Valiant Scribe
A literary hub giving voice to the voiceless by retelling the human experience

Marriage does not deputize a spouse to carry another adult’s sin, addiction, or dysfunction. And yet, for years, that’s exactly what it felt like I was supposed to do.

The fire nearing a small town where they had friends, consisting of more ancient homes, rickety cabins than sturdy recently built structures. Panicked pounding on the door made him jump.

“Ms. Stafford,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry to startle you, but they told me at the hospital that you found me that morning and called for the ambulance. You saved my life. I wanted to stop by to thank you.”

And since she had started her ritual of gratitude, she felt compelled to thank others as they welled up in her still sleepy mind. After all, how often had she ever done this, and who knew what was next?

Secondly, the rest of the children’s voices suddenly rose up and filled the room.  And then, John began to spin. 

—it’s the pain of those unmet needs that exposes your claws and bares your teeth. Every fallen feather is a prayer—God, save this world.

Without waiting for an answer, he retrieved my turquoise suitcase and handed it over to me. “Thank you,” I said.

You got your Happy Seat; I’m going to have my Grouch Chair. Figured if I get down I may as well sit down...I tried it already. It works.

There has been harm in my story, and as in all good stories, an enemy lurking.  Sometimes we say, “I would not wish this on my worst enemy,”

Old age does have its perks. I don’t have to take off my shoes going through security when I fly.

Until then, I long for my father to find rest, to fly away on the wings of a dove,* which is perhaps masquerading as a crow...

The last time I passed by the house it was derelict and overgrown, regressing to an Irish-style wilderness.

Her writing became bolder. In the long, lonely hours alone, she ruminated over the fate of those captured.

“If there is no God, what is left?” he interrogated himself.  He stood motionless in a warm, dry wind, felt himself falling into an eternity

My home in Syria, loud bangs I hear, my hands on my ears, mama say bombs fall from the sky, she grab me down the stairs like she is the wind

This woman who shows me her lovely fifteen-year-old face, polished nails bright red, and the green eyes of a 1985 National Geographic cover.

Luis had been a patient of mine for less than a year.  He’d been referred to me by his primary care physician on the south side of San...

жінка, яку окупували у власному домі, перетворилася на страх. вона боялася, що її здасть сусідка навпроти. кілька років тому вони аж до...

Our sons lived for five years in an orphanage in the rainforest of Puerto Maldonado, Peru after their biological parents died. When our...

Chaos. Wrenching at her. It will sweep her away if it can. Clari’s left hand grips the gummy steering wheel, her right the stubborn gear...