Gnu Shoes
June 23rd, 2025
Some of my stories are odd. They may not start out meaning to be odd, but they inevitably end up laa-laa and more straitjacket than book jacket. This may limit the number of publications for me to submit them to, but if a story’s good then it’s good, right? Right. But every now and again I chance upon a periodical actually shouting out for oddities. ‘Donut Factory’ was a print magazine based in Berkeley, California and edited by American writer A.E. Phillips. The second edition featured my work.
‘Gnu Shoes’ finds the purely fictional Mr. Brown visiting a shoe shop run by a pushy Wildebeest willing to do anything to make a sale and, although it received a couple of readings at my Aberdeen spoken word night ‘Per-Verse’ around 2014, I didn’t expect it to go anywhere else. Perhaps it never did.
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Tuesday’s puddles were slightly different to Monday’s. They were wetter and saturated my feet. Upon reflection, it occurred to me that the puddles were not in fact wetter, but roughly the same – only my Hush Puppies had picked up new holes. Twin holes, right through each sole. I did not stop to question the phenomenon but merely made my may to Main Street to look for replacements.
Main Street was quite different to how I remembered it. Where Old Man Johnson’s pawnbroker had once operated, was a flash new shoe shop. As I neared it, the door opened and a squat penguin walked out in a pair of winkle pickers. The shopkeeper, a well turned out gnu, waved him on his way.
‘Every pair comes with a three month guarantee,’ he called after the penguin. ‘You can always rely on Gnu Shoes for comfort. Tell your friends, Mr Guin. I always make a sale!’ The gnu turned to face me, looked down his long, flat, black nose and clenched his teeth into a wide grin. ‘Another customer! Come in, Sir. Come in. I have just the pair of shoes for you.’
‘How could you possibly know without my seeing them, or even my trying them on?’ I replied.
’Ye of little faith, Sir. There is something for everyone in this shop. I always make a sale.’ He led me inside the shop and pushed me on to a velvet covered seat. ‘Now Sir, what will it be?’ he began again. ‘Why, I’ve clogs for dogs, boots for newts, flats for rats, stilettos for geckos…if you’ve four feet or two, I have the shoe.’
‘You’re a good salesman,’ I remarked.
‘Quite,’ agreed the gnu as he began feeding my left foot into a measuring device. ‘Did I mention I always make a sale?’
‘You did.’
‘Size nine I make it, give or take the toe-jam. Our most popular size, Sir. Now, did you have anything in mind?’
‘Well, I thought something black and shiny,’
‘Black and shiny, Sir. As you wish,’ he said. The gnu was already half way up a library ladder, fishing around on the upper-most shelf. ‘I have the most perfect leather brogues you’ll ever see.’ He jumped down and slammed a brilliant black shoe on my foot. They were almost incandescent, but they did pinch somewhat.
He looked hurt.
‘Do you not like them, Sir?’
‘They’re a bit pinchy.’
‘Most new shoes are, Sir. Believe me, after you break them in, they’ll become a part of you.’
‘Oh, that’s no use. I don’t have time to break them in.’
The gnu nodded and selected another pair. ‘How about some nice, comfy suede loafers?’ he asked, sliding one on to my foot before I could answer. They were much comfier, almost like a pair of slippers, but they had no shine.
’They’re a little dull,’ I said. ‘Can’t you brighten them up a bit?’
‘Look, Sir, I may be able to do many things but I cannot shine suede.’
‘Oh dear, I’d really rather something shiny. Can you try again?’
The gnu’s nostrils flared.
‘Very good, Sir,’ he said and climbed the ladder once more.
An hour or two later, we were still in the shop. A large pile of shoes sat to my right and, to my left, sat the gnu sobbing lightly and scratching his head with a hoof.
‘I…I’ve tried every pair in the shop,’ he whimpered. ‘I tried patent platform plimsolls, square-toes, slip-ons, sandals, sneakers, stilettos, ski boots…even those weird-smelling orthopaedic shoes I found in the cellar. And yet, and yet, I always make a sale…or I have up until now. You’ve finally beaten me.’ His body shuddered and he began to cry.
‘How about the ones you’re wearing,’ I said. ‘They’re black, they’re shiny, they’re very becoming. I don’t mind if they’re second hand.’
The gnu sniffed and looked at his hooves, ‘But these aren’t for sale. They’re a part of me.’
‘Oh come now,’ I said. ‘So you’re attached to them. You want to make a sale though don’t you?’
The gnu wiped his eyes. ‘A sale is a sale.’
He walked over to a desk, opened the top drawer and took out a knife with a six-inch blade and a bottle of whisky. ‘A sale is a sale,’ he repeated and began to hack at his lower limbs, taking swigs from the bottle to numb the pain.
‘I say,’ I said. ’That looks a little painful. Wouldn’t a shoe-horn work better?’
’A sale…’ grimaced the gnu, ‘…is a sale.’ With two more hacks his bloody right hoof lay before him. He took another swig of whisky, steadied his blade hand and took a final swipe. His left hoof hit the floor with a dull clop. I tried them on. They were a perfect fit, jet black and with an iridescent shine.
‘What a pair of shoes!’ I beamed. ‘I’ll take them.’
The gnu dragged himself to the till to run up the sale. As I left, he lay at the door gasping. ’Y-you c- can always rely on g-g-gnu shoes for c-comfort, Mr Brown. Tell your friends. I…I always make a sale.’