Joe sacrificed another pawn,

His head bowed low over the board,

A game of chess and a single malt

Seemed to trump working

In the middle of the day,

The pub barely figured in his peripheral vision.

‘What is the point of chess?’

Old man Cleeve said from his seat,

Closer to the fire.

He always looked dressed for his own funeral

Even his skin was yellow

His liver, pickled in a jar on the window sill.

Joe didn’t look up

He didn’t really care what Cleeve thought

But he did have a point.

‘It is as meaningful as life

Pawns are the drones…they are there to be sacrificed,

Just like us.

Every piece has a role and works within the boundaries

Of its assigned designation.

Free will never exists, as the game would

Descend into chaos.’

‘So what of self-determination and imagination?’

Cleeve murmured as he made another impetuous move.

‘Ah, Cleeve…proof indeed that if God did exist

He would never have invented rule-breakers.

If all he ever wanted was self-sacrifice

Pawns would never breach the defences

And be promoted to a Queen.’

‘Yes but it’s just a game, Joe

In real life

The little guy never wins.’

‘Einstein was a little guy Cleeve

And he became a giant.’

‘Wasn’t that a book by Shelley?’

‘No that was Frank.’

Ah, yes he wrote a diary…I forgot.’

Joe shook his head in despair

Cleeve was either stupid or very clever

Perhaps he was both of those things at once

An enigma, whatever that was

When the only conundrum he cared about

Was the mystery of freedom.

For the most part

Everybody was bound by relationships,

And inter-connectedness

Hindered by the fear of letting go,

Holding on to what they knew

Of dear life

Just in case their decisions proved to be

Irreversible,

Which of course, they almost certainly were.

‘Checkmate!’ he shouted,

Releasing his hold on the Queen.

‘Shit Joe. I almost spilt my drink

Into the fire.’

‘And that would never do Cleeve.

The outcome would be inflammatory

And the result of that is altogether too random my friend,

Too random.’