|Not the Same
Author: Runt the Brave PM
Chess just isn't the same with you aren't playing Mr. Westing. For JJ especially, it's just not the same.Rated: Fiction K - English - Judge Ford - Words: 535 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 09-08-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6308522
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: I was bored... Enjoy!
Not the Same
Sixty-four black and white squares.
It felt almost sacrilegious, staring at the gorgeous chess sat that one of the white girl's owned. Each pieces was delicately carved; so delicate that the slightest pressure would snap it in half. Each piece had its own story. The black king was tall and cruel, his carved face scowling at the bishop to his right. In turn, the bishop looked stately, shorter than the king, with a tall hat that peaked at the height of the king's eyes.
Both black knights were almost alive, the horses rearing; wild fire in their eyes. The amount of emotion in carved pieces was phenomenal. The black queen had shocks of hair cascading down her back, a wreath of vines graced her air. She looked royal in a tribal way.
"What's wrong, blackie? To scared to make your move?"
The white pawns were soldiers, the black pawns were scavengers. Each carved so carefully it seemed a crime to touch. The girl behind the black team had learned on a wooden board with seven scratches running in each direction. The pieces had been little more than different heights of wood, nothing special.
Of course, Mr. Westing had had more elaborate sets; but they were off limits for a stupid little servant girl.
The girl narrowed her eyes, staring at the chess set. Elaborate or simply didn't matter. Winning was what counted. She made her move. The other girl countered, almost immediately. Stupid, thought the girl behind the black pieces, always think about your move. That had been Mr. Westing's first lesson, one that she had learned well over the years.
"Your turn, blackie."
The nickname didn't bother the girl. After trying to clean under Mrs. Westing's critical eye, no comment could be to harsh. Three moves into the camp, she had already begun to develop a stratagem. Her opponent had nowhere near Mr. Westing's experience and should be fairly easy to beat. But you never, ever get confident.
The Queen's sacrifice had taught her that.
"Hurry up!" The other girl cried.
She did not bother to reply. They would only torment her. She made her next move. And so it continued. Move after move after move. The black girl had begun to see through the other's strategy. It was one she had used herself many times until Mr. Westing had finally beat it out of her head, knocking the pieces of the board with a swipe of his powerful hand.
But it wasn't the same playing this girl as opposed to Mr. Westing. There wasn't the challenge or the thrill of excitement; or the utter feeling of hopelessness. The outcome of the game was clear.
"This is rubbish!" said the girl behind the white board when it became evident that she couldn't win. With one hand, she pushed all the pieces from the board, scattering them across the table and floor. "Pick 'em up, blackie. Pick 'em up."
No, the girl thought as she picked up the chess pieces, without Mr. Westing it just wasn't the same.