I admire writers, always have and always will. Writers have the power to create and to destroy. Writers have started and fought wars. But they have also created love, soothed masses, made us cry and laugh with tears.
As a child, my face burrowed in a thick volume of Enid Blyton's
David walked towards Victoria who stood by her car, shifting her weight foot to foot, waiting for him to say something.
"Well?" she prompted.
"I have no words," he said as he shook his head in awe.
"Are you surprised?"
"That's an understatement! I wondered what your friend meant when he said you were
Victoria's heart drummed against her chest. David liked her back, but...
"If that's the case, why have you been ignoring me all this time?" she wondered out loud.
"That's not true. Granted I didn't say or do anything, I was aware of every second you looked my direction. And every time you
2015 was the year that I truly unleashed my wanderlust, I find myself looking back to mostly fond memories with the hope that the future holds more of such escapades filled with curiosity and fearlessness. In the last quarter of that year, I embarked on an East African backpacking adventure
David rolled out of his chair, stretched his 6 foot self as he stole a glance at his watch 5:55 PM above his head.
He hurriedly switched off his computer, gathered his paperwork into a neat pile, locked them in the drawer, grabbed his jacket, briefcase and made for Victoria's desk.