Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Its Socks
Page 86
Moody gasped. “Gypsy?”
Gypsy blinked. “Moody? Is it really you?”
They embraced; well, as much as old socks can. Their threads tangled, their cotton mingled. They didn’t speak of the years apart, the grime, the indignities. They simply basked in the quiet joy of reunion.
From that day on, they were worn together by Dolores on her hands as she dusted, side by side, polishing porcelain cats and reminiscing about the shelf in aisle 9.
And though they were no longer pristine, they were whole.
“The Prophecy of the Golden Sock Ring”
Long ago, before the Great Sorting, when socks still roamed free in tangled baskets and the Dryer Lords had not yet risen, there existed a sacred relic; the Golden Sock Ring.
Forged in the molten lint of Mount Fabricsoft, the Ring was said to possess unimaginable power. It could bind any pair, no matter how mismatched, into perfect harmony. Toe socks with tube socks. Argyles with anklets. Even the elusive slipper sock could find its mate.