Revolt of the Rats

He wandered the kitchen, looking for a distraction. Sun streamed in the bay window over the sink, mashed flat across the linoleum floor. It was yellow. It was warmer. It was better. He could see Mom in the living room, just a few steps away. The cutlery drawer was just to his left. His hand moved on its own, and without turning his head, he reached inside and took out a fork, encouraged by a small but confident voice. It wasn’t Mother.

She was restringing her guitar as it lay on her lap, her lips moving silently, regaling a crowd of phantoms with an acapella version of “Shooting Star” by Bad Company. It wasn’t Father. He was working overtime at the factory. Kahle scanned subway tile backsplashes and wood veneer cabinets to no avail. The electrical socket beckoned him. Its outline was so crisp, the edges of the plastic surreal, the slots inside inviting. The tines of the fork belonged in those slots. The inside was good. Inside was yellow. Maybe he could fly if he were yellow. Perhaps he could find the birds and bring them back. There was a jolt when the fork made contact and a bit of smoke. The tines discolored a cerulean blue. It was as good as he’d hoped. Something tasty and metallic rose in the back of his throat, travelled up his spine, and thumped into his brain.

The spark was sweet and sharp. It was yellow. It was yellow and black, like the sea snake on that TV special. And for a moment, he was flying. His mother heard the pop of the electrical arc and looked up in surprise. She’d realized what he’d done, bounded from her chair, and knocked the fork out of his hands, breaking the circuit. She swept him up, inspecting his hands and mouth, looking into his eyes. “Are you okay?”