Cool Chess Short Story for the Weekend!
Chess blog for latest chess news and chess trivia (c) Alexandra Kosteniuk, 2012
Hi everyone,
An interesting chess short story comes from Siobhan Gallagher. What would you say? Philosophical, eccentric, stream of consciousness, chess dream... or, something else? Enjoy the story that ends with a twist.
The Invitation
IT’S THE WAITING GAME THAT HAUNTS ME. Half-past midnight under a lone street lamp and, nothing. Empty streets and sleeping buildings. So unlike the roaring noise of day, with cars honking and engines starting, people yakking in voices louder than they need be on their phones. All headache inducing. It’s why I’ve escaped into the night, a personal pain reliever, and in my hand an invitation.
The invitation appeared earlier today, beside my coffee in a diner. A slick piece of film with golden letters that came and went as they please. And I just knew it was for me. I didn’t even think that perhaps someone had left it behind.
It said to wait at this specific spot, and I don’t know what to expect. I should be in bed; I have work tomorrow. Oh yes, work. Whatever love I once had for it has vanished under piles of paper, my patience consumed by dragged out board meetings. Now I stare at figures on a computer screen, wondering when my eyes will fall out.
Since I’ve obtained this invitation I haven’t released it, my fingers gently stroking it like a lover, hoping it will provide me a clue, a little hint of its origins. I need to sate this curiosity of mine, to understand why I have been summoned — and by whom.
If I don’t, I might just go mad.
Dry words ride on a chilled wind, wrapping itself around me tighter than my own jacket. The words tell me of a spire-topped building in the middle of the city.
My steps are swift, yet soundless. The wind trails behind me like an eager familiar, occasionally nipping at my heels. It isn’t long before I arrive at the great ebony tower, so massive it appears to stir the clouds; its surface reflects back the moon’s glow, as though undesiring to be showered in silvery light. In my mind’s eye I can see it as an obelisk rising up from Egyptian sands — and it’s no wonder it wants to hide; return to the deserts from which it commanded. I wonder what could be housed in such magnificence.
I take a moment, breathing deeply. The cold sinks to the bottom of my lungs, and each fresh intake of air becomes a pain in my side, sapping at my courage. What lies beyond those dark doors? Read further at the link.
From Alexandra Kosteniuk's
www.chessblog.com
Also see her personal blog at
www.chessqueen.com
Hi everyone,
An interesting chess short story comes from Siobhan Gallagher. What would you say? Philosophical, eccentric, stream of consciousness, chess dream... or, something else? Enjoy the story that ends with a twist.
The Invitation
IT’S THE WAITING GAME THAT HAUNTS ME. Half-past midnight under a lone street lamp and, nothing. Empty streets and sleeping buildings. So unlike the roaring noise of day, with cars honking and engines starting, people yakking in voices louder than they need be on their phones. All headache inducing. It’s why I’ve escaped into the night, a personal pain reliever, and in my hand an invitation.
The invitation appeared earlier today, beside my coffee in a diner. A slick piece of film with golden letters that came and went as they please. And I just knew it was for me. I didn’t even think that perhaps someone had left it behind.
It said to wait at this specific spot, and I don’t know what to expect. I should be in bed; I have work tomorrow. Oh yes, work. Whatever love I once had for it has vanished under piles of paper, my patience consumed by dragged out board meetings. Now I stare at figures on a computer screen, wondering when my eyes will fall out.
Since I’ve obtained this invitation I haven’t released it, my fingers gently stroking it like a lover, hoping it will provide me a clue, a little hint of its origins. I need to sate this curiosity of mine, to understand why I have been summoned — and by whom.
If I don’t, I might just go mad.
Dry words ride on a chilled wind, wrapping itself around me tighter than my own jacket. The words tell me of a spire-topped building in the middle of the city.
My steps are swift, yet soundless. The wind trails behind me like an eager familiar, occasionally nipping at my heels. It isn’t long before I arrive at the great ebony tower, so massive it appears to stir the clouds; its surface reflects back the moon’s glow, as though undesiring to be showered in silvery light. In my mind’s eye I can see it as an obelisk rising up from Egyptian sands — and it’s no wonder it wants to hide; return to the deserts from which it commanded. I wonder what could be housed in such magnificence.
I take a moment, breathing deeply. The cold sinks to the bottom of my lungs, and each fresh intake of air becomes a pain in my side, sapping at my courage. What lies beyond those dark doors? Read further at the link.
From Alexandra Kosteniuk's
www.chessblog.com
Also see her personal blog at
www.chessqueen.com
Labels: chess fiction, chess short story
posted by Chess Blog Admin @ 1:49 PM
1 Comments:
At August 5, 2012 at 4:55 PM ,
Anonymous said...
Funky
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home