Foot Magic

“Shoes. Shoes for all occasions.” Bertrand wasn’t looking at shoes; he was looking at feet. They stood bodiless and strange, without their regular vascularity, life or colour though with the unnerving, lingering sense of some kinetic potentiality—there was invisible movement in the upright, blue-brilliant-fridge-light way in which they rested; a threat of something miraculous, as though minds were in them but were quiet for the time being. It was a vividness and impersonal personalness, and the absolute end of something, the foot, the source of progress, intent, the things with which one overcomes and measures time. They are the feature and power of all art and postures he found tasteful, useful and effective—the feet aiding the body into various expressions symbolic and emotional; of love, of lust, of ecstasy, of confusion, of anger. On tippy-toes in the absolute dark he would bend, twist and strain, forward and backward at once, and hold onto his agony until his breaking point, then collapse at the point of death in ecstasy, knowing he had his heart’s desire. These shoes were the contemplation of other’s souls, souls beside his own, and the energy of movement that they embodied; that lingered, he felt, in the house and made their pitter-patter noises in the kitchen, in the basement, in the dim-lit hall at night when he would read and plan his day. In his feet (his other feet) were the movements and energies of numerous requests currently circulating the cosmos and gathering form as fulfillments; things he believed on—the feet, his other feet, refrigerated, forever a part of the egos that animated them, were the focal points, the on-off switches for his dreams; microscopes into the hidden and fluid form of the unseen subjunctive—that spirit and space, that spiralling, spinning, entering atman. His feet trod the outside world and theirs—his others—trod the inside; tangible poetry, meat magic, his nightmares and resident spectres, the ones that growled on cassette tape and bent the image inside his analogue equipment—all magnetic technology was affected by the feet and more specifically the spirits inside them. One night, one early morning when the stars were still out he had heard from his study the sound of a low, humming electricity, was in darkness besides a sudden light that flooded beneath his door, which he opened to witness a blue ball of light casually and evenly levitating down his corridor—he knew it was Jade or Merry or Jaquelin, or else a higher aspect of their former selves, undaunted now to descend into materiality, to appear, to touch toes to water formerly too cold, to move through the flickering, chromatic stasis; the hallway world, the stillness—creating ripples, relativity, objective existence, phenomenality, his eye’s object briefly, more matter than thought or figment, actual, extratextual, reactive, productive, incipient and entropic like an abortion, a baby’s map of existence, he shuts the fridge, he smokes his smoke, he shuts his doors inside his head, his eyes, their eyes, immune to light don’t descale, see inside shut eyelids, walk in patient awareness of misery, before first death’s fraud, in feet’s purposeful, peculiar clatter, blank will, bell-ring, foot find, toe dig, last leg.


Thanks for checking out my short story.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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