The Poetry of R.E. Slater: R.E. Slater

"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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Showing posts with label R.E. Slater - Short Stories. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 13, 2026

R.E. Slater - Six Words

Six Words

by R.E. Slater

The box was lighter than she expected.

She carried it to the kitchen table and set it down gently, the way you do with things that once mattered more than they were allowed to. Inside were the shoes - soft, impossibly small, the color she had chosen because it reminded her of mornings.

She could not remember the exact moment hope left. There had been words spoken, machines fluttering and pinging, a steadying hand on her shoulder. After that, time fractured. Days arrived without meaning and left too soon.

She tried once to give the shoes away. But failed. She tried to throw them out. But sat on the floor and cried instead.

These were the hard days. The days that never ended.

So she wrote out a small sign and leaned it against the box.

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

When the buyer came, they did not ask questions. They never do. Money changed hands. The box with its belongings left the house.

That night, the rooms felt a new silence -

not emptiness,

but something closer to waiting

for something without expectation.

Corners remembered names

... that were never spoken aloud.

The air held its breath,

... as if a future had paused

in the hallway, and

forgot which door to close.

When morning arrived,

it apologized for the light.

Days passed, but she never asked the future

to explain itself.

She only left the child's door ajar,

in case something unfinished

might know how to find its way home.

Somewhere -

not here, not now -

there were a pair of shoes

that held the shape of love

without knowing where to walk.

Quietly the light was turned off,

and the silent house held its breath -

not abandoned,

but not complete,

as though a story

had stepped away from another room

and had decided never to return

Together they sit,
quietly, side by side.
Once, a small promise,
now, unmoving, still.

The buyer had imagined
warm, restless feet,
learning the floor,
its hardness,
and surface.

A someone once
believing in tomorrow,
who could bend down
in tender care,
and be picked up
in hugs and kisses.

Now, neither today
nor tomorrow
held any sound.
Only the silent shoes,
waiting,
lifeless,
loved,
grieved,
never to speak.

by R.E. SLATER
January 13, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications