A Game of Chess

Charles Northwood’s father lay in the hospital bed, tubes sticking out of his nostrils and arms, dying of cancer. His son sat just beside him, trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. Hadn’t it been just a year ago that his father was telling him that he wouldn’t rest until the cancer was gone? Now, here he was, resting, and the cancer was far from gone.

                He was a shell of the man he had been. A former world class hockey player, he was now gaunt and thin. And his eyes, which had once been so full of life, were as dim as caves. Charles had seen that withered look before, on the face of his mother. She had died a long time ago, when he was too young to even remember, but the pain of her death was still in him, and he was afraid of what would happen if that wound were reopened. Seeing his father now, he refused to believe it. How could this man, who he had relied so heavily on over the course of his life, who had taught him to swim, and given him money to take girls out on dates, be dying? It didn’t seem possible.

                Charles’ father motioned for him to take his hand. Charles did, and looked into his eyes. There was some life in them, but this life was fading.

                He smiled at his son.

 “You’re going to be OK, dad,” said Charles, more to reassure himself than his father. His father nodded slowly.

                Charles’ phone rang. Who could be calling him now?

                It was Mark. Mark was an old college friend whom Charles occasionally got together to play chess with. Sure enough, that is what he wanted to do now. Charles politely told him that he was busy, and that they would play at another time.

                “Who was that?” asked Charles’ father when he got off the phone.

                “My friend Mark. He wanted to play chess.”

                Charles’ father looked ponderous. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back. Then, he smiled.

                “You should call him back. Tell him to bring the chess board here. I want to watch you play.”

                Charles was surprised by his father’s response, but he was definitely in no position to argue with him, so he called his friend back and invited him to the hospital. About twenty minutes later, Mark arrived with the chess board.

                The two friends sat at a table beside the bed so that Charles’ father could watch. It was evident from the beginning that Charles was a superior player, but this didn’t stop his father from kibitzing when it was Charles’ turn. Charles’ father had been an excellent chess player in his time, and had taught his son how to play. He had kept many lessons hidden from his son, however, and now he was determined to teach all of them to him during this one game. His son was annoyed by his father’s interference at first, but soon discovered that he was learning new techniques as a result, and came to appreciate it. Mark, who was not a very skilled player, tried to learn as much as he could from playing with his friend, and found his father’s kibitzing amusing.

                Soon, Charles had Mark surrounded, and the game was over. They shook hands, and Mark asked if Charles would like to play a game against his father.

                Charles looked at his father, and would have asked him to play had the look in his eye not already spelled defeat. He looked back at Mark. “I don’t think so,” he said.

                Mark looked over at Charles’ father. “Maybe I should go.”

                Charles nodded.

                “Take care, Mr. Northwood. I hope things work out.”

                Charles’ father nodded, and Mark left.

                “That was a good game you played,” said Mr. Northwood to his son.

                “Only because you were helping me along the whole way.”

                “That’s what I’m supposed to do,” his father said. He reached out and took his son’s hand. Charles looked into his father’s eyes. He wanted to cry, as he had cried for his mother, but feeling the grip of his father’s hand, he remembered that he was a man now, and that he needed to be strong.

                “Don’t you worry about me,” said Mr. Northwood to his son, his voice fading.

                Charles wanted to tell his father that it wasn’t him he was worried about, it was himself. What would he do without his father there to guide him? There was so much more life to live, so long to go. The thought of living it without his father seemed impossible. He wanted to tell him to hang on, that he couldn’t go on without him. His father’s eyes began to close.

                “Dad.” His hand became lifeless, and he squeezed it tighter. “Dad!”

                Charles began to weep. He kissed his father’s cold lips.

The Portal

               

                Victor Cummings was what is becoming in this world a common fixture—an atheistic scientist. He was no ordinary scientist, however. He was on the fringes of the scientific community. Actually, he was more of an inventor than a scientist, and indeed he was considered the Thomas Edison of his day. What made his work unique was that, because he was a staunch atheist, all of his inventions were aimed at proving the inexistence of God. Thus his nova machine, which was capable of making a controlled universe, and his Perpetual Heaven Hat, which put the wearer in a state of perpetual bliss.

                Victor was working on a new machine, which he hoped would open a portal into a separate dimension. To build the machine, he rented a laboratory in the tropics of Fiji, where he could be isolated from those who were fascinated by what he was doing.

                After twelve years of labor, he was ready to test his machine.

                Victor always first tested his machines on himself. His peers often told him that this was unwise, and that he should use animals instead, but Victor held the belief that an inventor’s creation was an extension of the self, and that it was only natural that the inventor be the first to comprehend its power.

                The machine was a steel pentagonal structure with a door on one side that lifted upwards at the push of a button. Connected to the chamber was a strange-looking contraption filled with what appeared to be coiled tubes. The top of the structure was attached to a huge generator that extended from the ceiling, along with a litany of other strange and complex machinery. Inside the structure were a single red padded chair and an overhead light. On the armrest of the chair was the button that initiated the sequence which, supposedly, opened the portal.

                Victor dressed himself in his finest tailored suit, poured himself a glass of scotch on the rocks, downed it, and walked into the chamber. He sat down on the chair, gritted his teeth, and pressed the button on the arm rest.

                There was a low hum that came from above. The sides of the chamber began to rattle, as if it was trying to lift itself off the ground. The light on the ceiling flashed several times, then shattered. A beam of light began to circle around the chair, slowly moving further and further inward. It soon flashed right before Victor’s face. A loud noise was heard, like a car speeding through a tunnel.

                Then, it went completely dark. Victor thought he heard the sound of heavy breathing. At first he thought it was him, but soon he realized he was breathing quite silently. He thought he heard whispering above him, and he grew very cold. Then, there was a voice.

                “Victor.”

                Victor grew afraid. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“Victor.”

He tried to stand, but found himself paralyzed.

“You have been denying me all your life,” said the voice.

“Who are you?” cried Victor.

“You know who I am. I am your creator.”

“You mean, you are God?”

“You must do penance, Victor, for your doubt. Return, and tell the world that I exist.”

Victor thought to himself that this was perhaps a dream.

“This is no dream, Victor, and even if it was, it should be proof enough.”

“Yes,” said Victor. “I’ll do as you say.”

The light came back on, and Victor stood up. He went to the door and opened it. There was a bright light and a loud din. Before him was a vast field, and in the field were tens of thousands of people, dressed in silk robes, talking. The din gradually faded as the people began to see him. A man who was holding a bright red flag spoke aloud:

“It’s him! The Great Divine One!”

He fell to the ground and began chanting a name that was at first indecipherable to Victor. Then, however, the entire group of people got on the ground and began chanting: “Zeluthra. Zeluthra.”

Victor then realized, he had made it to the next dimension. Here, he was considered God. As he walked closer to the crowd, his thoughts both frightened and amused him. “It is strange,” he thought, “this dimension is exactly the same as the one I came from.”

The Assassin

Klaus Osterlitz was a valiant soldier, a true Republican, and worthy of his rank of lieutenant in the French army. He was also a German émigré, a Jewish intellectual from Berlin who had left Germany when his father, a university professor, was arrested for treason. It was not exactly clear why his father was arrested. He was far from an extremist, and would never have consciously rebelled against the government. However, he was well-aware of the Kaiser’s acts concerning the Jews, and Klaus suspected that he may have said something against them in one of his classes.

            When Klaus’ father was arrested, the Osterlitz family was put into a state of pure disarray. Klaus’ mother was forced to take a job as a seamstress in a local factory, and his younger sister, a highly precocious young girl, was forced to drop out of school. Klaus himself was extremely bitter. Some of his friends tried to convince him to join their secret insurgencies, but Klaus felt that there was no hope for such clubs. He felt the best way to fight back was to go over to the French side.

            Not long after joining the French ranks, Klaus proved himself to be a valuable soldier. He was vocal, both in strategy and on the battle field, and he was brave. It wasn’t long before his superior officers began mentioning his name for promotions.

            Klaus was stationed in the woods around Artois when rumors began to spread of assassins. A high ranked officer was found dead in his sleep one morning, and the day before a man had been spotted near the river. Klaus’ superiors ordered him to take a team of men into the forest and hunt down this assassin.

            It was late afternoon and Klaus and his team were trekking along the hills next to the river. The light seemed soupy as they edged their way along the hill. The forest was not so thick here, and they could see the other side of the river with relative ease. The hill was steep, however, and their boots fell heavily into the thick covering of leaves.

            Up ahead, on the other side of the river, the hills became rockier, and a solid rock face jutted out into a cliff over the river. Klaus gazed at the cliff, and though the sun was very bright, he thought he could make out a figure. He stopped and put his binoculars to his face.

            “What is it, lieutenant?” one of the men asked.

            “It looks like a man,” said Klaus.

            And indeed it was a man—kneeling on the edge of the cliff with his hands to his eyes. It looked as if he were either praying or weeping.

            Klaus led the men down the hill and across the river. They climbed up the hills on the other side and up the rock face. They used a great deal of energy to reach the cliff. They climbed hurriedly, for Klaus suspected that this man was indeed an assassin. What the man was doing at the edge of a cliff, he could not begin to surmise. But he suspected that he was guilty of some crime, as all men who reach a certain point of destitution seem to be. And if the man was not an assassin himself, he would certainly be able to point Klaus in the right direction.

            When they reached the edge of the forest where it merged with the rock face, Klaus told his men to hang back. He would approach the man himself, and his men would serve as back-up. The man was still kneeling on the edge of the cliff, his rifle at his side. Klaus walked with cautious steps towards the man, with his gun aimed at his back. The man was wearing a dark blue cloak, which was threadbare, and his hair was silver, long, and curly. Klaus had a strange feeling as he saw the man bellowing with his hands before his eyes.

            “Sir,” said Klaus. The man didn’t turn around.

            Klaus moved up behind him and touched him on the shoulder. The man looked back.

            His face was haggard. It was the face of a man in the throes of a spiritual crisis. Klaus recognized the man immediately. It was his father.

            “I don’t understand,” said Klaus, dropping his gun to his side.

            “My boy,” said the old man. He stood up.

 Klaus gestured to his men to wait. He turned back to the old man. “What are you doing here?”

“They let me out of prison,” said the old man, “and sent me here.”

“As an assassin.”

Klaus’ father nodded.

“And who are you supposed to kill?” asked Klaus.

The old man looked down, as if ashamed. “You,” he said.

Klaus didn’t have to ask. He knew that if the old man failed at his mission, the German government would either kill him or send him back to prison.

“But of course I won’t,” said the old man. “That’s why I came here, to…”

The old man looked back and gesture at the scene below the cliff. The hills stretched on endlessly towards the horizon.

“Father,” said Klaus.

He took his ID tags from around his neck, and handed them to his father. “Here,” he said. “I am dead.”

The old man looked in disbelief at the name tag, then at his son. As Klaus walked back into the forest, the old man wept, for he knew that he had raised a good son.

The Pigeon that Caught its Head in a Hole

          Once there was a pigeon named Cracker. Everyone called him Cracker, but he told them to call him Zulu the Mighty instead. Nobody listened to Cracker. People ignored his wish. This made Cracker very bitter. He'd walk around muttering to himself, "Nobody wants to call me Zulu the Mighty, well fine, I won't call anyone by their names either."
          So he made up funny names for everyone. He called Jimmy the Crow "Flim-Flam," and Dimbo the Dove "Suckertash." Nobody really liked Cracker because of this.
          Most of the time, Cracker would just fly off on his own, explore the forest on the edge of town. Everyone told Cracker this was a dangerous thing to do, but Cracker was not the type to listen, so he'd fly off anyway.
          One day, Cracker was exploring the forest, shooting from tree to tree, when he heard a little sound come from below. It sounded a little like this:

Teetle-hee, teetle-hee.

         "What's that?" Cracker thought. "Someone must be laughing at me. I'll show them to laugh at Zulu the Mighty."
         So Cracker flew down and looked around on the ground. From beneath a pile of dead leaves, something was stirring, and the sound was coming from there:

Teetle-hee, teetle-hee.

         Cracker went over to the pile and began to dig.
         "So you think I'm funny, eh? I'll show you!"
         He dug and dug till he saw that there was a little hole in the ground about as wide as his breast.
         "Who's down there?" asked Cracker angrily.
         "Teetle-hee, teetle-hee," was the only reply.
         "That's it!" yelled Cracker. "You're asking for it!"
         Cracker through his head, beak first, into the hole and started chomping, but alas! the hole was deeper that he had thought, and whatever was down there laughing, Cracker couldn't reach.
         Cracker couldn't see in the dark, and he tried to pull his head back out of the hole, but he found that he was stuck. Then, OH NO! he heard a terrible noise:
         PPPPPPPPFT...
        A fart! And, oh, did it stink up that hole quick!
        "Curse you!" shouted Cracker. "Tell me who you are, this instant!"
        "I'm Stinky," said a creature with a high pitched voice. "The rabbit."
        Cracker had heard this name before. Supposedly, a similar thing had happened to Cracker's uncle once.
        "I've heard of yo," said Cracker. "Now help me out of here."
        "Teetle-hee," said Stinky. "Answer this question right and I'll let you go free." (It seemed the rabbit was doing all of this solely for his enjoyment.)
         Cracker agreed to Stinky's terms.
         "OK," said the rabbit, "Who is the one with the sorrowful grin, the one who's tail goes a-spin, spin, spin? He looks at you once, and he makes you cry. He looks at you twice and he winks his eye?
          Cracker thought.
          "But that's just gibberish!" he said.
          "It certainly is," said Stinky. "That was a fabulous guess. Now you can go free."

For Philippe Haas, King of his People

The noble king it’s said does sing

Of all his people starving.

And when he drinks the finest wine

He blesses the poor who are crying.

The women who love him serve him meat

And wash his feet with lather.

And when they are done

He kisses their cheek

And tells them “I shall give you a son.”

But whoa--the tides, the clouds, the storm.

Something to the West is rising.

Grab your sword and rise from your throne

And make ready for battle and riding.