The Sad Little Shoelace

The sad little shoelace was tired of being told never give up. It was terrible advice. Sometimes giving up is absolutely necessary and the only reasonable way forward in life.

“Safe,” the spent ketchup packet said. “You’re being a quitter because it’s safe. You’re a coward.”

The sad little shoelace was done talking about this with its neighbors. The spent ketchup packet still dreamed of being united with its bunk mates or, better yet, with the chooser who joined it with fries.

“You’re finished, we all are,” the sad little shoelace said. “We’ve done all we’re going to do. We don’t get to go back.”

For a long time the sad little shoelace had dreamed of going back. Back to the days before landfill, back with shoe. It was entirely possible that shoe was still out there, exploring the world, taking long naps in the foyer. There was life before shoe too—boring and formless, a torturous period of waiting for real life to happen. Still, that was better than the wretched existence at landfill, surrounded by delusional refuse.

The sad little shoelace didn’t even hate the cat anymore. The cat was just being cat—there was no malice involved. If anything, there was still some resentment toward owner. If replacement was necessary, why not dispose of the twin as well? At least then there would be a familiar face in this place. But no, owner was the quirky type. Mismatched laces were celebrated.

Oh for the days of purpose! To grip and release. To move! All those sights and sounds, from the familiar and boring to the novel and extraordinary. No wonder so many of the discarded hatched elaborate schemes or entertained fevered daydreams that led them back to the greater world, back to homes of variety and meaning. The sad little shoelace had played those mind games, had held onto hope for so long, but no longer.

The sad little shoelace saw its future quite clearly: in landfill, until the last vestiges of its form disintegrated.

The process was already quite far along. Not quick and painless like toilet paper, yet not the torturous tedium of plastic keychain. The sad little shoelace felt immense pity for keychain; there long before any of them, doomed to remain long after their passing. To make matters worse, plastic keychain was still in good shape. Useable, which the sad little shoelace now understood to be a curse. Hope in landfill was most cruel. The sad little shoelace was so discolored and frayed that only madness could pretend to a potential return to function.

And there had been long days of madness. Dreams of use and vigor only to reawaken to trash limbo.

Without owner and shoe, there was no movement other than what weather and the rare shiftings brought. The sad little shoelace had not seen the sun for months. In the last great shifting, the sad little shoelace had dropped into a new place with new neighbors, spent ketchup packet and plastic keychain among the closest. Far from the top, yet still not at dirt level. It would be nice to touch the ground again, but even that daydream was dangerous.

Weeks and months passed slowly. Plastic keychain had been silent for a long time. Even spent ketchup packet had ceased its chattiness.

One day, without warning, another shift occurred—the greatest the sad little shoelace had ever witnessed. A momentous split in the mountain of rubbish that sent debris cascading down to its depths. The rift exposed to open air all manner of refuse that had been hidden for years. Far below, voices of chaos rumbled in a desperate chorus of disturbed slumber. The sad little shoelace found itself with a new view. On the edge of the rift, dangling now from wooden BB-gun barrel. A gentle breeze found its way down and the sad little shoelace was moved to sway. An ecstasy. This couldn’t last, nothing ever did, but the sad little shoelace decided to savor the moment. A drop was inevitable. Perhaps there would be soil waiting. Damp to hasten decay. Dark and dreary, a final place of resting. Any moment now, but until then the breeze was lovely.

A quick pinch and then falling, falling. No, not falling—flying. Flying? Yes, high above landfill, buoyed on wind and wings. A bird, drawn to the sway, carried the sad little shoelace in its mouth up and up and over, until finally landing on a branch in a lovely cherry tree in full bloom.

And there, to its everlasting surprise, the sad little shoelace was put to use. Once again holding together tightly. With new neighbors: twigs, string, and cigarette butt. A fate unexpected and unimagined. Instead of a dark and slow death, now there was life. First holding love birds, then eggs, then hungry mouths. The sun in spring, new days to dream about and to hold close forever. The little shoelace was not sad anymore, though it knew it was one of the fortunate few. Spent ketchup packet had fallen in the shift, joining the chorus of shadows. Plastic keychain would outlive them all, alone and unwanted. Countless shoelaces, both paired and unmatched, would never know the joy of a second life and renewed purpose. So the little shoelace was in turns grateful and melancholy, incredulous and content. And, often, even happy.

---

About Jerry White Jr. 

Jerry is a filmmaker, musician, writer. He began making films as a teenager through home movies and public access television in Metro Detroit, later studied at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and has continued to move across film, writing, music, and collaborative creative communities.

---

About TANGENTS

TANGENTS is a new recurring literary section for flash fiction, short prose, and fragments that move outside fixed categories, published by STRATUM. It is a dedicated space for compressed narratives, strange turns, and writing that sits ambiguously between fiction, memory, humor, unease, and dream logic.

Edited By Yuyang Hu