A Small Sparkly Shoe
Today’s post was inspired by something I recently observed in my day-to-day life that reminded me of a piece of flash fiction Hemingway presumably wrote once. What does it make you think of?
I am lucky enough to live in a place where there are plenty of outdoor trails and walking paths. But the housing development I live in still has sidewalks near busier roads that lead in and out of various neighborhoods interspersed with those trails and walking paths.
Well, one day in early November my husband and I were walking our dog along one of the busier main roads when we noticed a pair of small sparkly shoes hanging from a branch on a tree near the road.
The small sparkly shoes were impossible to miss. They were a shimmery metallic blue hue with an equally shimmery pink bow and heel and had those straps that shoes for smaller children aged anywhere from five to eight years typically have, to try and keep little feet from going wild I assume.
When we saw the shoes that day, they looked brand new, and there were still two of them. I assumed they were part of a little girl’s princess Halloween costume given the timing of our discovery. I even joked that the unknown girl probably threw them off while walking home, after securing loads of candy from trick-or-treating, learning at a young age how torturous heeled shoes can be.
I figured a neighbor noticed the small sparkly shoes strewn on the ground the next morning, and seeing how pristine they were, hung them on a branch so their owner could easily find the shoes later if they came back. But the shoes’ owner didn’t come back.
As the days and weeks went by, no one claimed the small sparkly shoes. They remained hanging from the branch for weeks that turned into months. They endured rainstorms and snowstorms and scorching UV rays. And no one ever came to claim them.
So, each time I passed the shoes, two or three times a week, the story I wrote in my head about them and how they got there started rewriting itself.
At first, I thought seeing them was funny, assuming the shoes were discarded because they were a nuisance, and having served their costume function, suddenly unnecessary.
The next few times I passed the small sparkly shoes, however, I started wondering why the girl would be walking next to such a busy yet poorly lit road at night in the first place, even if it was Halloween, as there was no direct access to any houses’ front doors nearby. And if she lived in a nearby neighborhood, surely her guardians would have driven to this neighborhood to trick-or-treat instead of making her walk, right? So, did that mean she had been alone when her shoes were discarded or lost?
Then I started imagining the unknown girl being in a car and throwing the small sparkly shoes out a window in broad daylight, which I also found amusing— though I would never condone littering, of course.
So, perhaps the shoes hadn’t been part of a Halloween costume after all, but had been worn to church or a fancy dinner?
Or maybe the girl had insisted on wearing the sparkly shoes for a walk with her parents one day, inevitably regretting her decision.
Still, how had the adults with her not noticed her taking the sparkly shoes off and throwing them on the ground? Not that this scenario would be impossible to imagine. But if what I was imagining was similar to what really happened, how had they not noticed her bare feet, assuming she had been wearing the sparkly shoes at the time?
Eventually I had to force myself to stop rewriting the story behind the small sparkly shoes in my head when I passed them, especially when it would sway in much darker directions, as I do live in one of the safest towns in America and haven’t heard any stories about a local child being abducted or going missing.
Nevertheless, as the small sparkly shoes became more weathered, thanks to the elements, it was getting harder and harder not to come up with sad stories about them, as they were physically starting to look sadder and more worn, but not in the way they should have been worn.
Then, yesterday, I saw only one of the shoes on the branch— its mate was now missing, leaving no trace of where it had gone, why, or how.
There had been wild wind the day before, but it was highly unlikely the wind was the culprit behind the shoe’s sudden disappearance. If it were, wouldn’t both shoes be gone then, not just one? How their straps kept them hanging from the branch would have also prevented them from flying away, right? There have also been plenty of windy days over the past couple months, yet the shoes always remained together.
So, what happened then?
When I took a closer look at the shoe left behind, I saw how dingy and dirty it had become. Usually, everyday inanimate objects don’t make me sad … or feel anything else for that matter. But this small, lonely, dirty, once-sparkly shoe, hanging on a branch all alone, a week away from Christmas, did make me sad, and compelled me to continue rewriting the story I had in my head about it again, for better or worse.
This whole experience inevitably reminded me of a famous piece of extreme flash fiction Ernest Hemingway presumably wrote for a contest once: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
Have you ever had a similar experience to the one I just described?
What kind of story would an experience like this inspire you to write?
© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.
Want to express your appreciation for this post?
My writing and I are fueled by loyal readers, caffeine, and kind words. And I appreciate any support you can offer that keeps me writing. Thank you so much!
