On the way back from my morning walk with Jess we found this abandoned shoe at the entrance to the Florida Forestry Track. I didn’t notice it as we arrived and have no idea why it would be left here with its shoe laces all neatly tied. Debbie reckoned that someone had probably played a joke on a work colleague and lobbed it out of the van as they drove past. I asked ChatGPT what it thought had occurred and it came up with this short story:
The Laced Remains
Trevor’s morning jog was going fine until he stepped on something squishy. He looked down.
A black trainer.
It was oddly pristine—except for a smudge of mud—and the laces were still tied neatly, as if its owner had simply… disappeared. A single crisp, brown leaf was pinned beneath the sole, like a calling card from autumn itself.
Trevor gulped. “Weird.”
He glanced around. No one. Just the empty jogging trail, the distant rustling of leaves, and the distant caw of a crow, which he swore sounded a little too amused.
Then, the realization hit. Where’s the foot?
He nudged the shoe with his own. It didn’t budge. Hesitantly, he knelt and lifted it.
The shoe was light. Too light.
And warm.
Trevor dropped it instantly, his heart hammering. A warm, recently occupied shoe, abandoned with no owner in sight? This was not normal. This was the beginning of a horror movie, and Trevor had seen enough of those to know the next scene usually involved a lot of screaming and dramatically tripping over tree roots.
Nope. Not today.
He turned to leave, but then—rustle.
Trevor froze. The leaves behind him shifted.
Then something scuttled.
He didn’t want to look, but his head turned anyway.
The shoe was now closer.
Trevor sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t moved it. It had moved itself.
Before he could even comprehend what was happening, the shoe hopped.
A horrible, fleshy slap followed as something landed beside it.
A severed foot.
And yet, the toes wiggled.
Trevor screamed.
The foot flexed, bent its imaginary knee, and hopped toward him with unnatural agility. The shoe, like a loyal pet, scurried after it.
Trevor didn’t wait. He ran. Faster than he ever had before.
Behind him, he heard a triumphant plop—the sound of the foot slipping back into its rightful home.
Then, a soft pat pat pat as the newly reformed entity started jogging after him.
Trevor did not stop.
And from that day forward, he never tied his shoelaces again.
Just in case.
