The Literature Aficionados

“They thought that the bullets would silence us, but they failed. And out of that silence came thousands of voices. The terrorists thought they would change my aims and stop my ambitions. But nothing changed in my life except this: weakness, fear and hopelessness died. Strength, power and courage was born.” This book is about a young girl, a Pakistani women’s rights activist and a Nobel Prize laureate. The book follows her story as her life transforms from an ordinary young girl to a true hero. The book is narrated by Malala herself. Malala was a kid just like us: she watched shows like Shaka Laka Boom Boom; she would imagine drawing to avoid her annoying brothers; she would pray to have that pencil every night before sleeping but it was never there. She was just like us; she was curious about the misogynistic traditions in her house. Even when her friends and neighbours were scared from the Taliban, she refused to let them win. “There are two powers in the world; one is the swor...

  The room is the epitome of artistry and architecture, a perfect blend of both, just enough to provide an ethereal aura to it. The king-size bed, soft as cotton, is covered in a nice rufous, silken sheet and the memory foam pillows, in their crimson-lighted covers, were ideal to provide the perfect sleep. The gleaming black headboard, with complicated filigrees of gold and silver twining, gives a touch of royalty to the bed. On the plumbeous-ashy walls hang paintings of the best artists from around the world. The infamous painting of the coral black hors on an ivory-white canvas by George Stubbs hangs above the votive lights placed on a mahogany table. The table in itself is a magnificent piece of art. With its curved knees and intricate carvings on its skirt, it defines grandeur. Just to the right of it is a glass door with white frames lading to the 200 squared-feet balcony. On the parapet, lying in neat rows, are the most beautiful flowers arranged in the perfect gradient. They...

From the moment I crossed the threshold into the old dinghy house, I felt an aura follow me, unlike others before, this was not the aura of an unfortunate trapped soul. No, this aura was different, it was inhumane, and by the time I had reached the living room, it had entrapped me in its vicious vice like grip. Every step that I took into the interiors of the house, the grip kept tightening, like a noose around my soul, waiting to snap and liberate me of this mortal existence...   F inding my way around the house, I reached the door of the main bedroom, but by this time the diabolical emanation was taking its toll on me, beating down on me with all its might. My head was splitting and I was getting delirious, to the extent where the elephant motifs, on the teak wood door in front of me, started morphing into a kaleidoscopic array of black and brown faces dancing mockingly in front of me... assimilating any leftover will power left in my corporeal shell, I pushed through the do...

I added a final touch of my enticing Coco Chanel and strutted out in the flowing red gown for today’s soiree. Watson stood outside, waiting for me and as he regarded me, he flashed his lightbulb smile. A cyclamen pink blush fell on his face as he bowed and helped me into the carriage. After ten minutes of sound trotting, the horses halted, for we had reached. In the silvery moonlight, the Gatsby mansion gleamed like a new-born baby. The paint was fresh, the wavy carpet refurbished and as the waves crashed against the shore to the right, a salty yet calmly refreshing breeze wafted through the air, tickling my senses alive. This reprieve was short lived, for soon came roaring, all the other invitees in their cars and carriages. Along also came with them, a burden of mocking odours and a confusion of colours. I noticed the arrival of Mr Brown and his moustache. Oh, how I hated it! It seemed to have a mind of its own, twirling arrogantly of its own will. Mr Brown also brought along his ine...

There she is, my love, my life. Her auburn hair falls perfectly over her shoulders and her eyes twinkle making the stars look like they are not shining. The grey in her eyes shines, teasing me. These are the most precious jewels; these eyes never fail to make you feel loved, feel wanted. My hand, as if out of habit, moves to her cheek. They are as soft as cotton and smooth as silk, and my fingers glide over them as a feather in the air. My thumb travels to her lips, luscious and plush, they part seductively, and a sigh escapes her mouth. She closes her eyes, waiting for my lips to meet hers… And then as if by some invisible force she is pulled away from me and her eyes shoot open. They are no longer twinkling- they are pleading, begging for me to hold on to her. She extends her arm but she is too far away. She is fading, her lips are losing colour and her face becomes as pale as snow. My heart hammers in my chest, I shout but nothing escapes my mouth. She is fading, crumbling as if m...

“If you don’t mind my asking, professor, what do you do, like, after work?” a smooth voice inquired. The professor could see her eyebrows jumping and her shoulders shrugging in her voice while she bent forward, curious and inquisitive. He whirled round to face his petite student, “Ah, Susan! Well,” he started, “Not much. I go home, cook something for myself, maybe watch a bit of television. Why? Why do you ask?” “Uh, Well… So you have a quiet life, professor?” her almond eyes remarked. “You could say so,” he prodded along. “Okay! I guess it needs some spicing up, doesn’t it?” she winked and bounced away in her faded denims. A smile began travelling down his cheek like a snail trail and the professor chuckled to himself. He sat down on the leather of his chair and began strumming a tune. The fingers danced their way along the strings, while he hummed along. “Dancing in the dark,” he was Bruce Springsteen incarnate. “Da-da. Da-da,” he played along, “Woo-hoo!” He jumped ou...