# 4/9/12 - LM - For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn



## Like a Fox (Apr 9, 2012)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*
*The April Challenge*


*A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!

*
*So, do your best.*




This time around in the LM Forum we borrow from Hemingway for our inspiration. The prompt is:

*For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn*
_In 650 words, write a story where the line above is either the title, or is included in the story, or is in some way the theme of the story. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt._


The judges for this round are *Potty, Bazz Cargo, Bruno Spatola, and Gamer_2k4*.
(To the judges, send your scores to Like a Fox via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be ideal.)​

*Now a recap of the rules:*
1.The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2.You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
3.And of course, there can only be one entry per member.


As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread *which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread *you must copy the link into the main competition thread* or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your here entry in the *LM Challenge thread.*

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

This competition will close on Tuesday the *24th of April*. To avoid confusion the thread will close at 11:59pm (Tuesday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.

(So in Melbourne, Australia Like a Fox won’t be closing it until Wednesday evening. Chances are your time difference slots you somewhere in between Tuesday night and Wednesday afternoon. To be safe, have it done by Tuesday night, wherever you are.)



*No comments, please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.
Also hold off on the likes until the judging's done.* 

*Now that all's set, let the writing begin! *


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## LaughinJim (Apr 10, 2012)

A very fine story once lived here.​


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## garza (Apr 10, 2012)

*Baby Shoes*


 J.J. circled the room, looking at the baby shower gifts.

'Your sister sure got a lot of stuff', said Roddy. 'But we better get out of here before your mama comes home.' 

'Hey, look at these tiny pink baby shoes.'

'Wow. Are baby feet that little?'

'Yeah. I guess. These would fit Bonzo.'

Roddy started for the door. 'Don't even think about it. Let's go.'

'Wait. Would he hold still and let me put these on his front feet?'

'I reckon. But I can't promise what the shoes will look like after he drags them off with his teeth. Let's go before you get us in trouble.'

'Wait. There's another pair over here. A blue pair. Let's move things around to close up the space and nobody will ever know we borrowed a pair.'

A quarter hour later the two ten year olds were sitting in the grass behind a garden shed back of Roddy's house. With them was Roddy's dog, Bonzo. J.J. held the pair of pink baby shoes. His digital camera lay on the ground beside him.

'keep him still', said J.J. He lifted Bonzo's right paw and slipped on a baby shoe, set that that paw down, and did the same with the left paw. 

'Move out of the way, but don't let him chew on them. I'll take the picture and we can puit the shoes back.' 

J.J. picked up the camera and backed off a few feet while Roddy scooted to the side, J.J. snapped the picture and Roddy moved back beside the dog in time to stop Bonzo from ripping the shoes off with his teeth.

Another ten minutes and the boys were in J.J.'s bedroom, laughing at the picture on J.J.'s computer. There sat Bonzo wearing pink baby shoes on his two front feet.

'You got them on the wrong feet', said Roddy. 'You have the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left food.' 

'The dog don't care', said J.J. 

'Jason', J.J.'s mother called from downstairs. 

'Your mama's here', said Roddy. 'I hope she don't notice.' Jason and Roddy ran down the stairs.

'Jason, have you been messing with your sister's baby shower gifts?'

'No, mama. Well, maybe I looked at them a little.'

'Best thing you stay out of her room. Hello Rodwell.'

'Hello Ms Harrison', said Roddy. 

'Are you boys hungry?'

'I guess', said J.J. Roddy nodded. 

'I'll fix you some lunch, but first let me tell you the news. Jason, your sister had her baby about an hour ago. It's a little boy. You're an uncle.'

J.J. giggled. 'If it had been a girl, would I be an aunt?'

'Don't be silly. Go wash your hands.'

J.J.'s mother walked into the front room and looked over the shower gifts. She picked up the pink baby shoes and frowned at what looked like a grass stain.

'These won't do', she said. 'Pink shoes on a boy will bring bad luck.'

She fed the boys pimiento cheese sandwiches for lunch. As they ate she wrapped up the pink baby shoes, put them in a box, and wrote on the side of the box with a marker pen. 

'Jason, these pink shoes are for a girl. Cousin Ida sent them from Georgia and she'll never know we didn't use them. Take them to Mr Larsen and ask him to put them in the front window of his store with the used stuff.'

Jason took the box. He saw what was written on the side and burst out laughing.

'Now what's so funny?'

'I'm not an aunt, I'm an uncle', said J.J.

'Go', said his mother.

On display in the show window of Larsen's Discount Store that afternoon was a small box. Printed on the side of the box were the words, 'for sale: baby shoes, never worn'.


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## Terry D (Apr 10, 2012)

*The Price*
(650 words)


“Don’t give up too much!”

The voice came from a room somewhere beyond the doorway curtain.  It was a woman’s voice, harsh and brittle.  She sounded old.

“That’s just Mother,” the woman behind the counter said.  “She hasn’t worked the front in years, but she still thinks she runs the place.  Pay her no mind.”  She was of indeterminate age; tall, thin, with a pleasant smile, and eyes the color of rain.  “Let’s see what you have.”

Shawn fumbled with the gift bag, his hands trembling as he brought out the shoes and set them on the glass counter.  The shaking embarrassed him.  He hated Carri for that.  “I don’t know if you can help me,” he said.  “I’ve never been in a pawn shop before.  I don’t know if you even handle stuff like this.”

The white leather baby shoes looked small on the wide expanse of glass.  Below the shoes, on shelves within the case, he could see an odd mish-mash of items; hand guns, watches, rings, coins, even an intricately carved cameo that appeared very old and somehow sad.  They looked like memories there under the cold glow of the fluorescent lights.  Memories forsaken and betrayed.

_Betrayed by whom? _he wondered.

Other memories lined the walls, filled the shop’s floor, and draped from the ceiling like faded bunting.

“Don’t give up too much!”

Her voice snagged in Shawn’s mind like calluses on silk.  He imagined her back there in a dingy recliner with a floral print afghan draped over her lap, a cigarette smoldering between yellowing fingers.

_She must drive this woman nuts_, he thought.  _Will Carri be like that, years from now?_

He squared up the tiny shoes with fluttering hands.  “Would you buy these?”

“Honey, we buy anything you’re willing to sell,” the smiling woman said.  Then she picked up the right shoe and inspected it closely.  “This doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn.”

“That’s right.”  He touched the left shoe lightly; it looked lonely.  He fought the urge to pick it up and hold it.

“I can’t give you back what they cost you, you know,” she said, placing the right shoe next to the left, and turning them so the toes pointed at Shawn like an accusation.  “Have you tried returning them to the store?”

“It’s too late,” he said softly.  “I bought them right after Carri . . . my girlfriend, Carri . . . right after she told me she was . . .”

“Pregnant?”

Shawn wasn’t looking at the woman – he was staring at the empty shoes – but he could see her reflected smile in the polished glass.  “Yeah . . . Will you buy ‘em?”

“You always give up too much!  You hear me!  _Too much!_”

_Damn!_  Shawn braced himself against the counter and closed his eyes.  It was a bad idea.  In his mind he saw Carri sitting on their bench in Rand Park, a needle thin cigarette burning between her fingers (not yellow; not yet).  She wouldn’t look at him as she laid out her plan; the plan which made these tiny, white shoes pointless.

_I should’ve said, “No.”_

“Sure, honey.  I’ll buy them.  They won’t last long, _everybody_ wants baby shoes.”

When Shawn opened his eyes the shoes were gone.  No.  Not gone.  She’d just moved them into the display case already, beside the sad looking cameo – among the memories.

A loud, _kaachiinnng_, from the old fashioned brass cash register confirmed the transaction, and the pawnbroker removed a few bills from the cash drawer.  She handed them to Shawn and he turned toward the door, stuffing them into an empty pocket.

“You gave up too much!”

With his hand on the doorknob, Shawn stopped and, without turning back, asked, “How do you take it?”

“Take what?”

“Her,” he said.  “Harping at you like that.”

“Oh, honey,” her voice still smiled, “She’s not talkin’ to _me_.”


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## Kyle R (Apr 10, 2012)

*Tall as the Sky*
650 words​

Abby pumped her feet and felt the warm air caress her face. She glanced at the wet mound of dirt and smiled. _Now Mommy will be happy again_, she thought. Somewhere a bird chirped a broken melody. Abby stopped to look, astonished.


Through the kitchen window, Edwin watched his daughter straddle her tricycle on the front lawn. He followed her gaze to the neighbor’s tree and wondered what she was looking at. What new mystery had her young mind discovered? He squinted and tried to see the world through her eyes.

The tree swayed gently in the wind, leaves fluttering, its outstretched body juxtaposed against the cotton-blue air. In his mind Edwin saw a woman, tall as the sky, with cherry blonde hair. She smiled, then turned and scampered away, fading like a ghost.

A thud from the bedroom jolted him from his trance.

*​
“Like this, see?” Edwin lowered the plant into the soil.

Abby watched Daddy cover the roots with dirt.

“Now we give it something to drink.” He handed Abby a small pale filled with water.

The pale felt huge in Abby’s arms. She furrowed her brow and tilted her body. Water sloshed over the plant and onto Daddy’s shoes. She gaped up at his face.

Edwin laughed. “Good, honey.” He touched Abby’s head and stood, placing his hands on his hips. He clucked his tongue. “One day this tree will be as tall as the sky.”

Down the street, a sound tinkled through the air. Abby gasped and looked at Daddy.

“Ice cream, already?” Edwin looked at his watch. “It’s not even noon.”

Abby turned and looked down the road. She could hear the playful tune and the sound of children laughing. She felt left out, forgotten. A splash of anger flushed through her. Suddenly she turned and kicked the soil, splattering Daddy’s legs with mud. “Stupid plant!” she yelled. 

Edwin frowned and his shoulders sagged. He withdrew his wallet. “Here, Abbs,” he said, reaching out.

Abby peered at the two dollar bills jutting from her father’s hands. She didn’t know why, but the money made her sad. She hesitated, then snatched the bills and scampered down the road.

*​
“Brother?” Abby asked, gingerly touching her mother’s swollen belly.

“Mm hmm,” Janie smiled. She brushed a lock of orange hair away from Abby’s face. “Would you like a brother?”

Abby nodded and bit her lower lip. “Hello, brother! I’m your sister, Abby! I’ll take good care of you!” she yelled at Janie’s tummy.

Janie squeezed Edwin’s hand.

*​
“Janie?” Edwin stood at the doorway, peering into the bedroom. A bottle of liquor was on the floor, its contents puddled near the open neck. On the bed, Janie rolled her back to him.

“I’m fine,” she said. She sniffed, twice.

*​
The melody tinkled down the street. Huffing and flailing, Abby stopped and turned.

A sign on the table read, “Baby shoes, never worn.”

Abby touched her lips and stepped forward. “Can I have?”

“They’re a little small for you, sweetheart,” a woman said. 

“How much for this lamp?” asked a man.

“Five dollars,” replied the woman. She turned back and saw Abby nudging two dollar bills forward with her stubby fingers.

“I dunno how many monies,” Abby pouted.

The woman peered at Abby. “Why do you want these shoes, sweetie?”

Abby wrapped her hand in her shirt, exposing her belly button. “My brother,” she said, looking down. “He never comed out of Mommy’s tummy.”

The woman frowned. She folded the bills and stuffed them into Abby’s shirt pocket, then touched Abby’s cheek. “You can have them for free, dear.”

*​
Abby knelt and pushed soil over the tiny shoes. She took her beach pail and filled it with water, then waddled over and sloshed it over the mound.

She thrust her hands on her hips and clucked her tongue. “One day, brother,” she beamed, “you’ll be as tall as the sky!”

* * *​


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## LoneWolf (Apr 12, 2012)

A Small Moment




She stood at her front window, impassively looking out onto her quiet neighborhood. The day was chilly but unexplainably humid. It didn’t sit right with her, the heaviness oppressive. She was going to turn away when a movement to her right caught her eye. Something shifting in the shadows. 

Then she saw him.

It all happened slowly, though she was sure it only took seconds. Seconds for the man to rush at her front door. Seconds for her to scramble toward the entrance, realizing with a sinking feeling that it was open from her retrieval of the morning paper. 

The door burst inward. Her jaw fell open in a silent scream, stayed slack as the palm of his hand slammed against the side of her face. She dropped but never stopped struggling as she felt herself being drug into her bedroom. The bed groaned with the weight of two and panic flooded her senses. A hoarse, thick growl erupted deep from her chest as she fought. Legs and arms thrashed wildly but no blow seemed solid enough. The man grunted, seemingly unfazed and growing tired of her. His hands found purchase on the soft flesh of her throat, silencing her cries.

Her still clawing hands hit the nightstand, fell on her forgotten phone. She frantically began hitting the face, hoping to miraculously hit the right numbers to contact help. But instead, all they succeeded in doing was knocking the phone to the floor. Along with the shoes.

The man looked over and scowled at the phone. He raised his closed fist to the woman - and stopped. His eyes flew instead to the items that had tumbled beside it. The only sound in the house was the ticking of the clock as he read the tag still attached to the tiny laces, written in bright red ink - For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn. Shoes she had just purchased the day before. 

She watched him battle with himself. Saw his hand tremble, hesitate, and then lower, his focus still on the tag. He searched her face and then her eyes, and without another word he got off of her, turned, and quietly left the room. 

It wasn’t until she could no longer hear his footfalls that she let out the breath she had no idea she had been holding. She slid sideways off of the bed, grabbed her phone, and began to dial - never taking her eyes off of those shoes.


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## Jon M (Apr 15, 2012)

STILL​


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## Tiamat (Apr 16, 2012)

The Night Inside, Not Quite Forgotten


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## Bilston Blue (Apr 17, 2012)

*Through French Windows*
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## BabaYaga (Apr 18, 2012)

*If the Shoe Wont Fit*

If he could have, Herbert would have punched himself in the face. He’d miscalculated the time difference from Tokyo and now- sitting in the backseat of the speeding cab, with the roses wilting in his sweaty grip and the contents of a miniature, white shoebox rattling in his lap- he knew Sarah would never forgive him. He didn’t even know if he could forgive himself. The birth of his first daughter- his only child- and he’d missed it. He looked out the window at the full moon that hang heavily in the night sky, its unsmiling face rightly judging him.  

He tried not to imagine the look in Sarah’s puffy-pink, tear-stained eyes as he bolted up the stairs and down the corridor to her private room at the end of the maternity wing, but it was impossible. He deserved anything she had to throw at him, verbal or physical, after all- he had promised her he’d be there and now he’d let her down. Standing, finally, at the closed door to her room, Herbert stopped, took a deep breath and tried, vainly, to steady his nerves before turning the handle.

Inside, the lighting had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow, a stark contrast to the bright fluorescents in the rest of the hospital. Massive bunches of flowers covered every available surface- and some of the floor- with bright bursts of giant white, pink and lilac. Herbert’s tiny bunch of flaccid, red roses seem to drop their heads a little more in embarrassment.

Sarah sat upright on the bed, her skin glowing in the low light and her cheeks flushed a delicate pink- as though she’d just spent the couple of hours going for a brisk walk instead of giving birth. She held a cotton-swaddled bundle close to her chest, looking up from it only when Herbert approached the bed.

“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I really screwed up, Sarah. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Herb, really. In some ways… it’s actually better you weren’t here.”
“What do you mean? Is everything okay?”
“Sit down, Herb.”
“Sarah-“
“Just sit down, okay?”

Herbert reluctantly obeyed, allowing his shamed roses to fall to the floor as he took his place beside Sarah on the bed. He retained his hold on the gift-wrapped box. Sarah held the baby so close to her it was impossible for him to see the child’s face.

“Can I see her?”
‘She’s fine, Herbert.”
“Let me see her, Sarah.”
“Herb, before you do- there’s something I have to tell you… about the baby.”

Of all the different possible directions the conversation could take, Herbert could see only one clearly-lit lane ahead and his mind was travelling too fast for him to even try changing its course.

“Is she mine?”

Sarah looked genuinely hurt, the passive mask of her face broken with emotion. Herbert felt poorly about upsetting her, but he was also losing his patience. 

“Herbert! Of course she’s yours. But she’s also _mine_. You know, she’s … see for yourself.”

Sarah, unable to say any more, simply handed the tightly swathed bundle over to Herbert. Herbert set the shoebox down on the bed. His arms felt weak and detached from the rest of his body somehow, as he raised his open palms to accept the warm bundle. He was afraid he’d drop her as he looked down at her face, expecting the worst.   

“Oh Sarah, she’s beautiful.”

Sarah reached across to loosen the baby’s wrappings. Apart from the wrinkled frown on her tiny, perfect face, Herbert couldn’t see a thing wrong the child. Not one thing. The infant reached a single, softly scaled tentacle towards Herbert. He gently wrapped it around his index finger and smiled broadly at his daughter as Sarah inspected the shoebox.

“I guess we won’t be needing these anymore.”


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## Chris Miller (Apr 18, 2012)

A Long Look at an Apocryphal Short


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## Euripides (Apr 19, 2012)

*Procrastination*

Okay, not sure when this ended. I'm new here, and I thought I'd give this a try. Although probably not grammatically correct, or correct punctuation, it was fun. :smile2:

--------------------------------

Janice was sitting at her cramped desk working diligently since she had a deadline coming up. Janice was very diligent about getting stuff done by deadline, although she was also an excellent procrastinator.  Every time Janice realized there was a deadline looming, and she hadn’t even started the project, she’d promise herself that next time she’d be better about not having to rush to get things done. 

Someone had reheated something in the office microwave for breakfast that smelled like it was made with sauerkraut, so the sour greasy smell permeated the small office. The smell was distracting.  Janice thought it was odd that someone would eat sauerkraut for breakfast. It just didn’t seem like a morning sort of food, she wondered is sauerkraut would gave someone bad breath, and then she wondered if they had any gum. She was also distracted by the mutterings and muffled curses that seemed to be coming from Craig’s cubicle next to her.

“God Craig!” she thought to herself. “Some of us have to WORK to do.” She was all ready to toss a ball of rubber bands over the cube wall in Craig’s general direction until she remembered that Craig was on vacation so his cube should be empty.

Janice paused in her typing and listened harder for the mutterings and curses.  She narrowed her eyes at her computer screen. Actually, it sounded like the noises were coming from under her desk. Janice carefully pushed her chair back from her workspace and slowly bent over to peer past her feet. There, sitting among the forest of electrical cords and near a rather large dust bunny, was a wizened little man. He was nut-brown, wrinkled like a prune, wearing nothing but what looked to be a breechclout, and digging furiously through a small leather bag. Janice popped up and slowly started to look around her cubicle. 

 “It’s Thursday morning. I have a deadline for tomorrow at 10 a.m., I haven’t been sleeping well, and I think I’m going through caffeine withdrawal. I’m stressed, that’s it. Also, maybe I shouldn’t have watched that _Twilight Zone _marathon on TV last night,”she thought to herself.  Janice watched Carol walk past her space. Janice nodded, “Yes, just stress.”

Janice peered under her desk once again, just to confirm that the stress-induced figment of her imagination was really gone. No such luck, the little man was still there. Janice leaned forward until her forehead was resting on the edge of her desk, and felt a little silly whispering “Do you need any help?”

The little man looked up at Janice, “No, no. Almost have it. Just a moment.” He went headfirst into the bag, and Janice was a little afraid he was going to disappear into it totally. 

“Ah, ah, ah! I have it. Which one of the three will it be?”the little man asked Janice. Spread out before him were three little white boxes each with a red bow. Janice tentatively pointed to the middle box. 

“Good, choice. You’ll be needing those. With blessings and good luck!” 

Before Janice could blink, the box was on her lap, and the little man was gone. Janice wondered how she was going to explain what had just happened to Steve over dinner tonight. Maybe she’d not say anything, it was just too strange. She looked at the box in her lap and shrugged. No harm in opening it. 

Inside the box was a pair of soft leather baby shoes, grey and blue with a little red fire engine appliqued onto the toes, they were held together as a pair with a tag that read ‘For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn’.  Janice took them from the box looking at them quizzically. “Cute, but baby shoes?”  Janice was puzzled; maybe the baby shoes were also a delusion. 

The shoes dropped from Janice's fingers as she realized, "Oh my god, I'm late!"


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## Forceflow (Apr 20, 2012)

*Brush of Insanity*

Brush of Insanity 
[550]​
My eyes widened as I felt it pull me in, calling to me, the overgrowing vines rooting me in place. I was standing on the edge of a small clearing - a forest of fire and shadows. Before me were the remains of a small cottage. Torn apart by nature and time, one of the walls had already fallen and I could see the inside clearly. The cottage too was in flames, a raging red in contrast to its darkened surroundings. There was no smoke.

A man stood within the burning ruins. A bottle clenched tightly in one hand while a torch flickered weakly in the other. His arms were slightly raised and he had his head raised to the sky; a gesture of acceptance, as if giving himself up to the embrace of the brightest fire - a bright blue streak burning before him. Cloaked entirely in black, I could barely make out the thick vines that ensnared us both.

The cottage floor was littered with assortments of items: A small pair of baby shoes, the tag still attached. A teddy bear rested against a small toy fire truck, both new, unused. There were other toys, some still wrapped like unopened gifts. Two fishing rods stood in the far corner of the cottage, yet to be touched by the inferno. One was bright and shiny, the other rusty with age.

I stood frozen, captivated as the world around me burned.

“An interesting piece isn’t it?” interrupted a voice behind me, “Such a sad painting. They say the artist was found dead in his studio with this piece: A death grip on his brush in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.”

I turned and stared at the curator.

“Poor fellow,” he continued, “Lost his wife about five years ago. Blamed himself of course. Was never really the same since. See here,” he pointed at the area just in front of the man in the painting where the flames had turned a bright blue. “If you are familiar with his other works, you will know he always painted deities in this hue. Nothing else. That’s why they say that this piece is unfinished.”

“Deities?” My brow rose a fraction.

“The ugliest ones you will ever see,” the curator waved his hand carelessly. “The artist did a lot on the grotesque supernatural. Angels with Demon faces.”

“I see.”

“Well, I can tell you’re interested,” he said, clapping me lightly on the shoulder before turning to leave. “Be sure to join us at the auction later.”

“Wait,” I called out, “I don’t see a title.”

“Ah, there isn’t one,” he said over his shoulder. “But I would have called it ‘The Entangling Past’. The ruined cottage obviously symbolized the artist’s family; and the vines chaining him to a broken home.”

“What about the fire?”

“The fire?” he repeated.

“Three shades,” I elaborated.

“Make of it what you will,” he shrugged and smiled. “I guess we’ll never know what he was truly thinking.”

I smirked at the curator’s retreating back as I took a sip of the complimentary wine clutched tightly between my fingers. He was wrong of course. He was wrong because I knew the name of the painting – only far too well. It was called:

Sanity’s Last Laugh.


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## lcg (Apr 20, 2012)

*Final Goodbye*

*Final Goodbye
*(624 Words)​ 
Lucy was so excited. She had finally lost that alcohol addiction- a devil which had clutched her after her miscarriage. A new life waited for her. She still craved her beer sometimes but doctor said it was normal. She wanted to live again. Most of all, she wanted to hug Ariella, her best friend. She had been her only support during hateful drinking period. Almost everyone else avoided her like plague. It was Ariella who had persuaded her to go to the de-addiction centre. Afraid of rejection and pity, she had not kept in touch but she had made a brief call on Ariella’s anniversary. She did not remember much but she recalled they had been planning for a baby.

For thousandth time, she tried to imagine Ariella as mother. Ariella, of course, will be a wonderful mother.

“Curio Shop”.  Though, her husband earned a lot as financial broker, this shop of knick-knacks was Ariella’s passion. Lucy entered the shop looking around, reveling in the familiarity of the place.  The shop looked still the same except for the left shelf. It was covered with three different boxes of baby shoes; the sign saying “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn”.

Lucy read again, her mind refusing to grasp the meaning of the words. Her heart was shattering, reminding her of her own grief; renewing her thirst for alcohol. She whispered, “This means that Ariella’s baby has not entered the world. Poor Ariella! What had she suffered? How painful it must have been for!”

“Can I help you?” she heard a girl’s voice. She looked seven years old.
“Do you want to purchase these shoes? Shall I call Mom?” she continued.

Lucy felt as if she had been punched. If this child was talking about this shop, had Ariella also surrendered herself to the pain?
“Your mother is the owner of this shop?” Lucy questioned. The little girl nodded.

Lucy could not stop herself then. She had been holding her tears for so long but now the dam had burst open. She started crying with nerve-wrecking sobs.

She heard the shouts of the girl.
“Mom, Mom- there is a lady in the shop. She is crying, more than I ever cried. Mom, make haste!”

Lucy heard sandals clicking on the floor boards. But she did not care. She felt devastated for herself, for babies who never got to see the beauty of this world.

“Why are you crying? Lucy- Is that you? Lucy, what is wrong? When did you arrive? Did you run away from the hospital? Please tell me what happened.”

Lucy was dazed. She had finally lost that spark of sanity. Ariella was not here. Here was this girl’s mother.

“Can you tell me where previous owners of this shop are?” Lucy asked.
“Previous owners, Lucy? Are you drunk again? This shop has always been mine. What are you saying?”

“Ariella! You are here. But this girl said her mother is the owner of the shop.”

“Well, Lucy, get up first and stop crying. This is still my shop. Let me introduce you to my daughter Luce. You remember I told you we were planning for a baby. We went to State Orphanage for a little baby but this young lady wormed her ways into our heart. We adopted her. ” Ariella said.

“I was named after you. I did not want to carry my original name. It carries bad memories. So Mom named me after you. She said I should be as strong as you.”, Luce chimed in.

“But why were you crying, Lucy?” Ariella asked. Lucy felt a smile blossoming on her face. She caressed the baby shoes and said, “I was just saying my final goodbye to my sorrow and beer.”


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## rubisco (Apr 20, 2012)

Leather and Grace
By Rubisco
[648 words]

I glanced down at the petite pair of pink shoes I had just bought at the mall.  They jumbled around in my brown shopping bag like a new puppy as I walked into the parking lot.  Grace will love them, I thought to myself as I visualized the adorable face of my newly born daughter.  Grace and my wife Erin would surely be at home right now.  They had just gone to her first check-up at the doctors.  

I couldn’t imagine anything being wrong with her.  Or anything being wrong at this moment in my life.  The sun was shining, a cool breeze was blowing, and I had two ladies at home that I absolutely adored.  I adjusted my polo shirt that was tucked into my khaki shorts as I saw my car in the distance.

It was then that I saw George Feller walking across the parking lot toward me with a bag in his hand.  George Feller?  Here?  This wasn’t right.  Last thing I had heard he was supposed to be out of town indefinitely doing jobs in Europe.

I waved to him as friendly as I could as he continued to come at me like a bullet.  

He didn’t make eye contact, his bald head glaring from the sun,  and he reached in his bag and pulled out a knife.  All of a sudden several things fell into place inside my head, and I knew I was in danger.  Again.  

He lunged at me with the knife, and I grabbed the only weapon I had on me:  The baby shoes.  Lucky for me the shoelaces were tied together still.  I got a firm hold on a shoe and swung the other at George’s wrist as I dodged out of the path of the knife.  

The baby shoe simply bounced off of George’s wrist without effect.  I immediately jumped away from George and started trying to back away.  I held the baby shoes up as a poor façade of defense.  

“Come on George,”  I pleaded with him.  “I know I screwed up and bailed on the game without telling anybody.  But I have a daughter now!”

George tried not to have eye contact with me, his eyes lowered in shame, trying not to look at the baby shoes I was so pathetically trying to defend myself with.  

“You know how it is Sam,” he grunted, “nothing personal.  Just business.”

I swallowed the small amount of salvia in my mouth and nodded.  “I know.”

George continued to advance at me, slashing the knife.  I dodged a few times, but George was too fast.   He managed to get me up against a wall.  I held up the baby shoes as he swung a death slice at my throat.  

The knife buried itself in the baby shoe.  George quickly pulled it out and tried again and again.  My training kicked in, blocking each slice and stab with the baby shoes.  

Just when I thought I couldn’t keep up with George, I got the shoelaces around the knife and ripped it out of his hands.  I quickly lunged at him with the baby shoes, getting the shoelaces around his throat, and quickly strangling him like I had done with a hit in Cairo years ago.

George looked at me with glazed over eyes now.  Eyes that understood that it was just business.  My business now was protecting my family. 

I dragged his body over behind a dumpster, amazed that nobody else had seen our encounter.  I guess that was one benefit of moving to a small town.  

I looked at the sad and shredded state of the pink shoes.  They wouldn’t do for my daughter.  Not anymore.

Later that day people walked by the shredded pink pieces of leather and shoelace I had placed by the door of the mall with a cardboard sign:  For Sale:  Baby shoes, never worn.


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## Chaeronia (Apr 21, 2012)

Untitled entry.


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## bazz cargo (Apr 23, 2012)

Life In The Small Ads.



 'For sale: baby shoes, never worn.'


 Free!!: surplus to requirements! Useless 65yo male recently retired. Just clutters up the place.



 Free!!: two children, Male teenager unable to speak intelligibly,  female teenager aka trouble magnet.



 Free!!: wife, volume control needs fixing.



 For sale: box of assorted holes.


 For sale: prayer mat, ideal for use in the manager's office.


 For sale: parrot with disgusting vocabulary, would make fine feather duster.


 For sale: golfing socks, guaranteed a hole in one.


 For sale: leaky boat, ideal gift for mother-in-law.


 Wanted: specialist gardener, family tree needs pruning.


 Wanted: God's e-mail address.


 Hey Brian!: I'm banging your wife! Hahaha!


 For sale: spare kidney, will swap for I phone, I pad and I pod.


 Free: Tennis racquet, no strings attached.


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## candid petunia (Apr 25, 2012)

*****


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## Fire525 (Apr 25, 2012)

For Sale, Baby Shoes, Unused

Agent Smith glanced at the sign for a second before turning to take in the rest of the junk that littered the shop, piles upon piles heaped up on shelves. So this was the place where the deal would go down. His gaze flickered to the shopkeeper. If his sources were correct, the shopkeeper wasn’t a threat; his shop was just being used for the exchange.

“Interested in buying?” The shopkeeper’s voice broke Smith’s reverie. Seeing the confusion on his face, the shopkeeper continued. “Brand new they are, not a mark on them.” He gestured to the pair of shoes, which were indeed a pristine white, completely unmarked.

Smith was about to reply when the bell above the door tinkled as somebody stepped into the shop. Smith spun around then immediately threw himself to the right, taking cover behind a shelf. A bullet cut the spot he had been occupying a second before. Drawing his own pistol, he peeked around the side of shelf, snapping his head back as another bullet whistled past.

_Well then. If he couldn’t go around the shelf, he’d have to go through it._ Tossing his gun aside, Smith rammed his shoulder into the shelf and felt it begin to shift. He slammed into it again. The shelf teetered for a second then fell.

A massive crash resounded through the shop as the shelf hit the ground, junk skidding across the floor. As loud as the crash was, it could not mask the scream that rang through the air or the crunch of bones breaking. Smith glanced at the feet protruding from underneath the shelf before turning to the shopkeeper, smiling.

A knife glinted in the shopkeeper’s hand, his face grim. “Die”, he said, drawing back his arm.

Smith ducked as the blade flashed past. _His sources were wrong; the shopkeeper was a threat_. His own weapon was by the shelf, but there was no way he could get to it in time. His gaze alighted on the pair of baby shoes, their white knotted laces pristine in the room of junk. He dived for them, narrowly avoiding the shopkeeper’s knife. Seizing one of the shoes, he began to whirl the second. Spinning, he swung his improvised flail at the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper had time for a brief look of surprise before the shoes smashed into his head, knocking him to the ground. Smith swung his weapon at the shopkeeper again and again until he was sure his opponent would not get back up. He looked at the shoes; their laces no longer a pristine white.

Throwing them aside, he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his coat then glanced at the shopkeeper’s body. “Looks like your baby shoes... just got used”. He donned the sunglasses then strode from the shop.

In the distance, a scream could be heard. “YEAAAAAAAAAAH”.


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## helium (Apr 25, 2012)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...s-never-worn-workshop-thread.html#post1517602

I'm sorry I forgot to link.


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