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

Let me be remembered, not because of what I did or didn’t do, not for what I said or didn’t say, not for how much money I earned,

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...

At this stage in his life he worried about everything. Five days before his seventy-eighth birthday, he scanned his body. Eyes cloudy....