I've lost my shoe again. Before, I've always found it under my couch, but it does not appear to be there this time. Where could it have gone?
Once, there was a girl who lost a shoe after she had gone to a party. She had to walk home on uneven feet, because she had not the sense to love flats. The road cut up the delicate flesh all along her sole, bruised it, the skin all scratches and blood. A pebble, barely visible, lodged itself between her toes. She was very sorry that she had lost the shoe, but she was even sorrier when it was returned to her. Some man, the kind with good teeth and good clothes, located her by forcing every woman in her town to take time out of their day and try it on. No foot fit it but hers, because she had nine and a quarter wide feet. When he shoved the shoe on her, none too gently in his excitement, he dislodged the pebble. She yelped and bled all over his hand. He was so enamored he asked her to dance with him in her room, and she kept on bleeding. Gushing blood everywhere. It filled up her whole room and when the dance was over, she'd been bled out, and died.
Perhaps it is best that I find this shoe before anyone else does. If you find it, burn it, before some good-toothed man gets his hands on it.
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