Red cowboy boots. Grade 3. I loved those boots. I wore them so long I had to walk on my heels to keep my toes from hurting because I’d outgrown them. I felt tough in those shoes. I was Annie Oakley. I was a hip-slung foot stomper. I was invincible. There was no stopping me in those boots.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “shoes” or on some topic suggested by the photo.


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

5 thoughts on “Shoes”

  1. She closed the door and hung the keys on the hook. Red stiletto shoes lay on the floor. Definately not hers. Chuckling could be heard behind the closed bedroom door. Melissa lifted her heavy suitcase over the shoes and let it fall. She had told her boyfriend that they were taking “a break”. Time to think of where their relationship was going. Obviously, he had a different interpretation of “a break”.

  2. The mud had caked on the soles of the shoes. He had left them in the mudroom so as not to track dirt into the house, but after the harrowing day he’d experienced, he couldn’t care less.

    He had returned a couple of hours ago from a burial, and it had been raining. He was drenched to the bone, but didn’t care. Pouring himself a shot of bourbon, he downed it in one swift swig. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he sat hunched over on the recliner and wept.

    Yes, a burial had taken place, right under the apple tree, which was his best friend’s favorite. For you see, he had come from burying his dog, Tristan. The shoes needed to be thrown away for he wouldn’t be able to wear them ever again.

  3. Those shoes: long nights pacing trenches into cold linoleum, caked blood and fluid, trudging, skipping, running, mud-caked and stringy–the laces fraying at the seams, the “don’t go so fast”’s and “hey, wait!”’s, the watching, waiting, deft hands swirling around dilapidated bodies, fingers and toes and hands and feet in synch, moving as a whole, a unit, to save, to squander, to run, to live.

  4. My first power joggers. Woodland. Dark brown, suede, with really long laces. My beloved shoes. My second skin. For ten years, we raised two children together, running to bus-stops,walking to stationery stores for endless school supplies, climbing umpteen stairs hewn onto hillsides of Andamans to reach a really disappointing mud-volcano crater(“It is just “mud” mama”).

    Then, on daily evening walks with the man I love, my better half, quickening to a semi-jog when kids’ exam revisions are due, granny is waiting for her hot meal, or a call from the hospital emergency room crackles on the mobile for my doctor husband.

    Endless taking off and wearing them ,outside monasteries in Leh, cave temples in Ajanta -Ellora, Pir-baba-mazars to beg the Gods for good health. Wearing them through rain and slush, mud and macadam, on pavements and dirt-tracks.

    I love you , my shoes.But it is time for me to give you away. The laces are caked hard from constant muddiness, the soles worn thin, the body wrenched apart from the seams.We have had good innings. Goodbye.

  5. This Christmas, Ella wanted something huge. She wanted something awesome. She wanted something that was even risky to think about. She wanted brand new shoes. Not new shoes from the ‘Very Gently Used’ aisle at the thrift store; shoes that were new in the box. She wanted shoes that she could stick up to her face and suck in the new shoe smell, not the ‘someone else’s foot’ smell. She wanted to be the very first and only person to ever put THOSE shoes on her feet.

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