Polishing the dark matte surface of the heels in his hand, he looked up. The cityscape had changed so much in the last decade, but his life had stayed the same. Polishing shoes for the busy urbanites, with places to be and people far more important than him to see. His client had gotten ink on the back of the shoe. The ink blot refused to come off no matter how hard he wiped.
The city rose behind his client. Skyscrapers, glass monoliths, littered the skyline. Monuments to human arrogance. How many of his shoes' owners lived in them? Hundreds of feet above the floor, never interacting with the outside world except in flashes of existence. What would they say if they saw the place he called home? An apartment block a street away from the new mega highway. Noisy, aggressively lit, and a reminder of his old, bulldozed street and childhood home.
Probably nothing. Ignore it like they always have. Then when election time comes, and their money greases the wheels of the ignoble political wretches, they get more. More money, more luxury, more life.
He would always be a shoe shiner. His dad was a train engineer, back in the 20s. Lost his job to the ‘future of transport’. Then took his own life after being evicted with his wife and two kids. A great start for the shit on society’s shoes. The shoes I clean.
Today's prompt: ink blot
If you'd like to participate too, the contest can be found here: @mariannewest/day-1564-5-minute-freewrite-tuesday-prompt-ink-blot