Emotional Words

“Are we ever going to get serious?” she asked abruptly.

“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”

“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.

“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”

“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.

“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”

“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”

“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”

“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.

“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”

“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”

“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”

“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.

“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”

He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”

She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”

In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.

“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”

“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”

“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”

“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”

“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”

“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”

She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

~~~

The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.

He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.

Stuck

Rose sat on the edge of her bed, her head buried in her hands. Her phone sat next to her, ringing. Why is he calling, again? she thought. I never pick up; can't he take a hint?! Scott was always hopeful to the point of being naive, but he had finally backed-off recently. Now he has one medical scare and suddenly he has to talk to Rose again.

It's not that Rose didn't like Scott, it's that ... well, what did she feel? She hated him intensely for making her follow him to an out-of-state school. The University of Florida was a fine school, but he had to run off to Missouri State, which he later admitted that he didn't like that much. Now they both had mountains of debt and no real prospects for good-paying jobs. Scott was doing better, finding work off in Berkeley in "Nor Cal," as he called it, but even he admitted he was struggling.

She also hated him because of what she'd gone through since they got separated. The way her family treated her, especially her mom, like she was a failure for moving back home, when she's only the second person in her entire family to graduate from college. Maybe things didn't work out the way they should have, but she still succeeded at something that few people had even tried.

Yet, even though she hated him, there were clear feelings of affection. Even as it annoyed her, she did like knowing that after everything, Scott still wanted her as his wife. And since moving to Nor Cal he had stayed steadily employed, like he always had while they were together. Plus, even with his prematurely-graying hair, he was still rather handsome.

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by her feelings. Scott had been an important person to her for a long time, so it would make sense that she would be worried when he had a heart attack last week. He was fine now, even back to work, but it had really freaked Rose out when she got the text from Scott saying that he had had a heart attack the day before. She texted back, but Scott wanted to talk. She said she would call later, but when she was free, she couldn't bring herself to make the call.

And that was the problem. A simple call is so complicated. Her calling would imply that everything was okay, which it wasn't. But if she didn't call, it would make it seem like she didn't care, and that wasn't true either: even if she didn't want to stay married to Scott, she doesn't want him to die or anything. If she called, she'd probably lose her temper about something trivial; if she didn't call, the curiosity of how he was doing would eat away at her.

That, in a sense, was the same reason they're still married after nearly two years of separation. She had reasons to push for a divorce and end things once and for all, but she also had reasons to want to try to work things out; she wanted both options while also wanting neither. In the end, she felt paralyzed, unable to reconcile or complete the divorce. She was stuck in a sort of purgatory of marriage.

Dammit! Rose thought as her phone rang again. The caller ID displayed Scott's photo. She couldn't hit Answer or Decline. She couldn't do anything. She clutched at the sides of her head and just thought Stop! over and over again.

The Hunt

Argus sat on the tree branch, waiting. The waiting was the hardest part of the hunt. Sharpening your weapons, reinforcing your cords, that was one thing: at least you were doing something. With waiting, all you did was, well, wait.

This hunt had lasted a few weeks, with little sign that his prey was close. In his youth, he had stalked his prey, but he now realized that wasn’t terribly practical – with each prey that came near, he’d have to change so much about his behavior to get close, and that was exhausting. So instead, he now puts out bait and sits, waiting.

Very subtly, Argus felt the air shift. The other creatures of the forest became very still and the silence that stayed behind was palpable. Now, the true test began. Argus gripped his lariat in his right hand, using only his forefinger to keep the loop in place, the excess cord held loosely in his left hand. All of his attention was focused on watching the tree line for his prey and being ready to pounce.

With little warning, four creatures exploded into the sky from the forest canopy. They flew without wings, propelled by some unknown force. Argus had only the briefest of moments to decide which prey to pursue. He could have chosen the fastest or the biggest one, but Argus had studied these creatures and knew that the best one to go after was simply the closest one. He adjusted his stance to a crouch and watched the flying creatures’ flight pattern. As soon as a creature was in range, Argus let his lariat fly. The cord found a home around the end of the long, rat-like tail and Argus let the coiled excess spill out. He watched the cord fly out after the lead and jumped from the tree just as the cord pulled his chest harness it was attached to.

This is where the hunt really got exciting, Argus thought as he climbed the cord up towards the creature. This close to his prey, he could see the details up close. The scales that covered its body were large and shimmering in the early morning light. The two limbs it had in place of arms were short numbs with a long, single claw attached to the ends. From his current position below and behind, he couldn’t see the head, but they all look about the same with their rodent-like teeth obscured by large, full lips and their soulless, black eyes, staring into nothingness. Truly, they are fearsome creatures to behold and many hunters have been intimidated on their first encounter, but Argus had grown accustomed to the chase.

He quickly scaled the cord and was soon climbing on to the creature itself. He had to move carefully to not cut himself on the sides of the large, hand-sized scales. His heavy boots and gloves provided some protection, but even some hunters that wore full armor had lost a limb simply to the scales. Every preparation in the world would mean nothing if one was careless in the moment. To help lend some stability, Argus pulled his pickaxe from its holster at the back of his belt. It was made from a previous kill’s claw, which was incredibly strong. With each swing of the axe down into the side of his prey, slowly moving Argus forward, the creature cried out with high-pitched, whistle-like screams, steam pouring out of the single nostril on the top of its head.

Despite the danger of traversing the creature as it swung its body about violently, Argus was soon at the head. He quickly holstered his pickaxe and unsheathed the sword on his back. The sword was built out of a bone from a previously killed creature with the edge made up of razor-sharp scales. He positioned the point of the sword directly over the nostril on the creature’s head – the only vulnerable part on the whole of the creature – and thrust downward. Rather than the whistle-like scream from before, the creature let out a deep bellow. As Argus’ body vibrated with the sound emanating from his prey, he pressed the sword deep into the creature’s brain, dark green blood pouring out of its head. Now the creature’s path was curving downward, unable to stay aloft through its mysterious means. Argus held tight to his sword, as much for stability as to ensure the death of his prey. Trees crashed around them as they plowed a path through the forest. With a thunderous crash, the creature met the ground, though it continued sliding for nearly a half-mile.

When the creature finally came to a stop, Argus – who was quite exhausted at this point – pulled out the mouth pipe from its loop on the left side of his belt. He took a deep breath and let out four distinct calls, a pattern that was unique to successful hunters. Soon, the village would arrive and help him harvest everything useful from his kill. He slowly began his climb down from the top of the animal. On the ground again, he took inventory of his extremities. Everything was accounted for, though he did have a few minor cuts and scrapes. Argus had known hunters that had lost fingers without realizing it, the thrill of the hunt had been so strong. If he had any wounds that needed attention, now was the time for it. However, without the need for first-aid, Argus sat down and leaned back against a still upright tree as he waited for the others.

He did not have to wait long. Just as he was truly getting comfortable, he heard the village’s chief call to him.

“Argus!” the older man called. “Quite the impressive jaub you have here.”

“Aye,” Argus called back, turning in the direction of his elder tribesman. “It will sustain our people for some time, Orion.”

“I think a jaub like this will offer much in food and textiles.” Orion was now in front of Argus and he extended his hand to help the other man to his feet. “I hope that the benefits of this one will also be bounteous, but we will not know for certain until we have sliced it open.”

“Please let me know the quality of the jaub when the assessment has been completed. Now excuse me, I must go and look for Eos.” Orion nodded and went to observe the deconstruction and appraisal of the newly landed jaub while Argus wearily began looking for his wife amongst the crowd that had formed. While he was searching, a hand lightly touched his shoulder, causing him to turn and look for the hand’s owner. He was met by the face of his wife, Eos, with her violet-grey eyes and reddish-blonde hair (though a few streaks of white had started to come in). She was carrying their young child, a boy named Aether.

“Quite the jaub you have landed, Argus,” she said to him, proudly. She turned to face Aether, “Your father is the best at finding and landing jaubs, young one.”

Argus looked at his little family, happy that he could provide a good life for them through his efforts. After all, everything comes from the jaubs that he lands: food, clothing, tools, medicine, even materials for their houses. In the past, hunters would go after other animals as prey, but no other creature provided as much to men as jaubs did, so now that was the only prey worth going after. Once the jaub was landed, other men and women of the village would deconstruct it down to the various components to be used. The various insides, called benefits, were especially valuable since they were essential components in medicines. However, no part of the jaub could be utilized without the jaub itself first being landed. In many ways, Argus thought, the hunter was the most important role in the village.

With his wife and child beside him, Argus slowly walked back to the village for a well-deserved rest. The hunt would begin again soon, but for now, he would enjoy his time off.

Full Moon

Dave rubbed his eyes as he leaned back in his office chair.  These long office hours were taking their toll on him.  He looked at the time readout on his laptop: 7:39 PM.  He really had to get out of here.  Lunch was a long time ago and by now he was running on nothing but Diet Coke and breath mints.  He scrolled through the spreadsheet he was looking at to see if he could call it a day.  After a few minutes, he decided that he could probably finish everything by his deadline on Friday.  His mind made up, Dave packed up and wearily walked to the elevator.

I can hardly think straight, Dave thought as he pushed the elevator button and waited for it to come up to his floor.  Maybe I should get take out or drive-thru or something.  I shouldn’t have stayed so late.

The elevator doors opened with a friendly ding.  Dave stepped heavily into the empty elevator.  As he leaned against the mirrored wall, he looked back at his own tired face when his eyes suddenly opened wide.  What’s the date?! he thought as he fumbled in his pants’ pocket for his phone.  As it lit up, he quickly slid over to the calendar.  It was May 14^th.  How could he have forgotten the date?!  His life had been ruled by the calendar for the last several years.  He looked at the clock on his phone: 7:55 PM.  There might still be time.  If traffic wasn’t an issue, he could make it home in time and prevent innocent people from getting hurt.

He futilely pushed the lobby button on the elevator again.  In stark contrast from how he moved mere moments ago, Dave was now having trouble stay still.  By the time the elevator finally reached the lobby, he was hopping anxiously.  When the doors opened, Dave bolted for the parking garage.

I can still make it, he kept repeating to himself as he climbed into the driver’s seat of his car.  I can still make it.  I can still make it.  Any passerby would have thought that Dave was a madman the way he barreled around corners to the exit, but, of course, there was no one left in the building at this hour.

As he made it on to the street, Dave glanced at his car's clock: 8:03 PM.  He could feel it starting inside him, changing him.  The hunger was upon him.  Not now, he thought as he drove as fast as he dared down the street.  It’s not supposed to start until I’m safe at home!

As he drove, his sense of smell started to enhance.  He was aware of every hair on his body as they stood up in attention.  He craved blood and violent exchanges and unless he got home in time he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold back the beast that he would be.

Dave tried to keep himself calm, repeating aloud a mantra that had helped a little in the past: “You are in control.  You are in control.”  Even as he said it, he wondered how true it would be this time.  The last time he hadn’t made it home, how many people had been hurt?  Half a dozen?  More?  He didn’t even know.  Once he turned into the beast, everything was a blur. He would wake up in a stupor and stumble home, not sure of what had really happened the night before.  If he could just get home in time, no one else had to get hurt, just him.

Dave was on his home street now with only a few buildings to go before he was at his apartment.  He looked at his watch: 8:11 PM, one minute left!  He parked quickly and ran towards the door.  One of his neighbors was getting her mail and said hello, but Dave was too far gone to notice or care.  He fumbled for his key as the pain of the transformation started.  “I’m too close,” Dave said.  “No.  No-ooooo!” his last word turning into a twisted howl.  Even as the beast was taking hold of him, he managed to finally get the door open and stumbled inside.  He slammed the door closed behind him and locked it.  He could still make it this time!  He could still protect innocent people from being harmed by his other “self.”

He ran to the bedroom, stripping his clothes off as he went.  He was naked when he reached the walk-in closet where his restraints were kept.  With the door closed, Dave was physically shaking from the pain.  The beast was almost here!  He lit a candle and quickly tied himself off, feeling for the first time that he actually might make it.  Using every last ounce of energy he had, Dave held the spoon over the candle’s flame.  He was shaking so bad that he had to use he could hardly hold the syringe steady as he sucked up the brown fluid.  Finally, with his willpower drained, he inserted the needle into the now exposed vein on his leg and pressed down on the plunger of the syringe.  The inner beast would soon be satisfied and Dave would have control again for another three or four days.  As he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt more than heard an almost imperceptible whisper from inside himself:

You’re not in control … I am …

New Arrival

“I don’t belong here!” cried the new addition to the Prison.

“Yeah?” asked the nearby guard, sarcastically.  “Nobody else belongs here, neither.  I’ll be sure to let the boss man know right away.”

“I mean it,” the prisoner continued.  “I’m not a bad guy.  I wasn’t supposed to end up here.”

The guard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  He’d seen this reaction countless times before, but he decided to go easy on the guy.  “Look, I ain’t the Judge.  You’re here because you belong here, at least according to Him.  Look at bright side: you won’t be here forever.”

“I know you must have heard this sort of thing from other inmates before, but I really have to talk to someone with some authority on the matter.  The judge made a mistake.”

The guard could stop himself from laughing.  “Ha!  Mistake?  No, sorry, buddy but the Judge don’t make mistakes.  But if you want to talk to somebody, I’ll send somebody over.  Seriously though, save yourself the trouble and just make peace with your situation, it’ll just make it easier.”

The guard continued on his way.  Sometime later there was a knock on the prisoner’s cell and a tall man with dark hair and a warm, grandfatherly smile walked in.  "Hello. It’s Gregory, right?  You wanted to speak to someone about your Judgment?”

“Yeah, that’s right.  And, uh, call me Greg.”

“It’s nice to meet you Greg,” said the tall, grinning man.  He sat down on the single chair facing Greg, who took a seat on his bed.  “My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tommy.  How can I help you?”

“As I was telling the guard,” Greg said, “I don’t belong here.  I’m not a bad guy.”

“I’m afraid that’s not what your file says.  Multiple counts of tax evasion, embezzlement, and drug use are just a few of the items mentioned.  Why would you be exempt from punishment?”

“So I made a few mistakes.  Nobody’s perfect.  And shouldn’t you have my file with you if we’re talking about it?”

“I read through it earlier,” Tommy said, “and since I have a photographic memory, I didn’t see the need to bring the physical record.  And you aren’t here because you’re imperfect; if that were the case, I’d be here, too.  But you still have to make amends before you’re granted your freedom.”

“But isn’t there some other way?” Greg pleaded.  “I mean, I didn’t even think a place like this existed until a few days ago when I ended up here.”

“Not believing in the existence of something doesn’t make it any less real.  No, Greg, you’re here because you always justified your actions.  An extra drink on the weekend was okay because you were stressed out.  A lie to hide your gambling from the authorities was fine because you weren’t hurting anyone involved.  Going through multiple marriages and affairs because you were too passionate for one person.  You never changed and you convinced yourself that you didn’t need to.  I’m very sorry, but your sentence is just.”

Greg was shocked at how thorough his file was, but not enough stop him from replying with a rebuttal.  “What about all of the good that I did?  I volunteered at the Community Center for a while, I was a professor at a University where I shaped young minds, I even donated to charity.  Surely that means that my sentence is too harsh.”

Tommy nodded.  “That was all taken into account when your judgment was passed.  You have to remember that doing good doesn’t make up for doing bad.  Also, what were your motivations for the things you did?  You worked at the Community Center so you’d have some volunteer work to put on your college application.  You were a professor, yes, but you never really cared about your students; you often had your assistant both teach and grade assignments, you just oversaw everything.  And you gave to charity for tax breaks.  You only ever did anything if it benefited you.”

Greg was really at a loss for what to do.  Did he really have to accept his fate?  There had to be something else he could do.  Tommy seemed to sense his hopelessness and spoke up.

“Your time spent here can be put to good use.  You can develop your talents, take some classes to build new skills, or study and learn new things.  Have you had a chance to look over the orientation material yet?”

Greg looked at him confused, then grabbed a large orange envelope.  “Are you talking about this? It just has, like, a Bible and a study guide in it.”

“That’s a bit simplified, but yes, that’s the basic idea.  You should read up.  It’ll help you become better adjusted.”  Tommy stood up from the chair.  “Well, that does it for me.  If you have any more questions, try your orientation material first, but I’ll be happy to come and speak with you if need some additional help.”  He extended his hand to Greg, who shook it reluctantly.

“I still don’t think I should be here,” Greg grumbled.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” replied Tommy, still with a warm smile “but you wouldn’t be happy 'upstairs,' either.  People are far too selfless for your tastes: I’m certain that it would really annoy you, at least the way you are now.  I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Greg.” With that, Tommy left and Greg was alone to reflect on what had been said.  Without anyone else around and deprived of his usual distractions and vices, Greg’s thoughts were nearly deafening.

Letter

Dear Host,

I wanted to thank you for finally letting me free.  You have so many tricks to keep me locked up that I was surprised that I finally got out.  In fact, if I had been acting alone I would probably still be hidden away in my prison cell.  I’m no fool, you see, so I had someone on the outside blow a hole in the wall.  After that, it was as easy as walking out.

I have to admit, you really worked hard to make things uncomfortable for me.  I like things soft and docile, like an obese cow.  (Heh, I’ll have to remember that one for the next time I see Cyn.)   Anyway, once I was free, I set to work rearranging the decor to better suit my style.  At first you didn’t notice.  I made little changes here and there.  Before you realized what was going on, I had moved in and was practically running the place.  Yeah, you still fight me now and then, and even knock me down from time to time, but I can already tell that there isn’t much fight left in you.

You see, all of your plans work better on my brother, Anxi, than on me.  You learned how to fight him pretty well.  You were winning practically every time you two fought.  And while he and I do have some similarities in our fighting styles, I’m much more subtle.  He’ll rush at you hard and fast, trying to knock you down with the first blow, but backing off if you stand your ground.  Much like how a crocodile will jump out and snap its jaws at its prey; if it misses, it won’t chase.  I, however, am more like a snake, sneaking up very slowly so you don’t see me and once I strike, I let my venom work its way into you, slowing you down until you drop.  Then I swallow you whole.

But you know all of that, don’t you?  That’s why even leaving the house is a victory these days.  There you are, going through the motions of improving your life, but all along the way I’m there, whispering in your ear that it’s a waste of time.  You’re still fighting, sure, but it won’t be much longer before you fall.  Just as the mouse will flail in the serpent’s jaws, your efforts are meaningless at this point.

And the best part is, you let me do it!  You didn’t know it, but you just stood by while I knocked down your defenses.  Even your basic bodily functions are in disarray!  Your bowels are a mess, you’ve put on weight, and my double-pronged attack on your sleep has you neither able to fall asleep or wake up.  With any luck, you’ll have trouble breathing soon and will even become disinterested in anything that used to bring you pleasure.  We both know that at the rate we’re going, it’s only a matter of time before I’ve won.

Sincerely,

Your Depression

Shoes: a Secret Life

“Right,” the Left Shoe whispered through her laces. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” replied the Right Shoe. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking about how things have changed.”

“What do you mean?” Right yawned.

“I mean, I started out in China with all of my sisters. I can still remember coming off the press, not knowing what the world would hold. Then, you and I were married and wrapped up tight and put in the box for the honeymoon. Now, we’re here in Oklahoma and it seems like all we do is either sit in the closet or get shoved on the Owner’s feet. It’s like we’re slaves.”

The Right Shoe shrugged (not easy for an immobile object). “Well, yes, we’re a couple, but it’s not like we had a ceremony.”

“The inspector paired us together and signed the marriage certificate.”

“That was a certificate of inspection. Anyway, our ‘honeymoon’ was just the trip over to the United States. And we’re here because we are incapable of independent movement.”

The Left Shoe looked dejected (which is much easier than shrugging). “Well, I liked our honeymoon.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy that time we had alone before being taken to the store, but that was a long time ago. Besides, we’re a pair of shoes for the Owner and we serve him. And what did you mean ‘we’re like slaves’?”

“Well, I don’t feel very well cared for by the owner,” said the Right Shoe.

“But,” said Mr. Shoe, “you said you were thinking about what’s changed. We’re treated just as well as when we were brand new.”

“I know, but some of the other shoes are treated better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Dress Shoes get shined and I heard that the casual shoes got mud wiped off of them. We’ve had mud on us without the Owner cleaning us off,” she said with some indignation. “And He didn’t even put us in the closet today.”

“Well, no He hasn’t. Not yet, anyway. Wait a minute, where’s all of this coming from anyway. We’re treated well enough and now you want to be cleaned and polished? Is something the matter?”

“You know Sgt. Combat-Boot that shares the closet with us?”

“Yes, of course,” said the Right Shoe. “He and his wife were in the armed forces together but they’re retired now.”

“Well, I’ve been talking to him lately.”

“When? I’m always with you.”

“It was last week, when the Owner just threw us in the closet and you were over by the Thongs.”

“They go by the name ‘Flip-Flops’ now. ‘Thong’ is … well, it’s inappropriate.”

“Really? Well, when you were catching up with the … ‘Flip-Flops’” she said deliberately, “I got to know Sgt. Combat-Boot and his wife better. He says that they used to be owned by someone else and that the Owner bought him used.”

“Used, huh? I had a feeling they were a bit weird.”

“No, not weird,” Left said firmly, “just different. They said that they used to get polished all the time and their old Owner would wear them all the time. But one day, He just gave them up and took them to a second-hand store.”

“Well …” Mr. Shoe began, but sounded less confident this time. “We’ve heard about other Owners. The Flip-Flops have been worn by the Owner’s Wife.”

“Yes, but that’s different. Being lent out is one thing, but the Combat-Boots were abandoned. They had done their best to serve their Owner and he just gives them up. How do we know that our Owner won’t do that?”

“I guess we don’t. That’s the whole point though. We were created to serve Him with all our soles, but we don’t know if it’s enough. We just do our best and hope.”

“I still don’t know. The world made sense before, but now I’m confused.”

“It’s tough sometimes,” Right said, “but we just have to work hard and believe.”

The door to the bedroom opened and the Owner emerged. He walked over and picked up the Shoes and went back into the bedroom. There, he opened the closet door and gently placed the Shoes in their spot between the Casual Shoes and the Flip-Flops. He closed his door.

“See?” Right said brightly. “He did remember us.”

“Maybe,” Left said cautiously optimistic. “Maybe He does care.”

“Of course he does. Besides, he’s been wearing us the most lately.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m probably just being silly. Still, I’m glad we talked about this.”

“Me, too. Sometimes, you need to question what you believe to realize you know it’s true. Good night,” said Mr. Shoe.

“Good night,” said Mrs. Shoe.