By Rodriguez It started with a nap. A short, harmless nap on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Little did I know that closing my eyes would open the door to a world unlike any I had ever seen.
In my dream, the world was the same—but different. Everything, and I mean everything, had been replaced with versions inspired by my favorite footwear: holey shoes.
The first thing I noticed was the car parked in my driveway. It was bright orange, with a bubbly texture, and the entire surface was covered in tiny round holes. The engine hummed gently, and raindrops slid right off, draining smoothly through the soles of the car’s unique design. “Great drainage,” someone said. “Perfect for monsoon season.”
I blinked. Across the street stood a house I recognized—but it wasn’t quite the same. Its walls were soft and flexible, the roof arched like the back of a giant foam slipper, and every window was a perfect oval hole, just like the ones on my own shoes. It looked oddly cozy, like you could bounce right into it and land on a bed of clouds.
Curious, I walked into town, where the theme only intensified. Everyone wore clothing made of soft, rubbery material with ventilation holes; the sidewalks were springy underfoot. Even the streetlights looked like oversized shoe charms. No one found it strange. I was in a universe where holey shoes weren’t just footwear—they were a way of life.
At the park, I came across a group of children playing fetch with a peculiar-looking dog. At first, I thought it was wearing shoes on its paws—but no, its paws were mini holey shoes. Its tail wagged so enthusiastically that it flung little charms into the air. I reached out to pet it, but it bounced away like a squeaky toy brought to life.
As the dream deepened, the absurdity only grew more beautiful. Cafés served drinks in cup holders shaped like shoe soles. Public transportation included bubble-shaped hover-pods that slid along air tracks with the ease of gliding sandals. People sat on couches shaped like reclining flip-flops, chatting casually, as if none of this was new to them.
I passed a mirror, and my reflection stared back, wearing an outfit entirely made of shoe-like material. But something else was different. My legs… no, my feet—they weren’t feet anymore.
They were shoes.
Not shoes on feet—actual shoes.
Soft, flexible, ventilated shoes. My toes were the holes. I flexed and wiggled, stunned. Was I still me?
Panicked, I ran—except I couldn’t run normally. I bounced, like a lightweight sandal flung across a hallway. People didn’t even look twice. “Looks like someone’s finally adapting,” one woman laughed as I bounced past.
I sprint-bounced all the way back home, or what I thought was home—a house shaped like a sneaker heel, complete with lace detailing and a built-in arch support entryway. I slammed the door shut behind me and stared at my reflection again. Yep. Still shoes.
And that’s when I woke up.
Breathless, sweaty, confused—but back in my bed. Real bed. Real room. Real feet.
Or so I thought.
I pulled back the covers.
My heart skipped.
My feet were still… shoes.
Actual holey shoes.
They flexed slightly as if they had tendons. A small pebble rolled out of one of the holes, and I screamed.
But then I laughed.
Because even though it was absurd, it wasn’t uncomfortable. The shoes felt like me. Warm, soft, and oddly… right.
Somewhere in that dream world, a version of me was probably still bouncing through life, window-shopping for furniture made of foam and sipping iced coffee through straw-charm hybrids.
And maybe, just maybe, the holey-shoe universe wasn’t so strange after all.
After all, who wouldn’t want a life with better airflow?