Saragun

Old by Doug Hawley

The Perfect Couple

Everyone thought that Janet and Mike Wilkie were the perfect couple, and with good reason. Both of them were as close to physically perfect as imaginable. Janet was a tall Filipina – Irish mix and Mike was Italian – German. She was 5’8” and model attractive and he was 6’3” and could have done ads in Esquire. Both were athletic, she was a distance swimmer who had swum the Bosporus and he had been drafted as a point guard for the Boston Celtics, but decided to start his own business.

While Mike was perfecting his electronic empire, Gold, which rivaled Apple or Microsoft, Janet had moved from local showings of her paintings to achieving huge success in New York and other world capitals. Many of her works of neo-impressionism, or as they came to be known to those who lusted for neologisms, heightened reality, appeared in the halls of major corporations. Her paintings, according to one critic “looked more real than real”.

Continue reading →

Personals by Doug Hawley

W4M – Boyfriend wanted

Me – 300 pounds BBW. HSV positive. Fore kids with five differint fathers.

U – 6’2” to 6’5” athletec, edjucated perfessional generous$ gentleman to take me shopping n diner, then well see how it goes. Gross picture deleted.

M4M – ISO Str8 married guy

Kik me for a good time.

M4W – Let me rock your world

Look at this. obscene picture deleted .

M4W – Looking for a discrete affair

Handsome professional man wanting to get a little on the side. Helps if you are married too. obscene picture deleted.

W4M – Want late night fun.

I have low self esteem. Please demean me and my children. Call me a _______ ___ while ______ on me. Must be respectful non-smoker and DDF.

MW4W – Unicorn wanted

Successful, happy couple looking for a third to complete our marriage. Must be beautiful, 25-32, and willing to clean house. Fake picture deleted

W4MMMM – Hope to do this soon

Open to anybody to do anything. Do not be concerned about my husband with the gun; it is only for my security. He’ll just be watching and filming. Fake picture deleted

M4W – ISO Cougar

Buy me dinner and we’ll see how thing go.

W4M Ready to party go fast now

Bring party favors. You’ll need to give me a credit card to be able to verify your identity.

MW4MW Full Swap

Must be young, attractive & fit. Bring Tina and Air Blast for PnP. Non-smokers only.

W4M – Missed connection. I saw you at the checkout at Albertsons. You look like you are about 30 with long blond hair. You were dressed in black pants and white shirt. You were with a woman about your age and three children. You were buying food, tampons and panties. I was in the next lane over, the short, chubby woman in red, and didn’t get a chance to talk to you even though we exchanged glances. Are you single? If yes, I would like to bear your children. 10 year old picture of someone else deleted.

Bio: Doug Hawley is a little old man who lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon USA with editor, picture taker and musician Sharon.  Previously he taught math and was an actuary.  Now he volunteers at a non-profit bookstore Booktique in support of his local library and volunteers at his local park Tryon.  He was inspired to restart writing by reading “Wild” by local author” Cheryl Strayed”.  His stories in many fiction and non-fiction areas have been published in several journals as indicated on his website.

Catch up with Doug’s work in  a variety of genres, lengths and humo(u)r at (ahem) https://sites.google.com/site/aberrantword/

Twit @dougiamm

Guest Writer: Leg by Doug Hawley

(We welcome Doug back with another week of his curmudgeonly and intelligent look at the world. We hope you enjoy his work–The Co-Editors)

Joey Kellog was born twenty five years ago in Fresno.

His father Gary was and still is a real estate salesman. He had been a three sport letterman in high school and was drafted by the Chicago Cubs upon graduation. He got as far as Triple A baseball, but had inadequate speed for someone who was not a power hitter to make it to the bigs. The disappointment gnawed inside him, but outwardly it showed in his belittling the accomplishments of others.

Gary’s relative success in sports made him the leader of the guys in the neighborhood. At work, while hunting, fishing or golfing, or at the local sports bar he was deferred to. His opinions on sports, politics, sex, art and metaphysics were given great weight by his peers. They did not question his beliefs that ancient astronauts had created the art on the plains of Peru, or that Atlantis had not been colonized by Lemuria. Gary was not smarter than his friends, but his early success had given him an aura of assurance.

His mother Mary was a minor league (and below Triple A at that) trophy wife. Unfortunately for Gary his greatest successes had been early in life so he had not been able to upgrade. Mary dabbled – her interests included drinking, cards, volunteer projects (her part of the work always involved the phone) and an antique boutique which Gary hoped would make money some years and qualify as a write off in other years. Gary had better luck with the write offs than the profits.

Their marriage was a success because each was self involved and tried to ignore the other. Their unspoken road to marital contentment, if not bliss, was to keep anything controversial out of sight. Mary did most of her drinking, beauty treatments and phone marathons when Gary was gone, and Gary’s cigar smoking, poker and pornographic movies were always enjoyed with the boys. Their partnership was the envy of both men and women, and who can say they are wrong?

Gene was Joey’s younger brother. Since he was significantly taller than both Joey and Gary and had different skin tone and eye color, there was some good natured debate about his parentage. Gary had no problem with any such conjecture since Mary never broached the subject and Gary secretly believed that Gene was better than he could have conceived, so to speak. If Gary had dwelt on the subject he probably would have suspected that Gene’s father was one of his better ex ballplayer buddies.

At twenty two Gene had made it to the bigs. He was only a utility player, but his looks and quotability had made him a favorite of sports writers and fans. His inability to change a tire, locate Argentina on a map, find the square root of 16 or spell “cache” was not held against him, in fact it added to his charm. He did know the important things – Don’t show up the umpire, always wear a condom during sex and then only with unmarried females over 18, have someone else drive after you are unconscious, get a good agent and financial manager (not the same person) and don’t spit on fans regardless of how bad a day you are having. Having a father in the business had helped a great deal.

Joey was the odd man out in this household. He was the brightest, but intelligence did not impress anyone in the family and education was not encouraged. All of them knew that success was not dependent on a college education. Looks and motor skills suffice. His mother made him good meals and would tend to boo – boos, but he did not really fit into any of her interests. His father had spent a lot of time with him until he quit youth baseball for high school wrestling which was more appropriate for his build and skills. By that time, it was obvious that Gene was the one with the most potential so the family got behind the more likely winner. Gene had tagged along with Joey in order to play with the big boys, until his talent made it clear that he was better than his brother. Then he started to hang out with the even bigger boys. By the time Gene was a freshman in high school, he was a better ball player than Senior Joey, who had already quit ball in favor of girls, wrestling and wrestling girls.

Because of his illustrious, if flawed, family, Joey was deemed a loser. This was in spite of his successes in wrestling (not a big sport locally) and weightlifting. A good wrestler of the legitimate or the show business variety must have a combination of strength, speed, technique and endurance. Joey was only better than average at everything but strength. He built on his naturally superior strength with hours of weightlifting with the football players. At 145 pounds he got so he could lift with some of the linemen. He aided his quest for strength with a nutritious diet and supplements which had not been generally outlawed.

Because Joey was not really good at baseball, his father never gave him much advice. Therefore, he got herpes which limited his social life to some extent. Aside from that handicap, his perceived inferiority compared to the rest of his family made him somewhat inhibited. He mostly hung out with other wrestlers.

He had average grades in most subjects, but was good at logic and got good math grades. His family saw no reason for him to go to college, and he did not disagree. In any case no financial support was offered by the family, nor did he qualify for any good scholarships based on grades, athletics or other extracurricular activities.

After graduating from high school, he got a series of jobs including furniture moving, video rental and the like. He liked the physical jobs best because they allowed his mind free rein, but they paid barely enough for his small apartment, meals and a ten year old Corolla. Now he always used condoms and occasionally got lucky at closing time at the local bar “Drown Town”. By mutual agreement, his entanglements were mostly NSA. During the early years after high school he fooled around with weight lifting and was surprised to see steady improvement in his ability.

To find out how good he really was, he joined a local group which trained at the best gym in Fresno. To his mild surprise he rose to rank second or third nationally, depending on the meet, in his weight division. That was good enough to get him a little notice in the local news and some “Attaboys” from family and acquaintances. His mother used him in bragging to her friends that “Joey is very strong and won something or other”, his father was pleased that, as he put it, “Everyone in the family has had some success at something” and his brother told him “I might not be the only star in the family”.

After about a year of holding steady in the rankings, he finally got a break or lost his brakes. He was driving alone outside of town on a rare rainy day when he ran off the road. A friend, Garfield Travis, who was following him took him to a nearby clinic where his legs below the knees had to amputated.

Although he was not exactly famous, he was well enough known that he was showered with best wishes, presents and money. The local tech school “Better Than McJobs” paid his way through programming school while he recuperated. He got good, lightweight prosthetics which while not as good as the original issue, never got athletes foot or ingrown toenails.

To the surprise and amazement of most, Joey was as good at weightlifting, albeit a bit more mechanical, as ever after he finished physical therapy. Fortunately, style doesn’t count as it does in body building and synchronized swimming. Better yet, the light weight prosthetics lowered his weight enough to put him in a lighter division where he could be the best in the world.

When he began winning competitions, two things happened. First, some competitors and fans said that he had an unfair “bionic” advantage. In this case, he was the $5,432.50 man – the cost of the prosthetics as donated by a sympathetic citizen. The reaction to the criticism was being lionized by editorial writers and opinion makers around the country. Politicians of all stripes and dots rallied to his defense as did various athletes who had gone through similar difficulties. He was compared to the gymnast who completed her routine in the Olympics despite voluminous and noisy flatulence. His picture was put on the front of the breakfast cereal of endorsers. He became the actual poster boy (not the figurative or metaphorical, but actual) of the Disabled and / or Disgruntled Political Action Group.

The End

Or so it seemed except for those 7 or 8 people who knew differently. Joey had “issues” and he had a lot of information. Agents had told him number three would get him nothing, but number one would pay off. Brian Silver was ready to represent him if he could move up. Before drinking to excess and past remembrance (what did they do later that evening – he didn’t know) with a physical therapist named Jane Lane he had learned a lot about the prosthetics and physical therapy involved in lower limb amputations. When he was sober he found that Jane knew an emergency clinic Quick Fix that would provide services not sanctioned by the late Hipocrates (who was, after all, far beyond approving or disapproving).

Garfield and Joey ran Joey’s car off the road close to Quick Fix. Under anesthesia, Joey’s lower legs were amputated. Brian Silver did all of the public relations from the sympathy campaign, through the protests against his competition and ultimately the overwhelming support he received.

How do I know the whole story? I was assigned to what appeared to be a normal public interest story about Joey by Sports Deified. One of the people I interviewed for the story was Jane Lane. The interview started at Drown Town, but ended at her apartment. I don’t know if it was my charm, good looks (not likely), the aphrodisiac qualities of Budweiser, or the fact that I was from a national magazine, but we ended up in the sack. The next morning, when I woke up she was quietly weeping. I have gotten that reaction more than once and I know that it can represent either an emotional release or fornicator’s regret. When I asked her why she was crying, most of the Joey Kellog story came out. I later pieced together the rest.

Is Joey crazy? Is family to blame? Should I run the story as is, or the sugar coated version? Maybe I should have another beer rather than ask any more questions.

Appeared in Insert Magazine, and Down In The Dirt and Raven Cage

Bio: Doug Hawley is a little old man who lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon USA with editor, picture taker and musician Sharon.  Previously he taught math and was an actuary.  Now he volunteers at a non-profit bookstore Booktique in support of his local library and volunteers at his local park Tryon.  He was inspired to restart writing by reading “Wild” by local author” Cheryl Strayed”.  His stories in many fiction and non-fiction areas have been published in several journals as indicated on his website.

Catch up with Doug’s work in  a variety of genres, lengths and humo(u)r at (ahem) https://sites.google.com/site/aberrantword/

Loud Socks by David Henson

(Today is the second appearance by the wonderful Mr. H, and we hope to show more of his work soon–LA)

Loud Socks

The sensation isn’t pain exactly, but flashes yellow as Nurse Flanigan flushes my ear then works some kind of instrument deep inside it. She says the wax plug is thick and hard and goes at it again. It’s as if she’s using a firehose and sword when they’re so close to my ear drum.

“There we go, Mr. James,” she says finally and holds the culprit on a tissue. Looks like a roach. I half expect it to scurry up her arm. “Can you hear better?” she says.

“What?” I reply loudly, then chuckle away the look of panic from her face. Not sure if my humor landed softly or crashed and burned. She brandishes the firehose and Excalibur and steps ominously to my other ear.

“This one’s even worse,” she says and has at it till the sensation progresses to red. I tell her I need a break.

We sit in silence awkward as a first date. The paper sheet on the examining table crackles as I shift my weight. I read the poster on how to save someone from choking. Finally she mentions her son is starting college and asks if I have children. Three. Grandkids? Six, I say, then tell her I’m ready to resume before she asks for names or ages.

After a few fierce minutes, she ta-da’s the piece of my brain she’s removed. I knew she was too deep. She looks at me and mouths something silently. I mock shock.

“Got you back,” she says, and we both grin. Then she warns I might be tender. She nods toward my feet. “Do those hurt your ears?” I see my pants have hiked up revealing my yellow-green-and orange-striped socks. “They’re so loud,” she laughs.

She can take a joke as well as dish out her own. Nice. She says if I have my ears cleansed more often, it won’t be so unpleasant. I suggest monthly, but she thinks yearly would be sufficient. I ask for her card as a reminder and make a mental note to come back in six months. Maybe sooner.

#

I announce to the kids I’m home, write Loud Socks on the back of Nurse Flanigan’s card and put it in the silverware drawer with the others. One of my girls, Tabby, jumps off the counter and rubs against my legs. I pause a moment then check on Clementine. She’s nursing her litter of six on the pile of dirty clothes in my closet. She looks at me and mews softly. If serenity had a sound, that would be it. No sign of Mr. Jinx. Probably prowling the basement.

For lunch, I fix my specialty, a baloney sandwich with mustard, chips on the side. After a nap, I’m already feeling antsy for my next date and spread my cards from the silverware drawer on the counter:

— Shamala Jackson, MD, Surprising Eyes. Maybe tell her my acid reflux has gotten worse?

— Dana Thompson, Podiatrist, Silence is Golden. If I quit soaking my foot, my corn might come back, but I can’t wait that long.

— Patricia Reese, PT, Mona Lisa Hands. It’s always easy to fake a backache, but she seemed suspicious last time. I’m afraid she might contact Suzanne Barnes, PsyD, Dangerous.

I look through a dozen or so cards unable to make up my mind about whom to date next when my oldest kid, Tom, jumps onto the counter and drops a mouse next to Janice Keene, DDS, I love Lucy. I tell my boy it’s a good choice but too soon for my six-month checkup, and it’s hard to fake a cavity. I could chip another tooth, but that’s bright red painful.

I continue flipping through cards unable to make up my mind about whom to be with next when a roach scrambles across the counter. I squash the bug, roll it between my finger and thumb and tilt my head…then call Nurse Flanigan and tell her she missed a bit. I’m looking forward to my second date with Loud Socks.

(end)

David Henson lives in Peoria, IL with his wife and their dog, who loves to take them for walks in the woods.  He enjoys playing classical and boogie woogie piano.  His work has appeared in Ascent, Lullwater Review, Pikestaff, 7×20, and 365 Tomorrows, among others, including years worth of work on Literally Stories UK.

2 + 2 = Goldfish by Guest Writer David Henson

(Today and tomorrow we are pleased to run works by David Henson, a fine person and writer, whose biography appears at the end of the story. We are always pleased to welcome guests and we hope the readers feel the same–LA)

2 + 2 = Goldfish

When it first happened, I thought I was getting dementia even though I was only … What comes after 34? Nothing does anymore, I guess.

Scientists and philosophers used to debate whether humans discovered or created mathematics. I never understood why anyone could believe the latter considering birds, dinosaurs and all life that preceded humans couldn’t have evolved without math.

Nowadays everyone agrees humans discovered math. But a number of years ago—I can’t say how many because nowadays things don’t work that way—some rogue scientists took things further. Mathematics, they reasoned, begat the laws of nature from which everything else sprang. Math was a creator. Math, they said, was alive.

“Pish posh and bullshit” said other scientists and theologians. After an initial splash, the rogue theory sunk into the mud and muck at the bottom of the pond of prevailing wisdom and was largely forgotten. Until strange things began happening to everyone.

In my case it had been an ordinary day. I was checking out at a grocery store. After paying in cash, I tried to calculate in my mind how much change I had coming. Couldn’t do it. I noticed the cashier staring at the register.

“It’s not telling me how much you’re due.” She read the receipt dangling from the register. “It says Mississippi for subtotal, tax of purple, and grand total of antlers.” She whacked the register.

I opened the calculator app on my phone. “How much did I give you?”

The cashier stared at the bills in her hand and held them up for me.

My mind blanked. I fought through the confusion and tapped 2 + 2 on my phone. The display showed a goldfish emoji. I tried several other calculations and got nonsense answers every time. I told the cashier to keep the change, bagged my goods and left.

Driving home, my car started sputtering and clanking. The gauge showed the tank was half-full, but thinking it could be broken, I stopped for a fill-up. As I pumped, the dials spun at random.

People everywhere were having similar experiences. Folks came to realize the rogue scientists were right. Mathematics was alive. But it had died.

People tried to resurrect math. Groups, more like cults if you ask me, worshipped the various branches of mathematics — geometry, trigonometry, calculus … even lowly arithmetic.

The arts got in on the act, too. Although the day the math died, music did, too, poets were inspired. “I think that I shall never see / a heaven lovely as the number seven.”

Despite all the prayers and praise, humanity couldn’t roll the stone from mathematics’ tomb. Cash registers and computers lost their coherence. The stock market either crashed or set an all-time high; we couldn’t tell the difference.

But even though the mortar was gone, the laws of nature didn’t come tumbling down. The changes were gradual and irregular. The speed of light diminished by a fraction then increased by a whit. On average, it remained the same. The planet’s orbit drifted outward. But the physics that determine nuclear fusion were jumbled so our sun generated more warmth, and our world didn’t become a snowball. Offsetting changes in the physics of gravity kept humanity’s feet planted firmly on the ground.

Over the years, people have adapted to our altered reality. We’ve become an agrarian society because machines, which depend on math, went kaput. Folks play ball for fun and exercise, but there are no winners or losers because there’s no score. Clocks don’t work. Most people use the position of the sun. I’ve found my stomach is pretty reliable. Turns out, I prefer time without numbers.

We trade based on barter. When I offer my neighbor a few eggs for ears of sweet corn, we don’t base the transaction on numbers. We agree on what looks fair.

All things considered, life without mathematics isn’t bad. The calamities that should have befallen us when math died didn’t occur. Does that mean the universe itself is alive and going out of its way to preserve us? That’s for smarter people than me to debate. I’m just happy my Leghorns are good layers.

(end)

David Henson lives in Peoria, IL with his wife and their dog, who loves to take them for walks in the woods.  He enjoys playing classical and boogie woogie piano.  His work has appeared in Ascent, Lullwater Review, Pikestaff, 7×20, and 365 Tomorrows, among others, including years worth of work on Literally Stories UK.

Agnostic Preview by Michael Bloor

(first published in Potato Soup Journal, July 5th, 2021)

(Ed Note–We hope you have enjoyed Michael’s return this week. We always do ourselves!–LA)

At first when I died, it was rather predictable. Beginning with that out-of-body-experience thing: I’m hovering, up near the ceiling, in the local Accident & Emergency Department, looking down on a rather battered and splattered me, plus an attendant nurse and junior doctor. Then it’s the dark-tunnel thingy, with a wee pin-prick of light that’s starting to get bigger and brighter, and bigger and brighter.

And then…. Pop! I’m in a largish, empty room with white walls. Now it starts to get different…

The white door opens and Leonard Cohen comes in. He consults his clipboard: ‘Hello, erm, Malcolm Barnstable? Welcome to the First Circle; I’m your guide. My name’s Cohen, Leonard Cohen. According to my records here, you were run over by a herd of dairy cows. We don’t get many of those.’

It took me a second or two to gather my wits. ‘Got you now: it’s Dante’s First Circle of Hell, for all those nice pagans. And you’re the stand-in guide for Virgil, as a fellow poet?’

‘That’s pretty much it, Malcolm. Call me Leonard, why dontcha? Virgil’s still knocking about. But, with the numbers coming in these days, he’s needing a helping hand. So Percy and I now do the English speakers.

‘Percy?’

‘Yeah, Percy Shelley. “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,” and all that.’

‘I see. Er, you’re not wearing laurel leaves on your brow?’

‘Nope, no leaves. They were offered, but I prefer the fedora – it’s kind of a trademark. But Percy wears the old laurel leaves. He said it was either that or some seaweed. You’re stuck with me because you’re down in the records as “agnostic.” If you’d been signed up as “atheist,” you’d ‘ve got Percy. You want your tour just now? Or would you like a spot of nectar first?’

I settled for the nectar, which I could definitely develop a taste for. As tactfully as I could, I asked about Leonard’s co-habitation of the Agnostic First Circle.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s true that, strictly speaking, I’m a Jewish Zen Buddhist, but that’s a pretty small constituency. And you might say that agnosticism is a central tenet of Zen Buddhist practice. Though if you had the inclination, I could nit-pick that one with you. After all, you’ll find you have plenty of time here for long discussions of abstract…’

And then: Woah! Oooff! Ouch! Suddenly, I’m back in Accident & Emergency.

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Twenty-First Century Mr Chips by Michael Bloor

(first published in The Fiction Pool, September 9th 2017)

‘Hello. You have eight messages. First message, received Friday, May 20th at 6.30 pm…’

‘You dirty nonce! Messin’ with kids’ lives. I know where you live, you shit! I’ll be round to see you wi’ a pair o’ garden shears. Guess what for?’

‘Second message, received Friday, May 20th at 7.10 pm…’

‘Hello love. Where are you? Don’t tell me you’ve forgot again. I think those sleeping pills are making you a bit dopey. The meat’s spoiling. Lucky we both like it well done! Hoping to see you soon. I mean VERY soon. Lots of love, Lucy.’

‘Third message, received Friday, May 20th at 8.45 pm…’

‘Andy, it’s me. Your meal’s in the bin. Again. We can’t go on like this. I mean it.’

‘Fourth message, received Friday, May 20th at 11.52 pm…’

‘Still not pickin’ up, you nonce? We wuz discussin’ you in the pub. Someone suggested some petrol through the letter box. But I say: why spoil a perfeckly good ‘ouse? So we’ll still be bringin’ the garden shears. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘Fifth message, received Saturday, May 21st at 9.30 am…’

‘Andy, it’s Jonathan here. So sorry to call you on the weekend. But I wanted you to know that we had a school governors’ meeting last night. You’ll understand that I had to make the governors aware of the allegations against you. They agreed with me that we have only one possible course of action. I’m afraid that, in view of the seriousness of the allegations, you’ll be on gardening leave for the present. So please don’t show up on Monday. If you need to get in touch, it’s best that you do it through the Foundation’s solicitors. Sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand that the school’s good name has to be my first concern.’

‘Sixth message, received Saturday, May 21st at 7.20 pm…’

‘Well, I did think you’d at least have the decency to ring and apologise. I think, under the circumstances, we should cancel that holiday in France: you’ll probably forget to come to the airport.’

‘Seventh message, received Sunday, May 22nd at 2.15 pm…’

‘Andy, it’s Lucy. Are you alright? Came past and saw the curtains drawn. When you get this, please call back to let me know you’re OK.’

‘Eighth message, received Monday, May 23rd at 10.00 am…’

‘Mr Robertson, this is Detective Constable Brailsford here. I’m ringing on behalf of Detective Chief Inspector Williams. We wanted you to know that, following investigation, we believe the allegations that have been made against you are unfounded. The child who made the allegations has withdrawn them – they appear to have been malicious in intent. Off the record, I’d like to say that both my boys were previously pupils at the school and hold you in high regard. I’m sorry for the trouble that has been caused, but you’ll understand that, in the present climate, every such allegation or complaint has to be thoroughly investigated. If you’d like any further information, please feel free to ring me back.

‘You have no further messages.’

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).

Chess Nuts by Michael Bloor

(first published in Potato Soup Journal, February 2nd 2022)

In the town chess club, the final of the annual Earl’s Cup competition was about to start, the finalists being Willie Anderson, the holder, and a new member, Archie Drummond. The club was a friendly, welcoming place, but there was a surprising coolness between Willie and the new member. Although Archie Drummond was indeed a new club member, he wasn’t new to the town, having been born and raised here before going away to spend his working life (profitably) in Hong Kong. Apparently, as young men, Willie and Archie had fallen out over a girl: there had been a memorable stramash in the Gents toilet at the old Mecca Ballroom. Forty-odd years on, one gathered that the ballroom bout was regarded by both parties as inconclusive.

Willie was setting the electric clock, with each player to make thirty moves in an hour, plus twenty minutes each to finish. Archie was studying the inscription on the solid silver cup, the oldest chess trophy in Scotland, presented to the club in memory of the Earl’s eldest son, Captain Albert Abercrombie-Smith, club champion 1876 & 1877, slain by Zulus at the Battle of Isandlwana, 1878. Silently, Willie showed the set clock to Archie for his inspection and was rewarded with a grunt of agreement. The traditional hand-shake at the beginning of the game was perfunctory in the extreme.

Other games were being played in the clubroom that night. But, as they ended one-by-one, the players clustered around the black-and-white battlefield where Willie and Archie were joined in silent struggle. The pawns clashed and fell, the knights leapt forward and fell back, the bishops obliquely threatened, the castles took up their defensive positions, and the overbearing queens stalked the board. The clock ran on, the moves became more urgent and the competition entered the endgame: the kings emerged from behind their defensive ramparts and began a dancing duel. A couple of stray pieces fell here and there, but to no clear advantage. With less than a minute left on his clock, Archie managed to force his last remaining pawn to the back rank, converting it to a queen. Unsportingly, Willie played on, hoping to avoid mate long enough for Archie to lose on time. Archie mated him with just three seconds left on his clock. The audience, hushed until that point, now erupted with exclamations, congratulations and rival theories of how alternative endings could have been contrived. In the hubbub, the customary concluding handshake was somehow omitted.

After a short delay, the club president presented Archie with the cup and a photo was taken for the website. Willie had left the room, but his prostate often required sudden temporary absences. The night was concluded and we all streamed out of the club. Archie Drummond bore off his cup in his BMW, like a Russian Prince in a horse-drawn midnight sleigh. Willie Anderson watched the tail-lights dwindle down the Kirkgate: ‘Weel, weel, he’s carried awa’ the cup, but I carried awa’ Dorothy, bless her.’

Biography:

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).