Checkmate: Tales of Speculative Fiction

by Icy Sedgwick

  “You know a lot is riding on this.”

  “I know, I know, it always is! And it always has!” exclaimed the old woman, setting aside her empty plate. “But I think today might be different!”

  The old woman looked mischievous, but the young man turned a pale shade of green. As the game got underway, Kate went back to polishing kitchen appliances, uninterested in the power struggle playing out in the corner. She felt a little sorry for the old woman, who lost every day without exception. Kate often wondered why she continued to play, but she supposed that she enjoyed the game more than the outcome.

  As she worked, Kate thought about her life. She only intended to take the job over the summer to earn some extra money before she went to university. Her mother died in a car accident, and Kate chose to stay at home to help look after her two young brothers. She often regretted the decision. Her friends were all off having the time of their lives, and she felt trapped. By the time her brothers could be left to their own devices, she’d be too old to live the student life. She cursed her father for never being there, constantly travelling the country to give seminars or talks.

  Kate felt tears moisten her cheeks. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the two in the corner were too engrossed in their game. She wiped her eyes on her apron, and glanced at the clock. It was only 12:30pm, and already the old woman had taken most of the young man’s pieces. She hoped they would hurry up and leave. Kate just wanted to sit on the floor behind the counter and cry her heart out.

  Despondency weighed heavy on Kate. She stole a glance at the young man, and he looked as though he shared her pain. Anxiety clouded his handsome face, and worry lines creased his pale forehead into deep furrows.

  A sudden crash pulled Kate back to reality. Thunder rolled around a bruised, purple sky torn open by a jagged fork of dazzling white lightning. The door flew open with a clatter as two young women dashed inside. The first drops of rain fell, sizzling and spitting as they hit the cobblestones outside. A second bolt of lightning parted the clouds, and the downpour started.

  “Storms weren’t forecast for today!” exclaimed the woman nearest to Kate. She dug around in a handbag so small if looked as if she’d borrowed it from a doll.

  “I know! I would have worn different shoes if I’d known it was going to rain,” replied the other young woman. She gazed forlornly at her open-toed pink suede sandals.

  Ignoring their vacuous chatter, Kate pressed up against the window to get a better look outside. Water washed down the lane, scraps of litter caught up in a dizzying dance by the whirlpools in the gutter. The sky darkened by the second, as lightning tore open the clouds with a terrifying enthusiasm. She turned around to see one of the young women checking her lipstick in a handheld mirror. The other jumped around waving her mobile in the air, searching for a signal.

  Kate turned to see how the chess game progressed. The young man’s face contorted in sheer desperation as he stared at the board, trying to out-manoeuvre the wily old woman. She grinned as she toyed with one of the man’s Bishops. Overcome with a desire to help him, Kate longed to rush over. She hesitated, as she knew nothing of the rules of chess, and doubted that her input would be welcome.

  The door burst open again, and another tall young man strode in. Dressed in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, he wore his long coppery hair in a ponytail. If the blond man was handsome, this guy looked as if Michelangelo himself sculpted his features. Trepidation filled his amber eyes as he looked past Kate towards the chess game. The girl with the mirror noticed the handsome newcomer, and suddenly fluffed up her blonde hair in case he turned to see her. Kate knew he wouldn’t.

  The blond man looked up, and Kate spotted a glimpse of relief in his eyes.

  “Michael!”

  The blond man smiled at the newcomer, who bent to whisper in the blond man’s ear. The old woman looked less than impressed by Michael’s arrival. She sat back in her chair with her lips pursed in an expression of displeasure.

  “Now, now, that’s not fair. If I’m not allowed help, then you’re not allowed it either. Or do you finally want to be exposed to the world as a cheat?”

  “Hold your tongue!” cried Michael, glaring at the old woman. “How dare you speak to him in such a disrespectful manner!”

  “I’m winning, so I’ll dare to do as I like, thank you very much,” replied the old woman.

  “As I see no reason for argument, I shall let your accusation slide this time, but don’t you dare ever call me a cheat again, unless you have evidence to back up your claims,” said the blond man.

  He stared at the board, trying to plan his next moves in the face of the old woman’s increasingly certain victory. Kate looked back outside. Black, oily clouds covered the sky and brought an early night to the town. Hailstones the size of her fist smashed into the cobblestones outside. A fierce gale howled like a banshee down the narrow lane. A baby screamed in the flat upstairs, its unearthly wail rising above the roar of the storm. The two girls who sought refuge in the café looked scared, searching Kate’s face for answers. She had none.

  “One move left, and then you’re history!”

  Kate whirled round as the old woman cackled. Luminescent tears rolled down the blond man’s pale cheeks. Michael paced up and down like a restless father awaiting the arrival of his firstborn. Kate could feel in the pit of her stomach that there would be more arrivals in the café before too long, but not of a joyous kind.

  “How do you know I only have one move left?” asked the blond man.

  “I’ve got most of your pieces, there’s not much else you can do,” replied the old woman.

  Kate wished that she hadn’t been so abrupt with her father on the phone yesterday, and that she’d been kinder to her brothers last night when they wanted to stay up late. She hoped that they all knew how much she loved them.

  “Hang onto that, Katherine. Never let it go.”

  She felt a strong hand on her shoulder, and she realised that Michael spoke into her ear. The old woman rolled her eyes and the blond man smiled. Kate returned the smile. As she did so, something tickled her hand. She opened her palm to see a pure white feather lying along the life line. She looked up into Michael’s amber eyes.

  “You won’t need love, dear. Not where you’re going,” spat the old woman. “Not where you’re all going!”

  She moved her final piece into position on the board. A peal of thunder crashed around the sky with a sense of brutal finality. It reverberated through Kate’s entire body; she thought her teeth would vibrate loose from her gums. As the vibrations faded away, Kate noticed the silence. The hail stopped beating its endless tattoo on the cobblestones. The wind stopped screaming, and the baby upstairs was quiet.

  The door opened, ringing the small bell. Four tall strangers entered the café. Kate wanted to think that they walked in, but it was more as if they’d glided. Heavy hoods hid their faces.

  She looked out of the open door behind them. Shock registered when she saw that the hailstones hadn’t stopped falling; they simply hung suspended in midair. They hung interspersed with litter, torn through the air by the wind. A bottle froze in mid-crash against the wall opposite. Time stopped outside the café.

  “No…no…it can’t be….”

  The young man turned white. Michael backed up towards the back wall of the café. The old woman grinned. Kate stole a glance at the two women who’d sheltered in the café. They cowered under a table beside the window, hugging each other.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. It’s checkmate.”

  The blond man let out a scream that sent ripples of fear racing down Kate’s spine.

  “I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it! I’ve beaten you!” cackled the old woman.

  The first stranger suddenly took on form, gathering substance to himself like moths to a flame. His cloak was a dark shroud so black that it hurt Kate’s eyes to look at it. Kate looked at the y
oung man and felt empty as she saw his indescribable glow fade. Exhaustion burned in his dull eyes. The old woman turned to the four strangers, looking past the black figure to its three companions. The middle figure was cloaked in a red so rich and dark that it resembled blood. Golden eyes gleamed in the depths of the hood.

  “Come on then! It’s your time now. Do your thing!” commanded the old woman. Irritation flashed across her features as the red figure shook its head.

  “We need not be present for these times,” it said. Its voice rumbled low and deep, reminding Kate of the cannon fire of the civil war re-enactment day.

  “Why not?” asked the old woman.

  She pouted. She won, and now she expected obedience.

  “As we did before, we have stalked this earth for centuries. We gather here now as our work is done.” The figure cloaked in a bright, oozing yellow spoke in a voice that sounded like hundreds of flies.

  “So what now? You just have to turn it all over to me?”

  “You don’t command them, Lucifer; I never did. You beat me, but you did not win,” said the blond man.

  “Are you trying to cheat me again, Jehovah? This really isn’t on,” snapped the old woman.

  “Hush your bickering. Come now, come to me,” said the black figure.

  His voice sounded cool and inviting, like a shaded forest pool in the height of summer. He handed his scythe to the purple-clad figure behind him and held out two bony hands. Jehovah stood up. He sighed with resignation as Michael rushed forward to intervene.

  “Stop, Michael. This is how it was always intended to be”.

  “How, my Lord? All of this is yours; you are our Father…how can you have allowed this?” asked Michael.

  He clutched at the blond man’s arm. The blond man looked down at his hand before raising sad eyes to Michael’s face.

  “Question not my ways, Michael. I knew this would one day happen, and it cannot be undone. It is over.”

  “This is nonsense! Absolute rubbish! I won, I get to rule!” screeched the old woman.

  She stood up with such force that she knocked over the table, sending chess pieces flying.

  Silence fell in the café. Michael stood with his head bowed, tears flowing down his face. The two girls under the table stopped sobbing and watched the scene before them in a state of complete shock. Kate felt despondent, but she understood what was to happen, and she concentrated upon the love she felt for her family. The young man reached out a hand toward Death, just as Death’s long cold fingers settled around the old woman’s wrists.

  The world froze; Kate’s love caught for eternity.

  My Bleeding Heart

  Fictionville

  She woke up panting, the echoes of her nocturnal screams ringing in her ears. Cold sweat plastered tattered strings of black hair to her head, and tangled bedclothes trapped her legs. The bed felt damp yet crusty, as though something had spilt and dried badly. She looked down to see a large dark patch spread across the sheets, the dark brown contrasting with the white. She peered at the stain, her bleary vision forming monsters in the inkblot darkness.

  Her eyes flicked around the darkened room, her memory misfiring as she tried to remember the night before. Her desperate gaze tried to cling to the familiar clutter around her bed, fixing on piles of clothes and well read books, searching for an anchor. Questions clung to the edge of her consciousness, oozing a slick of confusion over her thoughts. What happened to her bed? Why was her room such a mess? Why was she alone? Where was Jacob?

  Her jaw dropped open as the truth came back to her, hitting her with the force of a nuclear blast. The uncovered lies swarmed around her like vindictive wasps, and she raised a hand to her chest. She flinched as she ran her fingers over the edges of the exposed bone, feeling the sticky residue clinging to the edge of the wound. A fist-sized hole in her sternum revealed the empty cavity within.

  She could find no solace knowing that her premonition had come true. After all the fights, all the betrayals, and all the sadness, Jacob finally ripped her heart out.

  Picasso

  Postcard Shorts

  Silence held the gallery in its tender grasp. Silver ribbons of moonlight snaked across the parquet floor. Reaching up the walls, they fingered the heavy wooden frames that held some of the world’s most beautiful paintings.

  Miles away, the clock struck midnight. Its heavy chime floated on the still night air. Life stirred in the gallery as goddesses, royalty and anonymous angels hauled themselves out of their frames. Renaissance minstrels struck up a tune, while Pre-Raphaelite heroines danced. Laughter soon filled the gallery as its famous inhabitants joined the ball.

  The frivolous atmosphere broke as a solitary figure limped into the main hall. Two eyes stared from the right hand side of its face, and a cruel mouth twisted into a snarl beside its ear. A simple slash served as a nose, and it tried to disguise its backward-facing hands held at right angles.

  The music stopped as the congregation turned to face the newcomer. Millais’ Ophelia stepped forward, dripping water onto the chequered tiles.

  “Dear me, who painted you?!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her revulsion. The reply was plaintive and dejected.

  “Picasso”.

  Bleed Them Dry

  Fictionville

  Early morning sunlight tosses handfuls of summer across the green expanse of suburbia. Dogs prowl their back yards. A bicycle wheel squeaks as the paper boy cycles around his neighbourhood, whistling tunelessly as he tosses newspapers onto damp front lawns.

  The early morning quiet stops at the door of the Tislocke household. The smell of sizzling bacon drifts through the house, accompanied by the sound of Rex Tislocke singing in the kitchen. Cheesy pop music spews from the living room, where Tina Tislocke enthusiastically follows her fitness DVD. Her sneakers thud against the hardwood floor in time to Maretta Morgraine’s shouts of encouragement. Rex offers her a steaming plate of bacon and eggs before sitting at the table to read the business news over breakfast. Clad in Maretta-approved Lycra, Tina opts instead for a granola bar from the Maretta Morgraine diet food range.

  Upstairs, their daughter Emily stands before her full-length mirror. She holds a Maretta Morgraine tape measure around her waist, an expression of joy lighting her face as she sees she has lost another inch. She marks her progress onto a chart bearing Maretta’s grin and most famous slogans, marvelling at the speed at which she has lost over twenty pounds. Emily sets up her webcam and poses in her underwear, printing off the photo to add to her weight loss collection. She looks good now. In a couple of weeks, she’ll be able to send the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos to Maretta’s website. Maybe she’ll be a featured slimmer.

  A few towns away, Amanda Pyretti enjoys a frugal fruit breakfast, washed down with a Maretta Morgraine diet shake. She thinks it tastes the way Pepto-Bismol might taste if you dissolved a lump of chalk in it. This makes her frown, but it helps her lose weight so she gulps it down and rubs a slice of lime on her tongue to kill the aftertaste. Her husband Marcello is in the basement, running a few miles on his Maretta Morgraine treadmill before he leaves for work. He used to run in the park; now he prefers to stay indoors to exercise.

  In a nearby city, a group of lithe young women glisten under the hot lights at their local Maretta Morgraine gym. The blonde pumps away on the fixed stairs, while the redhead peddles for her life on a Maretta cycle. A brunette takes a breather, leaning against a vacant cross trainer. She swigs a Maretta approved isotonic sports drink from a plastic bottle. The women know they look good, and they know that the $200 they pay every month to Maretta’s corporation is worth it. The blonde feels the burn in her calf muscles. Her flushed face moulds into a grimace. She flicks her eyes upward, glancing at the inspirational photo of a slim, toned, smiling Maretta on the opposite wall. She keeps going.

  Money pours into Maretta’s coffers throughout the day. Copies of her slimming magazine fly off the shelves of news vendors ac
ross the country. Book stores struggle to restock their shelves with her recipe books as copies are snapped up with startling speed. Women throw Maretta branded drinks, diet shakes, ready meals and snacks into their carts at supermarkets. One convenience store in Florida runs out of a week’s supply of low fat cereal bars in just eight hours. The ground shakes with the impact of thousands of people working out using Maretta’s official equipment. Maretta Morgraine gyms are full.

  The sun sets over a community centre in a picturesque small town in the mountains. Half of the town’s population are regulars at the weekly Maretta Morgraine slimming class. They spend an hour discussing diet with a trained Maretta nutritionist, who dishes out recipes and coupons for Maretta’s food range. The other hour is spent following a specialist in aerobics. At the end of the class, the townsfolk snap up discount items from Maretta’s slimming range. Tape measures, weight loss charts, diet powders and even hypnosis tapes are especially popular.

  It is twenty minutes after sunset. Maretta Morgraine sits at a mahogany desk in her study, deep in the bowels of her headquarters. She flips through a mock up of the next issue of her magazine. As usual, it is filled with “innovative” recipes, photos of slimmers, weight loss tips and motivational articles. She approves most of the content; indeed it is rare for her to make changes. She trusts her design team, sourced from the best magazines in the country. Her gaze flickers across the framed magazine covers that occupy one wall. They have come a long way since she set up her own publishing company to produce the magazine.

  “Ms. Morgraine?”

  Repa slips into the room. Clad in a black suit, her black hair is swept up into a bun. She is the picture of professionalism. Repa has worked very hard to make herself indispensable, and Maretta feels confident leaving the running of the empire in her perfectly manicured hands.

  “Yes?”

  “You asked for an update report?”

  “So I did.”