Kelley J. P. Lindberg
A Sail of Ash

Kelley J. P. Lindberg - A Sail of Ash

Fiction
When Colorado-based freelance writer Kelley J. P. Lindberg isn’t writing, reading, hiking, or sailing, she’s traveling as far and as often as she can. If there’s still time left over, she blogs… Read more »
Yunya Yang
Heritage

Yunya Yang - Heritage

Fiction
Yunya Yang was born and raised in Central China and moved to the US when she was eighteen. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Epiphany, Hobart, and Gulf Coast, among others. She currently serves as… Read more »
Seher Fatema Vora
No God for Spilled Ink

Seher Fatema Vora - No God for Spilled Ink

Fiction
Seher Fatema Vora is a Pakistani American editor and writer. She has worked as an editor for academic and news publications, and recently shifted her focus to fiction. Seher holds an MA in… Read more »
Chido Muchemwa
Paradise

Chido Muchemwa - Paradise

Fiction
Chido Muchemwa is a Zimbabwean writer currently living in Canada. Her work has appeared in the Bacopa Literary Review, Humber Literary Review, Tincture Journal, and Apogee. She has been shortlisted… Read more »
Vishwas R. Gaitonde
The Saint

Vishwas R. Gaitonde - The Saint

Fiction
Photo credit: C. Anthony Huber Vishwas R. Gaitonde spent his formative years in India and now resides in the United States. He has been published in literary magazines such as The Iowa Review,… Read more »

Paradise

Chido Muchemwa

Today began like any other day for me, with a trip to Paradise Cemetery. The dew was still heavy on the grass as I walked down First Street. Along the way, children headed to school called out my name. “Good morning, Wiki,” they said. “Where did you sleep last night?” They scattered when I glared at them. Not only did they have audacity to call a grown man of thirty-eight by his first name, but they also shortened my name despite my insistence that I go by Wickington. I huffed my way through Marondera, shoulders hunched, and fists clenched with a look daring anyone to try me.

I strode through the rusted black gate of the cemetery and past the empty car park until I was standing where the rows of graves began. Today, I was in search of the sanctuary that only Paradise could provide. To my right were the oldest graves enclosed by an iron fence. To my left was the children’s section, a sorry sight of half-sized graves spaced closely together. And in front of me were rows and rows of graves. As always, my eyes wandered down the gentle slope to the thicket of smoking gum… Read more »