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Literature Text
Many years ago, in a small village in a small valley in the not-so-small country of Denmark, there was an old cobbler of some skill.
Six days a week, from early morning until well past dusk, he could be found in his hot and foul-smelling workshop, in his old and well-patched apron: turning hides into leather, turning leather into footwear, and re-turning worn out boots and shoes back into serviceable ones.
Only on the Lord's Day would he permit himself to be seen otherwise by his fellow townsfolk: bathed, besuited and beshod, and properly penitent for church and Sunday supper.
One such Sunday, following church services, he was approached by a horse-drawn carriage carrying a wealthy dowager from a nearby town. Without preamble — and with no apparent respect for the sanctity of the day — she declared, "I've heard that you are the best shoemaker between here and Copenhagen."
He bowed his head and replied, "That's very kind of you to say."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it. My granddaughter has just been accepted into the Royal Danish Ballet, and requires a new pair of dancing shoes." From her purse she removed a cloth, and unwrapped it to display a long ribbon of rich red silk. "I wish you to build them for her. They must be ready in one week, as she will be leaving for the capital then."
The cobbler raised his hand and shook his head. "This week? I'm afraid that won't be possible, as I already have other commitments. I'm sorry."
The dowager harrumphed. "I am not at all used to bargaining with common folk such as yourself; I am used to being obeyed. You will accept this commission, and you will be well paid for your troubles. Your other commitments will wait."
Despite the arrogance of her demands, he nodded his acceptance. "Very well. I will bring the finished shoes here with me next Sunday. But we shall conclude our business before the service begins, as it is not right to conduct commerce within the Lord's House."
"Agreed." She dropped the silk bundle into his hands and shut the carriage door, bidding her horseman to depart. The old cobbler was taken aback by her rudeness; still, he was a man of his word, and silently vowed to build the best pair of ballet slippers he was capable of producing.
To that end, by first dawn the next morning he was already at work, heating clean water in a medium-sized cooking pot. He brought it just to a boil, then carefully mixed in a measured amount of pungent oils and crimson dyes before adding some of his thinnest, softest sheepskin. Dyeing the skins to the proper shade of red was a tedious three-day process: stirring the leather to keep it moving, feeding the fire day and night, and adding just the right amount of water and pigments as the mixture constantly steamed away.
Thursday and Friday involved drying the newly-dyed leather ve-e-e-ry slowly, while working it with his tools to keep it supple and prevent it from cracking. On the evening of the fifth day, the old cobbler could at last begin to trim and combine the pieces of sheepskin, forming each section on a special wooden last he'd carved for the purpose, and binding the slippers together with oils and glue.
He spent the final day carefully wrapping the shoes from tip to heel with the red silk ribbon, then stitching everything together with a thread made from strands of the ribbon itself. Into the toe box of each slipper he layered thick cloth and thicker leather, so that the young dancer would be able to properly balance on her tiptoes. He turned the last of the ribbon into straps for tying each slipper to the leg; he'd been careful, and there was just enough.
The next day was of course Sunday. Despite his weariness from the past week's work, the cobbler rose at his usual time — an hour past dawn — broke his fast, and cleaned himself up as best he could. Then, wrapping the completed shoes in the same bundle of cloth in which he'd received the silk ribbon, he walked the short distance to the church, still uncomfortable with the necessity of conducting business on the Lord's Day.
To her credit, the wealthy old dowager was already there, sitting once again in her private carriage. When she spotted the cobbler, she threw open the door and fairly leapt to the ground. "Have you the slippers?" she demanded, foregoing even the pretense of courtesy.
"I do," he said, and produced them.
She unwrapped the cloth, took one look at the product of a lifetime of training and a week's hard work — and proclaimed, "This is what you bring me? These... rags? Why, they're not fit for a milkmaid, much less the feet of my dearest granddaughter! You've ruined my expensive silk; and what's worse, you've wasted a precious week of my time!"
Upon hearing this, the old cobbler could have reacted with outrage, pointing out every step which had gone into producing those "rags," and insisting upon his payment. Or he could have called her on her insolence and embarrassing lack of manners, and demanded a full apology on the spot.
But this was the Sabbath, and he was ever mindful of the Lord's commandment to turn the other cheek. So instead, he took back the slippers and replied, "I am truly sorry that you feel that way, madam. Since you feel that I've spoiled your silk, it seems only fair that I should spoil my leather as well."
With that, he took out his knife and cut up the shoes right in front of her. And then turned his back upon her shocked expression and walked proudly into the church, his heart as light as his empty purse.
Six days a week, from early morning until well past dusk, he could be found in his hot and foul-smelling workshop, in his old and well-patched apron: turning hides into leather, turning leather into footwear, and re-turning worn out boots and shoes back into serviceable ones.
Only on the Lord's Day would he permit himself to be seen otherwise by his fellow townsfolk: bathed, besuited and beshod, and properly penitent for church and Sunday supper.
One such Sunday, following church services, he was approached by a horse-drawn carriage carrying a wealthy dowager from a nearby town. Without preamble — and with no apparent respect for the sanctity of the day — she declared, "I've heard that you are the best shoemaker between here and Copenhagen."
He bowed his head and replied, "That's very kind of you to say."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it. My granddaughter has just been accepted into the Royal Danish Ballet, and requires a new pair of dancing shoes." From her purse she removed a cloth, and unwrapped it to display a long ribbon of rich red silk. "I wish you to build them for her. They must be ready in one week, as she will be leaving for the capital then."
The cobbler raised his hand and shook his head. "This week? I'm afraid that won't be possible, as I already have other commitments. I'm sorry."
The dowager harrumphed. "I am not at all used to bargaining with common folk such as yourself; I am used to being obeyed. You will accept this commission, and you will be well paid for your troubles. Your other commitments will wait."
Despite the arrogance of her demands, he nodded his acceptance. "Very well. I will bring the finished shoes here with me next Sunday. But we shall conclude our business before the service begins, as it is not right to conduct commerce within the Lord's House."
"Agreed." She dropped the silk bundle into his hands and shut the carriage door, bidding her horseman to depart. The old cobbler was taken aback by her rudeness; still, he was a man of his word, and silently vowed to build the best pair of ballet slippers he was capable of producing.
To that end, by first dawn the next morning he was already at work, heating clean water in a medium-sized cooking pot. He brought it just to a boil, then carefully mixed in a measured amount of pungent oils and crimson dyes before adding some of his thinnest, softest sheepskin. Dyeing the skins to the proper shade of red was a tedious three-day process: stirring the leather to keep it moving, feeding the fire day and night, and adding just the right amount of water and pigments as the mixture constantly steamed away.
Thursday and Friday involved drying the newly-dyed leather ve-e-e-ry slowly, while working it with his tools to keep it supple and prevent it from cracking. On the evening of the fifth day, the old cobbler could at last begin to trim and combine the pieces of sheepskin, forming each section on a special wooden last he'd carved for the purpose, and binding the slippers together with oils and glue.
He spent the final day carefully wrapping the shoes from tip to heel with the red silk ribbon, then stitching everything together with a thread made from strands of the ribbon itself. Into the toe box of each slipper he layered thick cloth and thicker leather, so that the young dancer would be able to properly balance on her tiptoes. He turned the last of the ribbon into straps for tying each slipper to the leg; he'd been careful, and there was just enough.
The next day was of course Sunday. Despite his weariness from the past week's work, the cobbler rose at his usual time — an hour past dawn — broke his fast, and cleaned himself up as best he could. Then, wrapping the completed shoes in the same bundle of cloth in which he'd received the silk ribbon, he walked the short distance to the church, still uncomfortable with the necessity of conducting business on the Lord's Day.
To her credit, the wealthy old dowager was already there, sitting once again in her private carriage. When she spotted the cobbler, she threw open the door and fairly leapt to the ground. "Have you the slippers?" she demanded, foregoing even the pretense of courtesy.
"I do," he said, and produced them.
She unwrapped the cloth, took one look at the product of a lifetime of training and a week's hard work — and proclaimed, "This is what you bring me? These... rags? Why, they're not fit for a milkmaid, much less the feet of my dearest granddaughter! You've ruined my expensive silk; and what's worse, you've wasted a precious week of my time!"
Upon hearing this, the old cobbler could have reacted with outrage, pointing out every step which had gone into producing those "rags," and insisting upon his payment. Or he could have called her on her insolence and embarrassing lack of manners, and demanded a full apology on the spot.
But this was the Sabbath, and he was ever mindful of the Lord's commandment to turn the other cheek. So instead, he took back the slippers and replied, "I am truly sorry that you feel that way, madam. Since you feel that I've spoiled your silk, it seems only fair that I should spoil my leather as well."
With that, he took out his knife and cut up the shoes right in front of her. And then turned his back upon her shocked expression and walked proudly into the church, his heart as light as his empty purse.
Literature
Rosebush
If I were to tell you,
"Life is not a bed of roses."
Would you still continue
To pull the weeds from beneath the rows?
If I said,
"There are some wounds that cannot heal."
Would you still reach between the brambles
And allow the thorns to pierce your skin?
Were I to mention,
"Even the brightest of flowers
Will eventually succumb to time."
Would you still cut the heads
In preparation for the new spring buds?
You simply smile and say;
"Yes.
For even the most vapid vine deserves to be cultivated.
Only then can it bloom
And truly enjoy its time in the sun."
Literature
Hate
I hate
I hate well
I hate feverishly
I am the churning acid in your stomach
I am the blood pounding in your head
I am the white-knuckled fist clenching to strike
I am the red haze dimming your eyes
and clouding your mind
I am the rage that lashes out at the weak
the small and defenseless
justified by tears and fueled by alcohol
I hate passionately
I am the shaking in your hands
and grinding teeth
nails digging into your palms
I am everything you hate
boiling to the surface in a froth of
bile
blood
and excrement
I am the indiscriminate spray of bullets
at the school
church
nightclub
I am the madman raving on the news
heaping blame
Literature
mellow satire poetry
Beautiful contemporary muse,
in denim and plaid clad hips you'll infuse
my only positive trait,
artistic bipolarity
Your cheeky smile, joking lips
speak mellow satire poetry
longing to taste your prose,
as of yet undiscovered.
Pretty girl, in blindness
you'll find clarity in me,
or vice versa.
Bleed gold words in silver verse
endearing, your modest insecurities
behind wooden eyes seeing
straight through me.
Suggested Collections
My first morality tale for this site. And a religious one, no less. Who'd'a thunk it?
Based on the allegedly true story that inspired Hans Christian Andersen — the original Danish cobbler — to compose his fairy tale "The Red Shoes."
Written for, and entered into, *ThornyEnglishRose and ~batousaijin's Tots and Teens literature contest. At the last minute, naturally; nothing inspires quite like a looming deadline.
As a fable, this piece is not meant to be taken literally; there's no need to contact me with 'corrections' about how long tanning actually takes, or how shoemaking is really done.
~WordCount: 972 words.
Based on the allegedly true story that inspired Hans Christian Andersen — the original Danish cobbler — to compose his fairy tale "The Red Shoes."
Written for, and entered into, *ThornyEnglishRose and ~batousaijin's Tots and Teens literature contest. At the last minute, naturally; nothing inspires quite like a looming deadline.
As a fable, this piece is not meant to be taken literally; there's no need to contact me with 'corrections' about how long tanning actually takes, or how shoemaking is really done.
~WordCount: 972 words.
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Comments33
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When I first read the story I thought "huh, that actually does sounds like the stories I was told as a child." Then I read your description and your source of inspiration. Well done ^^