A cold draft hugged my form as I made my way to the door. The house was wiped clean. Even the spare toothbrush he used to use, gone.
I watched him drive away, more bemused than saddened. I would have given him everything.
But Andreas only ever wanted my shoes.
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
Every night the elves secretly finished the cobbler’s work.
The intricate yet sturdy shoes became very popular.
The king heard about this and the cobbler was called to the castle to make royal shoes.
Unfortunately he didn’t know how to prepare that style himself.
In the end he was beheaded.
This story came to Rammy in his three-quarter sleep.
There was a man at the corner with one third of a hat and half a pair of shoes. I offered him my boots. He sold them to a homeless guy for ten bucks and gave the money to a woman at a bus stop.
I really liked those boots…
He stood there on the corner, with tattered hat and coat. His backpack overflowed with toys that he was handing out.
His shoes were only halfers: they covered just his heels. I offered mine, but he declined, ungrateful little eel.
He made me feel guilty, and guilt is not genteel.
This story, and the supplementary poem, were inspired by a title suggested by @hexapodium.