Here’s what the editors had to say about ‘The Salesman’ Hema did an excellent job of showing, rather than telling in this piece. She demonstrated the age of the salesman… Read more »
A calm overcame me, a serenity that kneeling before God in a little temple on the hills brings. His eyes were pools of cool water to a thirsty traveler walking through the desert. His sweaty, tanned skin probably tasted like sea-salt chocolate truffles.
As she neared the bazaar, the brightness almost fooled her into happy thoughts. She could smell the warm notes of cardamom and incense mixed with the acrid stench of moonshine from the bordello.
I’m not sure if it was the sleepless nights or the exhaustion, but I was feeling morose. How mundane this day had become! Where was the romance?
If this isn’t bliss, I don’t know what is. If there is a wicked witch who can turn the world into stone, I want her to come now. This is the moment I want to be frozen in forever.
She first felt a low ringing in her ears when Esmeralda made an entrance with her goat, Djali. Was it the magic of Hugo’s writing or the light summer breeze playing with the wind chimes? So strange!
In India, in the 80s, finding something like condensed milk or baking powder was akin to finding water on Mars.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
When she stomped her feet like a petulant child, the matchstick world trembled. Her cosmical body moved to a terrifying drumbeat only she could hear, all the time ululating in grief over the horrors she was unleashing on her own children.
Another guard sits in his high tower like an angry demigod looking over his creation. A few women and children in their blue and white striped uniforms and shaved heads stare vacantly at us. Their eyes are like little broken windows. These children have probably seen more horrors in their tiny lifetimes than I’ve seen in my entire life.