An Adult's Game (Extended Draft)

My father had taken Mr. Horowitz’s last horse. He looks at me and says that we just retrieved our opponents knight. Mr. Horowitz glances at the board, picks up a castle, and knocks down one of my father’s horses as he coughs into his sleeve. I ask my father if that makes them tied, but he shakes his head and whispers that now Mr. Horowitz is winning.

My father’s face looks disappointed, and he’s muttering in our native tongue under his breath. I feel nervous for him because I want him to win, for both of us. His eyes scan the pieces as he readjusts his keffiyah. He isn’t sure what to do next. There are so many white pieces left, and so little black. He moves one of his pawns---I believe that’s what they’re called---in front of Mr. Horowitz’s pawns. Pawns and a king. That’s all he has. That’s all we have.

I ask my father if I can play, but he shakes his head. He says I must learn by observation first. Mr. Horowitz pleads with him to let me play soccer with the other children, but my father insists that it is very important that I know the rules. Discipline, he calls it. He thinks it’s a game for adults, but I think it’s a game for children, too. So I continue to watch, and I’m distracted by the colors on the board. Black and white, just like my father and Mr. Horowitz. I’ve seen them play several rounds, but it seems like the white pieces always win. The adults continue playing, and the black pieces are becoming more scarce.

Mr. Horowitz smiles at me. He thinks it’s just a game, but my father is clenching his fists under the table. To him, this is not a game. Mr. Horowitz moves one of his pawns to a blank space even though he could take out one my father’s pieces. My father doesn’t notice. He swoops one of his pieces into the pawn, and his eyes begin to glow. He rubs my back excitedly, bouncing me on his leg in triumph. Mr. Horowitz winks at me, and I laugh because I understand.

They continue to take turns moving around game pieces. Mr. Horowitz looks uneasy, and he’s coughing an awful lot. My father is nervously scratching into his beard, and his fingernails are dusting skin flakes onto my lap. Even though Mr. Horowitz is playing generously, my father and I are losing. Mr. Horowitz suddenly utters Checkmate in a raspy, bubbling voice, and he begins coughing uncontrollably. My father shoves me off his lap and shoots up out of his chair. The board is in the air, and the pieces are flying past our faces. My father is having a tantrum, and Mr. Horowitz can’t breathe because he is coughing so hard. A black king strikes me in the face, and Mr. Horowitz is collapsed on the table. His wrinkled face is looking up at my father, smiling. He’s not coughing anymore. My father is still huffing and cursing. He doesn’t even notice that our neighbor is dead on the table.

An Adult's Game (Microfiction)

     My father had taken Mr. Horowitz’s last horse. He looks at me and says that we just retrieved our opponents knight. Mr. Horowitz glances at the board, picks up a castle, and knocks down one of my father’s horses. I ask my father if that makes them tied, but he shakes his head and whispers that now Mr. Horowitz is winning.
     His face looks disappointed. I feel nervous for my father. I want him to win, for both of us. His eyes scan the pieces as he readjusts his keffiyah. He isn’t sure what to do next. There are so many white pieces left, and so little black. He moves one of his pawns---I believe that’s what they’re called---in front of Mr. Horowitz’s pawns. Pawns and a king. That’s all he has. That’s all we have.
     I ask my father if I can play, but he shakes his head. He says I must learn by observation first. He thinks it’s a game for adults, but I think it’s a game for children, too. So I continue to watch, and I’m distracted by the colors on the board. Black and white, just like my father and Mr. Horowitz. I’ve seen them play several rounds, but it seems like the white pieces always win. The adults continue playing, and the black pieces are becoming more scarce.
     Mr. Horowitz smiles at me. He thinks it’s just a game, but my father is clenching his fists under the table. To him, this is not a game. Mr. Horowitz moves one of his pawns to a blank space even though he could take out one my father’s pieces. My father doesn’t notice. He swoops one of his pieces into the pawn, and his eyes begin to glow. He rubs my back excitedly, bouncing me on his leg in triumph. Mr. Horowitz winks at me, and I laugh because I understand. The world isn’t separated into winners and losers. We’re all just playing the same game.

Crazy Cat Lady's Grocery List

Friskies canned food (Muffy likes salmon paté)

Lint roller---ten pack

Chubby Hubby ice cream

Real hubby

Chocolate bar

Chocolate syrup

Chocolate hubby

Is the milk expired? I don’t know.

Chocolate milk

---Does Muffy like chocolate?

Three boxes of tissues, one for each television.

REMINDER: Go to Redbox. Is there anything with that Ryan Gosling? 

Mmm... Ryan Gosling. 

I wonder if he likes cats...

Try to find at store.

For All One Knows

Perhaps

one day

we’ll leave,

neglect

the lives

we lead.

Perhaps 

one day

we’ll grow,

possess

ourselves

and know

Perhaps

we’re more

than bones,

stale minds,

and student loans.

Savasana

I unfasten my bones

to clarinet chords. 

Stars are falling into my fingertips.

I am the sun.

I smell greens and blues,

I am yellow and red.

Shiva is dancing.

I close my eyes.

Pianos. Clarinets.

Beneath the bones is gold mist

Collecting dust, collecting stories.

There is ocean blue.

I am Dali’s clocks.

Clarinet moans, and I am strength.

This death is spring.

Stars are in my eyes and the sun has set

in my chest.

I’m wrapped in dandelions.

I am dreams.

My chest is rising in the east,

humming to Shiva’s alter

Wake up, slowly.

Sit up, Savasana.

I am pianos, and I am clarinets.

Inhale. Exhale.

Seafaring

architecture seas,
sinister sapphire hair breaking against
a ship in hunger.
the Italian is surgically cast to his Rome,
cast to depths.
the winter captain scorned. missing.
on a sawtoothed shoreline path to peril,
he lies in Italy’s off-world,
the morgue of Nereus.

Elitist English Majors

Entertainment bandits
with their farmhouse esquire strut,
tough youthful lip,
and iambic harpoon,
impair reality.

With rhythmic railing,
visceral eels flick buildings,
drift ice and frazzle the equator.
A safe, habitual dive,
accident free.
A hearty frost etching. Theatrical orgasm
about an ethereal unsteady sailor.
Often narcissistically open interest by preaching,
“Listen. My genius is whispering. Learn.”

Others aggravate the heavens, 
stirring after an avalanche,
but never after the orthodontist.
They are an insane entity, 
like narwhals in mink coats.

Vent the mossy minds and eradicate the vices
of elitist English majors.