By Deenusha Baskaran

Jao and Oyang walked past the garden on their way home. The light of evening made it look like something from a dream, or a fantasy. The cherry blossoms were a light, creamy pink. Looking at them was not like looking at flowers, but more like looking at pillows and satin sheets. You didn't want to smell them or pluck them, but rather lie down and be enveloped in their welcoming softness. There were labrador violets just beginning to appear, and their whites and purples were striking but not garish, as if they were eager to fit in to the garden's calm mood.

He struck the hot sword with his hammer. The clang echoed all through his workshop, and escaped out his windows and onto the cobbled street outside. He imagined that the sound could travel all the way to the edges of his city. He hoped that to fellow citizens who didn't know him and didn't know his work, the sound of his shop might be like a church bell, friendly, inviting, uniting, and galvanizing.