Blue Light Special
You can’t see my wingtips. I wish you could. They’re custom Italian leather with woven-hair shoelaces grown on Japanese maidenheads. I bury them six feet under — the shoes, not the virginal shoelace slaves. Not this time, anyway.
Luckily, I am six feet, six inches tall and can still breathe when my shoes dig to China.
When I wore my first size-age-six plastic wingtips in the baby pool, I nearly drowned. I blamed it on the K-Mart shoelaces Mother insisted on buying. I called them cheap then, but will have her smuggle some into San Quentin, where there is only Velcro.
Bio: Amy Barnes has words at a variety of sites including The New Southern Fugitives, FlashBack Fiction, Popshot Quarterly, Flash Fiction Magazine, X-Ray Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Museum of Americana, Penny Fiction, Elephants Never, Re-side, The Molotov Cocktail, Lucent Dreaming, Lunate Fiction, Rejection Lit, Perhappened, Cabinet of Heed, Spartan Lit, National Flash Flood Day and others. Her work has been long-listed at Reflex Press, Bath Flash Fiction, Retreat West and TSS Publishing. She volunteers at Fractured Lit, CRAFT, Taco Bell Quarterly, Retreat West, NFFD and Narratively.