Socks: The 12 Sentence Story of Two Girls and Their Laundry

Brea and I were sitting on the floor, our laps covered in clean laundry, our hands folding countless shirts and socks, and our voices ringing with laughter as we worked. I was being responsible and collecting all my clothes; Breanna was not. My sister, the slacker, naturally neglected some of her work load and would not fold and put away her socks. I chased her across the house, through the halls, behind the furniture, around all the rooms, trying to force her socks upon her. She finally ran into her room and locked the door in my face. Big mistake. I warned her that I would find a key or that I would kick the door down or that I would go tell Mom. My threats were numerous, but my simple action stood alone. With a quick thrust of my foot, a harsh blow to the door I dealt. Who could have known I would leave behind a hole? I gasped and panicked and thought and schemed. The story I invented, the speed with which I said I had tripped, the immediate belief that my mother had in my story got me off the hook and got Brea to take her socks.