A challenge to write a 100-word story -- no more, no less
| The rats had really gotten out of hand in Gotham. They had become so brazen I would find them by my front door in the morning, eating the seeds and bits of yellow corn that fell from my bird feeder. I expected them to knock on the door, asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
Eventually, the rats died off. Poison works. Now when I look outside in the gray hours of dawn, I see these fat, sparrowesque birds scurrying on the ground under the feeder. Sometimes I wonder: are these really birds, or have the rats learned mind control?