The Sock Goblin

The Sock Goblin was hungry again. Things had been rough since the tall boy had left in the early fall. When he was around the Sock Goblin didn’t even have to dig in the dryer, he could just pluck a few stinky tube socks off the floor and go right home to his nest on the hot water pipe. And now it was cold outside--this was the favorite season of sock goblins everywhere and why there were so few of his kind down in the warmer climates. He had heard they ate shoes, but he couldn’t imagine it himself.

Now there was only the middle-sized girl and the small boy. The girl kept her socks rolled in pairs in her top drawer, rarely leaving anything on the floor, or clean laundry on her bed. It was a high climb to reach the top drawer and hard to push open from the top of the dresser. Then there was the problem of missing socks being noticed right away. If he had to steal them out of a drawer he preferred one that was a heaping mound of single socks--one so full the drawer hardly ever closed completely. Then he could just stick a bony hand inside, rummage around with his eyes closed as if fishing on a riverbank, and pull out a surprise. He was good at guessing the quality, size and material with just a touch and it was a satisfying game he played with himself.

No, just thinking of the neatly ordered drawer of paired socks lined up by pattern and color made him shudder. He would no sooner take a matching pair than he would eat a piece of cheese or step out the front door.

The small boy was careless enough with his socks, but his feet were still small, and his mother was always hurrying after him and picking up his dropped articles. The Sock Goblin sighed. It was going to be a skimpy winter, he knew it.

It was midday and he was hungry. His raid last night had been cut short when the mother suddenly appeared in the laundry room and started folding things. He had had to dart out before she realized she had dropped one of the girl’s socks, and then hid, breathless, while she searched all over for it. It was a slap in the face when she pulled one of the big smelly tube socks out from under the dryer. How had he missed it? She put it in the washing machine with the rest of the load and left the matchless lace-fringed sock on top of the dryer as a reminder to look harder tomorrow.

The Sock Goblin was so hungry he actually thought of climbing up and taking it--then he shuddered. What was he coming to? No self-respecting sock goblin would even consider such a thing! He, like all his kin, knew immediately if the lone sock in question was mate to one he had already eaten. These orphan socks were left where they lay.

The Sock Goblin peered out of the laundry room. There wasn’t any point in even checking the lint trap after watching the mother clean it out last night. He would have to go into the big house. He darted across the floor to the kitchen because it offered the best view of the living room. With another quick scan he dashed behind the couch. He could hear the mother upstairs and the sound of water, but he couldn’t let himself get lazy.

He crawled under the couch and clawed with his long fingers between the cushions. Nothing but coins and some Chapstick--he threw it out in disgust. For a moment he thought his luck had changed, but the woolly thing stuck behind the end table was a mitten. The Sock Goblin studied it. His stomach growled but he just couldn’t do it and he wedged it back where it had been with a sigh.

He covered the whole room, even flattening himself and scrambling under the rug, but all he got for his troubles was a piece of old candy and a mouthful of dust bunnies. he spat them to and they scowled at him, rolling off and muttering and cheeping to each other. He grumbled back--what choices were left to a poor sock goblin in hard times like these?

He was in the play room when the doorbell rang. He froze and listened--he could get out through the floor vent if he had to, but it was a tight squeeze and there were likely to be more territorial dust bunnies at its entrance.

He cocked his wide head and perked up a leathery, pointed ear. There was a voice he didn’t recognize. The mother was talking and then another voice. The Sock Goblin crept out and peeked from behind a potted fern. What he saw made him go almost limp with delight--he had heard stories about such things when he was just a young goblin and his grandfather was still alive, but he had never hoped to experience such a thing himself.

Standing in the entryway was a boy with long arms and legs that gave him away as a guaranteed sock-dropper. but his skin was olive-tan and his clothes and shoes looked different from those of the house family’s. The Sock Goblin listened, still hardly daring to hope, but then he heard them, those words every sock goblin dreams about: Foreign Exchange Student. The Sock Goblin nearly swooned when he heard the next word: Italy. He rubbed his bony hands together and grinned with wicked delight. The wind had certainly turned--he would have a fine winter, feasting on the exotic flavors of fine Italian merino, [silk and cashmere].

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

29 November 2011