Untitled Aliya Feggins

to ruminate because the scratching in your walls has turned to rumbling. The tide of the rats turns. Something big is coming, and it’s almost here. It has trouble squeezing out of the shadows, and other rats help it slough up the bed frame. It slithers onto your mattress, and you recoil in fear. The rats are back, and something is here.

But I’ll tell you now, there is no need to be afraid. If you look closely, you’ll see a crown just barely glinting in the dark. It is the rat king, a tangle of tails, more of a seething

Aliya Feggins, digital

oligarchy than a monarch. The fattest rat of them all stands and looks at you with beady red eyes. You stare back, stupefied.

“Why?” you ask, the only question possible, “Why do you do this?” because this feels like a violation and a favor all at once.

“We gave you teeth,” they say.

“Yes but why? I thought these were mine.”

Myriad heads tilt, thinking. “They were once, you weren’t meant to have them this long.”

“Oh. But why give me more?”

“You don’t want them?”

“I do. But what do you gain from it?”

A million ratty laughs sound as the rat king becomes more animated. “Crumbs! Crumbs! A kingdom full of crumbs for us left on the floor as you gnaw with your teeth.” Now a million noses wrinkle in disgust. “Can’t steal soup.”

“If you can do this, why not make your own food?” Suddenly, you feel the scrutiny of calculating red eyes.

“You don’t understand anything about rats, do you?”

“How can I go to sleep knowing this? How can I ever sleep again, knowing what you do to me?”

“I guess it is up to you to decide whether it is a crime or a gift. But it doesn’t really matter. You may not understand rats at all, but I know humans. It’s funny isn’t it? How you think this moment has changed your life, but tomorrow you won’t care.”

— Camilla Johnson