Cobbler

The little old man with the extravagant mustache remained in his elegant, obsolete shop, serving his dwindling customers as best he could. They left with mended shoes and a bounce in their steps that they couldn’t quite explain, a cheerful, joyous, expansive sensation. Panhandlers knew the blocks around the shop as better than average, though they’d never have guessed why.

The only clue was the hand-lettered placard below the shop’s name in the big window. Most chuckled when they read it. He’d expected as much, but he was incapable of deception, even by omission. It read: “Shoes repaired. Souls resurfaced.”

Prompt: Three Blue Shoes

From a prompt by my excessively introverted spouse. (Just so you all can see how seriously I take my made-up-on-the-spot rules.)

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There were three shoes by the front door. Weston’s sneakers, and one darker blue one that looked like a slip-on. Dressy. Too thin for his foot.


At the IHOP, they gave him a stack of five pancakes. He’d ordered three. He couldn’t make the waitress understand what he was asking. He left half on the plate.

That night, his bed was up to a queen-size from a twin. After a resigned look to see if the sheets had similarly expanded, he climbed in and tried not to worry about it.

He woke up the next morning beside her, and smiled.