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

I am in the water of your tears, the intake of your breath, the pressure of your knees as you kneel in depths of solitude and sorrow, half-remembered Bible verses, the memories of picnics and birthdays and family dinners

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,

Where does love go when it dies? A stranger’s story can move like a riptide between the listener’s ears.

Harry pneumatically lowered the front of the bus. John smiled, went along with the joke, and hunched over as if he were an old man. He...