So today my wife and I played a game.  We each had 30 minutes to write a short story, and then share it.  She had already written one weeks ago and spent the 30 minutes editing hers, so the game wasn’t so fair at all.  Anyway, here’s my story.

It was the end of the world, and Hal could not find his shoes.  In between the intermittent blackouts he dug through piles of dirty clothes and layers of junk in his closet or under the bed.  When the lights went out he would use the Yoga techniques he had picked up by looking through the plate glass windows of the gym on Tuesday nights and calm his body and mind, trying to re-trace his steps and remember where he had left them.  Slow breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Indian style, on the floor, back straight, serene expression.  He never heard what the Yoga instructor said they were supposed to be picturing in their minds, so he always pictured himself picturing the perfect image for facial serenity.

He thought back now: to the shoe store, the week before the financial markets collapsed.  A pair of soft leather shoes, light brown color, firm arch support, the new shoe smell wafting up from inside.  He paid cash.  Tissue paper wads stuffed in the shoes, the shoes stuffed in a purple cardboard box.

Lights on again, and the hunt resumed.  Not behind the piles of old newspapers.  Not in the hallway, not on the porch.  (Nothing on the porch since he had boarded up the windows and doors.)  Not with the canned food or the water supplies.  Not with the guns.  Where were they?  He always misplaced stuff like this when he really needed it.

Lights off, the Yoga position.  He had carried them home under his arm, not wanting to wear them before tonight.  The vagrant with the bandage on his head asking for them.  Wheedling, whining.  “Don’t need no new shoes now, man.  Give em here and let me hold em for a day.”  Hal had moved on quickly.  Ever since the police services had stopped the homeless were getting more urgent, aggressive.  He had seen them surrounding a teenager the week before, searching him for food or weapons.

Home, finally, with his shoes.  Where had he put them?  He remembered setting them on the bookshelf.  But three days ago he had burned it and all his books to keep warm.

Lights on.  Not in the kitchen or the bathroom, not on the floor.  He was heading back to his room, probably to begin searching in all the same places all over again, in that fruitless repetition that helped him to feel like he was doing something, being active, while hopefully his subconscious would bring the elusive new shoes and their location bubbling to the surface of his mind, unbidden and certain.

Then he heard the bell.  It rang out so loud that he couldn’t pretend to ignore it.  A slow, sombre clong that resonated throughout the city–throughout every other city, too.

Hal stopped walking, paused for a moment, and sighed as he turned.  He shuffled slowly, glancing around one last useless time.  He turned the handle on the front door and walked out into the night, bare feet slapping on the wet sidewalk.