Paper Shoes

Mariza landed on springy grass, face-first, hair streaks stuck to her cheeks.

Alice sat up beside her, smoothing her pale blue dress like this happened every day.

“Are you okay?” Mariza asked, rubbing her elbow.

“I’m fine,” Alice said. Her smile held for a second—then her eyes went unfocused, like a paused video.

A tea table leaned in the weeds. Cups lay on their sides, still dripping. A smear of wet red paint ran down a mushroom stem.

Mariza swallowed. “Someone was here.”

Alice blinked and looked cheerful again. “Maybe it’s a party.”

“No.” Mariza pointed.

A plain wooden doorway stood alone, no walls, no house. Its knob was scuffed like a thousand hands had grabbed it.

Mariza stepped closer and touched the metal.

The doorway slid three feet to the left with a sharp scrape, and cold air breathed out

The Wrong Song

Mariza yanked her hand back, but the doorway slid again, scraping the grass like it had skates.

“Stop moving!” Mariza snapped, and grabbed the knob with both hands.

Alice grabbed Mariza’s sleeve. “Mariza, let go—”

The doorway lurched.

Mariza and Alice stumbled through, and their sneakers hit wet tile. Rows of metal machines rumbled like sleepy giants. Puddles shivered on the floor, even though no rain fell.

A woman in a gray apron looked up from a bench full of shoe shapes. “Shoemaker’s corner,” she said. “Wipe your feet. Or do not. Nothing stays clean here.”

Mariza pointed back.

The doorway stood behind them for one breath—then scooted three steps to the right.

“It does that when her other self starts,” the shoemaker said, nodding at Alice.

Alice blinked. Her smile froze.

Her eyes went flat, like glass.

“No,” Mariza whispered.

Alice’s mouth opened, and her voice came out sing-song and mean. “I only painted right…”

A red paint bucket tipped from nowhere. It splashed into the puddles, and the puddles crawled toward Mariza’s shoes.

The doorway scraped away again, farther down the machines