The Shoe Story

Per request from Danielle, here's the infamous shoe story from GSP, as I originally wrote it twenty minutes before class:

The brakes squeal as she stops by the graveyard. She steps out of her car into the pitch-darkness that only one-in-the-morning can bear and pulls a shovel from her back seat.

Laying the shovel on the ground, she reaches for the newspaper and flashlight on the console. The paper pierces the silence as she spreads the obituaries page across the hood. Madeline Raye. . . Let's hope she had better taste than the last three stops!

She scanned the graveyard for a patch of freshly broken ground and quickly focused on Madeline's final resting place.

The distinctive sound of shovel breaking ground was one that, despite hearing it hundreds of times, unsettled her with its action. she didn't necessarily feel guilty for this maneuver as much as unsettled by the reexcavation of a buried casket.

Finally, she had reached the coffin. She opened it and found exactly what she was looking for. On the feet of Madeline's corpse were the most beautiful shoes she had ever seen. She grabbed them, pushed the dirt back over the grave, and returned to her car. She placed the shoes and the shovel in the back of her car and marked Madeline's name off of the list.

I wrote a much longer version as well that was devoid of the humor. . . I'll spare you that one.

STRESS-AHH-CRAZY-WHAT-NO-MORE

So college applications are evil creatures. Who knew?

Between that, homework, and occasionally writing songs in my head while driving home on empty back-roads, not a whole lot has happened. . .

Well, that's a total lie.

I'm extremely ready for fall to actually start behaving like fall, at least in the plants-dying-pollen-leaving-the-air-smell-of-dust-burning- off-of-the-heater sense of the term. Instead there's a sort of bizarre pseudo-desert climate in place right now, with days reaching at least two hundred degrees and nights getting down into the fifties. This is October. Why isn't it always in the fifties? It's always seemed much more homey that way.

Maybe it's just some way of making me more comfortable with the fact that I might not be living here next year.

I have to go... I really want to write some more; I feel like I need to, if just for myself.

Iron & Wine – Pagan Angel And A Borrowed Car