The best writer
Bio
I’m a passionate writer who believes words have the power to inspire, heal, and challenge perspectives. On Vocal, I share stories, reflections, and creative pieces that explore real emotions, human experiences, and meaningful ideas.
Stories (49)
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III. The Fire Sermon
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
By The best writer about a month ago in 01
I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
By The best writer about a month ago in 01
II. A Game of Chess
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
By The best writer about a month ago in 01
The Quiet Miracle
There is a moment somewhere between breaking and becoming where a person learns their own name again. It doesn’t happen loudly. Growth never does. It rises slowly, like dawn sneaking past the curtains on a morning you didn’t think you’d survive.
By The best writer about a month ago in Poets
My Grandfather is dead today
Today the world feels dimmer, as if the sun paused in its path, hesitant to shine where your absence now sits like a quiet shadow. Grandfather, your chair is empty, your laughter a memory that hums in corners of the house that knew you best. I reach for the familiar, the scent of your coat, the warmth of your hands, but the air holds only the hollow echo of a life that was steady and kind.
By The best writer about a month ago in Poets
🌙 “The Long Light Over the Quiet Eart
There are evenings when the world grows hushed, as though all sound has stepped softly out of the room, and the earth itself exhales, slow and relieved, like a weary traveler coming home. In that hush, I feel the long light drifting— a ribbon of gold spilled across the fields of memory, unspooling all that I have been, all that I have carried, and all that I have dared to dream.
By The best writer about a month ago in Poets
Pride and Prejudice
Overview Pride and Prejudice (1813) is a classic novel about love, social class, and misunderstandings in early 19th-century England. It primarily follows Elizabeth Bennet, a smart and independent young woman, as she navigates societal expectations, family pressures, and her evolving feelings for Fitzwilliam Darcy, a wealthy, reserved gentleman.
By The best writer about a month ago in History
The Window With the Yellow Curtain
The house on Linden Street had been empty for months, but every evening at exactly six o’clock, the single window on the second floor lit up behind a worn yellow curtain. No one knew why. There were no cars in the driveway, no footsteps on the porch, no sign that anyone had lived there since Mrs. Adeline Moore passed away.
By The best writer about a month ago in Chapters
The Rich man and the Poor man
wo men lived lives that seemed worlds apart. One was Samuel, a poor man who worked as a street vendor selling handmade crafts. The other was Alexander, a wealthy businessman born into luxury. Their paths would cross in unexpected ways, leading to profound insights about life, happiness, and what truly matters.
By The best writer about a month ago in Chapters
From Mother, With Love
The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting soft gold across the kitchen floor where little Lila sat cross-legged, carefully threading wildflowers into a crooked chain. She hummed a melody she didn’t quite know the name of—something her mother sang when the world felt too big and Lila felt too small.
By The best writer about a month ago in Chapters
