A Game Where No One Wins
A Russian man is haunted through the years by a harbinger of doom, who in turn is paying for his own past sins.
My journey with the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge continues! I’ve been looking forward to posting this story because of how my wife (Jen) reacted when she first read it. I don’t like to be in the same room when she reviews my writing because I feel exceptionally vulnerable and it seems like it would put pressure on her to respond positively. However, I felt more proud of this story than I did with my 1st round submission, and that made it all the more validating when she burst into the kitchen to share her thoughts afterwards. (She liked it! A lot! 🤗)
With this story in hand, I now had higher expectations and hopes for the 2nd round. The competition only grows stronger, but nobody in my group posted their story after the submission deadline, so I had no idea what I was up against. (There is a members-only forum where writers share and discuss their stories while waiting for results from the judges.) Fast forward two months and I found further validation from the judges: I placed 2nd in my group and earned another step forward in the competition.
The format for this competition is that writers are assigned a prompt and a word count (2,000 for this round). My parameters this time were:
GENRE: Ghost Story
SUBJECT: Checkmate
CHARACTER: A tattletale
The contest runners send you your assignment at 11:59 PM EST and then you have some amount of time (48 hours for this round) to submit. I went to bed that night mulling over some ideas that included a haunted library, but switched it up the next morning to focus on a “tattletale” character who was cursed in a peculiar way to atone for his past sins.
Stay tuned for my Round 3 story in August!
Krasnodar, Russia, 1971
It is particularly unsettling when a gorgeous day is ravaged by tragedy.
The grass in the park was a verdant green, the sun providing a warm glow. It was a Monday in June and a thinner-than-usual crowd was making its way to offices and shops. A cluster of men, some casually chatting, some intensely focused, were seated at tables with chess boards arrayed in various states of play. A few spectators half watched the games while having coffee and pastries.
One table at the edge felt further away than its mere physical distance conveyed. Had one been paying close attention, they’d notice how the sounds of the park grew cloudy and muted near the table. They’d see an older man, maybe in his 50s, dressed unseasonably warmly. They’d watch in puzzlement as he moved a bishop into a position that sealed his opponent’s fate. Not about the move itself, but about the weight of the man’s stare, and the exceptionally loud THUNK the bishop made as he placed it on the wooden board.
No “checkmate” was needed; the younger opponent knew he’d been bested. Yet, why did the older man look so forlorn?
Before the younger man stood up, an explosion thundered from outside the park gates. A cloud of fire and smoke rose above the hedges. Shouts of alarm were raised as the most level-headed people in the area ran to a bus that lay in wreckage. Survivors clambered out of doors miraculously thrown open by the driver.
The younger man recovered from his shock and ran toward the bus to see if he could help. The table behind him was empty, the victor of the match nowhere in sight.
2013
Mitya loved to be early. He didn’t want to show up early, but leaving early let him travel in an unhurried manner. He took the long way to his dinner date with Ivan, strolling through a park that allowed for people-watching. It was a perfect fall afternoon; a little cloudy, but things had been going really well with Ivan, and the brisk air and leaves starting to change made him feel like he was in a movie.
He passed a group of mostly older men playing chess. A stiff breeze turned his head, and when he looked back, he noticed an open seat at the last table. Feeling rich on time and bullish about the night ahead, he decided to play a quick game. He had always romanticized the idea of chess in the park.
“Hi, um, are you looking for an opponent?” he asked.
The man at the table looked to be about his father’s age. Dressed in an aged brown coat, he sized Mitya up before gesturing at the chair. Undeterred by this gruff manner, Mitya said “thanks” as he sat. His dad had a similar demeanor. These older Soviets were thrifty with words and smiles, but he knew how to accept it.
Playing white, Mitya said, “I don’t play much, so I hope I’m not wasting your time.” The man pursed his lips, nodding as Mitya reached for a pawn. His fingers touched the wood and he felt a stab of cold that made him pull back as if touching a hot stove. He made a face and rubbed his hands together before moving the pawn, figuring the strange cold must be from the wind.
“I’ve seen you guys playing here. It always looked fun.”
The man breathed deeply, made his move, and replied, “The game must be played.”
A little unnerved and unsure how to respond, Mitya tried to converse as they progressed to the middle game. “My name is Mitya. My dad and I played when I was younger. Not so much now—he’s still in Ukraine, in Luhansk.” Bishops came out, kings were castled, and the game continued. “I’d beat him sometimes, but I could never tell if he made a mistake or if he was letting me win.”
“I will give you advice, Mitya. Mistakes in chess can be costly, but do not make costly mistakes in life. You may never stop paying for them.”
Mitya nodded, detecting that this man was speaking from experience that he was unwilling to share. He pressed gently, asking his name.
“Viktor.”
“Nice to meet you, Viktor.” Mitya continued to play somewhat recklessly. He lost a knight, then found himself down a few pieces. He learned that Viktor had grown up in the area.
Viktor moved his queen and Mitya knew right away. Checkmate. “Ah, good move. I completely missed it.”
“You played well. I am sorry.”
“No need to apologize!” Mitya said, standing up. “Thanks for the game. I should be going, but this was nice.” He started to walk away.
Why are his eyes so sad? Mitya thought. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting Ivan, but was surprised to see his parents’ number instead.
“Hi Mom, how are you?” (His dad never called.)
“Mitya.” It was his father’s voice, coarse and quiet.
“Oh, hey Dad. Everything okay?”
There was an unnerving silence. “Mitya…your mother…” He cleared his throat, and Mitya’s stomach sank.
“Dad…”
“We just returned from the doctor.” Another pause. “Your mother has been diagnosed with cancer. Pancreatic.”
Mitya’s world spun and he looked for a place to sit down. He turned to the chair he just left, but all the tables were surprisingly far away. Viktor was nowhere to be seen.
2017
Mitya loved the cherry blossoms in this park. They lined the footpaths and encircled the cluster of tables where regulars played chess.
Ivan, now his husband, was due to meet him here later. Mitya still admired the regulars and would sit for a game every so often. This evening, the only open chair was at the edge where a lone man waited for an opponent.
Mitya approached the table. “Excuse me,” he started, before recognizing Viktor. It wasn’t that he remembered his unchanged appearance four years later, but more that he felt a weight press on him and a dimming of sound and light. “Oh…Viktor, right? My name is Mitya. We played here years ago, I think.”
“Hello, Mitya,” Viktor replied, as if expecting him.
Mitya once again moved first. Like before, the pieces felt exceptionally cold to the touch, in stark contrast with the fine April evening. Mitya opened with the Queen’s Gambit, something he’d practiced against Ivan. The game progressed with neither player gaining an advantage.
Viktor complimented him: “You play better. More thoughtful, more strategic.”
“God, the last time we played…” Mitya was remembering the call from his father, the visits to his hometown, taking his mother to chemo, not being there as often as he’d wanted...
He didn’t say it out loud, yet he wasn’t surprised when Viktor broke the silence.
“You cannot blame yourself for things outside your control.”
“I don’t know,” Mitya replied. “With Ivan and my job here, I couldn’t just move back to help my dad take care of her.”
“Mitya…..I understand regret.” Mitya didn’t say anything, allowing Viktor to continue at his own pace. “When I was younger, I was swept up in Soviet pride and certain ideals about how I thought the world should work.” His sentences were spaced out, sometimes with a few moves played between them. “My neighbors…they loved the West. They did not like the way our country was being run.” Pawn to c3. “I tried at first to convince them that I was right, that they should not think the way they did.” Knight takes Mitya’s bishop at e3. They would not listen. I would not listen. I felt like it was my duty to…report them.”
Mitya’s heart broke as he watched Viktor shrink, as if hiding.
“One day, a new couple just…took their place. They were gone, erased in one night and patched over with comrades faithful to the cause.”
Checkmate.
“Viktor…” Mitya didn’t know how to respond. “I’m…so…sorry.”
Viktor met his eyes, then looked away. “Me too, Mitya. For all of it.”
Mitya departed, thanking Viktor for the game and clumsily wishing him well. He was unsettled when he found Ivan, but he could see Ivan was even more rattled.
“Ivan, are you okay?” He put his hand on Ivan’s shoulder as Ivan held out his phone. On the screen was a headline about a “gay purge” in Chechnya. Mitya and Ivan had close friends in Grozny, the capital.
“Alexey just called,” Ivan started. “He said Kolya never came home last night. Mitya, what do you think? What are we going to do?”
Mitya couldn’t offer any words of comfort, so he wrapped his arms around Ivan. He tried to reassure him, but his insides were churning with a sick fear.
2022
The world was cold. Not frozen over, but in a deep and quiet hibernation state.
Mitya was on his way to work. He had just dropped little Kolya off at daycare. He and Ivan had adopted their son in 2019, and their lives had never been more full. Full of joy, for sure, but full of board books and park trips and sleepless nights and all the demands of parenthood.
Mitya still loved to take the long way whenever he could. He was surprised to see a few men playing chess in the park on this cold February morning. Two players faced each other, their hands in gloves and their lower halves covered in blankets. Beyond he noticed a solo figure with a familiar brown coat.
He nearly left the park to take a more direct route to his office. The wind picked up and he was propelled forward, almost against his will. Was there a supernatural force at work, or was Mitya powerless against the force of curiosity that ensnares people time and again?
He sat right down. “Viktor,” he said in greeting.
“Mitya.” A pause. “I’ve been…waiting for you.”
Mitya started to play. He was wearing gloves, but he still felt an icy stab when he touched the pieces.
“Viktor, I won’t ask how you’re doing, or why you don’t seem to age.” Viktor gave the slightest of nods. “But I have to know–what happens if I win?”
They played a few moves before Viktor spoke. “I don’t know,” he said. “I would like to find out. But I cannot let you win.” He captured a pawn. Unworried, Mitya continued with his strategy.
“Is this your…choice?” Mitya asked. “Why do you show up here, years apart, right before something tragic happens to me?”
A longer pause, more moves made, more pieces captured. Haunted and worn thin, he finally answered, “It is not just you. It is not my choice. It is my…penance.”
Mitya continued, planning ahead, moving his pieces into positions that would pay off in the end game. Remember the basics, he thought. Don’t make a mistake.
And he didn’t. He played brilliantly, perhaps the best game of his life. He and Viktor traded pieces, shrinking their ranks. They blocked each other’s pawns from advancing and whittled the board down to just a few pieces.
Mitya studied the board. Finding no way forward, he asked, “Can I offer you a draw?”
Silence.
“I accept,” Viktor answered.
They stared at each other. Mitya broke the trance: “What now?”
“You played well,” said Viktor. “Go, Mitya. Your family needs you, and I hope we never meet again.”
Mitya nodded, adjusted his scarf, and left. He was afraid to look back, but curiosity again got the best of him after only a few steps. The tables were far away, and Viktor was nowhere to be seen. The other players continued their game as if nothing had happened.
Mitya got out his phone to text Ivan. He saw an alert. Something inconceivable had happened: Russia had invaded the Luhansk region of Ukraine. The city where his father still lived. Where his sister was raising her own family. Where most of his childhood friends remained.
“No…” he whispered. “Viktor…we played to a draw…”