Today at my doorstep I found a pair of shiny, red shoes.

  They were perfectly clean, and glossy like a Beatles shell; truly, an amazing pair of shoes.

  ‘So these are the shoes, huh?’

  I had asked the authorities for a free pair of shoes the week before due to the fact that my old pair got stuck in mud during work. I hadn’t expected such extravagant shoes to arrive at my doorstep.

  I looked down at my dirty and thin feet. Everyday they danced in the mud. That was my job, dancing in the mud.

  I don’t know why I did it, and what purpose it held to the authorities (as there was no audience to view my “mud-dancing”), but it was my job and after the catastrophe, nobody quit their job.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  ‘I can’t wear these shoes.’

  These shoes were nice and clean, while my feet were dirty and rough. I couldn’t afford to ruin such amazing shoes.

  I grabbed them by the soles and brought them into the house, closing and locking the door behind me.

  I walked around the house for a while, searching for a proper place to place these shoes. There wasn’t much.

  A small, dirty, webbed box, and a single wooden drawer in the wall. Those were the only two containers within my house.

  I placed it in the box.

  I looked up at the tiny glass clock on the wall.

  It was 3:43.

  ‘Time for work.’

  I pushed the box far into a corner of the room (I lived in a single room apartment) and trudged outside into the arid street layered in smog.

  It would be a long walk from here to the mud-grounds, but that was why I left the house early.

  I sighed, a deep sigh.

  ‘Is this all my life is going to be? Just dancing in the mud?’

  I shook the thought away. Best not be late.

  And with that, I began my ten kilometer walk to the mud grounds, my bare feet burning on the searing-hot ground with every step I took.