Peter
The warriors of the black army advanced on our left flank. They shouted, shook their spears. Behind their first ranks loomed even larger enemies. There was the rumble of cannons and the purple stench of malevolent magic. The initial maneuvering for subtle strategic advantages seemed to be over. Here they came, with flashing swords and yet I was more worried about the right. This was where the stench was coming from.
I saw the very ground bubble and shift, there would be no solid footing there. I watched the distant figure of the black warlock, general, strategist. He was highly skilled, subtle. But I knew his wiles - I could smell them. I would not stupidly attack to the left where he wanted the battle to move. The swamp to the right would grow if unchecked, would eventually swallow my army. The king, down there in the battlefield, wanted to attack, like they always want. That's why we, me and my colleagues and adversaries, were needed.
My throne grew even higher, I needed a good overview. I opened up on the right, cut away bushes to get free sight, cast a spell of light and heat. The treacherous mud started to harden and the creatures below were confused. They could not bear the light, but if they stayed underground the mud would be so hard they were trapped. I could feel waves of frustration from the black general, they felt like the bitterness of chewing a lemon seed. I relayed his disappointment to my troops and they advanced, cautious but determined.
I could feel that the enemy was off balance. There were subtle gaps in his defense, gaps that I could slowly widen. It was time to let loose The Amazon, with her long blond hair streaming in the tailwind we now had. Her long silver sword was quick and strong and moved in every direction. The black king looked scared, now - and rightly so. His strategist had tried a cunning trap, but it failed, and now his troops were forced to retreat. Their queen did not have enough space, she fought well but could not use her strength to full advantage.
The black forces did not give up, and they were led by a strategist who was known for his patience. I knew I must not take victory for granted, one small mistake and they would pounce. Slowly we wore them down until their king fell, struck down by his strategist who knew the game was over. We had won. The black forces were conquered again.
This moment was always difficult, especially when I had won. They focus upon the winner, of course. I sat with my eyes shut for a moment like I always do. They accept it now, indeed expect it. When I felt ready I raised my head, carefully not looking at the board. It would make me nauseous if the worlds collided. I looked Iversen in the eyes and we nodded and shook hands. There was applause, always applause. This time it sounded like a train, but a reasonably friendly train with a feel of black fur. I could bear it for a few minutes, comforting myself with the fur.
"Ladies and gentlemen, winner of the game, winner of the tournament...Peter P Hansson of Sweden!" The announcer's voice was saccharine, it left little sticky spots like when you have spilled syrup and step in it. I hoped he would not keep talking. Having a sticky mess in my ears would make it even harder than usual to understand when they interviewed me. A woman in the front row was watching me with what sounded like hunger, a keening bright green noise. I quickly looked away. Too bright. There are few women I can look at with any degree of comfort. It is hard for me with female opponents. I can't look at them, can't taste what they are planning.
The keening from the woman was growing brighter, the green light louder. Are there chess-groupies? I didn't want to find out. I bowed to the audience like I have been taught, waved to everyone except miss Keen and tried to go backstage. Unfortunately, they wanted to interview me on the stage. And unfortunately it was Syrupvoice who was to do the interview. He was going for the freak-angle, of course. Good thing you are expected to be more or less nuts if you're a chess-player. Thank you, Bobby. To my relief, Syrupvoice wanted all the juicy lines for himself, so I got away with doing not much more than smile and nod.
"Congratulations, Peter! How do you feel right now? You must be happy!"
"Yes." Just tired, really.
"Everything worked out the way you planned?"
"Yes." No.
"Though I've been told that you actually plan very little, compared to your colleagues?"
"Yes." That certainly was true.
"But there are other ways you differ from the rest, right?"
"Yes." I tried to hold my breath. His syrup was clogging my lungs.
"You are a synthetic?"
"Yes." The word is synesthetic, but never mind.
"Could you explain to us what that means? Senses mix, right?"
"Yes." Best kind of interviewer - answers his own questions. Less syrup and I'd be happy.
"I've been told that you choose your moves on basis of which move would smell the best?"
"Yes." It's way more complicated than that, but this is what I usually say..
"Well, it seems to work for you. I'm sure your fans in Sweden will be delighted with this victory."
"Yes." All three of them. Swedes generally don't give a fuck about chess. Good thing, too.
That was it. He was happy and I was praised afterwards for my unusually detailed answers. And they think I am the strange one.
Well, I guess I am a strange one at that. I totally suck at most things. Some think I'm autistic because synesthesia is most common among them, but I'm not. I just suck at being with people. Particularly women. As I said, they are just too bright. Too much. I get blown away and I mean really away away, which is not a good thing at all. I can't handle it. So I usually keep to myself.
I like to run, but I run at night when the light isn't so loud and there are less people about. I like to cook, too. Chess, well I guess I like it, but I can't take the excitement too often. I very rarely study other players' games, I get too wound up and can't sleep. Come to think of it I like a lot of things. Out-doorsy things like hiking, picking mushrooms and berries. I scuba-dive. I like to work around the house, fix things. All right, so I don't suck at everything.
But I can't relate to people and rarely speak to anyone apart from my psychologist, Ola. Ola is a mossy flannel green, kind of soothing the way a psychologist should be. Him I speak to, once a week. Our relation is safe, with clearly drawn limits and limitations. He wants to cure me from depression. I suppose I also want to be cured from this depression I suppose I have. Ola is also soothing in that he hardly ever says anything unexpected. I guess I'm using him as some kind of father-figure, which that yellow smell of piss on a dead cat that donated my sperm and hung around for a while never was interested in being. Fuck him. Mum...did her best, I suppose.
Running is my other therapy, and I think it is more effective against the depression, really. When I run I feel fine. If I wasn't a professional chess-player I could maybe deliver the morning papers somewhere. Early mornings with hardly any people and lots of exercise. Good to have something to fall back on the day they realize that chess-players don't do anything worth paying for. Useless pastime. Provides me with drama and food on the table, but do I do anything for the general good? No. I'm world-famous, maybe not in Sweden, but in Russia and other countries where they care about chess, but I don't do anything I consider meaningful. If I die tomorrow, no one would miss me.
Look at the last paragraph! I start out telling you about something good, my running, and end up whining. Me in a nutshell.
Magda
I was walking the streets, since I didn't know where to go. Not home, that was the only thing I was absolutely certain of. I would be welcome to several of my friends, but I was too ashamed. It was almost a year now since that bastard hit me the first time. We used to shake our heads, me and my friends. It's just to go, we used to say, me with the rest of them. We couldn't understand how anyone could stay with someone who hits them. None of us said, quite, that they had themselves to blame, but we almost said it
But there I was. After a year of forgiving him and taking him back. With a shiner the size of a frying pan and nowhere to go. I, who had always seen me as a strong, confident woman. Well educated, smart. I was a teacher, never had a problem keeping order in class. Loving parents. Lots of friends. Happy enough with the way I look. I shouldn't be here, like this. It's wrong.
Well, whining about it wouldn't help, I had to get myself together. I was freezing my butt off. I wasn't too far from the Womens` Shelter and I decided to go there. At least I would not be judged. They were used to battered women from all walks of life. That was what I was now, a battered woman. But I felt better, I had decided to take charge of my life again. Now I had hit bottom, and the only way to go was up. Or so I thought.
I heard them before I saw them. They were shouting/singing loudly about their soccer team, one of the Stockholm teams. Their supporters, the Black Army, had a bad reputation. I knew they had played our team today but I didn't know how the game ended. There were two of them, but they sounded like eight. They had the arrogance of people who are used to being feared and like it that way. Rich daddies, from the look of their clothes and hairstyles. Drunk. A very bad combination.
I crossed the street and tried to be discreet about it. Looking scared is bad, but so is getting too close. My heart raced when they crossed the street as well.
