They’re there, each morning. Twelve pairs of shoes. All broken, the princesses claim, wrecked, wretched, unusable, unbearable, and they can’t possibly wear them.
So I do.
What a princess calls unbearable and what I call unbearable are two entirely different things. Oh, sure, I can see enough that the shoes are scruffed up, that they’ve got holes in the toes or the heels, that they’re ripped on the top or the side, that the jewels and golden thread have fallen off in places. Still, they sparkle on my feet, these princess shoes, all shiny and sparkling and glittery-like. Some are soft and silken. And others just cover up the mud on my feet. I try to keep them safe from mud, those shoes, not that there’s much point to that, where I live.
I dance in them, the princess shoes, as I go begging in the streets.
They’re under a curse, some whisper, my broken shoes. They must be cursed, or they’d last more than a night. And I’ve heard the tales, of how the princesses dance, night after night, but not in any palace of a mortal king, no; of the wizards and soldiers and princes and kings who have all followed the princesses under the earth to see for themselves the fate of the glittering shoes. They dance in golden caverns haunted by witches. No, they’re witches themselves, the princesses, and that is why they dance. No, the shoes are cursed, and that is why they dance. They whisper of secret doors and floors, of fairies, and magic.
Nonsense, say others, passing me without tossing a coin. It’s only shoddy shoemakers seeking more coin, or spoiled princesses whining about shoes. No fairies, no witches, no magic doors, no happy endings: no fairy tales. The princesses will wed, as princesses do, and then we’ll hear no more of their shoes.
And yet, I keep hearing the whispers, the tales. And I’ve seen the shoes, the holes, and I wonder. I scramble through the mud in those ill-fitting, broken, princess shoes, my hands outstretched for coins, and wonder if the shoes might one day drag me down, through all the mud and all the earth, down to those cavernous glittering halls where princesses and fairies and witches dance, night after night after endless night while I sleep wrapped in my tattered cloak, warmed by the mud. I wonder.
And when my hands are not outstretched for coins, I dance.
Mari Ness’s work has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Dog Vs. Sandwich, and numerous print and online markets. She keeps a disorganized blog at mariness.livejournal.com. She always wondered what happened to all of those shoes.
From the Editors
For Readers:
Welcome to another edition of Every Day Fiction!
In honour of Halloween, EDF continues its tradition of offering a wealth of horror stories to get you in the mood. This year’s Halloween spectacular features work by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley, Tels Merrick and niddy, leading up to Kyle White’s trick-or-treat horror piece, “Sweet Bite”, on the 31st.
On a completely different note, Every Day Fiction needs your help!!!
Last month, slush reader Scott Cosby had to take indefinite leave due to health issues, and this month Elise Palmer has found that her studies are more strenuous than she’d expected. That leaves us with no slush readers, which is where you come in!
If you are passionate about reading and would like a say in the kind of fiction EDF publishes, this is your opportunity to join our team. Slush readers at EDF are unpaid, but it’s great experience and we’re a fun team to work with. You don’t need to be a writer to read slush, but if you are, in addition to giving back to the writing community, reading and critiquing a high volume of unfiltered work certainly helps to improve your writing. You learn what works–and what doesn’t! One caveat: we never publish our own work and cannot consider submissions from current slush readers. Camille and I are both writers as well as editors, but our work will never appear on this site. We do, however, like to think having a credit from EDF on our resumes has opened some doors, and it could do so for you as well. Click here for details on the job and how to apply.
Finally, EDF would like to thank Erica Naone and Deven Atkinson for their generous donations. It’s with the support of our generous readers that EDF is able to continue bringing fine fiction into your inbox without charging a subscription fee.
For Writers:
Some of you may have noticed a slow-down in the speed at which we respond to your submissions. We apologize. Our Managing Editor, Jordan Lapp, got married and went on an extended honeymoon, and we lost both our slush readers. We’ve made a real attempt to whittle down the backlog of submissions, but it’s a battle. We hope to be back to normal by the middle of October.
Finally, Forum Moderator KC Ball reports that stories from the EDF Writing Group are seeing their way into print.
The Banshee by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley was in Every Day Fiction this month; Dave MacPherson has a nifty tale about a sea serpent and some art students coming in October in Abacort Journal and KC Ball’s flash, Stand and Deliver, was just accepted at Boston Literary Magazine.
If you would like to join this growing group, please contact us.
October’s Table of Contents
| Oct 1 | Kevin Jewell | Enter Not |
| Oct 2 | Barry Davis | Devil Do |
| Oct 3 | Rumjhum Biswas | My Daughter |
| Oct 4 | Dave MacPherson | Gallery Four |
| Oct 5 | Jason Stout | The Unstoppable Evelyn McHale, May 1, 1947 |
| Oct 6 | Oonah V Joslin | You Must Remember This |
| Oct 7 | Richard Lamb | The Watch |
| Oct 8 | Kevin Shamel | Outlast the Stars |
| Oct 9 | Amy Corbin | The Adoption |
| Oct 10 | Brian Dolton | Weaving Fancies For The Children |
| Oct 11 | Acquanetta M. Sproule | Dern Spot |
| Oct 12 | Sarah Black | Pies of God |
| Oct 13 | Milan Smith | Sasha’s Knee |
| Oct 14 | Douglas Campbell | Forlorn Hope Fancy |
| Oct 15 | Jonathan Pinnock | Visiting Time |
| Oct 16 | K.C. Ball | In His Prime |
| Oct 17 | Celeste Goschen | Life Without Jerry |
| Oct 18 | Stephanie Siebert | Greedy |
| Oct 19 | Robin Vandenberg Hernfield | Sea Shell |
| Oct 20 | Alexander Burns | Apotheosis Cake |
| Oct 21 | Joshua Reynolds | Rush Hour |
| Oct 22 | Nuala Ní Chonchúir | Roy Lichtenstein’s Nude In A Mirror: We Are Not Fake! |
| Oct 23 | Sarah Hilary | Revenge of the River Gods |
| Oct 24 | Ann M. Pino | End Times |
| Oct 25 | Erin M. Kinch | A Million Faces |
| Oct 26 | Iggy Smythe | Any Rapport In A Storm |
| Oct 27 | Jim Harrington | The Kiss |
| Oct 28 | Sylvia Spruck Wrigley | Darren Is Updating His Facebook Status |
| Oct 29 | Tels Merrick | All of My Heart |
| Oct 30 | niddy | Monster in the Attic |
| Oct 31 | Kyle White | Sweet Bite |
Henry pulled to a stop in front of Jerry’s house to pick up his new carpool partner. No one flew out the door. “He’s going to make me late!” Henry slammed on the horn.
The door flung open, and Jerry rushed down the driveway, one shoe off and a loose tie flapping in the wind behind him, while trying to eat a breakfast bar.
Henry shook his head as he watched Jerry fling his briefcase into the back seat and flop down beside him, scattering crumbs around as he pulled the door shut.
“Bogus! My alarm clock didn’t go off this morning.”
“You’re going to clean up all those crumbs, aren’t you?”
“Oh, wow, Dude, didn’t realize I had cratered your wheels.” He dusted more crumbs off his shirt and onto the floorboard.
Henry gritted his teeth. Why he had ever agreed to the carpool idea now escaped him. Yeah, at the time saving the environment had sounded like a good idea, but at the expense of his sanity?
After a brief drive to the freeway, he landed in the morning rush hour traffic headed downtown. More like the morning still hour traffic, because they didn’t go very fast. Reminded him of the Army: rush to stand in line. At least there you didn’t have to smell everyone’s gas fumes. Only an occasional rear venting.
Jerry swallowed the last of his breakfast bar and dusted the remaining crumbs into his lap. “You know what you need?”
“No, what?” Henry kept his eyes on the car in front of him to watch a movie on their TV screen.
“What you need is a set of saws on the front of this chariot, and like, you could mow your way through all this traffic.”
“Saws? What are you talking about?”
“They have those now. I saw it in the movie theater. Speed Racer uses them.” He stared at me as if serious.
“Ah, that’s a movie. Not real life. They don’t really have cars like that. Besides, even if I had such saws, I’d be put away for life for killing all these people in front of me so that I could get to work faster.”
“Whoa, Dude. I hadn’t thought about that. After all, who wants to get to work faster.”
Henry wrinkled his brow and stared at the man. “Who hired you?”
A grin spread across his face. “My Uncle. He’s rad.”
“Of course. I should have known.”
“Why? Are you psychic?”
“No, you crazy–”
“Oh, oh, I know! You need those legs that pop out and shoot your car into the air so you can jump over everyone. That’d be awesome!”
Henry rolled his eyes, and kept them there. “Aside from the damage such a device would do to your car upon crashing back onto the pavement, when you’re sitting still, all it would do is make your car jump up and down in one place!”
“Whoa! You’re right!” A silly grin danced upon his face. “You’re pretty smart.”
“Wish I could return the compliment.” Using saw blades to shorten this ride grew more appealing by the minute. The crowd of vehicles moved forward a couple of feet.
Jerry scanned the area. “Dude, we’re gonna be here for a while. What if we–”
“No! No more crazy ideas. Nada, zip. Got it?”
“But I wanted–”
Henry grabbed Jerry’s lips and squished them shut. “What did I just say? Did I stutter? Was I not clear enough?”
He yanked his head back out of Henry’s grasp. “But if–”
“You see this button right here?” Henry pointed at the radio volume dial.
Jerry nodded.
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll push that button, and you’ll be ejected from this car. Remember that from the movie?”
His eyes grew wide. “You…” He stopped himself short. His eyes glanced at the button, then back to Henry. He settled back in his seat and stared out the window.
Henry smiled. At last, some peace and quiet.
For a few moments, only the sounds of car horns and a street crew hammering pavement into pieces off in the distance pierced the blessed quietness in the vehicle. The line moved forward another couple feet.
Jerry dug in his pocket, then pulled out… nothing? But he held it as if it were keys. He then grabbed an imaginary steering wheel and proceeded to ’start’ the car.
Henry groaned. Now he’s going to mime all the way to work!
Jerry flipped an imaginary turn signal switch and made a noise with his mouth, “Click, clunk, click, clunk,” and spun the air-wheel to the right.
Henry’s eyes followed his movements to a street leading off to the right. The construction blocking the back-road route to work had been opened after months of being closed.
“Oh look, the road’s open now. Great!”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Dude!” His eyebrows shot up. He threw his hands over the radio volume knob and waited for Henry to act.
Henry sighed. “I’m not going to eject you.”
Jerry relaxed. “That’s awesome, cause otherwise, I’d have had to take drastic measures.”
Henry laughed. “And what would those be?”
He whipped out a handle, flipped a switch, and a beam of light extended six feet from the base, searing a hole through the roof of the car. Jerry swung it around. It crackled through the metal with a hum, and a chunk of ceiling crashed between them.
Henry jumped back and gazed forlornly at his car’s ceiling. “What the…!” Jerry had created an instant sunroof. Jagged metal surrounded the hole as the light-saber hummed, throwing sparks when it bounced off the edges of the ever-widening hole.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
“Dude, from the movie, where else? Now, about those saw blades….”
R. L. Copple is a father to three children, a husband since 1982, and lives in the Texas Hill Country. His interest in speculative fiction started at an early age, after reading “Runaway Robot” by Lester Del Ray. Many others followed by Asimov, Bradbury, Heinlein, Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, among others. He has written for religious purposes but started writing speculative fiction in 2005. Infinite Realities marks his first book, a fantasy novella. Novels are in the editing stages, one of which is a sequel to this book. He has been published in several venues. More info can be found at the author’s web site, http://www.rlcopple.com.
There’s a huge bull sea lion on the farthest platform, his chin up in the air, barking to the world at large. I’m standing on the dock at Fisherman’s Wharf watching him, and thinking how much it reminds me of a University lecture. The professor stands at the front of the lecture hall barking out information to students who are talking to one another, doing something else, or maybe sleeping. Probably sleeping.
Here at the Wharf, that also holds true. There’s a multitude of platforms, all covered with dozing, sunbathing sea lions. They’ve even managed to pile onto one another in huge stacks of Zalophus califorianus: the Californian Sea Lion. I guess I paid more attention to the barking zoology lectures than I thought.
This is the first time I’ve been to Fisherman’s Wharf, the first time I’ve been to the States, actually. I’m visiting an uncle who moved away so long ago I can only barely remember him living at home. When I got off the plane, I was worried that I wouldn’t recognize him, but it wasn’t a problem; he looks like my brother.
My uncle moved away and got married when I was still in elementary school. Or he moved away to get married; I’m not really sure which came first, and I’ve never asked. When he got divorced, he stayed in the States. The part of me that is proudly Canadian has always wondered why, but I’ve never asked that either. Maybe it was for the weather.
My gaze drifts up towards the impossibly blue sky, searching for a spot of white. Are there any clouds here at all? I give up the quest and look over at my uncle, and my aunt. If the weather was the reason he stayed, he owes it a debt of gratitude. He’s married again, and she’s wonderful. They look like they fit together, like they’re where they belong. I’m a bit jealous of that.
I turn to watch the sea lions again, and focus on a fight that’s broken out on one of the nearest platforms. It isn’t a long one, and a sea lion is pushed off into the water. If I stick with my previous analogy, that sea lion is me. Only, instead of a shove, I was given a letter from the Office of the Dean of Science.
I’d never doubted I would go to University. I was a good student, with marks higher than required to apply. I never thought of taking an Arts degree either, since I was supposed to do something useful. Something useful, something I was interested in, and something I had an aptitude for, but that turned out to be a triad I couldn’t pull off. I didn’t have either the memory for a Biological Sciences degree, or the desire to study enough to overcome that failing. So, the letter, and the wonderful feeling of failure followed by the hopelessness of being pushed off into the water.
It came right before I had to leave. I’d been looking forward to the trip for months, and there was nothing to do after submitting the appeal but wait. So I’d hopped on the plane, not realising just how much being pulled out of the context of your existence could affect you.
No one here really knows me. No one here has expectations or knew about the failed plans I’d made for my future. Sure, I was staying with family, but the kind of family that’s also strangers. With nothing of my life around, I’m trying to remember why I was taking all those classes I hated, or why I kept struggling to achieve something I no longer even wanted. I’m swimming in the water and thinking maybe my old position on the platform wasn’t as comfortable as I thought.
The sea lion is swimming, too. She seems to be looking for a way back on, but all the others have shifted, and there’s no more room. Will it be the same for me, when I go back? I won’t be out on my ass, I know that. But I won’t be the one who did well at school anymore, who got the grades and succeeded. I won’t be the one who earned the degree the way I was supposed to. It’s more than my own expectations I’ve left behind, after all.
She’s pretty determined, though, that sea lion. There’s a little bit of space at one of the edges, and she’s pulling herself out of the water and onto it. As she tries to keep herself from falling off, she bumps one of the others and gets snapped at. Not encouraging, but she’s only forced back a little and not enough to fall again. As she keeps searching for a spot, one of the other sea lions gives a little cry, and raises a welcoming flipper. The sea lion that is me accepts the invitation, shuffles forward, and rests against the other’s side. They all shift briefly as the flipper is lowered, and then the platform is completely still.
A perfect fit.
I smile. The sea lion looks perfectly content there. Maybe I don’t have to worry as much as I have been. After all, I can swim in the water for a while, search for a new spot. One of these days I’ll find my way back onto the platform. If I don’t fit right away, I’ll just keep trying. Eventually, I’ll find my place again, my perfect fit.
“Are you ready to leave?” my uncle asks, and I nod. Casting one last look back at the platforms and content occupants, I follow my aunt and uncle. They’re talking about a shop nearby that sells candy apples, something else I’ve never tried. Looking ahead, I listen to the sound of the barking bull as it fades behind us.
BD Wilson is a writer from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada whose work has appeared in Niteblade Fantasy and Horror Magazine, Shine! Online Journal, and Long Story Short. A firm believer in a virtual existence, BD’s home on the Web is located at http://www.bdwilson.ca.
A toothpick hung from Lester’s mouth. He supposed he ought to spit it out, but he felt naked without it. Boredom ate at him as the minutes dragged by like some endless newsreel at the movie house. At first he barely noticed her; just some broad with a full grocery cart until she stopped beside a shiny new Cadillac. Fate blessed him. Before he could come up with a plan she loosened her grip on the cart when she rummaged for her keys. Like a magnet to metal the cart headed his way. When he rescued the cart from the path of a van his gut said she’d try to pay him a tip. That’d be the beginning. He faked a yell and smothered a grin. The toothpick fell to the dirty pavement.
A limp sealed the deal. She offered him a ride home. Leather seats hinted at the treasures awaiting him. Lester knew her kind, one of those charitable types, always ready to give some poor slob a dollar so she could feel real good inside. But he didn’t want a dollar; a few small trinkets pilfered from her house would do much better. “Instead of dropping me off at home, maybe you’d let me off at the Dairy Queen. I haven’t eaten today.”
He crossed his fingers; it worked like a charm. “My husband is waiting at home for lunch. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t want to be no trouble, lady.”
“Of course it isn’t any trouble. Will your family be worried if you are gone for a while?”
“Nah, I don’t have any family around here.” A lie, but she wouldn’t know. His ma wasn’t expecting him much sooner than dinner time anyways.
Twenty minutes later the big Cadillac pulled into a long dirt driveway. The house sat back in an old orchard with a red barn off to the side. When he got out of the car he remembered to limp. A screen door slammed and a man’s voice said, “Hi, honey, did you get us lunch?”
“Yes, darling. Everything you wanted. Can you give me a hand here?”
“C’mon, honey, I’ve been busy all morning.”
“Okay. I’ll do it. I only hope I don’t break a nail or ruin my polish.”
Lester turned and out of the corner of his eye caught a glint of metal. “Women,” the man muttered. He winked at Lester. “She thinks I ought to go to some salon and have one of them manicures. Yeah, right.” A laugh gurgled up in his throat as he cleaned a thumbnail with the hunting knife. “By the way, what’s your name? I’m just called ‘hey you’ around here. Not really complaining, she’s a good woman, at least most of the time.” He stuck out his hand. “Bernie.”
“Lester. Pleased to meet you.” He sized up the man. Rough, calloused hands. Probably not all that smart. This’ll be easy. A few minutes in the house alone, pocket a few pieces of jewelry and he’d be sitting pretty. No need to rush, he had the whole afternoon.
Bernie pointed to the side of the barn where an old U-Haul sat. Someone had painted over the words, but Lester recognized the familiar orange markings. “I make a bit of extra change making deliveries for folks hereabouts. Already got some furniture loaded. I’ll be back in about an hour. Why don’t you hang around, and I’ll bring us back a couple of six packs.” He leaned forward and whispered. “She won’t tell me to quit drinking when we’ve got company.”
Lester watched the truck maneuver down the driveway. Now’d be a good time to size up the house. The lady’d be in the kitchen making the promised meal. He grinned. Stupid people. They deserved what they got. The door swung open and the woman stepped outside. “Lester, my neighbor called and needs to borrow a few potatoes. Do you mind waiting while I deliver them? You can come on in and sit down. I left some lemonade on the kitchen counter for you.” She smiled and patted his cheek.
He stood on the porch until the Cadillac disappeared from sight. What luck. They might as well have given him the keys to the bank. In the distance a siren wailed. Lester laughed and headed upstairs.
A broken gold chain rested on the dresser top of the first bedroom he entered. He scooped it up with a chuckle. The furniture held no interest. Too big. Of course, if he had that big truck then he might wrestle a few pieces downstairs. Nothing in the drawers besides clothes. The second bedroom didn’t have a stick of furniture. He checked the closet and found almost nine bucks in an old coat.
Outside the last bedroom a white hankie lay on the floor next to a silver bracelet. Pay dirt. Underneath he discovered a switchblade knife. Lester knew this must be his lucky day. With a big smile he opened the door. Drawers hung open, their contents spilling out. Perfume dripped on the carpet from a cracked bottle.
Howling sirens interrupted his search. He pushed the curtain aside as two police cars raced up the drive. He dashed down the hall. A man’s voice yelled. “Hold it right there. Hands on your head. Now!” A second cop approached, gun drawn, and opened the bathroom door. “Shit. We’re too late.” He grabbed Lester and jerked him to the doorway. “I ought to beat you to hell right now for what you did, you bastard.”
Lester felt bile tickle the back of his throat. He’d never seen so much blood. Pools of it on the floor and dripping down the walls. Red drops on the mirror. Sink. Tub. Toilet. A really old lady lay on the floor. Eyes staring. Her throat sliced open. He felt the cop searching him. “Look at this,” the cop said to his partner. Lester heard the knife click and saw the bloody blade.
Anne Marie Gomez owns a business that designs custom gardens for people’s homes. She also raises a variety of flowers from seed and enjoys sharing the seedlings with other home gardeners. Her free time is devoted to writing, writing, and then more writing.
