OFF TOPIC: The Game

A friend inspired me to hunt down some of my old writings.. glad she did, I'm fond of this story.

There is no poker here.. only an analogy of life through chess.. so move on;


The Game

Edinburgh , 1996

Ticktockticktockticktocktick.... The relentless sound of the clock beats through the room, the only sound in the air, the occasional cough, or sniff disturbs the concentration, but always ticktockticktockticktocktick. Ideas flitted unbidden, some worthy of note, some idle speculation, mostly hopes, which would be dismissed contemptuously. The air was stuffy, closing in, nervous energy had nowhere to be expended but the rapid beating of the heart. Ticktockticktockticktocktick... time, slowly running away, the anticipation of winning, but the fear that it could all too easily disappear. What to do? Plans formed and tantalisingly flitted away with the realisation of being too appealing for their own good, unnecessary complications, simplicity. Ticktockticktockticktocktick... again the clock beat its way into the mind, the eye glanced at the clock, panic, time running out, anticipation of winning, complications, simplifications, move.
A hand stretched out, shaking, anger at showing a weakness. Move. The hand hovered unsure. Move. The other side stirs in expectation. Move. Can't turn back now. Move. A piece is slided from one square to another.

Wrong move.

Alarm bells ring through the mind, wrong move, as soon as the piece was touched, bile rises, everything becomes clear, too late to stop.
The clock stops as the shaking hand presses down on the monotonous tock...clunk...t icktockticktockticktocktick…. the other side of the timepiece cheerfully ticks its mockery.
The move is finished. From the other side the posture changes, form hunched to straight-backed, from submissive to oppressor, the other side moves a piece in reply...clunk... ticktockticktockticktocktick , in a snide tone, and with dreadful clarity the other side mentions.
"Check."
Game over. Mate in three. The chessboard wavers through a haze...the game is lost...failure...humiliation. Defeat.

From across the board, the opponent offers a hand, a friendly smile, you smile back, a fake smile, behind which lies dark thoughts. You shake hands.
"I think you over extended yourself in the middlegame" he says from behind a friendly smile.
"Possibly" you reply, you know you didn't, you had won, he knows it, one move. Wrong move.
"Its unusual for the knight to be placed right here," pointing, "It was interesting".
"Mmmm" you reply, the knight move was brilliant, it won the game, you had won, he knows it, one move. Wrong move.
"Never mind, better luck next time" a friendly smile.
"Yeah" you reply, luck doesn't come into it, you had won, he knows it, one move, not unlucky, just the wrong move.

The clocks had stopped, of course other clocks were still going, but you didn't take any notice of them, after all they had nothing to do with your game. The large hall was packed wall to wall with rows of chessboards, most were empty, but a few still played on. The harsh neon lights were bright casting shadows, everybody in the room spent their time hunched over a board. Jacque was waiting outside, as always he was looking unkempt and unwashed. His shoulder length brown hair always managed to hang over his face, and as always a checkered shirt. This one was blue.
"How did you do, it looked pretty good when I last looked.", as always Jacque managed to say the one thing that would hit you like a knife, it was a gift, or a curse, however, it was impossible to hate him for it, you just got used to it.
"I got cheated, he was pretty much finished, but I blundered near the end, I allowed him to get a check in which led to mate in three" one move. Wrong move. "Come on, I feel like a drink."
"Yeah, me too, I won by the way" Jacque usually did.
"Great, at least one of us won anyway," I don't care if you won, I lost. "There must be a pub round here."
Leaving the building into the fresh air, we selected a street that went somewhere vaguely towards the centre of town looking for a pub.

My name is Kieran Townsend, I'm sixteen, and unless you neglected to read until this paragraph, I play chess, in a way I'm both proud of it and embarrassed by it, I certainly would not tell a girl I liked I played chess. I may be naive but I'm not stupid. But I certainly am not against using it in a curriculum vitae, people tend to assume that people who play chess are clever, and I can only assume they know different chess players to me.
I'm about six foot, rounded up that is, rounded up from five eight as a matter of fact. I've always thought I was fairly plain looking, a few spots, nothing more than teenage acne, mousy short hair, bluish eyes, and a face too friendly for its own good. I'm not.
Well, its not that I'm unfriendly, but when you've got a face which makes old men at bus stops to suddenly want to tell you about their colostomy bag, you tend to scowl a lot more.
Jacque on the other hand, is a lanky thirty year old, he doesn't seem to be that clever, but he does have a degree in psychology, which just goes to show appearances can be deceiving. He's a fairly untidy, as am I, but there is a matter of extremities. Jacque is a fairly likeable guy five percent of the time, and annoying for ninety-five percent of the time, but someone's got to buy drinks for me. I suspect this is how you learn to tolerate people,
Sure, hi, how are you doing, now go buy drinks.
However, he was from my chess club and I felt obliged not to tell him to sod off.
This weekend's chess tournament is my first weekend away from parents, and I was determined to enjoy it, despite losing. In a way its something you learn to accepted, and even in losing, you feel gutted, but the sheer onslaught of emotion, whether it be the joy of victory or the pain of defeat, both strangely enjoyable just for the rush of emotion which cannot be felt elsewhere amongst the dull mundane flow of life.
Of course the first order of business when away for the first time without parents, is, without putting too fine a point on it, is to get pissed. Yes, its weak, its a bit sad, great no parents, lets get pissed, but I'm sixteen, society lets me get away with a lot of stuff that otherwise would be contemptible.
Jacque is rambling about his game, I don't care, but I do the obligatory smile, nod and the occasional yeah. It constantly amazes me that most people think that the smile, nod and occasional yeah indicates interest, you do it yourself, but have you ever done it when you're actually interested?
"Yeah," nod, smile
"What's her name?"
"What?!" of course the danger with the nod, smile, yeah technique is that you might lose track of the conversation, and if the conversation suddenly requires your participation then you're in trouble, time to think. He said what's her name, so he wants a girls name. Of course it would be easy to say the name of someone you know, but you know you'll feel twice as guilty, not only are you lying but you've involved someone innocent into your lie. I'm mildly neurotic.
"Oh, Mar-" not Mary, how contrived is that, ok some people are called Mary but its a lying name, its a name you give when you're lying, "iese, yeah, Mariese." What sort of name is that!? Sounds french for heavens sake. Not that's theres anything wrong with being French.
You see, lying is more trouble than its worth.
"Nice, is she pretty?" At this point, I thank Jacque for being fairly gullible.
"Yeah, she even tried out being a model, she didn't get in, but still, a failed model isn't bad." What the hell was that, a failed model, she'll be the great-granddaughter of Duke Moseby next. I'm sure I never even thought of that lie, it just came out, an instinctive lie. In a way I'm lucky, nobody would believe I was going out with a model, but a failed model is slightly more believable, not much more, but more believable.
"Cool, Tell you what, why don't you bring her along on Tuesday, have a few drinks with me and Sarah."
Naturally, its times like this which I really loathe myself.
"Yeah, we'll see" When you do lie, buy yourself some time to concoct a better lie.
"What about this pub, looks ok" Jacque is already through the door before I remark that it bears more than a passing resemblance to a morgue. However inside its a little comfier, I sit down in the corner, while Jacque totters off to buy the drinks, pint of lager for him, and a pint of Guinness for me.

"Here's your drink," Jacques hand placed the black pint on the table.
"Yeah, thanks" Looking about the room this was definitely a locals pub, people sat quietly engaged in conversations whispered over the Queen music being blared from an unseen jukebox, poor Freddie doing his best to convince that fat bottomed girls make the world go round across the muttered conversation of a roomful of lives.
After a couple of drinks, and inane conversation, we left the pub, I was gratified to note a plaque commemorating the buildings origins as a 1920's morgue.
We wandered from pub to pub taking turns to buy rounds and became very drunk, very quickly and I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that despite my admittedly limited experience, that no alcohol is no fun, yet too much alcohol is definitely not much more fun either, the latter was quickly becoming a problem, trees had an uncanny habit of jumping out at you when you weren't looking, the bastards, if you pardon my french.
* * * *
Ticktockticktockticktocktick ... the game began, what to do, pawn to e-four ... clunk ... ticktockticktockticktocktick
* * * *
On the whole, it had been a dreadful, day, two bad moves and two lost games, it was becoming a habit, Jacque was more annoying than usual, although admittedly this had a lot to do with losing the games. I was actually looking forward to a quiet night, maybe catching a film at the cinema later, a couple of drinks, no Jacque.
The silent hum of the microwave came to an abrupt halt with a ping, the student halls of residence weren't that bad, the communal kitchen didn't actually have a cooker, but in the microwave era, who cares? The kitchen was actually fair sized, a large table with six chairs took up a large portion, but the kitchen led into another smaller section, with the microwave in, as well as an electric kettle.
I opened the microwave and picked up my microwave meal, and after putting it down on the table I spent the next two minutes agonising about my burnt fingers. Jacque sat quietly, smirking, taking a drink from one of the cans of cider I had bought from the student shop on campus. I took a long drink from my can, when I realised it was going to be tricky eating a microwave meal without cutlery, although I found carrot and peas can be eaten without too much skin tissue flaking, and the chips were fine, the pie was a different matter, it was one of those ones which had the shortbread type top. I resigned myself to dipping my remaining chips in the pie and using the top as a scoop.
Just as I finished, two men entered, one was about six foot one, light brown hair, a smile and a habit of walking into chairs by the name of Alex, the other about my height, Asian, and very happy, both looked early twenties, the tall white guy(to me six one is tall) introduced himself, he was fairly drunk, although I learnt later that he was sober about once a month, which is something which is innately respectable, he was also Dutch which explained his rate of sobriety, the other was an Asian guy, who introduced himself as Sam, whom was English himself, Sam was a likeable guy, and even in my distaste for likeable people, I still couldn't help liking him.
There is something about the communal kitchen, which even unsociable people like myself suddenly feel happy to talk to total strangers, and vice versa, and before long myself, Jacque, Sam and Alex were happily chatting about life, women, psychology, sex, drugs, law, the last one was introduced by Sam bizarrely, he didn't seem the law type. For about three quarters of an hour this talk lasted before Alex got up to leave and invited Sam, me and Jacque to a party in a marquee somewhere near a hockey club.
The quiet night suddenly looked a lot less quiet.
Alex left as three girls walked in, one went into the alcove to fill up the kettle and the other two sat down at the table, Sam obviously had already been introduced and said hi, and I was fairly grateful for him introducing me and Jacque, the girls introduced themselves as Lucia, Graccia, and Noami, they all had dark hair, Graccia being the tallest, about five nine and Noami the smallest, about five foot five, they mentioned they were Spanish spending a year at Leeds university, to say the girls were attractive would be exactly the thought going through my mind, but in all truth the thoughts going through my mind was more of a ‘um, er, hi, no, help, wow' if you wish me to be less literate but more honest.
However, my tongue recovered and thanks to the can of cider I had hurriedly drank earlier, fairly sociable.
" Edinburgh is much nicer than Leeds, Leeds is not nice" Graccia replied to Sam's question,
"Yes, the English is better than in Leeds , I think, they speak funny" Noami added.
"Us English tend to have trouble learning other languages, you seem to be able to speak English fine" Jacque interjected getting a smile from the girls.
"We don't bother learning other languages, we just make everybody else learn English" I smiled, it was my first contribution to the conversation, and I was fairly proud of it, it even got a small laugh, however I had a sneaking suspicion it was more polite than out of any genuine humour.
"Most of this country are generally xenophobic" Sam agreed, the word xenophobic obviously throwing the Spanish. "Actually aren't the Spanish stealing our fish"
"We do not steal your fish," said a slightly indignant Lucia.
"You know," after the success of the first comment I was getting braver, "I don't know how you tell which fish are English, I doubt they wear bowler hats and hold umbrellas saying 'Hello, any chance of a cup of tea around here?' " again I got a small laugh, but it seemed forced in my mind, quickly saved Jacque had a genius of an idea,
"Why don't you girls come along to a party we're going too, its at a marquee down the Napier hockey club."
"Er..." Lucia answered and spoke to the others in Spanish before answering "Ok. Sounds fun, we're going to get something to eat from the fish shop and then we'll get ready."
"Ok...we're leaving about ten o'clock" Sam got up as well.
"Ok Bye." Said Noami as they got up to leave.
"Bye" we replied in unison.
Please remember, I'm only sixteen, seventeen in about a couple of weeks, I have always been fairly introverted, and the idea of three pretty Spanish eighteen year old students taking an active interest in me was a fairly exciting prospect. I went back to my room and looked out the window, the comet Hale-Bopp was up high over the hill which dominated the rear of the halls of residence, I got ready, shaved, put deodorant on, and a clean T-shirt, for the first time in my life I felt happy with my life.


I'll rush through the next three hours for sake of boring you with details of the party which consisted of good drink(although the girls were almost tee-total, which while removed any possibility of getting them drunk certainly made buying them drinks cheaper), disco music, and modern music. It was slightly embarrassing that the Spanish girls knew more of the words to YMCA by the Village People than I did.
The Marquee was doing a reasonable job of pretending to be a club, the lights flicked its random colours, mildly surreal against the grass ‘floor'. The bar itself, several adjoining fold up tables, and amongst the rabble of youth, I managed to be served with no less trouble than a slightly knowing cheeky smile.
The music played through the ancient speakers slapped against the corners of the marquees, less for positioning, but possibly more to protect the poles holding the tent up from the assorted drunks. To the amusement of all, everyone sat down on the ground when ‘Sit Down' by James came on, a joke best appreciated whilst under the influence. I could only hope the Spanish girls would be so willing to repeat the joke to ‘Take your clothes off when you dance' by Frank Zappa.

Myself and Sam talked to Noami, the other two were quiet and said nothing so we gave up and Jacque embarrassed himself by dancing like a madman all night, if you would imagine the dancing styles of Fred Astaire and Michael Jackson combined is the closest approximation I can give at this time.
The night wound down, I hadn't embarrassed myself, and even managed to hold a conversation for longer than five minutes with Noami. A feat that I felt pretty proud of. The assorted drunks slowly filtered away.
We split up from the girls whom had their own car, while, Sam(who admitted smoking a joint before we left, which didn't shock me that much), Jacque(whom I have already mentioned had embarrassed himself by getting extremely drunk and danced like a octopus who has just heard of garlic sauce) and myself(I was also a little drunk, but I could still walk in a straight line if I concentrated, well if I concentrated really hard and had a wall to hold on to) and despite our drunken ramble through the streets, on a quest for chicken and chips near a remote hockey club at 2am, we actually found food and hailed a cab back. To our surprise our ramble round the back streets of Edinburgh hadn't delayed us as long as we suspected, and somehow managed to arrive back at the halls of residence before Noami, Lucia and Graccia.
We amused ourselves eating our food in the kitchen, making inane chat, whilst Jacque attempted to heat his chicken to supernatural levels in the microwave.

When the Spanish girls did get back, Graccia and Lucia said goodnight immediately. Sam and Jacque went into Sam's room with the door open to have a drink, that is Jacque drank and Sam smoked a joint, apparently it was against his religion to drink, I respect that but his religion seemed to have an open door policy on everything else.

Somehow, I found myself talking to Noami in the hallway, we talked on fairly diverse subjects in the twenty minutes we chatted, from England to love to world conservation. I finally mentioned that it was getting late and I worked up the courage to give her a goodnight kiss on the cheek, just a peck, she however kissed my neck, now I'm not a master reader of body language or signals, but I felt that a kiss on the neck was a little more than a good night kiss, especially as she hadn't stopped kissing it yet. In reply I kissed her neck, she arched her neck backwards and I moved my hands around her waist as she pulled herself towards me, my mind was reeling, good things don't happen to me surely. I wasn't complaining mind you, quite the opposite, but I was in danger of suffering shock and going comatose.
Our lips found each other and we started to kiss, passionately at first then slowly and sensuously, we managed to move despite kissing from the wall and against my door, I fumbled for my key while she explored my mouth, when I found the key I regretfully pulled away from her and unlocked the door, Noami pushed the handle down and pushed the door and myself and her into the room, she closed the door and in the minimal glow of the full moon we fell into bed.
* * * *
Ticktockticktockticktocktick ... The hand was old, withered, but steady as a rock, moved silently over the dark pieces, pawn forward, clunk... ticktockticktockticktocktick. The reply was expected, I curved my eyebrows together and thought.

* * * *

I'm sixteen. I'm a virgin. I was nervous. Lets just leave it, no excuses.

We had a nice chat thou.
* * * *
The next day came and went, things went well, but the pain of the first lost game still ran a little deep. The tournament over, the boards being cleared up and the prizes had been given out. Myself and Jacque wandered to the pub, with several of the players from our area down in Newcastle .
It is something to a sixteen year old, to be amongst people twice your age, yet be regarded as a their peer. In chess, age means very little, but mental strength can go a long way.
I sat back, as we conversed about the various games, discussed moves, slipping into popular media such as films and music as the alcohol and atmosphere took effect.
It was a first taste of independence. I opened my eyes, lit up a cigarette, and looked about the bar. So many people of various ages and minds, but all at one point shared that common theme of independence. The first taste of which is more intoxicating that any drug.
The Opening was over. The game had begun; my life still had so many of the complications to go.
* * * *
The opening was an old one, simplistic, the foregone moves had been repeated through the ages ad infinitum, ticktockticktockticktock, … The board a myriad of the pieces, slowly forming into ever more complex possibilities, the mind engaged, I moved, my opponent, hunched, for the first time, sat and thought. Ticktockticktockticktock Middlegame.
* * * *
London , 2004

The clocks clicked in unison as I watched by the sidelines, my game already over, the older grandmaster no longer the power he once was, had collapsed early. I briefly chatted to the surrounded journalists before engaging in a quest to find a strong cup of coffee and a cigarette.
The London masters tournament was one of the biggest European chess tournaments, I would have the chance to play against some of the greatest minds in the world, and to be perfectly honest I was frightened to death. Not that it showed, I was pleased to note that my reputation for callousness and cold logic was growing, so many of my opponents seemed to have lost already before we played, my ego able to rampage joyfully through the assorted ranks of their minds.
The journalists nearby probed with simplistic questions, twenty four years of age, cutting a swathe through every grandmaster whom had faced him, England's greatest hope for a world champion, and it seemed the British chess press couldn't get enough of it.
Neither could I. Being the centre of attention has a manner of making you drunk. I left them behind, their cameras and attention quickly fading.
I flicked the switch on the key ring, the Mercedes beeped as the alarms set themselves down.
Driving out of the parking lot out of the hotel garage into the flittering rainy streets of London was mildly refreshing.
I've never been one to hate the rain. As long as the rain keeps falling after the sun, then the world is still ticking over on its endless cycle it seems. The rain, somehow washing away the sins of the human expansion over its land, a reminder of whom man is part of, where he originates, the rain falls when he is born, and it shall drip its mourning when he's gone.
* * * *
The middlegame was familiar, it had been played before in some guise or another a thousand times in history. To us right now, it was new, exciting, ticktockticktockticktock, the sound of the clock relentless, as finally Andronov made his move, he had better moves he could play, the length of the match maybe taking its toll, the final game of 24, he knew fine well he had to win or lose his world title. Ticktockticktockticktock. I sat back and surmised my course of action.
* * * *
The Apartment was empty. A certain ghostly feel to the place, a single sheet of A4 resting on the expensive coffee table.
It was signed by Rhiannon. She wasn't the first, nor probably would she be the last in this course of action, my obsession of becoming world champion too much, too strong for her to cope with. Bags had been packed and a train boarded as I made each move closer to my destination on the chessboard.
Everyone has their own life to lead, but for some being on the leash to someone elses ambition isn't enough to satisfy them. Not for Rhiannon, and I had seen this coming.

The letter spelt out where she was going, if I hurried, maybe I could stop her. But her intention was clear. World Champion was the only thing I cared about, and in many ways she was right.

I boiled the kettle, and stirred the steaming water into the cup, tea leaves infusing themselves into it unbidden, but relentless. Taking my tea, I lifted a cigarette from the packet, Lit it, and slowly drank the tea.
I had met Rhiannon at a press conference, a PR officer for The Times newspaper, so elegantly supporting the tournament at the time, in exchange, their image burned into the eyes of whomever cared to watch us play.
Rhiannon was smart, funny, and she didn't have a clue how to play chess, and despite my attempts never indicated any desire to learn. I remember her laugh, I mean, she really laughed, we all know what a laugh is, but to see one in such flow was a beautiful thing to watch. Her every muscle relaxed and tensed as she erupted in amusement in what I can only describe as a silvery bellow of a laugh.
The trivial things she did came to mind like never before, she used hold her head up to be kissed before pulling away at the last moment, kissing my nose and grinning before turning her attention elsewhere. Her tongue always popped out involuntary when something frightened her in a film, or on tv. I already missed that.
We found common ground through music and cinema, we matched through our likes and dislikes. When it comes to people, you must remember, its not so much what you are like, but perhaps more what you like that is truly important. Perhaps this is shallow to some extent, but people are shallow, no matter how much they care to hide it.

I put the cup of tea down, bent over, as tears washed slowly down my face. Alone, my cold pretensions were meaningless.

The flowery signature, out of place under the exact lettering above, spelt out my imperfections blurring under the flow.

My mother had died a year ago today. A car accident, drunk driver at the wheel of another car. I had come close to breaking, dropping out of several tournaments and refusing to train for several months, to lose ones mother at the tender age of twenty three is a sorrowful one.
The drunks wife had paid us a visit, a bouquet of flowers her dedication, as if to some way ease our grief.
With thoughts and feelings intangible, we can only display them through the sacrifice of material goods. We buy the dead gifts, a coffin, a gravestone, whatever toots your whistle, as if to give your loss a material price. How much of your capital are you willing to sacrifice to show you care?
It's a cold heartless world, chess is the ultimate reflection of this, we barter our pieces, for whatever imagined gain to either party.
Perhaps we will evolve to the point where we can display our grief in a more honest way, but for now we make do with the excelsior mark v coffin, with deluxe red silklining, solid black mahogany in matching colour to the imported marble headstone, with the chipped words ‘Will be sorely missed'

Somehow it never seems enough, no part of yourself is in there, so let me make a suggestion right now. Next time someone close to you dies, throw away your catalog of headstones and coffins. Take whatever is simple. Spend long and hard over the message you wish to stand eternally over their heads. Take some tools, go outside and build something beautiful in memory, through your actions can your grief and sorrow be fully realised. Not because you bought the Mark V instead of the Mark IV.

* * * *
ticktockticktockticktock… Andronov was sweating, we were both aware I was in the ascendancy, the crowd had ooh'd and murmured their way through the game, as pushed my advantage further and further. I should be excited, my moment of victory came closer with every second… ticktockticktockticktock… then why was I bored?
* * * *
With five wins and four draws of the nine games, with three to play, I was well in the lead here, my opponents became less and less confident of victory as more and more of them fell. I put Rhiannon to the back of my mind, I could deal with that another time.
Jacque had turned up today, late thirties and already greying, fortunately it gave him a more distinctive air, that unfortunately wasn't mirrored by his actions. In the years that passed, I had long ago overtaken him in maturity and ability. Strangely enough I sometimes envied him for that.
We had however agreed to go out for a drink afterwards with a few friends of his, not something I was looking forward to, but there comes a point where even to those you are ambivalent to, time has a manner of slowly taking your feelings one way or another. For me I found him not so nearly annoying anymore, his actions were just that of the herd.
As much as society will tell you of the importance of your individuality, take note of the gazelle. When the pack of lions stalk, it is the individual that gets eaten.
Perhaps I have become more cynical as I grow a little bit older, but that is a natural consequence of disappointment.
We go out for a drink, one of the more expensive bars on regent street, these days I am the one buying the rounds.
“So hows Rhiannon doing? I was hoping you could make it to mine and Anne's engagement eh,” Jacques broad grin, and tendency to find the most innocently hurtful remark had never changed.
Shifting in my seat, and slowly drinking the Guinness, I paused before replying.
“Rhiannon left me, apparently I had no time for her” To some extent the bitterness was swelling up. I mean she worked as a PR, didn't she know how to make an appointment?
“Awwww geeez man, that's cold, fuck me, you alright?” Jacque looked genuinely concerned. For all his faults that I despised, he truly cared about his friends, despite very few of his friends actually caring for him at all. In many respects that denial is endearing.
“Yeah, I'm good, you know, this is a fairly important time in my career, she knew that,” I shrugged, closing off the door to any grief I had felt.
Jacque stood up, and I glanced towards the door, Ann, Jacques now fiancée had turned up, with a a melange of older and younger friends. One in particular sat next to me, introducing herself as Lisa.
Blonde, blue eyes, a picture of magazine perfection, unlike Rhiannon in so many ways, Rhiannon was never beautiful, cute, but not beautiful, here was someone who was beautiful, but not cute.
She talked about inane subjects, almost vacant of actual substance. We talked to each other for most of the night, talking was easy since neither of us had anything of import into the conversation.

With independence after youth comes a certain responsibility. Rejection and Pain comes as a natural consequence of your independence.
Here I was well on the road to my dream of being world champion. Life was taking shape, and yet in the midst of rejection, talking to the next person, whom in all likelihood would become another watery signature in a cold lonely apartment.
Stop holding yourself responsible for everything. You will, have been maybe, hurt, and theres nothing you can do about it. Embrace pain and rejection as your friend, because he makes a bitter enemy.
* * * *
ticktockticktockticktockticktockticktock…. Middlegame no matter how complex it seems, no matter how many people play it, always seems to hold onto that singular theme that once complicated, it strives to simplify itself. I wonder if life is truly a game like that.
* * * *
Paris , 2012
ticktock….. my recollections of my life came sharply into focus, I wasn't concentrating, the board was a mess. But I was still in a strong position, the win and my dreams so close.
I got back with Rhiannon a year ago. I had a large party for my thirty second birthday, she had accepted the invitation and had appeared, I noticed immediately the lack of a ring on her index finger. She had changed somewhat, that childish devilish glint was somehow sharper but more refined. We talked about the past, we ended up in bed together and picked up where we left off. Both of admitted that it was probably a mistake, but we were both lonely, and we were familiar ground, even so many years down the line. We simply hadn't bothered letting go of that familiarity.
* * * *
Ticktockticktock… staring at me, Andronov had made his move and waited patiently for me to write it down, I took my eyes from the blank wall that served as a background for my memories, and sighed. Ticktockticktock… Time counts itself away no matter what you do.
The voice message left on the computer was a twisted version of the sheet of A4, those eight years ago. Like the games of the masters before us, we had retraced our steps of the game.
Her taxi would be arriving at the airport around now, Washington the shimmering background to my victory here. She would be waiting another hour for the plane. My game still had ninety minutes left.
She had been the same, silvery laugh, playful, she could find humour in the little things, trivial things, the small beetle in the pavement dodging the footsteps, stubbing my toe on the bed post, little things, the way I rubbed my feet together before putting my arm around her at night.
I allowed myself to smile at her little quirks, she would bite her fingernails during Disney movies, to stop herself crying. For all you may think, that you should categorise your ideal person, a perfect body, a sense of humour, intelligence, sense of fun, its largely meaningless. Those little things between the intelligence and humour, the biting of fingernails, the nuzzle before finally resting the head to sleep. Each and every tiny thing makes a person important.
Keep your descriptions, Rhiannon was never the smartest, cutest, or funniest person I ever met.
But shes the only person I know who instinctively sticks her tongue a little bit when something scary happens in a movie or on tv. In many ways this is everything.
Shaking my head, I look forlornly at the board again, forcing myself to concentrate on the game.
Ticktockticktockticktocktick.... The relentless sound of the clock beat through the theatre, the only sound in the air, the occasional cough, or sniff from the audience would disturb the concentration, but always ticktockticktockticktocktick. My i deas flitted unbidden, some worthy of note, some idle speculation which would be dismissed contemptuously. The air felt stuffy, closing in, nervous energy had nowhere to be expended but the rapid beating of the heart. Ticktockticktockticktocktick... time,..ticking away, I stared back at the wall, and the image of Rhiannon in my mind. What to do? Plans formed and tantalisingly flitted away with the realisation of being too appealing for their own good, unnecessary complications, simplicity. Ticktockticktockticktocktick... again the clock beat its way into the mind, my anticipation of winning, complications, simplifications, move. My hand stretched out, unusually shaking, I frown in anger at showing a weakness, move, the hand hovered unsure, move.
A long time ago, I played this position, the board cleared, and I see the move I made sixteen years ago. One Move. Wrong Move. I smiled as my plan formed, I withdraw my hand.
As long as I avoid the mistake, I have won, it may take an hour, but the game is won, my old dreams realised.
Andronov stirs in expectation, the mistake I made in my past staring back at me.
Steady now, I reach out, pick up the piece, and confidently slide it into place before hitting the clock and standing.
Staring at the faces, they all seem so shocked, a couple whisper to each other between their clasped hands, a child asks his mother what happened. The amphitheatre is awash with murmurs of shock and amazement, as I smile. The video screen behind myself and Andronov flickers as my move is finalised on the big screen above us.
Dreams change.
As I smile happily at the same move I made as a teenager in Edinburgh , tasting life truly for the first time, mirrored on the huge video screen, I take a bow with a flourish, and cheeky grin of an eight year old. And I start to run.

The clock still ticks away as I run though the aisles to the exit, the startled whispers all around me.
Ticktocktick….
I think about silvery laughter, I think about being kissed on the nose,
I think about the latest horror movie on DVD as I dive into my car.
I still have time to see Rhiannon stick her tongue out in fright one more time.
And I make the right move.
One move.

©2004 Neil Simpson