We know what it feels like to be human and write from the perspective of a human. But, what does it feel like to be a shoe or a pencil or a dictionary? And, why should we even try to write from the perspective of a shoe?
Write from the perspective of a shoe. Illustration by Pamela Hodges.
What does a shoe think? Do they prefer walking on grass? Does the shoe wish the person wearing them would change their socks more often?
What does a pencil feel like? Are they sad, or scared, to be sharpened?
Would your New College Edition of the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language cry at night because you used the on-line dictionary instead of them?
What is the difference between Point of View and Perspective?
The point of view in a story, according to Joe Bunting's Point of View in Writing article, is “the narrator’s position in the description of events.”
(Seriously, if you want to know everything there is to know about Point Of View, or POV, read Joe's article. He even told us the Latin word Point of View came from.)
Here is how I describe Point of View, or POV:
- First Person Point of View; “I am so sick. I want to barf.” As in what I see, hear and feel. (I, me, my)
- Second Person Point of View; “You look really sick. Please don't barf on your shoe.” (You, your)
- Third-person Point of View, Limited; “He looks really sick, He looks like he is going to barf on his shoe.” (He, she, her, his)
- Third-person Point of View, Omniscient; “He looks sick. He looks like he is going to barf on his shoe.” “She looks really sick too. She looks like she is going to barf on her shoe.” The narrator still uses “he” and “she”, but they are all-knowing and seeing. I wonder if the Omniscient narrator knows what everyone ate that is making them so sick? And I wonder how the shoe feels when someone barfs on them?
Perspective, on the other hand, is all about the person's—or shoe's or pencil's—background knowledge and experiences.
A person's experience changes how they respond to life.
A senior citizen who has lived through war and famine will look at the world differently from a child who has never known war or lack of food.
“For what you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing: it also depends on what sort of person you are.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew
Or, C.S. Lewis, what sort of shoe you are. A hiking boot would have a different perspective than a sneaker or a shoe with a high heel. Also, a pencil or a shoe will have a limited knowledge of the world, as they have not had the same experiences as a person who has had a chance to eat hamburgers.
However, a pencil will have a deep knowledge about what it is like to be inside of a pencil sharpener, and a stuffed cat will know what it feels like to go through a sewing machine.
The Synonyms of “Perspective”
Another way to understand perspective is to look at the synonyms of the word: angle, eye view, outlook, shoes, slant, standpoint, vantage point, and viewpoint.
Please excuse me for a minute, my New College Edition of the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language is crying, because I got the list of synonyms for the word perspective from the on-line Merriam-Webster Thesarus.
Write From The Perspective of a Shoe
Writing from the perspective of a shoe will help you think about the world view of something else other than yourself. Unless, of course, you are a shoe. So, if you are a shoe, please forgive me for assuming you are not a writer.
Here is a list of inanimate objects. Cut up the list and pick one of them. Then write from their perspective. If you don't like my list, please choose your own inanimate object:
Harper is helping me paint the shoe.
Shoe
Pencil
Dictionary
Stuffed Cats
Egg
Toaster
Felt Pen
Chair
Table
Rock
Bacon
Box
Rug
Jeans
Flower
Flour
Inanimate vs. Animate Perspectives
And, just so my dictionary doesn't keep me awake all night crying. I will look up two words in my New College Edition of the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language instead of on-line: Animate and Inanimate.
The first word is on page 52, second column, twelve down from the top. Animate: Possessing life; living.
The second word is on page 663, second column, twelve down from the top. Inanimate: Not animate; not having the qualities associated with active, living organisms.
So, now you know the difference between animate and inanimate. If your object has a heartbeat, it is animate. So please choose again. If your shoe has a heartbeat—run! You might be in The Twilight Zone.
p.s. These stuffed cats are going into the mail tomorrow. They were hand-made for a friend's sons. But, they don't have names or a story. What would you name them?
Have you ever written from the perspective of a shoe? Or, are you a shoe? Let me know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Choose one of the words from the list, or choose another inanimate object. Write a story from the perspective of the inanimate object for fifteen minutes. Then please share your story in the comments.
Your object can be in a real-life drama. They may want something, and struggle to overcome conflict. A story without conflict is boring. I don’t want to read about how someone has it all together, even if they are a shoe.
If you are a shoe. Please forgive me for assuming you are not a writer. Please choose something from the list that is not a shoe.
xo
Pamela (p.s. I am a human. Not a shoe.)
Thank you. I like the illustration of the shoe.
Thank you LaCresha,
Smile
xo
Pamela
I have taken the table as an illustration. I guess one would develop the perspective by looking at the table by getting into its own shoes!. Does it have to be in first person?
I have often wondered what my feelings would have been if I had been the table in my study room. A number of folders are neatly organised and kept every evening but by next morning everting is in chaos; papers fly here and there, telephones and laptops sit on me; and loud shouts sometimes disturb the peace of the entire neighbourhood. Plates clatter with food around the mealtime and it looks as though this table-I -have no specific service to offer. I thought I would be the main platform for use of encyclopaedias, great journals and books, that would inform and inspire people to great heights of endeavour. I am not and I am sorely disappointed!
Kcrrajy,
The table really does sound disappointed. How sad, to want a life to inform and inspire, and then only be used for storage and food.
You can write from any point of view.
I really felt like I knew your table.
xo
Pamela
Many thanks,Pamela
K C R Raja
A couple of years ago I was staying overnight back in North Carolina with my Mom in ICU after she had just had emergency surgery. I was not able to sleep so I started writing to download thoughts from my head. I was lying on one of the uncomfortable recliners. I wrote a bit about the pillow my head was lying on — what if it could talk — just imagine all of the tears of joy and sadness it had absorbed over the years . . . what a conversationalist the pillow would be!!
Okie, this is great, especially—-If there was a conversation. what if the recliner could talk?
Hey, you may be on to something there!! Hmmmm, I will have to work on that. Sorry for the long time in replying. I forget that someone may actually read and reply to one of my posts — still not used to that yet. I keep forgetting to check back.
Hello OkieWriter,
Yes, I can imagine the stories the pillow would tell as well. Stories of love and sadness and joy.
I hope your mother is well. Do you still have the story you wrote about the pillow?
A good idea to write to clarify your thoughts.
I wish you well.
xo
Pamela
I only have one purpose in life and that in itself is satisfying to me. I’m not constantly having to decide whether to be a blender or a coffee pot or a microwave, or what kind of food to prepare at any given moment. I am a toaster. My name suggests that I toast, and toast suggests that bread is the food I alter for your enjoyment.
I can take fresh slices of bread of any kind and turn them into crispy, crunchy slices of heaven. But don’t leave the slices inside too long because I have a forgetful nature and I’ll keep on toasting until there is nothing left but black slabs that look like roof shingles.
I like being on the counter in full view, it is my favorite place to be. I can survey the kitchen and everyone who comes and goes from all directions. When you wipe me down I gleam and shine and make everything else in your kitchen look second hand. I am art work in your kitchen. I do have one pet peeve, however, and that is when you forget to clean out the crumbs. Don’t groan, now, but that’s rather crumby of you, don’t you think? If you pick me up to move me, I have a little accident and spill tiny bits of bread across the counter and maybe even on the floor. A little maintenance every day
after you enjoy your toast would go a long way and prevent embarrassing moments,
just like when you take time to remove the lint from the dryer.
Oh yes, the dryer and I exchange information, we have a lot to say and we do talk to each other even though in different rooms. Don’t think you are the only one that gets to converse with your appliances. We observe, take notes, compare, just like you do.
And for the record, toasters are by far the superior appliance. Can you think of any other kitchen aid that has its own movie? I cried through Brave Little Toaster and cheered him at the end. Who knows? Maybe I have a future career in show business too.
But for now I will content myself with sitting on your counter and toasting your bread, and maybe your bagel if you should happen to have one. Fame and bright lights are not for me, but I do enjoy being the star in your kitchen.
Jay, a very imaginable story. Great! KEn
thank you Kenneth!
This made me smile a lot. So simple and fun! My favorite line (of course): Don’t groan, now, but that’s rather crumby of you, don’t you think?
thanks Holli! I had fun writing it
Jay,
Or dear little toaster. I feel like I know you very well. It is very good you live with Jay and not me, as I like to keep the toaster under the counter.
You lead an exciting life. I wish you all my best little toaster. I hope Jay keeps the crumbs out. And may you always have power to toast.
xo
Pamela
i enjoyed this exercise very much, Pam
I am a right foot shoe. My name is Cecilia. My twin is the left foot shoe. Her name is Betty Jane. She’s luckier than I am. The foot that slides into her are usually some female that has toe nail polished, which seems to have a scent of banana. Her feet is clean, she tells me that the girl does not have one of those toes where the person does not cut their toe nails. I, on the other hand, have to suffer because, not only am I the right foot, but she and the other girl take turns wearing us. The other girl sticks her discussing foot inside so fast and she knows that the dam foot is too big. Her feet are gigantic, wide, and I feel as though her big foot and toe is trying to penetrate me. I won’t say the rest. Her foot smells atrocious. The scent of a rotten onion and a cooked lamb chop. However, I can’t really complain. Betty Jane and I are the same size and color. We are brown, four feet high and, before I forget. We are high top boot shoes. The front of us looks like one of those sliding boards that kids slide down at a park. I which that I can change places with Betty Jane. I doubt it. The reality is that maybe, just maybe LuLu might lose her foot and somebody else can easily slide their foot in? There’s terrible to say. I might get a foot that smells so bad, I might be ruined. KEN Hi Pamela, great seeing you again.
Hey Ken,
Thank you for reading and writing a story. There is a lot of drama between your shoes. I hope they can resolve their conflict.
Hopefully Cecilia and Betty Jane won”t get anymore smelly feet.
xo
Pamela
Have always loved this kind of writing activity. Works brilliantly in classrooms, especially if you bring some objects with you.
Hello June,
Oh, what a good idea, to bring objects to class. I hadn’t thought about doing this in a classroom. It would be fun to read all of the students stories.
xo
Pamela
I have chosen the stuffed cat, who comes to life only when she is with me. She spends her days looking out the windows as the squirrels feed on popcorn, pistachio nuts, and peanuts. My cat has a name and it is “Sammie”, and Sammie is mute but I hear her melodious tones when she speaks only to me. She spends her days sleeping, listening to guitar music and helping me cook, clean and write on my computer. In other words, she shadows me around the house. When and if the doorbell should ring, Sammie runs up to her perch sits up high and goes back to being inanimate. I know that she will come back to me when I envision her alive. I know that alive is an illusion and I treasure every moment when she is breathing and purring next to me. When Sammie comes back to being animate, I know that I can be with her or be inanimate too.
Hello Mariel,
Your stuffed cat really did come alive in your story. How fun to have a stuffed cat to keep you company. Or do you become inanimate too and become a stuffed person.
Very fun.
xo
Pamela
I’ve only just seen the golden sky and, my goodness, what a
glory. I want to reach higher and touch that
bright spot right in the middle! I haven’t quite got these petals untangled
yet. It’s so hard to pull them out of
their snuggly place, but I have to do it. No way can I touch where the warmth
is coming from with the tip of my bud.
But hey, what is that? That
noise? Here it comes! YIKES!
Ooooh shit, that hurt.
My head’s lying over there. Looks
like I’ll have to pull up another one.
But I can do that because I’ve still got my roots, and they’ll send up
the nutrients I need. Just give me a
couple of days.
Just about. Just
about….YES, I see the sky again, but this morning it’s so blue, so bright, so
full of possibilities. And I feel the
warmth, but I can’t make out the center of it.
Wait a minute, wait a minute…. Yes, I can see IT is trying to find ME. Just over the roof of that house across the
street. Here it comes! A little more! It makes it so much easier to stretch
out! I think I’ll just pop out all the
petals. That will be fun, to let them
all feel the pull at one time. It’s so
hard…mmmm…uhhhh…UNH! Oh, so much better
now.
Hey! Where’d that big
yellow warm thing go? That’s okay. I’ve got other stuff to do now. All the energy that came my way. I’ll just use that to turn some more of these
nutrients from my roots into another head.
Somehow, I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need it. Hey, what’s that sound?
This is great! Love your perspective!
Thanks Holli. That was a fun exercise!
I’m picturing a rose – great stuff
Yeah, the rose works with the tip of the bud, but not really with a dandelion which is what came to me after the bud part. Fifteen minutes is not enough to straighten out that kind of stuff! But thanks for your encouragement!
Yeah. We chop them off whenever possible, too. Or the kiddies pick them. 🙂
Yep. I had dandelions in mind, but there wasn’t enough time to go all the way to blowing away the whirlybird seeds, which is what I LOVED to do as a child.
Marla,
I really laughed out loud.
“Ooooh shit, that hurt. My head’s lying over there.”
Oh my. This was so real. I was really rooting for the flower to get to enjoy one more day of sunshine.
Totally felt like a plant talking.
xo
Pamela
Rooting for the flower? I see what you did there, Pam!
I am offended at how you assume everyone reading this article is a writer, and not a shoe, as if the two are mutually exclusive. I have to spend my life scraping along in the dirt and the muck, wrapped around a sweaty, bulging foot, and now you presume that I have nothing valuable to contribute to the world of literature? People look down on me enough already without articles like this further worsening my position. I was able to catch a glimpse of this post as my sloppy wearer propped his feet up on the desk, and I was so incensed that I waited patiently on the floor (of course, the floor, next to all the dust bunnies who are not as cute as their name implies) until the cat walked by and began swatting at my laces. I convinced him to type my response for me, as I do not have paws, or hands, or fingers. However, the inability to express my thoughts as people or bribed cats do does not mean I do not have thoughts! Perhaps I will share these thoughts with you another day; as for now, cats do not have a long enough attention span to write such a lengthy response, and I do not feel like gracing you with me masterful observations after reading such an insensitive article.
Please think next time before you post.
Sincerely,
Flip Flops, Nike, 2012 series.
Oh Kath,
You had me worried in the first sentence, until I realized you were a shoe. Yes, I will think next time before I post.
It is so fortunate the wearer of the flip flop put their feet on the desk so you could read the insensitive article.
All my best,
xo
Pamela, wearing black Converse
A wonderfully assertive pair, this one.
Me, with feet in the nuuuuuuudddee!
I have nothing helpful to contribute but this story made me smile. 🙂
Didn’t really get a solid ending in my 15 minutes, but I enjoyed this!
It’s 8:32 a.m. marking the 7th time I’ve been walked in
today by feet that don’t belong. I don’t mind, though and in some ways prefer
these little feet to the ones of my true owner. They are softer and have a fresh, youthful scent.
I don’t know exactly who this culprit is, but he’s given me
more use than my owner ever has. From what I can tell, he’s her offspring, and
he thinks wearing his mom’s shoes is simply the greatest. I see him stumbling
around in all sorts of misfitted footwear, but he’s most attracted to me.
I am the sparkly pair of silver flats that fit in best at a
New Year’s Eve party. I’m beautiful, shiny, quite the statement piece, but
that’s just the problem, isn’t it? I don’t “go.” I’m not your
everyday, jeans and a t-shirt kind of accessory. Oh God, though, don’t even get
me started on those raggedy things that this woman considers daily wear. Good
God, they are all falling apart.
And sure, sure. I might be falling apart to if there was use
for me more than once–maybe twice–a year. Instead, I’m pushed to the back of
the closet, a place that’s honestly too good even for those pieces she thinks
deserve a daily outing.
I’ve belonged to this woman for at least three years, and
lately I’ve really been in a bad state. I remember the day she tried me on, a
perfect fit. I was light as air knowing I would get a home. But I saw way more
action in that wretched shoe department than I’ve ever had in this closet.
So when this little person came along and picked me, I was
really taken aback. I mean, thinking about it, of course it makes sense he
would choose me, the shiniest shoe around. Little people like shiny objects from
what I hear, but I had been so down I forgot I even had a sparkle to me.
Now everyday this little guy comes and tries me on, and of
course, his feet are miles too small. It’s so funny, though. He puts me on
anyway and slides across the floor and his mom laughs and he giggles.
good job, I can see this child stumbling around in his mother’s glittery heels.
Thank you!
Hello Holli,
Your shoes are sparkly and full of personality. I am delighted the shoes are getting out of the back of the closet and being worn. Laughter and giggles is a good way to spend the day.
xo
Pamela
Thank you Pamela! Means a lot coming from the author of such a fun post 🙂
A prettily shiny pair you have there!
This was cute and silly just like childhood. Thanks for the trip to the shoe closet.
Thank you!
I get a lot of time to think these days, about how things
have changed over the years. Take my
life for instance (if you can call it a life) I used to feel useful and be
busy, but not now. These days I spend
most of time folded up, out of sight, of little use to anyone. Once or twice a month, she might drag me out,
painfully unfolding my legs after long periods of inaction. My clothing is dirty, full of holes and coated
with dust. I can’t remember how long it
is since she bought me anything new to wear.
Once upon a time, she used me to make pretty things prettier, smart
things smarter and functional things more functional. I was a necessary part of her daily life but
now I’m just a sometime thing. Today’s
generation don’t need me; her daughter never uses one of my kind and her grandchildren
probably don’t even know what I am. I
guess I should think myself lucky that I’m in use at all.
But
wait a minute, what’s this? Ah bless her
cotton socks; she’s bought me a new outfit, a shiny new, fully padded heat
resistant cover. At last, I feel
appreciated.
Hmmm Noreen,
You left many clues. Painfully unfolding my legs, would make you a table. And how sad no one uses you anymore.
A card table?
Your writing really made me identify with your object. Was I right?
xo
Pamela
Good guess Pamela – but not right. An ironing board
Great exercise Pamela
Thank you Norren, I am glad you liked it.
xo
Pamela
A shoe? Ah yes! It happened one day that I watched a short clip of Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers dancing and I thought seriously about her poor shoes. She probably danced on tip-toes as much as possible, but those heels really took a beating. What tales her shoe could tell!
Being miserably practical, I wondered just how many heels she broke in the course of filming that scene. The producers probably bought them in cartons of 50 pair for each movie. I also thought about all the energy she expended whirling around — and had to sigh. What a waste! If I had that much energy I could spade up my whole garden.
On a more useful vein, I wonder just how a person would do a second person narrative. Really? If I narrated your story, I could say “You heard your alarm ring and you got up, you ate breakfast and headed for the office,” but all I’m doing is giving an “omniscient narrator” POV, am I not?
As to your cats, you could keep it simple and go with Bink & Boink. Or you could be exotic and go with Tiddlywinks and Sassyfrass. 🙂
Love your reflection on Ginger Roger’s shoes AND your two suggestions for cat names!
THE SOLEFUL CRY
Well, I really don’t know what to say. My companion and I have such a history with your feet… we have held, no, embraced your feet through wet and dry, weather and sweat, cheese and fungus, tar and tiles… After all of these months of giving your right foot such high quality coverage, I still get so excited at the feel of your foot… slipping… in… all the way in me. You really do fill me.
Right up.
Oh, how I live to feel your twisting enormity invading me… puffing me up ’til my seams feel as if they are about to burst. Toes hard against toes, heel against heel; the warmth, the pressure, the redolent aroma on balmy summer days…
I know that through our devotions, we are both coming apart at the seams, that my companion is giving you bunions, but our leather is patented to hug and cuddle; to spoon your size-10 not-so-dainties, and all we have ever asked for in return is that you polish us every so often and keep us filled and fulfilled with your great, big, manly feet…
That first time you ever wore us, in the shoe store… you did notice that we didn’t even need the help of any interloping shoe horn, right?
And yet here we are, back in that same shoe store, and what are you looking at? What are you doing with us?
Is that how it is to be? Are we to be discarded? Thrown away like garbage? Replaced by a new pair that are a little bit shinier, a little bit tighter, a little bit lacier?
Now we are on the floor, you trying on those brown floozy brogues… The tramps! They don’t even look right on you. Oh, I thought you preferred black! Do I really know you so poorly? Oh, no, they are sooooo uglyyyyy…
Please, dar… my darling, d…don’t leave us behind, languishing longingly in the bottom of some dark wardrobe somewhere, dust bunnies and banishment our only nourishment.
The thought that never again shall I feel your foot wriggle inside me again; that my tongue may never taste ankle as it rides up another one of your cotton socks, the perfumed garden of freshly moistened athlete’s foot… it drives me wild.
I know we are only shoes to you, but to we, your comfort and your feet are our whole purpose.
So if you must be a heel, leave us here… just leave us. No ‘goodbyes’, no false promises. Go on, having had your way with us, throw us away. Dispose of us.
Yeah, that’s right, just put those ugly hussies on, walk away to the store clerk… Abandon us here with strangers.
But remember that we all do have soles, you know.
I think if I had more than 15 minutes, I would add an orgasm or two.
LOL!
I absolutely love this!!
Thank you! I loved putting it together. It almost wrote itself.
Ha – this is great. I don’t trust brown brogues either.
Yes, they are cheap and they are tarty!
Love the passion.
And “…we all do have soles you know” — clever
Thank you.
How fitting.
I enjoyed your story and the flow of words as related from the shoes POV. I’m sure old shoes feel sad when they’re discarded. I would, if I was a shoe. And suppose I had a hole in my sole? Frightening!
Thank you for your kind comments.
A hole in one’s sole would make a really great premise for a horror story!
I love horror stories, if they’re not too scary, to read and write.
I write horror, SF and fantasy. For me, the scarier the better.
Where did you publish?
To date, I only have non-fiction publishing credits, in mostly small press operations here in Australia.
Well, great! Horror is always fiction, I think, built on imagination.
I love using my imagination and speculative fiction allows one to really fly.
I agree. ‘Ever let the fancy roam…’.
Reading this article, I just slopped tea onto my rug, and voila! Inspiration.
That’s right. Just walk all over me. Oh, you’re just nipping to get your phone from the kitchen? No point taking your shoes off, right? Don’t mind me. I love to be walked all over by those clumpy boots you think look ‘cute’. I especially love it when you haven’t brushed off the dried mud from the last time you went out. Dried mud goes really well with the black ink which you spilled on me during your calligraphy phase. I know you did your best with warm water and soap, but that was always going to stain. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t get me dry-cleaned. Oh no. You just turned me around and covered up the stain with the coffee table. Don’t get me started on the coffee table. When you’re home alone, you never eat at the kitchen table. The poor thing must be wondering what it did wrong to be so abandoned. No, you eat on the sofa, hunched over your laptop. But you don’t forgot about me. Oh no, you make sure that I get a good sprinkling of whatever you’re eating for dinner. Once you even gave me a whole bowl of chicken soup. I know, I know, you halfheartedly dab at the stains and push the hoover around now and again. Hey, I appreciate it. But would it kill you to have a little more consideration? I may be inanimate but I do have feelings.
Love the voice in this – I could totally see a rug getting snippy after years of being (literally) tread on. If any objects we own deserve to be jaded it is almost certainly rugs/carpets/etc.
Thanks! My poor rug has been through a lot.
Got a chuckle out of this – and a memory. When I taught art in elementary school, I had students draw a scene from the perspectife of their shoe. Never though of doing it with words. It would have made an excellent counter part to the shoe perspective pictures.
Nice! Love that spark of the past that shows up, and that you got a chuckle.
Yup … Writing across the curriculum would have been covered by this one. : )
I wonder what time it is. It’s hard to tell anything really when you’re stuffed in a bag for days on end. I know, I know, I should probably be more respectful to said bag, she must have a name. But I don’t know it and I am done caring about good manners. Besides, we were never really introduced. I was just stuffed into her and we both just sort of stared at each other. We missed our window, it would be weird speaking now.
I hadn’t always been hidden away though. There were the good days in the beginning when she would get me out of the bag and fill me up to the brim with wonderful warm water and refill me the whole day. On even better days, she would fill me up with cold refreshing juice! No one else had anything like me standing on their desks, a fact I could tell pleased her very much. Now all she does is talk to her friends about the benefits of drinking water! Talk about how she couldn’t go anywhere without me because she wouldn’t be able to function without drinking! Liar! I don’t even remember the last time she had me washed! No wonder no one else in the bag will speak to me! I stink!
Or could it be that there’s someone else? One of those annoying glasses I used to see everyone else use! But she could never do that, right? A glass? How conformist?
Something’s happening. Ouch! Someone’s moving the bag around carelessly. I feel clammy fingers on me and before I can protest, I am in what I imagine is the trash bin!! She’s getting rid of me! Didn’t even do the honorable thing and recycle me! You think you know a girl!
Great excercise, Pamela. Thank you! I’ll give it a go when I’ve got a little more time.
This was great fun.
Oh,no. Here she comes. I hope she doesn’t want to write something on that disgusting paper. It is sticky. And it grates my point down to the wood.
How am I supposed to make pretty letters when my point is dull? If she would just take the time to roll me around on something rough after than nasty, sticky paper, I wouldn’t be so dull. I wouldn’t drag all the dust home.
And speaking of being dull. Do you KNOW what it feels like to have part of you sheared off so the rest of you can show? So you can have a point and make lovely smooth letters on the linen paper? Well, it feels like having your bath: a little scary sometimes, but when it’s done, you feel clean and ready for a new page.
Here we go. She looks ready to write.
The paper. Ick. Icky, sticky tape. I loathe that stuff. Sticky paper. Five hundred words on sticky paper. What do they do with this stuff? Put it on the wall? It isn’t all sticky, just the top of each page, but she doesn’t clean me after each sticky part. Ugh. My letters get smushy. And now back to the jar.
Wait. What is that? A sharpener. A clean point. Oh, joy. Thank you for the bath.
My owner, Emily Richards, put me in her special wardrobe along with expensive skirts, blouses and evening gowns, mostly of fine silk. We graced her feet years back when she and her husband attended parties and other entertainments.
We enjoyed those outings, especially when she danced, and we faced a pair of elegant gent’s shoes; shiny patent leather, or soft suede.
Before I became a part of Emily’s shoe collection, I remember the day she and Mr. Richards entered the shoe botique in the heart of Milan.
I watched this rpretty, slim young woman enter, linking her husband’s arm.
“I’d like a pair of elegant but comfortable shoes for my wife,” he told the shop assistant.
“What size and colour?” the assistant asked.
Meanwhile Emily Richards was going around inspecting the shelves, and picking up shoes to examine it.
“Look, Harry, I’ve found the perfect pair,” she said, holding us out for him to see.
“Try them on, love,” he said. “The silver with embossed pink roses should match your dress.”
Wherewith the shop assistant guided Emily to a chair. She removed her shoes and slipped her small feet into us.
“They fit beautifully!” she exclaimed. “I’ll take them.”
“How much will that be?” Harry asked.
When the assistant quoted the price after looking at it on the side of the box, Harry thought they were expensive, but when the assistant said they were an exclusive pair by ‘Polli’, Harry made out the cheque. He knew that ‘Polli’ was famous for handmade exclusive footwear.
That was twenty years back. The Richards moved to the country. They do not attend elegant parties, and Emily did not wear us again.
She opens her special wardrobe to access her dresses and picks us up from time to time, runs her hand over us and says, “Such beautiful shoes! I suppose I’ll never wear them again because life has changed, and yet I can’t bear to give them away.”
Then she slips her feet in, hums a tune, takes a few dance steps and views us in the bedroom mirror. With a sigh she replaces us in her special wardrobe.
We shed a tear, for her and for us. i hope she doesn’t give us away and that one day we’ll grace her feet for a special occasion.
I wrote from the perspective of a coffee mug once – I was inspired by Stranger Than Fiction!
Okay, so there are a few things you should know about me:
1. Everyone just assumes I’m a diva because of the way I look, but I’m totally not. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to look good, you know?
2. I’m a twin.
But I guess that kind of comes naturally when you’re a shoe, right (how many shoes do you see running around as just a single unit)? I can still remember being nestled in the dark with my sister, amidst tissue paper and cardboard shoehorns. It was so quiet and cool, I thought we’d be there forever.
But then Katie came along.
We aren’t her usual choice of footwear – all the dirty, worn out sneakers, flip flops and hiking boots that surround us will attest to that. But she needed a good, solid -nice-looking- pair of high heels, so here we are. The first night, the hiking boots laughed at us and asked if we’d even seen a foot before (by the way, they are WAY more high drama than I am).
It’s true, Katie doesn’t wear us much. But the times she does, I’m always happy to oblige. Mostly she pulls us out when there’s an important person visiting in her office, or when she needs to impress for a date. Today, it’s the President of the company visiting. So out trot the pencil skirt, the cream ruffled top. She finishes slipping on a pair of diamante studs then reaches for us. I can feel the jealousy practically emanating off the sneakers, waves of heat that undoubtedly herald much henpecking upon our return. But I don’t care, because I get to spend the day with Katie.
I know I make her feet hurt but she knows I make her legs look fabulous, so I guess we’re sticking together.
Katie takes a step and I’m thinking it’s going to be an amazing day, when suddenly there’s a sharp cracking noise that fills the room and I hear Katie swear and I feel a sharp, sudden pain in my heel. Then nothing at all. I can feel panic dripping down my arch, a cold finger tracing its way down. Katie sat on the edge of her futon, slipping me off her foot to hold me up. I could see the broken remnant of my heel on the parquet just outside of the closet.
Panic grips me as Katie frowns, bending down to pick up my broken heel.
What happens to shoes that have a broken heel? What happens to HIGH HEELED SHOES that have a broken heel?
I can practically hear the flip flops chortling about it.
I know I’m bound for the garbage can, or maybe the donation bin (if I’m lucky). Hysteria washes over me. I can see the end now – a garbage bag, a dumpster, a landfill. My shiny synthetic leather finish will be pecked at by birds, exposed to the elements. Until I fade away to nothing.
That’s when a man none of us have ever seen before walks in, adjusting his tie. He frowns as Katie looks up at him, holding me out helplessly. He takes me from her and his hands are so much larger, and warmer. I hold my breath as he turns me over before taking my heel from Katie’s other hand and piecing me back together.
“I have some glue that will fix this,” his voice is deep and rich, but it’s the words that I sink into. Katie jumps up to hug him and I have to say, I’m not one of those hussy strappy shoes but I would hug him, too.
P…H…E…N…O…M…E…N…A….L…!!!!
Sorry I don’t have a lot of time to give specific feedback, but I’d be repeating your whole piece anyway! Love this. You carried me all the way through with endearing perspective and emotions. What a great attitude this shoe has, and thank goodness there’s a way to fix the heel.
Delightful! Thanks for sharing.
[swa]
Excellent!!!!!
The race is about to begin, the excitement palpable in the air. Despite this, I can only think about one daunting thought: this may be my last race…ever. The love for what I do mixed with the horrible fear of the end is indescribable, yet I will attempt to explain. I imagine that it is somewhat similar to how an empathetic stapler would feel; a constant desire to do what it was created to accomplish, yet feeling extreme guilt every time it pierces the surface of an innocent piece of paper.
“All right, guys, we will begin the essay writing portion of our exam in five minutes. Please have at least two pens on your desk, as you will be unable to retrieve a new one should the first run out of ink.” As I listen to this woman speaking, my ink begins to boil. How dare she say such a thing? Does she really expect that I won’t finish this race? The only thing that I can do is prove her wrong, and finish the best race of my life. These idiot teenagers actually think that they control what it written, and that we are simple writing utensils, but we are running the show. Their minuscule brains wouldn’t be able to produce half of the brilliant words that I stitch together – figuratively, of course. I wouldn’t want to take credit from the sewing needles. After all, I’ve never had a piece of paper complain after my work is done.
Suddenly, I’m upright, pressed against the paper, and I know that it is time. The teacher begins her ritual 10 second countdown, and my focus centres on the blank surface in front of me. As I begin to write, something feels off. I realize that I may not have as much time as I initially thought, my jet black ink lighter than usual. I continue on, paragraph after paragraph, and the words are getting fainter, the fear within me is getting more prominent. On the second page, a sequence of events begins that I thought would never happen to me. I am lifted up, shaken slightly, and pressed back on the page, scribbling slightly in the top left-hand corner. The only problem is that as I scribble, nothing is being produced. I am placed back on the desk, and replaced by that arrogant, pretentious writer Penny. As if this wasn’t bad enough, my worst fear ensues. I suddenly begin rolling, picking up speed as I head toward the cavernous gap between desks. Hoping that someone will grab me, I wish that my cap was put back on so that I wouldn’t be able to see what happens next. In moments, I feel myself falling to the blue and grey tiles, my life flashing before my eyes; late night term papers, birthday invitations, love notes. My life was not bleak, but it is sad to see it come to an end. As I clatter to the floor, I accept the harsh reality that I will never write again.
Really enjoyed this! Clever!
Thank you!
Oops, sorry Pamela! I posted this on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/A-Page-A-Day-Lets-all-write-just-one-page-a-day-103970129720405/ But I said “So much to learn from a GUY & his shoe.” So sorry. I guess it IS true: When you assume, you make an ASS out of U & ME!
BLOOM
Drop by drop, I swallowed the water. Slowly, slowly, it runs through my veins and I delighting in the moisture.
I turn at the warmth of the sun, until my petals begin to curl. My petals turn brighter, exposing my center that opens up rounder.
I hear the buzzing of the bee looking for a flower. The breeze carries my perfume and the bee comes to rest inside of me. I shiver at the sting and sense his nectarous delight. This is our dance.
Kiss me I am yours. They say you have a secret life, they say you might not come back.
I will die if you die, I will go where ever you go.
Sometimes I do, at least I try to use “the perspective of a shoe”. That’s a great advice it usually helps me a lot!
All women love shoes, ergo, I am loved. I come from a long line of Canadian footwear. Historically, I am an old-school shoe, a direct descendant of 17th century shoes cobbled
in Point-Levy, QC, where the first Canadian tannery was built. Back in the day, roughly 20 shoemakers served a population of just over 3,000 residents and a regiment of soldiers.
Shoemaking tools at the time included the awl, a curved knife, a needle and a wooden last. My owner has an awl for reasons I will never understand and she also has – hidden in the back of her closet – a shoemaker’s wooden last, a device shaped like a human foot and used to make or repair shoes. I have no idea why she keeps those things. She is a bit strange. She is also a shoe abuser.
I am part of a ragtag group of shoes and other footwear hiding in the innermost part of my owner’s closet. If I were a shirt, or a dress, or a sweater, or anything unrelated to feet or shoes, I would have pride of place in that closet. But I don’t. You should see how my owner worships her wardrobe, organizing her garments by colour, style, season, work clothes and leisurewear. Her felt hats are colour-coordinated with her outfits and have a shelf of their own. Her hand-painted silk scarves hang from a bronze scarf hanger. We don’t even warrant a shoe rack or a box. We’re just kicked to the back of the closet where the dust bunnies roll all over us. Is this fair? I mean, really!
You would cry if you could see the scuff marks on me. I’m a working shoe, mind you. But, still, a little respect would go a long way, don’t you think? So would a little shoe polish. One of my closet companions, a classy pump with a chipped heel tip, has been waiting a long time for needed repairs but she, too, is ignored by our owner. We’ve talked many times about running away but it can’t be done. Our best chance for freedom is a trip down the donation chute at the local Goodwill store.
It rained today. Do you want to know how I know? I know because I was out in the rain, sloshing around on the wet sidewalks and wet streets and feeling very helpless to avoid
those large potholes and sidewalk crevices, at times, from my perspective,
appearing as large as canyons.
It began, the rain that is, around 1:00 AM and I know that because I felt the first drops
even before my wearer, who lay on a bench, covered in cardboard, in a city
park. As the rain intensified, I wondered when he might awaken to realize the
matter falling from the sky and then attempt to find shelter. Two city buses passed
the corner drug store, which displayed a flashing neon clock and the name of
the store, Latham’s Drugs.
Not long after the second bus, the rain was now soaking through the cardboard as well as the foggy, bourbon soaked brain, and we jumped up with a start and we began running down the sidewalk to the theater overhang to join a collection of other fine
specimens trying their best to stay warm and stay dry. Most of us were well
worn, some with cracks and some missing laces, but all with a lust for a little
polish.
Amazing advice! Interesting, how Napoleon Bonaparte looked from The Perspective of a Shoe 🙂 It’s going to be my best essay writing ever! 🙂
It was about to begin. A ripple effect skimmed through the classroom, eventually turning the lively chatters of students into a dark cloud of silence that drifted among the minimum space that the room could provide. The fierce gaze of the instructor was enough to shut the mouths of the pupils, but for me, it only fuelled the passion that pumped through my lead. The hands of my holder began to shake rapidly, the speed of the movement nearly causing me to escape the clutches of his grasp. My invisible eyes glared towards the male pupil, as if silently challenging him to drop me into my demise. His ignorant mind paid no heed to my warnings, not even taking the moment to spare a glance at me.
It broke a sliver of my spirit, to think that after all the time he had taken my from the rest of my siblings and slowly used up everything I had to offer, he still could not treat me as one of his own kin. To him I was a third wheel, nothing but what he used to complete schoolwork. I was getting of age, my wood getting shorter by the day due to the constant scraping of my skin against the sharpener, but that didn’t mean I was ready for my time in this world to come to an end. Oh no, I was still up and kicking, baring the fight and scars of a true warrior. I could still fight against the paper, dancing gracefully and leaving my mark on it. I would like to think I could start a career as a ballerina, my movements are quite extraordinary.
The warm sound of a whistle reached my non-existent ears, an ear deafening sound that signalled my time to shine. I was ready. Being twisted around into an upside down position, my newest adventure had begun. A loop, a twirl, a dip and a rise – those were the four movements that continued to hammer itself in my mind, as if I hadn’t gotten the routine stuck in my mind ages ago. The war between pencil and paper continued, only finding myself tired and sweaty once the show had been put to rest. I was dropped harshly onto the wooden table, a large clank following my drop. I took the moment to silently congratulate myself, enveloping in the sweet, sweet comfort that the table provided. I felt it congratulate me, and the dark stare of the paper. I didn’t pay any heed, my attention only on my victory.
I had won the round.
Oh to feel the warmth of the inside of a
denim pocket again, I feeling I’ve longed for a quite few days now. The
cashier’s drawer was getting a little chilly and I was beginning to feel
claustrophobic. But I truly enjoy the snug fit when I lie alone in the pocket
of my owner. Thank goodness they were owed only $0.01 in change from their
transaction. Otherwise I may have had to share my comfortable pocket with
another coin of some sort.
Well that was unexpected. Just as I
got comfortable I felt those calloused fingers dig me out from the deepest
niche of my pocket. As she whispered a wish to herself I was tossed into the
air and have fallen into some form of pool. There are others like me here, and
as I look up I can see large towers that are shooting more water into this
pool. I suppose I’ll be here for a while.
As I lie there looking up, I could
just make out the face of a little girl marbled through the water above.
Looking both ways and seeing that her mother was not paying her much attention,
the face of the scintillating little girl came ever closer to the water. At the
same time her delicate fingers reached into the depths of the pool in which I
lie. The events to follow were a bit of a blur for me. In what seemed like just
a minute, the girl scooped me up, pulled me from the depths of that blue
fountain, and whipped her arm in the air 3 times so as to fling the water away
from her pale skin.
The little girl then looked upon me
with much wonder. She spun me between her thumb and index finger. But not the
way many do, up in the light, in doubt of my authenticity. No, the little girl
looked at me with smiling blue eyes. She pondered the beauty of my glistening
copper self. Just as her mother’s gaze fell upon her she grasped me tight in
her fist. And in one swift motion I was tucked cozily into the pocket of her
fleece sweater.
I do not believe there to be a
better owner than that of a little girl. These small owners do not hold me for
just the value, for there is not very much of that. Most owners leave me in
cold wet parking lots, underneath sofa cushions, and in jars with many others
of my kind. But little girls, well they cherish me as their personal treasure.
They do not see me as a hundredth of one dollar. They see me as my shiny zinc
and copper self.