500 shoes

Falling from the tree onto the porch, I sneak into the corner and hide. It is dark, mid-night, silky, foggy, thick summer night. The man. He is on his bicycle beside the house waiting for me. He starts to ride screaming “SAM! SAM! I KNOW IT’S YOU” crazy fucker. My shoes start chasing him down the lawn “I’M NOT SAM, YOU ARE CRAZY! GET OUT OF HERE YOU CRAZY BASTARD!” He cackles his maniacal taunt while spinning me into a conundrum. Who is chasing who, exactly?
Around and around in circles I chase him in the street. This scruffy old bearded man, hair as a lions, dirty as a gassy tractor sitting in the dead heat of summer, trying to sweat but can’t because it’s metal. My shoes run straight for the house, running as hard as they can, my hands fumbling for the knob because dirty old tractor man is right at my heels. Success! I run through, hurrying to untie the shoes. This is difficult seeing as the floor is covered in shoes. 20 30 40 pair of shoes just in the foyer. All down the hall, in boxes, inside of each other, shoes breeding more shoes. They are fucking rabbits, piling up more quickly than I can untie my own. Hearing his huffing behind me I bolt for the stairs. Shuffling again, where the fuck are these shoes coming from? I try to kick mine off at my pursuer but they get lost in the more shoes that keep appearing on the stairs. Now hundreds of pairs of shoes trailing the path of my feet, they fly out from behind me shooting as an old tommy gun. My tracker ne’er deterred, still has his gleaming eye on his prize. At the top of the stairs I turn sharply, tripping, slipping, gripping onto the door jam, throwing myself onto my bed. The shoes stop breeding. Waiting. The man stands in the frame of the door, breathing heavily, playfully watching me. Ready. He disappears and again I fall from the tree onto the front porch.

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