Writing prompt #8: You see a shoe on the road... why is it there?
April, 17, 2013
The leaves danced across the road, echoing my joy at the successful conclusion of another day completed. My factory-issued off-white jumper hung a little too much off my hips. The meter would notice I hadn't been eating my entire allotment. But I could only stomach so much compound a day. It was tasty, but so, so colorless. The leaves seemed on my side, showing off their vibrant colors, even as they had shed their master life source and trickled away to end up as concrete chatter. They had colors, why couldn't our food, or our clothes. What was so wrong with color?
As if in response to my thoughts, a burst of unreal color peered out underneath a pile of patterned leaves. It was the color of the sun, but with more of a grassy hue. I peered around me, making sure no one was watching as I deviated from my scheduled route home. I bent over and picked up the object. It was pliant, yet hard. Worn, yet vibrant. I turned it over and over. One side had a pattern on it. It had been white, but was now mostly the color of earth. The other side, the colorful side, had stripes and metal holes all over it. A thin, frayed rope was laced through the metal holes, as if to hold the thing, or some thing trapped inside it.
I put it up closer to my face and accidentally inhaled. Phew! The smell was like a rotten egg.
(My scene takes place in a futuristic world w/o shoes apparently)
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