Creative Writing

The morning air was crisp and the town was covered in a light fog. The tall peaks of sandy coloured brick buildings peaked above the layer of murk. Small blue prayer flags connected the rooftops. The tree branches danced in the wind, as little green leaves gently fell to the ground. Workers covered by colourful tents lined the wide streets; selling freshly baked bread; handmade goods; and just about any trinket you could think of. 

Chanting and shouting could be heard coming from the sellers. “Fresh bread!” yelled the bakery owner. “Fresh bread for sale! Fresh bread!” Occasionally people would pop in and out of the vibrant tents, leaving with their bags full of goods.  By the end of the day the sellers' tents would be empty, left with nothing but a couple of knick-knacks. The streets were full of life; music played; kids played; and people shared morning coffees. Beautiful. It was easy to be whisked away into the buzzing electricity of the crowd. The town was one of a kind, like a handmade pot, not perfect, but to its possessor, splendid. Today the town was beautiful, and tomorrow it would be just as spectacular.