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The smells were his favorite part. The sweet scent of cinnamon, the rich aroma of turmeric, the regal fragrance of saffron. The smells absorbed him, consumed him, where him. They greeted him the morning and kissed him good-night in the evening. They tickled him well he worked, and ensnared him well he rested. They inspired his dreams, motivated his actions, stimulated his thoughts.
The sounds he liked to. The quite of the open road, with just the breeze in his hair and the sun on his back and the ground under him. Or the bustle of the market, so crazy and out of control, yet so perfect and in place. The calling of the merchants, the bargaining of the vendor, the shouting of the crowd. The way everyone knew their limits and their boundaries in the mess of the market. He also loved the sound of the harbor, of sailors singing and portmen complaining and boxes being busted open. The sounds became him, he lived with them, and he loved them.
The sights, he would never get bored of. The glow of fresh paprika, the marbling of pepper, the deep violet of saffron. The vibrant colors and complex textures. The feeling of eternity in every small grain of spice. The sunsets he would see from the top of a mountain, reflecting back the same colors he saw in his spices. The oranges and reds and purples. In a completely different yet eerily similar vastness. Eternity in color and texture.
The taste, the taste was everything. The gin-like flavor of juniper. The fire of chilli peppers. The luxury of cumin. The tastes appeased the pallet and played with the mind. They spread throughout the body, filling it with something exciting, something amazing, something wonderful. They arouse the senses, and bring forth a hole other realm of life. The realm in which things are different.
He loved it, all of it. The smells, the sounds, the sights, the tastes... he wouldn’t trade his job for the world. He hadn’t always been a spice peddler. The zest of life hadn’t always flown through his veins. There was a time when his life had been as boring and repetitive as plain bowl of rice, with no change, no variation, just plain white boring grain after plain white boring grain. But that was a long time ago, before he found the wonders spice would bring to life….
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Sensory Heaven
Posted Aug 19, 2008
You're use of description and sensory details really immerses the reader the environment you're painting. The comparison of the merchant's spices to his life was also very well done.
The beginning is plagued with spelling errors. Though minor mistakes, they are distracting. Also a bi... (
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