Shoes

This is a random very short story i wrote for a friend, to help her with her end of year project (called Culminating). She gave me the prompt of: "A red Converse is sitting in the middle of the road." This is what I did with it. (ps: everything below is copyrighted by me.)
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Shoes. Nobody sees them, not really. Oh, they’re pretty, they’re fashionable, they’re practical, but no one looks at a shoe and sees—a shoe. It’s a work of art, a fashion statement, a block of practicality, but it’s not a shoe. Never just a shoe.

Look at my shoes. Can you see them? Can you really see them? You think you can, but you can’t, not really. Neither can I. It’s society that’s doing this to us, conditioning us to see something as strange as an artificial hoof as ordinary, normal, expected, even. But I’ve been watching them. Watching the shoes. And I’ve noticed something. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. Look at mine. Black sneakers. Streamlined, not blocky. Running shoes. Hiding shoes. Tells you who I really am.

Look at yours. Converse. Red. Worn, yet unscuffed. Wearing them to be part of the cool crowd. Wearing them to fit in and yet expecting to stand out. The red, you see. Thin soles. For walking, not running. For inside, not outside. And skinny skinny shoes. Your feet can be what you want to be.

I never expected it to be so easy. To learn, I mean, to learn to single them out, the people like you. Expected there to be outliers, people wearing shoes they’re not used to, wearing new shoes, old shoes, shoes they don’t want to wear. But it’s easy to tell those apart, easy to single you out.

Shoes say so much about you because you don’t think about them, not really. You buy them because you like their look, their meaning. Because they speak to you. You wear them without thinking, because you have to, because it’s what society expects of you. Maybe you match them to your outfit. Maybe you don’t. I watch and I watch and I notice these things but no one ever notices me. Just another wallflower. Just another fly on the wall. So don’t think I’m going to get caught. Don’t think I’m going to be stopped. The police won’t even notice me. Won’t even look twice. Look at their shoes. Have you seen them? Shiny and formal, from a decade past. Not for running. Not for hiding. For flashing around and looking official. Men like that won’t ever find me.

Can you take your shoe off for me? It’s easier when you do it. No? Alright. Any words? Well, that’s not terribly polite. Are you sure—okay. Okay. I get it. Sit still and close your eyes, if you want to. It’s a little bit frightening. Or so I’ve been told.

There was a red Converse sitting in the middle of the road.