On the way to the Writers’ Bloc meeting tonight, Gav pointed out this pair of boots stranded on Princes Street. I’d like to make up a story about how they came to be stranded on Princes Street, but I know the truth.
The person last seen wearing these boots was walking down Princes Street, minding her own business, humming a tuneless tune to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone approach, and her heart immediately sank; she knew the types in brightly-coloured jackets who lunged cheerfully into one’s path and asked for donations to good causes. She walked faster but could not shake the figure who now loomed into her space. Before she could beg off the donation with mumbled appeasements, a piece of paper was thrust into her hands. She squinted after the hastily retreating figure and then back to what it had given her.
“If you want to fly, jump now,” the paper read. She turned the paper over in her hands, looking for any distinguishing marks, or caveats, or disclaimers. Fly? For how long? To where? And jump? A big jump or a little jump or straight up or to the side or …?
She stopped walking then. She folded the piece of paper once and put it into her pocket. And then she looked up, way up until her eyes unfocused, and she jumped. The boots couldn’t go where she was going, so they stayed behind.
When you encounter an opportunity that scares you, be ready.