ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
These Boots.
It’s strange. These boots are just about the first item of clothing I’ve ever owned that’s ever worn out. There may have been a couple of others, but if there were I didn’t notice.
It’s not that my clothes have simply lasted forever—I’ve grown out of them or they’ve got lost or, more frequently, they’ve met somewhat unfortunate ends. Things get cut, burnt, shredded, scratched, bitten, torn whenever I do, but cotton and leather can’t heal like skin.
I had a green fleece a while ago that was the inspiration for the green tunic of Lycurgus, one of my characters. I picked that green tunic as the one possession from his past that he could always keep hold of, even if it did get pretty roughed up towards the end of the story. It was the same for my fleece, until this year when it caught light from a campfire ember and got burned. I’ve lost shoes the same way.
That’s why these boots are so strange. They lasted right up until the grip wore down and the leather perished and let in the rain. The steel toe of the right one got dented, but not badly. No holes in the soles. Not like fine rubber, gnawed away by the bitter overflow of an oil refinery, on its trickling, gurgling, oozing way to the sea. Or the frothing, foaming poison running through the veins of a dying forest, straight to the heart.
I lost a hat in Germany—swept away in a river somewhere. I didn’t have the boots on that occasion—but they’ve lasted through similar. These boots have been in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I got them with a fifty mile hike in mind, but it hasn’t come yet. Too late.
I’ve lost many things to briar and barbed wire. More than I can bother to count. The multitude of tiny slits eventually band together to fray a hole. Claw marks mapped over long-faded scratches. I forget where they came from. Only the scars know now. Now know.
Word is saving These Boots:
But that’s why these boots are strange—they lasted. My first possession to lie chewed up in the cogs and teeth of the combine harvester of Farmer Time. It makes me wonder, is it really the boots that have changed?
Or have I ?
It’s strange. These boots are just about the first item of clothing I’ve ever owned that’s ever worn out. There may have been a couple of others, but if there were I didn’t notice.
It’s not that my clothes have simply lasted forever—I’ve grown out of them or they’ve got lost or, more frequently, they’ve met somewhat unfortunate ends. Things get cut, burnt, shredded, scratched, bitten, torn whenever I do, but cotton and leather can’t heal like skin.
I had a green fleece a while ago that was the inspiration for the green tunic of Lycurgus, one of my characters. I picked that green tunic as the one possession from his past that he could always keep hold of, even if it did get pretty roughed up towards the end of the story. It was the same for my fleece, until this year when it caught light from a campfire ember and got burned. I’ve lost shoes the same way.
That’s why these boots are so strange. They lasted right up until the grip wore down and the leather perished and let in the rain. The steel toe of the right one got dented, but not badly. No holes in the soles. Not like fine rubber, gnawed away by the bitter overflow of an oil refinery, on its trickling, gurgling, oozing way to the sea. Or the frothing, foaming poison running through the veins of a dying forest, straight to the heart.
I lost a hat in Germany—swept away in a river somewhere. I didn’t have the boots on that occasion—but they’ve lasted through similar. These boots have been in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I got them with a fifty mile hike in mind, but it hasn’t come yet. Too late.
I’ve lost many things to briar and barbed wire. More than I can bother to count. The multitude of tiny slits eventually band together to fray a hole. Claw marks mapped over long-faded scratches. I forget where they came from. Only the scars know now. Now know.
Word is saving These Boots:
But that’s why these boots are strange—they lasted. My first possession to lie chewed up in the cogs and teeth of the combine harvester of Farmer Time. It makes me wonder, is it really the boots that have changed?
Or have I ?
A sort of exercise in arty-writing. It's far from my usual thing, which is basically the whole point.
Biographies is probably not the best place to put this, but it was the most relevant of the selection (I don't like using 'miscellaneous' or 'general'
.
Got the idea from this when I was out on a walk a few days ago. I was considering that I should try writing about one really random thing, and then realised my feet were wet.
It seemed like an interesting point to write about, though. And makes a change from fiction.
Biographies is probably not the best place to put this, but it was the most relevant of the selection (I don't like using 'miscellaneous' or 'general'
.Got the idea from this when I was out on a walk a few days ago. I was considering that I should try writing about one really random thing, and then realised my feet were wet.
It seemed like an interesting point to write about, though. And makes a change from fiction.
© 2008 - 2024 kingtut98
Comments7
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
very different to your usual style of writing. this is much more contemplative...
but different is good ^_^
but different is good ^_^