My Boots

Author's note: This short story was submitted as part of an exercise/contest for the "Writers Workshop" group.



         Matt Linox withheld judgment. He always did. What was the use when it just got in the way of having fun? Matt enjoyed going out, and this party had been progressing splendidly. He had attended the party as a typical country bumpkin all the way down to the bare feet. It wasn't the most detailed costume at the party, but Matt knew that it was the man who made the costume and not the other way around. All night long various Deaths, skeletons, and animals of all sorts approached him commenting on how wonderful his costume was. Matt lapped it up. This was what it was all about, and everyone it seemed, was drawn to him. All, that was, except for Joan of Arc.

         Joan of Arc, armor clad, strolled across the room accompanied by her own entourage, a group Matt had failed to notice as he regaled his own following. Joan's costume was complete with one exception. She carried not her sword, rather where the strong weapon should be was a small, lit candle. "An ironic twist to the tale," she told her throng. Matt's eyes caught hers, and Joan playfully flicked her tongue at him and marched triumphantly around the corner and out of sight.

         "This could be fun," he said aloud and followed Joan into the next room.

         Matt entered the large dining room. The crowd parted as he approached the silver garbed female. He spoke, "I am but a mere peasant, but I cannot help but see that the Church has not accomplished its task, although the victim carries her own undoing." Matt pointed to the candle which continued to glow brightly.

         She set the candle on a table and approached. "How is it that such a common man as you has heard of my story? Has my greatness preceded me?"

         "The only story that I have heard is that we should be wary of the witch in the shiny mail suit." Matt smiled. Joan did as well. They both were enjoying this.

         Matt continued, "But perhaps milady will forgive a simple country man. Together, I believe, we will create such a stir that..." Matt paused. The flame of the candle had licked against the paper tablecloth. The table cover ignited and a small fire started to grow. A rush of activity sprang up as some went to extinguish the flame and others ran to avoid it.

         Outside, a minor panic ensued as costumed partygoers bounced around attempting to flee as quickly as possible. The air had grown cool as the evening had progressed, and Matt wished that he had worn more sturdy clothing. As he drifted away from the house, he spied a pair of boots, apparently abandoned by their rightful owner during the chaos. Matt gathered them up, checked them for fit, and carried on.

         Out in the street he saw Joan of Arc. She called out, "Hey, I hear the Mason's are having a party. Care to join me? It should be interesting." He looked around. This was the women who had just started a small fire and left without a word.

         Matt paused for just a moment. Why judge her? "Sure. It sounds like a blast."