(Josie
Sayz: This is a quick little flash fiction piece that came to mind on my way
home from work today. It is a true story… one based on skill, tactics and love.)
Ever since I was sixteen, I have lived by my motto, “Life’s a game, a boardgame. Play it well enough and you just might be one of it’s finest players, but neglect your chances and who knows where you’ll end up.” Almost twelve years later and I still march to the beat of the same drum.
For almost four years, I have been playing a game of chess. I met my opponent by chance, in the middle of summer 2015. I was a little weary at first. I don’t usually set aside my main games for complete strangers, but for some reason this seemed different. He reminded me of a friend’s old opponent; their game ended badly for the both of them. I was worried if I involved myself with such a player that I too may find myself in over my head too fast. Stepping into the playing field, I kept the upper hand.
My opponent played his pieces well. The cheeky smile and gleam in his eye sparkled like nothing I had ever seen before. He was charming his way through the game, or so he thought. I held back. Every time he stepped too close, I raised my defences. I was in control. I held back, assessing his next move. Trying to figure out how he intended to play.
A little over a week in, I let my guard down. A shaky step and I let him take, what some may call, an insignificant pawn. I did not mind. It was all a part of the plan. I was easing into my opponent’s way of play… and I liked it. In the beginning, we played every day – each making our move. Observing one another. Plotting our next step.
Six weeks in, I fell right for him. He took something from me. A piece that I had never let go of before. It’s a move I’d never done. A piece I’d never lost. It’s his now. He owns it… that little piece of me.
From that moment on, I let my defence down. I was happy to play just for the company, not the competition. We continued with our daily play for a little over eighteen months, our pieces dancing around one another, neither of us taking the lead. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable. It wasn’t competitive, but a friendly, intimate game. Little did I know, that was all about to change.
Days dragged into weeks. I played my piece and waited… and waited for a response. He’d show up, make a move and then disappear for weeks at a time. I’d respond immediately, as I always had done, but he seemed to creep further and further away. He was beginning to lose interest – or at least it felt that way to me.
Soon the weeks turned to months. I no longer understood his method. I could no longer predict his every move. I watched. I waited. The longing for his next move increased my anxiety. I wanted it. I needed it. I hungered for it. I clung to his every word that he would get back to me when he had the time. This was obviously not his number one priority; I guess he did not see that it was mine.
I clung onto hope. I hoped to see him again. I hoped he would make his next move. I hoped that he would continue – that we could continue with our game. My positivity, excitement and longing for more kept me going. Everyday I told myself, “Today’s the day he’ll get back to me.” He rarely did.
A whole year went by without him making a single adjustment to the board. My anxiety continually spiralled around, in a circumbendibus, in my stomach. Still I waited, hoping and praying that he had not forgotten our game. That he would come back to continue with what we had started.
His time away from the playing field showed. Out of the blue, he made a bold move. A risky move. Having put my life on hold for this single moment, I leapt at the chance to swipe the upper hand.
Silence.
I heard nothing. Nothing for weeks. Then without notice, boom! We were back to playing daily. This time I did not let my guard down. I did not want to lull my opponent into a thinking that everything was okay. That things were as they were – where he would make an advance and I would happily dance around it. My tactics had sharpened. I wanted more than just a bit of fun.
I advanced. He disappeared. Abandoned the game. That was three months ago. Even during our silences before, he still sent message that he was, indeed, still in the game. This time however… nothing.
Nothing that is, until last weekend. Out of the blue, he shuffled one remaining pawn forwards. Hovering in the shadows, he awaited my next move. Stepping away from the table, I have been deep in thought since. There are two paths to take, but which is the right one?
Over the years, his moves have become so weak that checkmate is in sight. I could end things right now… with one simple move. I could end the game that we have been playing for almost four years. I could be free from it. Free from the agonising waiting. Free from the anxieties that have arisen from it. Free from the mental abuse that delves deep within, possibly unknown to my opponent that he has caused. But do I want to end it? Am I ready to end it? This is an opponent like no other. I long for this game to last. I thrive upon his movements, his advances, his counter moves.
I have the upper hand. There are still places for me to move… ways that he cannot get to me… advances to make. I am no longer hiding in defence. I am ready to pounce. To make my move. To navigate the board. But what if I do and he disappears again? I am tired of waiting. I am tired of letting someone else control my life. If I end things now, I can start again. Find another opponent… but do I want to?
In my ideal world, my opponent and I will keep circling each other. Dancing over each other’s pieces until only our king’s remain in stalemate… harmonised by the game. Warmed by each other’s friendship. Satisfied with the final result. I can’t go on waiting and waiting again. Waiting weeks and months for him to make his move. Not again. I would rather make one final blow. Checkmate! One cannot leave a game unfinished. Every game needs an ending. But what if he’s serious this time? He says he is, but he said that last time… and the time before that… and the time before that.
The ball’s in my court. It’s my call. It’s my move. Do I end things? Do I call checkmate? I have the advantage. I can call it in one move. One finally meeting and it’s over. Or do I keep playing… avoiding the destruction, so that I can continue to live on playing my opponent, slowly, but surely until we reach a peaceful stalemate?
It’s my move.
Ever since I was sixteen, I have lived by my motto, “Life’s a game, a boardgame. Play it well enough and you just might be one of it’s finest players, but neglect your chances and who knows where you’ll end up.” Almost twelve years later and I still march to the beat of the same drum.
For almost four years, I have been playing a game of chess. I met my opponent by chance, in the middle of summer 2015. I was a little weary at first. I don’t usually set aside my main games for complete strangers, but for some reason this seemed different. He reminded me of a friend’s old opponent; their game ended badly for the both of them. I was worried if I involved myself with such a player that I too may find myself in over my head too fast. Stepping into the playing field, I kept the upper hand.
My opponent played his pieces well. The cheeky smile and gleam in his eye sparkled like nothing I had ever seen before. He was charming his way through the game, or so he thought. I held back. Every time he stepped too close, I raised my defences. I was in control. I held back, assessing his next move. Trying to figure out how he intended to play.
A little over a week in, I let my guard down. A shaky step and I let him take, what some may call, an insignificant pawn. I did not mind. It was all a part of the plan. I was easing into my opponent’s way of play… and I liked it. In the beginning, we played every day – each making our move. Observing one another. Plotting our next step.
Six weeks in, I fell right for him. He took something from me. A piece that I had never let go of before. It’s a move I’d never done. A piece I’d never lost. It’s his now. He owns it… that little piece of me.
From that moment on, I let my defence down. I was happy to play just for the company, not the competition. We continued with our daily play for a little over eighteen months, our pieces dancing around one another, neither of us taking the lead. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable. It wasn’t competitive, but a friendly, intimate game. Little did I know, that was all about to change.
Days dragged into weeks. I played my piece and waited… and waited for a response. He’d show up, make a move and then disappear for weeks at a time. I’d respond immediately, as I always had done, but he seemed to creep further and further away. He was beginning to lose interest – or at least it felt that way to me.
Soon the weeks turned to months. I no longer understood his method. I could no longer predict his every move. I watched. I waited. The longing for his next move increased my anxiety. I wanted it. I needed it. I hungered for it. I clung to his every word that he would get back to me when he had the time. This was obviously not his number one priority; I guess he did not see that it was mine.
I clung onto hope. I hoped to see him again. I hoped he would make his next move. I hoped that he would continue – that we could continue with our game. My positivity, excitement and longing for more kept me going. Everyday I told myself, “Today’s the day he’ll get back to me.” He rarely did.
A whole year went by without him making a single adjustment to the board. My anxiety continually spiralled around, in a circumbendibus, in my stomach. Still I waited, hoping and praying that he had not forgotten our game. That he would come back to continue with what we had started.
His time away from the playing field showed. Out of the blue, he made a bold move. A risky move. Having put my life on hold for this single moment, I leapt at the chance to swipe the upper hand.
Silence.
I heard nothing. Nothing for weeks. Then without notice, boom! We were back to playing daily. This time I did not let my guard down. I did not want to lull my opponent into a thinking that everything was okay. That things were as they were – where he would make an advance and I would happily dance around it. My tactics had sharpened. I wanted more than just a bit of fun.
I advanced. He disappeared. Abandoned the game. That was three months ago. Even during our silences before, he still sent message that he was, indeed, still in the game. This time however… nothing.
Nothing that is, until last weekend. Out of the blue, he shuffled one remaining pawn forwards. Hovering in the shadows, he awaited my next move. Stepping away from the table, I have been deep in thought since. There are two paths to take, but which is the right one?
Over the years, his moves have become so weak that checkmate is in sight. I could end things right now… with one simple move. I could end the game that we have been playing for almost four years. I could be free from it. Free from the agonising waiting. Free from the anxieties that have arisen from it. Free from the mental abuse that delves deep within, possibly unknown to my opponent that he has caused. But do I want to end it? Am I ready to end it? This is an opponent like no other. I long for this game to last. I thrive upon his movements, his advances, his counter moves.
I have the upper hand. There are still places for me to move… ways that he cannot get to me… advances to make. I am no longer hiding in defence. I am ready to pounce. To make my move. To navigate the board. But what if I do and he disappears again? I am tired of waiting. I am tired of letting someone else control my life. If I end things now, I can start again. Find another opponent… but do I want to?
In my ideal world, my opponent and I will keep circling each other. Dancing over each other’s pieces until only our king’s remain in stalemate… harmonised by the game. Warmed by each other’s friendship. Satisfied with the final result. I can’t go on waiting and waiting again. Waiting weeks and months for him to make his move. Not again. I would rather make one final blow. Checkmate! One cannot leave a game unfinished. Every game needs an ending. But what if he’s serious this time? He says he is, but he said that last time… and the time before that… and the time before that.
The ball’s in my court. It’s my call. It’s my move. Do I end things? Do I call checkmate? I have the advantage. I can call it in one move. One finally meeting and it’s over. Or do I keep playing… avoiding the destruction, so that I can continue to live on playing my opponent, slowly, but surely until we reach a peaceful stalemate?
It’s my move.
- Josie -
