Chess Man by Phil Cummings

Chess Man

I was mesmerized by the chess game with death. There is no defeating death in myth and in life. The freezing bone fingers of the skeleton of death were stroking my soul with the same studied care that he used when he pondered one of his chess pieces. I was overwhelmed by a predoomed feeling of death as a beautiful sleeping woman’s head rested on each of my shoulders, sitting in the lecture hall in the flickering light with the clicking of the projector and the soup of Swedish voices, the images washing over me as the beam pierced the wafting cigarette smoke.