Morning Mishaps

“6:29 AM: Coffee. Sacred bean juice. The machine gurgles like a happy swamp creature, and I cling to the counter, chanting “brew faster” like a caffeine-starved monk. The first sip is a sacrament: bitter, scalding, divine. Liquid courage. Morning high-fives me with a sunbeam. “See? We’ve got this.” I spill half the mug on my robe. Classic…”

Echoes of Five

The cardboard box in the basement exhales a sigh of dust when I lift the lid, as though it’s been holding its breath for decades. Inside, a tangle of childhood spills out: a cracked plastic stethoscope, a ballet slipper worn to threads, a crayon drawing of a house with too many windows. The air tastes like forgotten birthdays, and suddenly, I’m five again. Mom always said I had “doctor hands.” “Gentle as butterfly wings,” she’d whisper, pressing my palm to her cheek when I pretended to check her temperature. Our living room became an emergency room most afternoons. Tracy, my stuffed bear with one eye missing, was my head nurse. We performed lifesaving surgeries on couch cushions and prescribed lollipops for heartache. Dad played the patient with melodramatic flair, clutching his chest as I listened to his heartbeat through my toy stethoscope. “Dr. T,” he’d groan, “will I live to see dessert?” I’d nod solemnly, then collapse into giggles when he’d swoop me up, spinning until the world blurred into a watercolor of laughter. His hands were calloused from fixing carburetors, but when he danced me around the room, they turned into wings…

Beautyful Problems” – Matsiko Godwin – The Blurb

“Every book is a journey, a map into the complexities of the human mind and soul.” Beautyful Problems is a triumph of storytelling that feels tailor-made for our era. Matsiko Godwin’s debut novel is a vibrant, layered narrative that blends wit, heart, and razor-sharp social commentary. At a time when the world feels both hyper-connected……

Kampala’s Quarrelsome Skies

“The man laughed, throat warm with nostalgia. Kampala’s weathers were his quarrelsome siblings—each a stanza in the city’s humid epic. Yet lately, he’d found rhythm in their chaos. The “fall” he craved wasn’t in amber leaves, but in Rainy Season’s exit: that breathless pause when clouds part, and Kampala exhales jasmine-scented relief. When papyrus bows, not to wind, but to the weight of its own lushness…”

The Cartographer of Chaos

“Then she did the unthinkable: she climbed onto her desk, knees creaking, and recited the verses upside down, her skirt swaying like a pendulum. ‘Hope is the thing with feathers—’ she began, and suddenly, the room tilted. The dashes became wings, the stanzas a murmuration of starlings. Trish blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh…'”

Sunday Love and the Shadowed Gate

(First Person: Clara) The mist clings, a cold, damp shroud. I can’t feel my feet. Or anything, really. Just this… lightness. And a dread, heavy as lead. I stand before a gate, iron and shadow, towering. A man, Silas, I think he said, stands before it, his face etched with lines that speak of endless……

The Ghosts Of Drafts Past

To My Writer Self, I write to you from the edge of a comma, where ink bleeds into possibility and sentences tremble like unsteady bridges. A century yawns between us, a chasm, a cathedral, a carnival mirror. Do you still wear time as loosely as a moth-eaten sweater, or have you finally sewn its threads……