The Left Shoe

By Taylor Huff


The shoe is on the other foot now... A concave curvature indents the right side, and waves of blackness adorn the foot ware. Slightly dusty, the old shoe sputters indignantly as it is forced to bend and stretch, being examined by calculating eyes... The eyes take in every detail, the inky void, the small highlights of white on an expanse of black, and the battered and bitter piece, of the sole...

This shoe is different; its uniqueness is not lost to the eyes. Even with its less special complement, the shoe has its own tales of trials; it has been many places, seen and done many, many things. More so than the right shoe, the left shoe, it speaks...

The left shoe spins glorious tales, battles fought, and battles lost. Its laces have been replaced on more than one occasion... It has been through hell, and it has yet to find its heaven. The right shoe could go on and on about the hardships it has faced, but the left... it suffers in near silence.

Good cloth, and expertly woven laces adorn the left shoe; it bears its scars with pride. Narrowly avoiding a puddle, and hitting the freedom of soft grass, the left shoe has what it takes to survive. The right shoe may be tired, but the left.. It has paid for life in tears...

The left shoe is no pushover, it can accomplish many things. It aids its wielder in running, and bears the tough terrain without complain. It's proud to be the jack of all trades; the tennis shoe.

While the right shoe may argue to be taken off, the left does no such thing. It knows the wielder, and his eyes show no mercy. It could be a few minutes, or a few hours until he is released from duty. The clock ticks, but mere seconds will not sway the left shoe. It is patient, and will work... Right down to the end.


Author's Note: A challenging prompt posed by an awesome English professor.