The Mobile Resting Place

I’ve been learning how to play chess.

Most nights, after my nightmares have had their say, I rise five hours before the sun and meet the Goblin who rents my living room.

He’s a ruthless and masterful player.  He claims that, for every time he beats me, I owe him another first-born child

“It doesn’t have to be your first born child,” he clarifies.

I don’t think he plans to collect, though.  I think he’s glad for the company.

He certainly doesn’t get tired of winning.

Sometimes he’ll draw the victory out.  He’ll lean his plump little body back in his chair, and stroke the spider legs that make up his beard, and consider which triumphant scenario he’ll enjoy most.  When he finally mates my king, his face will glow so wickedly that it will sometimes catch fire, and his beard will writhe in horrific agony, until he pats out the flames impatiently with his own hand.

Then he’ll look down at the chess pieces and order them to “show how else I coulda done it!”

The pieces will dutifully reorder themselves and play out the many other ways he could have beaten me at any time.

It’s a really good way to learn chess.