat some more. We go down to the dance floor, and dance our hearts out even though both of us have no rhythm. We go to the arcade next door and play games until our thumbs are blue. I win you a stuffed animal, a giraffe your favorite. The pure look of happiness and you squeeze into your new toy, is enough to make me happy for life. You give me a slight kiss on the cheek and lips as you thank me for the giraffe over and over. We then turn in our tickets at the front and she gets me my own toy giraffe. “For we can match”, she says. I take it from her with a grateful smile, knowing this could be the last gift I ever get from you.
By Christian Sanchez8 months ago in Fiction
Time of the Month. Content Warning.
"Elsie, did you hear me?" The young woman's blonde head snapped up with a jolt, blinking at her Life Partner. Frankly, she hadn't been paying attention to a word he'd said. Not since they'd woken up that morning. That awful, long-dreaded morning, which had come far too soon.
By Natalie Gray8 months ago in Fiction
Among the Stars, We Fade
The last ship docked in the port of Harlan Station just as the twin suns of Erythra dipped behind the jagged horizon. Mara could feel the hum of the engines through the floor beneath her boots, a vibration that matched the thrum of her chest. She hated goodbyes. Or maybe she hated the way they felt in this sector of the galaxy, where distances were measured not in miles, but in uncountable light-years, and every horizon hinted at something unspeakable beyond the veil of reality.
By Nina Pierce8 months ago in Fiction
