You can take any object and invest it with emotion through storytelling. But shoes can seem particularly poignant. Perhaps they stand as a symbol of that human desire to be somewhere else. Perhaps as a sign of growth and development; or perhaps, in isolation, the shoe is a sign of loss or death. “Unaccomodated man.”
Ernest Hemingway claimed his best story was written in only six words: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
My daughter Jessie took an early Sunday morning wander with her camera a few weeks ago. She photographed washed-up footwear on the Thames beaches. I love these pictures. Each one seems to invite a story, perhaps in six words, perhaps as a haiku, or whatever form suggests itself.
A prize for the best story contributed by the end of the month.
Not drowning. Just walking on riverbeds.
Walk don’t run.
Tired of my own shoes
I had thought I’d get across
Lost souls.
Single brown heel, seeks new adventure.
Footless by midnight, shoeless by dawn.
Robinson Crusoe, look harder next time.
Or possibly -
Footloose by night, shoeless by dawn
Forlorn. Was it that style? Maybe.
Or possibly -
legless by sundowners, lost by sunrise
‘Sole is a type of flatfish of varying families…’ Wikipedia
Or – Never, ever drink and dive
Terry; bookmaker.
Desmond; widower.
Carol; daughter.
A step too far this time.
Tried to be Jesus, but failed miserably.
He always had two left feet.
Two Souls
I was out at Porto once, in St John Street, Clerkenwell. It was on expenses as I was treating a film production company who had just given a talk at our place.
We had a boozy, noisy, enjoyable meal but I kept getting distracted by the couple at the next table.
They were old, but not yet senile. Married, but not to each other.
They talked in hushed whispers, you sensed that something wasn’t quite right. I strained hard to hear. I was desperate to know what was wrong. Curious about the scene unfolding right next to me. Maybe I could help in some way?
I got back into my table’s conversation. Something about a Director with a fondness for honey, but not on toast.
I glanced over. The man was distinguished-looking, famous maybe? But not particularly well-dressed. The woman was immaculately turned out, a former prize filly or perhaps a show pony, recently put out to grass – the glue factory just visible on the horizon, perched on the edge of a fragrant meadow.
He, on the other hand, wore battered old brown shoes. Cool specs, but definitely last year’s fashion, if not the year before – even a previous decade maybe?
He was eloquent, from what I could hear, but perhaps had fallen on hard times. But I noticed that he paid the bill. A gentleman of the old school variety. Actually, thinking about it, he was probably on good money, ran his own business, a graphic design agency perhaps, given where we were that night.
Yes definitely:
Good money – 2 women = 0 money.
They left and I returned to our conversation. Something about a Producer who thought safe-sex meant never giving your real name.
I paid and we got up to go and I noticed the old man had left something behind. The sole of his right shoe was still there on the floor of the expensive, fashionable restaurant.
‘He’s lost his soul’ I said to myself, then dismissed the thought for being too corny.
I thought of him walking home…
Not noticing at first, preoccupied with love’s faltering peculiarities. They kiss goodnight. A quick squeeze maybe and the stirring of something ancient down below. But nothing more. Not tonight at least.
She jumps in a cab, he waves goodbye. Heartfelt, but half-hearted. Wanders off, not paying attention, then turns back realising he’s headed in the wrong direction.
It starts to rain, softly at first, he feels the dampness seeping through up into his toes, then finally notices his right-shoe sole is missing.
He’s lost his sole someplace. He can’t think where. He stumbles home, finally unlocking the front door as quiet as a mouse, tempted by the cheese, caught in a trap…
Olivia Sprinkel writes
Burial
I toss my shoes through my hair.
No need for those, where I’m going, there.
I’m done with shoes, I’m barefoot free.
My toes expand and sink, sandily.
Morning: I return and scan the shore.
Premature – to think shoes needed no more.
Since then the tide has rolled in and out,
Sharpening shells to razors, cold as doubt.
I sit, sink, in wide horizon of sea.
Then waves leave a gift of shoes for me.
Blue flip-flops moulded for giant feet.
I dig. They are now buried six foot deep.
This was a tough decision so I handed it over to Jessie. After all, these were her pictures, so it’s best for her to choose the winner of the prize. And the prize is a beautiful print of one of the shoe pictures, to be chosen by the winner.
Jessie decided that the winner is Olivia Sprinkel for her poem Burial.
Well done, Olivia, and thanks everyone for your contributions. I enjoyed them all.
Nike, the goddess, feeling zealous: Smoked!!!