Last Thursday I had to come up with a guest post for Christy of A Lil’ Welsh Rarebit and was at a complete loss of what to write. So feeling somewhat inspired for a talented aspiring fiction writer, I decided to try some yarn spinning of my own.
I actually really enjoyed it and it’s been on my mind all weekend. So that’s my Monday Muse: fiction writing. I think I might try to do more of it here. Maybe make it a Friday thing. So check back on friday and see if I actually follow through (and feel free to join me!)
In case you missed it last week, here is the piece I wrote (in one sitting – which was a challenge for me):
The Wrong Shoes
a rough depiction of “the shoes”
Ivy hated her shoes.
They were navy blue with a delicate heel. The slightly pointed toes were much like those of the shoes her mother wore to work, and there were two tiny straps on each that fastened with pearly blue buttons. They looked like something from another time. Old fashioned.
The minute she saw the shoes she wanted them. She loved them. And they were navy which was an approved color for her school uniform.
She could tell her mother was pleased with the selection. The approving smile seemed to say, “what taste my nine year old has.”
And that should have been the first warning sign. Because her mother’s idea of good taste didn’t quite fit in with the styles and trends rocketing in and out of her soon to be fourth grade classroom.
But on a hot August day, when memories of the previous semester were faded and limply tucked away between the leaves of old schoolbooks, Ivy forgot herself. Full of anticipation for the new season and its accompanying wools and plaids, she forgot that her love of all things “antique” was not shared by the other girls her age.
They went to soccer practice and sometimes ran faster than the boys. They loved feeling the wind in their hair. They were effortless and unstudied. Their braids were perfunctory while Ivy’s were painstaking.
They wore the sensible brown shoes their mothers purchased. The ones held up to them for approval while they sighed and wilted with boredom. Then they scuffed them on the playground without a second thought. They let the laces fray and the pennies tarnish. Shoes were admired for their wear, their down at the heels proof of a life well lived.
“Do you love them?” her mother had asked as the sales woman rustled tissue paper and searched for a pen. This was the scripted question preceding all transactions related to Ivy’s wardrobe. By the time this juncture of the shopping trip had been reached, only the affirmative was expected.
“Yes,” Ivy said, even as she could feel the boulder of self doubt starting to roll. It’s descent truly picking up speed when it was too late to turn back. That initial shifting of the earth beneath her feet should have sent her back to the shelves and the safety of shiny brown loafers and sturdy boat shoes.
But she told the truth, sealing her fate for yet another year of expressing that so little valued good taste.
And now on the playground watching the blur of effortless grace whirl around her, Ivy felt her folly keenly. She now hated her shoes. The art of ancient foot binding sounded no less painful than this bitter regret (and foot binding technically was old fashioned). She was her own worst enemy and was now thoroughly disgusted with herself.
When Melissa approached, her already scuffed loafers and slouchy hand me down sweater just rubbed salt in the self pitying wound. Oh to have Melissa’s older sisters…to have them make these clothing decisions in advance. The tall girl’s lanky angles and sloping gait were a study in confidence and the knowledge that others had already paved her way.
Right then, Ivy would have given anything for holey Weejuns.
At close range though, Melissa’s grey eyes wistfully hinted at a contradictory green. She looked down at Ivy’s feet and mournfully said, “I like your shoes.”
*Just in case you were wondering, this isn’t entirely fictional. I did once have shoes like that and it did kind of bother me that I could never master that sporty, messy private school kid look that everyone else had as a matter of course. But everything else is made up. Although I do suspect that my mother was pleased with my very girly clothing preferences…
Don’t forget to grab a button and add your Monday’s Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!
Anna Spiro’s Chair
