Brown Boots of the She

She scuffed her shoes. Those brown boots that were bought somewhere in town. On the way home, her soles became messed in the thick grass. Forced to stamp upon the gravel. Those roughened pebbles were too hard for her soles. She wondered how the rocks had become so sharp. Whether they had always been this jagged in their disguises or whether this was a recent development caused by a natural disaster.1

She had never been very knowledgeable about natural disasters. All that she knew is that ever since the flood of 1968, the grass had always been much harder to stride. Her family had survived that flood. She knew some local townspeople who never returned once the flood waters had disappeared.2

As her shoes slowly eroded, she continued to walk. Her soles brushed against the retiring pebbles. A local villager that she knew by the name of Oil approached her in the opposite direction. He was only known as Oil because of the shiny wax that he used in his hair. You could pick it up from the petrol station for five dollars, sixty-one cents. Oil grinned at her and noticed her red petticoat with his eyes. She knew the way that he looked at young girls her age. 3

His eyes darted from every freckle upon her face. It was as if he was connecting the dots. His grey eyes pierced her cheeks. She felt his hand as he brushed past her. It was tracing the side of her petticoat. With her red flaming hair she turned. Not to look at his grey eyes again. This time she only wanted to pay attention to his hand. As she stared at the blue veins that protruded sharply from his flesh, he stood silent and frozen. She whispered, "This is my own petticoat. Do not touch it."4

His now immobile body halted until she had completely passed him. Without returning the glances that he shot in her direction, her soles continued to wear themselves out upon the gravel. She wondered how her brown boots would make it home.5