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FICTION | SHORT STORY
A Survivor’s Shoes
Fit for the occasion
My busted brown leather shoes show their age beside this sleek, polished pair. Their owner fits them well — dressed in full “slick”, if I can call it that. In fact, most of the people here look like they walked off a magazine cover.
I’ve never felt more out of place, but my worn shoes, simple slacks, and flannel button-down, they’re the best I’ve got for the occasion.
My thoughts are interrupted as we all bob up and down in unison while the bus drives over a bump in the road. There’s something unnerving about being stuck in a waiting room on wheels with a bunch of people you can’t relate to.
I scan the faces of those around, but only see the crowns of their neatly combed heads. Everyone is looking down at their shoes, probably comparing theirs to mine. Oh, but it would be vain to think they’re avoiding my gaze because of that. No, they are probably trying to gather themselves before the wheels stop rolling and we have to get off.
Light is sucked out of the bus as we enter a tunnel, a familiar one. Some call it the calm before the storm. To me, it’s a bit of time to reflect — a few moments of quiet that I’ve grown to appreciate. Because what’s coming is so loud, I won’t even be able to hear my own thoughts anymore.
