• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Keys do not glitter, but they catch light. The rats might take keys for two reasons: a) the keys catch light or b) to persecute Brey. Nothing must be blamed on his father. Everything can be blamed on the rats.

But should it? Perhaps his father and the rats are working together against him, his father's hatred of rats a cover-up for his father's hatred of his son.

Brey will return to his rooms. He will return to confront his father, to force him to reveal the truth. This time Brey will not be easily satisfied.

His Desk.

Turning a corner, he comes to the end of the fishline.

In the middle of an otherwise empty intersection stands his desk, all the drawers missing but one. One of the legs has been gnawed off, the stump of it lying near Brey, the fishline wound around it.

He winds the fishline around his hand, reeling the leg to him. It must have taken a vast number of rats to carry his desk through the halls. The two rats that have escaped his father have multiplied.

He opens the remaining drawer. Within, a canteen and three jars of peach preserves. His papers are missing, perhaps destroyed. He closes the drawer.

Leaving the desk, he follows the fishline out. Ten intersections later, he reaches the new end of his fishline.

He lifts it, examines it. The end of the fishline is neither stretched nor curled nor deformed. It has been cleanly cut. He has lost his rooms.

His Wandering.

He attaches one end of the shortened fishline to the desk. To the other, he attaches the broken desk leg. He holds onto the leg as he explores the halls, reeling and unreeling the fishline as if the leg were a spool.

The fishline reaches to a distance of ten intersections. He maps a roughly diamond-shaped area, ten intersections in each cardinal direction, less for those intersections which he cannot approach directly. He does not find keys.

Using a key, he scratches a map onto the surface of the desk. He codes "O" for intersections without keys, " ― " and "|" for hallways. If he finds intersections with keys, he will record them with an "X."

He explores in every direction. He reaches the limit of his fishline. Within his range are no keys to collect, no new hallways, no terminal walls, no windows. He sits on the floor near the desk, eating the last of his peaches. His fingers are stained yellow, his mask glazed below the mouth. The crack in the forehead of the mask has spread wider, exposing the cloth beneath.

He licks his fingers. He stands and sets out, exploring again the same halls.

He chooses a direction, follows the fishline to its end. His father stands one intersection farther, well out of his reach.

His father cups his hands around his mouth. "Brey!" his father calls. Brey lifts the desk leg up, shows his father the fishline attached to it. His father, squinting, moves a few steps closer. "Where is the spool?" says his father. "Cut," Brey says. "Rats." "Are you sure it was rats, Brey?" "Not rats?" says Brey.

"Whoever cut it did you a favor. You must leave the fishline."

Brey shakes his head.

"Come here, Brey," says his father.

Brey does not move.

"Who gave you life, Brey?" says his father. "Is that where I went wrong?"

Brey takes a step backward. He turns, flees. His father remains motionless, watching him run.

He takes hold of the desk and pulls. The desk groans toward him, listing toward the corner missing the leg. Walking backward, he drags the desk after him.

He pulls the desk into the next intersection. Unreeling his fishline, he explores the additional hallways he can reach from there.

There are no keys in the new intersections. He returns to the desk, scratching his findings onto the surface. He pulls the desk forward an intersection, sets out.

The desktop is covered with scratches. He humps the desk forward. He travels to a new intersection, this one filled with dust.

He closes his eyes. He drops to his knees, poking his fingers forward. He finds no keys.

He drags the desk forward one intersection, sets out. Beyond the first