STAGEHANDS
They were grousing all the way home.
"Under the house," the mother replied quickly—yet a lump formed in her throat just as fast. 'House' became hoarse.
"But we already have one there," said the elder one, wheezing while staring at the immense floor.
"Why are we taking this floor home?" the young one asked again.
"Careful. The narrative is writing us," the father said, teeth clenched.
The table's shadow darkened across their faces, then over their entire bodies.
"What if the narrative touches the table?"
"What if it names us?"
"That's beyond rat imagination," the parent sighed.
The floor grew heavier, dragging them two inches backward.
Weight dragged, labour pulled.
The younger one's eyes boggled—there stood the narrative beside him.
No face. Scorching.
"Is that—?" he rasped.
The floor was no longer there.
Alice didn't notice. She kept speaking while two seconds went missing.
The narrative tapped. Gloved.
Tok tok sounds from a prepared piano crept in from the background.
A snap.
No fingerprints left on music.
Schnittke's Concerto Grosso No. 1 simply stopped.
The harpsichord ticked away.
The rats reset to routine—shuffling, running oddly slow behind the Duck, jabbing him during a Caucus-race.
Their hands hurt. They blamed the Caucus-race.
No one mentioned the grounded floor again.
Not even the floor.
Floors were not meant to remember.
Only narrative did.
Previous Episode: Lewis's Weather Forecast
A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.
This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.
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