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The Short Stories
The End: Death of Spirit DRIVING down Government Avenue has never seemed so malodours to Adel Nasir. A sense of depriving anticipation filled his mind as he made his way through the slow moving cars, jumping from one lane to the other in automatic motion. The sun, hiding behind purple clouds, was sinking into the far sea with dramatic pace, as if it were aware of the sarcasm in the situation. The sky took on a different shade of blue, more of a light maroon colour with a splash of orange. The air was still and breathless and filled with shivering coldness. Signs of the coming winter are encrypted in the atmosphere. As he approached the scene-sirens screaming and flashing, crowds packed along the sidewalk trying to get a  more...
That Will Be The Day BEING a writer is a very strange business. It’s really funny, I mean, what could be said about it? A lot, I would say. But does it matter? Would it make sense? Only a writer can write about being a writer, right? Am I a writer? Well, I certainly believe so! But what does really make a writer? Is it anyone who writes anything? Does a writer only become a true writer when he or she is published? See, I don’t know about that. What I do know that writing is not something that we do; it’s something that tells us what we are. It is said that everyone, every single person, would at least, at one point or another in their lives, would think of being a writer more...
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