By Luke Iandoli

The shoe and the log had met by chance: a random current had tangled the shoe in the log’s naked branches. The log had not been pleased: although smaller, this shoe was one of those objects which had stomped so callously over the roots and undergrowth of the log and its forest friends. This stomping always foreshadowed the arrival of the chainsaws, and although this particular shoe had done nothing wrong, the log could not help but associate it with the shiny metal-things that had filled the forest with raucous destruction. 

The shoe’s forlorn blubbering, however, had softened the log, and the feeling of the shoe caught in its branches, was not unlike a bird’s nest. 

“I heard that all discarded things will be reunited,” said the shoe, “do you think that means I’ll see my partner again?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that we have to follow this path.” 

“Where’s this path leading?”

“Where we’re supposed to be heading.”

The shoe relaxed. A shoe without its partner is forever lost, but if they were heading where they were supposed to be heading, it stood to reason that its partner would be heading there too. 

Further down the river, they met an aluminum wrapper. At one point, there had been a jolly penguin on its body. The penguin had been worn away, leaving an uncanny spectre.

 “Hey hey hey—are you all heading down the river?” said the wrapper. The log hesitated. He did not trust tinfoil. When the chainsaws had rested, they had feasted on the contents of these very wrappers; as the chainsaws revved up, a boutique of crinkled tinfoil would clutter the trampled undergrowth.

“Yes! Would you like to join?” said the shoe.

“Please! I’m worried I’ll lose my way.” The wrapper caught a branch. “When did you get washed out?” 

“A couple days ago, I think. There used to be a foot in me, but the foot one day left me and my partner outside! I don’t think it knew about the rain, because before I knew it, a river had formed about me and carried me away.”

“We’re always being left about,” said the wrapper, “One day you’re in a nice air conditioned shop and the next you’re melting on the side of the road. And then you’re just litter. Litter! As if it was our fault we were created. They create you, tear you apart, and then throw you out without a second thought. If I hadn’t been picked up by this last storm, I wouldn’t have any graphics left! It’s not all bad.” The shoe and the wrapper laughed. Even the log chuckled. 

“You may not believe me, but the same happens to trees,” he said, “they’ll cut you down, ship you away from your tree friends, and then, as soon as you get a little water in you, they’ll reject you and throw you off. Waterlogged, they’ll say.”

“My foot took good care of me and my partner,” said the shoe.

“If it took such good care of you,” said the wrapper, “why are you here?” The shoe had not thought of this paradox. Why was it here? It had suffered the daily penetration of smelly-feet and even once a fungus that itched an awful lot. His service had been commendable, and still it was discarded, albeit accidentally. But, did the foot really not have the foresight to think it wouldn’t rain?

“I don’t know,” said the shoe, “but I’m here, and there’s no changing that.” 

“I’m sure we’ll find answers to these questions when we get there. They wouldn’t leave us in the dark, would they?”

“Only that it’s filled with objects like us.” The shoe and wrapper speculated on the paradise that awaited them: they would be restored to their original shape; they would be reunited with their old friends, those they had been born alongside; there would be air conditioning and light. 

“Is there a place for things like me?” said the log.

“I think you have a different paradise, right? I’ve only heard rumors about things like us.”

“What’s the difference?” 

“Everything! You’re born, we’re created.”

“But we’re both discarded…” 

“Yes, but you die and we dissolve.” 

“What’s death?”

“When you don’t exist anymore.”

“Then what’s dissolution?”
“When you don’t exist anymore.”

“Then what’s the difference?”

“Theology,” said the wrapper. 

They had to abandon their talk of theology, as the river suddenly opened up, and grew wider, spilling out into what seemed like infinite water. This water was different from the focused channel they had been traveling; it leaped and pushed in conflicting directions. The log could no longer steer, and the motley bunch struggled to hold together. A moving crest of water pulled the wrapper off the branch. The shoe and the log watched as it was pulled further and further away. 

“Do you think we can still make it there?” the shoe asked. The log was stirred by a nagging sense of familiarity. Like all living things, when encountered by its origin point, the log was overwhelmed by a sense of belonging. It knew this was where it had started. It knew this had been the destination all along. The pummel of the swell rubbed out the knots and holes, smoothing over the aberrations that made him the log; now he was a log, and a log on his final voyage. He knew what death was, and it did not strike him as a tragedy, just a changing of forms. 

“I think this is where we’ve all been heading,” he said. 

 The shoe sighed, confident that it would soon be dry and with its friend. The shoe took on more water. Submersion was not sudden, but gradual, with the shoe slowly taking on more water. When the shoe finally sank, it was not nervous. It could now wait for paradise where all lost things belonged. 

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Luke Iandoli is a writer and scholar from California. He has no life and just surfs, reads and writes. He just got a job at the aquarium, so he’s pretty stoked about that. If you subscribe to his substack (Goblinsayz) he will read your tarot.