SanctuaryinthePages

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Cheyne Stokes

Cheyne Stokes That was how it started at least. I was sitting in the chair next to his bed and all of a sudden (sudden? how could he have just... slipped?) he was in cheyne stokes. I dropped the head of his bed down, checked his pulse (Tony! Where was Tony? This was supposed to be Telemetry!) and began... One and two and three and ... (Where is everyone? I shouldn't be here!) Four and five and six and... (Where is the cart?) Seven and eight and - Tony came falling through the door, took one look, called Code and went for the ambu-bag - which wasn't there. Nine and ten and eleven and - And Tony just began to breathe for the man lying

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Cheyne Stokes by Ironmountain01, literature

Literature

Cheyne Stokes

Introvert by RhiannonOeuvre, literature

Literature

Introvert

I didn't notice you were there! I got lost in my own world again. No set of walls will feel like a prison. I don't need to leave the house, or my chair, to have fun. Time spent with family and friends means a lot to me. But I don't do it just because. Reading and writing and my love for these don't make me boring. Living in my own mind comes naturally to me, like breathing. Of course I don't know what to talk about. Unless it's deep, meaningful and interesting, I won't say much. Very good at listening? I love learning new things and being there for you. Escape

slumber. by crooked-clockwork, literature

tide of change by prettyflour, literature

Paint by talvipaivanseisaus, literature

Literature

Paint

You'd think it's easy to come up with words; the moisture once again seeps through the September and the cracked paint into the grey between hallways and second-hand memories; local minima of motion, windchill in the kitchen, mornings that open into nothing at all the words are broken, stunted and too slow breaking apart at the touch of a hand I sit alone in the garden by the ash tree write songs without melodies of things I have never seen and of the soft, slow, tender acuity on a Sunday that might once more may carry meaning

The Forests are Burning by magic6jewls, literature

Literature

The Forests are Burning

The forests are burning. A man bumps into me. “Désolé, monsieur.” The line ahead of me is long. I suppose this concert’s really popular. Or perhaps because tonight coincides with the 45th anniversary of my people’s transport to this planet. It feels so odd, to be inhibiting a human body while I remember my home. The humans call it Europa, since the lush underwater forests reminded them so much of their Europe. A hideous continent, but I’ve gotten used to it. When my colleagues and I were looking for a planet to transport our dying race, we thought Earth would be a wondrous place. We never called

Do Not Disturb by RhiannonOeuvre, literature

The Deal by 914four, literature

Literature

The Deal

"So tell me, Miss, ah, Ms. Klein, what gave you the impression that my firm would have any interest in purchasing your eternal soul?" "Well, I was told that that was what you do?" "Amongst other things, yes, but the soul market has become quite saturated of late. Definitely not a seller's market I'm afraid, what with the new banking laws and all. What is it you want Ms. Klein?" he asked as he stroked his goatee absentmindedly. "I want eternal beauty," the attractive young woman said, holding his gaze. "I, ah, I'm afraid head office no longer allows that sort of thing, Ms Klein," the handsome man replied. "Long term liabilities are frow

the mind has mountains by DrMeh, literature

Literature

the mind has mountains

Life is brief. Fall in love, maidens, before the crimson bloom fades from your lips, before the tides of passion cool within you, for those of you who know no tomorrow. My earliest memory is listening to my mother sing this song. My mother was a woman who was not beautiful except for when she sang, so she was always singing. I remember sitting at our kitchen table drawing childish pictures, enjoying her sweet soprano thrum through the walls of the house, glass shaking in the cabinet doors with her powerful vibrato. I remember hating this song. She always laughed when I told her. “I used to hate it too,” she said, which was real

The Bartender by kidko123, literature

Literature

The Bartender

He takes another crystal cup from the rack of containers at his side, wiping it clean, filling it with tonic and gin, and all that liquid gold, then putting it on the counter for the newest sad sack fresh through the door, full of sorrow and ready to drink away his woes. Sometimes he wishes that it was him sitting on the chair in front of his place, emptying his wallet in exchange for emptying his mind and his clouded heart of all their demons. He has bills to be paid and debts to be remade. He wishes that he was the one talking with this understanding bartender, who just happens to be such a good listener. But he knows that can never be.

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