The Old Man Who Lived In a Shoe.

The man who lived in a shoe gasped for air as the boot was lowered into a tub of warm water. The man held tight to a shoelace, the aglet still floating above water, before it too was pushed under by the hands of giants. The suction from the shoe threatened to hold him under the surface until his tiny lungs gave out, but he swam with all of his might to the surface, then to the edge of the bathtub. He found the wall of the half-full tub insurmountable, and in a moment of quick thinking instead grabbed onto the arm hairs of the giant, who was elbow deep in the murky water with a scrub brush.

The arm raised out of the water, the force of the wind blowing the man back. He steadied himself and grabbed on again, this time even tighter. The arm again went up, and he managed to hold on just long enough to be far clear of the tub. A new problem now arose, that being with how high he was above the water a fall could be fatal. He used to pride himself on his athleticism, but now as age took its toll on his body strength alluded him. His grip started to go, and as the arm reached the apogee of its motion he lost hold and went flying across the bathroom.

As he fell through space thoughts rushed through his mind, just as wind rushed past his ears. He thought about his young life living among the giants, whom he called men. Thoughts about his childhood, being raised by two immigrant parents and having to teach them English. Memories of the older kids on the block coming back from war, being disenfranchised by their warm welcomes in spite of their atrocities. How they bragged about their atrocities and were showered in praise when his hard work went overlooked. His misspent adolescence disobeying authority, working as a farmhand in Iowa before losing himself to drugs. The witch that cursed him to this fate, the time spent living with the army ants and the mice, and the dozens of summers and winters in the boot, sat comfortably in the footwell of an abandoned car.

His parents were long dead, never having heard of what became of their only son. The witch, whose name totally evaded his mind now, was also likely long past. The ants and mice he called friends and family had died in front of him, often in horrible ways. Memories of living in the furs of field mice to survive a harsh winter still haunt him. Anyone he’d ever known or cared about was gone, and nothing he ever did made any impact on the world. The ants didn’t speak his name, hundreds of generations had past since his time with them so many decades ago.

A melancholy befell him, as he realized how miserable and worthless his life was. The blue and white linoleum bathroom floor was just as apathetic about his plight, his pathetic existence. It hadn’t been good, but it had been long, and it was time to end it. He no longer feared the death before him but embraced it with open arms like a sick man who’s finally found the cure to a lifelong malady. But there was no splat. Gravity works different when you’re this small and light, and rather then hitting the ground with force he sort of just lands, unharmed. Cock.