Life

No Amount of Paint Can Cover the Truth. Content Warning.
We clearly see the bruises on her skin, yet we ignore them as if it's okay. We watch her stumble over her words when we ask her about her relationship. Yet we still stay quiet like a couple of mimes. We smile in her face with our mouths closed and our ears open wide, waiting for her to cry for help. She tried to cover her scars with foundation, and concealer but no amount of paint can cover the truth.
By Nala6 days ago in Writers
Tupac Was My Father. Content Warning.
Written by Xavier D. Prue on March 7, 2026 B.X. As a troubled youth who grew up without his parents, I imagined the legendary Tupac Shakur as my father! Raised by the rap lyrics coming out the speakers of my boombox, I see 2Pac as my first male role model. I grew up in a violent neighborhood on the lower-income side of Norwich, Connecticut, called the West Side where Dad was just a foreign word. Immediately following his murder in 1996 on the Las Vegas strip, Tupac became the connection that my peers and I related to every time we heard him scream “West Side” in his songs. Just two simple words, but it was a statement that made us feel we weren’t forgotten. I want to touch lives in the same manner that ‘Pac did and it inspired me to develop a Creative Arts center that will help the youth turn their ambitions into reality.
By PIFF MAGZ6 days ago in Writers
Turning the Ephemeral into the Concrete
Some experiences feel real while they are happening and unreal almost immediately afterward. A conversation that sparks clarity, a realization that reframes a problem, a moment where scattered thoughts suddenly align. In the moment, there is a sense that something solid has been grasped. But without capture, that solidity dissolves. What remains is a faint impression, detached from the reasoning that made it meaningful. The experience was real, but it left no durable trace.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast6 days ago in Writers
In May, I Will Have Written And Read On Vocal Media For Five Years
There are some extremely good writers on this site! It has been almost five years since I started in May 2021 on Vocal, and I continue to feel like a beginner. I was a new writer, then, even though I was an older woman.
By Denise E Lindquist6 days ago in Writers
A New Song
A New Song I woke up the other day and heard this new song. It seemed a bit familiar, but I could not place it. I don’t know where it was coming from either. So I smiled and listened to it. It was one of the most beautiful songs, I have heard in a long time.
By Alexandra Grant6 days ago in Writers
Drawn That Way. Content Warning.
Have you ever been naughty for its own sake? Why not? Is there something you were told not to do, maybe concerning your own body? My answer to questions one and three is yes.
By Harper Lewis6 days ago in Writers
Writing, Even When You Were Programmed to do Nothing
I get it. Writing, even just a few words of your book, can feel like a completely out-of-body experience; like you’re walking an unknown path.
By Ali Fuller6 days ago in Writers
Dancing in the Dark
They are sitting in fire-lit companionable silence. Each deep in thought. When he thinks about his life, he hasn’t made a song and dance about things.
By Keith Butler8 days ago in Writers
The Little Light
No matter what life throws at me, there has always been a little light inside of me. No matter how small it felt — and let me tell you, it felt small —
By Maeleen-The Resilient Muse 8 days ago in Writers
Neighbours
The end of the row was dominated by the red brick, iron-railed schools. The small infant school was separated by a central drive from the Juniors, the lair of the terrifying Miss Chudleigh, “Ugly Chugly” we called her, but not if she was in earshot. At the top of the drive was the Secondary Modern, where they put your head down the bog and pulled the chain.
By Keith Butler8 days ago in Writers
I want to run
It was 6:15. He had been watching the digits change since 5:37. He would get up, he liked an early start for his long run of the week. His wife and kids were used to his early morning routines. His wife was long past caring, and the kids now seemed oblivious even to his presence. They would all carry on doing their own things.
By Keith Butler8 days ago in Writers
Memories Return Again and Again, Unfolding Like Fragrances from Tales Long Lived
On the morning the old house was to be sold, Elias found a cedar box tucked beneath the attic window. Dust hovered in the pale light like unsettled thoughts. The house had stood empty for three years, ever since his mother’s passing, and yet it still carried her presence, faint but insistent. He had come only to sort through the last of her things. Sign the papers. Lock the door.
By Lori A. A.9 days ago in Writers