The Rat King's Rising Star
When the Rat King
first reached out,
I threw up in the gutter.
Who wants their mind
touched by that?
The throng of knotted tails,
the scrabbling, mouldy
mess of fur, the nest
of beady black eyes—foul.
But nobody else gave me
a home, a job,
a reason to continue.
I braid more rubbery
tails into the swarm,
ignoring the bites,
the desperate squeals.
I’m assured we will all grow stronger together.
To the sewer-depths the rats
bring finger-bones, half-eaten
apples, information. They found
my mother’s ring, once lost down the drain. They found
my father’s missing compassion.
And I can have everything back
if I continue to provide use
of my clever quick fingers,
extend the Rat King’s
influence to the slumbering
streets above, wrenching open
the storm doors of the dairy
warehouse so all may feast and nourish and
become.
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. Nominated for Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions, his writing appears in The Dribble Drabble Review, Merganser Magazine, Dreams & Nightmares, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.