Succinctly Yours Week 176: Toe Story 10…or The Moral of the Story is Don’t Be a Piggy

Thank you to Grandma’s Goulash for hosting Succinctly Yours! The idea of this meme is to use the picture to polish a story into 140 words or 140 characters or fewer. The bonus word this week was “fable.”

Remember the old fable about the family of toes that went for a walk on the beach? The one with the ring learned she had to watch her step and toe the line with the rest. 135

The children’s fable has been updated to appeal to a culture of narcissism. They go on vacation and not to market, no one stays home, and the last piggy cries, “me me me.” 139

I know, I know—I confused a fable with a nursery rhyme. But I also hear tell they ate sushi and organic quinoa instead of roast beef, and things got a little out of h…foot. Have a great week!

If all God’s children had all the material advantages that the rich could afford, the world would not be a fit place to live in. ~Alexander Lowen, M.D., Narcissism: Denial of the True Self

Succinctly Yours Week 169: Stomp Stomp Stomp

Thank you once again to Grandma’s Goulash for offering Succinctly Yours, a challenge open to any participant willing to use the weekly picture as inspiration for a story of 140 characters or 140 words. The bonus word for the week was “upheaval.” I especially enjoyed this week’s picture and got three.

When Thing suffered the upheaval of getting fired from The Addams Family set, he invited his twin cousins over to kick back. They understood about getting the boot. 137

Frank Stein was no longer invited to patio parties after the upheaval that occurred when he was told to have a seat, take a load off and put his feet up. 123

To overcome the upheaval of a long night of haunting, The Headless Horseman loved to set aside his burdens with a latte and his sedate better half, the Footless Hiker. 138 

Important note: I had forgotten that the Headless Horseman carries a pumpkin rather than a head! I guess, to be accurate, hubby’s feet really should have been a couple of butternut squashes. Sorry! 

     

 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes….~The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Succinctly Yours #153: Lost Soles

Thank you to Grandma's Goulash for hosting Succinctly Yours! Each week, Grandma provides a photo as inspiration for the challenge to write a story of 140 words or 140 characters. Mine this week has 139 characters, and the bonus word was xylophone.

The evil Anti-Shoeites danced to the xylophone in bare feet beneath their sacrifice. The waiting wingtips and chattering stilettos knew their steps were numbered. 

Those awful Anti-Shoeites! Though…not to be high strung or anything, but I leaned toward Anti-Shoeism myself when I wrote this on Sunday after dancing in some cute (I think, anyway), lace-up heels the night before. By the end of the night I wanted to string them up by the laces. It would have been self-defense, though, since they were killing me.

Don’t judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes ~Proverb usually attributed to Cherokee tribe

Improper Poll: Shoe In

I once owned a pair of black, Reebok high-tops. I bought them after admiring them on a woman at the airport. She was one of those people who can gracefully walk the line between conservative and edgy, so she rocked those shoes. I guess I secretly want to be one of those people, but sad to say I am not. When I bought the shoes, instead of transforming into a different person, I looked more like a half-baked Betty Crocker gone bad. Like Betty’s crock cracked. Like if Betty decided one day to give up baking and run off to some remote mountainous commune where the denizens play basketball badly. I didn’t care. I loved those shoes just the same as if I’d actually looked cool in them.

I bought them after a long day of walking. When I tried them on again at home, before the illusion of coolness had worn off of them—before I had broken them in along with the news that I did not, in fact, look like a hip, rocking, bicycler babe—they felt so good I decided to forego the usual bedroom slippers and leave them in place. Just for a while. They cured my backache and left me with a spring in my step. They may well have been agony on someone else’s feet, but they made mine sing.

I once wore them on a hayride on an Indian summer’s day. The husband of the woman who sat next to me whispered, “You’re always saying you don’t know if you should wear white athletic shoes after Labor Day. You should get those.” She promptly shushed him in one of those hush-she-might-hear-you voices. I really don’t think the husband had meant it as an insult, but that shushing sure told where the wife stood on the issue of the Beloved Reeboks. I was okay with it, though. I was going to tell you what kind of Betty Crocker she was, but my inner editor made me cut it because it might have offended people who attend fundraisers where they sell handmade gingham fanny packs. Okay, I will take this one evil potshot: I bet her favorite author was Nicholas Sparks.

Take that, Bizarro World Betty! Kick my beloved Reeboks, and I will punch you in the Pillsbury doughgirls. Bettys of the world, don’t unite. Insult our shoes, and we are a brutal bunch of half-baked be-otches.

Do you have a favorite pair of shoes?

Sub Notes: When Garbage Pales

It was the smell of death. And it was in the classroom. So I discretely looked around so as not to frighten the children—teenagers, they were. The scariest part was that it was so close to them, somewhere around the trash can. The closer I got, the more disgusting it became. It was a horrifying, gangrenous smell—the smell of rot and decay. I figured a mouse must have gotten in there and died.

I glanced in. Wrappers. Plastic drink bottles. And nothing else. Nothing. Was I missing it somehow? It was a little hard to see in the trash, because there was a kid who had his feet resting on the trash can.

That was the first time it occurred to me. Sure, I’ve smelled stinky shoes before. Heck, I’ve even had a teenaged son. I remember discussing horrible smells that came out of our teenaged boys’ rooms with a friend who has three of her own. I would never forget her very serious warning. “Whatever you do,” she had said, “don’t ever smell the shoes.”

But this. This wasn’t human. It wasn’t alive. It was sickening, horrifying, vile.

Could it be…? And then the bell rang, and the smell walked out the door. No wonder so many teachers keep air fresheners in the classroom. I hope that boy’s mother knows about my friend’s warning.

Now scientists call this disease bromidrosis
(that's right!)
And well they should
Even napoleon knows that
But us regular folks
Who might wear a tennis shoe
Or an occasional python boot
Know this exquisite little inconvenience by the name of:
Stink foot
~lyrics from Frank Zappa, “Stink Foot”