Please ignore my recent lack of publishing. I’m busy preparing for the SAT and multiple AP exams. Oh JOY! I completely less than three standardized testing. Now if only I had the will to go down the river with a knife…*
*This is a facetious introduction for those of you concerned.
Shoes
Rod Tanzol
Sarah Cruz awoke one morning with an insatiable lust for shoes. Her mouth was dry. The only thing that could quench her thirst was shopping spree. “I need shoes!” she screamed in her mind. She was determined. She showered, did her hair, and got dressed.
She left in a hurry skipping breakfast and “borrowing” her father’s wallet. “He’s so oblivious that he’d probably think that he lost it,” she rationalized. She ran out the door and jumped onto the nearest commuter train. She got off in downtown Jersey and went to the mall.
She entered the mall through its grand doors and roared her battle cry, “You’re mine, shoes!” With a fierce determination and a thousand dollar limit, Sarah marched through every store.
Thirteen pairs later, she returned home. It was 3:00 PM. She got in before her parents and sister. No one should have noticed that she cut school or spent almost $315 on assorted footwear. She quickly hid her new things in her closet, lay in her bed, and cried.
“What’s wrong?” Casey asked from the doorway. She could tell that something was affecting her older sister on a deep, disorderly level.
Sobbing, Sarah barked, “Go away!”
Other loved ones and friends tried ousting a proper response: Nikki, Mr. Cruz, Mrs. Cruz, and even Cisco via three different means. However, Sarah remained reclusive that evening.
Her stomach growled. “Oh crap,” she though, “Now I have to face everyone.” She went downstairs, and got a glass of water. She wasn’t going to eat, and she just ignored everything her family said.
It wasn’t until 5:00 AM that she spoke to anyone. Well, she didn’t talk to anyone, per se…
She knelt in a glass pew before a silicone altar. She was in an open place. Beneath her flew a river that she could not touch. She looked up. She began to speak to an un-groomed man that stood between her and the altar. She spoke to the Lord—someone much more powerful than Rod. Before her stood a short man. He only stood five feet tall. His skin was one shade pinker than the paper in Sarah’s printer, and his platinum-blond hair twinkled in the sunlight. His suit was white as snow with only subtle accents of mint and violet. Yes, ‘twas to Lord Zanto she spoke. “Zē,” she addressed him, “Why am I so sad? I feel as if my heart is a black hole.”
“Isn’t it obvious, dear?” the short man jested.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, I suggest you do some sole searching…”
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