Fiddleeebod

While the other socks clumped together and gossiped in the hamper, the angular sock eased under a pillowcase and brooded. No one liked her, not even her partner. The angular sock clearly heard her partner jabbering and complaining to the others about the angular sock’s shortcomings. Her stripe was flawed. Her toe had that awful angle. She had two ridiculous threads hanging loose from her cuff. On and on they gabbed. Her partner told how Hetty, their cruel and forgetful mistress, had flung the angular sock against the wall before flouncing from the room and slamming the door. Oh, how the socks laughed.

“They’ll be sorry,” muttered the angular sock.

For you see, she planned to escape to the land of lost socks. She had heard the legend of a magical place found somewhere beyond the washer and the dryer, and she yearned to go there. All through the thrilling swim and dizzying spin in the washer, she kept silent and searched without success for some way to escape, some secret opening to the land of lost socks. Meanwhile, the other socks laughed and frolicked, playing tumble games with the underwear and flipping up to see which one could cling and remain in place highest on the washer wall. When the giggling mound of underwear and socks was at last lifted from the washer and deposited in the dryer, the angular sock remained alert and sober, ready to scan the dryer for a way out to freedom. She hadn’t found an exit from the washer. That means it simply must be in the dryer, she thought. She told herself it was impossible that she had missed it. Metallic click, hum and roll, comforting heat spread over, around and through the happily tumbling socks and underwear. The angular sock barely felt the heat. She barely noticed herself tumbling. She was much too busy searching, searching, searching. Oh, there. What was that? What did she see? The angular sock leaped with hope at a nearly invisible slot high up at the back of the turning cylinder. She hooked on, hanging. She strained. She pushed. She struggled to squeeze through.

SUCCESS! Blue skies! Rolling hills! Grassy meadows! Romping socks, hundreds of them, giggling and skipping, approached. The angular sock stood her ground, thrilled but uncertain. Would they accept her? After all, she had a flawed stripe, dangling threads, and a bad angle. She waited, and yes, they welcomed her! Each and every one of them! Ripped, threadbare, with holes or whole, they welcomed her! And she heeled and toed and joined the romp across the meadows and over the hills in the land of lost socks! And there she is romping still unless she isn’t.

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General by Steve