Nice shoes – Short Fiction

A few years ago, I wrote with a few various prompted writing groups (in fact, I even started one called Story Dam). I thoroughly enjoyed the response to my very novice story-writing attempts, but, due to some unfortunate events, I stopped writing and broke free of that crowd. (Long story… let’s just say even adults do stupid things online. I paid dearly for my dumassedness and am lucky to have been given the opportunity to *ahem* fix myself.)

I have re-posted a few of these prompted short fiction stories here, and have about 30-40 more that I would love to share. This particular prompt was to “Write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character’s. They can be real or symbolic.”

So, without further ado, here is my short fiction story, “Nice Shoes”


“Oooh, my—oohh.” Layna moaned, almost completely exhausted.

“Mmm—hmm, hmm.” Terrence chuckled in agreement. Equally spent, he lay against the rough pillow sham, back itching, but his body unwilling to move.

Four hours earlier, the two met at Silverstein’s, a local bar primarily frequented by the under twenty-five scene. Neither had intended on hooking up with anyone. Both were dragged out that evening, victims of well-intentioned friends, convinced that the cure for their respective mid-thirty, single ills was a night of heavy drinking, dancing, and ‘getting the hell out of the house for a change.’

Their meeting was quite accidental and rather comedic. As she was exiting the ladies room, he was trying to enter. “Got the wrong door, there, stud. I think the little boys’ room is around the corner!” she had told him. “Why, I think you might be right…” he managed. “Although I think I like the view in this room a little better.” His gaze ran like syrup over her ample curves, barely encased in a shimmering, silky dress. One that she had fought wearing that evening, as it was too revealing for her taste. One that she reluctantly wore after losing the self-esteem driven battle with her girlfriend.

“Can I buy you a drink?” In his best attempt to mask his inebriation with debonairness; he came off more ‘haughty asshole’ than ‘Don Juan.’

“Hmm… nice try, sexy. I’m all taken care of.” She shot him a defiant grin as she walked past back toward her table. ‘Did I just call him sexy?’ She chastised herself silently. Her cheeks burned in unsuppressed embarrassment.

A short time later, Terrence made his way to her table, two sparkling apple martinis in hand. After apologizing for his drunken behavior, he explained that it had been a long time since he’d attempted to talk to a woman, much less flirt. His awkwardness, she noted, was adorable. She relaxed and they spoke as casually as if they had just reconnected rather than met.

Three martinis into their conversation, they were the only two in the overcrowded saloon. Her fingers lightly danced over his wrist. He was afloat in her pale green eyes, gently swaying back and forth in their calming current.

Both had told their friends they would catch up with them following day. Stern looks told both sets of them, ‘You wanted me out of the stable, now let me run for a little while.’

The twenty minute walk back to her apartment took forty-five. Hands found fleeting but firm holds on long untouched places; their tongues had forcefully danced with each other. Dust from brick walls would have to be dry-cleaned from her dress. His smart, grey blazer would need equal attention.

After nearly breaking her key off in the door, they stumbled through the apartment, leaving a trail of clothing all the way to her room. The claims that neither of them had done this before were lost to the farthest corners of the room, muffled by ragged breathing and prayers unintended for church.

After passionately devouring each other with a nearly forgotten lust, they both lay still; afraid to move for fear that the euphoric paralysis may prove permanent.

He glanced toward the end of the bed and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” She turned her head toward him.

“Your shoes are still on.” He said through a Cheshire grin.


I left the story unedited from it’s original form. I enjoy seeing where I started as a writer. It helps me improve.

Feel free to comment below and please share if you enjoyed this little piece of short fiction. Again, you can read more of my work and some of our other resident writers here.


The Beginning
About Brandon P. Duncan

Brandon is a dad, husband, US Soldier, and co-founder of Dads Round Table.
When not knee-deep in one of those things, he can often be found tinkering with a woodworking project, writing, drawing, or Photoshopping something... or napping... or he's hurt himself again... or... something...

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  1. Renee says:

    “His gaze ran like syrup over her ample curves,” I love this line!
    This is well done. Nice way to get the shoes in and the end, heehee!

    • Thank you! I appreciate the comment, Renee. I had to chuckle a little myself with the shoe part. 🙂

  2. LOVE that you went for this!

    I was going to say that this was my favorite part -His awkwardness, she noted, was adorable- because that sounds like something I would notice and think {relatable}.

    But the ending? With the shoes? That was perfection. 🙂

    • Thank you, Galit! I didn’t think I’d get many comments on this, but it was fun to write. 🙂

      I know I can picture it happening, lol!

  3. Such an entertaining piece! I loved the juxtaposition of their true thoughts with the roles they were playing.

  4. I like your style! Really enjoyed reading this piece. I ended up chuckling at the end. ^_^

    • Brandon says:

      Thank you for commenting, Radha! I always love new readers stopping in for a visit! You are welcome back anytime!

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