The Insightful Tale of some Rather Snazzy Shoes - Highly Commended!

                                                                                                                          By Freya Neild, age 14

If you think about it, and I mean really think about it, not just sit there all comfy in your chair and think, well that’s a good thing to think about, and I feel good for acknowledging its thinkability, but I’m not actually going to think about it because its’s a bit too insightful for a Sunday afternoon in my pyjamas, then a human being is very much like a pair of shoes. A human is born into skin and a shoe is made into leather, or nylon or plastic or whatever if you want to be terribly modern about the whole idea. They have to show that skin/leather off and walk as far as they can get in it before, eventually, the human/shoe gets a bit tired and their skin/leather gets a bit wrinkly and they aren’t very good at walking around anymore. The only difference being that someone may actually give a toss about a tired human, whereas a tired shoe gets chucked in the bin and nobody gives it another thought. So, anyway, humans and shoes are not all that different. And I do hope you thought about that at least a little bit, even though I am aware that it probably is a little bit insightful for a Sunday afternoon dozing in a chair in your pyjamas.

My story begins in a cosy little shoe shop in New York (yes, THE New York, aren’t I snazzy and all) with a portly, balding gentleman waddling over to my shelf at a ridiculous time on a Monday morning. Being made of the finest leather, and with a shine like a silver lining, it came as no surprise when his pudgy little fingers plucked me off the shelf and plonked me (quite aggressively, I had a scuff for days) down on the counter. Now, I was sad to see the little shop go, but being a top-class shoe means one must venture out into the world eventually. Even if it was at the inevitably incapable hands of this poor chap.

Honesty is one of my many favourable attributes, and therefore I must admit, I wasn’t much enjoying my new home on this gentleman’s feet. They were rather…pungent, that is, and his job involved a lot of sitting around. Frightfully boring. The only exciting part of my time with him came on a frosty October morning in 1929, when a haggard man wearing no shoes (the indecency) ran up to my gentleman and wafted some papers under his piggy little nose.

“You must take these back! Please, Sir, I haven’t eaten for days, I need you to buy them back!”

Now, you must know, the business my gentleman worked for had been in rather a pickle for a while now. I believe they were in danger of going ‘bankrupt’, since so many people were selling ‘shares’ that their company was becoming worthless.

“I’m afraid I am not in a position to do so. Good day to you,” we replied.

“Please Sir! Anything! Just give me something…your shoes!” We stopped. My gentleman turned.

“My shoes?”

“Yes, Sir, your shoes! Oh, how I miss shoes! I will give you them all back for those fine specimens!”

And that is how I came to reside on the feet of a homeless tramp, traded for some ‘shares’ in a failing company. Still, I felt a certain sense of pride at being a bargaining chip, and squeaked happily as I plodded along on the tramp’s dirty feet. However, all was not as it seemed. For my new owner was none other than Pierre les Chaussures, the notorious international shoe thief (he originated in France, hence his name) who plagued the many questionable justice systems of the 1920s. I have been told, later in my existence, that he took up shoe-thievery as a tribute to his late wife, who (before she was trampled by a stampede of hungry French bulldogs) had maintained a worrying shoe fetish. I do believe the woman was rather barmy, if her husband was anything to go by. I credit his acting prowess in bargaining for me, however, though I do feel sorry for my previous gentleman who will soon discover that he gave me up for some old receipts. To be fair, he didn’t have the common sense to check the papers before he gave me away, which was rude, come to think of it. Meanwhile me and Pierre were sprinting down a dark alleyway as he tore off his shaggy beard and ripped shirt to reveal a twirled moustache and pinstriped vest. Running as fast as racehorses, we catapulted around the corner only to reveal a small army of men blocking the slight path before us. They all wore the same grey uniform, and the one leading their charge held a shiny badge in his outstretched hand.

“James Alps, FBI. You are under arrest for crimes of international shoe-thievery. Anything you say now…” He continued on in his droning accent as Pierre was handcuffed and de-weaponized. I wasn’t aware one could carry so many weapons on one’s person. Pierre was wiggling around like he had radioactive ant assassins in his trousers, and the officer restraining him was looking at him like he’d gone mad (to be fair, his ship of sanity had indeed sailed a long time ago). That was until a pair of bejewelled slippers slipped out of his trouser legs, and plopped out onto the floor. He then proceeded to quietly transfer his feet into them, leaving me unmanned. Then the fun began.

BAM! Pierre elbowed his restraining officer in the nose, yanking his hands free and kicking the two guards either side of him in the chests in one fluid movement. He made to pick me up off the floor.

“Freeze, Pierre. Do not pick up those shoes.” James Alps was pointing a pistol in Pierre’s direction. Pierre inched towards me.

“Do not pick up those shoes.” His finger scraped my laces.

“Do not pick up those-“ In another fluid movement, Pierre snatched me up from the floor and I was thrown straight into James Alps’ gobsmacked face. It hurt a fearful amount, but since Pierre was then able to make his escape, I believe my sacrifice was granted.

I had not factored in the fact that I would now be left in a shady, mouldering alleyway for a week.

“This’ll do. Dump ‘em o’er there.” Humans! Oh how I had missed their irritating voices!

“Look ‘ere, Larry. Better than those ol’ things. Try ‘em on.” A pair of large, hairy feet were shoved into my screaming seams and I was piloted over to some barrels, which Larry stocked in the back of the alleyway.

“Enough for ‘em, y’think?”

“Long as one’er them agents don’t get to it first. Not our problem anymore, I want me cash.”

And me and Larry marched off.

Larry was paid handsomely for those barrels of ‘moonshine’, as his friend said, as we made our way to a dodgy little ship docked in a dodgy little port in a dodgy little town, and came aboard to cheers as we handed out the collected cash. We set sail the next morning to a chorus of birdsong, and it was ever so wonderful to feel the wind in my seams and sea water cleansing my scuffs. Has a shoe ever had so fine a voyage? I felt very lucky indeed.

My happiness did not last. A couple of miles off our next port, after a week at sea with no interference, I caught sight of another ship with flags waving in the wind and men in uniform on board. Since I was under the impression that Larry and his ship were not involved in a… legal business, the official-looking ship was rather worrying. Especially when I heard:

“It’s them! Border patrol! Secure the hold! Load the cannons!” A lot of running about followed this bold accusation. The other ship did seem to be giving chase, as we sped away, and also began to fire at us. Large holes began to form in the sides of the ship; it was clear we weren’t going to outrun them.

“Sir! Sir we’ve made an awful mistake! We left the cannonballs at the port!”

“Why on earth did y’do that? Grab what y’can! Load ‘em anyway!”

So the Great Cannonball Crisis was in full swing as men loaded the cannons with all manner of household items. It was rather odd to see a pair of underwear flying through the air to attack an enemy ship, but it did the job.

“Sir we’re running out! Help!” Larry ran to a cannon and began firing. I was torn off his feet. My laces tied together. Shoved into a black, suffocating tunnel and… “FIRE!”

BOOM! I was off, streaking through the air at the speed of light, my tongue on fire and my laces streaming out behind me. I catapulted right onto the captain’s ridiculous frilly hat, and proceeded to (albeit accidentally) set his head on fire.

“Captain! You’re on fire!” The silly man began to run up and down his fancy ship, waving his arms in the air and shouting, “I’M ON FIRE!” like an idiot. I was having quite a nice ride in his hat, apart from the fact that I would now have awful burn marks. Until one sensible fellow had the education to dump a pitcher of water on his captain’s head.

“Why in hell did you do that?” the captain squawked.

“You were on fire, captain.”

“Yes, well, I knew that, you imbecile. Doesn’t mean you go around pouring water on someone’s head. I am retiring to my quarters before I turn to an icicle.”

Whilst the captain stormed off, the sensible man plucked me from the captain’s frilly hat and placed me on his respectable feet, still steaming like doused coals.

“Last night in town for you, ain’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re off duty then. Go enjoy yourself.”

My fellow was a ‘prohibition agent’, and being given the night off, I had learned in my month serving him, was a rare occurrence.

Which simply meant we were going to have one hell of a time.

The dancing hall was loud, boasting the cacophonous music of a jazz band and drunken shouts of spinning couples. If there was one thing I had learned about my new owner it was that he had a passionate flair for dancing. He was not going to pass up this opportunity, in one of the finest dancing halls in Chicago, to ask someone for a dance. I squeaked in excitement as he led a fine young woman onto the dance floor and we began. I spun and tapped, flipped and flapped, all to the rebellious tune of southern jazz and the infectious beat of the Charleston. It was the best night of my life.

The next morning, I set sail on yet another ship. Given my previous slightly traumatic experience, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the voyage. But this ship was huge: hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were aboard, milling about and telling stories to their new acquaintances. An old lady approached us in a pair of worn silk slippers.

“So, why you headed overseas?”

“Came to this fine nation for its opportunities, ma’am, but my family needs me back home. I promised them I’d return.”

“Kind of you. You Polish, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Explains the accent. I’m heading to England, seeing some relatives.”

The conversation continued in a mind-numbingly polite fashion.

I was aboard that ship for a terribly long while. Interesting people, but I discovered I had a serious case of seasickness, and never felt quite myself during the journey. We stopped a lot, and I found myself frightfully disheartened when the old woman departed the ship in England; we had stricken quite the friendship. She was awfully interesting. But the ship must go on.

With a jolt, the ship docked in the port and a couple of hours later, we disembarked. There were so many check ins and guards and whatnot that I dozed off for a while, only waking when I was trod upon by a tiny foot.

“Papa! You’re back!” a little boy yelled, a bright smile on his young face. We lifted him up and swung him around. I decided I didn’t mind this new creature stepping on my toes. I didn’t mind at all.

It was a good many years I was worn by the Polish gentleman. I watched the little boy grow up to be a young man, chuckling to myself when he plonked his undersized feet into me and pretended to be his Papa marching off to work, crying quietly when his feet eventually fit. I watched as a little girl was born, walked around the market for ages bartering for baby clothes, and did the same again when they were sold for new dresses and school shoes. I watched as my gentleman talked to crowds of men and women about science and learning, got scuffed against podiums and scoffed as university students trod on me on purpose. I lived a happy life.

Until they came.

The last few weeks had been odd. I had walked a lot faster. And less often. I wasn’t scuffed against podiums anymore. I stayed inside. And there was a lot of people in stompy boots walking around, making a terrible racket. I wasn’t a massive fan of boots. Bit cumbersome, to be honest.

It was a normal Friday night when I heard the knock at the door. I was lying half asleep beside the doormat, where I had been left after a quick trip to the market that afternoon. My gentleman opened the door.

“Professor Antoni Nowak? Your family has one hour to pack. We will return then.” A guard stood at the door. Why did he get to decide what would happen to my family? I wasn’t done with them yet! I glared at his boots before he slammed the door.

The next hour was for frightened sobbing and rushed packing. And it was up all too quickly. The guard reappeared at the door. His boots really were repulsive.

“Get in the truck,” he spat.

“Papa, I don’t want to go,” the little girl said, tears rolling off her cheeks.

“I know, darling, I know.”

“I don’t even have my shoes,” she sobbed.

“Here. Put on mine. Just hurry.” I was soon inhabited by tiny, dainty feet and flopped out of the door. My gentleman walked up to the guard.

“Please, take me, just leave my family. My daughter, she’s only six, you can’t-“ BANG. My gentleman collapsed. The guard’s gun smoked viciously. Blood pooled on the floor. The little girl screamed as the man dragged her into the truck.

I really didn’t like his boots.

Noise bounced off every surface.

A train whistles.

A carriage locks.

A woman screams.

A guard mocks.

A foot stomps.

A baby cries.

A gun fires.

A man dies.

I thought the station had been packed. The carriage was much, much worse. I was shoved against a wall, my toes squashed around the girl’s tiny feet. For days and days, my girl cried and cried.

I don’t think she liked walking in her Papa’s shoes.

“Out. Women to the left, men to the right. Children included.” A gruff guard greeted us at a shabby platform. Fresh air did wonders after a week in that suffocating carriage. My girl followed her mother to the left, where we remained standing until my soles ached, before being led into a courtyard with all the other women.

“Everything of value on the table. Cases on the table. Clothes on the table. Now.” Every woman was handed the same discoloured clothing. The girl eased me off her feet and I was placed on the table, along with a whispered goodbye.

That was the last time I ever saw the little girl.

Heaps and heaps and heaps. Of shoes. And boots. And slippers. And all other manner of things that can be worn on one’s feet. Stored in an enormous warehouse with hundreds of other things, like jewellery and fine clothes. I can no longer say that I was the nicest shoe there. But I did have a story to tell. And tell it I did.

That pair of boots had ridden the swiftest racehorse in the world. That pair of heels had carried five generations of brides down the aisle. That pair of slippers had danced on Broadway.

None of them had been shot out of a cannon, that was for sure.

It was a while before I escaped that warehouse. But it was one hell of an escape. A band of brave heroes in pyjamas snuck in in the dead of night, stealing shoes and clothes before making a mad dash for the fence on the far side of the camp. It was certainly exhilarating, and the man who wore me seemed young and adventurous. We leaped over the fence and broke into the woods, sprinting for miles and miles before resting at a riverbank. The chase continued for days and days, and I must say, I felt a few rather embarrassing holes taking up residence. Woodlands and roads, boats and trains, horses and carriages. I came to reside in a small farmer’s cottage in who knows where, old and happy and quite worn out. Handed down to generation after generation as the Great Escape Shoes.

I wasn’t too tired to appreciate a compliment.

So humans are like a pair of shoes. And shoes are like humans. We help people, we support people. We carry people, we hurt people. We trust people, we resent people. We are bargained for and stolen and shot out of cannons. We voyage and have a family and take great escapist risks.

And we always, always, remember those who were kind to us.

Not too insightful after all, eh?