yellow, nerdery, geeky things, horror, zombies, comic book culture, spider-man, batman, iron man, the hulk, spongebob, squidward, artsy shit, fuzzy hats, guys in dresses, girls in ties, unicorns, shiny things, taking back sunday, mindless self indulgence, sharks, jaws, re-animator, big time rush, lady gaga, phineas and ferb, nerdy girls, geeky boys, hipster shit, cephalopods, turtles, fish, hitchcock, psych, saw, star trek
what to wear when…the storybook cobbler. like the fairy tale fruit vendor, she works behind the scenes - or between the lines, as it were. she opens up shop in book-spines and lays her tools on age-yellowed pages. she fits villains and victims with invisibility boots, magic clogs, shoes that tap out secrets. she collects one speck of dirt from every kingdom. it’s all ground together and whisked into a mixture that’s slicked on stretched, wet vamps. the leather keeps the memory of its assorted homelands. its wearer can walk across worlds with ease when each stride means seven leagues. she sews sandals for rhodopis and sends the eagle after her. an old woman brings her blueprints and they sew a huge shoe-house. puss-in-boots, inge, shop-owners helped by elves: it’s all her doing. she cobbles coups and rescues, futures for the fairest, flight for the heroes. “a boot slit up the sole will trick the devil,” she advises. slit soles and split souls, that’s her business. her business hurts most, she’ll admit, and those most hurt are women. she smiths execution shoes on snow white’s orders. the evil queen’s feet meet poker-hot, glowing, orange iron. the commoners clap and the pale princess roasts apple tarts on the smoldering mess left behind. fallible karen rots in the red, hopping shoes. the cobbler claims she made the silver slippers for the witch’s sister, though she always knew who they were truly for, how many deaths they’d bring. with nub-nailed, blistered fingers, she carves glass carefully. smooth grooves for all ten tiny toes are custom-dug, precisely sized to cradle cinderella’s but mutilate imposters. no matter how fine the fabric or supple the arch, the mermaid’s face screws up in silent pain and rejects her every effort. her gilded talaria flap as the gorgon dies. she scrubs the blood-sopped slippers of bluebeard’s curious wife. every morning comes the call to mend twelve pairs of shoes. she efficiently stitches friction-thinned silk and scrapes crumpled gold leaves from their heels. but then they’re banned from their dreamland and unwillingly wed, which is the slowest, greyest way to die. as for the cobbler, her own feet have never known the touch of cowskin or satin. her toes splay, ancient and unbent by propriety. calluses encase her heels. her knobby toeknuckles crack as she stands. “i wouldn’t have it any other way,” she croaks when customers comment. “i’ve seen what shoes can do to you. i’ve seen the greed, how fiendish those with covered feet become. mummies under almond trees and mouse king conquerors might like my shoes but they’re far and few between.” she wiggles her free feet and sighs. “only a fool goes about shoed and expects a happy ending.”
post 491 of an infinity-part series
(Source: balletshoesandbobbypins, via whatstheenpointe-deactivated201)
