100 Word Story - by Aimee Stewart
On the corner of 9th and Bluewater, the cobbler shaved away the grit from his first job of the day. Soft leather mocked his calloused fingers as he inspected the silver dollar holes worn through each work boot. Scrapes from twisting on rough pine floors didn’t escape his trained eyes, nor did the cigarette ash flaking out from the holes of missing tacks. A vague smell of skunk and a blanched spatter across one toe gossiped about speakeasy whiskey like a Temperance League spinster.
But the cobbler lived by one golden rule: Never judge the state of a man’s sole.
Photo credit: Library of Congress