Descriptions

Homes erupted to rubble; safety bled into chaos; embraces disintegrated to ash. Step by step, with trembling legs, I staggered through the ruins of the place that was my home. I ignored the streaks of blood dripping into my eyes, the tiny shards of metal lodged into my left forearm, and the wails around me. If you paid too much attention, you wouldn’t stop wailing either. The year was 1942 and in the village of Little Dewhurst, lives had been torn apart by the shelling of bomb upon bomb.

Lights up on dazzling New York City, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, where Fat Cats prowl and ingénues seek fame, glory or money – whichever comes first. Pan out and see skyscrapers climbing into the heavens, their facades adorned with glimmering glass and steel, like modern-day castles touching the clouds. Each one vies for attention, a dazzling display of architectural prowess, creating a mesmerizing urban landscape that ignites the imagination.

It was April, and the time had come again for Tokyo to be velveted in a pink blanket. Shinjuku National Garden, vast and winding, was bustling with life: lovers made eyes in pedalos on the lake; a pretty girl posed for photos with petals in her hair; a tourist hunted for the best picnic location, dodging and diving around swarms of sightseers; and my grandfather held my sticky little hand, as I looked up at the blooms with awe-struck eyes.