THE THRILLS OF THE CORRUPTED p.3

The bell above the door (that the shop owner had him polish every damn week) had rung in its peculiar way. Deep in his seams, Tzelem hadn’t bothered raising his gaze.

“Tell me, shoemaker, have you always made shoes for a living?” The customer had asked in a hoarse, rather casual voice.

“Have you always worn them?“ Tzelem had responded. Absentminded, while pushing his needle through Dove’s large, left boot.

“It is time for you to finish what you’ve started.” His voice had suddenly deepened, as if coming from the boom of a hollow well.

“Which shoes have you...”

“Not shoes. You need to go get the boy, Tzelem.” Only then, Tzelem had paused his work and looked at the man – a dark skinned fellow with strands of gray hair showing underneath his hat. He had one, deep, olive green eye. The other one was as pitch black as a bird’s, and

Truthful Roots