Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #7 (October 2012) -- READ FIRST POST
Charlie Fundle and the Boots of Love
After Charlie Fundle’s mother died of irritation, his father, a commercially inept inventor, struggled to support himself and his son. Lacking time to bring up Charlie himself, Mr Fundle constructed a pair of automated boots, powered by a wood-burning stove, to administer punishment kickings.
Since the only attention he ever received was from these boots, Charlie grew up a somewhat disturbed individual. He searched the world for heavily shod lovers, but though he developed passionate crushes on many waders and Dr Martens, he never got on, or off, with the humans wearing them.
One day he heard of a hidden valley, a dumping ground for self-propelled footwear from the Gasoline Age (whose later denizens had grown too lazy even to walk under their own power). Finding his way there, he presented himself to Tyrant Jack, handsomely tooled in patent leather and Cuban heels, who enlisted his help in a long-planned war against the Autoglove people.
Charlie’s knowledge of fingers proved invaluable, and when the Autogloves had been stomped, he became Jack’s lover. He thought he had found his dream boots — dominant but considerate, and fifty grades of hide — but the shine wore off when Jack took to playing Nancy Sinatra on a gramophone whilst walking over a map of central Europe. Charlie realised he had been looking for love in the wrong place.
He tried a commune of free-loving sneakers, but they all smelt.
Loafers were too lazy, court shoes too prissy.
A wise old Oxford told him he could never find love unless he first loved himself. But Charlie knew despondently that this could never be. What was there to love? He had no fine stitching or laces. His tongue wasn’t made of supple leather. Worst of all, he had no sole.
Charlie Fundle and the Boots of Love
After Charlie Fundle’s mother died of irritation, his father, a commercially inept inventor, struggled to support himself and his son. Lacking time to bring up Charlie himself, Mr Fundle constructed a pair of automated boots, powered by a wood-burning stove, to administer punishment kickings.
Since the only attention he ever received was from these boots, Charlie grew up a somewhat disturbed individual. He searched the world for heavily shod lovers, but though he developed passionate crushes on many waders and Dr Martens, he never got on, or off, with the humans wearing them.
One day he heard of a hidden valley, a dumping ground for self-propelled footwear from the Gasoline Age (whose later denizens had grown too lazy even to walk under their own power). Finding his way there, he presented himself to Tyrant Jack, handsomely tooled in patent leather and Cuban heels, who enlisted his help in a long-planned war against the Autoglove people.
Charlie’s knowledge of fingers proved invaluable, and when the Autogloves had been stomped, he became Jack’s lover. He thought he had found his dream boots — dominant but considerate, and fifty grades of hide — but the shine wore off when Jack took to playing Nancy Sinatra on a gramophone whilst walking over a map of central Europe. Charlie realised he had been looking for love in the wrong place.
He tried a commune of free-loving sneakers, but they all smelt.
Loafers were too lazy, court shoes too prissy.
A wise old Oxford told him he could never find love unless he first loved himself. But Charlie knew despondently that this could never be. What was there to love? He had no fine stitching or laces. His tongue wasn’t made of supple leather. Worst of all, he had no sole.
