“These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do…” croons Nancy Sinatra. She’s right. Boots are made for walking, but also for much more.
Writers followed the trail boots left for them this week and uncovered different stories beyond walking distance. Boots led many directions.
The following are based on the January 18, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes boots.
Give Me Dignity by Ann Edall-Robson
I am told they are supposed to be intelligent beings. They like to think they are the dominating species. Little do they know I chose them. That’s what I do. Wait for the unsuspecting to falter just a little before I go in for the so-called kill. Filling them with self-confidence and silly antics until I have them where I want them. They become mine, my people. Now if I could just work my magic a bit more to coerce them into giving me a name with more dignity and class and not so common as Boots!
A Boy and His Dog by Susan Sleggs
“Didn’t I tell you to keep that dog out of the creek?”
“I did Mama.”
“Then why are you both soaked?”
“Well, he rolled in the mud.”
“I knew you would get mad, so I washed him and he shook all over me. It kinda felt good.”
“Wash him how?”
“I scooped water from the horse trough with my boots.”
“And where are they?”
“I put ’em upside down on the fence posts to dry.”
She stifled a smile. “Do you think that’s the way boots should be treated?”
“No ma’am, but they’s only rubber, not real ones.”
Boots by Robbie Cheadle
The tiny little girl felt lost and alone. Her mother was not there, and she had been sent to stay with her Granny who she barely knew. Her sisters were with her, but they went to school all day and she was left alone with Granny. Granny was very kind to her, but it was hard to fill the ache of abandonment in her heart. One memorable day Granny came home with boots for her. They were lovely and soft, her very first pair of “big girl” shoes. She was delighted and “Boot’s” was the first word she uttered.
Grandma’s Boots by Norah Colvin
Jess peered out, waiting, hoping, to glimpse Grandma arrive. Rainbow stars exploded outside her window just as the doorbell chimed–missed it again. Disappointment faded as she flung herself into Grandma’s enveloping arms. Grandma’s soft kisses promised secrets through scents of far-off places and unfamiliar things. Grandma’s boots sparkled, announcing story time. Jess and Grandma snuggled into their special chair. Clasping hands, they whispered their story-time chant. The chair shuddered and lifted off the floor. The roof opened and, quick as a wink, Jess and Grandma were whooshing across the sky to somewhere, “Once upon a time and faraway…”
Equality by Colleen Chesebro
The sound was faint, but it was definitely there. The rhythmic stomp of combat boots echoed in my memory transporting me back to basic training in July of 1976. I had wanted to prove that I could do anything that a man could. I achieved it, but things still didn’t change for women.
Forty-two years later, our hats are pink, and our boots come in many colors, but our dreams remain the same. Today, the sound of many boots marching gives me hope. We need equal pay for equal work and no sexual discrimination. Some dreams just never die.
Daddy’s Boots by Oneta Hayes
Whatever happened to daddy’s boots?
Flannel shirts and Levis, or Western suits.
Justin boots and Stetson hats were the apparel
of my family roots.
They were given to my mom
From the hospital that long night.
Love and memories were like a balm
As she tenderly put them out of sight.
They were passed along to me,
I had two sons, could one be –
The one who carried his legacy?
The legacy came from Granddad Jim
He said for us to look past him.
And know our worth only comes from God.
Look up to Him because people are flawed
A good Investment by Ruchira Khanna
“Toby quit splashing into the puddles” Mom urged as she walked with his tiny hand enclosed in her big palm on a rainy day while holding an umbrella with the other side that covered mostly her toddler inspite of him wearing a rain jacket.
Toby paused for a bit then looked up at her and after a mischievous wink continued to spatter water until they reached their car.
The mom was quick to put her son in his car seat. She removed his boots to check his socks.
“Dry socks!” she sighed in relief then muttered, “Good investment!”
Boots by Chelsea Owens
They were nearly there, near the sunlight-glinted theatre doors. An overhead clock pointed to ten-past starting.
She looked back, down the warm-yellow sidewalk. Slowly but always steadily, he came with his slanted plodding. He’d never had an impeding injury; she teased that he walked in unknown imitation of his own, flat-flooted father.
Sinking sunset rays flared an occasional reflection from his eyeglasses as he turned to look behind: at their parked car across the street, to either side: interesting geological landscape, and forward (finally): to his waiting wife.
She held out a hand; smiling, loving. “Let’s go, Boots.”
Free Spirit by Jan Malique
My life is a loved, well-thumbed book. Holding colourful chapters containing conversations overheard on busy trains, and eyes met in passing. Stranger, what more can I reveal of my adventures? My bittersweet memories yearn to tell you more.
What does it mean to be a free spirit when the wild places are muted but yearning to be heard? I put on my boots, and command “go forth”. What sights we’ve seen, how we’ve howled at the moon, listened in silence to ancient songs carried by the wind. My bittersweet memories say “hear me”, yearn to tell you more Stranger.
Boots by Rebecca Glaessner
I searched his spaceship quarters for his favourite brown pair amongst the futuristic interior.
But I wasn’t supposed to be here, authorities had my signal logged.
My team gained access to locked drawers via external game code changes.
I sped up my search.
Proximity alarms sounded as I found the pair beneath some spacesuit underclothes. I scanned their size, colour, scuff marks, everything, and uploaded the data.
“Now,” I said, via comms.
My external team deactivated the program, waking me before authorities gained a visual.
His real world funeral was perfect, replica in-game boots and all.
Platforms by Ritu Bhathal
Never criticise a neighbour before walking a mile in his moccasins.
That’s what the proverb said.
Looking at the height of the heels on my neighbour’s boots, and the shiny patent leather, stretching all the way up to mid-thigh, I thought I’d rather not walk a metre, let along a mile.
Who am I to judge, anyway?
If Peter wants to spend his days being an accountant, trussed up in a suit and tie, and the evenings dressed up as Petra the pole-dancing drag queen, that’s his (or should it be her?) choice!
I’ll just stick to my trainers…
Pink Suede Boots by Juliet Nubel
Mum’s tanned legs look fabulous in these pink suede boots.
Mine look like tree trunks. Pale, hairy tree trunks.
I wonder where she keeps her stinky hair-remover cream. I’ll need it if I ever want to wear these out.
She’ll never let me anyway. And she’ll never allow me near this silky purple dress, the one that sends shivers straight down to my toes when I touch it.
Oh God, I can hear her calling for me.
Dammit, the zip’s stuck on a hair.
“What the hell are you doing up there? Rugby practise starts in five minutes, Jimmy!”
What I Shoulda Said by FloridaBorne
“You look like you’re going out riding,” A woman in church wear with short grey hair chuckled.
“I’ve been on a horse 6 times in my life,” I replied.
“Then why are you wearing that?” she smirked
“It’s 50 degrees in Florida. I’m cold. When you’re cold, you wear boots. If I walked down the street wearing a bustle and long dress, I’d deserve to be laughed at. But if a woman wore that on that same street 120 years ago,” I said, pointing at her dress, “She’d be hauled off to the nearest institution for the feeble minded.”
These Boots Are Made For… (Jane Doe Flash Fiction) by Deborah Lee
Jane shrinks back into her corner, trying for invisibility. Office birthdays. She hates them.
She hides behind her slice of cake, eying the other women, each one wearing fashion boots with the onset of autumn. Ankle-high, calf-high, thigh-high, like who thinks those are appropriate unless your job title is Dominatrix? Black, brown, trimmed with fur, leopard pattern, silver work, buckles. All sleek, all stylish. All expensive.
She shoves her own feet back under her chair, hoping no one has noticed the clunky black Wellies she was fortunate enough to find at the thrift store.
Her luxury is dry feet.
Wet Boots in Winter by Bill Engleson
“So, you’ve had some experience sorting logs.”
”Yeah, last summer. Before the big forest strike. Up Teakerne Arm way.”
“Summer, eh! Pretty warm water thereabouts?”
“Yeah, good swimming, for sure. Kinda lonely, though.”
“Fall in much on the job?”
“Often enough. But I got better. Not great, but better.”
“And the water was always warm. This job, we’re sorting on the lake. Ice cold. You got cork boots?”
“Most I could afford.”
“Look, I need someone for a few days. But you fall in, won’t be a summer dip.”
“You start in the morning.”
Land Lubber by D. Avery
Benny was getting the hang of it, wasn’t born to the water but that farm boy sure could work. He generally picked up on things quick, paid attention, because a lot can go wrong with ropes and gear and rough water. Didn’t argue much, except over rubber boots, insisted his old barn boots were fine for fishing. Didn’t get the importance of a fishing boot’s loose fitting uppers that made them easy to be kicked off, give a fighting chance to swim.
Everyone else had come in. Identifying the body was a formality; Benny, still wearing his damn boots.
Big Boots by Denise Aileen DeVries
Occasionally, Mattie Brown’s father allowed her to go out on the fishing boat with him. Today, she got up when she smelled coffee, dressed quickly in the dark, then went to the mud room and put on her brother’s boots. Now that he was an actor in the Floating Theater, he wouldn’t need them. Mattie clomped into the kitchen. Big Pete was just putting on his hat when he saw her. “Get yourself something to eat,” he said, “and bring it down to the boat.” As he headed out the door, he chuckled. “Some mighty big boots to fill…”
Footsteps by Wendy Anne Darling
Here comes Mum in her latest pair of high heels. How I miss the cadence of her steps!
Boxes lay strewn on the floor all around me; sexy boots standing in an ordered row of ‘most desired’ to ‘not on your life.’ On my feet, soft, TARDIS blue leather with a row of sweet, golden buttons and a heel that makes me look 5’7”, instead of my normal 5’3”.
In the mirror, I see, not my own face, but hers, and, remembering the clicking of my mother’s heels, I realize, with sadness, that I must be a grownup now.
With It by Sherri Matthews
The last train whistled and I waited. I knew Dad needed Dutch Courage even before I knew what it meant.
At last, there he was, striding towards me waving furiously, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Hello darling,” he called and by the time I fell into the warm creak of his leather jacket and breathed in his spicy after shave, I didn’t care how late he was.
I glanced at his young girlfriend standing nearby, all blonde and eyelashes and knee-high, shiny white boots.
Not sure about her, but I wanted those boots more than anything.
Made for Walking by Annette Rochelle Aben
Every year, her father and brother ventured up north to scout for the best spot for deer hunting season. This year, she was going along.
Of course, this would include tramping through possibly muddy areas in the cold Upper Peninsula but that just meant having proper gear. BOOTS! The very word, made her shiver with delight as she owned at least 30 pair. But her mud wallowing boots needed to be replaced.
This was a double dream come true for she’d get to buy new boots and the first place she’d wear them was Escanaba! What a lucky gal.
TUFF Love by D. Avery
Besides his boots, what drew Marge to this man were his hands, large even on his large frame; she felt dainty just imagining being held by them.
“Excuse me boys, I spy a man.” Ignoring their raised eyebrows, Marge went straight to the man whose heavy leather work boots were just like hers. When Marge sat down at his table, Earnest Biggs bumbled awkwardly to his feet then mumbled an introduction then sat back down then stood and stumbled as Marge led him by the hand to the dance floor. The guys, watching, had no doubt who would lead.
(For a complete review of D.’s TUFF process from which this story is part of be sure to visit her website.)
Trailing by D. Avery
The trail started with boots, the boots preceding pants, and sharp eyes might notice that the smaller pair of work pants on the floor had been mended; those same eyes will follow the trail to its conclusion, a bed somewhat stressed by the additional weight it carried into the morning. This morning Earnest Biggs did not wake up alone, which caused him some anxiety.
Shyly, cautiously, he rolled over towards his bedmate, ripping a fart as he did so. He reddened, but her laughter and admirable retort put him at ease.
“I always return fire”, she said.
A Terrible Liar by Jack Schuyler
“Whose boots are these?” Mom walked into the kitchen with a puzzled look on her face and two muddy Romeos dangling from one hand. At first, I must have looked as confused as she did, but when I solved the mystery, a knot of dread slipped into my stomach. I swallowed a half chewed mouthful of cheerios.
“They’re mine.” I said, “I use them for gardening.” I’m such a terrible liar.
Tom must have forgotten them in his hurry to sneak out my bedroom window last night.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “And who does this leather jacket belong to?”
Boots by Paula Moyer
Frances’s husband Clarence had one pair of boots. Beautiful. Well-worn. They had a story.
She wanted a special gift for their first Christmas. Her quest took her to a Western store on the north side.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the polite, skinny young man guided her to men’s boots. The pair of cordovans whispered. She bought them, tucked them into the trunk. Kept them hidden till Christmas Eve.
Clarence slid them on like gloves. “How did you get the size just right? I usually have to try on several.”
“My secret is simple: we wear the same size.”
Boots by Old Jules
It took that Juarez bar about five minutes to clean us out. Minus twenty in my shoe. Sixteen year olds, Lonnie and I had sneaked off for our first booze, grown women and a pair of boots.
So slinking back toward the border crossing I stopped and eyed the prettiest pair of boots I ever saw. Turquoise tops with snakes and eagles stitched, calf high. I loved those boots.
“Try this on!” He handed me a boot. Fit great. “Forty dollars.”
I got them for fifteen.
But when I got home they were two different sizes.
Nancy Said It Best by Rugby843
“These boots were made for walkin’” she sang as she left their home. She loved all types of boots but today donned her thigh high black leather ones. They were perfect for taking care of business, and people tended to get out of her way when they saw her coming.
Her reputation for getting what she wanted when she wanted it was well known. She ignored the whispers on the street as she passed. Determination in her walk to the local bar, she hummed the tune loud enough for bystanders to hear.
“Guess Joe’s in trouble again” they whispered.
Easing Frustrations (From Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Between public affairs and citizen scientists on her archeology dig, Danni wasn’t surprised to see Ike show up with his dogs.
Now she had someone familiar to lash out at. She stomped her boots down the gravelly trail toward Ike and the pointers at his side. Danni trudged past the silent volunteers. She marched right up to Ike and he swung her up into his arms, planting a lingering kiss on her angry lips.
Danni sagged against him. He growled in her ear, “I missed you, Babe.”
“Damn it, Ike. I missed you, too.” She refrained from kicking him.
Trailing by D. Avery
The trail started with boots, the boots preceding pants; sharp eyes might notice that the smaller pair of work pants on the floor had been mended. Those same eyes will follow the trail to its conclusion, a bed somewhat stressed by the additional weight it carried into the morning, the morning Earnest Biggs did not wake up alone, which brought him some happy anxiousness.
Shyly, cautiously, he rolled over towards his bedmate, ripping a fart as he did so. He reddened, but her laughter and admirable retort put him at ease.
“I always return fire”, she said.
Boots by Pensitivity
These boots are made for walkin’, that’s how the old Nancy Sinatra song goes.
Well Nance me old fruit, these ain’t! They bloody well hurt.
Two hundred and fifty quid for Top of the Range Hikers down the drain. They need to change the logo to ‘Toes of the Painful Blisters’.
Gonna stick to trainers for twenty, when I can walk miles a-plenty, haha.
Either that or take the bus.
‘Hey! Simon! You comin?’
‘Yeah, sure. Just tying me laces.’
My feet were killing me, but it would never do to complain, especially as this was our first date.
A Cautionary Tale About Plantar Fasciitis by Anne Goodwin
Bliss: after ten hours, to loosen my laces, peel off my socks, expose my feet to the air. The gravel’s sharp, so I slip on flip-flops and pit-pat to the driver’s door. Ouch! Pain shoots across the sole whenever I flex my foot. Afterwards, a tingling that never disappears. Will I have to cancel my long-distance walk?
Plantar fasciitis, says the physio. Prescribes ice, massage, gel insoles: I’m happy again. But three days in, my heels are throbbing. Blisters, moi? With the insoles my broken-in boots don’t fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper anymore. Shucks, only 160 miles to go!
Boots by Pheobe Greathouse
She stands poised like a queen outside the airport arrival doors, long black hair whipped up by a passing bus. The tightly fitted sweater and pants reveal a child-sized body with large high breasts and slim hips. The Chanel bag is clutched tightly like a trophy.
An older nondescript man, thinning hair and slight potbelly, slips up next to her and puts a possessive arm around her waist. She turns, smiles, and glides into the waiting limo. The last vision of her is the gold spiked heel of her black suede boot slipping into the darkness of her future.
Burgundy Suede Knee-High Boots by Urszula Humienik
All I have of my parents is a pair of my mother’s burgundy suede knee-high boots.
My aunt told me my mother had worn them on the few dates she’d had with my father, which means she wore them the night I was conceived. I like to imagine it was a romantic date with a fancy dinner with candles and everything, but my aunt thinks they went bowling and then did it in the back of her old Chevy.
She never saw my father again after that.
My aunt doesn’t even know his name.
I call him Daniel Boots.
History from Her Story by JulesPaige
Nancy Sinatra sang of boots. They were made for walkin,’
walking away from a man who was perhaps not being as
faithful as one would like. That was the year “The pop world
accelerated and broke through the sound barrier in 1966.”
I was still in single digit years back then.
I may have been influenced by that song and how easy it
might be to just walk away from bad situations. I wonder
if all run-a-ways think if just leaving could solve all problems.
There are many choices in life. A good pair of boots is just
Boots by Ben (aka Pipe Tobacco)
The harsh wind rattled windows of the room, as he slowly worked his aching fingers into unlacing his snow-encrusted boots.
“There was a helluva lot of snow to shovel,” he remarked to his wife, “…damn near seven inches fell in the last couple hours.”
He slowly carried his boots to the hearth of the fireplace. She could see and feel his utter exhaustion. Snow still clung to his beard and mustache.
Walking slowly to the cabinet, he poured himself four fingers of whiskey. Taking a deep swallow, he grimaced as he waited for the liquor’s magic to warm him.
Boots by Robert Kirkendall
Cpl. Wildey led his squad through a clearing and into a wooded thicket toward enemy lines on a reconnaissance mission to ascertain troop locations. The trail they were on approached an enemy headquarters in the distance. Cpl. Wildey thought he saw movement ahead, so he ordered his troops to sneak up by crawling through a high grass area. He carefully maneuvered them without notice when he suddenly came face to face with a pair of the enemy’s boots standing squarely and menacingly. Fear shot through him, until he looked up and saw that no one was wearing the boots.
It Hurts…by Reena Saxena
The young soldier’s wife broke down on seeing her husband with an amputated leg. He had suffered frostbite while serving in the Siachen Glacier at temperatures well below zero. Touching metal with bare hands could cause bites. Six of them would share a tiny igloo made of fiber at night, to keep themselves warm.
Her husband was nominated for a bravery award. He had shot down two terrorists, despite his frozen foot. It hurt to know that the terrorists were dressed in four-layered jackets and Swiss mountaineering boots. The army could not provide its soldiers attire of matching quality.
With Heavy Tread by Abby Rowe
You never forget the reek of whale oil and mouldering, sodden socks. Every now and then, during one of those unsettling silences, the Officers would get us seated, all in a line.
‘Boots off, men. Foot inspection.’
Getting them off could take a while, bloated extremities battling shrunken leather. You’d think, among the muck and men and rats, a nose might become inured to such relentless assault. Not a chance; there is no stink to match it.
In all these years since, I never smelt its like again. Neither did many of my comrades, but that’s a sadder tale.
The Boots Make Him a Man by Heather Gonzales
In the blink of an eye, he was gone. One second he was taking a breath and the next everyone realized it had been his last one. Watching him deteriorate was hard for everyone, but it was especially hard on Johnny.
At the age of 10, Johnny felt he was now considered the man of the house. He instinctively began to act older as if more weight was on his shoulders. When no one was looking he would put on his father’s old pair of work boots and for a moment he was the man he was pretending to be.
The Journey Back by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Peter pulled boots over calves lengthened and strengthened by his transition from boy to youth, and seasoned by grief over his sister’s death. Four years ago she’d been found in the depths of the Dark Wood, her cat pressed against her cold belly, hissing at all who approached.
His curled-toe boots were light enough to prevent sinking into deep snow, the grain of the reindeer fur designed to prevent slipping backward on hills. Snapping the hood of his anorak over his head, Peter stepped into the gloomy morning.
The cat trotted ahead, back to the Dark Wood.
Big Boots by Ritu Bhathal
I watched him in awe, as he tossed the dough from side to side, stretching it expertly, before allowing it to come to rest on the large wooden spatula.
A thin layer of tomato sauce, Mama’s special recipe, and a sprinkling of mozzarella, before a sprig of basil was added, then off it went to bake.
And he was leaving.
Mama was devastated.
Antonio was off to travel the world, leaving the family pizzeria in my hands, and I’d never been anywhere near as good as him at making pizza.
He was leaving big boots for me to fill.
Through the Dreamers We Hear the Hum by Mardra Sikora
Come on, let’s go…”
Boots once muddied from play now covered in sand. Nights full of treacherous poison and days under the beating sun. The child sleeps without rest, walks along, follows. She yearns for the bed behind them. It was shared, but home. The promise ahead is…cold.
She trudges in boots broken through to her tiny calloused feet and hides as a car passes. “Through the dreamers we hear the hum,” plays from the radio, the air-conditioner blares, to the next gas stop or rest stop.
Not for her though, the dreamer, with nowhere to rest, to stop.
Magic Boots by Shari Marshall
The brown leather looked soft beneath the fine powdery coating of dust. Knotted loose laces allowed the tongue to hang limp, a reminder of how she wore them. I pictured her lean calf muscle leading out from the high top. It was hard to image that she would go anywhere and leave these behind, but it had been months with no word from her. Craving the sound of her revealing the power of these boots I slide my feet in. I realized that my body was slowly turning to mist and I could hear her voice calling for help…
Walking Away by Sarah Whiley
Staring into the distance, I’m in disbelief at what has happened. How can someone you have known and trusted for so long, betray you? Turn out to be a stranger? These thoughts haunt me, and I shake my head, literally trying to rid myself from their grasp.
I consider the vast territory in front of me. It’s unknown. I have never ventured this far, nor pushed these boundaries. I lean down, tie my boots, and feeling steadfast on my feet once more, I know my course of action.
Sometimes, you just have to cut your losses and walk away.
Fuzzy Socks by Jordan Corley
I looked down at the battered black boots I had shoved my feet into this gloomy morning. The only pair of shoes that would fit over my fuzzy socks. Today the frills of blue stripes poked out over the top. I thought of how Mal would’ve tackled me before letting me outside with my socks showing. Are you trying to look stupid, she would’ve asked with a smile. It’s a fashion statement, I would’ve responded. I contemplated going to change, but I decided that would’ve angered her more.
“One last fashion statement”, I whispered, “just for you Mal.”
Opposites Attract by Michael Fishman
She wasn’t particularly beautiful. I’d call her average and a writer might describe her as “nondescript” or “everyday”. She didn’t understand my sense of humor, never read, had little interest in the world around her and smiles were rare. I’m not sure I ever totally understood her, but she had a Canadian accent and I loved hearing her say the word “aboot“.
I’m not sure what I saw in her but that’s water under the bridge. One morning when I was out running errands, she left. And took my Grateful Dead bootleg tapes with her.
Apparently opposites don’t attract.
Boots by Carol Keefer
Everything was wet even his gun. Mitch sat on the ground drying his boots in the sunlight no matter that this winter sun was weak. He had spread his anorak over some nearby rocks. He was hoping more that the breeze would dry the coat rather than the sunshine.
That grizzly had ran him right off a precipice into the lake below. He hadn’t been planning a swim. He wanted to increase his mileage away from where he left her remains in that shallow grave under some brush. He’d been walking for days in case someone might pursue him.
The Killers by Anurag Bakhshi
“This is the third time that the killer has struck on this beach in as many weeks,” remarked Inspector Lestrade.
“Killers,” replied Sherlock Holmes in his usual dead-pan style, “There are prints of four different pairs of boots coming out of the water, and then going back. Finding a boat that was out last night with four people should not be too difficult even for you.”
Taking off his boots in the small cove near them, the octopus listened to this conversation and smiled grimly, as he plotted the death of the next hunter involved in his son’s murder.
Booted Out by Irene Waters
Kenny’s wife kicked him out. “She’s mentally ill,” he said. He stayed with friends. After too many repetitious stories whilst invading her personal space, the friend’s wife ousted him. “Poor Digby,” he said. Next, some acquaintances without wives. They evicted him when he gambled his cash and stopped paying his way, . “Ungrateful,” he said. “Better by meself. I’ve got me boat, car and clothes. That’s all I need.” He ate, drank and showered at the golf club then wobbled the short distance to bed.
Rudely awoken, Kenny heard, “Get your boat outta the carpark. We’re giving you the boot.”
Uncle Des. by Michael
Uncles Des threw his old boots down his back yard. Over the years there were a great number of boots scattered about.
He said his life savings were inside one of them and with the randomness of his boots lying about and his money hungry relos sniffing about looking for his savings he kept an eye on his yard, as did his faithful hound Savage.
You couldn’t get into the yard unless you found a way past the dog.
Des laughed at the methods used by his kin, but Des knew where his loot was and they never would.
Boots (from Wolves at Bay) by Kerry E. B. Black
Ward slipped off his boots easily as a seal slipping into water. Mud from his trek clung to the soles, a reminder he’d not truly escaped the situation. Its insidious hold waited. With an old rag, he wiped the boot bottoms, but no matter how many swipes, streaks remained like broken shards from a mirror to his past. He’d have no choice but confront the truth.
“They’ll come for her, and if she’s not here, they’ll take us. You. They’ll put us on trial in her place, and still, they’ll catch her. She can’t run, and neither can we.”
Boots by Cheryl Oreglia
Flying through the back door at the ranch, I’m stopped dead in my tracks, alarmed by the blood on the worn boots jamming the screen. They were tossed aside as if the person was in a hurry and suddenly I am not.
I stare at the blood pooling beside the muddy heel. My mind racing to identify any scenario that would warrant the thick red puddle. None surfaces.
I enter the house slowly, the silence is so loud it rings in my ears, I feel the counter make contact with my head as I hit the floor. Total blackness…
(For the full multi-authored story go to CR Collaboration.)
Boots by Eric Pone
Eowyn ran his fingers over the boots. They were black, beaten and well worn, simple. He ran his hand over the toe box and remembered the foot that used to wear it. Before the war that foot was cracked and dry from many many hills humped and many packs worn. As he turned and looked at the body before him he couldn’t help but question his decision. This person had shot at him over thirty times. Yes this body meant to kill him as dead as he had accomplished. But this was his father and his death deserved reflection.
Boots by Shane Kroetsch
“Get the gun outta my face!”
“I said gimme your boots man…”
His hair was soaked with sweat. One eye was almost swollen shut. The cuffs of his jeans were damp. There was a ragged hole at his thigh with a ring of crimson soaking into the material and trailing down his leg. His feet were scratched and raw at the soles. The pinky toe on his left foot was missing the nail.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble.”
The man steadied the revolver and pulled the hammer back, “Take ‘em off and walk away, won’t be no trouble.”
A Strange Pair by Drake Scott
The Nikes, the Sorels, even the Berkenstocks were hanging on every word of the Brown Florsheims’ story. Exhilarated, having just returned from a night of dancing, he was trying to recount the events of the night without tripping over his own tongue, but he couldn’t spill his soul fast enough. The door opened for a second time.
The most graceful, foreign, elegant curves of pink Lulus sauntered in. “Hey fellas.” She said. “Your laces are hanging out.”
Only the Work Boots were old enough to remember the last time a pair of High Heels had been in the house.