Short Fiction Experiments

towards the eventual location

How often is it that the direction makes you cry? I think it should be (D), every time. The knight approaches the bishop and takes it from an angle that the bishop cannot reach.


Between us a daughter twists and turns. She is allowed to step on the whites but not the blacks, and she obeys these restrictions fastidiously. Outside, car horns blare like they will never stop, the freeway turned into a mangled net of knots and signals.


I didn’t want to enter through the back, but someone has refitted the front door key and as I approached from the north it occurred to me that you would simultaneously be receding from the south and the gravity of this magnetic heart would force a collision no matter which opening I submitted to.


My fingers cross into each other as I think about the tiny city inhabiting our table. Every intersection is a compass, four points set perpendicular against each other and into the edges of the room, interlacing into parallel distances that pull against and search for one another, only lacking the heavy center that would spin them face-forwards towards home. I move my queen into your territory.

This entry was published on February 15, 2017 at 12:31 am. It’s filed under Drafts & Scraps, Fiction, junk drawer and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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