The end was nigh.
His majesty had entrusted the Commander:
Plan the way to victory.
Call all forces to arms.
Attack… counterattack… defend.
Make unthinkable sacrifices where necessary, but…
Above all else – PREVAIL!
‘Twas not, however, to be.
First to succumb, the Commander’s mighty horsemen. Slayed at random when separated to the flanks.
His bishops, keepers of order during times of peace, when called to fight could only offer prayers.
Flaming castles violated the evening’s peaceful darkness.
Even the magnificent queen, always by his majesty’s side, valiantly commandeered her own sword but, God forbid, fell when attacked from three points.
The Commander searched for a way to recover. Alas, all was in vain.
Now, he faced the final, merciless truth:
He had failed his leader. The great enemy called time had dulled his mind’s blade.
After the hours of combat, there were now mere minutes… seconds until his monarch was found – and killed.
There was but one action left.
He raised his hand high, as far from his heart as could be, to achieve the maximum force.
His thrust came down hard and fast.
There was no stopping it.
He swept the board, pieces and all, flying across the room.
At another table, a player looked up briefly and returned to the study of his own game.
The crazy Russian had lost again.
F. C. Bull’s greying hair inspires him to transform the experiences jostling for attention in his mind into stories to share. In his novels and works of flash fiction, as in his life, he’s fascinated by the way people justify what they do, and shouldn’t do, to others.