I Did Not Win The Sartorialist's Writing Contest

But I gave it a whirl.

On Saturday Mr. C told me that The Sartorialist was having a writing contest.  Readers were invited to write a story, in 200 words or less, that responded to one of three photos.

I selected the one with the Louboutin heels:

I decided (blush, blush) to write a billet doux of sorts directly to Sart: I invoked his home state (Indiana) and an earnest young journalism student who wanted real red-soled shoes (Indiana University has a well-respected school of journalism; Sart studied in the fashion merchandising department there.)

I didn't win, but thought I'd share my entry here. (Here's a link to the winning entry.) On The Sartorialist blog my story's posted under Miss Nicholson, my middle name that pinpoints my Scottish herrrritage.

Wish my brogue sounded as good as that.  But I can wear a pair of them like nobody's bizness. 

Miss C's Entry:

Nobody wore red-soled shoes in Valparaiso, thought Kassie. She’d seen them on TV, the Cinderella slippers that could transform her from a Midwestern journalism student into a New York vixen. So she’d slicked the soles of her $39 pumps with scarlet lacquer—a Chanel polish that’d cost almost as much as the shoes.
Kassie smiled at this memory of her teenage ambitions as she stepped onto the street—not 5th Avenue; she'd learned about alternative strolls, like Orchard or Spring. She’d walked far away from her DIY soles: these were the real thing, and she’d paired them with a fringed dress she’d made herself and a voluminous jacket from Century 21. But the shoes were brand new: she’d bought them that morning after accepting a copy-writing job with an online boutique.

She was heading out to celebrate with her parents, who were in town to help her set up her apartment. Kassie tripped lightly down the sidewalk, her authentic red soles in harmony with her own soul as it soared with possibility. When the snow began to fall, she shrugged her generous jacket over her head, saying to herself, “I’m ready.” And again, smiling at her pun, “I’m RED-y.”