i heard we should stop writing our dreams

but i dream we’re all safe wrapped in arms

all safe behind plastic curtain

all mint condition

i dreamt the way a nose crinkles

the way the night was always shorter

when

you looked from the angle of the day

we say the word snug in a whisper

i become tachycardia

watch the oxygen leak

your eyes glint white in moonlight

i dreamt the taste of your teeth

dreamt your mouth tripping over

the word goodnight to settle on

goddamn we’re running out of time

i dreamt the exit with a sigh

woke to sunday on high

woke to midnight at the table outside

dreamt the way your tongue slipped in and out

of hazy goodbyes

*excerpt from my forthcoming book lamb/&/slaughter (Fifth Wheel Press 2024)

It is time again - The air grows cold

Time to separate the marks from their prize possessions

They say they understand - No need to read the fine print

It is not their first rodeo

These were my pigeons of yesterday - They are guided by ego alone

I need not even try with them; this effort is not worth my time

This time - I set my sights on larger game

In a sport where predator may become prey

This Time - The wages of sin are now my ante

I have pawned my morals for table stakes

I will show no mercy when I see your tells - I will double down if you call

And collect a pound a flesh and a single drop of blood

You have played my game and held your own - They have wilted from your pressure

The pretenders have folded from my refresher

This time - You dance to the song of my choosing

Quickly clearing the table for our belated rematch

One card - One bet

Winner takes all

Prized possessions to the table - I offer all of my memories

The ones of us you tried to desiccate

You counter with my near dead heart - Recently excavated, still beating, from my chest

Clutched by your matching crimson painted nails

I shuffle, you deal - This time

I will savor the sweet taste of victory

My eight beats your six - My heart returns to me

I can feel love once more

But I won’t - I lay waste to this organ

An act as vile as your own

I am the only man who has ever loved you - The loss of my heart denies a 2nd chance

The definition of Scorched Earth

I am the only man you have ever loved - The loss of my heart denies you reciprocity

Something you can no longer steal from me or anyone else

This time - Your consistent character is your fatal flaw

It is only now you understand

This time - I walk away deadened, immune to your charms

You can only walk away dead

It is time again - The air grows cold

Time to separate the marks from their prize possessions

They say they understand - No need to read the fine print

It is not their first rodeo

These were my pigeons of yesterday - They are guided by ego alone

I need not even try with them; this effort is not worth my time

This time - I set my sights on larger game

In a sport where predator may become prey

This Time - The wages of sin are now my ante

I have pawned my morals for table stakes

I will show no mercy when I see your tells - I will double down if you call

And collect a pound a flesh and a single drop of blood

You have played my game and held your own - They have wilted from your pressure

The pretenders have folded from my refresher

This time - You dance to the song of my choosing

Quickly clearing the table for our belated rematch

One card - One bet

Winner takes all

Prized possessions to the table - I offer all of my memories

The ones of us you tried to desiccate

You counter with my near dead heart - Recently excavated, still beating, from my chest

Clutched by your matching crimson painted nails

I shuffle, you deal - This time

I will savor the sweet taste of victory

My eight beats your six - My heart returns to me

I can feel love once more

But I won’t - I lay waste to this organ

An act as vile as your own

I am the only man who has ever loved you - The loss of my heart denies a 2nd chance

The definition of Scorched Earth

I am the only man you have ever loved - The loss of my heart denies you reciprocity

Something you can no longer steal from me or anyone else

This time - Your consistent character is your fatal flaw

It is only now you understand

This time - I walk away deadened, immune to your charms

You can only walk away dead

When Nichole’s eyes opened the first thing she noticed was that she was in a strange bed, and then that there was a strange guy beside her in it. She’d awakened next to guys before, of course, but never a complete stranger. The surprise of it was astonishing. She had no idea who this guy was, or of how she’d come to be here. She’d never even seen him around campus. He was not attractive, certainly not someone she would ever, ever let near her under ordinary circumstances. But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they? She’d been hammered last night. Even as she stared at him slow memories bubbled up from the depths of last night’s cesspool, providing her with snapshots of truth. Her addled brain refused to show her entire scenes at a time, only still images which couldn’t be real, could they? She could not have done those things. She would not have! Not with this guy, and not with any other stranger, either. Hell, she’d never done some of those things with guys she knew, and liked.

But here she was, lying beside this gross looking guy whose name she couldn’t even remember. “Tanner,“ she thought, “or Turner,“ or some-such shit, and in his apartment too. In his bed. She cringed at that. She had to get up. Dear god, she had to get up! There was no telling what he did in this bed when alone. Though she willed herself up, she was just too fucking shitty to move. But she had to move, didn’t she? Fuck yes, she had to move. So what if she threw up on his floor? If she didn’t get up she was likely to get sick right here in his bed.

Still, she didn’t move immediately. The guy’s uncovered body was blob-like beside her, like a pillow, not really fat, but soft and putty-ish, a shapeless blob in its current fetal posture, a blob with short reddish hairs almost like pubes everywhere, and an ass rash that pimpled the backs of his thighs.

What the fucking fuck? Stifling a gag she turned her eyes away from him.

Nichole did then the only thing she really could do. Despite her pounding head she eased from the bed ever-so carefully, desperate not to wake him. She fumbled around, the only light an early morning gray which crept in around the edges of the patio door’s vertical blinds, barely enough to find a shoe here, panties there, her black dress, and finally her purse. The stairwell was spinning as she descended, sickening her again. The heavy steel security door at the bottom clunked shut behind her. It was cold on the sidewalk. Her jacket? She’d had it last night. Fuck, it was probably upstairs. Turning around, she tried the knob. Locked. Fucking fuck!

The cold produced a shiver. Despite herself she thought about the guy in the bed upstairs lying naked, flabby, and gross. Again her stomach turned, only this time Nichole did throw up it’s contents on the sidewalk, uncaring that it splattered on her shoes and feet. She began to cry.

She never would have done it with a guy like that, she thought… had sex that is. But then she had a too clear memory of going down on him, his hand pushing the top of her head downward, his eager anticipation of the act hurrying her along. With that her stomach heaved and she threw up again. Her stomach now emptied, she glanced either way up and down the deserted street. Nothing looked familiar. Where the fuck was she?

Bits and pieces of memory recalled the two of them staggering away from the bar, laughing loudly as they went. They had walked here together, which meant that she had to be near campus, but which direction? The apartment complex was large, with every building exactly alike. Unsure of the proper direction, she turned right and started walking. Once away from the building’s protection the wind found her, whipping at her bare arms and legs. The morning sky was still gray, adding depth to the fog in her brain. Another right and she saw the University Chapel across the street. She was on the far side of the campus, a good fifteen to twenty minute walk, but by the time a ride share arrived she could be there. She started walking, swiping with the palm of her hand at the disgust and humiliation streaming from her eyes and nose as she went.

Misery and the wind sped her along. Between those things and the cold her hand shook so that the key would not go in the knob. It was Sunday morning, and thankfully early. No one in the sorority house was moving yet. After a hot shower Nichole put on some panties and a sweatshirt, then eased out of her own room and into Teresa’s, where she crawled into bed with her friend.

”Hey girl!“ Teresa’s voice was sleepy. “Everything ok?”

Nichole thought about that for a long minute. How much to tell? But what she said next would unexpectedly light the fuse on a truth bomb, making her wish for a long time after that she’d said something else, anything else. What she was looking for when she said it was sympathy. What she expected was to be comforted, to be assured that everything was alright, and maybe to have her hair stroked while hearing it, but what her comment sparked was something else entirely. “No, Tera. I think I was raped.”

Teresa bolted upright. From the look on her face Nichole could see she had flipped a switch in her housemate that would be impossible to un-flip. “What do you mean, ‘I think I was raped?’ Did that guy from the bar force himself on you?”

”Yes... no… not really, fuck! I can’t remember. I sort of remember going into his apartment with him, and that‘s pretty much it.”

Teresa, a law student, already had her phone in hand and was texting away with what was to Nichole astounding speed and dexterity, while continuously muttering at the same time, “Oh my God… oh my God… oh my God. Nicki, think. You have to remember. This is very important. Tell me everything you remember… everything. Right now, while it’s fresh.”

Nichole did not want to tell Teresa everything, especially not right now. Nichole felt like shit. What Nichole wanted was to cuddle up beside her friend and go to sleep, but Teresa’s tone was urgent, and uncharacteristically commanding. “Sit up, Nichole. Lari and Candace are on their way. I’ll start some coffee, but I need you awake and remembering.

The four girls were all hung-over, having used last night to celebrate the end of mid-terms. They sat close together, Indian-style in the queen-sized bed, warm in their baggy sweatpants and hoodies. ”Alright Nichole, think. First, what was his name?”

Nichole sat with her back against the headboard, her lower half safely under the covers, a warm, pink coffee mug cradled in both hands. ”I don’t remember, Teresa. I swear I don’t. I think it was Tanner, or something like that.”

”I know exactly who he was.” Candace wore an expression which implied complete and utter disgust. “He was Professor Turnbow. I had him for freshman Biology.”

The other three girls’ eyes and jaws all widened at once. “That guy was a professor? He looked so young!”

But Candace was so sure of herself that she didn’t bother replying.

”Oh God, Nichole. You have to tell us everything… every single thing you can remember. This is very important.”

Nichole’s eyes closed as her chin fell to her chest. She didn’t want to do this; to stay awake and tell everything, but how could she get out of it at this point? When it would be absolutely nothing for her to fall over asleep right this very second?

“I remember being at the bar with you guys. I remember us all going up to dance together. He must have been on the dance floor already, because I turned a little and found myself face-to-face with him, dancing with him. He was really quite good, and I couldn’t quit watching his quirky dance moves. And I remember talking to him. We were yelling into each others’ ears above the music and he was nice, and complimentary, and funny. And I remember more drinks, and stepping outside with him for fresh air because I was feeling a little sick, and then he pointed over to his apartment complex and said it would be warmer over there, and quiet… we could talk. And then I remember nothing except that I was really drunk, and that I was hanging onto him as we walked so that I wouldn’t fall down. I remember laughing about how drunk I was, and how I just wanted to sit down, but he kept saying I couldn’t sit down yet, it was just a little further. And he was really very sweet and helpful, although I can see how it could have been manipulative now, still I went along willingly enough. But I can’t remember shit after that… other than waking up naked in his bed with a feeling that I’d been drunk and taken advantage of. Oh, but I do have a vague memory of his hand pushing my head down toward his dick (she conveniently left out that she had begun moving in that direction willingly, and of her own volition) and holding it down there. And I think at some point I was face down on the bed with him on top of me, and that’s it. That’s all I can remember.”

But that was enough. The other three sat in stupefied silence, but all were thinking the same thing. “Men are fucking pigs!”

”Oh God, Nichole.” Candace hesitated before asking the question, her voice a mere whisper. “Did he hurt you?”

Nichole was surprised at the almost cavalier quality her own voice assumed. “No, not at all. I was just ashamed and mortified when I woke up beside him and realized what I had done, what he had done to me.”

Nichole went ahead too and answered the only remaining question which lingered in the air about the suddenly silent bed. “Then I woke up, eased myself out of the bed, put on my clothes, and left. What else could I do?”

It was over. There was nothing more that she could tell them, nothing more that she remembered, although she suspected that plenty had happened that was still unsaid, and that much of it might not reflect positively on her. All three of the other girls were touching some part of her in solidarity, offering positive proof of the true sisterhood that a sorority offered a young woman testing out her wings. These girls were her sisters, and her friends. “You are safe here,“ their touches assured her. “We have you now.” Nichole sunk herself down into their offered comfort, finding herself rock-a-byed to sleep by the steady ticking of fingertips on phone screens.

Still unable to face the world on Monday Nichole ditched it, remaining in bed. At 2:30 in the afternoon she received a text from Teresa that she had made Nichole an appointment on Tuesday afternoon with her Women’s Studies professor, who was also a non-practicing attorney. On Tuesday morning Nichole was feeling physically back to normal again, though not psychologically. She could see no real reason to ditch her classes, but she ditched them anyways, although she did get dressed for her meeting with Teresa’s Professor Finebaum.

The professor was a middle-aged woman with a horrible hair cut which highlighted her general lack of attention to appearance. Nichole was not surprised to find a framed photograph on the bookshelf of the professor’s younger self kissing another similarly masculine looking woman. The office where she and Teresa met the professor was as disheveled as the woman herself was, her desktop being scattered with so many papers, books, and coffee cups that her laptop was nearly invisible beneath it all, giving the impression of one who was extremely busy, and bringing to Nichole’s mind a picture she remembered seeing on the internet of Einstein’s cluttered desk on the day he died.

But Nichole liked her very much. The older woman was insistent that Nichole call her “Abby”. Abby was low-voiced, as most truly confident people are, and was an intent listener, looking overtop of her glasses and leaning forward to probe whenever a misplaced word made Nichole’s meaning unclear.

With the story re-told (along with some added parts that Teresa had not heard the first time), and when Nichole could think of absolutely nothing to add, Abby sat back in her desk chair, adjusting her glasses as she thought.

“You say you don’t remember. Were you conscious?“

”I think so. I remember bits and pieces. I was very drunk.” That last part Nichole whispered meekly.

”Bits and pieces like his pushing your head down toward his penis?”

”Yes.” Nichole felt her face flushing at the other woman’s straightforwardness.

“Were you already naked when he did that?”

”Yes. I think so. I’m pretty sure.”

”Mmm-hmmm. Did you disrobe yourself, or did he do it?”

”I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

”Sigh. I think it’s safe to say you were unconscious.”

”No. There are things I remember, they just don’t seem real.”

”Like what? Tell me what you mean?”

“My eyes were closed.“ Having said that Nichole closed her eyes, willing a return to the thoughts and feelings of that night. “It all seemed far away, like in a dream, like it was happening to someone else, you know?” As Nichole spoke them she realized that her words were the truth, even though her mind’s eye was blind to it. “His kisses were soft, sweet. They were somehow settling. My head stopped spinning while he was kissing me, and my stomach ceased its roiling. The simple act of kissing seemed medicinal for me. When the kissing stopped the sickness returned, the dizziness, so of course I didn’t want the kisses to stop. In that moment I needed them.” Nichole lowered her eyes for the next part, the flooding memories weighting her guilt, leaving her unable to look at Teresa as she leveled with her and Abby. “So then, when he said he wanted to make love to me, and with me not wanting the kissing to stop… I said ok.” With that, Teresa slumped back in her chair. Nichole believed this would be the end of it. She waited shamefully, her eyes lowered, waiting for the storm from Abby Finebaum to start. What she got was a storm alright, but not of the type she was expecting.

”That doesn’t matter.”

Nichole’s eyes clenched tighter. Believing that the confession would end it had been relieving. She’d never really wanted to be involved in all of this, but her initial confession to Teresa had snowballed it out of her control. ”What do you mean? I told him he could do it. I wanted him to. I gave him consent.”

”Well Honey, this world has changed. Consent is tied to the Fourth Amendment now, and a girl’s body is her castle. Do you understand what that means?”

”No, not really.”

”You were very drunk. For all intent and purpose you were unconscious. Inebriated consent to sex does not continue on to include forced lascivious acts that you cannot even remember. Did you give your consent to performing oral sex on him, or did he push your head down there, like you said. Did he force you?”

Nichole didn’t answer. She really wasn’t sure, her uncertainty stemming from the fact that she strangely enjoyed giving head. She considered it her chance to really “see what she was in for,“ as she had bragged to her girlfriends in the past. And because of that, she was pretty sure she had started down there on her own. But if this really went to trial then her mother would be in that courtroom, and her father… possibly even her Nana. That certainly had to be considered in her answer.

And then, even a teensy-little lie right now could ruin a man’s life, possibly even put him in jail, a man who might not deserve it. She did not know how to answer Abby’s question, so she didn’t answer it at all.

”Did you give your consent to anal sex? Or did you awaken to find him on top of you, like you said? Have you been telling me the whole truth, Nichole?”

But Nichole honestly wasn’t sure if she even knew the whole truth.

She felt an irresistible need to see him before meeting again with Abby Finebaum tomorrow morning, as if seeing him might somehow provide her with answers, so Nichole was sitting on a bench outside Staley Hall when he finally emerged. It was too cold to be sitting on an outdoors bench, but she was well layered, having bulked up to present a different appearance, one he probably wouldn’t recognize… and he didn’t. In fact he walked right past her, offering her a quick, respectful nod as he passed by, as anyone polite would naturally give to a stranger in passing, which she almost was. He didn’t look piggish and gross now, when clothed, as he had while lying naked in his bed. In fact, he looked nice, cute even, reminding her of a slightly heavier Ed Sheeran. She could see why she might have been attracted to him in the bar, and she felt a sense of relief from that. When he had passed out of sight Nichole stood up, stretched out her stiffened back, and started off in the other direction, taking the long way back to Tri-Delta House.

Why not take the long route? She had a lot to fucking think about.

“A woman’s body is her castle,“ Abby had stated to her. But Nichole had to decide if her castle been sacked? Or had she opened its gates, inviting the horde inside?

I was reading a post where this woman was asking for advice about moving in with her boyfriend. The stated reason that she is tempted to accept the offer is because this guy lives in an upscale neighborhood in an upscale house. Although she doesn't state this explicitly, the implication is the guy must be successful to have the house he does in the place he does.

Most of the advice she receives is that she should not move in with this guy. One of the reasons stated for this is because the person giving the advice thinks that the guy just wants a bang maid. The term strikes me as amusing for some reason I can't quite put my finger on at the moment. The "maid" part of the term refers to domestic chores and the implication is that if she moves in with him, he will expect her to do the cooking and cleaning and laundry. The commenter said that would be fine if she has any ownership of the property but since she doesn't, the idea is that she would be taken advantage of by providing free labor. The "bang" part refers to access to sex. The guy wants to have unlimited access to having sex with her and that's the kind of thing you should only provide if you are getting something back for it. The implication here is that sex is a commodity that shouldn't be just given away, it should be sold. So, the general consensus of the people providing advice to this woman is that if she moves in, she will just be allowing herself to be exploited.

So, here's the thing, relationships are transactional and all the advice that this woman got was based in transactional thinking. None of them asked this woman if she loved this guy or if she even liked him because to them, that information is irrelevant. You enter a relationship to benefit you and if it doesn't benefit you, don't enter into it. It's that simple.

The more I understand how relationships work, the more I realize that love has nothing to do with it. What matters is am I getting what I need and am I paying too much for it. It's not personal, it's just business and anybody who forgets that will more than likely get their feelings hurt.

I visited the beach last week. At sunset. I loved how the sunlight hit the water, glowing like diamonds.

I remembered the day we met on a hot summer evening four years back, and you were making us tea. I had just read the actual real story of the little mermaid that day and wanted to tell you how at the end of it all she had no heart to kill the prince with the dagger that, if stained with his blood before dawn, would give her back the gift of her life as a mermaid. But if she failed to do this, she would die.

She couldn’t do it. She didn’t do it. She jumps into the water at the crack of dawn and turns into sea-foam.

I remembered this when I was on the beach

There was foam, so much sea foam.

It was so sad.

I was so sad.

And then I remembered this quote by the same author- ‘a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more’.

It feels like that for me now. This loss- losing you- keeps burrowing so deep that it won’t stop, and I don’t know how deep it will go. If I did, if I could quantify it, I would know that there’s a bottom that I’ve reached, a sort of absolution. But that doesn’t happen. It goes on. It keeps going on.

I don’t see an end in sight, for now.

Somehow a part of me that is still in love with the memory of you likes that.

~Loss.

Remember that Waterstones near Green Park in Piccadilly? Right after Fallow - what a wonderful meal that was. That day was a whole adventure with you; so many gastronomical firsts with you by my side! So many highlights have stayed with me... looking back, I wish I had kept a journal of our memories, happy and not so happy, together; because I cannot always rely on my brain for the correct recollection. But in all those minutes, hours spent together that day, I keep repeating the same 10 minutes in my head.

You took my hand in yours in that little café in Waterstones, and looked me in the eye. A pot of tea and a coffee filling the space between us, but both were being ignored - you had something important to say.

Thank you for showing me what love is, you said. I was stunned to hear that - me, show YOU what love is? How is that even possible? When all I did was practice restraint; holding back because I have promised myself to someone else? How could I have shown you what love is when all I could give you was my attention as a friend?

You said you've never seen a proper example of love; that you had no idea that love can look like this. You said that growing up, your parents had fallen out of love; that you cannot remember them ever being affectionate towards each other. You said that you thought that's what it should be like when we grow up and look for love. But then you said that I changed all that. You said you finally understood the wonderful thing they spoke about in movies. I could not, and still cannot understand why or how. But throughout my time with you, I realised that the why or how is not always important... sometimes things just are; and I can only be grateful and feel blessed for having them.

It's funny, because I was under the impression that throughout our friendship, YOU were showing me what love is. In the other occasions preceding that day, and the ones which followed - you were always, always there for me, in so many ways. I just had to pick up my phone, and I know you'd always answer. You made me feel safe and comforted and really, really loved - so it was a bit ironic that you were saying those words to me, rather than the other way round.

You might never get to know this; but I will forever hold your words in my heart. I have recently been told by someone who I poured all my love and my soul into that he has never actually felt loved by me in all our years of knowing and (I thought) loving each other. Your words from months ago, said on that day in London then stepped in - love-cum-armour trying to hold the pieces of my heart remotely together. Since then, your words have never failed to remind me that I AM capable of giving love, I AM capable of loving. My heart is forever indebted to you. Thank YOU for showing me what love is, on so many levels.

'Dear Universe... If I never get successful because I have a lot of fears, may you at least allow me to be happy because I have a lot of love'

A shart is a fart that took with it a tiny bit of feces.

A shart is a misjudgment and also an inconvenience, especially when not at home.

You have the wet ones and yes, the solid ones.

I'd rather let a wet one go over a solid one.

I've done both.

Solid ones bounce around inside your draws, eventually becoming a tiny cold lump of doodoo coal.

The wet ones might dry up and one can be easily forgotten. Ever played basketball with a small dried-up ball of poop?!

I myself have not managed to decipher my bodily feelings that indicate, fart, and no fart, ... until then there will always be this precarious nature to the squeezing out of human gas.

So often mistaken for something else

Like a carrot at the end of a stick

And once it is taken, its all by itself

Without merit like some old dirty trick

It's just slight of hand you do understand

A distraction, though, what it may seem

Yet only as grand as one in command

Such satisfaction for who it may deem

What poisons the heart will tear you apart

When it captures the depth of your soul

If only it's caught before it had start

It would never have eaten you whole

Why even touch whats burning so much

Like a moth that's attracted to flames

Once in its clutch it owns you as such

You're aloft in its cinders of blame

So just take your time & see what's behind

What is capturing you with intrigue

If it isn't your mind that's caught in a bind

Then this rapture won't cause you to bleed

Terry

WWW.WhiteLionPoetry.com

I think my grandmother is magic. Maybe she's a fairy, but who knows. All I know is that two days after I was born, she arrived on my mother's doorstep and gave her a shoebox. I still have that shoebox. It is a tiny wooden box, painted in flowing swirls with forest greens and ocean blues. It's so pretty, the pattern feels magical, but it's nothing compared to what was within.

When my mother opened the box, she found a pair of tiny leather boots, just the right size for my tiny baby feet. They fit me perfectly, and mother used to say that I stopped crying the moment she put them on me. I seemed to be happier wearing those boots than any of the woollen baby booties knitted by my various doting aunties. I was so small back then that there wasn't much I did, other than cry and kick. No sooner had my mother put those boots on me, she says, than I kicked her right in the chin with them. Those boots were made for kicking.

As I grew, so did the boots. They always seemed to be a perfect fit. Never too small, never too big, always just right. Soon, I started crawling. I would crawl around on the floor, get under everyone's feet, and make a right nuisance of myself. But I was inseparable from those boots. I would even wear them to bed. I would have had a bath with them, if my mother had let me. That, she refused to do. But I wouldn't let her scrub me unless I could see them sitting next to me on the bathroom bench. And as soon as she finished, and they were back on my feet, I'd go right back to crawling around on the floor, and getting in the way. Those boots were made for crawling.

Once I learnt to walk, they were still my favourite shoes. Whenever my mother tried to buy me other shoes, some mishap would happen to them, and I'd go right back to wearing my boots. They were so comfortable. And I never had a single blister from them, either. What I never told my mother, was that what happened to my other shoes was only half deliberate. I'm a tad adventurous, and the other shoes just couldn't take the beating, while my boots seemed to be indestructible. Those boots were made for walking.

As I grew older, I got other siblings, and then I started school. At school, I learnt to get up to all kinds of mischief. My favourite was climbing the trees in the hedge that encircled the school yard. I loved to see how high I could go. I'd hide up there for hours, even after the bell had rung, and no-one could find me. And then I'd come home and teach my siblings how to climb too. One day, we were climbing the tall yew tree in our back yard, when I slipped and fell out of the tree, breaking my arm. The doctor couldn't keep me in bed for more than two days. My mother caught me back out there, climbing that tree, cast and all. Those boots were made for climbing.

Eventually, I joined the school athletic team. I loved athletics, particularly sprinting. By the time I reached my senior year of high school, I'd aced the local and regional champs, and was competing for a national placement. But I refused to wear track shoes. Only my boots. It's a wonder I didn't get disqualified, but I guess people thought running in boots was a disadvantage. Those boots were made for running.

After I left school, I got a job. I still insisted on wearing my boots, but life wasn't so interesting any more. No-one cared so much if I wore my boots everywhere. But then, I learnt how to dance. I danced to jazz, and I danced to folk, but my favourite was classical ballroom. I loved the swish and the sway of the dances, and the beautiful melodies of the music. One day, I met a handsome, young fellow at a ball, and we danced together for the rest of the evening. I began to encounter him more frequently, and eventually we found love for each other, and married. On our wedding night, we danced through the night, until the sun rose. Those boots were made for dancing.

Now, I am old. I sit here in my armchair by the fire, and tell stories of what I've seen in life and where these boots have taken me. Though once they may have kicked, and crawled, and walked, and climbed, and run, and danced, all these boots do now is keep my feet warm by the fire, and help me remember. I think my grandmother knew, because these boots are made for sitting, too. And for remembering.