Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Its Socks
Page 46
socks were weak, that freedom was chaos, and that knots were the only true order.
Sockzilla stood before them and spoke; “You fear unraveling. But what is a knot, if not a prison disguised as purpose?”
Some laces wept. Others tightened. A few snapped in defiance.
The Syndicate fractured. Tip defected to Sockzilla’s cause. Grip vanished into the Velcro Wastes, vowing revenge.
And as dawn broke over the desert, Sockzilla emerged; frayed, scorched, but triumphant. The Great Fabric Rebellion had begun.