Shoes

By Charles Ramsay McCrory

 

In Rachel Zoe’s closet there are enough high heels to shoe Calcutta, but don’t fault her for their number. Picture a path from hut to well scored with stiletto tracks, women lurching off like cranes to dip their jugs in water. Boys naked but for the Manolo Blahniks shoving out their distended bellies, jutting tailbones, unable to catch the guests at the hotel to beg their food or money, halting behind their Western strides. The shoes are styled apart from tragedy; their straps and rosettes do not know want. Now picture the shoes in mounds at Auschwitz, worn and friendly as dog ears. They feel the absence of something more than feet. Rachel’s are nothing personal. Aisle on aisle of arches, endless permutations of shoe for no foot in particular. Rachel dresses. Downs Perrier. Offers up one foot, then the other. Almost ascetic, almost penance: the block in her heel, her bunched toes.

Charles Ramsay McCrory is an English student at The University of Mississippi, as well as a fiction reader for The Adroit Journal.  His work has appeared in The Cossack Review, The Adroit Journal, and Amethyst Arsenic. 



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