World Travel and Tourist Destinations

Looking around the feelings of writers who have wrote their heart in recent posts I admire. Last 2 days are left for your submission. Writers who are willing to write and stuck in many thoughts about what to write, I’d say, just pen down your true feelings and interests with the simplest use of words. Beleive me! It WILL work

Looking forward to last days’ entries. Let’s see how it goes.

Also, we’ll open comment as the contest ends on June 10. We all will be able to share the views in a better manner.

All the best

HIV is proving to be smart as man is becoming difficult to work with. What other option do we have that will help us get out of this trap? Is there anyway you can help? This piece shades some light on this issue.

It really kept disturbing me why some people had doubts on the existence of God. Now, I know. The damage that HIV has done and is still doing is proving to be worse than even the two world wars. There is no part of the world where you will mention HIV and fail to get the attention of people. I mean, from the widows, the orphans, the infected and the affected everyone is just tired about this whole thing.

The question is; why isn’t a solution being found to permanently end this scourge? I mean even if you ask a child you will get to realize that they understand the ways of contracting the virus and the methods of prevention. This message has reached everyone. Yet, everyday we see more and more new infections. Has God abandoned his people? It depends on what you think and believe. God is not the type to desert you. He will always continue to demonstrate his undeserved kindness to humans.

Despite the fact that people know what should be done, not all are practicing that. That is the reason behind the increasing infections. The only thing that will save us is when we look for other preventions. There are a lot of people who are beyond the abstinence age and they have no permanent partner to be faithful to. Yet, sometimes they are forced to avoid condom use. This is the group who will benefit greatly from the HIV vaccine.

The people who have been infected have also not accepted to practice what they are told. Some of them keep behaving as though they are on some revenge mission. Even for their own health they are not supposed to be engaging themselves in unprotected sex. If they were adhering to this, there would be no much infections. At the same time, not everyone who is infected knows that they are. There is still that group who are afraid to test and know their status.

They will keep infecting those who do not know for sometime. So, the responsibility should be taken by everyone regardless of their status. You see mothers infecting their children out of ignorance. Who does not know about the prevention of mother to child transmission program that has been around since? We do, yet not all pregnant women are willing to have the test and give birth in hospitals.

Surely, it is God that will deliver us. Just the way he has helped scientists and medics to get the ART, he will help researchers get a vaccine. The vaccine will be our only help. So, when you see the call for volunteers in the trial studies, if you are not yet infected, please take the responsibility to volunteer.
 

Authored By Elmeldah Obiero, Kenya

When I see children, I see all good that remains in this world in their faces and actions. Doesn’t this world always christen children as; ‘the future of the world’, ‘the father of man’, ‘the epitome of innocence’ and ‘the icon of love’?

And this very same world also takes the pleasure to crush the very innocence of a child when they are used by adults to cater to their wild sexual needs.

Chubby Cheeks, dimple chin
Rosy lips, teeth within
Curly hair, very fair
Eyes are blue, lovely too
Teacher’s pet, “Is that you?”
Yes, yes, yes.

Aashu loves to recite this rhyme; she is after all her class teacher’s favorite student.

Aashu is a normal, pretty and lovable six year old child. She is the ultimate representation of joy, freedom and innocence. Aashu goes to a neighboring school and studies in 2nd grade. She loves Mummy, Papa and her doggy Bozo. Her best friend is Rashi and she shares her food and even her favorite crayons with her. Aashu loves to draw rainbows in her drawing book. Life is beautiful for Aashu and she blooms everyday basking in the love of all who know her and care for her.

But……

A month has passed since all have started noticing the changes in Aashu, she doesn’t laugh anymore, she hates going out to play and bursts into tears with no reason. She hits Rashi and doesn’t like Mummy,Papa or Bozo.

Mummy and Papa think it is just a phase, maybe it is the workload at school; after all Aashu is ‘no more a kid’.

They have no idea as to how ironical this statement is! 

Yes, Aashu is no more a kid, her innocence, her modesty and her childish dreams have been destroyed and thrown away.

Nobody noticed that Aashu’s seven color rainbows had changed into red ones; she had started drawing small, childish stick figures which she would later slash them and tear the pages.

Those figures were Aashu herself!

Aashu used to bleed everyday but as the bleeding would stop in few minutes, she could never tell Mummy. Without proof, Mummy may think that she is lying and give her a good spanking. Already it pains every day and she doesn’t want more of it.

Aashu is scared!

Aashu wants Mummy to hug her tight and talk to her with love but she doesn’t want Papa to hug her, she is scared of Papa.

Papa is a ‘man’ just like the uncle who makes her bleed everyday, maybe Papa too will do the same and hurt her if he hugs her, so she remains far from Papa.

Mummy had told her on her 5th birthday( how happy we all were that day, we had many balloons, chocolates and glittering ribbons all over my room and I got so many gifts, Papa had given me the huge teddy bear) that GOD hurts only those who have sinned in this world.

So, that meant she had sinned and that’s why uncle hurt her!

She hates this world, she hates school, she hates uncle, she hates Mummy, Papa and Bozo.

She hates herself! 

Aashu now wished only one thing – TO DIE!

I have never known Aashu personally, I have never met her but I know that this is the story of millions of children who are victimized by sex-fiends every second in this brutal world.

If, I could wish for something, I would wish that a story like Aashu’s never existed.

‘CHILD ABUSE’ (Yes, I have written it bold and loud so that the readers can feel at least an iota of this harsh reality), this is a phrase I have detested since the day I came to know what it actually means.

Before 19th century, child was considered a property and when I think of it now, aren’t they treated the same way even today when their childhood is scarred by actions of abuse? 

“Universal Declaration of Human Right’s recognized ‘child rights’ in 1948.

The UN Convention on the Rights of Child came into force in 1990(this shows that it took almost half a century for adults to declare that children have rights too).

“The world would be a better place if we would bend down to try and protect these saplings from being trampled upon.”

This space and word limit is too short to describe this horrendous crime but I wish from the bottom of my heart that this piece would have scarred the heart and burnt the soul with rage of every reader. Because it is said;

“When the heart and soul rebel; a change is achieved”

We all should act or we may have to change the nursery rhyme to-

Wounded cheeks, broken chin,

Torn lips, no teeth within,

Ragged hair, dirty not fair

Eyes full of tears, full of pain

Teacher’s pet, “Is that you?”

No, No, No. I don’t want to be the pet.

Just save me from this big bad world!

Authored By Lekshmi. G.Nair, India

A great writer returns to his birthplace at a time when his grandniece is exploring her own imagination.

On May 30, 2007 after 24 years of unintentional exile, the Nobel prize-winning author Gabriel García Márquez returned to his hometown of Aracataca, Colombia on a train painted with yellow butterflies. The train left from Santa Marta late in the morning and passed our school during lunch recess. Children, teachers, and workers flocked to the fence to watch history float by. Some of us stood on tables, while a hundred children raced to the end of the school grounds to watch that “magical train” pass. One of my students was a passenger riding it. She is nine.

Every recess just before lunch, she sits by me while we watch the kids play soccer. She tells me stories from her week and the funny or startling things she’s seen and heard. She began slipping me scraps of fiction and drawings at the beginning of the year, and I was so delighted and amused by her unconventional stories, I told her that although I’ll treasure them forever, I don’t want her to lose such great work.

I found an unused, blank notebook on the top shelf of our classroom’s closet.  I slipped it to her unobtrusively, and she spent the next hour eagerly copying down her tales of the beautiful witch who jilted a hapless prince at the altar and flew to Rome and became a millionaire instead…of the girl who murdered the devil because he had once told her that he was her father, and then later (absentmindedly) told her to kill her father…of the man who walked out his front door, hit his head, and promptly forgot who he was…of the lonely sun and the lonely moon who found each other by chance, while the stars first ridiculed them, and then later attended their wedding…  There are also poems and songs: lyrics of heartbreak and love, lines of friendship and trust.

It was only last week that I found out who her great-uncle is.

A teacher’s days are long and hard.  Sometimes it is difficult to see any significant change or progress in one’s students.  The work can be overwhelming, the challenges insurmountable.  But all it takes is a few minutes of listening to what a student has to tell you and a weary day is transformed into something life-affirming and new.  Give students room to use their imaginations, to discover themselves, and watch how the future shines in their eyes.

I look forward to sitting on that wooden balance beam tomorrow to watch the kids play soccer and listen to her tell the story of today. Maybe I’ll even ask her to write it down.

Authored By Ana María Correa, Colombia

Oh Hello! Nice to see these well crafted entries woven in amazing words. Still, at times, it is the feelings and interest that overpower the choice of words. And in some of the entries, we can litrally see this. We appreciate everybody who has participated in this contest. Congreatulations to all whose entries are approved and we would encourage those whose entries are returned unfortunately either because of incomplete details or other problems. We hope, they will not give up and will surely appear in next contest

Well, we just wanted to announce something about prize distribution; or better say there is a change. As categories don’t have many entries to compete, we’ll be awarding only the BEST entry. However, if we receive minimum 4 entries for each category by the last day of submission i.e. June 10, the prize distribution will remain unchanged. 

Wish you all the best again. See you soon

This is a short depiction of the post election anarchy in Kenya after the general election which was in December 2007, where over two thousand were brutally people killed and over three thousand others displaced internally. The evil is seen through the eyes of a ten year old boy called Fla. The occurrence opened the hypocrisy of love and brotherhood which many people in the world sham to exhibit to their neighbors. Despite this having happened in Kenya it can be can be, has being and will be a cause of many civil strives in the world.

This article is dedicated to all the victims of the civil strive and gives thumbs up to all those who assisted the victims in escaping and the later giving them refuge in their homes and other places.

The heart is one of the most vital organs in the human; it pumps the blood which contains nutrients and oxygen to all parts of the body. But the heart is a source and a reservoir for a lot vices as hate, envy and greed. As in the saying ‘the matters of the heart’ it harbors a lot of lethal secrets. When the heart is overburdened with sorrow it bleeds; but not literary! It pains forever.

The different campaign trails passing by the village of Barito gave great excitement to Fla; many gifts came along ranging from money and an assortment of clothes and other political apparel made the December holiday unforgettable. Little did the young Fla know what would follow some days to come? In his mind he did not fully comprehend significance, and innocently sang to the tune and echoed his parent’s political stand.

The election formed two main political rival parties based on ethnic alignment; in all his life he had never conceived the idea that his people were foreigners in their own country. He spoke the local language but he always wondered why they had different naming systems. Then came the polls day, the anxiety of the delayed results raised temperatures in all citizens; creating sharp divisions in every human indulgence. Things that were easily agreed upon earlier become bones of contention.

On Sunday, two days after the election, Fla woke up as usual ready to attend the Sunday school which was part of the day’s joy; on top of having to wear his best clothes. Unfortunately, he did not notice the unusual dead silence had befallen their homestead. He was later to realize that the livestock had not been milked or fed, the door to their house had been broken and his parents were missing. As he proudly and piously strolled towards the church; that’s when he realized that all was not well.

On the way he saw a group of machete wielding people of whom he recognized almost all of them and another that was kneeling down begging for their lives. Thinking that there had been a robbery somewhere in the village, he thought in his heart thieves deserve to die.

In Barito, it had become a common site of law breakers being dealt with by the mob; mob justice due to the corrupted form of legal security system where the guilty went scot-free. On a closer look he became petrified seeing; his father mother, uncles, aunts and other close friends all bleeding from cuts and beatings. His heart went cold and he surged forward ready to undergo anything than see his family being hurt.

An uncle-through tribal intermarrying quickly grabbed him and firmly pinned him against his body deterring him from passing to the kneeling group. When he persisted an electric slap cooled him leaving him only watching with his mouth agape. The leader of the group, a well know church elder passed the verdict and the rowdy, blood thirsty group descended on the helpless group; merciless kicking and slashing followed till all lay down as still as logs. Blood spattered from their bodies soiling everything. When all were still, petrol was poured on the bodies and lit.

The odor of the roasting human flesh is something that will never be erased from his mind. Later they razed their homes and confiscated anything that they would lay had on; livestock, household goods and businesses.

Fla phobia for everyone, he trusts no one than himself and his nights are filled with nightmares. His heart bleeds as he wonders why such impunities could come from the people he played and prayed with, dined with and regarded them as his own.

Since then he has vowed not to go to the place he called home and has opted to be placed in an orphanage rather than be adopted by many willing families.

Despite the continued counseling, don’t you think one day his bleeding heart might propel him to wage vengeance on the killers of his family making the violence to never end? This should be a lesson to all people in the world, ‘not all those who laugh with you love you!

Authored By Jeremiah Alfred Ngunjiri, Kenya 

It is strongly believed that Marriage is the entwining of the two hearts. It is a new beginning for two different individuals, knitting two households into one family.

The nuptial tie turns everything auspicious and stands upon trust.   

Being an Indian, for me, an Indian marriage is the most beholding state of commitment and love. The sprinkling of akshita or colored rice, flowers, the bells, the decorations, the excitement, the piousness, the sanctified steps and vows, the tying of mangalsutra-the sacred thread, the ethnic customs and traditions are performed to unite two people so firmly that after marriage they become one soul, retaining two separate bodies.

It’s a strongest bond between husband and wife that is rooted more on faith and understanding and less on mundane things. It is executed in the presence of parents, relatives, and friends. An irrevocable commitment is a greatest blessing bestowed by the Gods above.

The new relation commits and ensures selfless trust, love, respect, care, concern and salvation of the two, tied together. The rituals at the time of marriage with each step bring the bride and the groom much closer. Kanyadaan symbolizes the union of couple in bliss, where bride’s parents promise the groom to take away their daughter to be his life partner. Likewise there are many steps which involve different pledges between husband and wife for the lifetime.

It’s wonderment if life partners could transform into soul mates. Marriage is a pledge between the two to be always there for each other in the ups and downs of life. It’s all about falling in love many times but always with the same person. It’s a ballad of love sung by two caring hearts. It’s a cuddle giving the best chance to grow. It’s a responsibility to share and enjoy. Marriage is meant to be in ecstasy till the end of life.

It’s very easy to keep the passion of love up in the marriage by cherishing and adoring your life partner. The roadblocks those are likely to hit this beautiful relation can be laid back by just sharing with your life partner, by avoiding the things or hurt feelings, and by having an open conversation open at the gloomy or sad hours. 

Marriage is the most blessed state. It is a zephyr in the scorching heat. This system is by no chance created to nourish any pitfalls of excessive pride.

Authored By Ritu Sharma, India

Watching the news channel yesterday, I was compelled to reflect on the status of women in India. The Arushi murder case, though claimed to be solved by the police, sent wrong signals across the country. People are against the labeling of Arushi-Hemraj love as ‘illicit’. How can a girl, emotionally dependant on a person much older than her father, be termed as having illicit affair with the person? This instantly reminded me yet another pathetic situation: the cheerleaders controversy, where several ‘moral groups’ were deciding on how should the people dress.

It is surprising why the culture which gives such “lofty status” to women, treats them as “pearls”, has troubles with their men acting lecherously while looking any meagerly clad women, and then charge the women for fault. It is the Indian custom which has given greatest value to women. Indian women have always lived up to the expectations, failing to power respect and admiration in the society. 

The IPL league initiated with the thought to start the new phenomenon of entertainment in cricket. IPL people expended a lot for making it a grand hit. The association had the purpose to take domestic Indian cricket to global viewers. In the beginning everything was all right, but then the politicians again started to grab the attention as it was done in the case of bar girls. However, in a temporary amnesty, the order to ban the dance bars in Maharashtra has been returned by governor. But the girls are always squeezed between moral policing and regulatory efforts on one hand and extreme poverty, susceptibility to health risks such as HIV/AIDS and sexual exploitation on other hand.

The majorities of these women have little occupational skills and are inadequately educated. A few of them might have come into such profession fascinated by glamour of being entertainers and singers.

Cheer-girls are a bit of entertainment or activity package which IPL had promised the audiences countrywide. Group of cheerleaders might have been barred by the politicians to come in cricket matches, but none of the political leaders can dare to challenge the love for western culture in our youth. Group of cheer-girls are liable for criticizing Indian culture and therefore are trapped by the politicians. But I think we should witness such responsive policies when the Bollywood beauties extend obscenity so boldly.

Various cheerleaders are not enchanted with the activities of crowd also. These girls may be barred from the game, but the authorities cannot plan to get back our own culture from clutches of ignorance and negligence. These girls might go back to their states but their recognition amongst youth has formed an imprint on impressionable minds of young group. We cannot eliminate obscenity by asking the cheer-girls to go back. We have to instill amongst us what is called as “Indian Culture”.

The politicians, the so called supporters of Indian Morality, made and are still making a big argument over the cheerleaders. They objected on the kind of clothes these cheerleaders wore. But then, why do Indian politicians wear khadi? Because it reflects their association with Gandhi. Similarly, these girls were also wearing something that has been associated with games across the world.

The kind of gestures which Bipasha or Rakhi Sawant would do in their dance number is fine, because they can see it in the private theatres. Cheer leaders were also performing on large stadiums as well as in front of thousands of people. The cricket matches were being shown on television messing the so called Indian Culture! The advertisements which come on TV, the type of show models, male or female, bathing in pools or anywhere, are they not against Indian Culture?

These too are transmitted throughout India. The kind of jokes which come on various laughter shows, they speak directly or use double-talk, which derogates comedy, but such things are accordance to the Culture because children cannot understand them. I am surprised what these leaders and politicians are upto. They were believed to take care of the welfare of the public who selected them and not expected that same chosen person will take the “cheers” away from their lives. Rejoicing ’the woman of substance’, in Indian Culture, it seems is similar to dropping a woman to a substance.

Authored By Arun Kumar M., India

The timeless South of France has the mysterious capability of bringing back memories that have long since been lost. A trip to Saint Paul de Vence in Provence brought me back to my childhood, even if just for an afternoon.

25 degrees in March. How things have changed in just two years. Two years ago, I was trudging through feet of snowdrifts in Massachusetts on my way to yet another day of high school math. Today, I’m in the south of France. Today, I’m in Saint Paul de Vence.

I don’t miss typical March weather. I’m hypnotized by quintessential Mediterranean bright yellows and blues, winding stone streets, small-town church steeples. There is something so very French about this town; I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the laundry lines hanging from the windows, or the way that even in the South where the people tend towards paresseux without becoming completely lazy (although a sieste is an important part of every day), you can’t ignore the French pride, by now I know it well, in everything that people do and say.

Shop owners and artisans watch as you examine their wares, certain that there are no flaws and almost daring you to find one, and I remember, once more, why I fell in love with this country almost ten years ago.

And yet, although Paris may have been my first love, there is something about the South that encourages dreaming. I’m not quite sure what it is, but in small towns like Saint Paul de Vence, up in the mountains where one can find refuge from all the people, time becomes less regimented. Memories and reality float amongst each other without any concern for the rules that apply to the concrete and the abstract. As I climb the street that winds up through the town, I pass a store that is under renovation: it may feel like summer here but it’s not tourist season yet.

I smell fresh paint and am propelled back in time. I’m six, seven, eight, nine years old; the age doesn’t matter because the memory repeats itself. Moving again and again, new apartments over and over until I can walk down the Manhattan streets and point out the numbered awnings, like a game. Moving was the game to my parents. That new paint, that new apartment smell has always felt more like home to me than any actual place. I breathe it in and keep walking, hanging in limbo somewhere between now and then, the past and the present.

I admire the pissaladière, the Niçois pizza shiny with olive oil and sweet caramelized onions in the glass windows in front of the stores, but I don’t buy any: lunch of crawfish with aioli and whole sea bass, scales and tails flayed expertly in front of me at the Colombe d’Or are still only a vague memory. The Colombe d’Or never disappoints.

I walk further up the road that winds to the top, to the spectacular view. I look out over the cliff, and as far as I can see, everything is green. A patchwork of all of the greens possible. Even the giant Crayola boxes wouldn’t have enough colors, I think to myself, still caught up in the past, a time before that magical tenth birthday when you finally reach double digits.

I turn to walk back down the winding path and stop by a small church. It is the church of Saint Anthony, a saint I claimed as my own when I was very small and who would follow me long after as I, disorganized as ever, would do my father proud and invoke the patron Saint of the lost to help me find my flash drive. I push open the doors into the small church, just a few pews, a modest altar and a few candles with a donation box. I listen as my coins clink to the bottom and cross myself to pray, as I was taught.

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please look around. Something is lost, and cannot be found. How ironic, I think to myself as I recite the childish prayer. Nothing was lost here, but I did, for an afternoon, find a small piece of my childhood, memories so few and far between in the hustle and bustle of daily life. Here it was, all this time, hiding in the south of France.

Authored By Emily Monaco, USA

This is a story about the aftermath of a 4-year relationship and the enduring feelings of life with a broken heart.

Food doesn’t taste the same anymore.  In fact, life in general no longer holds the same wonder and wildness.  When quietness creeps in like a shadow, the soft sobs are the only sound in the stillness.  Her eyes burn with salty tears that pool until they overflow to begin a journey.

There, a tear gently, silently resting on her smooth cheek, breaking and magnifying the light from inside that bleeds from her very soul.  It cuts a wet trail of sorrow as an outward expression of so much within.  Traveling ever downward, it pauses to gather at her chin until finally, it falls to her broken breast where, sharp and hot there rages, reason for its being.

In these moments, there is a wrenching of the gut like a wringing of the hands.  A life inside of a pain and darkness that she doesn’t fully understand.  Yet it remains like the pack of a peddler on her back…something that she can’t explain.  Four years play like scenes from a movie before her eyes adding to the anguish.  It’s inescapable, but palpable like the bittersweet thrust of a blade in her chest.  No one ever quite gets it: her family or the people she used to know.

She knows it so well as the constant pulse in her breast that makes her question her existence at best.  She looks for a glimmer of hope in the dark…the stark…coldness.  She only finds a fear of growing old with the nothingness, the knife in her chest, and the ache in her breast of the terrible knowing that without love she will continue through life like this.

Donning a mask once more as the sorrow fades into her core, she hides the redness of her eyes.  She feigns a thing called strength fighting never to appear weak or broken from the splitting of her soul from the one who brought meaning and depth to life.  Lying in the arms of another, she wonders if everything will always feel second best like it does right now.

With time will the memory and feelings fade?  Will the images ever disappear or the spoken words that resound in her mind?  She is dying to stop wanting for more or at least what once was.  Nothing spans the chasm once bridged by words, love, the sound of a voice, a meeting face to face…that completeness is lost.

Love songs resound on a loop in her mind as she goes from day to day.  All of this is hidden in the careful building of a wall that’s a lie she is telling herself.  If anyone knew, they might write her off as emotional and weak, so it’s tucked in the back of her heart next to faith and the stars.  Life moves forward save for the moments that fill those four years replaying at random when the walls break down.

Others know her by these same things in themselves.  They know the bitter tears and despair of love lost and never returning.  They know the dreams that haunt and wake with deep anguished breaths and a realness they can’t bear or explain.

The tears and darkness are in everyone filed away behind living, working, brilliance, and light.  Hidden in the murky depths of strength where meaning and motivation overpower the negative by sheer will.  Where sharp and hot there rages the reason to live to the fullest in spite of it all.

Authored by Ava Fails, US

This article is about how fads and pills do not work on losing fat and shedding the pounds. It shows the real way of losing fat, at how that is the only effective way. It also talks about the use of supplements and how they have virtually no effect on losing fat.

The world we live in is controlled by the media. Everyone is looking at things like ‘Fat-Burning Belt: Wear it and you lose 6 inches!’ and ‘Drink This Stuff: You Lose Weight Overnight!’.
And, it’s infuriating to think that at least 90% of these new fads won’t work.
How do I know?
They never stick around for much longer than a few weeks. The only ‘pills’ and ‘medicines’ that can help with fat-loss and fitness are SUPPLEMENTS.
And they do exactly what they say. They supplement. They don’t burn fat magically, or make you skinny overnight.

Even more disturbing, I saw so many diets that had EXTREMELY LOW CALORIES and EXTREMELY LOW FAT.
When you begin to starve yourself, your muscle starves too. And then, your metabolism goes into ’starvation mode’.
And then, you stop losing fat altogether. It just doesn’t work.
Actually, eating more, and exercising more actually works more effectively than the vice-versa.

So, I just thought to myself, ‘Hmm, this doesn’t look right. Maybe, just maybe, I should write about the way I lost fat.’
And it came to this.

But before you do anything, ACTUALLY WRITE DOWN YOUR GOALS.
Yes, don’t ignore this part because it sounds stupid.
If you don’t have a goal, where are you heading?
Done? Good.

So, here is what I came to: Basic Guidelines on how to REALLY burn fat.

1) Cardio, 45 Minutes, 3-5 Days a week until you reach your goal.
Once you reach your goal, only work as much as it takes to maintain your physique.

2) Muscle Building, 4 Sets of 12 Reps a day. The weight you should lift should be heavy enough to not be able to do 16, but light enough to do at least 8.
DO NOT SKIP THE PART!
Growth of muscle encourages increases of speed in metabolism, which can increase the speed of your fat-loss dramatically.

3) Balanced Diet
Contrary to popular belief, LOW-FAT DIETS and ULTRA-LOW CALORIE DIETS just don’t work.
The way, I’ve found easiest, is a LOW-CARB DIET.

Make sure you have all of these; otherwise the whole Fat-Burning will almost just disappear.
This concept relies on the idea of synergy, in which, 1+1 might not equal 2, but might be 11!

You should be able to see results in 6 weeks.

Extra Tips:

1) Try to do Cardio before breakfast - It’s far, far more efficient.
2) Eggs are good to eat, but try to avoid the Yolk. Only eat one Yolk a day, but the whites are good for as many as even 6.
3) Don’t take a day off and decide to ’skip a day’ because your feeling lazy or you don’t have time.
If you don’t have time, MAKE TIME.

Authored by Anthony Duong, United Kingdom

Hello again,

You must be wondering to find the blog still blank. Well, just little more time and we will start publishing the approved entries soon. Unfortunately, we had to return many copies because of mistakes that writers overlook. We advise the participants to sit on their copies once they are done with it. Just have a look at your copy with fresh eyes. I am sure, you will catch some small mistakes that normally we overlook.

Thanks for being with us You will see first few approved entries soon.

Keeping visiting

Thanks for visiting World Explore Blog. Posts for the writing contest will be published as and when they qualify the criteria. Please visit again to read and encourage the authors. We would like to invite and challenge the writer inside you too. However, we will welcome your contribution as a silent admirer if you are not willing to participate. We will keep updating you with the progress.

Thanks