Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Contest: Join the Party!

As you know, next week we kick off the book signing tour for The Sartorialist: Closer, and we’re starting off the festivities with a little private party at Danziger Gallery in New York, generously underwritten by Coach. But it wouldn’t be a party without having one of you there. (Stay tuned for information on the public signing on September 7!)

 

So, today we’re starting a little contest. We’re posting three photographs that could make a great story. In 200 words or less, write a story in the comments inspired by the photograph. We’ll pick one winning story from among the three photographs and invite that person to the opening party.

 

The party will be the evening of September 5. Coach will provide a hotel room for the winner and a guest at the Hotel Americano, and a bag of their choosing from the Legacy collection.

 

We’ll announce the winner on Tuesday morning, and look forward to seeing you Wednesday night!

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470 comments

  1. Geordie

    August 30, 2012 at 3:22 pm

    Awesome. But where do you submit ‘em?

    • Alyssa | The Sartorialist

      August 30, 2012 at 3:27 pm

      Hi Geordie – you can leave your story in the comments!

  2. Mia Marionette

    August 30, 2012 at 3:26 pm

    The photo is magic! Congrats with your second book!!

    http://blog.miamarionette.com/

  3. Arthur

    August 30, 2012 at 3:31 pm

    Fuck it…It’s always sunny in my Louboutin’s

  4. MACFER

    August 30, 2012 at 3:33 pm

    this picture is so different, but i love it, specially the Louboutin!
    http://refreshingmywardrobe.blogspot.com.es/

  5. BJ

    August 30, 2012 at 3:53 pm

    Would love to enter the contest, but the plane fare would be too expensive last minute, especially since I would only be there one night. This is a great contest if you live in or around New York. Oh well, I can only dream how much fun it would be!

    • christine

      August 30, 2012 at 4:30 pm

      I agree…for us,citizens of europe,it’s far away..however I’d love to if I had the money to pay the air tickets!!

      good luck to everyone

      • alma

        August 31, 2012 at 6:35 pm

        totally agree, good luck to everyone =)

  6. Sonique

    August 30, 2012 at 3:55 pm

    It is an unusual December morning, closer to Christmas. I stayed out all night by his side while he mingled amongst the famous and influential. He wanted me to look stunning so he bought me some Christian Louboutin pumps. He wanted me to be his shiny accessory. The dress I’m wearing I bought it with his money at a thrift shop – vintage Christian Dior. I pocketed the rest of the money for my rent. No use in looking good if you have nowhere to stay. I am now making my way home –no one knew it would snow today. It’s been such a warm December and save for the snowflakes it feels like a spring day. People are going to school and work. And I am going home to sleep so that I can work the next night.

    • Creative Cass

      September 2, 2012 at 4:38 am

      beautiful

  7. Soraya Pierre

    August 30, 2012 at 4:06 pm

    on her way to a cocktail party and she doesnt have an unbrella, s oshe decided to buy a shawl and decided to walk instead of cathcing a cab to feel the cool crisp air.

  8. Meg MacDonald

    August 30, 2012 at 4:06 pm

    Contessa put one foot in front of the other; confidently, elegantly, anything but rushed. She refused to break a sweat. Not today. Caught up in the outfit-perfecting chaos that turned her studio apartment upside down, she regretted to check the weather. Snowing, it would seem. Oversized men’s vintage wools make for great storm cover. She was resourceful, if nothing else. Contessa was determined to arrive fabulous, put-together, and impossible to miss. These legs had awarded her many things, and she’d be damned if they didn’t get her to this go-see on time.

    New York had a way of slapping her sideways into the sleet only to return gravelling at her feet, crawling back like a long-lost lover to the one that got away. She gave the city no satisfaction in wondering what slice of fate it would serve up today. Two month’s rent on these shoes would not go unnoticed…only six more blocks.

  9. Emily Blanton

    August 30, 2012 at 4:13 pm

    “I never thought that I would ever make it to London-town,” she thought to herself as she walked through the soft snowflakes falling slowly reminding her of some dream from her childhood. Growing up wasn’t easy for this young black girl from the rigid south. She never thought that her knocked knees & flat behind would ever get her noticed by any boy much less the editor in chief of any magazine.
    As her heels clip on the sidewalk taking in the sweet wet air into her lungs, she exhales a sigh of gratitude for where her life has taken her. She sees differently now than that little girl blistering outside in the summer heat of new Orleans. Life now is to her a series of opportunities to grab onto instead of a never-ending cycle of daydreams about a life that could never be achieved according to her younger self.
    What if hurricane Katrina had never flooded into her city & her life causing her family to relocate? What if she never moved to Atlanta meeting her aunt for the first time who had connections into the fashion industry? Would she have ever had the courage to chase after her dreams of a life far removed from everything she knew?
    That’s all just memories now & questions left unanswered as she strolls leisurely down the boulevard sipping on her latte cold fingers being warmed by her cup. She looks up at Big Ben to realize that her break in between shoots is almost up. She takes a quick glance both ways before she flits off across the street back to work.

    I sort of just typed this up on my iPhone very quickly. Sorry it isn’t in a word document.

    • alma

      August 31, 2012 at 6:44 pm

      i love your story, very touching and somehow inspiring, it shows the complex amount of coincidences that life is, and the strenght of a person how struggles to get what she/he wants.

  10. Ahava Shira

    August 30, 2012 at 4:57 pm

    She was still living in New York, in a third floor walkup her parents once lived in. That old song. Her feet remembered it even stronger than her ears. First snow of the season. The floor of the dance hall packed with people: men and women in their dressiest frocks and suits. The sound of heels grinding on the worn wooden floor. Her hand in his, and his and his. She loved the multiplicity of it all: partners, horns, sidesteps and thanks yous. The spray of brushes against drums, thrumming of cimbals. Even her skirt went round and round. She never let them kiss her. That wasn’t what she wanted, though many had tried. She knew when, sensed the shift in the weight of their arms, the slight tension on their faces. It was then she knew to break away, to slacken and release. On the floor her feet were magic, they swept and furrowed, rubbed and rasped in tune to the beat of each partner’s drumming heart. She loved to be held close, loved the smell of their cologne. She was always in a rush to get there, the anticipation, feeling precious, hopefully glamorous.

    • Laura Danielle

      August 31, 2012 at 6:46 pm

      This is beautiful.

    • Chelo

      September 2, 2012 at 6:57 am

      I love this.

    • chelo

      September 2, 2012 at 7:36 am

      wonderful.

    • shana garr

      September 4, 2012 at 9:41 am

      this is lovely-the pacing, rhythm and the mood it conjures.

  11. anonymous

    August 30, 2012 at 5:05 pm

    I wore this dress every time I wanted to get a date with Carlos. It was beautiful, with a net underskirt that slightly fell below the hemline. Carlos was a sucker for black, me in black, Carol in black, Suzanne in black. That was the problem. So I decided to wear the louboutin shoes with the red soles, just to show off the devil in me. Carlos didn’t bite, he went home with Suzanne, I went home with Carlos’ coat. I figured it was an even trade.

    • Isabel

      August 31, 2012 at 2:19 am

      Love this one!!! Really sarcastic

      • cr

        August 31, 2012 at 9:22 am

        I also like this one ;)

        • Rebecca

          September 3, 2012 at 10:12 am

          This is quite clever.

  12. Michele

    August 30, 2012 at 5:15 pm

    Once again she found herself on her way to face her own Big Bad Wolf. But she was no longer a helpless little girl with a flimsy basket and a red hoodie. This time, she was the hunter.

    • alma

      August 31, 2012 at 6:46 pm

      hilarious

    • ***

      September 1, 2012 at 11:05 am

      I think is the best one so far!

  13. Rumpleton

    August 30, 2012 at 5:16 pm

    It’s funny how the weather often seems to turn for funerals. Heavy rain falling as earth is scattered on the coffin, or a ray of sunshine breaking through just as a friend recounts a funny story in a eulogy. As the mourners left the church, a little shiver passed through the air and wet slices of snow began to fall. It was late March and the blizzard seemed half-hearted, the flakes resigned to falling damply on the pavement. I was standing on the steps, thinking about the clash of quotidian and existential that accompanies moments like these. Someone disappears from the earth and a few moments later you are ruing the fact that you forgot your umbrella at home. I looked off to my left and saw a female figure cutting through the grayness. She had wrapped her large scarf over her head and body to keep her dress dry. The click-clack of her heels and the flash of red on her shoe soles seemed appropriate. There goes a lone figure off into the distemperate distance, but not before she leaves behind a rhythm and brightness for the rest of us to hold onto.

    • Kate

      August 31, 2012 at 7:20 am

      Beautiful.

      • CW

        September 1, 2012 at 12:52 pm

        Rumpleton deserves to go to the ball! or, she should quit trying to go to the ball and write us some more beautiful short stories. :-)

        • Sevan

          September 1, 2012 at 4:11 pm

          I agree !

          • Rebecca

            September 3, 2012 at 10:15 am

            This tale is simple yet beautiful.

  14. Diane Black

    August 30, 2012 at 5:20 pm

    A lone soul in black
    Hooded wrapped feathered
    White snow swirling round

    Alas, like BJ, I live too far for a last minute party. But it’s a fun contest anyway!

  15. kristen

    August 30, 2012 at 5:20 pm

    hi scott!
    are you signing for FNO at Coach? do dish!
    xx

  16. Curtains in my tree

    August 30, 2012 at 5:22 pm

    Oh as I walk home form having my heart broken into many pieces by the man I thought was mine forever. I should have known better. Why do I play so hard with my heart? Just for a little affection I guess, maybe a little great sex from time to time LOL And I do love a good party where I look so good in my little black dress

    After all those nights of wanting a wedding cake cup cake from the bakery and wanting so bad for a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge on it , also pecans. Then up and at the gym at 5am everyday , every damn day ! I deprived myself of all of this for a man to break my heart.
    But I have to say I look damn good girl in my black designer Gucci dress, even if it was in a resale shope and that I spent all my money on it just for this party.

    Also I will look damn good for the next man however this one won’t get to my heart. So guess I will keep my Jimmy Choo and my Tiffany necklace and earrings , instead of taking them to the pawn shop again.
    Now hope I can get a cab before this snow ruins my designer clothing, Oh I am am stopping at the bakery if it’s still open

    See Ya at the next party

  17. Chelo

    August 30, 2012 at 5:23 pm

    She never fell asleep, though he did, a long while ago. Light is peeking through the windows and it’s time to collect her things. Her lips are chapped but she doesn’t lick them, remembering the adage that it would only make it worse. She’s dressed. It’s snowing. He stirs. She smirks. Her lower lip splits and bleeds. She eyes his coat. Insurance or memento? With him over her, she slips out onto the best walk of shame of her life.

    • cr

      August 31, 2012 at 9:15 am

      He: “Nice coat” he said with a grin and gaze.
      She: “It yours” she replied with a smirk.
      He: “I know, better my wool jacket smell like a wet dog than yours”
      She: “Thank you”
      He: “You’re welcome”
      She: “Do we have to?”
      He: “Hey where’s your Christmas spirit, this is only the first of many. Let’s go drink their champagne”
      Off they went arm in arm.

      • Chelo

        September 2, 2012 at 8:19 am

        She’s up, with matted hair, a chipped nail, a ringing in her ears, a snag in her stocking. S Same scene as always, though this time it’s rain. Precipitation is always waiting to rinse her thoroughly. But luckily for her there’s always repeat.

        And now for his coat, or wait, actually, where are her shoes? She smashed into their perfect little frame for so long, it felt like they were still on her feet. Her lucky shoes. Two glances and she sees they’re playing angel and devil, one is by the door and the other by the bed.
        Stay.
        Go.

        “Forget the coat” he sits up. He hates this game.

        It’s not too late, but it is. No coat. One shoe. Without saying goodbye, she spills out onto the street, the rain dripping down her face like tears, showing her how it should be done.

        She’s in her yellow pumpkin, breathing deeply, remembering. She loves this game.

  18. Jon.R

    August 30, 2012 at 5:41 pm

    Here’s my entry:

    “After realizing she was late, she grabbed her coat and bursted through the door. The sight of the flickering grey snow startled her and she quickly draped her coat over her head. She smiled after realizing what she had done. ‘Old habits die hard I guess…’, she thought. It had only been 6 months since she escaped to New York. Each day the little village in Saudia Arabia where she came from became more and more distant. Like a dream of remnants of a past life. She looked at her watch and hurried her steps. ‘Just this one last time,’ she said gasping for a breathe. As she ran the snow melted beneath her. Her will and strength blazed like fire beneath her feet. It is a legacy from the women that came before her, giving her the confidence to start her new life. A life she can truly call ‘her own’.”

  19. jake

    August 30, 2012 at 5:42 pm

    Into the cold she retreated, the snow, the frost, the bite of winters teeth held her as she looked for herself. Within her own mind she resolved to search until found and to look good when she finally meet herself.

  20. Sevan

    August 30, 2012 at 5:43 pm

    This photo is so mysterious and elegant.
    I’m having fun reading the stories in the comments, and I must say, some of them are worthy of being published !
    Good luck, all of you !

  21. MG

    August 30, 2012 at 5:48 pm

    Passion, desire, sadness, obsessed, powerless. Random thoughts come and go, but her heart‘s still bitter. Bitter for last night; bitter from a last year of sorrow. Grief spreads through her veins more rapidly than any poison, such love. Sore from the most frenetic and exhilarating night she’s ever had. Each one of her pores exults bravery. Yes, her ex-husband is getting married in 15 minutes. Yes, the bastard is marrying the woman he left her for. Yes, she had the indecency to invite her to the wedding. The overwhelming event sent her on a last urge of men last night. Having tempered her feelings while satisfying her desires, nothing better to wear than the Louboutin’s he bought for her. The ones he begged her to wear on steamed nights. And yes it’s snowing, so a black wardrobe will stand out in the crowd more than a bridal gown ever will. Payback is always best served cold, and the weather has confabulated on my favour. A thought spirals through her head:”You might have gotten my husband, but you’ll never have my style!” And off she goes to present him her condolences.

  22. Jasper

    August 30, 2012 at 5:49 pm

    This will be great. I’m working on it

  23. Kelsey

    August 30, 2012 at 5:52 pm

    “I want to talk,” he said. “Just meet me for dinner.” I told him no, I couldn’t meet him, I wouldn’t meet him.

    “Eight tonight,” he insisted in that confident way I found irresistible. “Barrow Street. One If By Land Two If By Sea.”

    We hadn’t spoken since our breakup in Aruba last summer. At the airport we embraced for what felt like years, our tears melding together like a hand-stirred cocktail, him whispering over and over, “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

    “I know.” I replied. I pulled my suitcase behind me and walked away.

    That was six months ago, and now we were going to dinner. I hoped it would snow. As I was dressing, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I pulled on a charcoal pair of tights and my favorite Louboutins. They were his favorite, too.

    When I woke up the next morning I was in his bed. It used to be our bed. The Frette sheets smelled different, but everything else was the same. He was curled in a ball away from me. He could only sleep soundly wrapped in himself. He was always wrapped in himself.

    I crept out of bed. It was almost five. My clothes were scattered around the floor but I dressed quickly. Outside the air felt crisp. The snow falling wasn’t the romantic kind, it was the new kind.

    I pulled my wool cape over my head and stuck out my tongue, tasting winter.

    My heels clicked an uneven rhythm on West 10th Street and I knew. I would be just fine.

    • anonymous

      August 31, 2012 at 9:59 am

      You have my vote!

      • JE

        August 31, 2012 at 2:19 pm

        #win!

      • Demi

        August 31, 2012 at 3:13 pm

        Ditto..grea story.

    • alma

      August 31, 2012 at 6:56 pm

      encouraging, very beautiful

    • Nana

      September 1, 2012 at 2:24 am

      good story!!! 200 words though?

  24. Massimo

    August 30, 2012 at 5:54 pm

    She slowly stepped along the cold pavement. Not a strut. Her regular prowl. No more airs, he hadn’t come anyway. She had known all along that he wouldn’t. It had always been too good. Black for mystery. A hint of red for passion. Red for magic, like the way he made her feel. She pulled her shawl over her head as snow began to fall, making a tent that filled with the scent of her perfume. She inhaled bergamot and rose and peered out at the city. It was her only friend, the only one who would never try to understand. She smiled as she passed people, oblivious to the pain that filled the world. No, not oblivious. Immune. This city could absorb sadness; wipe a slate clean like a warm embrace until there was only tomorrow, another chance. She pulled her cowl a little closer. Tomorrow.

  25. Emily Ulrich

    August 30, 2012 at 5:55 pm

    Blinded by emotion. The lust for touch, the passions of desire. Irrationality at the expense of reality.

    They say sight sets bias for our other senses. And after that day, I believe it. She was ignorant… no, she was innocent… She wanted what the world told her to be correct. She craved the intensity of the struggle, while her body folded from battle at even the slightest touch.

    It snowed. I offered a blanket. Her eyes may have refused, but those freezing tributaries of neglect beneath her skin spoke otherwise.

    “There are places –”

    “I don’t need places.”

    “People can –”

    “No. They can’t.”

    There was no end to the skeleton of her frame. Where one bone ended, another lanky branch took its place. She was finished. Resolute. She turned to leave, aware of this war’s coldness, until… it was almost too soft to pick up, but, with the wistful slip of her breath, I heard, “Nice shoes.”

    As she walked away, I couldn’t help but think: if we could become blind to our bodies, to our inner demons, maybe we were better off. We’re creatures of caring. We’re the sin of our own desires.

  26. Jeanette

    August 30, 2012 at 5:59 pm

    Gerard would leave her that night. She knew. A walk down this same street at the beginning of this month saw his eye and mind wander as the weather got colder. but nothing could stop this night. As a person of passion, she knew what she needed to. Her favorite dress, the shoes that made her feel like a million bucks, the outfit for the occassion. As she walked up to him, in their favorite cafe, she sat, took a sip of the champagne brought to the table. He fixed his lips to say the words; she stopped, him asked for his coat, got up and said “you would never fit in my life, you lived only as an accessory. The key to my heart is not to my closet, but to my passion.” she grabbed the champagne, blew a kiss and walked away with his coat. The snow fell that night. Making it a fantastically romantic night for her and her new coat.

  27. Jacob

    August 30, 2012 at 6:00 pm

    Out into the weather She searched. Into the snow, the frost, and cold. She felt the crisp bite of winters teeth sink in as She searched for Herself. She knew that finding oneself could take a lifetime, but she resolved to look good when she finally did…

    • BJ

      August 30, 2012 at 6:39 pm

      All of the entries so far are really good. There are some talented writers on The Sartorialist. But I especially enjoyed reading this entry by Jacob. Really good!!!!

  28. wolf

    August 30, 2012 at 6:01 pm

    last one kills it

  29. Arthur Bueno

    August 30, 2012 at 6:03 pm

    Heading home from work
    The flakes start to sway away
    Ready for the night

    Haiku

  30. Katie

    August 30, 2012 at 6:32 pm

    The click of my heels against the hard tiled sidewalk grows fainter as the muted world of snow falls around me. I walk carefully, picking each step. At first, it’s because the earlier flakes have melted, creating the same slippery effect as the first rain after a long drought. Later, I walk with care because the snow is beginning to pile up, and I don’t want it to fall over the sides of my shoes and melt against my stockings. Just the though chills me, and I pull my shawl closer over my head, wrapping it under my chin and tight around my ears, rolling my fingers against one another, as they knot against my neck. As I sigh, recognizing the impossibility of getting a cab, the inevitability of my walk home, which will feel longer today than it has any other day, I can see my breath condensing in clouds.

  31. Ana Elisa L.

    August 30, 2012 at 6:39 pm

    still

    she was so far away
    but still I could hear her say

    you’re so far away
    but still I can hear you say

    a.e.l.

  32. Krisserin

    August 30, 2012 at 6:46 pm

    She tiptoed through the snow, watched it float around her, down to the grit of the New York City sidewalk, under her shoes. She’d been walking, marching, teetering on the balls of her feet all night and into the morning since Simon gave her the address at the party.

    Are you sure? He asked, pressing the card into her palm. I’m sure, she said. She squeezed the thick card stock into a ball, hoping the pointy corners would hurt her—drive the ache to one fixed point of pain.

    It had been six months since she learned Maria was alive and living in New York. Six months of looking for her on every street corner and in every cafe window. She wasn’t going to wait a minute longer.

    What would happen once she got there? Would Maria welcome her inside? Pour her a cup of cocoa? Would she allow the hot tears building up in her throat to roll down her cheeks or would she swallow them?

    She wanted her to see the person she’d become. She wanted to say, “Look at me, Mom. I did it without you.”

  33. Emma Stoneall

    August 30, 2012 at 6:55 pm

    She didn’t want to leave, but as he pointed to the door, she knew there was no other choice. As the door slammed behind her, she took a look at her surroundings. Her clothes were made for taxi riding, but with winter wind piercing her face, she thought “fuck it, my heart may as well turn cold with the weather.” It wasn’t too long of a walk, a mere 12 blocks, but as she approached the final stretch, she was done with being seen. She brought her coat up over her ears and shielded her nose from the frost. And that’s when the photographer saw her: the woman in the black Louboutin’s.

  34. Juriaan

    August 30, 2012 at 7:03 pm

    The moment his wife called to tell him her flight was delayed, he knew what to do. Like a modern pilgrim he wondered the city streets, his scarf carefully wrapped around his face. His aching feet were a constant reminder of christmases past. Those years in which every gift he gave was as much as a surprise to him as it was to it’s reciever, thanks to his ever so creative assistent. Avoiding eye contact he walked back to his own block. “From this year on, everything will be better”, he said to himself. As he took the last three agonising steps to his apartment, he smiled at the thought of his wife, finally being able to leave the party the same way as she came in. The love of his life on five extra inches.

  35. Rasheeda Ali

    August 30, 2012 at 7:10 pm

    Snowflakes falling, fat and filled with promise. Of what, I ask myself? Of life. Of sheer joy. The world spins, and I spin with it. I love the city when it’s covered in white. I dance on pavements, blanketed softly with beauty from the sky. I’m wrapped in my father’s favourite throw, a piece of him I cherish deeply. I remember winter days, when I would sit at his knee and he would stroke my head and tell me stories of beasts and fairies. Of joy and beauty. And I would listen, my eyes open wide with wonder. And in the background, our windows would cover with frost. Later, I would get up and etch my name delicately onto the glass, and watch as crystals formed wherever my breath touched. A life now so far away. My father lone gone, but my love for him and winter continues to blossom. For now, I skip down the glistening street, giggling softly to myself when a snowflake touches my cheek.

  36. Alexandria

    August 30, 2012 at 7:14 pm

    Though Jane knew it was impractical to go out in the dreary, January weather wearing her new shoes, she just couldn’t resist. It was her first pair of Louboutins. She had saved and saved for them for months, and finally came the day to pull the trigger. While she felt a small pang in her chest as her credit card swiped at the register (Jane had never spent that much on anything other than rent before), she breathed a sigh of relief when the bag was in her hands. She just knew she had to wear the shoes that night. So as the snow cascaded down the New York City streets, Jane slipped on her new shoes. She felt like a new woman, the kind of woman she had always wanted to be. The stylish woman. The woman everyone else wanted to be. She felt invincible. She felt like Jane, but Jane redefined.

  37. Andy Fox

    August 30, 2012 at 7:34 pm

    Undercover Style

    Everyone has a story and a lot can be taken from style. From busy business-types fresh out of Savile Row, to casuals with their LV’s grabbing a quick brunch. You can even find a ray of inspiration from the most unlikely suspects as they pad their jackets with yesterdays screwed up newspaper.

    Stories are created or they are told and when you can’t be told, the fun is in the creation, so what do you see?

    You may see a storm and nothing more than a rainy day and if you do I urge you to look harder! I see the hint of red on the staple of staples- the black heel, and from this and this alone I create my story.

    I see the possibility that under the cover can be any kind of ensemble. I see where she’s come from. Where she’s going. I see so much from nothing at all and run away with the possibility that she could be anything you want her to be; a lawyer, an editor, even a hooker. I see style. I see beauty.

    Style speaks volumes and sometimes it only takes a hint of red to realise.

    Andy Fox.

  38. phoebe

    August 30, 2012 at 7:45 pm

    This is your best photo yet. Completely transformative. Looks like an exotic bird that has taken human form for the evening..

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 7:26 am

      You should develop this idea ! Great beginning for a novel.

      • Maria (from Cambridge)

        August 31, 2012 at 5:25 pm

        good of you to encourage Sevan, what a lovely spirit. and look what a great story she has come up with. This is just what I love about the Sartorialist and the community here…

        • Rebecca

          September 3, 2012 at 11:41 am

          Me too! Amidst all the negativity, petty arguing, cursing, and insulting that is found on the internet, websites like The Sartorialist create an oasis of positivity and a search for beauty in a world that can sometimes seem entrenched in calignosity.

  39. phoebe

    August 30, 2012 at 7:53 pm

    She came into plain sight, a striking figure in neutral tones juxtaposed against the warm tones of the brownstones. Hovering far above but with a clear view, the starling swooped down, meeting the concrete in a flurry of feathers and starstruck ice flurries; uprighting itself to trail the stark figure ahead..

  40. All done

    August 30, 2012 at 8:11 pm

    We signed our divorce papers in that park down the street from the china shop . His trumpet case was at his feet and our signatures smudged on the page as fat, wet snow fell. We stood. He opened his arms to me in a gesture good will, a hope for friendship, but I felt nothing but the strangeness of his embrace as I took in — for what seemed the first time — his improbable height, his clanky bones, his complete foreignness to me. It was as if all those years I had been an egg and now I was a bird. As I walked away from him, the soles of my shoes, I imagined, looked like two red-tipped wings receding on the horizon. I had no memory of ever having been an egg. In time, I remembered certain things about him: that he liked lemons, that his birthday was February 9, that he had once passed off someone else’s drawing as his own. But on that freezing grey day I was so sure of my path and so blinkered to our past, I never thought to look back.

    • bisbee

      August 31, 2012 at 8:28 am

      Well done!

    • Anuket

      August 31, 2012 at 12:25 pm

      Like it a lot.

  41. Krisserin Canary

    August 30, 2012 at 8:33 pm

    She tiptoed through the snow, watched it float around her, down to the grit of the New York City sidewalk, under her shoes. She’d been walking, marching, teetering on the balls of her feet all night and into the morning since Simon gave her the address at the party.

    Are you sure? He asked, pressing the card into her palm. I’m sure, she said. She squeezed the thick card stock into a ball, hoping the pointy corners would hurt her—drive the ache to one fixed point of pain.

    It had been six months since she learned Maria was alive and living in New York. Six months of looking for her on every street corner and in every cafe window. She wasn’t going to wait a minute longer.

    What would happen once she got there? Would Maria welcome her inside? Pour her a cup of cocoa? Would she allow the hot tears building up in her throat to roll down her cheeks or would she swallow them?

    She wanted her to see the person she’d become. She wanted to say, “Look at me, Mom. I did it without you.”

  42. Gina M.

    August 30, 2012 at 8:54 pm

    It’s the morning after the most peculiar night of her life. She opens her eyes to find herself alone in an unfamiliar, yet impressive penthouse apartment. She peers out the enormous paned window and notices a light snow falling. “Fantastic. This outfit has walk-of-shame written all over it” the girl thinks shyly, as she blushes the color of the red-soled Louboutins that are haphazardly strewn floor…along with the little black Chanel…and the Wolford stockings…and her unmentionables. The stilettos and dress, borrowed from her stylist-assistant roommate, must be returned…before her head was served on a silver Tiffany platter.

    She begins to dress and notices a small card on the bedside table…

    “Sorry to leave you all alone, but I would love to see you again. I hope the feeling is mutual, because I don’t know your name, let alone your phone number.

    Dinner tonight?”

    John

    As she heads for the door, she spots his Armani coat by the door. On the card she hastily writes…

    “I’m engaged. I’m sorry. And I promise to return the coat.”

    As she walked out into the wintery morning, her heart as heavy as the Italian wool draped over her head, she softly began to cry.

  43. Zeno Turrini

    August 30, 2012 at 8:59 pm

    Completely empty. She was feeling void and lonely.
    How did it happen? That guy, not a guy, but the guy.
    They grew up together, they shared life experiences. When did she fall in love? Hide&Seek? Probably.
    He did it, he screwed up everything. Louboutin shoes beaten by a pair of cheap second hand heels (That shoe in his room wasn’t made in Italy, was it?).
    She is crying, silently but deeply.
    New York loves me though, she reflects, to create snowflakes in October.

  44. Joey

    August 30, 2012 at 9:01 pm

    Hi! Love your work and this contest – fabulous! Some great entries – have thoroughly enjoyed going through all of the comments. I love NYC and especially in the cold – but I live in sunny Singapore. I would absolutely be prepared to fly to NYC but it would take me about 24 hours door to door….

    In any case, here is my entry:

    “I love it when snow falls. It’s not harsh like rain but it still has the ability to cleanse. Laundry day. I’m glad I found my grey throw. I feel safe in my grey throw. Like a pair of giant shoulders enveloping me, protecting me from the world. I feel almost invincible. My black pumps take me all the way. Today I will.

    I hear a fast click click of the shutter… I wonder if Scott is taking my picture… “

  45. Luke Irwin

    August 30, 2012 at 9:04 pm

    She has claimed the execution of form removes the pretense of reality. Now, she thinks, to execute the form. She sends dispatches. The city is a forest; I am its winter bird. My navy cloak is woolen down I grew from the tender plumage of my head. It shelters my lambskin bag, full of grace, beneath my wing. My dress ruffles navy feathering against the cold. Its spangles speak warm summer to the snow. My Louboutins are the flicker of cardinals.

    The falling snow makes grace out of necessity. Her halo is quiet today: white gold, almost visible in the photograph. She turns a little to the left. Is it a stairwell or a stone grotto? She thinks, not all the nyads and dryads are asleep. Snow muffles the traffic. She clicks, crosses, tracks between a dream and her life. She perches, at peace (at last) in the deep wood. She is walking home from work. Beneath her feet, the vermilion is singing about strawberries growing in a glacier.

    • Nini Piccola

      August 30, 2012 at 11:46 pm

      Beauty!

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 3:36 pm

      This is unique and beautiful !
      Good luck !

    • annabella

      September 1, 2012 at 8:48 am

      WOW!

    • Miller

      September 3, 2012 at 2:17 pm

      Your writing is so good I can’t tell which I want to become more: This woman or her shoes.

  46. Eloise

    August 30, 2012 at 9:14 pm

    Today she wore desire, carefully selected from her wardrobe, it would be reflected in everything she did, the sway of her step, the glances she stole, her mood her taste it it cloaked her entirely. Tomorrow she might be sweet, frivolous, aloof, crazy, angry…but today she smouldered.

  47. Carina

    August 30, 2012 at 9:26 pm

    Originally, I come from Tibet. The high mountain ranges of the Himalaya have mirrored their pristine features on me. The divine wholeness is what made me a product of luxury. I was lucky enough to be fabricated into this flawless product of a scarf. Pashmina to be precise. Me and my friends come in a plethora of choices in colours and sizes. Our unique features are what made us worldwide so popular recently. I really liked my friends from the shelves. We guessed the customer tastes and who would be bought by whom. Of course we had special, higher expectations to our owner-to-be than the other fabricated schals.
    Tactile people who hold luxury, quality and sensuality dear buy us.
    My dream came true. This magnificent woman came into the Boutique. I could literally sense that today was my day. I was to be bought by this extraordinary woman. I always knew I would get lucky: only somebody with a great taste for fashion and unique style would reach for me. Occasionally, my friends from the shelves laughed at me because of this belief of mine. But she had it all. She knew exactly what she wanted with a shy elegance she took her time to choose carefully. She oozed coolness. She would have the guts and elegance to wear me in untypical ways, to use me whenever she can and experiment in styles.

    It fulfills me with pride to know I became her favourite piece of garment! Whenever I can – and let me tell you, this is always – I am her perfect guardian. Just look at me know, how comfortable, nonchalant and safe she feels when I protect her gently from this snow.

  48. Holly Sneeringer

    August 30, 2012 at 9:49 pm

    For now, the snow is not sticking. For now his camera will not be ruined as her points his lens at her, drawn to the blue-black of his own overcoat and red on her shoes. But drawn more, to her mood. He knows the mood–the way it comes on suddenly, in town or at home, and how she can, so easily, walk away after all these years. There will come a time, later that night, when she tries to explain: It had been the children in the park with their games and their runny noses and their bright eyes. Or the young waitress in the hotel restaurant. How could he not have seen the resemblance? He voice will quiver. She will say how sorry she is. Again. By then the snow would have stuck to her long eye lashes and he would have put away his camera. He might say that she had ruined another day out (he has said this before). For now though, he is trying to focus, trying to capture what is fleeting–the sidewalk glistening, the light changing, his wife stepping through the forming puddles. The shape of her.

  49. ttea

    August 30, 2012 at 9:50 pm

    There was nothing particularly special about today, but that’s the great thing about clothes, they can transport you, make the day feel special. If buy a dress because it has a drama, it will never loose that drama. Day after day that dress will retain its feel of drama, sitting there, waiting for you to put it on and be transported. I wanted to be transported today, no particular reason, but the fresh snow had put me in a mood, and I wanted to be enveloped by that mood.

    As I walked down the street I got into character, the character I wanted to be, the character my clothes wanted me to be. Looking at the snowfall around me while rapped in my cloak I imagined my whole romantic tale.

    There was nothing particularly special about today, but that didn’t matter, I was in my own world.

    http://fashionananthropologicalpointofview.blogspot.ca/

  50. Jennifer

    August 30, 2012 at 9:52 pm

    I know she saw me even though she pretended not to. There was a second when our eyes met; I recognized her and I know she recognized me. I stopped, started to say her name. She didn’t even look away, just shifted her focus a little so that it felt like she was looking through me and kept walking, not even a hesitation in her step. I hadn’t seen her in three years and apparently her fortunes had changed considerably in that time. She was dressed elegantly, all in black, just the way we’d always said we’d dress when we were grown up. I can think of a lot of reasons she wouldn’t want to talk to me: shame, fear I’d tell her new friends what I knew about her, survivor’s guilt. Maybe she thought I’d ask her for money, but if she could believe that she’d changed a lot more than her clothes. It was after she passed me that I saw it: the splash of red on the soles of her shoes, as if she’d stepped through blood. It was her all right. Changed, yet not so changed.

    • Suzy

      August 30, 2012 at 11:02 pm

      my favorite story yet for this photo!

  51. Geordie

    August 30, 2012 at 10:08 pm

    Down the avenue of marshmallow dreams, waltzed the abandoned, the hilariously weak. Those who never sent others to meet their mortal fate.

    Dr. Harvey chuckled, as he stared on a dry black stain of vomit on his coat that resembled a dancing ballerina. “in this world”, he thought “there are cats, and there are goddesses”.

    One late to go, no sugar.

    • hvd

      August 31, 2012 at 1:40 pm

      this ones my favourite by far, and I wrote one!

  52. Ariel Davis

    August 30, 2012 at 10:20 pm

    She liked the way the snow felt, the way it crunched under foot, a surprising response to her weight, instead of a plush, inviting sound. But she would be leaving it soon. Arriving in a carpeted hallway, stopping at a doorstep, ringing a bell. They would all be there to greet her: the friends she hadn’t seen in months, the faces she only saw in online albums. And they would ask her what it was like in all those other cities.

    It was too hot in the islands. She sweated through sleep and made crackly phone calls to her then-boyfriend. London had a pristine sheen, not like the city. No, nowhere was like New York. She reminded herself as she shifted still in the snow, pulling up a hood over her hair and eyes. She passed the door, but instead took one more walk around the block. One more look. More snow.

  53. Kelly

    August 30, 2012 at 10:28 pm

    She caught the young man’s eye immediately. The snowy city block was almost deserted. Her arresting silhouette stood out among the few passersby who hurried along with heads down. A bulky coat pulled over her head, she strode at a pace that ignored the weather. Black fringe sashayed flirtatiously below her coat with every step of her Louboutins.
    He walked faster, unsure what he was thinking, just wanting to be closer to this exotic specimen. He hadn’t been in the city long and was still enamored with “real New York girls.” It wasn’t just how they dressed, but the way they walked, the way they looked past you or right at you–either way, it was very direct.
    He was fantasizing about peeling off her wet tights when she abruptly veered into the street, signalling a taxi that appeared from nowhere. He halted, and while opening the door, she looked up. Making eye contact for a split second, he saw she was in her fifties or sixties. Creases surrounded her piercing eyes. He realized he was staring and blushed. Suddenly she winked and slid gracefully into the cab, leaving him standing in the snow thinking about New York women.

    • une chatte grise

      August 31, 2012 at 3:22 am

      Nicely done!

      • Maria (from Cambridge)

        August 31, 2012 at 4:09 pm

        agree!

  54. Marilyn

    August 30, 2012 at 10:28 pm

    For the contest, a haiku:

    Snow drops fall wildly
    Louboutins in red and black
    Beauty in a cape

  55. NSB

    August 30, 2012 at 10:46 pm

    Trapped and defined by her name, her future, and everyone around her, she had been losing that battle for far too long.

    That night, she would be the severity of the smooth sidewalk she took and the authoritative rhythm of her heels tapping it, the soft snowflakes she shook off the edges and folds of the fabric of her warmest coat, the light floral hues of the perfume she chose, the tulle of her favorite dress grazing the bend of the stocking at the back of her knee, and most of all the defiant scarlet trail she left behind—she was completely in control.

    That night, for the first time in a long time, she was glad she put the pill bottle back on the shelf.

  56. Jane

    August 30, 2012 at 10:50 pm

    It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I was up until three a.m. soothing a crying baby or partying until the bars closed or pulling an all nighter to finish a pitch when I put on that suit — my fuck me heels, black stocking that hide all sins and my dress that makes me 10 pounds thinner — I am invincible. Not even snow can ruin me.

  57. Lis

    August 30, 2012 at 11:17 pm

    She had done the walk of shame in many different outfits over the years. As she walked through the light snow, smiling to herself, she realized that each one reflected where she was and what she doing at the time: high tops and a biker jacket as a college student in L.A., sandals and a linen skirt that summer in the south of France, Doc Maartens and an overcoat working for a newspaper in SF, pumps and an LBD once she’s moved to Manhattan. This morning she considered the Louboutins and vintage Dior, her tasteful but sexy diamond earrings and knuckle ring, her lingerie, which cost more than she’d paid for rent on her first apartment and was now stuffed into the bottom of her evening bag. She considered how far she’d come from that first walk the morning after, so many years ago, and considered this odd fact: she felt the very same way inside that she had then. A little bit happy and a little bit sad.

  58. Alessandra

    August 30, 2012 at 11:23 pm

    They say it takes twenty-one days for a new habit to take hold: what they fail to mention is how long it takes to break such habits. I have forged a life, she thought, pushing away the doubts, carefully finding her footing before the snow thickened to ice under her feet. She never tired of the subway ride home to her apartment, watching the illuminated train cars threading through separate arches in the tunnels, yet still visible for a while from her passenger’s seat, those fellow travellers, before they were all flung into darkness. The snow stung her cheeks and eyelashes, blinding her. She felt this was her life now; not seeing the road ahead, but knowing she was heading in the right direction. She could feel him, somewhere ahead of her, but she could not read him. Not yet. A language learned imperfectly, without the benefit of past history to guide her, or, worse still, past history gleaned in scraps. But she was sure of something. No one ever before has heard her subtleties or mistakes as keenly, has heard her the way she most deeply hears herself. She was looking for signs in everything. Even here.

  59. asf

    August 30, 2012 at 11:27 pm

    ALmost there.
    my heels against the stone cackle at me
    my feet race one another
    i m almost there

    i tilt my head straight back.
    the black damp shawl slips
    it nestles on my shoulders
    my eye lashes flutter in the neon light
    the icy flakes leave steep kisses as they meet my pale forehead… my nose… my lips… my chin
    i stand with time

    ‘ma’am you’ll catch a cold’
    thats ok
    i’m home

  60. Hannah Lee

    August 30, 2012 at 11:31 pm

    This is very, very exciting!

    The entire city of New York walked out into the streets to face a marvel of wintry spring snow. Young hearts could not help themselves as the air flooded like tonic into one’s lungs and snow melted on one’s eyelashes, brimming into view like tears. A white haze of endless swirling depth mystified each figure up ahead in a unique capsule of time. It was as if mother nature herself was carefully outfitted under a dark gray sky in a way that was by no means dull. Instead she was dared others to meet her challenge; the meaning of allure.

  61. N.M.

    August 30, 2012 at 11:35 pm

    She had been stomping on the necks of would-be suitors and sweet-talkers all night, and now her heels were covered in blood. What more do you need to know? She’s waiting for a cab and it’s cold. When she arrives at her apartment she’ll change and sip warm liquids from a mug. Then she will sleep. All that is beside the point though. Anytime now that red will seep onto the stone walk and down onto the street. Lives lost but honorably.

  62. lisa kat

    August 30, 2012 at 11:40 pm

    snow falls on burqa
    happily my red soles
    warm me from below

  63. Monsieur Marcel

    August 30, 2012 at 11:42 pm

    NYC FASHION COUPLET

    Louboutin Red soul,

    color popping through the snow.

    • une chatte grise

      August 31, 2012 at 3:25 am

      Will we need to call you Monsieur L’Imagiste now? :)

      • Monsieur Marcel

        August 31, 2012 at 11:38 am

        Yes, if it doth please,
        une chatte éminence grise. :)

  64. Sandra

    August 31, 2012 at 12:01 am

    Black may be the color of sophistication, good sense, but black is also comfortable. Be it black shoes, a black bag, a little black dress or a coat or stockings – the items all women should and have. Be it a bad or a good day, black works. And black works here. But here there is more to than just comfort. There is a little red playing around ground area with black and gray. The shoes, they scream for themselves, they match the light black dress.
    The over blackening is toned down by the slight change in the coat color, playing with the stockings. What is more, the weather, the slight slush flakes play with the whole composition, making the outfit blend. The little clothing pile walking is so smooth that it even makes us want to be in the dampish awful weather. However, it’s still smart, not too blended, not too easy, little spice with the red and a covered head.

  65. Jenny

    August 31, 2012 at 12:13 am

    Damn, every time I leave Drybar it is either snowing or raining. Maybe I should buy a car too so that I can take it to the car wash on the same day. Now I am stuck trying to scurry all the way to Soho for this PTO meeting at Sienna’s school in these unbearable Louboutin’s. I dread the day I accept that I am a matron and not a maid anymore, so for now this comfy coat does the perfect job at hiding those extra 15 pounds. I guess I should have passed on that bagel this morning. At least Al Roker was finally right and I grabbed my hooded cape before jetting this morning.

  66. Geevz

    August 31, 2012 at 12:16 am

    She woke with the hazy confusion of being in someone else’s bed. A glimpse of her dress lying on the floor in guilty puddle of fringe brought her back to her senses. She wasn’t a girl to do something like this. She wasn’t someone who went to elegant parties, to go home with a man she had just met. She was practical, she was normal, she was ordinary Jane.

    Until the dress.

    She couldn’t really afford it. She should have paid off a bill or saved the money, but there was something almost magnetic about the cut, the cloth, the combination of lines. In a moment of courage she bought it, rushing before her logic could stop her.

    Then came the red-soled shoes, achingly perfect. The impossible invitation followed. Wavering until the last moment, she finally pushed herself out the door and became someone else. Someone confident, someone sexy, someone bold.

    She let him sleep as she dressed. The magic of the ensemble was still there. As she stole the blanket from the couch and headed out into the snow, she was still Jane, but nothing could ever make her ordinary.

  67. Sierra Undine

    August 31, 2012 at 12:18 am

    It wasn’t easy disguising yourself as a human when you were an exotic mythical bird living in New York City in the 21st century. “Ugh..” Fiona thought to herself as she tried to shuffle her feathers under the large overcoat she had swiped from the back of an unsuspecting man’s chair at the party.

    What a bore it all was to her. The parties. The people. The endless fascination they all seemed to have with her ever-present back feathered gown.

    “Where did you find it?” they asked.
    “So fresh, yet dark, yet…” they mused.
    “It’s her signature.” they had decided.

    For the most part she just stayed quiet. Most took this to mean she was mysterious and contemplative.

    “People have a way of deciding for you who they would like you to be.” She thought to her self as she walked briskly on her spindly bird legs home.

  68. Elizabeth

    August 31, 2012 at 12:25 am

    Snow began to fall as I was walking home with just my thoughts sweeping a delightful thought of walking through the door of my apartment starting a fire and to warm up thinking how lucky am I to live in this city the center of the universe and just like that we are never alone.

  69. Kate

    August 31, 2012 at 12:42 am

    “Ugh, snow,” she mutters under her breath as the first few flakes fall. She stops in her tracks for a minute to dig out her thick woollen wrap from her tote and gingerly arranges it to cocoon her head and dress. A smile breaks out on her bright red lips when she wonders if she looks like a Muslim woman. Her Louboutins click against the pavement slowly, as she saunters along the street back to her apartment on Baker Street, observing the people just coming out of their homes to start the day. The snow is getting heavier, landing and then melting into the wool of her wrap. She ignores the wetness in her stockings, thanks the heavens that her Galliano dress is still dry.

    She notices out of the corner of her eye, a black car rolling up slowly behind her, stopping as she turns around to look at it. The windows are tinted. She lowers her makeshift hood and stares at the car. A door opens. Expensive leather plimsolls touch the pavement. Her eyes travel up from the shoes to the tailored silk pants to the silk blazer fitted over a crisp white shirt that is barely obscured by a thin black scarf. She knows who this is. She feels a shiver going up her spine, nothing to do with the cold. “Hello, Sherlock,” she smiles. He replies with just one word, a smile growing across his face. “Irene.”

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 3:58 pm

      I adore Sherlock and Irene Adler.
      Your story is wonderful.
      I could see Jeremy Brett’s elegance in your description.
      Bravo !

  70. Adria

    August 31, 2012 at 12:52 am

    She loved him. And because she loved him so, she waited in vain for a evening she knew was already lost. She allowed herself one, maybe it was two, tears of regretful mourning. With such fiery spirit and a lifetime of self preservation, it was only natural she think it a waste to not display such a lovingly pieced ensemble. A quick look into the mirror, a draping of the cashmere shawl, and in a brief gust of crystallized wind, she was gone. They watched her, the people in the streets, and they saw what he could not: the girl who so boldly wore red soles and naked legs in the midst of the white winter, secure in her own heart that no man would ever dampen such fire.

  71. Erin Mahagan

    August 31, 2012 at 1:00 am

    A man is sitting on a bench while pondering in the winter. This is a type of man that thinks more than he sees. He has always been more fascinated by thoughts than anything visible, which has prohibited him from finding someone to share his life and thoughts with. As he is thinking, the red bottoms of a woman’s shoes suddenly distracts him. In the moment he finds himself standing in front of her and saying “Do you know you have red on the bottom of your shoes?”. After that they go out to tea and months later they are engaged. He then tells her “ You know, if you did not have those red soles there is no way I could have run after you because I would not have known what to say”. Shoes are an element of communication between people.

  72. John

    August 31, 2012 at 1:05 am

    It’s the only thing in the city that could out do me, that could run me over and laugh in my face as it usually falls. Sure I have grace and style, but you, you have something no other individual has. I, in my youth would stick my tongue at you, not to mock but to taste your cold sense of beauty. And on this day, with all my certainty of superior, you pulled all your stops, and used your one up. Now as I arrive it will be you on top, melting away, slowly giving way to the chair I held before i stepped out the door. Good-bye little flakes.

  73. renee

    August 31, 2012 at 1:11 am

    By the time he got in his car, she was already out of sight. “It’s snowing,” he had said. “Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” She said nothing, draped her coat over herself and made for the door. She had to walk. She had to get out of there.

    Her wedding ring clung like a noose on her finger, threatening to choke it off. She heard it said that you wear the ring on the fourth finger because its vein led directly to your heart. Maybe that explains it – the slow, internal claustrophobia, keeping her up at night, driving her mad. She ripped the ring off her finger and threw it in the garbage.

    “Where will you go?” he called down the street.

    It doesn’t matter, she thought. Anywhere is better than here.

    “What will you do?” he called again.

    I’m going to walk, she thought. Anywhere is better than here.

    Desperate, he shouted, “Those aren’t even the right shoes for walking!”

    Fool, she thought. These are the perfect shoes for walking. Any shoe is perfect for walking, as long as I’m walking away from you.

    • Bianca

      September 2, 2012 at 8:01 pm

      Love love love the three lines about the wedding ring. Win!

  74. Paulina

    August 31, 2012 at 1:19 am

    She was convienced that the only red she needed is the one on her shoelaces.
    Walking down the street she put her hoddy on keeping her hair flawlees.
    Only one block more, in each step she remiend herself to be careful, the floor is wet.
    Finally she arrive to a coffeshop, sits in a table near a window and enjoy the view, then she smiles.
    It was the first snow of the year and she had decided to welcome the winter properly, sure she was overdressed for a coffeshop but at the end who cares?
    It was the snow what matter.

  75. Anisha

    August 31, 2012 at 1:25 am

    A white field of softly falling snow. A raven flew down, blue-black feathers sharply contrasting against the purity of the scene. Seconds later, a lady hidden in a cloak against the cold was hurrying towards the town. There was business that could not wait. The red of her quickly-moving heels oddly reminded one of a hungry raven mouth..or the red of blood.

    People raved over Katya at the Theatre that night…what a performance! Such execution! Light as a feather!! How could she do it? The dancer sank into a deep curtsy but her eyes were feverishly scanning the audience until they met the steel blue ones of another.

    The same blue eyes watched a raven take flight and merge into the blackness of the night. What was vengeance compared to freedom? Or satisfaction against sheer tumultuous joy? Blue-black feathers soared and danced on the wind.

  76. Vicki Fields

    August 31, 2012 at 1:30 am

    I am planning to join this contest, there is going to be a lot of fun and learning as well. I love the way the author is expressing his ideas, pretty cool l must say.

  77. Stacey Sweeney

    August 31, 2012 at 1:35 am

    To everyone who is going to take part in this contest good luck, how l wish l could be there myself. Well that is the disadvantage of living away from home.

  78. Simbarashe

    August 31, 2012 at 1:35 am

    The weatherman lied.
    I’ll never be able to wear these shoes again.
    . . .
    This is the price one pays to celebrate the happiness of someone else?
    Bells,
    cakes,
    wines,
    dines?
    Come on!
    Lights are on, let’s see how you burst and sparkle,
    smile as big and bright as you can!
    Picture, picture, thank you cameraman, no . . . thank you!
    I wish you the best of luck,
    the greatest success,
    and nothing but boundless, endless, puppy-dog happiness.
    You deserve it. You’re the most deserving person I know,
    nobody in the world is more worthy than you.
    All that . . . one would think should entitle us to something better.
    And yet, the paint only hides me
    my clothes find me
    my shoes stride me.
    Either I’m alone or I’m searching for a supernova.
    Who knows,
    either way, I’m still the brightest star in the sky,
    collecting wishes as I pass on by.

  79. When Knots

    August 31, 2012 at 1:40 am

    At night we run out the back exit, towards the beach. The champagne bubbles swirl in my head. Salt sea air whips my hair into my mouth as I smile. He motions to me from the water, ‘join me,’ the sleeves of his tuxedo rolled to his elbow. I pull off my own heels, toss them in the sand. When I look up again he is waist deep, arms waving. I hear nothing over the waves crashing. The water must be freezing, the wind cuts to the bone as I unzip my dress to join him. My toes reach the surf, like tiny cold knives on my feet. I squint up again and I can’t see him. I scan the inky water. He is gone. Panic-red-like the bottom of my shoes.

    And when I say goodbye to the empty casket, days later, I will wear those shoes. Wear them home in the twilight, pull my shawl over my eyes to shield from the snow. Picture him waving, ‘come join me.’

  80. Ellen J

    August 31, 2012 at 1:42 am

    When she exited the church that frosty January morning, she did not know where to go. Snow had started to fall, but she didn’t care. She needed to be outside. She needed to walk off her sorrow. She needed to suck in the bitter air.

    The only thing she had left of her mother was an old shawl, brought on the boat from Russia to New York so many years ago. She wrapped it over her head in remembrance, and took small comfort in the fact that it did, indeed, keep her warm. She had laughed at her mother for so many years about it. As a teenager, she had been embarrassed by her family: their accents, the strange foods in her lunch box, but especially her mother’s shawl, which screamed “Old World”, so different from the young America she clung to. But now there was nothing to cling to. Her mother was dead. Only her shawl would wrap around her now, providing a mere fraction of the warmth and love of a mother’s embrace. “It’s at least something” she told herself. Not everything was black in the end. Not even the soles of her shoes, which carried her forward.

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 4:15 pm

      Very moved by your story that reminds me of my own.

  81. Jo Bin

    August 31, 2012 at 1:42 am

    Red snow. Blood on ice.

  82. Carly

    August 31, 2012 at 1:44 am

    The winter will never cease the revival of watching my first snowfall when I was a little girl. The lingering memory enflames my mind every time I see the virginal blanket wash away the city or town I am currently in.

    Growing up winter would annually blow its strong obnoxious temperature through our small town. Where my mother would warn us with strong willed scolds to have a proper set of mits, gloves, scarves, and boots in defense against the cold. It was an issue to be avoided in terms of consequence and punishment.

    When single digits gave evidence to my age I would trick my father into grabbing his attention for seconds before he left for work early in the morning. Hiding his toque in my pocket as I would watch the snow fall in front of my face with a mere set of glass between, gazing into abyss thinking of where I would be next when I witnessed such a wonderful scene. As I heard his impatient nags to my mother exclaiming ‘where is my toque!?” I can’t get to work on time without it!!!” I would wip it out of my pocket smiling ear to ear. Then being picked up by him smiling saying “you are the thief!! “Give that back or I will take your hat!” While tickling and swinging me around.”

    Now living a life far from what I knew as a child I can never remember to bring my hat with me, especially when a snow fall is coating the character of the city I now call home

  83. Alexandra j

    August 31, 2012 at 1:57 am

    And so she walked. Walked away from the old and decidedly – if not precariously – towards the new. She knew she could never go back there, never look back. But she was fine with that. Closure made her feel closer to the man she was walking towards. He was waiting for her around the corner, up a stairway. He would be there to warm her, rub her feet, rhapsodize about their love.

    If he only knew…

    But knew what? Nothing had happened. It was all unspoken, irrationally emotional. That was all. Yet there was guilt. The more she walked, the more she thought – thought about him, thought about what might have been. But as the virgin snow fell cold upon her most familiar sweater, she could not help but feel a wave of calm warm her. With each step, she felt more sure of herself, of her decision.

    Then he appeared. Her future. A grand figure, regal in stature, thick hair pressed down with snow. He saw her and smiled, smiled so big his nose crinkled in delight.

    And suddenly, in that moment, her nose as red as her soles, her soul warmed to his undying love.

  84. MJC

    August 31, 2012 at 2:35 am

    It’s morning. She’s dressed for evening. It’s the end of something that could have been special. It’s also the end of those all-night talks and trying to fix things. No more running mascara. No more holding one’s tongue. It’s the beginning of the new. When people claim that they “…can leave everything behind,” she did. And “…all I had were the clothes on my back…,” she did that too, but it still puts her a notch above almost everyone else. Her clothes wear her. There were no idle choices here. As she grew, her sense of herself became more fine-tuned and then confident which meant that she could now get away with the occasional mistake. You pass her this morning and the first impression of her is one of perfection because that’s what she wears. What you may fail to realize is that perfection starts from within and expands out. Her confidence works that way, too. And her fun. She’s going to need all of that now as she steps deeper into the new. The air is cool and moist and possibly hostile and she can only protect herself so much from these elements. So, what else is new.

  85. Tammara Shelley

    August 31, 2012 at 2:48 am

    Since I am out of ideas I will just speak my mind… I love the shoes.

  86. Ali Asghar

    August 31, 2012 at 2:54 am

    Before she left the house, she’d noticed the light flecks of snow falling on the window, sticking to it like shards of glass that lay sprinkled on the living room floor, along with her husband, lifeless, in the twinkling mess. Blood delicately oozed from his head and blended in the Kilim rug on the floor. His half open, crystallising eyes only reflected her little black dress and black wool shawl around her neck. She put on her shoes, side-stepping over him – as he obstructed her exit – and gave him one furtive glance.

    “The police will soon come, but I have one last business to attend to”, she thought as she hurried outside the door. She stepped out, closing the door carefully behind her. She didn’t even think to carry an umbrella – she had revenge on her mind. As she walked onto the desolate street, with snow gently falling like petals over a grave, she felt a chill and in a quick but elegant motion cocooned herself in her black shawl. She knew what she had done — she had blood on her soles.

    “I feel I did quite right”, the Black Widow reassured herself.

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 4:20 pm

      Wow ! Love it !

  87. CultureShockArt

    August 31, 2012 at 3:27 am

    Such a great idea for a contest! There are some talented writers here, well done!

  88. urja dave

    August 31, 2012 at 3:38 am

    From afar she looked like a Barbie doll draped in black, encased in a snow globe. She had always imagined working in the city that never sleeps. She had interned, networked and hustled endlessly in hopes of finding a job and moving to The Big Apple. Before she knew it, she was a plane to start her dream job. On the flight, excited fingers clutched her over-sized handbag and headphones blasted Nicki Minaj. She thought about dancing until dawn with new friends and meetings with clients at landmark New York restaurants. She couldn’t believe it was all about to happen. Two weeks later, she walked down 5th Avenue making a special stop at Bergdorf’s. The red soles of the Christian Louboutin’s beckoned her. She handed over her first real paycheck and bought a classic pair. It didn’t matter that it was snowing. She tucked her flats into her purse and slipped on her designer pumps. Pulling up her coat to protect her hair, she couldn’t stop smiling. Her dreams had come true. En route to her apartment she sang to herself, “I wish that I could have this moment for life/ Cuz in this moment I just feel so alive . “

  89. Juanita

    August 31, 2012 at 4:42 am

    Wel this picture shows us how truly inspired Christian Laboutin really was when he decided to paint all his soles red! A stroke of genius! x

  90. Madhuvanthi

    August 31, 2012 at 4:44 am

    Another cold, eerie morning. Another monochromatic day with all its moments of sparked snow flakes. The previous night’s dinner hadn’t taken a toll on her and all those never ending minutes of toasting and drinking champagne seemed like a distant, disconnecting memory. But while grabbing her black coat this morning and stumbling over her black Prada stilettos , she found the piece of paper that she was hoping to find. An unknown but predictable address was scribbled across. As she rushed through the hundred people who were walking in that monstrous fast pace to catch up with money and life, she realised how life stuns her. How it brings stories to her every single day, how it makes her dream, and make her want to paint it beautiful. But again, it was another cold day. Frosty in its senses and threatening in its presence. This is why she never looked forward to such days. But the coat which she wore now was a reminder of that gorgeous, enchanting winter in San Fransisco when he had told her for one last time that he would be leaving-leaving her. Memory or not, she was scarred and the snow flakes were a mask to the pain within her while she ran to meet him at Madison Avenue this morning again.

  91. Ariel

    August 31, 2012 at 4:47 am

    Beautiful photo!

    Story to come. :D

  92. Ariel

    August 31, 2012 at 4:49 am

    The figure fades, but the colour does not; and while it’s no longer cold, I shiver. Ferocity radiates from the floor.

    Hooded figures cross in timed intervals: chins down, shoulders up and eyes fixed. I search for one who dares answer me, but there is none. Three, six, then twelve pass before a shawled one approaches.

    Where there were a dozen shadows, there is now a glow. She meets my gaze, and holds it. I freeze – she commands it. Her eyes are as fierce as a marksman, burning with conviction. In an instant, I am the fawn, and I lower my eyes.

    The ground shimmers. She passes, and so does the heat. Only then do I turn. I turn, looking to the ground.

  93. Myrlin A. Hermes

    August 31, 2012 at 5:45 am

    He’d known from childhood that he was gay, but, like Sherlock Holmes, he’d always had the woman. She was a choreographer at the Folies Bergère, where he’d been hired for his first job, cobbling dancing shoes for showgirls, and probably fifty to his seventeen. He didn’t care. For years afterwards, he would remember her as the most beautiful woman in the world; even when he could no longer recall her face, but only the bright scarlet lipstick she would leave in rings on whiskey tumblers and the butts of the Gauloises they would chain-smoke together backstage until dawn.

    She always painted her nails the same red color–even her gnarled and misshapen dancer’s toes, the arches of her feet frozen permanently en pointe. He should have found them ugly, but instead desired nothing more than to pluck her toes like cherries, one by one, and pop them in his mouth.

    “Never be afraid of the pain, Christian,” she told him, gesturing at her ruined feet. “This is the dance—not all that pretty stuff they show on stage. Art without suffering is no art at all.”

    The night she died, he dreamed of her for the first time in years. He tried to tell her about the troubles he’d been having with his new collection. “They’re almost perfect—everyone says they’re perfect–but still I feel something is missing.”

    She only shrouded her black cloak around her head and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, “Adieu, mon amour. ” And as she turned and walked away through the falling snow, he caught the glimpse of scarlet at her sole and woke with a start; and his life was never the same again.

  94. nadiajmal

    August 31, 2012 at 6:26 am

    she walked away with a smile on her face , she make her dream came true ,she had the opportunity to watch ” prada ” fashionshow , it was a bittersweet experience for her , and she ‘s walking and remerbering every second that she ‘s got to share with her christian loubutain pumps . the fear of being on the same room with anna wintour , garance doré and the joy of meeting and see their faces for real because she sick of being the outsider , evey piece every model was replying in her mind like a sweet old movie and the snow was giving her the perfect dramatical scene to feel that and to be finally proud of herself for making the first big move in fashion industry and now she’s thinking that maybe the sartorialist took an amazing pick of her with her christian loubutain

  95. Alaska

    August 31, 2012 at 6:29 am

    De battre mon coeur ne cessera.

    Click, click, click click. Click, click, click, click. Click, click, click, click.

    There wasn’t a murmur: the sparse fluttery snowflakes brought everything to a still, although he could now make out her heelsteps, miles away, as only a lover could on any given day, even in a crowded place. Her perfectly dignified posture, the way she would edge her foot slightly to the right every four steps. Click, click, click, click.

    Boom, boom, boom, boom. Boom, boom, boom, boom.
    He held his breath, fidgeting with the box which jealously held their future in his coat pocket. It cocooned in his pocket, his, and not the one of that ham of a man with a fitting name, Roberto Buffone. Buffone, ammazza che stronzo!

    She better say yes, he thought to himself as he looked up at the ever proliferating waltzing snowflakes — it was the first snow of the year — and stuck his tongue out like a child, if only to keep his nervousness at bay. For he is a man now, or at least he knew she’d eventually make him into a proper one.
    And when a man loves a woman… Click, click, boom, boom.

  96. Yang

    August 31, 2012 at 6:51 am

    When we first met, a sense of intensity among our soft spoken hearts.
    When we first spoke, a stutter of shyness sparkled brightly.
    When we first move in, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
    When you first smiled, all i wanted were your lips.
    Now that our firsts are over, and the last is here,
    All I have is our blanket of love to keep you going, to maybe remember our first.

  97. Thomas Hanchett

    August 31, 2012 at 6:53 am

    At some point Claire knew she´d have to hail a cab or venture below 6th Avenue for a downtown F or V train. She accentuated each step in the wet snow to keep her balance, leaving a trail of ephemeral exclamation points with her spiked heels. Everything mattered now that he was in her life.

  98. Gary

    August 31, 2012 at 7:09 am

    Je nage vivement, suivant le courant froid qui accompagne ma course vers un autre banc de poissons rouges, dans lequel je retrouverai ma place parmi les miens. Je suis étrangère dans ces eaux que j’arpente, mais je sais où je vais. Je file vers mon but, et l’on se retourne sur mon passage, tant attiré qu’effrayé par ma couleur vive et mon allure souveraine. Je m’affiche comme un signal : “attention, danger”, ou bien “suivez-moi si vous l’osez !”. Dans les courants que je traverse je suis l’exception, l’étrange intruse, l’extraordinaire anomalie. Je savoure mon incursion, je m’enveloppe d’un voile de mystère et fais de mon apparition un événement furtif et précieux, je me sens sublime et fantasmatique, je créé du mythe, du conte, je suis Cendrillon, Blanche-Neige, les Mille-et-une nuits… Mais j’arrive à destination, et je disparais, je me fonds dans la meute. Nous sommes tous exceptionnels, donc tous ordinaires ? Beaux, élégants, fiers, nous sommes des paons… mais qui impressionnons-nous encore ? Il nous reste cependant ce plaisir secret, de nous perdre parfois dans le fil des courants et de nous éloigner du banc de nos semblables pour s’en aller resplendir aux yeux d’une autre friture.

    198 mots.

    I’ll try an English translation.

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 4:33 pm

      J’aime beaucoup. Sympa de lire un texte en francais.
      Good luck !

    • Sevan

      September 1, 2012 at 4:00 pm

      Tres bien ecrit et puis, c’est en francais !!!

      • Gary

        September 3, 2012 at 9:08 am

        Many thanks Sevan, Merci !

  99. Vida

    August 31, 2012 at 7:10 am

    and off she went

    in snow as though
    there’s me
    no more
    my heart
    my sore

    my heart
    my sores
    her tears
    her wars
    behind her steps
    as off she goes

  100. Steven Rockwell

    August 31, 2012 at 7:39 am

    Long nights and early mornings….. After too many martinis and a deliciously bad decision for a night cap, I still feel stunning on my 6 a.m. walk of shame home from 10 blocks downtown. It’s gotta be the shoes….

  101. Steven Rockwell

    August 31, 2012 at 7:41 am

    Long nights and early mornings. After too many martinis and a deliciously bad decision for a night cap, I still feel stunning on my 6 A.M. walk of shame home from 10 blocks downtown. It’s gotta be the shoes.

  102. F. Hanson

    August 31, 2012 at 7:44 am

    The crystal-like snow transforms her into poetry in motion. Fiorella walks the concrete jungle, painting it red with each step. Just 4 inches away from the woman she use to be. Her covered sexuality elicits the same fervor as her magnetic red soles. Yearning for the warmth of another body, she whispers a name and lets out a soft sigh.

    • Gia

      August 31, 2012 at 10:41 am

      Very clever… I love the name Fiorella!

  103. EJ

    August 31, 2012 at 8:15 am

    click. click. click. click. click. She moves as if she’s in slow motion, each step pronounced. With the lingering snowflakes moistening the ground, the sound is amplified – a subtle splash turns heads in her direction. click. click. click. Her face seems to evade the onlookers – each turn of her skirt, each step forward, each time the wind brushes her hair – she looks forward but never in your direction. Always ahead, unobtainable. She lingers at the traffic light, then glides off into darkness. No one would even notice the faint trail of blood left behind by those clicking heels. Left to melt away in the snow.

  104. Anh Mai

    August 31, 2012 at 8:27 am

    Mum always said I could not wear heels because I am a boy… she was wrong.

    • sanmiguelense

      August 31, 2012 at 7:36 pm

      YES!

  105. Jane

    August 31, 2012 at 8:33 am

    Me, My Smile and My Louboutins
    Snow kissed my cheeks as I left the interview. I breathed in the cold, fresh air. It made the world feel magical, and I felt excited. Only an hour earlier I was nervous and tense. Would they like me? Was I good enough? Did I have spinach in my teeth? Would I look stupid if I checked for spinach in the side mirror of this parked truck?
    Now I was walking on air. It couldn’t have gone better. They had offered me the job, and I felt fantastic. I dug my phone out of my bag. The snow was getting heavier, and it covered the screen as I tried to write a message. I gave up, and pulled the hood of my coat around my ears, sheltering my face. I can keep this to myself for a few moments, I thought. The walk home was like a dream, the city was quiet. I didn’t hear the workmen shouting across the street, or the cars honking their horns. It was just me, my smile and my Louboutins.

  106. Deborah Ecret

    August 31, 2012 at 8:35 am

    She was two blocks from home and prayed she would make it. The thought made her laugh. It had been eons since she prayed. But she did. Despite her life—this long, long existence—she still was amazed at the world around her and was not ready to leave it.

    People passing by would think she protected herself against the fairy dance of snowflakes, but her true enemy was chasing away the night by which she lived. Thus the required protection of the shawl.

    The Danziger Gallery party had been fun. So had the cute waiter she had invited back to the Americano. Both the party and the waiter, now a distant memory. For a brief moment she wondered if he had family. But the thought was just that; brief.

    She climbed the steps to her brownstone, relieved as she shut the door behind her, placing her newly acquired bag on the foyer table, wondering what outfit to wear with it when she rose, once again, to walk the night.

  107. Maren Serine

    August 31, 2012 at 8:39 am

    Great day to wear my beloved stolen Loboutins for the first time! Just great! Goddamnit, when has it ever been snowing in NY in September before?! if the snow will not disappear the moment it hits the ground i will seriously call in sick. no, pablo will kill me. i can already hear his slick rusty voice; ” Thomas, not only have you put on weight during the summer and forgotten to wax the beard.. you cant even work those stilettos becouse of some goddamned snow! fml..i should have listened to mum and continued to work for uncle.. who am i kidding, i would do anything to wear a miniskirt at work everyday.

  108. thevstyle

    August 31, 2012 at 8:39 am

  109. GS

    August 31, 2012 at 8:49 am

    This is it. The day I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been over it in my head a thousand times. I can do this. I know I can. If I get nervous, I’ll focus on my new Louboutins. Perfection. Wait, it’s beginning to snow. Should I wear something else? NO. I’m wearing them. If it snows, it snows.

  110. Viviane

    August 31, 2012 at 8:50 am

    With her earplugs in and her ipod playing Lauryn Hills ‘Doo Wop’ Carla, a callow, 18-year old girl from Germany is rushing through the streets of SoHo towards Laurens little apartment, hoping to arrive soon. Well, as much as she loved her new black Louboutins, she would give anything to wear some warm pair of boots right now. It is a freezing day in the middle of December with lots of snow falling down.
    Lauren has been her exchange student back in high school, actually called Gymnasium in Germany, where Carla grew up as a single but happy child. They have never lost contact and became really good friends.
    Carla discovered her love to fashion pretty early by reading lots of Fashionblogs and Magazines.
    By the age of 14, she started watching fashion shows and picked out her own favorite designers. From this day forward it was clear to her that she would not want to work if it was not in the fashion industry.
    Her actual plan was it to start a career as a successful fashion designer right at the heart of fashion: New York City. So, one evening, she grabbed all of her sketches and designs and did not think twice about her idea and took the next flight into the City of dreams.
    Her parents were not too happy about Carla’s idea to live with Lauren for a while to start a serious career as a fashion designer in New York. They were convinced of the fact that Carla was too young to deal with all of the stress the fashion industry contains.
    But Carla thought otherwise. She knew she could make it, no matter what was going to happen. She was not all by herself, she had Lo who started working as a teacher at an elementary school in SoHo. According to that, she had just finished school and her boyfriend had finished with her, so there was nothing that was holding her in Berlin.
    She did not tell any of her friends about her leaving Berlin because she was scared of the Goodbye. She has always been scared of Goodbyes. She has always hated them.
    The fashion party was a success. Ryan, a friend of Laurens had smuggled her in. It occurred at Barneys due to new designs by Isabel Marant. There were lots of interesting faces Carla had never even thought about meeting. She loved Ryan at this moment how crazy was it to be at such a huge party. Ryan had to mug every guest of the party, which was a great job for him.
    She has never been the shy type so talking to those people was not hard at all for Carla. She is open minded but not brash.
    She proudly presented her designs to Anna D.R and gave her number to almost every person at the party, ‘why not?’ she thought.
    After three hours of talking and laughing it was time to leave the party. Ryan has photographed every character and both of them went with a big, big smile on their face. But not home.
    Both of them were starving.
    A taco at ‘Simon’s snacks & more’ was exactly what they needed. They were eating and talking and laughing until dawn. Ryan went towards upper eastside while Carla started walking home to Lauren’s. Even the cold could not keep her from smiling.

  111. Hannah

    August 31, 2012 at 8:57 am

    There were only two things I was sure of. The way my hands were trembling as I walked to meet him, and the faint sound of a jazz record drifting through the freezing air from across the street. Snow was falling steadily, and the twilight span around me like a dream.

  112. Lee Paradis

    August 31, 2012 at 8:58 am

    “Oh, wasn’t it simply marv-e-lous?” Marv-e-lous, marv-e-lous quips a tiny bell near him. He turns his eyes from her. She is too dazzling. Her ring-ring singing moneyed-voice passes over him as he sips the evening from a bottle. She later sits beside him, her voice carrying out the open window; empty words and empty sounds, oh merrily merrily, she talks a dream. The cab then, taking them away from the opera comes to a stop. She flutters with excitement and disappears beneath a black cloak. She smiles at him. Wrapped up in her bundle, her eyes just peer over the wrappings, warm and caramel. She is smiling and silent, but he is still listening. Then she ducks out. Heels strike the sidewalk, and she heads home in the slow dusting snow. Lovely girl, she goes hidden in the black cloak. The shoes clip clip down red amongst the gray and somber. He can still see her on the street as the taxi starts to go. Lost in the crowd of black peacoats and black umbrellas; she is too dazzling. With each step of red, she takes with her the promise of wonderful and exciting things yet to come.

  113. Marie

    August 31, 2012 at 9:04 am

    “Oh. My. God“ said the Left Shoe.
    “The Sad Colour Time is here again!“ replyied the Right Shoe.
    “No, I mean, havent she noticed it at all?“ continued the Left Shoe.
    “What do you mean“ asked the Right Shoe, doubtfully.
    “ When we were standing in front of our mirror, a true raven was looking back on us!“
    “Youre exagerrating again a bit, arent you?“
    “What do you mean? Havent you noticed the skirt reminding of that birds feathers, the big black scarf covering her body and giving her head the shape of a ravens skull? Are not her arms wrapped in that scarf like they are wings waiting to be spread up and used for departure above the dirty pavement, red brick walls and roofs where the snow is dancing with the wind?“
    “Whats wrong with being free, being able to fly?“
    „Oh, everything. From above, nobody will be able to admire our shiny red soles. We will look exactly like any other black shoes!“
    “You think when nobody sees our beauty we loose our worth? That she might throw us away?“
    “Oh, watch the hole! Be careful! No, dont…my heel! Help!“
    “I wish we could fly after all…“

  114. Michael Warren

    August 31, 2012 at 9:09 am

    Red had tormented her since the Allies ceded half of Berlin. Red forced her from her blue flowers in Pankow and impaled her on a grimy factory floor in Leipzig. Dreams of triumph over red sustained her through bleak, empty days and cold lonely nights; fortified her when her stomach growled and her daughter cried from hunger. Victory over red might not be hers but it would come for Gisela. Scrimping, denying herself, strangling her own dream, her silent lips kissed her child’s drooping forehead.

    The Russians would not stay forever. They had stolen everything and had no love of Germans. The overlords would tire of their dominion and return to the steppes. Alexanderplatz would prosper and bustle once more. She would send Gisela to America. Gisela would flaunt her transcendence of red.

    Gisela would have the shoes from Paris. In America, Gisela would put red in its place.

    • Dan

      September 1, 2012 at 6:50 am

      Many here are clever and witty, this transcends all with a sense of purpose.

      • annabella

        September 2, 2012 at 5:58 am

        Ditto.

  115. Charikleia

    August 31, 2012 at 9:17 am

    This is my entry:

    “Save me from boredom
    Save me from pain
    I’m falling, here’s the bottom
    My efforts have failed
    IN VAIN
    Listen to my laughter becoming a scream
    The city lights are now dim
    The falling snowflakes are not as fluid as they seem.”

    A big kiss from still sunny Greece!

  116. ALISON

    August 31, 2012 at 9:17 am

    As the blur form the previous night’s tears faded away and the blur of the morning snow appeared, all she was left with were her thoughts. The thought of the love that was just lost as he walked out her front door. The thought of the last kiss he left her, knowing it would be their last. The thought of the pain that will hit her like one-thousand knives once the numbness wears off. How could she let her guard down far enough to feel like this?
    Instead of letting her normal rapid day begin, as it always did in her driven city life, she sat alone and let herself feel hurt, let herself be weak, let herself miss him. She finally pulled herself up and together. Breaking with ever article of clothing she put on. Feeling bruised with every bit of make-up she applied. Once she left her apartment, and hit the snow-speckled street, she did not feel any stronger. No one would know though. To them she is always fabulous.

  117. Helen

    August 31, 2012 at 9:32 am

    This photo is really beautiful

  118. Anna M.

    August 31, 2012 at 9:47 am

    Alice is late. Always late. Even today, this morning, late, late, late. Drumming in her head and across the sidewalk, the minutes click by, determind step, after step, after step. But! There is this: She loves. And this love (though noone would know it) between keys lost and coffee sipped and sheets, tights, skirt, keys (again!) dresses her mood, head-to-toe.
    “You are going to be late,” he said. And she was. Verrrry late. “Let me see you.” Pausing. “You look beautiful. Wear the shoes. The ones with red soles. I love those.”
    So does she.
    Late! Cape, perfume, keys, shoes (the red soled ones, he says). Stepping out, so slowly. Late! Late. But so beautiful, composed, defiant. And last, in love.

  119. Louise

    August 31, 2012 at 9:47 am

    “…And as she walked from the scene of the crime, her lover remained. The only remnant of her night fueled by passion burned through the soles of her feet. A flash of scarlet in her otherwise dreary day to come.”

  120. Tessa

    August 31, 2012 at 9:50 am

    Winter is a good time to be a woman. The armor of coat and wind, of raised shoulders, of cold. If anyone saw us, they didn’t say. I walk before and Nina behind. I don’t look back. She is there.

    The shoes were stolen but the coat is Luc’s. He may give her another dress at dinner. She has his coat pulled over her like a cape against the wind, like she were Red Riding Hood and he the Wolf. She may tell him this. When he laughs he shows his teeth.

    I met her in the restroom with the shoes. The light was dim and she stood by the sink in the stockings. “Give them here,” she said. She looked into the open box like a birthright.

    If anyone saw us, they didn’t say. The cold is the second part of the thrill. It’s thirteen blocks til dinner. Then I am the protector, and Nina will go ahead. Her red soles kiss the pavement, saying goodbye with every step.

  121. Anna M.

    August 31, 2012 at 9:57 am

    Alice is late. Always late. Even today, this morning, late, late, late. Drumming in her head and across the sidewalk, the minutes click by, determind step, after step, after step. But! There is this: She loves. And this love (though noone would know it) between keys lost and coffee sipped and sheets, tights, skirt, keys (again!) dresses her mood, head-to-toe.
    “You are going to be late,” he said. And she was. Verrrry late. “Let me see you.” Pausing. “You look beautiful. Wear the shoes. The ones with red soles. I love those.”
    So does she.
    Late! Cape, perfume, keys, shoes (the red soled ones, he says). Stepping, so slowly. Late! But beautiful, composed, defiant. And last, in love.

  122. Bon-Ton

    August 31, 2012 at 10:07 am

    Who is that man photographing me? Not secretly with his iPhone, but boldly with a proper camera, the kind with the huge protruding lens.

    Do you fancy me a model?

    Do you find me so ravishing that you must save my image to revisit whenever you feel alone? Is it solely for yourself, or will you share it with others: A friend, a colleague, or with an ex who jilted you – claiming me to be your new girlfriend; that would make her jealous, wouldn’t it? Or maybe, you’ll show it to whomever cares to see it, a hundred, two hundred, a far-reaching wave of a thousand avatars, who incredibly share your same vision.

    But why me?

    Does the fact that I dare shoes in the snow amuse you? Or maybe you find the unexpected flash of my red soles defying my otherwise monochrome outfit titillating? Are you taking it as a come-hither signal? Ha, if only you could see my lacy, red underthings! But you never will, because I don’t know you.

    What’s that, you say? Want more? I’ll cover up instead; mystery is a powerful tease. This way I can be whomever you and your audience want me to be, like clay on a wildly spinning potter’s wheel relenting to the artist.

  123. Clay Allen

    August 31, 2012 at 10:08 am

    Oh crap. I mean it was like two or three Patron shots. John and his wife Kate asked me up to console me, to encourage me to; well feed my soul; at least that’s what I thought. Its only been two weeks since my divorce. I’ve been holding myself back for a decade; ignoring my thoughts, hoping for the best, believing I can make it work…. Now its this. My virtue and self control have been impeccable, well up to now. Then this. I wake up with Jimmy Falon’s rendition of Walk of Shame Walk of Shame in my head and now I’m living it. Its five blocks to my flat. Its cold, and I gotta figure out how to walk in these bleed’n things. How does a straight man of forty find himself without his clothes and robed in shame. This has John and Kate’s finger prints all over it. Now I gotta do this Tony Randall imitation,,, or was it Jack Lemmon who looked better in that movie? Here I’ll wrap myself up in this blanket that the cats been sleeping in. AAAAAchoo. Where’s my nasonex when I need it.

    “Hey buddy! Nice Legs”! “Awe bite me…”

  124. The Casual

    August 31, 2012 at 10:17 am

    WOW
    what an amazing photograph!
    (this is not my entry though…)
    I will enter the contest, although I’m a bit far away, but who knows, right??
    Now… for my entry… brb

    xxx
    http://thecasual-blog.blogspot.com

  125. kate

    August 31, 2012 at 10:19 am

    She knew she shouldn’t have gone; she didn’t belong there. But she had to say goodbye. Back straight, head high she walked down the aisle to the casket. “I’m sorry for your loss.” His wife stared through her. A last glimpse of his face and she left. Back into the snow, the long walk home. She pulled his jacket up to block the wind. He had left it accidentally when he crept from her flat early one morning to return to his family. It was all of him she had now. No one comforts the other woman.

  126. Anna M.

    August 31, 2012 at 10:23 am

    Alice is late. Always late. Even today, this morning, late, late, late. Drumming in her head and across the sidewalk, the minutes click by, determined step, after step, after step. But! There is this: She loves. And this love (though noone would know it) between keys lost and coffee sipped and sheets, tights, skirt, keys (again!) dresses her mood, head-to-toe.
    “You are going to be late,” he said. And she was. Verrrry late. “Let me see you.” Pausing. “You look beautiful. Wear the shoes. The ones with red soles. I love those.”
    So does she.
    Late! Cape, perfume, keys, shoes (the red soled ones, he says). Stepping, so slowly. Late! But beautiful, composed, defiant. And last, in love.

  127. Makaga

    August 31, 2012 at 10:27 am

    The argument didn’t last long. They never lasted long with him. The usual raised voice and peculiar arm waving and then it was over. He was a stormy sky one moment and then the clouds parted and he was back to his usual self. She always reacted the same way to these outbursts, “What does he want?” What does he really want from me?” The usual gripes about her behavior, or her career, or, just recently, the changes in her physique. What once had been long and lithe was now becoming softer. Cozier. More feminine, really. But with him, more feminine was always more than he could stand. The drinks had become too watery as the ice gradually succumbed. Another round of drinks were produced. And the conversation flowed. Until it didn’t. His voice was raised again, his arms danced about, and this time, for the first time, she left. She left him. She walked out into the city streets just as the rain began to fall.

  128. Fiona

    August 31, 2012 at 10:35 am

    Little Red Riding Hood knew she should not stray from the path in the woods ever again…

  129. ErinJones

    August 31, 2012 at 10:46 am

    The sky grey, the snow beginning to fall. She was at the window looking at the street below, it was still, lonely even. She could sense the chill seeping in from the glass. Her breath making a fog on the glass as her forehead touched the window. She saw her slowly walking down the street, that clumsy bag over her shoulder and that old coat covering her delicious face. Without a thought she turned to the chair, sat and began pulling up the silk hose under the ruffle of the chiffon skirt she had playfully put on for her morning tea. Next came the heels. Her make of secrecy during the winter months. A touch of red so inconspicuous unless you have the delight of being of walking behind. But today she will be the one dashing behind, lightly stepping so as not to disclose her pursuit.
    She is at the door in a moment, grabbing her winter coat she hugs it to her shoulders slipping each arm in the lining a warm memory. Down the stairs of her flat and to the tall wooden doors. Open, close, lock. The snow is falling with more weight and attitude. Covering her head, she remembers stories her grandmother would weave of mornings outside Beja, she was going to reach this woman and tell her everything.

  130. Jouhyun

    August 31, 2012 at 10:47 am

    There’s a civilization under here: bits and pieces, lint and strings and particles of light. Ultimately it is about what I see. We are, in the end, forever strangers to each other endlessly orbiting the elusive absolute. It is so easy to think that you, on the outside, might know something that would set me free. It is comforting to think that you, who sees me as complete and also a smudge of the wrong color bleeding into the snowy paper, would in the end be pointlessly wiser. Vindicate me, stranger, so that we could be like bleeding footsteps on crystal-sharp desperation.
    But the moment has passed, and the open eye has shut and who is to prove that either you or I was ever real, right and here? Your memory, you say? A fuzzy imprint of colorful trajectories on a humming screen? This intangible breath, your memory? Tell me, who, if suddenly I turned on you and said I was never here, would press flesh against flesh and lay their life down for your truth?
    There’s a civilization here, my fragile lover. So come under. Come under, my sweet innocence, here, and claim your crown.

    • Julia

      September 2, 2012 at 10:50 pm

      vivid and raw

  131. clark

    August 31, 2012 at 10:53 am

    Five minutes prior, I had slipped through the lobby, crouched under my coat. Hopefully the doorman didn’t recognize me. Then again, he was always discreet.

    With the cold air now licking the back of my calves, I realize this must be what it was like, learning to walk. I’m a little unsure of myself, but exhilarated by the prospect of making it down the street on my own two feet. I feel alive in these towering heels, with only a thin veil of black between my skin and the city.

    My mother always said it was such a waste that I was blessed with these legs. In a way, she was right. “But not today, Mom,” I think to myself. Teetering to the end of the block, with new found independence, I smile. Why should women have all the fun?

  132. Me

    August 31, 2012 at 10:56 am

    NO WIND! NO RAIN! NOR WINTER STORM CAN STOP ME!

    She checked the weather forecast while at home and it predicted rain ,sleet and snow, but I did not matter because she had already planned what she would be wearing. She meticulously gathered her proper garments, so that they would speak for her that day. As she stepped onto the pavement her eyes begin to flutter from the snowflakes, it did not matter as she continued to step highly in her well chosen shoes, which were detailed in red on the bottom, but this time red was not meant to say STOP, her chosen red provided a cautionary sign that gave pedestrians behind her a warning that there is a stylish path to take in life, even if the elements do not cooperate. With her head covered, yet still held high, and not hiding, she sauntered down the wet walkway in continuous motion and stability determined to get to her destination the same way she left home.- IN STYLE

  133. David

    August 31, 2012 at 10:57 am

    Rouge Louboutin, rouge assassin

    “C’est un porc!” pensait-elle. La colere régnait encore dans son esprit tandis qu’elle errait au hasard des trottoirs, vacillant comme un flocon de neige porté par le vent, un clochard par sa bouteille, ou une prostituée par le bon vouloir furtif de ses clients anonymes.
    Le trouver la, avec cette fille trop blonde, trop fraiche, trop jeune avait provoqué un torrent rancunier de violence. Il avait tout gâché, tout piétiné?… Ruiné ses espoirs, détruit sa confiance?… Oh, elle l’avait massacré!…
    Et la gamine aussi: en regardant son corps désarticulé, son visage figé dans l’horreur et la surprise, elle avait souri avec lassitude, pensant que cette babydoll égérie- type a la David Hamilton, etait devenue en quelques secondes un modèle idéal façon David LaChapelle, et que ça n’était pas plus mal. Morte, elle avait l’air moins niaise.
    Elle marchait, les mains encore engourdies par la lame qu’elle avait brandie puis enfoncée encore et encore dans leurs chairs infidèles. Emmitouflée sous sa cape, elle s’enfuyait maintenant, ivre de rage, le coeur froid, sa silhouette s’evanouissant dans la blancheur hivernale. Sa rage y etait incandescente. Comme le sang qui avait souillé les draps de cette chambre minable. Comme le rouge sous ses escarpins, qui profanait le tapis de neige a chacun de ses pas…

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 5:02 pm

      J’adore votre histoire.
      “Morte, elle avait l’air moins niaise…..”

    • Sevan

      September 1, 2012 at 3:56 pm

      “Morte, elle avait l’air moins niaise.”
      J’adore !

  134. Style Linguist

    August 31, 2012 at 11:09 am

    Snow doesn’t own me. I own it. I use it as an accessory. I shape it to my day, apply it to my routine, and carry on as if its everyday. So get out of my way. It snows every day. I turn the impractical into practical. Just look at me. You can’t not look at me. I am a vision of coruscation. I am invincible amongst the invisible. I serve no one but myself. How can I not? You’re under my control. I arrest your eyes. I stopped you in your tracks, as I track away, far away, escaping your gaze. Soon I’ll be gone, but you’ll always remember me. I’m that memorable because I stand for something. I am something. You’re under my control. I’ve hypnotized you. It was nice knowing you. Wake up. Snap out of it. You’re too easy. Come with me. I think I like you. Follow me to this show. Sit beside me. Talk to me. Just be with me. We can watch the others glide by, erect and direct, obsequious to no one, to nothing, least of all snow. What’s a little snow when you’re this fabulous?  

    I am the shoe … the red shoe lacquered on your mind.
    stylelanguage.wordpress.com

  135. Michael

    August 31, 2012 at 11:25 am

    It was a Tuesday, and looking out the window he contemplated the snow beginning to fall. Below, on the street, huddled figures in dark clothes slouched along the wet sidewalks as the big, wet snow flakes of spring fell, dissolving around them.

    Somehow, he knew today was the day.

    He lovingly took the black Prada sheath dress he had purchased for the occasion from its hanger and held it to his body, nodding with satisfaction. The Louboutin’s with the 5 inch heels waited patiently in their box, eager to kiss the wet sidewalk. He knew he would top it all off with the black cashmere shawl he had unearthed in a second hand store on Delancey, knowing when he spotted it what a treasure it was, feeling now that it might provide him some cover should his courage flag.

    When he was done dressing he stood in front of the mirror, surprised as always by the magical transformation that a little makeup and a well cut dress could bring about.

    He looked at the clock on the bedside table: 10:15: a good time, he thought, to escort his fantasy out the door of his apartment and into the streets below.

  136. anon

    August 31, 2012 at 11:39 am

    A Winter Wednesday

    She found herself once again in the midst of this evening’s pep-talk. Lying in bed watching the snow at once melt and drip down the glass. As the reflections of the traffic lights become more noticeable as the night goes on, reflecting on the windows of the apartments across the street, her inner self has some serious doubts.

    Get up! Get going! Jump in that hot shower and shave those legs!

    You’ll feel so much better, self. I swear it.

    Once you put that dress on and those new shoes, everything will be coming up Mary. You’ll see.

    You live in NYC for a reason. You’re latest achievement should not be watching the same movie six times in one week.

    Forget him. Forget the chill in the air. And forget the state of your bank account.

    Just
    get
    out
    of
    bed.

  137. Iván P.

    August 31, 2012 at 11:45 am

    While avoiding getting ready she read the first ten pages of a Vila-Matas novel hoping to get carried away elsewhere. After slipping off her hands and landing with a thud on the floor, the paperback startled her awake and the strange notion that she was just having a conversation with the Spanish writer made its way through the sleepy haze. With his subtle accent and in the complicit whispers of two friends gossiping at a wedding, he was trying to convince her that gradually limiting the books he read was a smart move. His life had become cluttered by plot, setting and characterization and hers would too. She could now not avoid looking at her shelves without imagining all sorts of things falling out from between the pages of the books she’d read; spiders and a rifle, a gentleman’s reading glasses, knives, a recovering addict’s prison tattoos, a golden retriever, a notebook full of names of French schoolchildren and a host of other fictional bric-a-brac threatened to come alive and flood her tiny city apartment. This worrying thought would accompany her all the way to the party, where unfortunately, the wealthy and attractive would distract her from her thoughts.

  138. L

    August 31, 2012 at 11:49 am

    Grey days. Long nights. Late January and the year is already a disappointing one. Snowing again. Saw B. in a restaurant Saturday night and she pretended she didn’t recognize me. She still looked at, though. Her date was old. She looked tired. She left halfway through their meal to answer her phone and didn’t come back. I found myself hoping absent mindedly that she had called a car and didn’t attempt walking home in those perilously tall shoes and that thin dress.

    Couldn’t stand it any longer. Had visions of her stranded in doorways while the pavements got slick and shiny with ice. I excused myself from my gracious date and ran out. She was only a block away.

    “Let me get you a car.”

    She looked cold. Her hair was wet.

    “You don’t have to do this. In fact, I’m pretty sure we stopped doing “this” an awfully long time ago.”

    I waved over a cab.

    “Far too long,” I said.

    She got inside.

    “See you?” I said.

    “See you,” She said.

  139. Rose

    August 31, 2012 at 12:14 pm

    Rain!… It feels like I’m back in Vancouver! At least I have my Louboutins!

  140. elizabeyta

    August 31, 2012 at 12:14 pm

    The evening before was memorable. A lovely dinner he cooked. Good wine. Conversation that flowed from on topic to the next. Laughter. Dancing in his arms with no music playing. The morning was back to the reality of home and commitments but the snow continued the magic.

  141. O

    August 31, 2012 at 12:18 pm

    Fortune fish
    Curled up
    Portends.
    Those soles, slick
    With ice
    With fire.
    Carving through thick
    Concrete bodies
    A woman’s scythe
    Of sorts.
    The flash of light
    That comes with her shadow.
    Oh hooded creature.
    Heavy eyes? Heady gaze?
    To hard to tell unless
    A ribbon chinks against your breast.
    As lids fall shut
    One’s pallor fades
    But lips remain
    A fearsome, livid, telling
    Red.

    • Sevan

      August 31, 2012 at 5:10 pm

      Love it !

  142. Delia Arteaga

    August 31, 2012 at 12:24 pm

    Eli

    Eli was running late. She prided herself on being on time, ALL the TIME. No excuses, military brats learn the importance of being on time, always. Eli was running late to work, that awful job she detested more than the cold rain that morning. Sitting at her desk, typing numbers and figures that meant nothing. It all meant nothing numbers had no color or depth. The only thing that mattered were the words. She lived for the words, all words had a color, a shape, a scent, a memory. How much she loved at the words, each word had such weight and the weight was her armor, her weapons against the cold, the rain, the world. Nothing could touch her if she had the right word. And each word was more beautiful than the next: LaCroix, Channel, Yves Saint Laurent, all of them, their names shone to her brighter than the sunshine they were more important than air. Nothing mattered only the words, the way they laid against her skin, what they meant to her. It was always like this for Eli, the protection and safety the words offered. The words were her daily uniform.

  143. a.t.

    August 31, 2012 at 12:25 pm

    She is on the way to meet her boyfriend for dinner. Everything is planned and perfect: the black dress, the Louboutin’s, the warm wool coat. Simple elegance. And then comes the snow! This is not part of the plan, but somehow it puts a stride in her step. The honeymoon period hasn’t yet faded and she is dressed to impress. Each snowflake brings a sense of anticipation to her heart. What will he be wearing? Will he, too, arrive dusted by the snow? The weather adds a quality of romance to the night that even the perfect plan couldn’t reproduce.

  144. Mauricio Fredes

    August 31, 2012 at 12:27 pm

    …And she woke up, picked up his clothes, climbed to his louboutin, and was gone for good. The shame was killing her inside, she covered her face with the cape, and the fringe of her Prada dress were the only ones able to look back…

  145. Bibi Deitz

    August 31, 2012 at 12:31 pm

    First snow, New York

    On the way out of the apartment the day I returned, after the bottle was gone and more glass had been applied to the Freedom Tower and we’d eaten olives and chocolate and cheese, I stepped out onto the street and it smelled like snow.

    It was the kind of day that makes you forsake all things previous and promise to be a devout New Yorker for the rest of days.

    It was silent on the street, snow muffling the boom of voices, the grouse of engines, the whinny and push of the subway below. Airplanes flew overhead under the cover of snow, their chemtrails catching and widening invisibly above the flurry.

    After my mother’s death, I saw the city as it was, only with half of everything missing: half a bodega, half a windowpane, half a toothbrush in half a jar by half a sink. Half a flight of stairs, and the dangerous implications of such a half. Half a record player. Useless. Half a city, crammed into the size of a full city, a half somehow taking more space than its whole.

  146. Mauricio Fredes

    August 31, 2012 at 12:31 pm

    … And she woke up, picked up his clothes, climbed to his louboutin, and was gone for good. The shame was killing her inside, she covered her face with the cape, and the fringe of her Prda dress were the only ones able to look back…

  147. Raven

    August 31, 2012 at 12:48 pm

    A smirk escapes the side of my carmine lips. I’ve got an audience and I’m giving every passer-by a glimpse. This game I’m playing,hell, it doesn’t get much better.

    There is something so amusing and subsequently addicting, with over-dressing. You instantly become an idol of curiosity. People want to know your story. Where are you going and with whom? Elevated on these red stilts, I’m feeling powerful. Thats what I live for. This heavy woolen shroud only adds to my mysterious presence, teasing for attention and provoking the city around me.

    Something as simple as putting on a dress and some shoes lifts my day. It’s not like I have somewhere to go. My block is my catwalk dammit. Any weather, bring-it-on, it usually just adds layers to my character du jour.

    I’ve been home for a few moments, and my anxious and obsessive nature is brainstorming my next exhibition.

  148. Maria

    August 31, 2012 at 12:57 pm

    Hi, I’m Cindy. I work at a small restaurant in New York. This is my first night out in the city. I don’t mind the snow, but I feel like tip-toeing on ice in slippers as part of a Cinderella’s Friday Night Out Survival Training. I can picture myself loosing my balance and sweeping my bag on a parabolic trajectory path while falling and trying to counterbalance the fall. To prevent that from happening, I’ve practiced walking and climbing up and down the stairs in ridiculously high heels. The shoes are from Jen, one of my roommates. She goes to drama school and has the most amazing shoe collection. We piled it up in the middle of the living room and I tried every single pair on. This pair fits me perfectly. I hope the heels will hold and the snow will not ruin my hair. The dress is from Angie. She is a consignment queen and an aspiring actress. She can pull out the most beautiful dress of any given pile with her eyes closed. I’m gonna see Peter, the tall guy with brown eyes, a regular at the restaurant. I am almost there. Wish me luck!

  149. Kari

    August 31, 2012 at 12:58 pm

    The heavy wool still smelled like him; spicy cologne, a plain dove soap bar, and hints of smoke from a Christmas eve fire burning brightly.
    The combination of smells was admittedly odd, but it was her brother. Better, it was the way she wished to remember him, smiling, laughing, and stealing the decorations right off the tree. She’d even found wayward tinsel in one of the coat’s deep pockets and a candy cane wrapper in the other.

    She pulled the coat in closer around her body. She needed it to get her through the next few streets and through the festivities of the evening. She needed it to get through her first Christmas without her brother.

    It had been an unbearable week watching him go. A man of 26 should not just fade away into an evening of snowy white. But that is what Cystic Fibrosis does. The day before he’d died, she’d brought a small tree into his room at Columbia Presbyterian, and hot cocoa mix that they drank together out of styrofoam cups. They would have the best christmas ever, he joked.

    She stopped for a moment and glanced at her reflection in a shop window, the twinkling silver bodice and sleeves of her dress peeked through the heavy coat. Holly red cheerfully greeted strangers from the soles of her shoes. She couldn’t bring herself to wear all red, emerald green, or gold as she typically did. But she knew her brother would have scowled if she’d worn all black. This dress and this night was her compromise to him both literally and metaphorically; she would hold tight to hope and wear it on her sleeves.

  150. T x

    August 31, 2012 at 12:58 pm

    Why was it always this way?
    I was always the one left alone, walking down the street in the cold.
    The others wouldn’t wake up until the next day, wondering what had happened and where exactly they had stayed.
    I prefer to keep my head clear, I say, and my body tucked away. Attempting to fool myself that it was my choice to be this way.
    Of course it wasn’t, it was all his doing. He tried to hide it, try to buy his way out of it. Gave me shoes with a name that cost more than I earn in a year, along with a load of other posh things I couldn’t care less about.

    Click.

    That’s the sound of a camera that I supposedly can’t hear, or see, or realise it’s there.

    I don’t turn, or stare, I just keep walking in my big-name shoes.

    And I hope, for my sake, that he sees exactly what he wants to see.

    T.N.

  151. Andrew

    August 31, 2012 at 1:20 pm

    As soon as the word passed my lips I felt ruffled by the clumsiness of it. Goodbye. There is nothing good about it yet that was what I said. It’s over would have sufficed but I have always been hampered by the cloying stickiness of etiquette. I simply could not bear to be with him another day. This day is so momentous to me but for you it would be like hearing the details of a disturbing yet fascinating dream. Full of symbolism and universal meaning to me but nothing more than a puff of breath to you. I have left him. As the wet snow swirls around my face I feel the world getting larger. The light rebounds off the glistening stone and I feel like I am in a halo.With the utmost certainty, I silently mouth the words “thank you for it all.”

  152. xotchiltl

    August 31, 2012 at 1:33 pm

    Always on the move, always dancing towards his singular goal. No time to stop, must arrive at Point B from Point A—it was his life’s calling after all.

    In this unexpected call to duty on this late October day, he saw her: a vision in gray and black, dressed as a swan of the blackest and most gorgeous variety. He’d seen others on his commute that day attempt to captivate this ethereal avian beauty — but none had succeeded quite like her.

    He floated closer, as though his divine trajectory was intended to take him to her, but he didn’t dare let himself believe it to be true. His destination was within sight; once there, there would be no turning back. Oh, if he could just be close to her for one moment before his fateful arrival, his inevitable demise!

    He arrived at Point B, his mission complete. A sudden gust of wind had swept him too far. He felt himself melt away, half from heartbreak and half from the sheer physics of his being. As he disappeared on wet asphalt the color of her cloak, he watched her fade away. He noticed the red soles of her shoes, a reminder that in the final moments of an otherwise miniscule and fleeting existence, love in its purest form had graced him.

  153. Billyg

    August 31, 2012 at 1:40 pm

    i watched her walking away, as she pulled the scarf over her head to hide her tears that fell like the snow. I looked down at the ring in my hand and felt…

  154. rk

    August 31, 2012 at 1:41 pm

    There was something so sinister yet absolutely stunning about the way she moved. As I cautiously walked towards her, time suddenly slowed and there was nothing I could do but get sucked into her all black head to toe . She knew what she doing. This woman was a force to be reckoned with, leaving you in awe of her every movement. Men and women a like simply could not commit this to memory, instead passing her image along to the next person willing to listen. A thing of beauty is powerful and armed with all the right fabric tools leaves us standing at attention, wishing there was more to be said. Our two bodies passed and I felt her warmth; nothing better than the chills on a cold morning. As I continued on my way, I said to myself, “it could happen.”

  155. yak

    August 31, 2012 at 1:57 pm

    The heat from her body and the warmth of her smell was over me while
    I fondled all those pleasant memories that he had promised would be mine 
    if only I would come.  I could still see the lights above the dining room shining thru the flakes of snow as they patterned my Lebouitons.

    I flushed when I recalled  his voice, his generosity, and his friendship.
    How happy I was as those were the thoughts that forever accompanies the memory of that morning.

    Secrets? What secrets? Don’ t be simple.  I can still picture his smile
    as we talked on the phone,
     ”Yes, of course you”ll have time to meet her,
    I”ll even find you a room within walking distance of her hotel.”

  156. Lynn Martin

    August 31, 2012 at 2:02 pm

    Title–Snow Globe
    Snow. Glorious snow. The snow makes it perfect. Today it was unexpected. Expecting the unexpected, especially unpleasant things is woven into my subconscious these days. Unpleasantness used to be unusual. Sadly, now it is daily, more and more ordinary. I’m fighting back. I’m looking for happy. I’m walking toward happy. Happy doesn’t just come to you anymore. You have to find it. So I did. I gave myself a day of fashion. I wrote my own definition for happy. My hair is coiffed, nails manicured, lotions and potions rubbed into my body. The most notorious stillettos purchased for my new ensemble. Then it happened. I stepped onto the street and into my own personal snow globe. This was my dream for myself. My fantasy. It had waited for all the other practical obligations to be met. It couldn’t wait any longer. My Medicare card is in my pocketbook. It came today. I can’t wait for happy to come to me. So I made my own day of happy. I’m walking in it.

    • annabella

      September 2, 2012 at 5:43 am

      Lynn,

      Snow Globe. “I’m walking toward happy”.

      Magical AND real. Love it. You are a winner!

      Annabella

  157. Elise Apffel

    August 31, 2012 at 2:03 pm

    However, it was never enough to stop her from wearing that coat – even when they found her later that evening.

  158. wendy verlaine

    August 31, 2012 at 2:03 pm

    What you have to understand is a sexy, black high heel shoe speaks volumes, and that’s a responsibility.

    Her legs were crossed, letting her left leg swing rhythmically.

    I said, “So do you think they end it or do they go back to their REASONABLE lives? “

    She let her shoe slip from her swinging foot, introducing a whiff of anxiety.

    “I mean do you REALLY think a couple with opposing musical tastes can tolerate a lifetime of compromise? ‘Ok darling just one more Jacque Brel , Ne me quitte pas. Did you say Cabaret honey?“

    Her shoe slipped a bit more, revealing the curve of a perfect, pinky arch which reflected the red leather lining. I was encouraged.

    “Would you just want to get on, hoping things pan out?”

    Her leg swinging stopped, her shoe dangling on the tip of her big toe. I felt a pang of desire. My mind began to drift.

    “Look. Realistically. There’s compromise and then there’s COMPROMISE.”

    The last image I have of her was of her rushing down Fifth Avenue in the snow, her coat pulled over her head for shelter or maybe to muffle my protests. I Instagramed her image.

    • Alaska

      September 1, 2012 at 2:12 am

      absolutely loved this, but I have to say “a whiff of anxiety” nearly killed me!

    • King Muir

      September 1, 2012 at 1:31 pm

      perfect little vignette… and oh so true. Great story!

    • Jon

      September 4, 2012 at 12:23 am

      Don’t we all tolerate a lifetime of compromise??
      Very nice conversational snapshot.

  159. Álvaro Salgado

    August 31, 2012 at 2:22 pm

    When he remembers those two weeks, it always comes to mind how mesmerizing she was, especially when she was sad. And that’s what scared him the most, to be drawn into her black eyes. “You’re the sun, I’m the moon” she said, “it’s only natural that you see my dark side”. In fact, even though Marcelo worshiped the sun, cheering with the crowd as the star dove under Ipanema’s waters when the city’s perpetual summer was at it’s peak, her tidal pulls were too strong to resist. They collided.
    One morning, when they woke up to a cold and hazy light filtering inside her Village’s apartment, she said he’d better go. “You’re losing your tan” she said, “and I, well, I got stuff to do”.
    It snowed when she walked away, and the moon set red that night.

  160. Eric L'Esperance

    August 31, 2012 at 2:28 pm

    Light is seeping in under the bedroom shade, but it’s not the brilliant yellow glow she typically expects on a cool October morning. This is the softer spoken sister. It’s sunlight that, having passed through the canopy of rain clouds, now sinks dreamily through the sill casting weepy, dull-edged shadows onto the floor. “Another Monday morning in 2011,” she moans. “And the only thing that distinguishes this Monday from another is the date: October 31st; Halloween.” Halloween was once a day full of excitement, a gift to a child’s imagination. Today it’ll be packed with appointments, deadlines, deliveries, and meetings. Leaning on her side she slips her hand through the curtain draw and brings the shade past the sill beside her bed. She’s surprised at the scene unfolding before her like a stage set for The Christmas Carol. “Not rain but snow on Halloween!” She imagines her commute past Central Park, moody and still. Tree branches colored with autumn’s array of gold, yellow, and brown are now spotted with white, sparkling highlights. She can see the bustling passersby bundled in scarves, trenches, and caps. “Today is a gift,” she whispers to herself and her hearts lifts. “Today is a gift.”

  161. Tiffany Berken

    August 31, 2012 at 2:36 pm

    the party wasn’t over but the moment had come for her to leave. the moment she knew would arrive; she had been waiting. without saying a word she made her exit and began the long walk. the walk she had been preparing herself for. she was off, out on her own to build the dream that was rightfully hers. it was hers for the taking, and so she went to it.

  162. yak

    August 31, 2012 at 2:38 pm

    The heat from her body and the warmth of her smell was over me while I
    fondled all those pleasant memories he had promised would be mine if
    only I would come. I could still see the lights above the dining room shining thru the flakes of snow as they patterned my Louboutins.

    I flushed when I recalled his voice, his generosity, and his friendship.
    How happy I was as those were the thoughts that forever accompanies the memory
    of that morning.

    Secrets? What secrets? Don’t be simple. I can picture his smile as we talked on the phone,
    “Yes of course you’ll have time to meet her, I’l even find you a room within walking distance of her hotel.”

  163. Gabriel

    August 31, 2012 at 2:45 pm

    Stop. Wait. Observe. Feign. Succumb. What ever for? Tell me. I demand it! What a distasteful sight. An ominously sight. Looming over my dreadfully delicate life wherein I espouse beauty. Beauty – I adore it. I do not ask to adore it, I do not seek to adore it, I just do – would that be my fault? Why do I love it so? Yes it delights the sight, but it is much more profound than that. Beauty you might say is only part of a whimsical ebb of the world – but I defy the world! My love of beauty defies it. I wonder despondently at how a short moment of beauty might impact my life. Impact how I perceive things. Perceive life. And in a moment I see it. That kind of impact: black, purple, navy-blue – red! Snow flakes. Light, and how it summons beauty at its command from different angles, creating lustful shadows for the eye. This futile impact, this passing moment, how covertly enthralled I am by this sight. Oh, please do not turn around and wake me!

  164. Natasha Bershadsky

    August 31, 2012 at 2:53 pm

    I won’t ever see her face, I won’t go to that party. I won’t know what she was looking at, that turn of her head, was she tracing a snowflake’s fall or just staring at the wet pavement. She was walking slowly, perhaps afraid to slip, but no, she can’t ever slip, she took her cue from the slowly falling snow, which was loosely wrapping New York the way her strange cape was covering her. That light snow, when a duskiness tinges the day, when something Venetian shines in New York’s red bricks and wet pavements, and the women walk one by one, obeying the rhythm of the snow, slowly, composedly, perilously, giving each other space, as they do on a catwalk, except that she is not going to turn around, I will never see her face and won’t have heart to overtake her, she will forever stay just a girl in loubs caught in bad weather, snow splatters my camera’s lens, you are a gift.

  165. NfP

    August 31, 2012 at 2:54 pm

    At least take my coat, he said. You shouldn’t ruin that dress.

    She smiled. “Sometimes the best accessory is the one you don’t choose.”

    The dress took time. For weeks she read magazines, scanned Web sites, looking for a piece that could suit the occasion. She finally prepared herself to walk down Fifth Avenue but as she did, her courage waned. She disappointed herself in one boutique, then another, then a third. But then, in a fourth, she conjured a measure of resolve.

    She bought a dress; it would do. She bought tights. In the next boutique: a necklace. In a department store: a pair of pumps. With each purchase, she bought another degree of certainty until at last, she felt armored.

    The night came. She didn’t wear perfume. It nearly consumed her. And then, in the morning, she left. As she walked, she looked down at her hand. She stopped. She brought the coat down to her shoulders, tried to remember the weight of it and then took the ring off her finger.

    The snow fell on her face, melted down her cheeks, hid her tears. Sometimes the best accessory is the one you don’t choose.

    • Alaska

      September 1, 2012 at 4:36 am

      I really like that line “sometimes the best accessory is the one you don’t choose”. You should copyright it and sell it to ANTM or Karl Lagerfeld…

  166. Iván P.

    August 31, 2012 at 2:55 pm

    While avoiding getting ready she read the first ten pages of a Vila-Matas novel hoping to get carried away elsewhere. After slipping off her hands and landing with a thud on the floor, the paperback startled her awake and the strange notion that she was just having a conversation with the Spanish writer made its way through the sleepy haze. With his accent and in the complicit whispers of two friends gossiping at a wedding, he was trying to convince her that gradually limiting the books he read was a smart move. His life had become cluttered by plot, setting and characterization and hers would too. She could now not avoid looking at her shelves without imagining all sorts of things falling out from between the pages of the books she’d read; spiders and a rifle, a gentleman’s reading glasses, knives, a recovering addict’s prison tattoos, a golden retriever, a notebook full of names of French schoolchildren and a host of other fictional bric-a-brac threatened to come alive and flood her tiny city apartment. This worrying thought would accompany her all the way to the party, where unfortunately, the wealthy and attractive would distract her from her thoughts.

  167. Ming 001

    August 31, 2012 at 2:56 pm

    Last time I saw Diana, she broke my heart. Just put it on the floor and stomped on it. I never forgave her, and deep down inside, I couldn’t forget her because I wanted the last word. I wanted to be the one who could be so callous.

    Bumping into her that snowy morning seemed predestined. It was two minutes of awkward small talk before it hit me.

    “I’d like my umbrella back.” I said.
    “Now? You’re joking right?
    “ Well, I never see you, you don’t return my calls, and this umbrella is mine” I gestured to the Dunhill shading her from the falling snow.
    “No!” came the expected reply.
    “It’s mine, give it back to me, and I’ll stop calling you. Fair trade, no?”
    “Fine. Asshole.” she handed me the umbrella seething.

    I didn’t say another word. Just took out my iPhone and snapped this shot of her walking away. It wasn’t until later that I realized those were the same Louboutins she used on my heart.

    I got the last word. I got to be callous. And I got my Dunhill umbrella back. That was a glorious morning.

  168. Charlotte Barrow

    August 31, 2012 at 3:05 pm

    You use a muffler. You planned ahead, just like a Girl Scout. It’s dead quiet after the twin bullet thuds. The bodies on the bed are silent and still. Jed has one leg curled under him; you used to call it his Superman sleep. He’s not wearing his ring. The woman has blond hair, spilling over his arm; her cheap clothes are scattered across the floor. You take a breath. You imagined you’d feel afraid in this moment; afraid and sorry. Instead, a burning urge for fresh air. Has it gotten colder, or have you only just noticed the temperature? You take Jed’s jacket – the black Coach you bought for his last birthday – and leave through the Hotel Americano’s front door. There’s no need to rush. Your heels click softly on the dawn pavement. The snowflakes are swirling. You pull Jed’s coat tighter over your head. It has his smell. You’re grateful for the warmth.

  169. Eric

    August 31, 2012 at 3:09 pm

    Really, Colorado, really? It was the afternoon before the first day of September and the marking of fall; the last day of wonderfully sunny and calm weather. The middle aged students had dreaded this time of year as it marked the beginning of college for CU, so today there was a magnanimous rush on campus. Alexis made her way amongst these people towards her removed business law class. She had an important sorority function that evening and began to dread that 4pm class. For her event, she dressed like she always does, with a bang and a fashion expression a New Yorker has. She really liked those heels that had a red coating on the bottom like a black widow. The hour long law class though consumed Alexis’ attention from the weather- it began to snow. “Rats”, she exclaimed when leaving class. I noticed as I was walking after she had started making her way home that she didn’t have a coat and must be freezing. I handed her mine, and we walked in procession. Approaching home, she said thanks and gave me a kiss on the cheek heading inside. ……And we’ve been friends since, + remembered the weather.

  170. Juliana

    August 31, 2012 at 3:26 pm

    You whole self!
    You brightness and light
    You who glow in golds and silvers
    Gold hot and full
    Silver liquid and cold
    You revealed
    Dressed in lace
    And rain drops
    Bright eyes in love
    Emotion under the skin
    Meeting of hearts
    You who comes, points and shows
    Who chills and challenges
    Who loves and is loved
    Beautiful raining morning!

  171. MK

    August 31, 2012 at 3:39 pm

    I often dream about beautiful things like railways and umbrellas and flight. Beautiful, haunting, icy, slippery, glistening things. This glazed sidewalk is a dream or a terror and it carries me everywhere. I am enchanted. I am disenchanted. Certainly, I will not blush for my fragility – my sensitivity to beauty.

    I like to see.

    I see your beautiful bundled bones.
    I see the two dazzling drops of blood licking your obsidian limbs.

    • Alaska

      September 1, 2012 at 1:49 am

      Duuuuuuude!

  172. dee

    August 31, 2012 at 3:42 pm

    It’s snowing again.. Good thing I brought a coat… I see a girl with red shoes that shined so brightly as she was wearing all black… She was in front of me with her hands on her head… She looked anxious but I wasn’t going to ask her what was wrong.. I just wanted to take pictures of the snow that looked like fairy dust…. Ohhh but her SHOES captured my lens and I asked her if I could take a picture, and she said if you would give me your coat I will, we made a bargain and I got to take a stunning picture of her leaving…..with my black coat and her red shoes shining oh soo brightly! I didn’t regret going under the snow with no shield, at least I am smiling I got something much much better! now am cold :(

  173. Lovet O.

    August 31, 2012 at 3:48 pm

    Living in London has its ups and downs. My job moved me here, from NJ. I always wanted to live in London because it’s a wonderful city full of culture, history, beauty, and entertainment. But the weather leaves much to be desired. It rains 3/4 of the year and the rain leaves me lonely and depressed.
    I kind of miss the Jersey shore, the sun and hanging out with friends. Unfortunately the sun barely shines down in London-town.
    One day, I sat in the park and fed the pigeons. I usually sit in the park to people watch and feed the pigeons. I feel its my duty to feed [the pigeons]. I know…its funny.
    It was a snowy afternoon. Wasn’t planning on staying out for too long so I headed home. On my way home, I noticed I was walking behind a woman with the most beautiful pair of shoes on. They were black with red soles. She walked with confidence and grace. I knew I wanted a pair. These shoes reminded me of NYC. They were chic, commanded attention. and they were sexy.

    These shoes brightened up my dreary day. And I’m sure hers as well.

  174. Eric

    August 31, 2012 at 4:27 pm

    Really, Colorado, really? It was the afternoon before the first day of September and the marking of fall; the last day of wonderfully sunny and calm weather. The middle aged students had dreaded this time of year as it marked the beginning of college for CU, so today there was a magnanimous rush on campus. Alexis made her way amongst these people towards her removed business law class. She had an important sorority function that evening and began to dread that 4pm class. For her event, she dressed like she always does, with a bang and a fashion expression a New Yorker has. She really liked those heels that had a red coating on the bottom like a black widow. The hour long law class though consumed Alexis’ attention from the weather- it began to snow. “Rats”, she exclaimed when leaving class. I noticed as I was walking after she had started making her way home that she didn’t have a coat and must be freezing. I handed her mine, and we walked in procession. Approaching home, she said thanks and gave me a kiss on the cheek heading inside. ……And we’ve been friends since + remembered the weather.

  175. tom

    August 31, 2012 at 4:28 pm

    she strode through the chill wind and rain buoyed up on the blood on the blood soaked soles and hell froze over as Jesus wept.

  176. Sarah Munoz

    August 31, 2012 at 4:36 pm

    Louboutin, contre vents et marées…

  177. Peri

    August 31, 2012 at 4:58 pm

    Click, click, click, click, click; her shoes striking the pavement. Swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee; the coarse wind and wafting snow spiking her back. In a hurry, rush, rush, go, go. She fiercely calculated: five minutes more of a walk to the party, a quick twenty minute appearance once there ought to suffice, and then in a mere twenty-five minutes more she could be cocooned in her sheltered, snuggly bed. Hastening her step, determined to beat that time estimation, she peeked out through the window of a hole she had crafted from cleverly draping her impromptu cape – a blanket, actually – around herself. Then it hit her. Why was she in such a hurry? Why was she always thinking about what was next? What about right at this very instant? And in that moment, a truly pinch-me moment, she felt blessed, content, even delirious from the good fortune of life – her life. Click. Click. Click. Her footsteps slowed. Swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee; life sustained pace. But that was perfectly acceptable – even desirable.

  178. Helen J.

    August 31, 2012 at 5:07 pm

    The Senator is wrong on everything but he is famous. A cell phone photo for Twitter? It would be nectar.

    “Okay,” he had answered. “Let’s take off your name tag.”

    I had meant a photo of him, only because I hadn’t thought it through. But a photo of the two of us and my friends would die laughing.

    “Thanks,” I said, handing my phone to what must have been an intern. “You push this button here.”

    Then two funny things happened.

    The Senator reached over to remove my name tag. He did it without thought, peeling it off with a quick rip and saying, “It makes a better picture. Say ‘Jobs!’”

    That was Funny Thing One: that he’d taken off the name tag for me.

    A moment later, his intern handed my phone back to me. There was the “Jobs!” photo and there – Funny Thing Two – was a photo accidentally snapped moments before as the intern was gearing up to take our picture.

    It looked for all the world like the Senator had not behaved as a gentleman with me.

    Opportunity? Oh yes, indeed.

  179. Joel

    August 31, 2012 at 5:11 pm

    Wow!

  180. Kafka

    August 31, 2012 at 5:29 pm

    “Regard the persuasiveness of the air [during a blizzard]!
    My merits become evident and overwhelm me, though admittedly
    I put up little resistance. I march, and my tempo is the tempo of this side of the street, of this whole street, of this quarter.”

  181. Sevan

    August 31, 2012 at 5:49 pm

    I spent friday afternoon reading all the stories !
    So many talented writers.
    Hard task for the Sartorialist.

    • Christine.R

      August 31, 2012 at 7:12 pm

      I think I will be spending some time reading these as well! Well done everyone! How wonderful it would be to win! Sadly, I’m not much of a writer. Best wishes to the contestants!

  182. Ada

    August 31, 2012 at 5:52 pm

    A moment ago, I was skipping. Really, I was. You almost got your camera out in time. It’s just that it’s hard to skip for very long on 4-inch heels. I know, you have your camera out now. You know, maybe you know, you probably know, I’m still smiling at the last thing you said. In fact, I can’t help but keep smiling – I’ve been smiling since I met you – and I had to turn my back to you just now so that you couldn’t quite see how absurdly happy I am. Because if you see how I happy I am, I think it might, maybe, throw you off. Make you a little scared. Scared that you could make someone so happy. It might ruin this… this ridiculously blissful moment… In two more steps, one hop and a skip, I might have the courage to laugh when I turn to you again and ask: “Tell me, has there ever been a moment more perfect than this?”

  183. elderberry

    August 31, 2012 at 6:04 pm

    She was wearing her best clothes. Looking really fancy. “What the hell” she thought “Do I really need any special occasion to look amazing? Well, I’m going to the mall to buy lotion and milk, oh, and bread. And it’s snowing!” She smiled to the nearest passerby. She was stepping slowly and it was snowing.

  184. robyn

    August 31, 2012 at 6:36 pm

    Lately I have felt so alive, and so myself.
    For the first time in such a long time I am doing what I need to do.
    I will be leaving the corporate world where I have been sucked dry for 8 years, and venturing off on my own despite what everyone says I am also going on vacation. I am leaving someone who prefers me to perfect than to be happy. He showers me with gifts and never lets me enjoy them the way i want to. So this seemingly insignificant walk in the first snow which hundreds of thousands are doing right now is actually me putting my Louboutin foot down and ending the era when I would have never done this, when i would have never lived in the moment for fear of displeasing others.

  185. julia

    August 31, 2012 at 6:43 pm

    It was early morning, it was cold and it just started snowing.
    “Is that it?” – J. thought, watching M. walking away.
    Last night at that party M. said she needed to be alone; the announcement was followed by a long discussion that exhausted them both but didn’t resolve anything. When the morning came, M. stood up, picked up her coat, went up to the front door and J. suddenly realized that she really was leaving her. J. grabbed a blanket from the couch, threw it on her shoulders and ran after M.
    J., watching M. walking away, made a few steps, her red-soled shoes slipped on the icy sidewalk.

  186. T G Ferguson

    August 31, 2012 at 7:30 pm

    Sleeping bags aren’t for everyone…but she’s rich, she’ll figure it out.

  187. Amy C

    August 31, 2012 at 7:35 pm

    Each year, it happens the same. Manhattan approaches those several weeks at the end of the season when its people have grown tired with winter: the darkness, the chill, the holiday fatigue, winds ripping down Broadway and 5th Avenue, street corners turned into miniature Arctic Seas, icebergs and all. Then suddenly, as as the city tires of the idle and endless chatter about the sopping mess outside and yearns not so much for spring but just simply for something new, the sun begins to stretch its warmth a little longer into the evening; the snow, less frequent now, becomes feather-light before melting into the sidewalks, and the most fashionable young women take one final whirl in their party dresses and red-soled shoes before packing them away in wistful anticipation of the warmer seasons ahead.

  188. Arthur K.

    August 31, 2012 at 8:10 pm

    “Cold,” she whispered from her frost-bitten lips, the words evaporating off of her luke-warm tongue, disappearing into the grim days locked away in the tiniest of snow-globes. She continues to tread through the darkest days, longing for the one who never returned. “But he’s not gone, not yet. Never…” The widow, with knees stronger than a stallion, continues to march through the city streets, covered in black so dark it devours any form of light. The whitest of faces hidden beneath the darkest of cloaks, skin softer than anything man has ever laid his hands on, she continues on. Lipstick redder than the soles of her fire-breathing shoes, even today’s weather can’t stop her now. The widow knows he still watches her, and continues to look just as good as that first day – the day he laid his captivated eyes on her. And so she vowed to never stop walking until the day she meets her loved one again.

  189. nini

    August 31, 2012 at 8:48 pm

    The photo is just beautiful & the entries are so inspiring!
    too bad i cannot participate :(
    Good luck everyone!
    xx

  190. sanmiguelense

    August 31, 2012 at 8:58 pm

    Every once in a blue moon goddamn Douglas shows up and demands a command performance.
    I ‘m happy to see him and don’t mind the cloak and dagger stuff involved with getting in and out of his Club on Gramercy Park, but really, maybe I’m just getting old. It used to be fun. The dinners, the good bottles of wine, the art and the conversation. Maybe Douglas is getting a little boring. I mean, why do I even put up with him? I don’t even miss him until he calls me to let me know he’ll be in town for a couple of days.
    I love New York in the snow. It makes everything so quiet.

  191. Stephanie

    August 31, 2012 at 9:04 pm

    Never forget where you come from. My momma’s words always fly through my head when I put on these shoes. She always said this to me when she dropped me at the airport. My adolescent smugness led me to believe she was jealous . She was once beautiful but it came of nothing, trapped as she was by poverty and the island’s almost primitive cultural mores that had her married and pregnant too young. When she saw her reflection in me she made sure I got out.

    So here I am. Bright lights. Big cities. Far away from the sunny warm meadows of home. My momma’s favorite bird was the red-winged blackbird. She liked that it looked unremarkable in its black plumage, easy to underestimate as uninteresting, then it would casually take flight, flashing watchers by with a brilliant blood red splash that made you look again, regretting that you hadn’t paid closer attention when the bird was closer.

    The red-winged blackbird usually migrates before the snow comes. The flock left this one behind.

  192. Madeinusafan

    August 31, 2012 at 9:05 pm

    Elizabeth’s love had just left her, he admitted he had been cheating on her and did not feel he was good enough for her. The job she loved eliminated her position. She wrecked her car when she was hit from behind by a drunk driver. Lastly, she was being evicted because her landlord claimed he had not been receiving her rent payments. As she walked out in the cold snow looking stylish and stunning, the recent unhappy events in her life did not dampen her spirits. She may have lost alot but she was still young, beautiful, intelligent and extremely skilled in her profession. As she walked out in the snow, she smiled to herself as she thought if this was the worst day of her life, she could still choose to feel as bright and brilliant as her gorgeous pumps. She finally understood what it meant to choose to be truly happy despite whatever happened in the outside world. She thought to herself “this is true joy. No matter what happens, I love my life!!!”

  193. Alex

    August 31, 2012 at 9:50 pm

    In my dream it’s always snowing. I walk down a long boulevard towards a bridge though I cannot see the river beneath it. The light tells me it’s early morning but I have not slept. The stillness lies gently on my cape and the snowflakes melt on the tops of my feet leaving tiny, sparkling drops of water that quickly disappear into my shoes. My shoes, my ruby slippers. I have been walking a long time. I carry nothing with me but a long silver key that weighs heavy and cold in my pocket. The key will open the closet but I cannot remember the house. In my dream the house is always past the bridge but the boulevard will not take me there. The ruby slippers click softly on the pavement and I touch the key and I keep walking.

  194. AK

    August 31, 2012 at 9:56 pm

    A mother out for groceries.

  195. Jean

    August 31, 2012 at 10:06 pm

    Saint Francis’s father wearily slumped forward on his elbows in his usual chair. He faced the street, where there was a narrow glimpse of sidewalk between the lily-white lace of the curtains. A few snowflakes drifted close to the glass. Over the quiet radio, he heard the crisp clicks of a woman’s heels on the stones outside, approaching. He lifted the glass of grappa to wet his lips. The shop had been closed for a half hour. The lights in the front of the house were off. His wife had gone into the back as she always did.
    They had made good money today. A well-known operatic group had recently arrived in Assisi in preparation for a winter festival. The group’s costume tailor purchased yards of the shop’s finest wools and silks and said he’d be back for more next week. The old man gently bit the rim of his glass. His ears pinpricked by each of the skeletal heel cracks. A sharp black shoe snapped brittlely into view followed by the long, nascent leg of a cloaked woman. In a single stride she passed, darkening the washed-out evening light. He swallowed the brandy dryly and thought of his mother.

  196. T G Ferguson

    August 31, 2012 at 10:09 pm

    I’m a rebel, but not always the loudest one. Is it possible to be a subtle rebel? Anyway, I love fancy dress parties and the 20’s were such a fun time. Thank god Jennie’s so good with her hands; the black strips we cut and sewed together for three days straight will look stunning. I wish I could have gotten her an invite to this year’s All Black Flapper Jack. She’s the reason I was invited back. Darn it! If I can’t get her in, I’ll feel rotten. I’ve got to call her once I find a way. How great is it to have a roommate in the fashion industry? That’s New York for you! I feel like Cinderella with these shoes though; they better not be ruined by this snow. She’s got to get them back by tomorrow. Oh, and I have to find somewhere to ditch this Snuggie before I get there. She laughed at me for buying it late one night, off the tv, but it was so inexpensive! I’ll be able to ditch it in a bush just before I get there. No one will know I couldn’t afford a cab. Yeah, I’m a rebel. Watch out world, here I come!

  197. Jared Krauss

    August 31, 2012 at 10:20 pm

    Disclaimer: This is 355 words long. I couldn’t shorten it, and thought it was decent. So, I know I won’t win the contest, and I couldn’t have gone anyway (what with class and all here in Iowa), but I at least wanted to share this with whomever was reading all of these, as I know the job must be tedious. So, I hope you enjoy. :D!

    And it was cold, cold like the first freeze after an easy Fall, but there was snow. Snow came down in big flat flakes,lasting a moment on the blueness of his gloves as he swung his coat around her. He said, “I’ll be fine, I’m wearing wool still,” and he winked, “plus, you’re in a pretty little dress to impress all those people you need to…impress?”
    Her smile said, “You fool,” but her mouth said, “Oh, I would have been fine,” and her heart said, “Lisa, don’t be such a fool. He’s just being nice.”
    “It sort of came out of no where, huh?” he asked, looking around. “It was Fall just yesterday, I swear. Then, I woke this morning, looked outside, saw sun, thought, ‘yup, Fall.’ and then a snow flake hit my window. Then I realized a thousand snowflakes were hitting my window, and I thought, ‘yup, Winter’ and so I put away my shorts.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, and she pined to him with her beautiful face, and it was, he thought, with just enough color to her lips, a light red, and blush to her cheeks. “I’m really sorry, but I must go or I won’t catch my train to 42nd street.”
    “Of course,and I’m rambling. Do you want to share a taxi?”
    “I think the subway will be faster,” she said, “I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry. I’ll bring this back to you.” She tugged on the piece of wool near her face, thick and heavy, a deep blue. She could smell him on it, and she knew then what he smelled of, but couldn’t say anything more of it than cinnamon.
    “Just make sure I see you, when you do,” he said, while he stood on the curb with a hand out—a taxi pulled up and he opened the door as she was backing up. They were still looking at each other, smiling stupidly, gayly.
    “Goodbye, Desmond,” she said, walking off..
    “Goodbye,” he said to the receding blueness of his coat which enveloped the warmth he felt leaving him to the cold’s bite. And he hoped she would be warm.

  198. D. Horne

    August 31, 2012 at 11:15 pm

    It’s amazing how these Louboutain’s make me feel. I wonder if women feel the same thing. . .

    xoxo

  199. Hannah S.

    September 1, 2012 at 12:06 am

    She hustled down the crowded streets of Manhattan- a shadowy figured, cloaked by her all-encompassing cape. Her mysterious aura captivated everyone she passed by; the cape was meant to shield her from the world, yet it only lent to her captivating mystique. By-standers would stop and stare at this woman, torn from their daily routine by this illusive personality. Her face was hidden behind dark, round sunglasses- without an exception. She walked with a defined purpose; her red-soled Louboutins clicked with a precise rhythm and her fringed flock rustled in the late-November breeze. I found her dazzling. She was elusive, yet entirely alluring. I liked to believe that she worked in fashion- she had to have, with her impecabble taste. That’s how I labeled her anyway. The jet-setting fashion-exec. Her outfits mesmerized me everyday, as I was one of those bystanders. As I waited for my espresso macchiato I would see her hurry by the store-front, day after day, probably heading for a consultation with designers or a fashion week somewhere. I stopped seeing her about three months ago- this is the only picture I have seen of her, can you tell me who she is?

  200. Anissa

    September 1, 2012 at 12:07 am

    Paris in heels

    the city is wrapped in an orange veil,
    the heat dries the sidewalks; sidewalks, littered,
    sidewalks, the homeless’ duvet cover
    standing on the street corner, is a girl, wasted
    wasted, she leaves the club and enters the orange light
    lights a cigarette, and wipes gum off her heels
    heal, Paris heal

    the girl with the cigarette orders a coffee
    coffee she waits for, while she waits for her boyfriend
    boyfriend walks in, orders a coffee and waits with her
    her tangled hair and sleepless eyes from sleepless nights
    night out, hangover
    over her shoulder, she looks at a homeless man kneel
    heal, Paris heal

    the homeless man kneels to pick up a cigarette she dropped
    half smoked, it fell from her stained lips
    but she was still too drunk to care, and her pack was still full
    and she wouldn’t smoke trash
    the man goes through his pockets full of holes,
    finds a lighter to light up the cigarette
    heal, Paris heal

    girls leave clubs, smoke, let the fog fill their eyes
    blind, they can’t see the orange city
    homeless people crawl, saving wrappers and glass
    before hiding away
    the sidewalk is where the girls and homeless
    share a smoke, a stare, and heal each other
    heal, Paris heal

    • Jennifer

      September 1, 2012 at 7:31 am

      This is very beautiful!

  201. Eve K.

    September 1, 2012 at 12:30 am

    Many young girls grow up on dreams of a city. And as we grow older, some of the crazier and wilder dreams become stale and other more realistic and achievable ones take hold. But some dreams never die, like that of a really fantastic shoe.

  202. miriam

    September 1, 2012 at 1:21 am

    there are more stories out there – will they be told?

  203. Sandra

    September 1, 2012 at 2:18 am

    Becassine made her way carefully along the snow slicked path. It was a beautiful winter day. So still and crisp as the small flakes settled gently on her wool cloak. Pulling it a bit closer she noticed a stray kitten hovering beneath a wrought iron bench. Intrigued by this feline caught out in the cold, Becassine hushed her footsteps as she approached the golden eyed mess of long black fur. Kneeling slowly she coaxed the little one just enough to reach for it, dropped the soft purr machine into her massive black leather tote and continued her way along the icy street. As the light began to fade, Becassine slipped her key into the lock and
    released the little kitten from her tote in the warmth of her foyer. It was love at first sight as they appraised each other. Indeed, a lucky winter’s day.

  204. Tucker Hughes

    September 1, 2012 at 2:28 am

    RED SOLES,

    MEND HOLES,

    IN RED SOUL.

  205. catherine q

    September 1, 2012 at 3:08 am

    it has never failed
    her good luck shoes
    a winter romance, warm in its coat
    ….perhaps true love will blossom in spring

    it’s the morning after

  206. a la Fifty Shades

    September 1, 2012 at 3:19 am

    My heart is bleeding like the soles of my Louboutin. I should have listened to my inner conscience and not be seduced by my inner goddess. Tramp!! Kate was right, Christian is so totally out of my league, what was I thinking?!

    He had his way with me still wearing my Louboutins….the bastard.

    Who was I to believe I could change him from the dark side to the color of snowflakes? Now I am walking away, cold and confused. My inner goddess is weeping and her mascara is badly smudged …what a mess I am in. My inner conscience is looking down on me with her ‘I told you so!!’ look…..yet she too is thoroughly sad and broken hearted.

    But he insisted on me taking his soft cashmere coat…perhaps all is not lost.

  207. catherine q

    September 1, 2012 at 3:28 am

    There’s a spring in her step! Flashes of red dancing among the falling snowflakes. I love watching those shoes…..it cheers this little old biddy peering out onto the street.

    Oh! Once I too dared to take a chancce on romance and dressed in the language of love. Willing to risk it all….life seemed short then and tentative, like the first snow of the season….there was a war around us.

    Did she meet Mr Right? Did she spend the night with him? I continue to watch by my window.

  208. BEATRICE ZERVAS

    September 1, 2012 at 4:09 am

    Picture contest:

    LILITH LEAVING LOCCUM (ABBEY)

  209. laura c

    September 1, 2012 at 4:47 am

    She decides to dress for him one last time,to see how it will feel. She remembers how she looked when they first met, when things were different and life stretched ahead of them forever. It would not be long now, she knew, but she wanted to see him, wanted him to see her, even if he was not hers anymore. Sometimes she still missed him like a knife in the heart. In the news today, an article about how broken hearts generated a chemical reaction in the body which actually cause physical pain, but she could have told them that, and that time does not heal all wounds, but does ease them somewhat. The children are grown now, and he was gone for so long, she is not sure how to speak to him, if she will be able to.
    Then, she sees him, and it begins to snow. Throwing her shawl over her gleaming white hair, cursing the heels for foolish at the last minute, she opens her mouth to speak,”Richard….”, one long breath of syllables, so much meaning, so many memories, and no more time for regret,we are too old now for hesitation, and I no longer want to be alone….

  210. atieno

    September 1, 2012 at 5:56 am

    i didn’t expect a blizzard. I hoped for it, never quite expecting it to be sooo…intense. I am happy but i don’t look it, today…I am looking forward but to where?

    It always helps to be an actress in this theater-the streets, this life- that is. Coyness, Naivete, and fickle hope-all the insipidness of womanly wiles carefully concealed in a package of mindless sophistication and powerful glamour.

    Perhaps today, if will not charm him i still have the red heels and the beautiful dress and another man or woman enchanted by the picture that i am. Besides, its one thing to be alone and quite the other to admit loneliness.

  211. atieno

    September 1, 2012 at 6:01 am

    I put on my face for this living show- i know i am a spectacle, just look at me. This blizzard is just as intense as i am.

    I am a woman looking forward to falling in love and making some money.

  212. Maria (from Cambridge)

    September 1, 2012 at 6:05 am

    Not irreverently, the day began on the western coast with a spoon, a bowl, and a box. Of bones. With family pacing the room, Redd scooped up Grandmother’s bones, put them in the bowl and ground them into ash with the back of a spoon—setting aside particularly exquisite specimens to examine later. Just as Grandmother herself might have done. Though mortified, the family knew this was true. They watched the clock. The boat would set sail soon, and they had to turn enough of Grandmother’s bones to ash to scatter at sea. Grandmother waived the right for the crematorium to do it, and only Redd was up to the task. She alone listened to the Woman, fed her chocolate and orange juice, bathed her body without looking away, and dressed her in Chanel and cashmere just to fetch the paper. Now home to celebrate her engagement to Wolfie, she remembered one secret Grandmother never betrayed: Why Grandmother and her husband were thrown out of a motel over an incident involving paper snowflakes and walls stained with juice from ripe pomegranates. There was only this gift Grandmother sent the day she died—these Laboutins and a note: Are you ready?

  213. Alan

    September 1, 2012 at 6:27 am

    I was hanging upside down around the corner under neath the over ground on an express train bound to the sound of an orchestra a thousand humming birds.

  214. Dan

    September 1, 2012 at 7:46 am

    Shrouded in furtive silence, she passed unnoticed. A quiet peace came over her, knowing this would be the last time. The knife, always the knife, covered, shielded from the world. Unaware that the torn fringes betrayed her, she continued and in the mellowed crisp she gave no pause; there would be only one more. This was not a time to reflect on how many had passed, the brutal savagery with which she exacted a delicious malice. This was the last one. Then rest would surely find her. Her gait, full of quiet confidence, she registered the coming obsolescence of the pursued. Her tormentor, so blithely unaware of the pursuit. She was catching up – two, maybe three more blocks. She let herself feel the jealousy, the betrayal, the motivation. She couldn’t help it. Once more and it was over. It seemed too easy. She would strike, unexpected, weeping life dripping down those white pants to pool at her feet, like so many before.

  215. Mariangela

    September 1, 2012 at 8:41 am

    6:05 am. Monday morning already? Wait – wasn’t it Friday like 5 minutes ago? Shit. Okay M get up. S-t-r-e-t-c-h. Shuffle into the kitchen. Slippers need to be washed – or just buy new ones. Coffee ready. Dog went out for a piss. Okay, get dressed.
    That bitch (a.k.a. my boss’s boss) from head office is in today. What a wonderful start to my week. Why does she hate me so much? Jealousy is a horrible thing. Nobody’s stopping her from coming out 1978. Or at least from toning down her fire hazard blonde head.
    Anyway, what to wear. I really should tone it way down – wouldn’t want to look like I’m trying to upstage her at this presentation meeting. Uh, her presentation – I’m just the powerpoint operator.
    Grey skirt, white blouse, nude pumps…
    Screw it! New black feather skirt, cashmere tee, and of course – my killer Louboutin heels. She can deal anyway she wants!
    Snowing? Ah, black merino wool oversized shawl. No coat. I am perfect.

  216. Sublime Mimesis

    September 1, 2012 at 9:20 am

    Amazing photography !

  217. eloise

    September 1, 2012 at 9:37 am

    Vincent and Alice were almost always together at the wrong times.
    The First Time, they were schoolchildren, young and inexperienced, and they could not simply be in love without these obstacles preventing them.
    The Second Time was at Alice’s wedding, where Alice could not abandon the life of luxury she was poised to marry into for something less. Vincent never had much money.
    He was a devout Parisian; he had told her once that he was in love with his city and would never think of leaving. After the Second Time, he left no address, no telephone number.
    So when years of loveless marriage began to frustrate her, Alice searched for him in the places from the stories he used to tell. Cold bit at her nose and drew red from her cheeks, and she huddled beneath her coat to avoid the snow. Her feet ached in heels of impressive height – not shoes suitable for miles of walking – but she wanted to look her best when she found him.
    And find him she did. The Third Time, catching sight of one another between flurries of snow, was the right time, and they fell in love like schoolchildren all over again.

  218. Susie B.

    September 1, 2012 at 9:46 am

    Dear Mom,

    Thanks for your email. Sorry its taken so long to write back. This week has been murder; one deadline after another, a cranky boss, and don’t get me started on last night’s dinner with what had to be New York’s most UNeligible bachelor. Right around the time he pulled out his phone to show me photos of him working out, I faked an emergency text and ran outside. Of course it starts snowing as soon as I leave. You should have seen me on the street! There I was in this fluke storm, in a frill skirt and those black stilettos you helped me buy (don’t worry, the snow didn’t ruin them!) ducking for cover under my coat and trying to get out of sight of the restaurant. I felt silly and brave but kind of empowered all at the same time! I know you’re reading this to dad and laughing at me.

    Oh and I am totally going back to that restaurant by myself–they had creme brulee that looked AMAZING…

    The city’s covered in a few inches of snow now and seems to be the only thing that quiets this place down a bit. No heels for a me for awhile!

    Ok, I’m off to brave the cold outdoors! I need to get some boots!

    xoxo.

    Love,

    S.

  219. Cécile

    September 1, 2012 at 9:56 am

    When she left the house, the temperature was getting colder. She knew it was soon going to snow. On TV, they said it would be in the next two days. She knew it was today. The sky was almost white, the air was icy and there was a light wind. As she walked down the street, a thought stroke her. It’s been a long time she had not sat on her bench, on Brooklyn Bridge. She missed the beautiful view, the stays, the river, and this feeling of quietness when she looked at the horizon. Her last visit was three months ago. Since 9/11. On this day, she was sitting on her bench when it happened. She could clearly remember everything : the first plane in the first tower, and just right after, the second one that overcame her twin sister. And finally, the collapse. A wound for the whole country. Names, faces, long quiet minutes that plunged the city in a mourning atmosphere. All suddenly became grey and tern. Even the light seemed morn. She started to wear black clothes when she learnt her brother died in the fire. She never came back on Brooklyn Bridge afterward.

  220. karl paul

    September 1, 2012 at 10:26 am

    I suddenly remembered London, sweating in the tube with all those people around us, the slow train and dizziness and the sweet fact that you never let go of me, all the way, your hand around my waist…

    -aa

  221. c quay

    September 1, 2012 at 10:33 am

    Passion
    Tragedy
    Hope
    …. the colors of fashion, of life.

    Where will we go from here?
    We have lost McQueen, and Galliano is gone.
    Will there be the next bright star?

    Is it only about the money?
    Has it always been only about the money?
    Is this what London does to you?

    Emma has just ended it…..us….

    Where will I go from here?
    How will I carry on?
    How can I live without her red lips, her warm touch?

    It must be there…..hope, around the corner.
    The snow will melt and the spring sun will shine through.
    My Louboutins will have to keep my heart warm till then.

  222. Maria (from Cambridge)

    September 1, 2012 at 10:39 am

    Not irreverently, the day began on the western coast with a spoon, a bowl, and a box. Of bones. With family pacing the room, Redd scooped up Grandmother’s bones, put them in the bowl and ground them into ash with the back of a spoon—setting aside particularly exquisite specimens to examine later. Just as Grandmother herself might have done. Though mortified, the family knew this was true. They watched the clock. The boat would set sail soon, and they had to turn enough of Grandmother’s bones to ash to scatter at sea. Grandmother waived the right for the crematorium to do it and only Redd was up to the task. She alone listened to the Woman, fed her chocolate and orange juice, bathed her body without looking away, and dressed her in Chanel and cashmere just to fetch the paper. Now home to celebrate her engagement to Wolfie, she remembered one secret Grandmother never betrayed: Why Grandmother and her husband were thrown out of a motel over an incident involving paper snowflakes and walls stained with juice from ripe pomegranates. There was only this gift Grandmother sent the day she died—these Laboutins and a note: Are you ready?

  223. c quay

    September 1, 2012 at 10:54 am

    Is that Peter? With Lisa!? How can that be? He said it was over, that he’s left her. That it is only me for him…. and I believed him. They dont see me, thay can’t see me.

    She must have spent the night with him…….it’s just the next block from his flat. Did he buy her those Louboutins? My heart breaks… she is wearing the cashmere coat I bought him.

    Now she is kissing him good bye and walking quickly away …my tears are falling, wet and hot down my face, I hardly notice the swirling snow.

  224. Trendstop.com Trend Team

    September 1, 2012 at 11:13 am

    Such a mood evoking picture! It’s amazing to see all the spontaneous, emotional stories it’s inspired.

  225. karl paul

    September 1, 2012 at 11:24 am

    I suddenly remembered London, sweating the tube with all those people around us, the slow train and dizziness and the sweet fact that you never let go of me, all the way, your hand around my waist…mu

    -aa

  226. Vanessa

    September 1, 2012 at 11:26 am

    She related to the day’s fall of cold snowflakes against her face. It reminded her of the cruel intentions of the world and how we all walk alone this frosty path of richness. If only she can reach them first and warn them of the world’s wicked comings. Then, she would be the warrior.

  227. amy

    September 1, 2012 at 11:43 am

    As she left his apartment, the first line surfaced above all the things she didn’t want to think about yet: “Whatever went wrong, that week, was more than weather.” It wove around and around itself, keeping the other lines bound within the hazy memory of an early-morning class that fulfilled some obscure requirement, until she was clattering down the subway stairs and another line slipped out: “Where the Underground’s upper reaches have the character, almost, of a Roman ruin.” So it was about London. She was disappointed; she’d hoped that, by some insane prophetic chance, it was about her–she’d been about to switch platforms, to go uptown and ask the Bryant Park lions for the rest of the words. She’d been ready to live by them, whatever they were. On the train, she laughed to herself: She would’ve seemed a strange bird talking to those stone lions, no tents to perch in, no flocks of stranger birds for camouflage. Other passengers watched her, huddled under the darkly draped fabric like a bird in an oil slick, as the rest surfaced and she murmured the final lines: “nowhere in the universe would the bone again be knit/or the rift be closed.”

  228. MW

    September 1, 2012 at 11:48 am

    As she walked out onto Park Avenue, she felt the snow hit her face and she began to laugh. The evening before was different from what she had expected but one she would not soon forget.
    Her boss gave her and a coworker, Lucy, tickets to a charity event on the upper east side, a rarified place to a girl originally from Queens. At the event, she and lucy enjoyed themselves immensely, soaking in the atmosphere, the music, and, of course, the complimentary champagne. While viewing the silent auction items, they met two young women who volunteer for the charity. They were obviously from a different world from them. She thought of them as boarding school types even though she had no idea if they actually went to boarding school, but the seemed so nice she immediately liked them.
    The charity girls introduced them to many interesting people that evening. The met business titans, artists and “old money types”. It was great. The charity girls invited them to an after-party at a townhouse on East 78 Street. She was a little nervous- after-party at a strangers house is not usually a good idea.
    Lucy bailed and caught a cab back to Brooklyn. She, however, was easily convinced by the charity girls to come along to the party. As they all piled into the cab she recalled one of her favorite movies – she was now a part of the Sally Fowler Rat Pack.
    The rest of the night was classic New York – very Metropolitan.
    As the snow began falling heavier, she realized she’d never catch a cab. She took off her coat a placed it over her head a began to walk east. Still smiling, she didn’t even think about how the snow would mess up her favorite shoes.

  229. Iva

    September 1, 2012 at 11:53 am

    This fabulous look (and the picture) deserves one and only verse:

    I see a red door and I want to paint it black
    No colours anymore I want them to turn black
    (Rolling Stones)

  230. KP

    September 1, 2012 at 12:37 pm

    Years passed, but time hadn’t advanced the narrative. The same morality police began the cycle of beatings and violence once more. Her mother, on the line, kept repeating, “I can’t believe the world allows this…again”. Pain and memory slipped in her voice. They fled because her father, a professor, was “dangerous”. Her mother, who announced herself to her patients before she entered the room with the clacking of her heels on the hospital floor, became a criminal; the crime: educated, stylish, and a woman. Schools were shut down. Hospitals closed. Women targeted. Abruptly, her mom drifted off “be sure to wear a coat, the weather is horrible outside”. “I will. I’m late, but I’ll call tonight. Love you” punctuated the conversation as she ran to the door, grabbing her shoes to meet the cold. That they escaped was her family’s protest. No such threat waited for her outside. No morality police would dictate what she wore. But even here, where some waged war on women behind the veil of morality, stands needed to be taken. This was her protest; interrupt the gray January gloom and snow, not with the practical, but with two flashes of red, following her every step.

    • annabella

      September 2, 2012 at 6:29 am

      Very moving.

  231. B

    September 1, 2012 at 12:41 pm

    It had to be quick, because it would undoubtedly be painful. She looked up from her feet and met her sharp blue eyes which pierced her soul like a thousand ice crystals. Her thin frame was trembling under the navy blue material which covered almost none of her body. Her skin was cracked under the carmine red lipstick. One word from her, one movement or even a tear in the corner of her eye would have made the utterance of those four words impossible. But the decision was made. It was best for all those involved. Then, from what felt like a dream, the words were said, “I’m leaving you”. A dropped gaze, a turn on her heels and a quick escape without looking back. Her heart imploded in pain over what she had just done; the chilling wind robbing her of the clicking sound of heels which would undoubtedly have made her turn and take it all back.

  232. Clare

    September 1, 2012 at 1:25 pm

    The southern gentleman who had been chatting her up offered to “escort” her to the next show. He held open the cab door, but she needed to walk for a bit. In those shoes? The question alone assured her he wasn’t worth it.
    As she walked up the avenue, thoughts of the exquisite new collection she had just seen and the chilled, fresh air energized her. Thick, wet snowflakes began to fall lightly around her. She stepped into a café and ordered a cup of hot chocolate. When was the last time she had drunk hot chocolate?
    As she continued her walk uptown, past warmly lit window displays, she felt her phone vibrating through her handbag. It’s about to start. Where are you??? She ignored it. The snowflakes fell faster and faster. She pulled her coat up over her head and smiled to herself. Today was going to be her snow day.

    • Kelly

      September 3, 2012 at 1:00 am

      Really well done!

  233. FL

    September 1, 2012 at 1:41 pm

    She was going to see him again.
    Might as well be cold. Might as well snow. It could never be as cold as his way of leaving her. Why wait until the morning? All through the night she thought he could find it in himself to give her another try. Give her time to get happy again and show him she can be alive and well.
    For now, it ends.
    But she doesn’t know. The image of her… The red soles, her patient eyes, her determination.
    He was curious again. And she doesn’t know, but she will see him again.

  234. קמע שר הטבעות

    September 1, 2012 at 2:01 pm

    beautiful! for some reason the photo looks for me like a cover for a book!

  235. Álvaro Salgado

    September 1, 2012 at 2:25 pm

    When he remembers those two weeks, it always comes to mind how mesmerizing she was, especially when she was sad. And that was what scared him the most, to be drawn into her black eyes. “You’re the sun, I’m the moon” she said, “it’s only natural that you see my dark side”. In fact, even though Marcelo worshiped the sun, cheering with the crowd as the star dove under Ipanema’s waters when the city’s perpetual summer was at it’s peak, her tidal pulls were too strong to resist. They collided.
    One morning, when they woke up to a cold and hazy light filtering inside her Village’s apartment, she said he’d better go. “You’re losing your tan” she said, “and I, well, I got stuff to do”.
    It snowed when she walked away, and the moon set red that night.

  236. Marni

    September 1, 2012 at 2:33 pm

    Conversation With Myself

    I really can’t even stand to think about the last ten hours. Can I just erase it? What was I thinking, that putting on a LBD and these Christian Louboutin’s would set the clock back two years? I knew he was going to be at the opening and it was a powerful, crazy magnet that drew me in. What I don’t understand is, I was really getting over him. My life was starting to feel normal again, but then I’ve never been very satisfied with normal, have I?

    Thank god it’s snowing. I am freezing but the snow makes me feel invisible. Like my shawl it feels like a security blanket. Why is it so hard to find a taxi at 6am? And why the hell didn’t I just go home last night? And how does he always do this to me? I feel like an alcoholic who after two years of sobriety just got totally wasted.

    I really, really want to be home, just a couple more blocks. I want a warm bath, my sweat pants and warm thick socks. And I’m done. Really done. Done forever. I am way to smart and pretty for this game.

  237. JudyMac

    September 1, 2012 at 3:04 pm

    On a cold and snowy day
    the red roosters come out to play
    Oh la laboutouinza!

  238. A. Harris

    September 1, 2012 at 3:04 pm

    Her fashion was so good it was talking to him. “God, you’re talking to me!” he told her viscerally, in a daze. Quickening her step, she furrowed her brow at him and clutched her cloak tighter. She couldn’t understand why this man, this short, stalky man with a camera, was crying out to God at her. Seeing her body language, he snapped to and hurriedly pleaded, “Oh, not God, you!” It was too late. She thought him crazy, to be avoided, for sure. Her Louboutins mocked him with each step, as she tracked away, far away, escaping his gaze, his drool. He looked straight up into the sky: nothing but white, a million snowflakes falling all around him. God, too, seemed to have been mocking him, as if saying, “That’s what you get for using my name in vain, son.”

    • A. Harris

      September 1, 2012 at 5:16 pm

      *stocky

  239. James

    September 1, 2012 at 3:18 pm

    He said:” I’d tatally fall in love with her!” In the snow, his face seemed particularly determined.
    I said:” With just a back?”
    “Yeah.” He replied.
    “Yves!” I yelled, and the Louboutins stopped gracefully, a handsome face turned.
    I turned to my friend with a wicked smile, expecting what I was expecting.

    One year later, it was the first day of the month, I got up to get my magazines as usual, but there was an invitation in the mailbox. I ran back to the living room, tore open the red envelope, and there I sat down on the chair next to me. A moment of silence, then I laughed, I thought to myself, what a strange yet beautiful world.

  240. negar

    September 1, 2012 at 3:42 pm

    - I am leaving you.
    - no… what? why?
    - I don’t love you anymore.
    - what? why? since when?
    - since the new year eve. we are at the party, I went to the balcony for a smoke, you followed me to the balcony, I looked at you and realized I didn’t love you anymore.
    - I remember the night, you had my black jacket on, I said you look stunning in my jacket . you looked away, didn’t say a thing.
    - I remember the night
    - take my jacket with you when you leave…

  241. Gabriele

    September 1, 2012 at 4:03 pm

    LOUBOUSNOWMANIA…..dancing snowflakes, embracing cashmere, most desirable red soles…-LA VIE EST BELLE-

  242. Sarah Vinson

    September 1, 2012 at 4:04 pm

    Soft snowy flakes on a winter’s day
    The shawl on her head with a siren’s sway
    Who could have known what she did that day

    I’d say it was me who saw it first
    A sight so sultry I was dying of thirst
    Red soles walking, heart beating to burst

    Who would have known from behind, she had a face that kind
    Clear skin and watery eyes, that sparkle and shine
    Forcing only to remind

    I’d held the door just the hour before
    When she walked in the shop with a raven’s lore
    Like a misplaced beauty from the days of yore

    I thought it was a joke before she spoke
    Heart in my throat begging to choke
    The tightness in my chest like twisted rope

    I sighed and then stepped back again
    Making way for the man with a sheepish grin
    Wishing I could take part in their devilish sin

    They found him after a spell
    I knew she’s done it, but I didn’t tell

    Was it sweet vengeance wrapped in black
    Sweet and sultry for a silent attack
    Lady redemption, a debt to pay back

  243. Sarah Vinson

    September 1, 2012 at 4:10 pm

    Soft snowy flakes on a winter’s day
    The shawl on her head with a siren’s sway
    Who could have known what she did that day

    I’d say it was me who saw it first
    A sight so sultry I was dying of thirst
    Red soles walking, heart beating to burst

    Who would have known from behind, she had a face that kind
    Clear skin and watery eyes, that sparkle and shine
    Forcing only to remind

    I’d held the door just the hour before
    When she walked in the shop with a raven’s lore
    Like a misplaced beauty from the days of yore

    I thought it was a joke before she spoke
    Heart in my throat begging to choke
    The tightness in my chest like twisted rope

    I sighed and then stepped back again
    Making way for the man with a sheepish grin
    Wishing I could take part in their devilish sin

    They found him after a spell
    I knew she’d done it, but I didn’t tell

    Was it sweet vengeance wrapped in black
    Sweet and sultry for a silent attack
    Lady redemption, a debt to pay back

    (with corrections)

  244. Hannah Grace

    September 1, 2012 at 4:30 pm

    The Sartorialist

    Bells Rang. Once. Twice. Until the chime of midnight. There was no pumpkin carriage to take her home. Not even a yellow taxi. But the girl thrived in the cold that nibbled at her bones. For one night, she was not the seamstress whose body curved over a dimly lit table. For one night, the constant ticking of the sewing machine was replaced by the sweeping melody of an orchestra.

    After dusting the snow off the doorknob, Elsa walked into her home. She pretended that her clothing rack was her butler and gently placed her beloved coat on his arms.
    She remained dancing. Her feathered gown fanned the dust on the floor. But for Elsa, it was fairy magic. She knew that she would have to return the gown tomorrow. But she continued twirling and picked up a suit jacket to serenade her. They waltzed until dawn. Elsa then bowed to her partner, took off her gown and sat at her machine. The familiar humming began. But Elsa smiled as she caressed the silk in front of her. Who knew what it might become or what adventure it might bring.

    • Gabriel

      September 2, 2012 at 12:59 am

      So cinematic!

      • JJ

        September 3, 2012 at 5:11 pm

        Beautiful!

  245. Victoria

    September 1, 2012 at 4:49 pm

    She was going nowhere. And she wasn’t being existential. Last week her superior had asked her to leave, plonking a cardboard box on her desk in front of everybody. Every day since she had taken a different walk. It was a wholly aimless walk, with the intention of discovering another part of the city. It never worked. Halfway through her walk she’d lose composure and hurry, bent double against an imaginary wind, back to her apartment, the one she could no longer afford to live in.
    Today it was almost by accident that she had landed on her favourite street, one that since her dismissal she had consciously avoided. But today the rain had given her a legitimate reason to duck her head and before she knew it her feet were retracing that familiar path.
    She would have been scared that people would see her, walking down the street in the middle of the day, the act in itself felt like a scream of unemployment. But as she pulled her hooded cape more tightly around her neck she remembered something – she was wearing her armour, her Louboutins.

    And the road became a runway.

  246. Aida Ahadiany

    September 1, 2012 at 5:51 pm

    When Snow Is Over

    7 am, April 12, 2009, you sent me a text “she is leaving; here in 30; 2 hour before sitter arrives”. It was three month since we last met , before the baby arrives. I should say “I am on my way to work” or “where were you for the last ninety days”, but I emailed my boss and told him that I’ll be late. I put the most chic and inappropriate dress, for 7am, on, along with my brand new shoe, just for you. It was snowing on mid April. Sometimes I think that I am so similar to New York’s winter; I deny that my time is over and try my best to conquer the spring with snowing up to May.
    An old lady at your door was trying to open the door with her cold shaking hands. She said “I did not check the weather who would think of a snow on April; I think you did not check either”. I helped her up with her bag. She stopped in front of your door and said “here my dear, thanks a lot, I am early, but Mr. McArthur would appreciate it, who wants to be alone with a fuzzy baby?”

    I walked myself to work, in my dress. The snow was over, also us.

  247. Yomei

    September 1, 2012 at 5:58 pm

    WINTER HUNTRESS

    I need not show you anything except
    the contours of my stockinged legs, slender
    120 millimeter heels—
    enough for you to imagine pretty
    feet arching, flexing on a soft carpet.
    Without my shoes I must stand on my toes
    to reach high cupboards, and my lovers’ cheeks.
    The fiery scarlet soles of my shoes
    conjure pictures in your mind of scarlet
    lips, and brilliant unnaturally
    pointed teeth made for piercing tender flesh.
    The flash of white skin beneath grey stockings
    leads you to speculate on rare visions
    of pliant alabaster legs, rosy
    complexion which remains forever young.
    The secret of my youth may be obtained
    by following me (though at your own risk).

  248. Yomei

    September 1, 2012 at 6:01 pm

    WINTER HUNTRESS
    I need not show you anything except
    the contours of my stockinged legs, slender
    120 millimeter heels—
    enough for you to imagine pretty
    feet arching, flexing on a soft carpet.
    Without my shoes I must stand on my toes
    to reach high cupboards, and my lovers’ cheeks.
    The fiery scarlet soles of my shoes
    conjure pictures in your mind of scarlet
    lips, and brilliant unnaturally
    pointed teeth made for piercing tender flesh.
    The flash of white skin beneath grey stockings
    leads you to speculate on rare visions
    of pliant alabaster legs, rosy
    complexion which remains forever young.
    The secret of my youth may be obtained
    by following me (though at your own risk).

  249. Laura Danielle

    September 1, 2012 at 6:25 pm

    Her mother had called her the evening before, fretting and clucking at her jobless state, and had implored her to go to Easter mass. She had not gone since she left Russia, and always done so out of duty rather than faith. The memory had come back to her, the muted silence of the church, the shuffle of coats and scuffs of shoes, the watery eyes of older women. The thought of it felt warm, and she remembered the street she grew up on as she dressed for church. She wore the memories of home, the meal she would have eaten with her family, and the rituals that seemed gilded and old fashioned in this city. The snow had begun overnight, and she covered her hair as she walked down the steps of her building, trying to keep her past from dissipating in the clear air.

  250. Micaela Colleen Barrett

    September 1, 2012 at 6:37 pm

    It’s funny how an obsession starts. Slowly, it seems, until you’re in the middle and can’t help but keep stepping one foot then the other. Deliberate. Focused. Passionate. Just like the dance, she thought. Funny.

    Her friends, the ones she had before Tango, were confused and a tad upset. They wondered if there were a new man in her life; another who took her on expensive trips and saw right past her.

    No, no man. Or, rather, many men. But this time she could meet them as an equal. For once she was responsible for her own steps and felt finally present in her body. She could feel proud and beautiful and strong and not at all ashamed when embracing a stranger.

    It was a friendly and unromantic intimacy that mystified her. A new kind of intimacy which kept her coming back to dance, even in the bitter cold.

  251. Christina

    September 1, 2012 at 6:38 pm

    When the snow stops I am going to take off this coat and show you my face. My face. You need to see my face to know who I am. You need to see the color of my eyes and the curve of my nose. Even the lines around my mouth. Then I am going to speak and you can hear my voice, my accent, my language, and how I roll my r’s. I will speak to you and tell you a funny story about my day in the snow and you will decide if you like me…if I have a nice rhythm..if I am real. You will know right away when I smile what it means…..and when I laugh about my ruined shoes you will decide if I am okay…and I will be embarrassed by your attention and you will like that.

    Stop thinking about my red shoes, and about my pretty ankles. Stop guessing where I live, what I look like and what I might be like as a girlfriend. It is so simple. I am right here, behind this coat, and when it stops snowing you will see my face and you will know.

  252. Arielnaif

    September 1, 2012 at 6:45 pm

    Please, where is this magic place?

  253. Peggy West

    September 1, 2012 at 7:24 pm

    The woman in the blanket, Eva, chases her lover’s wife through sleet. The wife wears boots and is dressed for anything, although the slacks are white and puzzling at first. The wife must be meeting friends who draw with chalk and praise her for her ironic slant. Last night even the lover said, “If there’s one thing she is, it’s intelligently funny.” When they give credit to the wife, the affair is over.

    Eva imagines catching up with the wife, tripping her and running off with the purse. She will turn the purse on its end and find the things a husband would expect to see – a pen, a phone, and a picture of him. Eva worries that perhaps she is not yet a wife because she steals the blankets time after time and casts them at a wife, causing trouble on all fronts. That is the sole element in her life that always comes true — the shouting at the end.

    What is the secret to finding someone who loves you? Is the secret sanity? Or guessing what he will require? Will these attitudes take you through the decades? Only a wife would know.

  254. Kirby

    September 1, 2012 at 7:24 pm

    Can a broken heart make you beautiful? That summer I became like the shadow of a statue, like rust on a corroded battery. Something you look at without even seeing. I slept on a pillow of smeared letters, in the frayed T-shirt he’d left behind (still holding his smell: beach air and bicycle chain). I moved slowly and off-kilter, the way so many old women creep the sidewalks on a scorching noon. Just making it, just barely making it, for miles. In October when the yellow light morphed to pink, a stranger told me that my shirt stunk. In November I french-kissed it, then tore it to strips and used it to scour the apartment. I switched up lipstick: over-ripe plum by morning, picket-fence white by night. For so long I had imagined running into him on the street–the moment when he’d spot me and that lazy, loping smile would confiscate his face. But in December–when the snowflakes dropped slowly, more like dancing–I decided I’d be ahead of him. I’d be elegantly cloaked and gaining ground, each clip of my shoe an open red mouth laughing at him, laughing at the beauty he’d left.

    • Sevan

      September 2, 2012 at 12:52 pm

      I love his smell : beach air and bicycle chain. So vivid.

    • takeaim

      September 2, 2012 at 1:46 pm

      This one is pretty perfect.

  255. Ryan

    September 1, 2012 at 7:47 pm

    The snow could cover her like her fear of being alone. When the weather matched her emotional state, she often felt a since of comfort. Even with the slightest amount of sleet, rain, or gusts, days like this reminded her that the city could respond to her. Her relationship with the space was like no other she had known. She listened to the snow by covering herself as she left her apartment that day. Noticing her reflection on an empty storefront, she considered the situation as she passed. She thought as she walked, “What could be the best thing I could do today?” “Texts are stupid.” “Everything is so well put together.” “He has enough money to keep me like this.” She stopped at the corner. The red light, the red underneath it all, his red cheeks, and her red lips—all the red said stop. She wanted to listen this time, to believe she could stop and commit. When the cars stopped, she crossed and continued to observe herself in the empty storefronts. He was not going anywhere. She liked it, and she hated it at the same time.

  256. Lei Kim

    September 1, 2012 at 8:00 pm

    I escaped the heartbreak of my mother’s death, the remnants of funeral memories clinging to me like cluster of coral by diving into a dark theatre for an afternoon double showing of Roman Holiday and Sabrina at the Angelica. This would do the trick of escaping the harsh reality of my sadness, I thought to myself as I pulled my midnight cashmere hood over my head.
    The screen glowed like a blue moon in August, searing into my consiousness the beauty and luminosity of Audrey. Audrey, so slim, graceful, and elegant in black and white reminded me of a European version of my Asian mother. Seeing Audrey cutting her hair, getting new shoes and enjoying gelato released the anguish that filled my being, and I fondly remembered the day my mother took my 8 year old self shopping for the black patent T-strap Mary Janes I so coveted. I glanced down at my shoes. Some things never changed. Looking up I noticed that Audrey Hepburn was not longer on the screen. Instead my mother soared through Rome with Gregory Peck on a Vespa. My mother was the princess. She was free now. Free to glide across Rome with movie stars.
    The lights illuminated the dark room and I stepped outside to a pristine downfall of tidy, frozen white snowflakes shaped like daisies. My red heeled wonders skimmed the sidewalk as I walked to get a scoop of green tea ice cream, mother’s favorite treat.

  257. Cara L

    September 1, 2012 at 8:28 pm

    I stole this from one of the sisters when I was in high school. The smothering, authoritative wool, I just wanted to whisk it like a petal on my shoulders, and float across the desert. It has been very useful. It put out a fire in Beijing and kept wind out of my tent. On picnics it soaks in all the cakey dirt and catches crabgrass and when we get home my daughter asks Mommy can we picnic again? On our kitchen floor we look through the glass doors at the rain. I am a single raindrop, standing for all those who ever shivered from the heat and escaped.

  258. ivancito

    September 1, 2012 at 8:33 pm

    cool stories

  259. Susan

    September 1, 2012 at 8:40 pm

    How many times have I walked the walk of shame? Why did I sleep with him last night? I want to hide. I can’t wait to get home. No one will see me if I cover my head but I think my shoes will give me away. I am a scarlet woman.

  260. juan cruz

    September 1, 2012 at 9:02 pm

    I love this city and the very evidence of dramatic radiance that emanates from within even in sad days like today. In deference to a plethora of emotions that it creates for me, the unknown passerby, that kindly stroke each step of the way to nowhere and everywhere in this city that I love; reverentially portraying the best of me.

  261. M. I.

    September 1, 2012 at 9:10 pm

    “Dear J.
    By the time you wake up, I will be gone. Trust me, I didn’t mean to be over dramatic and I really wanted to have a breakfast with you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for letting me know that you were in town. And for these unforgettable last two days that we’ve spent together. Oh, Do you know that while we were inside, it started snowing? I wish we could take a walk to the park now. Together. Knowing how much you hate winter, I am sure this time you would enjoy every breath of cold air, every tiny snowflake, falling on your face..I would kiss your lips and tip of your nose, mess up your hair and we would laugh as hard as we did when we were 15. Remember? Will we ever have enough time to do all this? I miss you already.
    I had to borrow your coat: it got so much colder overnight. My assistant will send it back to your hotel today. ( I wish I could keep it, keep everything that you’ve ever touched. ) So, as I am finishing writing this note in the lobby, I can feel the weight of your coat on my shoulders and the smell of it makes me wish of your warm bed and your arms around me…
    Always yours,
    M.”

    “Hi, dear!
    I woke up just after you left. I watched you from my window: it was like a dream. In that morning light and the emptiness of the street , all I could see was your silhouette: dark little posture walking so gracefully, almost flying. And those red soles of your shoes..When I noticed them, I smiled. They reminded me of your red lips , when you used your mom’s lipstick for the first time, when we were kids. And you kissed me, leaving the mark on my chick. The mark that will stay with me forever. Love you.
    Your J.”

  262. Christina

    September 1, 2012 at 9:24 pm

    Little red riding hood must never have had to deal with fashion mishaps. This is ridiculous, I hate wearing cloaks. Why did I even buy this? Oh that’s right, because my anorexic best friend said it was in vogue.
    Bullshit. In vogue my ass, I can’t even keep it on. It doesn’t even work! The snow’s falling sideways into my face. Did I bring my compact? Eh, I’ll check it out in the bathroom mirror, I think my foundation is a little wet.
    God I’m hungry. No carbs, no carbs! Did my belly grow a little? That girl looks a lot more comfortable, next time I need to buy something with buttons and a hood.
    Oof, straight legs, back arched, keep walking. Dammit these sidewalks are slippery. At least I look good. Maybe the Sartorialist will snap a photo of me, then I’ll be famous.
    Shit, now the bag’s slipping.

    • Maria (from Cambridge)

      September 2, 2012 at 10:35 am

      Oh I love this one. Nicely done from beginning to end. (Oh I love the end!) You’ve just made my morning: the empathy, the anger, the dreamy, tempting, bad purchase…but then the triumph of accidental fame, followed by more humor. Oh what we do for fashion. Great job!

    • Sevan

      September 2, 2012 at 1:02 pm

      So many of us can relate to this story.
      I like your sense of humour.
      Good luck Christina !

  263. Dave L

    September 1, 2012 at 11:21 pm

    Winter casts a cold and noble morning upon 53rd street – a faint and impressionable sight abandoned by the frozen sun, its furious attention startled by the gently pitter-pattering cascade of ice descending from the same heavens over which it presides. Sweetly adrift over each crack in the pavement is the perfect, weightless silhouette of yesterday’s adoration; not even the unrelenting cavalcade of snow, nor the dejection of January cold robs her of the purpose in her stride.

    She is the counterpoint of my yearning and my loathing, with her share from the spoils of the battles of my heart tucked away beneath her cape of grey. Long have we sought after fortune in the eyes of one another, if only to revel in the censure and scorn of passion, and never in its truth or depth.

    Yet still, I remain devoted to the resplendent, humdrum footprints in her wake; even as the dark beauty of her soul weaves desolate votives around the deformity of mine.

    To be young; to be caught between loveless torsion and twisted desire on the surface of this grand Manhattan immensity is to know life, and to know it greater than I could anywhere else.

  264. Lei Kim

    September 1, 2012 at 11:34 pm

    The Asian Audrey Hepburn

    I decided today I would shake off my post funeral blues and officially celebrate the life of my mother. Her passing had been so sudden last month that it shook me to the core. Sadness clung to me like the coral calcifying my soul. I dove purposely into the Angelica for a double showing of Sabrina and Roman Holiday hoping to lift my spirit. I pulled my midnight cashmere hood over my head in an attempt to shield my omnipresent tears from curious eyes.
    The screen lit up with the luminous Audrey presiding over me in glorious black and white. So classic, lithe, and glamorous she reminded me of photographs of my mother at the airport in Korea leaving for the US in her little black dress, kitten heels, a strand of pearls and a tan trench, never to return to her homeland. The “Asian Audrey” my father called her.
    I looked down at the red heeled glossy wonder of my patent heels and remember the time mom took me shopping for black patent Mary Jane’s that shone with military precision in the autumn sun. I coveted and revered those shoes and not much had changed and yet everything had changed.
    My attention turned to Audrey Hepurn gliding on a Vespa with Gregory Peck as she morphed into my mother flying through the streets of Rome, free from illness, harm and fear. She is a young woman enjoying mint gelato, cutting her hairinto a wispy pixie, and buying chic shoes.
    The light illuminated the dark theatre and I exited into a soft frozen blanket of snowflakes twirling like daisies in a meadow as if waiting for Mr. Bentley to capture them on a sheet of glass. Each petal melted gently onto my hood–a temporal kiss, dissolving in slow motion. I strolled lazily down the street searching for comfort in a bowl of gelato, my mom’s favorite treat, my hood sliding down and my eyes looking forward.

    • Lei Kim

      September 2, 2012 at 3:52 pm

      This is the version I want to submit. :) tech issues…;)

  265. Kevin H.

    September 1, 2012 at 11:38 pm

    She’s grinding her teeth to a song, sorry it’s there. She’s been here in the sun in the warmness, and in the color and light. Now past NO PARKING signs and men comparing parked cars to moving ones– The sound our shoes make when we walk in them. She is unclear on coming or going, her version of that story, it is ok, but that Yoke will fall, but not now. It’s so pretty here. It’s been snowing here, silicone broadcast, pain afoot, and not– cold and cold and hope with a trapdoor. Apprehend the littleness of this moment or any other, or pull that rope, hand-saw a circle around her feet and disappear into the hole she wrought, buffaloed by a cold ventriloquy and a stillness not her own but felt, deeply, or is barely?, we the vaudeville, sorry-to-be, the maudlin, a Caruso recording playing somewhere by somebody else. But maybe she might stick her tongue out, with color with red.

  266. anonymous

    September 1, 2012 at 11:45 pm

    You know how when you have a really good idea… like you think you are really awesome and mysterious….and hey I’m so different… Well I woke up this morning and was like ewww its grey its wet its cold…. Im an accountant….. IM GOING TO WEAR MY LOUBS instead of rain boots to spice up a typical taxing day at the office (no pun intended)…. So I was walking down the street and thinking how freaking cold I am but I look sooooo darn good. I continue walking and start to pray that i don’t break my head on the ice …. and then it starts to snow… OK so its cold but this is kinda romantic. I take a few more steps and i’m like OK…its really cold… why do I think these ideas would ever be fun. AND THEN… some charming asian man with pants a little to short (Although kinda T Brownish) with matching socks and cap… hands me his coat and says a lady as beautiful as you needs to stay warm. He throws his coat at me and runs off without as much as leaving his name….the image of his tattered backside etched in my memory… my gratitude eternal…. I throw it over my head and run to get my coffee… Now I think this would totally make a great story…. It’s just I can’t figure out if my tights are blue or black… bummer….

  267. AS

    September 1, 2012 at 11:48 pm

    The job was done. He laid there in the alley, blood blooming from his neck and trickling down his crisp white tuxedo shirt. She tucked the still smoking silencer back under her vintage gown and began walking away. Dawn had just broken to the sight of first snow sprinkling over the slick sidewalks of Moscow. Shivering, she began to feel the frigid wind pierce against her bare shoulders, creeping around her neck and down her back. She stepped inside a shop to buy a dark, wool cloak. Though the shop had not yet opened, the shopkeeper dared not refuse her—he saw the glint of something darker, something that whispered danger, vengeance, and glory in her eyes. She wrapped the cloak around her body, over her head, and returned to the streets of Moscow, anonymous. If you passed her in the streets, you wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about her. But if you looked closely into her eyes, you would notice the crimson red fire of vengeance, the same color you’d see painted on the back of her shoes as you watched her walk away.

  268. K. Cooper

    September 2, 2012 at 12:30 am

    He found her to mystifying. As the men and women on their way to work hailed cabs and ducked into coffee shops in order to dodge the sudden snowfall, she continued on walking to wherever she was headed, covering her head with her seemingly oversized coat. He found himself trailing behind her, keeping his distance. Something about her entirely black ensemble against the pure bright light of the snow intrigued him. Her strides were long and graceful, paired with long thin legs a heels that clicked with each step against the sidewalk. He did not know where she was going or why he was following her, but he continued to follow along and see what he would find. Her scent of mystery and entrance lingered in the air behind her, long enough for him to breathe her in with each step he took. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to touch her skin and smell her hair. He wanted to hear her voice and feel her eyes on him. There was so much that he wanted to know about this beautiful creature before him that he had to fight the urge to call out to her or tap her on the shoulder to find it all out. After following behind her for quite some time and debating whether or not to speak to her, he finally decided it best to not see her face. He did not want to touch her skin or smell her hair. He did not want to hear her voice or feel her eyes on him. This was a woman who he could make out to be anyone he wanted, anything he wanted even. The revelation of her would make this possibility impossible. He wanted to leave the questions unanswered. He wanted to keep her a mystery, leaving his mind to wander and go wherever it wanted to go with her. And with that, he decided to take a photo of her so that he could keep her in his imagination, and revisit this mystifying moment as much as he wanted to with who he had made out to be his dream companion. With the click of a button, she would be his forever. He checked the photo he had taken to be sure it had done her justice, but strangely enough she was not in the picture. The surrounding buildings, the snowfall and the sidewalk were all there, but she was not. He looked up from his camera and she was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared without a trace. Or had she even been there at all? He took a moment, let it sink in that she was gone, and turned around and walked back from where he came from. He would never know her face, and he would never know if she even actually existed or if she was merely a dream apparition he had created in his imagination. Whatever it was, he didn’t care. He was mystified.

  269. Brian

    September 2, 2012 at 12:32 am

    “God, thank you for stopping. I can’t believe this weather. It’s only September.”
    “Well, it’s on the way, you’ll be my last before shift change.” The taxi door shuts, their breath still visible in the taxi’s muggy air.
    “Sorry to be nosy lady, but you look pretty fancy to be going to the courthouse.”
    She brushes the already melted snowflakes from her hair. “Yeah, well, it’s a special occasion, sort of.”
    “Getting married in a black dress? Where’s your guy? Why aren’t you going together?
    “I’m meeting him. It’s actually quite the opposite.”
    The cabby looks up into the rearview mirror.
    “How’s that?”
    “Since you asked, my attorney’s office is next door to the courthouse. I’m going to sign divorce papers.”
    “Tough break, my wife and I split 5 years ago. Last time I saw her, she sure didn’t look as sharp as you. I mighta thought twice.”
    She gets out and hands the cabby a twenty through the window. With a glimmer in her eye she says, “fancy that”, turns and walks away.
    Struck by that piercing look and the defiant glow of the souls of her shoes, the cabby yells, “Hey lady, wait a minute.”
    He pops the trunk and gets out. She looks back. He rounds the car and reaches into the trunk, then steps onto the sidewalk and hands her a wool blanket.
    “Wrap up in this, can’t be gettin’ that getup all wet now.”

  270. Heidi Howard

    September 2, 2012 at 1:21 am

    I grew up here. I’ve always loved walking around town, taking in the sights and sounds. My feet feel the energy of the city running like a current in the streets. My eyes seek out the larger-than-life fashion ads, charging my mind at every turn.

    Like any other day, I’m in no hurry to get home. My cape is up so that the snow doesn’t wreck my hair. But my back is straight and my stride is strong, ‘cause the sidewalk is my runway and today I’m working it for Christian.

  271. Yvonne

    September 2, 2012 at 1:28 am

    They pulled up to the apartment where his friends were having the big to-do. They had been driving in from the Bronx, caught up in the promises in each others’ glances, and she hadn’t noticed it had started to snow. She looked up as the car stopped and saw snowflakes hitting the windshield. There were big, fat and wet as they slid down the windshield. She had an instant reality check. She looked down on her shoes and was in full panic. Grace’s Louboutins! $2.000 dollars shoes! The fabulous pink suede bow in the front. “Jesus Christ, what am I going to tell her? Damn, it’s October, it isn’t supposed to snow this early”. Thoughts raced through her head, ruin Grace’s shoes and the whole episode, including these first fresh pleasures would be all over the internet before you could say “Louboutins”. He caringly draped his jacket over her as she stepped out of the car. Such a generous move, she thought. She stepped forward, tilted her head and smiled. She would handle Grace, there was that episode with her Devi Kroell natural python clutch, blackberries, honey and repurposed lunch hours …

    • Lei Kim

      September 2, 2012 at 4:53 pm

      Yvonne, I really enjoyed your story. It was well written. :)

  272. Style Linguist

    September 2, 2012 at 2:14 am

    (Revised)
    Snow doesn’t own me. I own it. I use it as an accessory. I shape it to my day, apply it to my routine, and carry on as if it’s everyday; so get out of my way, it snows every day. I turn the impractical into practical. Just look at me. You can’t not look at me. I coruscate. I am invincible amongst the invisible. I serve no one but myself. How can I not, when you’re this powerful? You’re under my control. I’ve arrested you. I’ll let you go only after I escape your gaze. Soon I’ll be gone, but you’ll always remember me. I’m unforgettable because I stand for something. I am something. I’ve hypnotized you. It was nice knowing you. Now wake up. Snap out of it. You’re too easy. I’m obsequious to no one, to nothing, least of all snow. What’s a little snow when you’re this fabulous?

  273. Abigail

    September 2, 2012 at 2:27 am

    Emma was going to a funeral, and believed in dressing up for the god and the devil at dying parties. She’d stolen the shoes. It’d been easy, really. You’re only what people expect of you and no one would have expected that of her.
    Though it was winter, the air smelled like some mix of lilac and gasoline. The last time she’d seen the girl it’d been warm. Emma remembered the way they’d held hands, like beautiful girls, a coy gesture reminiscent of the childhood they’d had before boys were drawn into importance.
    It was as their palms were wound against each other that Sophie looked at Emma, and said, “I hope you’re past it now.”
    “Of course.”
    But whenever Emma saw Sophie she saw the firelight in her collarbones, so of course she wasn’t past it. Sophie had been her everything, past growing up, past the lunchmeat sandwiches and warm air from sidewalk grates they’d shared. It was Sophie who’d taught her that the distinctiveness of a snowflake doesn’t keep it alive. Then Sophie left her for Wisconsin and a man who liked golf.
    Emma strangled Sophie easily. One week later, she walked to the funeral, in Sophie’s shoes.

  274. Style Linguist

    September 2, 2012 at 3:20 am

    (third-second alternating person)
    Snow doesn’t own her. She owns it. She uses it as an accessory. She shapes it to her day, applies it to her routine, and carries on as if it’s everyday; so get out of her way, it snows every day. She turns the impractical into practical. Just look at her. You can’t not look at her. She coruscates. She is invincible amongst the invisible. She serves no one but herself. How can she not, when you’re that powerful? You’re under her control. She has arrested you. She’ll let you go only after she escapes your gaze. Soon she’ll be gone, but you’ll always remember her. She’s unforgettable because she stands for something. She is something. She has hypnotized you. “It was nice knowing you. Now wake up. Snap out of it. You’re too easy.” her fashion reprimands you. She’s obsequious to no one, to nothing, least of all snow. What’s a little snow when you’re that fabulous?

  275. Alison

    September 2, 2012 at 3:50 am

    She could have been anyone.
    She liked the way foreign pavement slipped under her feet, the way her heels tappe out a rhythm—steady, like a soldier in unfamiliar territory.
    At home, she hated the cold. She hated snowy days: the added moisture in hair, the way the wind chapped her cheeks, how she had to wear tights. But here…
    Here, her cape was a shield. A disguise. A front against the winter weather and the social eyes, the twitching tongues and the forever frosty. Maybe she wasn’t a soldier—she couldn’t recollect the last time she had seen a soldier in a dress.
    Maybe she was a spy. She added a little saunter to her step, a little swagger that she never had on her own roads. Here, she could be a spy.
    She let her stride be her soundtrack, the click-clack of her red soles rising against the swelling of her soul.
    Here, she could be anyone.

  276. Jhncllr

    September 2, 2012 at 6:20 am

    Having just seen her captivatingly-hidden form down on the street below I was exhilarated when she walked into the apartment just moments later. No one expected snow so early in the fall and -while this unexpected little storm was already a mess- our latest addition to the party looked as though she’d barely noticed.
    Sipping a Lagavulin at this small Sunday afternoon gathering I watched for a moment as she revealed a striking combination of sleeveless knit top with raw cut edges and skirt that looked to be made from black razor clams. A medley of leather, metal, and ceramic settling loosely on her right hand. Lovely.
    The look said her evening was just beginning.
    I was moved most by the poise with which she removed her near-soaked wrap, smiled upon seeing our host, and immediately elevated the sense of both ease and intensity in the room. She knew something.
    Turning back to the window and looking down to the street -people already hopping to the curb- I sensed that the fall would be rich with beauty and people who wear it well.
    Then I gathered up some confidence to go and say hello.

  277. JGriswold

    September 2, 2012 at 6:59 am

    Karen’s mother had taken her downtown to a store full of fashionable shoes and boots. Among those stood a red-soled pair that seemed made for a princess. Everyone watched Karen when she tried them on. Karen looked at the black shoes, and she looked at the red-soled ones. Then she looked at them again, and Karen’s mother bought her the red-soled shoes.

    The day of her mother’s funeral, as Karen knelt in church, she could only think of those red-soled shoes; she could not join in the prayers and she forgot the hymns she had been taught long ago. When she got home, Karen put the shoes away in the closet. Still, she couldn’t help but look at them now and again.

    Then one evening her friends were going out, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red-soled shoes and thought there would be no harm in wearing them. That night when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced her to the right; and when she wanted to go upstairs, the shoes danced her up from the street. She danced all night. And in the morning, Karen walked home in her red-soled shoes.

  278. Nina

    September 2, 2012 at 8:56 am

    My Husband Says I Think Too Much About Clothes

    You’ve got me nailed because of the Louboutins? You’ve made up your mind that my dress is haute, that my lingerie gets delivered in boxes, and that this cloak tips the whole lot into the $1000s. What about the stuff you can’t see? I’ll help you out. I’m shielding myself from the snow and that morning light – it’s so unforgiving and none of us is getting any younger. My husband’s away on business, again: he bought me these heels as a ‘sorry’. And here I am, heading home after a night with one of his oldest friends. Night-before clothes in the broad daylight. And no, I’m not proud of myself.

    What do I hope for, dressing like this? Well, I wish my husband was standing where you are now and could see that all this effort doesn’t go unnoticed. I still turn heads. But my real wish? You see that girl up ahead, hood up, in jeans…I wish that was me and I could have my life over. My guess is that she’s on her feet all day doing something useful, or something fun like making coffee for not very much but enough. She no doubt takes minutes to get ready; her boyfriend will always love that about her.

    Her husband will never buy her Louboutins.

    • Maria (from Cambridge)

      September 2, 2012 at 3:27 pm

      touching story. I’d write more, but my son is calling me to play and buy birdseed!

  279. Cheung

    September 2, 2012 at 8:56 am

    It never feels the same without it! It never feels the same when you walk alone! It never feels the same when Christmas comes! All that high heels, big cape and beautiful dress are the perfect glamorous disguise for my solitude. It’s a lonely and uneasy walk. Perhaps, without the shoes, I would travel faster! Perhaps without the coat, I would travel lighter. But, without it I would never be the same; my style, my passion, my goal of life! So, albeit lonely, I trust my instinct, my choice, my shit, my walk…

  280. Ana

    September 2, 2012 at 9:37 am

    ” Finally, that big break… I know that perhaps I may not have the privilege to be late and yet in my recognizable style, I still decided to waltz around that over-crowded apartment for hours, relentessly searching for the perfect fit. There they were, two perfectly crafted red-soles gazing at me from that overpriced flat, in a zip code that many of those “elitists” would disapprove of . Keep walking elegantly dear… remember what Jacques said: “Missing a train is only painful if you run after it”. Smile. Leave the troubles at the front door… let your style be tonight’s advocate. Bonsoir New York”.

  281. ThomasH

    September 2, 2012 at 9:37 am

    (I´m a copywriter myself but I find David Bowie’s words beautiful for this picture. And – just imagine – if you like my entry of his words most, you have the perfect reason to invite him! Or me of course, I just need to fly over from Germany then.
    I love your blog and also Mr. Danziger’s. Keep up the wonderful work and take care.
    Cheers, Thomas)

    Let’s dance
    put on your red shoes and dance the blues

    Let’s dance to the song
    they’re playin’ on the radio

    Let’s sway
    while color lights up your face
    Let’s sway
    sway through the crowd to an empty space

    If you say run, I’ll run with you
    If you say hide, we’ll hide
    Because my love for you
    Would break my heart in two
    If you should fall
    Into my arms
    And tremble like a flower

  282. Gracie

    September 2, 2012 at 10:08 am

    A mind at large is hard to balance with an animal body, I understand.

    Is it not enough just to see?

  283. a m roussel

    September 2, 2012 at 10:14 am

    Best hair day, ever.

    The snow began falling before she left the salon. Stepping out into the hushed swirling of white glitter, she shivered and swooped her woolen coat up to shelter her bobbed tresses, still warm from the preening iron.

    The path was growing slick, and she took care to pick up each taloned foot and place it with instinctive precision. Only the hem of her raven-plumed party dress freed itself to take wing and dance with the starry flakes floating all around. Conscious of her strange silhouette yet steeled to make her entrance impeccable (at least), she plucked her way against the odds thus demurely, (mostly) shrouded, save for the flash of scarlet where her vibrant soles peered out at the prosaic world behind her.

  284. Peri

    September 2, 2012 at 10:32 am

    I submitted my entry the other day, but I see it seems to not have been posted. Here’s my entry:

    Click, click, click, click, click; her shoes striking the pavement. Swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee; the coarse wind and wafting snow spiking her back. In a hurry, rush, rush, go, go. She fiercely calculated: five minutes more of a walk to the party, a quick twenty minute appearance once there ought to suffice, and then in a mere twenty-five minutes more she could be cocooned in her sheltered, snuggly bed. Hastening her step, determined to beat that time estimation, she peeked out through the window of a hole she had crafted from cleverly draping her impromptu cape – a blanket, actually – around herself. Then it hit her. Why was she in such a hurry? Why was she always thinking about what was next? What about right at this very instant? And in that moment, a truly pinch-me moment, she felt blessed, content, even delirious from the good fortune of life – her life. Click. Click. Click. Her footsteps slowed. Swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee, swoosh-wee; life sustained pace. But that was perfectly acceptable – even desirable.

  285. Rose

    September 2, 2012 at 10:54 am

    “Cover yourself” is a constant edict. I feel strange when I step into the street with my hair loose; it makes me feel stared at, followed by hungry eyes that pick at every loose thread on my dress. I cannot tell you how angry it makes me. How much I long to shake it all out. How I come to the office early and peel off my shawls and hide them in the coat room, so that no one will know that I am still afraid of the old women in black, the soldiers leaning and smoking in threes against the ruins of civic buildings, phantoms of a childhood I can barely remember.

    The further away from my head, and my heart, the less control the hungry ghosts can have. My legs are almost completely disassociated from me; my therapist believes this is a sign of trauma, but I am grateful for it. They do not feel the cold; they are numb to the stares. My feet are strong and crippled as a dancer’s. My toes take the weight of my entire body; my soles declare that I am wealthy, that I am powerful. They flash courage with each step.

  286. Olivia Michele

    September 2, 2012 at 11:16 am

    Fern,

    I looked for you when it was time to be ghost and onto the next party but you were nowhere to be found.

    I had a great time – seriously – not just saying that. I can always count on you to take me to shindings that have more men then the Chinese military LOL and can’t wait to hear about the guy you spent most of the night talking to. If I had to choose a fav my vote is with Todd. Definitely Todd. Refreshing change to see you holding the ole’ Cheshire grin.

    Besos,

    B

    P.S. I snagged your coat and will bring it to work on Monday. Forgive me for running off with it but I knew deep down in my heart that you wouldn’t dare have your dearest Bethany catching the flu from trudging around bare armed in this snow. Oh and can tell you how fully committed I am to never getting over how the weather in this city changes on a dime – GEESH! There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    P.P.S. Quien le adora Fernando? Yo!!

    Sent from Bethany’s iPhone. Please pardon any typos.

  287. Miss Nicholson

    September 2, 2012 at 12:26 pm

    Nobody wore red-soled shoes in Valparaiso, thought Kassie. She’d seen them on TV, the Cinderella slippers that could transform her from a Midwestern journalism student into a New York vixen. So she’d slicked the soles of her $39 pumps with scarlet lacquer—a Chanel polish that’d cost almost as much as the shoes.
    Kassie smiled at this memory of her teenage ambitions as she stepped onto the street—not 5th Avenue; she learned about alternative strolls, like Orchard or Spring. She’d walked far away from her DIY soles: these were the real thing, and she’d paired them with a fringed dress she’d made herself and a voluminous jacket from Century 21. But the shoes were brand new: she’d bought them that morning after accepting a copy-writing job with an online boutique.
    She was heading out to celebrate with her parents, who were in town to help her set up her apartment. Kassie tripped lightly down the sidewalk, her authentic red soles in harmony with her own soul as it soared with possibility. When the snow began to fall, she shrugged her generous jacket over her head, saying to herself, “I’m ready.” And again, smiling at her pun, “I’m RED-y.”

  288. Jeff

    September 2, 2012 at 12:48 pm

    Neat

  289. Meredith

    September 2, 2012 at 1:28 pm

    Violet had left the funeral early, escaping the stuffy air of the church for the crisp breeze and snowflakes that pricked against her skin. Naked trees stood scattered along the sidewalk. They seemed to be reaching their limbs towards each other. Violet was reminded of the half-hearted embraces from those who had attended the funeral. Everyone had been friendly, or at least tried. Despite the knot that lay swollen in her throat, Violet herself had forced a smile as she stood beside her parents and younger sister. Plastered across Violet’s mind was the image of her grandmother’s face, framed by the cool geometric lines of the coffin, eyes closed, dreaming a dream Violet would never know. Her grandmother had been eccentric and energetic. Together, they had explored dusty shops, discovered treasures previously hidden for decades, and perused the hallways of strange museums. Hoarded under her grandmothers bed, lay their collection of the color red: coral necklaces and scarlet bow ties, ruby-rimmed glasses and books the color of old bricks and cinnamon. Violet’s mother had arranged for everyone to wear black, she hadn’t noticed the souls of her eldest daughter’s shoes. Remembering this, Violet smiled.

  290. Maria (from Cambridge)

    September 2, 2012 at 1:34 pm

    [NEW ENTRY] A LOVE LETTER

    O Dear One, you’ve dressed as Death too long.
    Too many funerals in this City perhaps? Not that I mind.
    I am flattered in fact.
    Dress Better than you feel, my Grandmother used to say, and to dress better than Death,
    Well, now that is quite a challenge.
    What is it that’s been written, “Death is swallowed up in victory?”
    Contrary to popular belief, I enjoy being Defied.
    And you with your Laboutins almost signal rebellion.
    Except…perhaps, I think I’ve gotten to you.
    And too early at that.
    Though you do look fabulous, if you really want a piece of Me,
    Throw off your cloak and seize the life and color of the City.

  291. Anna

    September 2, 2012 at 1:39 pm

    April in New York, perhaps the last snow. It is hard running in these Louboutin heels, but I have to. I pull up my long coat — black, cashmere, a ten-year-old gift from my mother when I left San Francisco for the East Coast — to cover my head. My hair has to be dry when I get there, so does my face. I worry a little of the champagne in my breath, but I received the call right in the middle of the book party. Ten blocks, from where the party was — and is still going on — to my destination. My lacy dress is following my strides well, and my little leather clutch is safely under my arm, hidden from the snow. I am walking as fast as I can, passing these gorgeous red brick facades as if in a dream, feeling the snow falling on my face and cooling my burning cheeks. Oh I have waited for this for so long! Oh only if you could see what I am seeing ahead of me!

  292. Lisa

    September 2, 2012 at 1:42 pm

    Winter landed suddenly
    flying snow hides then
    reveals a flash, red

  293. Kevin H.

    September 2, 2012 at 1:47 pm

    She’s grinding her teeth to a song, sorry it’s there. She’s been here in the sun in the warmness, and in the color and light. But now past NO PARKING signs and men comparing parked cars to moving ones. The sound our shoes make when we walk in them– she is unclear on coming or going, her version of that story, it is ok, but that Yoke will fall, but not now. It’s so pretty here. It’s been snowing here, a silicone broadcast, pain afoot, and not, cold and cold and hope with a trapdoor. Apprehend the littleness of this moment or any other, or pull that rope, hand-saw a circle around her feet and disappear into the hole she wrought, buffaloed by a cold ventriloquy and a stillness not her own but felt, deeply, or is barely?, we the vaudeville, sorry-to-be, the maudlin, a Caruso recording playing somewhere by somebody else. But maybe she might stick her tongue out, with color with red.

    • Julia

      September 2, 2012 at 10:40 pm

      hm. original

  294. Anna

    September 2, 2012 at 2:26 pm

    April in New York, perhaps the last snow. It is hard running in these Louboutin heels, but I have to. I pull up my long coat — black, cashmere, a ten-year-old gift from my mother when I left San Francisco for the East Coast — to cover my head. My hair has to be dry when I get there, so does my face. I worry a little of the champagne in my breath, but I received the call right in the middle of the book party. Ten blocks, from where the party was — and is still going on — to my destination. My lacy dress is following my strides well, and my little leather clutch is safely under my arm, hidden from the snow. I am walking as fast as I can, passing these gorgeous red brick facades as if in a dream, feeling the snow falling on my face and cooling my burning cheeks. Oh I have waited for this moment for so long! Oh only if you could see what I am seeing ahead of me!

  295. Olivia Michele

    September 2, 2012 at 2:45 pm

    Fern,

    I looked for you when it was time to be ghost and onto the next party but you were nowhere to be found.

    I had a great time – seriously – not just saying that. I can always count on you to take me to shindings that have more men then the Chinese military LOL and can’t wait to hear about the guy you spent most of the night talking to. If I had to choose a fav my vote is with Todd. Definitely Todd. Refreshing change to see you holding the ole’ Cheshire grin.

    Besos,

    B

    P.S. I snagged your coat and will bring it to work on Monday. Forgive me for running off with it but I knew deep down in my heart that you wouldn’t dare have your dearest Bethany catching the flu from trudging around bare armed in this snow. Oh and can I tell you how fully committed I am to never getting over how the weather in this city changes on a dime – GEESH! There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    P.P.S. Quien le adora Fernando? Yo!!

    Sent from Bethany’s iPhone. Please pardon any typos.

  296. Natalee

    September 2, 2012 at 3:14 pm

    I maybe cold up top but I’m always warm on the bottom.

    -Natalee

  297. Style Linguist

    September 2, 2012 at 3:21 pm

    (third-first alternating person)
    Snow doesn’t own her. She owns it. She uses it as an accessory. She shapes it to her day, applies it to her routine, and carries on as if it’s everyday; so get out of her way, it snows every day. She turns the impractical into practical. Just look at her. I can’t not look at her. She coruscates. She is invincible amongst the invisible. She serves no one but herself. How can she not, when you’re that powerful? I’m under her control. She has arrested me. She’ll let me go only after she escapes my gaze. Soon she’ll be gone, but I’ll always remember her. She’s unforgettable because she stands for something. She is something. She has hypnotized me. “It was nice knowing you. Now wake up. Snap out of it. You’re too easy.” her fashion reprimands me. She’s obsequious to no one, to nothing, least of all snow. What’s a little snow when you’re that fabulous?

  298. Evan Morrison

    September 2, 2012 at 3:32 pm

    They said in the news it was the wettest summer in 100 years. Unpredictable skies make for guesswork when staring into the armoire at sunrise. It’s that guessing game that causes the last-second decision to leave with or without an item to provide cover from the deluge that is sure to come out of nowhere at least once a week. But that’s Europe for you, and the only thing for certain is I’m not the only one at a frantic step to seek my destination a few seconds more briskly. If it were clear and sunny, the commonality I would have with the masses is walking the shaded side of the sidewalk each block to perspire less. My pumps function like stilts on beach homes, offering my personal version of flood prevention. . Sometimes nothing is better than the calming sound of rain to ease the mind. From me emerges a slight sigh as I think as an optimist, I’m almost there.

  299. Lina Del Rio

    September 2, 2012 at 3:39 pm

    Momma won’t miss her prayer rug. There are twelve other identical lunettes in the hotel room closet.

    My mother collects spiritual identities like front yards in Florida collect cars.

    This year has been a reclamation of Bhagavad-Gita scriptures. Her Xeroxed copies sit under a bamboo pew stolen from a former raja in Tampa during a Ketamine rage. It now serves penance supporting a mold of Prabhupada’s feet. Prabhupada, garlic-averse progenitor of the Hare Krishna.

    At his word, she has eschewed the pungent temptation of allium vegetables, along with yeast and poker (too pleasureful for the senses, says Prabhupada). But she draws the line at sex (purity of body and mind, says Prabhupada).

    “Carnal knowledge is purification, honey,” Momma insists, flicking away my collegiate dissent like the charred nib of her Nag Champa stick.

    The Krishna Das that brought her to the city only spans three days, and still she manages to snare a man impious enough to keep her out all night.

    I shiver toward the nearest subway, cloaked in a bergamot-scented artifact of my resentment. The slick of November snowfall mutes my secular fury; the steps of an eccentric’s progeny are always understated, even in designer heels.

  300. novella

    September 2, 2012 at 3:58 pm

    edited to the 200 word limit:

    Last night she planned her outfit like she did any other evening. With a glass of wine she surveyed her closet of LBDs. Her hands glided over the luxurious fabrics. They suited her, made life simple. She marveled at the women who found power in colors, short hemlines, manes that flowed, catching every wind and drop of rain. Her Muslim upbringing had informed most of her fashion choices, liberal as they were, but none of her moral ones. She even wore a modesty veil. ‘I do more to arouse men with my head covered than most women standing next to me naked’ she thought, ‘or maybe it’s my shoes.’ The evening gave way to morning where, per usual, she awoke traversing an apartment not her own. As she stepped out to the street, something her mother once said about being a lady played over in her head. A stranger walking by would have mistaken her look as a welcome reminder of last night’s mischief. “Ne jamais partir dans une hâte.” Never leave a room in haste. “Whether cocktails with your enemy telling lies about you to every stranger you meet or a one-night dalliance, no one ever shames a lady.”

  301. Vasco Bettencourt

    September 2, 2012 at 4:04 pm

    The Rain Creation – a conbination of a burkha with a louboutin.

  302. Dan Gellert

    September 2, 2012 at 5:13 pm

    Story submission:
    My first thought seeing the falling snow was to run out and play. Oh yea, work. Yes, work is inspiring but pales in comparison with frolicking in new snow. Time to begin the morning routine. Start coffee. Embrace and feed Cookie (dog). Shower. Dream of what to wear. But today, my mind is haunted with the emerging snow. Somehow I’m feeling slightly naughty – like I should show the world I’m adult-responsible but under my skin, I’m a girl bursting with fun – on a day like today. Stockings, check. Skirt, check. Cashmere sweater, check. Shoes… boots would be wise. But today, hmm, let’s add a punctuation mark – red bottomed high heels. Yes it’s snowing. Yes, it might get treacherous. But for those who notice, maybe it brings a smile, encourages a wink, a gleam from the eyes, a thought: “on this day, she’s having fun with the snow.”

  303. FJS

    September 2, 2012 at 6:15 pm

    A sheer, ruffled knee length black cocktail dress peeking out under the navy blue coat. They were the much needed backdrop, a canvas framed against the clay brick masonry, headlining the falling snow. Treading on icy footpath, the patent heels shone light gathered from the dim surrounding. With a faint hint of skin showing through the opaque stockings, braced atop the beckoning flash of crimson sole, modesty is made attractive again. Fashion over function. One can only hope that such adornment was enough to be protected from the elements.

  304. Pepi

    September 2, 2012 at 6:18 pm

    He knew that the last time he left the house like this things ended both well and disastrously. The expectation of a life of paradox came to be the norm, an extensive and expensive wardrobe falling out of the closets, pantry and even resting casually next to the worn black and white gingham shower curtain he never bothered to close. Too much effort he thought, as he threw the cape and skirt, a stone’s throw away, onto to his bed. Navy or black, I never know, I think I’m color blind, he thought to himself. And it’s fucking snowing, dear god let my Wollford’s not be ripped.

    He got in the shower, water spraying on his back and on onto the floor, creating a pattern over the tile he could lose himself in for a good ten minutes until it became a puddle.

    It’s fucking snowing, he said again to himself out loud, looking out the bathroom window to a Dominican maid at the sink in the adjacent building.

    Drying himself with his only clean hand towel, alone but still embarrassed not to have picked up the laundry again, his slid his hands over his smooth legs, made a cup of the stocking foot and gently slid them up, no rip, then the dress, coat, the shoes, the cape.

    Navy, my god, navy he said, as he locked the front door and balanced himself against the railing down 5 flights of stairs, countless steps.

    Snowing. And someone was waiting for him. The last time he went out like this things ended both brilliantly and horribly, or rather they did not end but rather they began.

    Paradox of a woman, beauty of a man, warm in a winters chill, all legs, out in it to meet a friend.

  305. Bianca

    September 2, 2012 at 7:48 pm

    Charlie couldn’t sleep. It’d been three years since his wife had passed, and those three years he’d been turning restlessly at night, his dreams haunted by the memory of the love he could no longer have. Emily was an effervescent spirit, always laughing. It was the laughter that woke him every morning with the tiniest hope that she was there. And every morning he’d be disappointed. He’d hoped three years, a move to New York, and a new job would bring peace. Only one time in those three years did he truly feel at ease. He’d reluctantly gone out with friends for a quick drink. He was leaving when a girl sat down next to him, the smell of orchids and amber cascading from her curls, and smiled. That smile felt familiar, though he’d never met her. They talked for hours, not leaving until last call. As they walked out saying goodnight, it began to snow. “My grandfather says that seeing the first snowflakes is an angel sending you a gift,”she said. Bidding each other goodnight, they walked in opposite directions. At the corner, Charlie looked back and could barely make out the red bottomed heels in the fast falling snow. He didn’t get her name.
    A week after that night, Charlie had had dreamless and peaceful sleep. And whenever he’d see red bottom heels, he’d run in hopes of seeing his friend from the bar, but it was never her. Slowly, he stopped hoping and stopped looking. And the dreams came back. It’d been a year since that meeting, and he wondered when he would feel that hope again. Emily was gone, and the one woman he’d been intrigued by disappeared. Throwing on some clothes and shoes, Charlie decided to take a walk in the brisk air to clear his mind. Watching his cold breath escape, he noticed a snow flake flutter down towards his moving feet, followed by another, and another. A gust of wind blew as a woman walked ahead of him pulling her coat up over her curls, the scent of her perfume jogging him out of his thoughts. Red bottomed heels, navigated their way through the snow. An angel had just sent him a gift.

  306. Sara Foley

    September 2, 2012 at 7:55 pm

    Zoot—the ground is so slick! How am I going to slip past Magda in these shoes ?! It’s 3 o’clock and she’s always so nosy… Karl won’t miss the coat (that bastard… leaves me with lillies and drives off with my keys… )… no taxi… only six more blocks… ooh, I know Michael will be so curious—“where have you been, cherie??” He’ll be wanting my best rum in his chocolate this time! Well… he deserves it. 1000 secrets, 1001 nights… “Please, darling… light the fire… I’ll tell you everything…” while the snow quiets the gray world.

  307. Bianca

    September 2, 2012 at 8:09 pm

    Charlie couldn’t sleep. It’d been three years since his wife had passed, and those three years he’d been turning restlessly at night, his dreams haunted by the memory of the love he could no longer have. Emily was an effervescent spirit, always laughing. It was the laughter that woke him every morning with the tiniest hope that she was there. And every morning he’d be disappointed. He’d hoped three years, a move to New York, and a new job would bring peace. Only one time in those three years did he truly feel at ease. He’d reluctantly gone out with friends for a quick drink. He was leaving when a girl sat down next to him, the smell of orchids and amber cascading from her curls, and smiled. That smile felt familiar, though he’d never met her. They talked for hours, not leaving until last call. As they walked out saying goodnight, it began to snow. “My grandfather says that seeing the first snowflakes is an angel sending you a gift,”she said. Bidding each other goodnight, they walked in opposite directions. At the corner, Charlie looked back and could barely make out the red bottomed heels in the fast falling snow. He didn’t get her name.
    A week after that night, Charlie had had dreamless and peaceful sleep. And whenever he’d see red bottom heels, he’d run in hopes of seeing his friend from the bar, but it was never her. Slowly, he stopped hoping and stopped looking. And the dreams came back. It’d been a year since that meeting, and he wondered when he would feel that hope again. Emily was gone, and the one woman he’d been intrigued by disappeared. Throwing on some clothes and shoes, Charlie decided to take a walk in the brisk air to clear his mind. Watching his cold breath escape, he noticed a snow flake flutter down towards his moving feet, followed by another, and another. A gust of wind blew as a woman walked ahead of him pulling her coat up over her curls, the scent of her perfume jogging him out of his thoughts. Red bottomed heels navigated their way through the snow. An angel had just sent Charlie a gift.

  308. Stephanie

    September 2, 2012 at 8:34 pm

    Mark died on a Tuesday. He left behind a lease on a perfectly respectable apartment near the park, a lifetime subscription to the New Yorker, and a married woman in Brooklyn whose world shattered upon the news of his passing. She’d crawled around on the wood floors all morning when she’d heard, alternately wailing and stuffing a hand in her mouth to stanch her sobs. By the afternoon, she’d cauterized her nerves with Vicodin, Merlot, and copious amounts of Carole King.

    His memorial service was short and sparsely attended. Afterward, the Irish pub down the street poured beer and whiskey for those who wished to mingle in his memory. She did not wish to mingle.

    Winter’s first flakes began to fall on the way to catch the train. It stuck to her black cashmere poncho like dandruff, but melted quickly like a sliver of chocolate on a hot tongue. He was gone. There would be no more stolen weekends in Montauk; no steamy notes slid through her slot while her children were at school; no further mention of a future selling frangipani on a beach in Bali.

    She exhaled: today was the first day of the rest of a life she’d all but written off. The red soles of her Louboutin heels flashed like warning lights, like red lips on a porcelain face, like fresh blood in the snow. She exhaled again, waiting for her train.

  309. Julia

    September 2, 2012 at 8:39 pm

    It doesn’t hurt like it used to. Its over. I did it. I couldn’t and then I could and I did. Everything slows down. It’s like you’re watching yourself, like you can’t believe your fingers are actually responding to your body, your brain, the universe telling you to spin, melt into, pluck, feel the notes, physical white and black animals that become your friends–tools of the body? Everything happens so fast. You grow up in the half hour in Queen Elizabeth Hall. You face death. Its your’s–life and death and all that is between, especially the struggle to forget struggle. Letting go. Of the people judging, numbers, what are they in terms of beauty in sound, in emotion? Of others being successful, passing to the next round–what is that, measured to what greatness this experience can hold? Its only going to hold it if you let it. Let yourself hold the art which is you. There were black and white pages for years mixed with black and white keys, different dimensions through the ages. And there was colorful, colorful life made more colorful by the right and wrong, the black and white, defining what is convincing beauty in sound and character and individul emotion and universal emotion. Fights. All pointed. Everything is crystal clear. Must call her, the root, Krisztina, tell her how it went. I don’t remember. I remember stilletos moving according to predictions–trembling. Uncalculated fate. But it doesn’t hurt like it used to.

  310. Laura Marson

    September 2, 2012 at 9:23 pm

    Each piece in her closet told its own story. Her little black dress- a simple silhouette found for five dollars at a thrift store she embellished with layers of gossamer and silk. A heavy wool coat inherited from father. And, of course, the staple in her closet, black patent Christian Louboutins, a birthday present to herself.
    Most days, she could relish the grind, the noise, the people. But today they had surrendered to the weather, indulging in literary fantasies or burrowing into a media haze. The rain had turned to gentle flurries – the first snow of the season. Rushing was never an option – she would walk. With a deep breath she opened the door, the chill biting her ears she pulled the weight of the wool over her head. Every stride intentional, the red soles added confidence with each step. Ignoring the slick pavement, in eight blocks she reached the gallery. She shimmied off her coat ready to see where this night would take her.

  311. Jessica McQuarrie

    September 2, 2012 at 9:54 pm

    I find it amusing the different glances I get walking around town. For once, people looked at my charming calves with pity.
    “Did you not check the weather today?”
    “Want to borrow my pants?”
    Umm, no thank you. You can try to explain to people why you ‘look so dressed up all the time,’ but at some point you have to let it go.
    “You never know when you will meet the president.”
    “I don’t mind the cold.”
    “Actually Miss, I disagree, there is nothing anti-feminist in wearing beautiful shoes.”
    When I wake up I choose to impress the one person I value consistently over all those who don’t understand the words ‘elegance’ and ‘aesthetic’. Myself. Is not disciplined confidence a lovely thing to smile back at you in the mirror?
    Today, however, was a good example why persistence is key. I was photographed for a blog. It’s just one of those things, where you continue on with your schedule, but occasionally you are overcome by a grin more sappy than mysterious. Sure it’s enough to capture for yourself, with your own mind, but to find your ideal elsewhere, shared by another soul, is a marvelous thing indeed.

  312. LMdlCB

    September 2, 2012 at 10:34 pm

    From: Le Monsieur de le Coin Bureau

    So, this is what its like to be a celebrity. Stepping out of the house is to be considered fair game for anyone with a phone to someone with a DSLR. Usually inclement weather made such encounters less likely. Even with her cloak drawn up as a cowl against the chill and snow, she was aware of his presence. As the rhythm of her heals on the wet pavement syncopated with the clicks from the shutter she processed the scene from his point of view. This one is different. How close is he? The 50 or 85? Will the falling snow render as grain or streaks? Imperceptibly, her pace and stride adjusted to participate in her ballet with the elements as she perceived them.

    The girl in her had always known she was pretty; while the woman knew how to be both attractive and unattainable at the same time; and at all times the lady remained a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Had she revealed too much? Ah, Tenth, she thought as the music only she heard played on, would it be Rodgers or Ronson this time, as she floated up the avenue like an apparition.

  313. J

    September 2, 2012 at 10:34 pm

    Her first instinct was to flee, but her body disobeyed, a new habit. How could he be here? Why did they call her in, and how was he here too, amidst this beautiful mess, could it get more beautiful? Seconds ago, such a shiny tie obliterating the self. Well. She had found painful truth, and now it was better. But why is he here, and limping, trying not to, to be unaffected..of course, he’ll never be vulnerable, but now is not the time to judge. Or was it? Would she see him again? What could she infer, right now? Quick.

    She had to get to Wigmore. Dangerous shoes for pedalling the Steinway, but then, Bach and Mozart. The less pedal, the more subtle, the better. Her feet could be freed.

  314. Eileen G

    September 2, 2012 at 10:35 pm

    The feeling brought her back to her childhood. Memories of the magic of blanket forts built on snowy, inside days with her best friend. The fabric close to her face. The room colder then the inside of the fort because of their breath. She remembered eating Cheetos they had toasted on lightbulbs. Giggling and making silly faces illuminated by flashlights. A blanket fort built to shelter, to house, to carry, to propel her and her best friend forward into… one day it was a secret agent mission. One day it was a pirate raft, a rocket, a chariot, a flying carpet. They were never being propelled into the real world of work and bills and the inevitable love-me-nots. Today, her intention had been to fight the mighty battle between moisture and her hair. Now, now it didn’t matter. Now she can see only the ground in front of her as she teeters along on a tightrope slung between a snowflake and a sea of electric red rubies.

  315. Claire

    September 2, 2012 at 10:46 pm

    Louboutin’s were the perfect accessory – for murder. Annika slipped out of the Bridge Café hidden below the Brooklyn Bride in New York City. She dressed in all black for the part (she had always been an actress at heart) and knew that she had nailed the role. He was gone and out of her life for good. The plan was fool proof. She had told Richard to meet her at the remote café at 5:30, just before the sun came down. This was convenient for him because he had an affair to adhere to with another woman at seven. Annika knew of this and already had sent “I’m sorry for your loss” flowers to the woman’s house as well as four other women with whom he was involved.

    This was not how she intended to end her marriage, which had grown from a budding romance in Sweden to a white picket fence and family of four in New York City. She learned that not only was he involved with many other women but that he was very much involved with the GRU, also known as Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, the successor of the KGB. He was a spy but she was a better one and she had a job to do. Annika herself was a spy with the organization IB, or IB-affären in Stockholm. Her job was the reason she could afford the Louboutin’s in the first place and that was something she was not going to sacrifice.

    She had the shoes custom made and then sent to the technicians at IB to do some side work on them. There they fitted her with two tiny poison darts that fit perfectly into the heels. She had picked a table that was hidden in the back so that she could make a smooth escape with no disruption. About half way through their dinner she complained about her feet being sore and that she had to remove her shoes for just a minute. This appeared to be perfectly fine to her husband because he merely nodded his head and preceded to text either one of his many mistresses or an associate at the GRU. Annika was well aware that she was going to take his life in a matter of seconds and his passiveness just made her want to do the job faster.

    “Honey, I’ve wanted to talk to you about something,” Annika began.

    “Mhmm,” was the only reply she could get.

    “I know what you’ve been doing. I know every–.”

    Annika was cut off by a stunning women dressed in a black flapper dress with fringe at the bottom, black tights, and black Louboutin’s similar to her own. The woman pulled out a pistol with a state of the art silencer supplied by the CIA. With just two pulls of the trigger she ended the lives of two very infamous spies. She was discreet and quick with her job. She gently pulled the black shawl off of Annika’s slumped shoulders and wrapped it over her own. She quietly walked out of the Bridge Café into the cold evening pleased with herself for a job well done. The CIA would be happy to know that her mission was successful and two of the deadliest known spies would no longer be a threat to their agency.

  316. E. D. Smith

    September 2, 2012 at 10:47 pm

    I was used to the peculiar half-dark sky that announced the winter sunset. It usually made me sleepy, of left me lost in a flood of thoughts that slipped away as quickly as they came up. A shadowy light covered the figure that passed in front of me.

    Her legs were beautifully shaped, if disguised by dark hose. Her face, hands and most of her body was cloaked under a navy melton cape. When the light slow grew heavier, she pulled at the heavy fabric, then almost slipped into the distance. She reappeared with each alternating step, in flashes of the pewter fringes that covered her knees. Hypnotized by the changing dark, the shifting lights, I felt compelled to follow her.

    I took a step.

    Then I stopped.

    I was startled by the bright red soles of her shoes.

    Suddenly, the snow was…wet. I shivered and looked around to see if anyone was watching. The other shops were closed. I was alone on the street. I looked ahead and the dark red woman had disappeared.

    I locked the shop door and walked to the next bus stop.

  317. Noel

    September 2, 2012 at 11:17 pm

    She was cold, so cold, a pinpoint of black against the flurrying white world around her. She knew she had been impractical as she slipped along the pavement, but they had called to her that morning, staring her down as she stood staring unseeingly into her closet from lack of sleep and caffeine.

    Some would say she loved the shoes because of their statement, their wealth. But she knew it was something else. The red soles made her stand straighter, made her feel the sway of her hips. They were her power and strength, distilled into her very movements. They were her secret, discovered only after her back was turned and she was long gone.

    It was appropriate that they were the last thing he had seen as she walked out the door. It was probably the most memorable thing about their time together, and it gave the whole night a sense of symmetry. She had come whole out of the turmoil, swathing herself in her widow’s weeds and enacting her rebellion. She had stepped out in the morning air, letting the frost burn her lungs and lost herself in the anonymity of the city and the cleansing of the cold, cold air.

  318. Sarah

    September 2, 2012 at 11:26 pm

    Her shoes tell the story that she cannot. They speak of excess and exuberance, of hours spent on dance floors waltzing through puddles of champagne and kicking up sparks to fast-paced jazz numbers in the small hours of the morning. They know the kiss of white carpet in Tiffany’s and the uneven cobblestones of the side streets in Rome. They could tell you about the Jardin des Tuileries as surely as any Parisian and lead you through Milan with the confidence of a native. Her shoes have seen the bottom of a pool on more than one occasion and lived to tell the tale. They’re a nod to her wild side, to the red silk slip hiding under a playful black dress. And tomorrow morning, when she wakes to find them discarded at the end of her bed, they’ll whisper of wonderfully unexpected snowfall and the icy tapping of heels on silent city streets.

  319. Jackie

    September 2, 2012 at 11:36 pm

    “Your things? You want YOUR things? What’s yours in this apartment? I bought it all. You moved in with ME. What’s yours, let’s see here. My heart? Well you already took that and you broke it, my god. I can’t believe you told everyone. You wench. You wench, you wench. What’s yours in here? You bought this rug, you want this rug? Take it. All you ever kept in here were those black and red shoes and this stupid rug. It’s snowing outside, you can use it to walk back to your old apartment. I never want to see you or your legs or your heels or this rug ever again. You’ve ruined me.”

  320. Elizabeth H.

    September 2, 2012 at 11:37 pm

    A satiated shark weaving lazily in tsunami waters, just so lazy. If sharks had lips they could smile through, they would be the same color. Maybe that’s why sharks are constantly feeding, natural hunger becoming second to beauty, fish blood lipstick, long lasting stain. Big bellies and beautiful mouths. The original beauty campaign. So many layers of teeth smiling through, jack-o-lantern jags, bloody sloth fingers, because you’re worth it. That campaign will never work and she knew it, shark killings would never sell in magazines and it’s back to the drawing board.

  321. geoffrey chunn

    September 2, 2012 at 11:43 pm

    The cab pulled away from the curb leaving the suitcases scattered and sodden, the driver not prepared to gamble on a tin-arse tipless fare so close to shut-down. Bugger ‘em. How many crap hotels were they going to pitch at before they figured that “no reservo – no getino”. The cold was bad enough and a C note finish was looking like a piss in the wind at this distance. Besides, if they couldn’t get into the Los Angeles then there wasn’t a hotel in Harlem who’d take ‘em. He was off, two more clicks and it was curtains. The bridge, the Hook and then the kids and dinner. Stuff it, he cut and cracked a right into 136th. They could always knock up the Y. They’d let ‘em in. No good arse goody goody’s going to let that chick drop a sprog on the sidewalk in this weather. Shit, they’d be okay.
    Struggling the bags out of the traffic turning against the wind Joe bit the corner of his mouth blue. Blood frozen and tastless on his breath. He had come this far and was not going to watch his life scrunch into the gutter from here. The weight cracking his shoulders. The taxi spitting grit as it hit the turn. He would find somewhere. He would be the father. He would be the husband of his bride. His thoughts were numb and his knuckles white and purple.
    Mary covered her head with her husbands coat and turned toward the Hotel. Her time was slipping. She was sure the baby was soon. She knew it would be a boy.
    I have always loved taking photos in the snow. You may have seen some on the webpage from time to time. i couldn’t resist this shot. it was Christmas eve and the girl was large with child, although you can’t tell from this angle. It was a bit sad though because an hour or so later I noticed the same couple still out on the street just outside the YMCA on 136th Street in Harlum. I do hope they found somewhere.

  322. Michael

    September 3, 2012 at 1:57 am

    Melinda woke up moment by moment via each discovered detail around her. The cold porcelain of the bathtub against her exposed skin. The shock of red winking at her from beneath her spiked heels. The drip of water tapping on her forehead. It finally took the warmth from several well placed beams of light lapping her in their sunshine glow to bring her back into conscious territory. She’d wanted a romantic getaway. A quiet solitary trip of self discovery that ends as they all do – in a richer understanding of what it means to be alone. The speed with which she pulled herself together was remarkable. Feathered black crow’s frock up. Black see-thru leggings slipped on. She took a deep breath, launched herself out of the anonymous tub, and bolted out the door to the cold city streets. The walk of shame laid out before her was long and unforgiving. The soft chilly snowflakes immediately attacked her black frizzy hair. Luckily a peacoat was a planned part of the excursion. She tossed it over her head and smiled to herself as she made her way back to whatever mystery suburb she came from.

  323. Christie

    September 3, 2012 at 2:17 am

    Louboutin

    He got the tickets from a friend who’d been living in the city for some time managing an art dealership. The neighborhood wasn’t familiar. He walked through a large arch separating two run down baroque sandy brick towers, turned the left corner, and was directed down the ramp of the parking garage, arriving at a flush metal door. Inside he had to duck to avoid the steaming plumbing lines cradling the building. Past the coat check to the right, through the large sewer-type door, he entered a large room elevated on a platform surrounded by four immense water-heating tanks.
    She was performing the routine for only the second time. The idea had materialized like a firework while storming through the zealous hail and snowy winds outside. As she performed her seduction she would occasionally wander into the burning patches of hot coals laid out across her stage, sending up flares of flaming red vapor, her feet seemingly one with the fire. She barely noticed when he ran out of the show to his car and back again.
    He said: “Mademoiselle, I never do this but to me you are like a muse”, and he handed her a box covered in a thick red cotton sheath.
    Later, in the early morning, as she walked home glowing and warm, shielded from the harsh winter around her, the soles of her feet told the story she would often recount.

  324. Anja

    September 3, 2012 at 5:01 am

    Can you also come to Holand for signing your book, I just ordered it!! I live up north, maybe not the most trendy place but very nice and with Sartorialist-fans!!

  325. Vittoria Bernette

    September 3, 2012 at 6:58 am

    It had been all a lie. One simple lie. That grew and evolved, twisted in its own horrid fate and fetid birth…

    Melanie was a young woman of means. Money was not an issue, although it was by no means a steady commodity inherited through ancestry or a wealthy partnership. Hard work. Melanie had earned every penny: in front of the camera, behind the scenes, a worn pencil always in hand – dreaming, creating, being. Her designs were not the sterile partnership begot between bored model and high street chain. Melanie’s work could only be described as a luxurious fluidity that became the womanly figure.

    And yet here she was, alone on Christmas day – walking the streets of Greenwich. Or maybe it was Soho…somewhere, sometime…

    Snow fell gently as if to comfort her with Winter’s glorious mantel of iced Spanish lace. Apart from hushed click of her heeled footsteps, Melanie was lost in her own thoughts as the cold crept through her shawl. Her trembling fingers pulled the shawl’s boiled wool closer…

    She was due to meet someone. But she could not remember who, where, or what for. Dinner, perhaps. Or maybe a fête? But she could not bring herself to focus. She could only see deception, feel pain…

    Her Marc. Gone. With the intern.

  326. LMdlCB

    September 3, 2012 at 8:18 am

    From: Le Monsieur de la Coin Bureau

    So, this is what its like to be a celebrity. Stepping out of the house is to be considered fair game for anyone with a phone to someone with a DSLR. Usually inclement weather made such encounters less likely. Even with her cloak drawn up as a cowl against the chill and snow, she was aware of his presence. As the rhythm of her heals on the wet pavement syncopated with the clicks from the shutter she processed the scene from his point of view. This one is different. How close is he? The 50 or 85? Will the falling snow render as grain or streaks? Imperceptibly, her pace and stride adjusted to participate in her ballet with the elements as she perceived them.

    The girl in her had always known she was pretty; while the woman knew how to be both attractive and unattainable at the same time; and at all times the lady remained a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Had she revealed too much? Ah, Tenth, she thought as the music only she heard played on, would it be Rodgers or Ronson this time, as she floated up the avenue like an apparition.

  327. Alice

    September 3, 2012 at 8:32 am

    The sharp sting of snow on her cheek always reminds Maggie of home. But today she doesn’t want to be reminded of home, of the place she came from, of the person she was. She is new to this city and today borrowed a pair of shoes from a friend who told her that all the girls here wear heels. They fit her feet perfectly and yet they do not fit her. The snow falls persistently now and she drags her familiar old coat – the only thing she brought from home – over her head. The snow dissolves on contact. It doesn’t sting her cheek but she can smell the deep, sad aroma of wet wool. It’s the smell of home, of family, of the warmth of familiarity. This city is cold and unfamiliar and the shoes hurt her feet.

  328. Robert Fugate

    September 3, 2012 at 9:04 am

    Predator and Prey

    The call came without warning. An invitation. Tonight.

    “Yes, yes.” She said. “I’ll meet you there. I won’t be late.”

    It was the party she had been waiting for. It was her chance. He would be there. She would make an impression.

    Before dressing, she looked at herself fully in the mirror. She liked the way she looked, her silky black hair cut in a bob, her pouty lips, her fair skin. She didn’t care that some said she was too thin. A paper doll waiting to be dressed.

    Black lace underneath, unseen. Black stockings, shear. Black dress, tight, frills. Black shawl to protect her from the beginning of winter. Black was her color to command, but she needed something more.

    Tonight was the night she would wear her new shoes. One-by-one, she slipped them out of her box and on to her feet. Cinderella’s fairy had been bettered.

    Not knowing what he would be like, she knew he would be there. She had an intuition.

    She hardly noticed the snow.

  329. Martin W

    September 3, 2012 at 9:12 am

    Nice

    • Martin

      September 3, 2012 at 10:30 am

      Here’s my entry:

      Though Martians were attacking New York, Anne could not decide what shoes to wear. She had already picked and pressed her outfit, but footwear held a special place in her heart. Pacing like a drill instructor, she ran her eyes over the lineup and considered which pair to take.

      First, her eyes landed on her yellow tennis shoes. She bit her nails. Sneakers are a smart choice in such situations, but these wouldn’t go with what she put together. They were worn, tattered, and homely; old friends that would be missed.

      She moved to a set of fairly new pink slippers and slipped one on her foot. God, did it feel soft. They were comfortable and they fit. Somehow, though, they wouldn’t work.

      Reaching the end, she encountered her black pumps. These, she lifted up. Impractical. Insane. Imprudent. No one in their right mind would wear them to escape. She went to put them down, but could not.

      With a guilt-tinged smile on her face, Anne hit the street. It was snowing, so she hid her face with her shawl. The city would be overrun soon, but hey: life without style was not worth living.

  330. Stefano

    September 3, 2012 at 9:31 am

    I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t even think properly. After years of dedication and unconditional love, he’s finally decided to leave me. My hair is a mess, mi makeup is basically gone, and all I m left with is an empty flat and a comfy bed. The idea of sleeping the entire day off crosses my mind more than once, but I just can’t seem to stay still. Fed up with rolling in bed, I throw my blankets to the floor, grab my LBD and my Louboutins from last night and walk away from the red brick apartment. After a few minutes of walking randomly, I sight a little coffee shop. “Solano Antuña” it’s called, just like the name of my old street back in Montevideo. Drawn by fate or maybe simple exhaustion, I grab a table next to the counter. After asking for an espresso, I start looking around, examining the particular decoration. “The owner is definitely from Uruguay or Argentina” I tell myself, as the walls were covered with treasures from the Rio de la Plata, which gave the place a nostalgic yet comforting ambience. When I got my coffee, I placed my eyes on what appeared to be the owner of the café. He had just arrived and had put his giant coat on a chair, next to me. His face reminded me of somebody I used to know… someone from my childhood, or maybe early adolescence. Minutes, hours, passed as I continued to gaze at his strong bone structure. Suddenly, the answer hit me as a splash of cold water. It was Francisco, my neighbor from back in the time when I used to live in Uruguay. “Could this be fate?” I wondered. I stood up and started walking towards him. My ankles were weak, my legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate and my hair was the definition of a mess. When I got close to the counter, I froze. Instead of hunting Francisco down, I decided to play a little game. I took his coat, and left, instead, a little note with my number on it. Walking down the snowy streets with my new oversize coat, I smiled, thinking “If fate is up to something… he’ll call”.

  331. Sim

    September 3, 2012 at 9:47 am

    I finger the corner of the photograph my sister sent me. I am walking ahead of her in the snow, wearing black boots and tight pale pants, just passing under a bright red awning. She had come to the funeral in bright red Louboutins and a dress like shredded black taffeta, wearing a deep blue scarf that covered her like a shroud. She hadn’t been in Temple Emanu-El since she’d embraced the Lord Buddha seven years ago. She said to me: “Our father can’t leave this world. He is trapped in the dim places, caged by his own guilt and unfinished business. We have to honor him so that he can move on.” I could not look her in the eyes and walked out into the snow. My sister followed me at a distance. My sister, who still sends photographs by mail.

  332. Anna

    September 3, 2012 at 9:52 am

    It makes me smile and gives a jaunty little swing to my walk. None of this should take very long. Quick funeral, brief luncheon, definitely get a cab back to the apartment. And then…
    “Shazam.”
    Maurie the Magician dies tonight.

  333. Sarah C

    September 3, 2012 at 10:24 am

    Her shoes tell the story that she cannot. They speak of excess and exuberance, of hours spent on dance floors waltzing through puddles of champagne and kicking up sparks to fast-paced jazz numbers in the small hours of the morning. They know the kiss of white carpet in Tiffany’s and the uneven cobblestones of the side streets in Rome. They could tell you about the Jardin des Tuileries as surely as any Parisian and lead you through Milan with the confidence of a native. Her shoes have seen the bottom of a pool on more than one occasion and lived to tell the tale. They’re a nod to her wild side, to the red silk slip hiding under a playful black dress. And tomorrow morning, when she wakes to find them discarded at the end of her bed, they’ll whisper of wonderfully unexpected snowfall and the icy tapping of heels on silent city streets.

  334. Annie

    September 3, 2012 at 11:07 am

    She moved with the swiftness of a tightrope walker as the red soles of her shoes graced the slick pavement below. The snow had just started falling, and though she was already running late she refused to take a cab, sticking to her weekly tradition of walking to meet him at the corner café. She gripped the dark cashmere around her head, shielding the layers of shadowy silk that rested below. She may not have been dressed for a flurry, but when was she ever? So she did not try to save her Louboutins, but instead reveled in the success of each new step, quickening her pace as she gained stability in the snow flaked stilettos.

    They arrived at the corner at the very same moment, having timed their lateness so perfectly they nearly knocked into one another. It took a second for their eyes to focus through the flakes between them, revealing two frostbitten smiles in the dim haze of snowy air. He laughed a bit and so did she, and they might have lost their balance had he not leaned in for a kiss.

  335. Martin W

    September 3, 2012 at 11:15 am

    Here’s my entry (tried copying and pasting but it doesn’t show on the comments; sorry if reposted):

    Though Martians were attacking New York, Anne could not decide what shoes to wear. She had already picked and pressed her outfit, but footwear held a special place in her heart. Pacing like a drill instructor, she ran her eyes over the lineup and considered which pair to take.

    First, her eyes landed on her yellow tennis shoes. She bit her nails. Sneakers are the smart choice in such situations, but these wouldn’t go with what she put together. They were worn, tattered, and homely; old friends that would be missed.

    She moved to a set of fairly new pink slippers and slid one on her foot. God, did it feel soft. They were comfortable and they fit. Somehow, though, they wouldn’t work.

    Reaching the end, she encountered her black pumps. These, she lifted up. Impractical. Insane. Imprudent. No one in their right would wear them to escape. She went to put them down, but could not.

    With a guilt-tinged smile on her face, Anne hit the street. It was snowing, so she hid her face with her shawl. The city would be overrun soon, but hey: life without style was not worth living.

  336. tiffany

    September 3, 2012 at 11:18 am

    (I tried to post this before but nothing happened. Sorry to be repetitive!)

    She had ended it. Three years ago he had seen her and she had seen him. It seemed ages ago, entire galaxies ago. She had been new to the city; he had been born and raised there. Novice and expert. Dependent and independent. Then two years of co- dependency, their lives and ideas tangled like the ivy that grew up the back wall of their brownstone.
    His brownstone.
    Of course she still loved him. It was a small incident that triggered the dissolution. Too small to be considered an incident, even. She had stood in Macy’s shoe department trying to find a new pair of pumps for the silent auction his foundation was holding and she could not decide which ones she liked. Every possible selection was undermined by the nagging thought that her choices were not her own. She had even reached for her phone to send him a photo so he could break the tie between the black suede and the black matte. They were identical except for the finish. My God, she thought, phone in hand, I can’t even pick out my own shoes. So she got the stilettos. With blazing red soles. He hated them.

  337. Theo Dubois

    September 3, 2012 at 11:24 am

    I became what I once refrained.
    As a young girl who would have guessed my disdain would become my attain.
    Relieving myself of the stress of the real world.
    I play in the snow as I once did years ago.
    The blood on my shoes resembles the mud that was in its place as a child.
    Simply more expensive and more recognizable.
    I am not running away but towards this place of joy I once lived.
    I am not covering myself but in the midst of uncovering.
    The snow doesn’t sadden me but arouses my childish interest.
    Lets dance in the snow, let’s dance in joy of never growing up.
    Even if our shoes are a little more expensive.
    Let’s dance

  338. Cari Hislop

    September 3, 2012 at 11:31 am

    Cold air stabs my lungs. I hold each lungful and then exhale. What will the last breath feel like? Fifth Avenue is so far away it seems unreal, but my flat feet painfully shod in deadly high heels remind me with each clip clop, this is no ordinary walk. The days for comfortable flats are over. Today I will go fashionably into that good night.

    Six weeks, two weeks; the doctor was indifferent to my likely departure date. He wasn’t the one expected to view caskets and cemetery plots. The last was a cement box in a wall with the view of a wall. ‘It’s very Monroe!’ That’s what the cheerful salesman said as I signed my check; as if encouraging me to die naked and alone with a bottle of pills. To hell with pills. To hell with doctors and their bills. Ten thousand dollars had bought me my dream shoes and a clean shot by a professional hit-man. A mention in the New York Times would be a bonus.

    Greedy cameras would snap up shots of my blood spattering the famous Tiffany’s window while grasping hands stole my shoes, but I wouldn’t be alive to care. If it’s true that ghosts wear the clothes they die in, I’ll be strutting eternity in ghostly Louboutins. The thought makes me smile.

  339. RHF

    September 3, 2012 at 12:02 pm

    Predator and Prey
    The call came without warning. An invitation. Tonight.
    “Yes, yes.” She said. “I’ll meet you there. I won’t be late.”
    It was the party she had been waiting for. It was her chance. He would be there. She would make an impression.
    Before dressing, she looked at herself fully in the mirror. She liked the way she looked, her silky black hair cut in a bob, her pouty lips, her fair skin. She didn’t care that some said she was too thin. A paper doll waiting to be dressed.
    Black lace underneath, unseen. Black stockings, shear. Black dress, tight, frills. Black shawl to protect her from the remnants of winter. Black was her color to command, but she needed something more.
    Tonight was the night she would wear her new shoes. One-by-one, she slipped them out of her box and on to her feet. Cinderella’s fairy had been bettered.
    Not knowing what he would be like, she knew he would be there. She had an intuition.
    She hardly noticed the snow.

  340. Neil

    September 3, 2012 at 12:11 pm

    It’s 4 a.m. and I am probably alive. Despite the snow, and the hour. Despite a date to drear to recollect, and a night so long time turned elastic. I left him my smile, and a warm expression, and someone else’s number. I took a coat from the cloakroom, and put some money under a tin. It was getting light, but still felt cold. Then I found my shoes and, placing each strap through its buckle, a small fire gathered flame. I recall saying to myself, good. It’s 4 a.m. I’m probably still alive.

  341. Erin Dowding

    September 3, 2012 at 12:45 pm

    It was a misunderstanding of course. In fact, tonight really shouldn’t have happened. Yet, on the snow-lit walk home, there was no cold to be felt. Just the reminder of all that is to come.

  342. Jordan

    September 3, 2012 at 12:45 pm

    Louboutin

    He got the tickets from a friend who’d been living in the city for some time managing an art dealership. The neighborhood wasn’t familiar. He walked through a large arch separating two run down baroque sandy brick towers, turned the left corner, and was directed down the ramp of the parking garage, arriving at a flush metal door. Inside he had to duck to avoid the steaming plumbing lines cradling the building. Past the coat check to the right, through the large sewer-type door, he entered a large room elevated on a platform surrounded by four immense water-heating tanks.
    She was performing the routine for only the second time. The idea had materialized like a firework while storming through the zealous hail and snowy winds outside. As she performed her seduction she would occasionally wander into the burning patches of hot coals laid out across her stage, sending up flares of flaming red vapor, her feet seemingly one with the fire. She barely noticed when he ran out of the show to his car and back again.
    He said: “Mademoiselle, I never do this but to me you are like a muse”, and he handed her a box covered in a thick red cotton sheath.
    Later, in the early morning, as she walked home glowing and warm, shielded from the harsh winter around her, the soles of her feet told the story she would often recount.

  343. Rose

    September 3, 2012 at 1:27 pm

    It was the first snowfall of the year and with it a momentous occasion that forever changed Alice life. ‘Alice, would you do me the honor of being your husband?’ Without a moments hesitation she accepted. This is how she would like to remember him, always. The mind though can be less discerning when it wants to. First snowfall of the year is also a cruel reminder of a wedded bliss that abruptly ended. It never fails to make Alice shed a tear as these two very strong memories replay over and battle for her emotions. ‘Ah, bittersweet’, she mumbles to herself. Suddenly it angered her that someone had come up with such a simple word that reduces her complex emotions. She shrugs the notion and tries to maintain her composure as she braves this cold, wet day to pay respect on the tenth year mark of Alex’s untimely death.

  344. Yoon

    September 3, 2012 at 1:40 pm

    I remember the day when we first met each other with a few rain drops from gray sky waiting for a bus after the work.
    At the moment I saw you, the time has stopped. Everything has stopped, but you were the only one who was moving in a bright color. Looked very elegant with a glimpse of smile on your pinkish cheek. As I knew this was the right person, I have asked you without hesitating, and we had a beautiful dinner on the other day. I remember the time we have spent together. Every minutes and seconds were precious. Worth more than a diamond.
    If I had an ability to rewind this movie, I would. If we could meet when we were young, we would. If I could ever meet you again, I would do anything.
    I miss you, Yuni.

  345. miriam

    September 3, 2012 at 2:08 pm

    My soul is bared.
    Like water sublimated into snow,
    Love is sublimated into my soles!

  346. N.H.

    September 3, 2012 at 2:39 pm

    (Could not see in comments sorry if repeated)
    My red soles carry me through the city. Their steady sound becomes a strong rhythm. This New York pavement is my runway. I am glamorous and stunning. I notice people’s eyes lingering on me. They will go home and tell stories of the beautiful girl they saw. My mind jumps to tomorrow, when I trade these bright soles for worn-out sneakers and hop on the bus to get to work. Work, where I will flip burgers and pass the time daydreaming about the girl I was yesterday. Sometimes reality is not romantic and that is ok. Moments of glamour are enough for me right now.

  347. Calle

    September 3, 2012 at 2:59 pm

    “Oh, yeah?” Lazy, but poised. Like a satiated shark in tsunami waters, too much satisfaction inside to really register anything happening outside, she cloaked her head, but didn’t hunch. “No, yeah, yeah. Totally fine. I understand. No, I’ve barely finished putting on my lipstick, not even close to the restaurant.” Lies. If sharks could hold mirrors, we would never see or hear of another shark attack, again, so much vanity in such powerful creatures. The original pretty princesses. She pulled the cloak tighter around her head muffling the outside white noise, securing her confidence. “You have a lot of work to do, I get it.” Sharks are constantly feeding on smaller fish for the blood, not the hunger, everyone knows that. Natural hunger is second to fish blood lipstick, the best long-lasting stain. Big bellies and beautiful mouths. Baroque. Rubenesque. Sharks. “No, please, don’t worry about me. I’ll probably just have a glass of wine and finish some work I needed to catch up on.” So many layers of teeth smiling through the illusion of a pout, smiling through a big meal of little guppies. “Goodbye.”

  348. K.E. Wells

    September 3, 2012 at 3:01 pm

    “The Heart’s Obdurate Discretion”

    Menacing expression eclipsing the white clock face, tangible, placid — black tips stopped. What time is it there? Eight forty-five. Here, over a number of eggy, legless concentrates, dashing whiskeys ‘round the stricken fir, cheer: here’s to hoping you walk through the door, to making oneself without love complete, a minor panic. On forever exhorting the ways, exercising a way out. To always beginning, like a beggar. Speaking of why there’s no longer a way to put it off, to leaning elsewhere, bubbling invisible loads. Lord, in me, a private collision.

    That from the window, breaking dress smashed heels CL red. I smashed my glass, against the clock, the fire, like a glass elevator in the storm. Lightly, now, it’s time. The end of the party and the whole brattle by again — without love or at least a valentine — I’ll wait. Standing, admixed, draping redrawn layers, my heart on a stem — plucked, desultory.

    And new on parlors, never on the same — the day a cast was seen. Nothing on the floor but suspensions from the floor and floor to ceiling the bottoms were privileged. She found it falling and claiming forth — just room enough. I’ve found another.

  349. Calle

    September 3, 2012 at 3:14 pm

    “Oh, yeah”
    Lazy, but poised. Like a satiated shark in tsunami waters, too much satisfaction inside to really register anything happening outside, she cloaked her head, but doesn’t hunch.
    “No, yeah, yeah. Totally fine. I completely understand. No, don’t be silly, I’ve barely finished putting my lipstick on, not even close to the restaurant.”
    She did a quick about face and changed direction. If sharks could hold mirrors, we would never see or hear of another shark attack, again, so much vanity in such powerful creatures. The original pretty, pretty princesses. She hooded herself tighter, muffling white noise, securing confidence.
    “You have a lot of work to do, I get it.”
    Sharks are constantly feeding on smaller fish for the blood, for the beauty, not for hunger stake, everyone knows that. Natural hunger is second to beauty. Small fish when eaten just right with even recklessness provides the best lipstick on a shark. Blood, the original long-lasting stain. Big bellies and beautiful mouths. Baroque. Rubenesque. Sharks.
    “Don’t worry about me. I’ll probably have a glass of wine and finish up some work.”
    So many layers of teeth smiling through the illusion of a pout, smiling through a big meal of little guppies.
    “Of course, soon.”
    Shark attacks. Because you’re worth it.
    “Goodbye.”

  350. elinor may

    September 3, 2012 at 3:21 pm

    As Monique hurried toward her destination, she noticed the sudden snow
    had cleared the street of most passersby – the emptiness of her
    surroundings served to accent the echo of the rapid clip-clip of her
    Christian Louboutin stilettos. Thankfully she had absentmindedly
    grabbed her vintage Chanel overcoat as she rushed out the door,
    already running five minutes past her fashionably (10 minutes) late
    habit, and she worried for the first time this might be a detriment to
    her, rather than a way to control her entrance.

    As she pulled the supple cashmere up to shield her chignon from the
    wet snow, she imagined what his face would reveal when he saw her
    again after all these years. She knew her legs were accented to great
    advantage in her slightly sheer off-color stockings and signature red
    soles (his favorite) and this might keep him from realizing that under
    her swishy roaring 20’s cocktail dress she was carrying a good ten
    pounds less than the last time his eyes passed over her body. She
    took in a long slow breath of the cold damp air to steady her nerves.
    God, I could use a drink right about now, she mumbled to herself.

  351. Pokupky

    September 3, 2012 at 4:15 pm

    amazing photos, I presented how I fall face snowflakes as freezing feet in the shoes, as you want hot tea …

  352. Charla

    September 3, 2012 at 4:24 pm

    She slides through the winter, she got that flame, cuz when she wears a pair of Loubotin`s theres never ” A Walk Of Shame”

  353. the poetrist (?)

    September 3, 2012 at 4:45 pm

    This woman is death. She died for her shoes…
    Cold was her breath, as she walked through the streets,
    Nowhere to go, left in the snow.
    All the money was spent,
    on her shoes as she went….
    Nowhere to go, left in the snow,
    This woman is death, she died for her shoes…

  354. Kim-Marie Spence

    September 3, 2012 at 5:15 pm

    A snowflake sat on my eyelid – calming me. I just seen him again – and the memories came rushing back. I had always known about her, about them. I wondered why I was not enough. He had been discreet – a strange smell here, an odd receipt there. Never enough proof that I was not the only one. Until that day when I walked in on them. Then I did the unbelievable – I walked out on him, clutching not my jewelry, not my envied mink coats, but clutching 2 pairs of Louboutins – the only things I had bought myself in that marriage. I realized now that I should be thanking him – I had left him and constructed a new life, a life I was in charge of. I now bought myself Louboutin shoes, Reed Krakoff clothing – and anything else my heart desired. I really should thank him…and her. With that more pleasant thought, I turned and walked away, grateful for life’s twists and turns – wrapped warmly in my favorite shawl with my new Louboutins clicking against the snowy sidewalk.

  355. Taylor

    September 3, 2012 at 5:27 pm

    I like to savor my Breakfast at Tiffany’s moments as they come. Audrey had her Givenchy, I have my Louboutins. Her “Repair one black satin dress,” is my “Resole one black patent heel.” The city is so quiet in the mornings, so still. I feel like a child in these moments, like the first person in the house to wake, sneaking downstairs in the predawn silver to enjoy the solitude and play grown up. With Harry’s coat over my head I barely feel the wet winter in the air. It smells like him, of newsprint and earnestness. Our relationship has been a slow burner. There were never any tawdry gropings in the copy room or anything like that. But he was always there in the office, a head of dark curls bent over the page in front of him. We moved steadily from “would you look over my story?” to “would you like to get a drink?” As he got out of the taxi last night he tucked his coat around my shoulders, “Stay warm,” he said. And then, “I love you, Bea. I really do.” So I’m walking home now, extending yesterday into today, hoping this will last forever.

  356. Jessica

    September 3, 2012 at 5:47 pm

    I’m in Florida, but I wanted to write the story.

    Ahead through the mist I saw her, perhaps 15 yards before me, and I wondered idly if she realized I had liberated a pair of her shoes. The street was slick and created an element of danger as I trotted along after the quick flat-booted pace she kept. I wore in the damp a cowl about my head and shoulders, not for protection from the inclement vagaries of which I cared little, but to dissuade her from recognition, so that I might pursue her to my satisfaction.

    Striding before all of a piece, her thoughts wound round about her and rose through the air electric, intoxicating my curiosity to know and possess them. I would possess them, I would approach as she’d bade me not to, it is my right! When two have shared such passion it imbues each with a passkey into the lovers’ psyche, there are and should not be any such mundane and pedantic restrictions as boundaries or secrets.

    Yet I have this secret, this secret imperative; this secret, exquisite pain that frees me from my rational self and its tiresome praddle of shouldn’ts and won’ts.

    I have her red-soled shoes, and her back.

  357. Amy Nicole

    September 3, 2012 at 6:00 pm

    This photo is all he has left of her, the girl in the red soled pumps. He met her on the last day of spring and they spent two beautiful seasons together, a hot summer and crisp autumn, both full of love, excitement, and anticipation. He knew from the beginning their love would never last, her, a rich debutant, and him, a struggling painter and photographer, so he savored every moment they were together, and collected the memories like change in a jar. One day he would make sense of it all and sort through the miscellaneous memories/thoughts/feelings, but until that day, he wanted to enjoy every waking minute of her. She left him on the first day of winter, the beautiful snow falling softly from the sky. He didn’t see it coming, as she gracefully left his apartment, grabbing a blanket on the way out to shield her from the weather outside. He didn’t fight it, he knew he had to let her go, following her outside, he snapped this, his only tangible memory he would have of her, a photograph of her and her red soled pumps. Happy for the memories, and the photograph left behind, he smiled.

  358. Catherine

    September 3, 2012 at 6:02 pm

    There has always been something about that first flutter of snow that lights a spark in me. A slow burning warmth from within that makes me giddy, almost jumpy, with anticipation. Winter’s quiet gesture of softness and whimsy. I should have hailed a cab, or taken the left at the end of my block towards the subway, but I didn’t. A small ritual. A meditation before the talkative bustle of the night ahead. I would walk. I pulled my shawl gently over my carefully pinned hair and wrapped it snuggly over my shoulders. My steps were careful and deliberate, watching the pointy patent leather hit the wet pavement like little arrows traversing a map. The rhythm of the city seemed to dull, as a stillness came over the streets. My steps seemed to set the pace. A flutter of tulle and silk. I let my shawl slacken a bit and feel a rush of cool air hit my chest along with tiny flecks of melted snow and my heart skips. I can tell already it is going to be a night to remember.

  359. Sevan

    September 3, 2012 at 7:09 pm

    I finished reading all the stories and to me, all put together made a wonderful novel about love, pain, joy and hope.
    Bravo !

  360. Eileen G

    September 3, 2012 at 8:08 pm

    The feeling brought her back to her childhood. Memories of the magic of blanket forts built on snowy, inside days with her best friend. The fabric close to her face. The room colder then the inside of the fort because of their breath. She remembered eating Cheetos they had toasted on lightbulbs. Giggling and making silly faces illuminated by flashlights. A blanket fort built to shelter, to house, to carry, to propel her and her best friend forward into… one day it was a secret agent mission. One day it was a pirate raft, a rocket, a chariot, a flying carpet. They were never being propelled into the real world of work and bills and the inevitable love me nots. Today, her intention had been to fight the mighty battle between moisture and her hair. Now, now it didn’t matter. Now she can see only the ground in front of her as she teeters along on a tightrope slung between a snowflake and a sea of electric red rubies.

  361. Kacy Kingman

    September 3, 2012 at 9:04 pm

    It was the simple nature of the light snow that floated down on Christmas Eve that made me buy the shoes. I had watched them, much like the hungry child looks at the warmed loaves of bread encased behind the bakery window. I watched them as they clicked on the pavement in front of me, into the corner offices that I could never work hard enough to attain. Tucking my clutch close to me, as if my empty wallet would keep me warm, I walked home; a clipped pace, a smooth gait. My mother will see them and say, “When did you get those, darling? But what she’s really asking is, “how on Earth could you afford them?” I banish the thought of her. For now it’s just the shoes and I. They pinch my toes, the patent leather less forgiving than I expected. But the sound they make as they strike the frosted pavement mimics the beating of my heart. Singing the song of the girl in the Louboutins.

  362. John Verrall

    September 3, 2012 at 9:16 pm

    It felt a little different this time. More casual, unrestrained… The flakes of snow and slush were slowly incorporated into my coat as I briskly walked past the butcher’s shop, giving the dark cashmere a diaphanous shimmer. I bunched the fabric tighter around my chin. It wasn’t to preserve my curls so much as to conceal my indiscretions (the crone at the train station seemed to sense something, or maybe it was just the shoes…).
    He was gentler than I had expected. It was only my second time, so the words and phrases of seduction didn’t come quite as easily as they do for the older girls, but I made do. When dressing for the event of the past evening, I’d thought the hue of the stockings would conceal the welts on my legs, but he had only wanted my buttocks… if only the passersby could see them! As for the shoes… well, the shoes make the girl. And I wanted woman. Youth wouldn’t stop me from dressing in fantasy, and nothing spelled “harlot” more beautifully than the shock of a red sole. “Try me,” I had whispered at the bar, “I’m unbelievable.” And I was.

  363. Angie Spoto

    September 3, 2012 at 10:06 pm

    This city is a trick coin. It appears two-sided, a light and a dark, but it’s all the same. She knows this, perhaps is the only one who notices. This is a snow globe of a city. Eerily bright, but underground a revolution brews. She walked into the day like one walks into a painting. Toulouse-Lautrec reds and ugly women in beautiful clothes. This city is a kaleidoscope. When it turns, the colors and the shapes collide, but does it really ever change? When she slipped into her heels as the sun rose that morning, she knew the only way to bring color into this city was through the soles of her shoes.

  364. Naftali

    September 3, 2012 at 10:23 pm

    With only a short fifteen minute break from her role as a twenties flapper girl, she quickly makes her way through the fresh flurry, hoping that no one will recognize her. Silently she is hoping that acting days are over, and although today she must remember her role, she hurriedly disappears into the streets of the city, imagining that no one she knows is behind her.

    Yes her dreams had come true, yet is this what she really wanted?

  365. Zeus Carrete

    September 3, 2012 at 10:45 pm

    I noticed the flash of red from her Blahniks. I took it as a warning and stopped following her. 
    We had met in the basement of an old converted brick and timber warehouse. I was taking a sip of my St. Honore 75 when she sat next to me. I looked at her and she coyly smiled and quickly looked away. 
    The bartender asked for her order, but she sat still. I motioned and the bartender prepared her a drink. She carefully took a sip and thanked me with a crooked smile. Then, she gulped.                              
    “Do you want to make out?” she gasped while staring at the wall. I continued with my drink speechless. “What do you have to lose?”
    “Sure,” I eventually said coldly. 
    We were into each other and then she suddenly pushed away. It was snowing.
    “I..I need to go,” she whimpered as she looked around. She grabbed the blanket I had in the backseat of my car and then stepped outside. 
    “What are you doing?” I demanded. She slammed the door and I jerked up.                                     “Hey, come back!” I yelled after her as she covered herself with the blanket. She crossed 2nd street in a quick jog. “Hey!”

  366. Anissa

    September 3, 2012 at 11:09 pm

    I met her in New York. She was standing on the street corner, chewing a slice of pizza. She took big bites of the doughy slice. She was hungry. She chewed with her mouth partly open; her lips hanging loosely. And she made noise when she ate. It would have been gross if she weren’t so hot. I wanted to bite off her pillowy lips. They were burnished from the oil of the pizza. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and I knew she had to be mine. I got closer to her, close enough that I could smell the black truffle oil on her lips.

    She was an easy fuck; I was disappointed. I wanted her to leave now. She asked me for something to wear. I didn’t answer but gestured toward the closet. I prayed that she didn’t take something I would want her to return. I didn’t want to see her again. I poured myself some coffee and grabbed a copy of Bad Behavior and sat in the leather chair in the corner of the bedroom. I could hear her open and shut drawers. The drawer-opening, drawer-closing stopped; she must have found something to wear, I thought. She came out, looking disheveled in a black weathered coat. The coat was my ex-girlfriend’s but she probably didn’t notice it was a women’s cut. It was too big for her. She looked like a rag doll; the sight was pitiful. I felt sorry so I told her she looked like a model. She did though… The long tangled hair, the plump lips, the plain face and the skeletal body… that gross beauty you see in models.

    I felt voyeuristic and in control as I watched her walk out into the winter. The black furry mass got smaller and smaller until all I could see were two red dots –the soles of her heels.

    (I already submitted a poem, “Paris in heels” so this entry is just because I felt like it and because I’m obsessed with this photo.)

  367. Anna

    September 3, 2012 at 11:44 pm

    She wasn’t aloud to wear red.
    As her breath returned to normal, and she felt the calm of the outdoors reach her core, she heard the satisfying click of her shoes.
    These were her little secret. Her disobedient red.
    It was stressful encounters – like the one she had just escaped – that made her all the more thankful for her secrets.
    She turned the corner and heard a woman call out “Estell!”
    That was not her name, but she turned anyways, and waved. It was the situational awareness she’d wished she lacked that overworked at times like this. People were staring at her, b

  368. Anna

    September 3, 2012 at 11:53 pm

    She wasn’t aloud to wear red.
    As her breath returned to normal, and she felt the calm of the outdoors reach her core, she heard the satisfying click of her shoes.
    These were her little secret. Her disobedient red.
    It was stressful encounters – like the one she had just escaped – that made her all the more thankful for her secrets.
    She turned the corner and heard a woman call out “Estell!”
    That was not her name. She turned anyways and waved.
    Everyone was staring at her, their eyes bore holes in her. She could not escape.
    Pulling her shawl over her head she imagined she was someone else in a completely different city, with completely different problems. She heard, once again, the click of her secret red shoes, and she new she would one day be free,
    And at that moment it began to snow.

  369. AJ

    September 4, 2012 at 1:18 am

    snowflakes return -

    she’s all black except for the burning soles

    leaving melted tracks

    funeral over –

    she walks faceless

    letting the sidewalk guide her way

    his last gift -

    stilettos clicking

    as she makes her way home

  370. Sady

    September 4, 2012 at 2:10 am

    As I sat there ungratefully eyeing this new entrant in my trophycase a quiet sigh escaped my lips..was it just a few days back that saw me dashing out of the cab..yes it had been snowing..and yet another uneventful day was in the process of passing off uneventfully..until..what was it that had ruffled my senses and made me stop short..turning almost involuntarily towards it..the hot red flashes of her undersoles..or was there something in that lonesome demeanour flitting by that had caught my gaze..all I knew at that moment was that here was my dream cinderella..she was leaving the party and I had to get a shot of her..

    And what a shot it was..my entry at the contest became the talk of the town..then why this brooding over life’s fortunate surprise sprung on me..was I thinking of the unfortunate one that she was living with..remembering her looking back startled as she heard me call after her..looking back with that side of her face scarred and gnarled by fire into something beyond human…she took in my horrified look and with a bitter smile thrown at me she carried on..dark lonesome..flambeing the night as she walked..
    My cinderella had not been leaving the party after all..she was only sending me to one…

  371. Lorenzo Sciacalli

    September 4, 2012 at 2:15 am

    It was a cold dusk. The wind cut like daggers, driven from the harsh coastal tides on the edge of town. Distant bells on the water chimed a melancholic ballad; a testament to the day’s mood. The lighthouse strobe pulsed across the shore, reminding onlookers that despite the gloom, a town still breathed here. At an intersection overlooking the sea, the wind found its way between the shops lining the street and whipped against her pale face and exposed legs. Sleet ridden snow fell at her feet and dampened her clothing, aiding the bite of the wind. As she walked, a flash of color caught the eyes of the few who ventured out on such an afternoon. Flashes of red in a sea of iron and steal. A look of anticipation was worn upon her face. Cheeks, rosy from the wind and snow. Desire was painted red upon her lips. A fire burned inside of her. It was anticipation and excitement, not the cold, that numbed her fingers and toes. She took pleasure in the expectations she new lay before her. She, the life of the party, on the verge of venturing into familiar territory; the New Year’s celebration.

  372. Raquel Pizarro

    September 4, 2012 at 2:19 am

    Do you see that woman running under the snowflakes?
    Yes! That one… the one with the Louboutin stilettos! You can’t miss her!
    So strange to be seating here and see her passing by, like a movie…
    You ask me why I’m smiling? I guess the coincidence. She was my girlfriend for a while. Do you have time for another glass of wine? I want to tell you all about her.
    Why did she leave? How do you know she left? It’s complicated my friend, women like her don’t just leave, that would be too easy. I think I manifested her, yes I did, out of desire for turbulence that would shake my world inside out. She lives in Milan now. I know! you just came back from Milan. I had a strange feeling when you picked this spot by the window. Things like this always happen with her, the synchronicity I mean. Did you just ordered the same wine? it was good no? Her name is Maria, and she’s divine. Don’t worry I will not bore you with details, but I gave her a whole collection of those bloody shoes…

  373. Far from US

    September 4, 2012 at 8:33 am

    My Louboutins! Since I ever found out about this party, I started saving for them. Not easy to buy a pair of the Red shoes (as I like to call them) when you work in a country where Internationals exploit you more than locals for $ 700 dollars per month. But, I got my shoes, those shoes shall make the difference in the party. My very first Louboutin, black and red, like my flag. I walked in that room filled with rich people, politicians and diplomats. Hoping for my shoes to make the difference in the rich environment of Sheraton Hotel, so people don’t have to know that I am just a poor Albanian girl who struggles for her living. But…my Loubotin sell it differently. I walk proudly through a room, take a glass of wine and smile happily. I feel like all people are looking at my shoes, it doesn’t matter if they don’t. I am wearing those cute little things and I feel different. That’s how heaven would feel like. And the nights goes on and I wander around the room sipping my glass of wine.I don’t think anymore about poverty, poor children lying on the street. I don ‘t feel selfish for wearing expensive shoes, the money of which would help a family pay food for a whole month. I earned them, I worked for these shoes. And I am lost in the music and the attention of rich men looking at me. The nights goes on and on and I have never felt happier. I had no idea how a pair of shoes would make the difference in someone’s living. I know now. Is it the Louboutin shoes or the wine I don’t know, I am happy now.
    …. I go home early morning, I have to work today, my Louboutins hurry on the street under the rain. The party is over, I have to go back to the office and try to do something to earn my salary. The nights is over and I am walking alone on the street, people don’t look at my shoes, people don’t care if I am wearing expensive Christian Louboutin shoes, taxi drivers care if I am going to take any of them to drop me home, poor street children do not know the brand, they care about food and approach me to give them money. I wake up and realize a pair of shoes do not make the difference in the poor world.

  374. Adrian

    September 4, 2012 at 8:40 am

    Another cold winter day in the city with a touch of snow. Just trying to keep my body warm until the next show. No thoughts, no glory, just keep on walking.

  375. Tutonewman@gmail.com

    September 4, 2012 at 8:56 am

    I remember:
    When the snow flakes touch my eyes.I think of running through the dark forest
    With the red hood brushing away my tears.
    I think of my grandmother and of the wolf in her bedroom.
    As a woman now the soles of my feet are always painted red.
    My childhood memento mori
    Red

  376. Alexandra

    September 4, 2012 at 8:56 am

    Mammeh said we could go out to the corner on Ocean Avenue to see the snow. But bring Isaac, she said. He came along begrudgingly, twisting his Pe’ot and tossing the video game controller into the folds of the sofa. Do I have to? Lyla and I rushed out before Isaac who stepped over slush puddles and held up the hems of his trousers. The banisters, one after another down the length of the Avenue, were crowned with a delicate rim of white. Looking up, Lyla and I let the flakes burn our eyes. She balled some up and shoved it her pocket—for Mammeh! she explained, and we both fell into a fit of hysterics. Are you two done yet, he asked? Then, ducking left to avoid our back and forth, a woman passed us, sheltering her head from the snow with an oversize coat. Look at her shoes, Lyla whispered, as if I hadn’t already noticed. Nafka, Issak whispered. I let myself go, as she passed, fading into the snow, where I rarely allowed myself to: I pictured a future myself as a woman with red soles, with patterned stockings and a place to go, late at night on a Sunday. A man waiting for her, perhaps. He’s right, Hannah. Lyla leaned towards me and I felt the warmth of her through her weathered wool sleeve

  377. Alexandra

    September 4, 2012 at 11:51 am

    Mammeh said we could go out to the corner on Ocean Avenue to see the snow. But bring Isaac, she said. He came along begrudgingly, twisting his Pe’ot and tossing the video game controller into the folds of the sofa. Do I have to? Lyla and I rushed out before Isaac who stepped over slush puddles and held up the hems of his trousers. The banisters, one after another down the length of the Avenue, were crowned with a delicate rim of white. Looking up, Lyla and I let the flakes burn our eyes. She balled some up and shoved it her pocket—for Mammeh! she explained, and we both fell into a fit of hysterics. Are you two done yet, he asked? Then, ducking left to avoid our back and forth, a woman passed us, sheltering her head from the snow with an oversize coat. Look at her shoes, Lyla whispered, as if I hadn’t already noticed. Nafka, Issak whispered. I let myself go, as she passed, fading into the snow, where I rarely allowed myself to: I pictured a future myself as a woman with red soles, with patterned stockings and a place to go, late at night on a Sunday (a man waiting for me, perhaps). He’s right, Hannah. Lyla leaned towards me and I felt the warmth of her through her weathered wool sleeve.

  378. Natalie

    September 4, 2012 at 2:45 pm

    Like Rapunzel her hair is her Beauty,
    That must be protected from the Beastly,
    Snow White beating down on the Wonder Woman,
    Shawl as a Hood Robbing us of her features,
    Freezing, thoughts of ‘there’s no place like home’,
    But Cinderella must get to the Ball!!
    Fashionably late keeping Prince Charming waiting,
    A modern girl, no pumpkin for a carriage,
    In style, she knows how to walk these streets,
    Careless she is not, Louboutins firmly on her feet,
    Heels she will not lose, not even if she ran,
    Hell no, she would never lose her Schuman!!!

  379. Christeen Amburgey

    September 4, 2012 at 4:56 pm

    A blanket is not a coat.

    Then I’ll cut some fucking holes in it.

    Don’t even worry about it. I’ll clean it up tomorrow.

    No. I will clean it up. I shouldn’t have gotten so out of control.

    I loved it.

    Then why do you want it cleaned so badly?

    Because, lover, there is an off chance that someone will enter that room. Someone who is not apt to understand AT ALL.

    He pulls the blanket and she is still topless. She’s the kind of girl who attempts to dress like a fin-de-siècle flapper, then fucks it all up with red bottom shoes. She’s the kind of girl who cannot control her impulses, cannot delay gratification. He holds her jaw and examines her mouth. A little bruised, but not shockingly. People who didn’t know her would think her lips just that full. A southend cocksucker mouth he’d told her once and watched to see if she would come or cry.

    Go then.

    She kisses him, and wraps herself in the blanket. She is just going down the street. She’s just going to clean up her mess. She doesn’t need a blouse. And she doesn’t need a coat.

  380. Diana Rovanio

    September 9, 2012 at 2:08 pm

    Hello, I know it’s late to post this story, but since I’ve written it I would like to submit it :)

    After months of unspoken words, solitude had invaded this space, leaving her a stranger in this once familiar place.
    She walked towards the bedroom, no trace of her left, as if she had never existed in his world..

    She took a breath to contain her emotions and slide the dressing door open. There- in the middle of her part of the dressing, she found the only thing remained of hers. Her first pair of red soles given by him. She had left them last, because she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the apartment with it. It would feel so final.. The end of something she thought would last.

    She sighed and burried her face into a blue coat of his. She still remembered how it felt to drown in his arms, his warmth.

    She lay the coat on the bed as she put on her heels. She was breaking inside but she stood tall. “I guess this is goodbye, she thought..” She grabbed the coat as she was leaving and she hurried for the street. Snow was falling that day. Her slash of red- marks her every step. Wrapped in the warmth of the coat and the rhapsody of goodbye. She is the girl that was and a woman anew.

  381. Stephanie

    September 17, 2012 at 3:14 pm

    This is late, but I love this image and wanted to write a response.

    There is something secretly romantic about the snow, winter in general. The calm and peaceful ease that comes with each passing snowflake as it melts into landing. Sometimes I miss my home… where I am from. My sisters and I would get so excited about the first snow, we would sit at the window wrapped in blankets watching the snow fall on the flat, endless landscape. I miss the smooth, glistening ground before the dark starlit sky. I miss that natural light, the honest recognition of nature and beauty. I want this snow to feel like home. Do you want to know a little secret… a way to feel at home? Cover up, cover all the way up, cover your head, your eyes. Let the darkness of your delicate coat surround you, like the dark nights you remember so well. Let the light slip through bits of the fabric like the stars in the night. Just be in that peaceful world, if even for just a minute and breath in the crisp, cold air. My, there really is something romantic about the snow.

  382. Stephen Murton

    October 6, 2012 at 12:26 pm

    Standing there tapping her delicate feet; Eden only wearing a pair of black stockings and a s lip, tried to decide what she would wear. The typical dilemma all women face at a certain point in the day.. Her mind growing restless, she began to stare out her small apartment window down into the street where she saw a small grey-haired man smoking a cigarette in the blistering snow. His cheeks red and chapped; this made Eden smile for a time as she paced through her mind reverting back to an earlier time. What she was thinking about; not sure, I suppose something nostalgic. She snapped out of her daze, with snow still heavy in her mind. Sensually tip-toeing back to her small closet, she shivered as she settled for a small knee length black dress. It was a simple, chic dress, it suited Eden well. Her subtle curves filling it out in a way only a man would notice. Checking the clock on the wall, she was late. She quickly grabbed her new heels, yes; the ones with the red bottoms. They were sitting there alone in the corner, Eden admired them. She felt sorry after a while, knowing her other shoes were feeling rejected. She quickly pushed the thought out of her mind, and slipped them on. Rushing out of the door, she grabbed her purse, keys, and a long black wool scarf that was hanging over a chair in the kitchen. Preparing for the worst, Eden stepped outside into the cold. Her face became flushed and numb, she instinctively began wrapping herself in her shawl fidgeting and cursing the whole time. As she looked up into the distance, she could feel snow sinking in her lashes, everything was quite now. She slowly started walking as if she was in a prairie somewhere else. She was alone in the street, and this made her happy. A feeling of calm washed over her, and a tense joy consumed her. She couldn’t place it, but she was content walking alone in the still of the day, snow falling all around her.

  383. Léa

    October 19, 2012 at 10:51 am

    Parfaite..

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