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

I asked a lonely grape-vine, “Are you bearing sweet fruits even now, in war time?”

The river recovers and continues on it's way. It can be slowed but not stopped. The impounded water fills the valleys covering ghost towns wiped off the map.

That difficult conversation you dread? It is good practice for more. That excruciating situation? Same.

I have danced to the crashing wave’s defiant beat With each step, I roar against the storm's wild retreat This is what it means to be me

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,”

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...

shallow breathing - high piercing sirens screech in the streets - crouching shoulders - whispers - fences keeping enemies of the state in -

I am not a lost boy. Lost girl. It doesn’t sound the same, the name doesn’t roll off the tongue. No, girls cannot be allowed in Neverland.