My Chess Story

An Altercation of Pawns
By Paul Jacobson Smith

It so happened, one day, that the Black King and the White King fell in love and, stealing their wives’ coronets, danced away across the Chessboard in each other’s arms, declaring a mutual hatred for violence and war.

The Queens lamented the loss of their crowns, as the helms were the source of their fortitude and without them, they found that they could barely manage walking more than a space, unless it was just after they woke and had their breakfasts, and even then it was just barely two. But what was to be done? A King was a wily thing to pin down even when he could move just the one square at a time, and now that they were sashaying their way about the board in not-quite-so-straight lines, entrapping them and forcing the return of the regalia was not a possibility.

The Queens now found their movement about the board to be rather aimless, until one morning, upon arising from sleep and exiting their tents, they discovered they were in adjoining spaces on a far edge of the battlefield. Though their primal natures urged them, they were unable to attack, being reduced, as it were, to pawns and so instead they resorted to name calling and throwing stones at each other; until, after the White Queen had succeeded in lobbing into the Black Queen’s hair, the feces of her greyhound, a White Bishop suggested one might prove her superiority over the other by besting her in a fair and straightforward contest. To this the Queens agreed and the terms were set as follow: Over the night, the Queens would rest their strength, and beginning the following morning, they would, by turns, race to the opposite side of the field, being allowed to move whatever pieces they wished to obtain their goal, but playing all pieces as they lay currently. The Black Queen asked how it should be determined who went first. The White Queen, knowing the Black Queen to be one who generally makes a night of it, declared the earliest riser should be allowed first gambit. The Bishop voted for this as well, leaving the Black Queen to complain that it wasn’t a fair decision, because the other two voters belonged to the same party. With that the contestants decided to call it a day and headed for their tents, but first the Black Queen asked the White Bishop to accompany her to hers, saying she had always been an atheist, and perhaps he could tell her of his faith and try to convert her.

The morning arrived and the Virgin was not in the least surprised to discover herself to be the first to greet it, as the grunts and moans of the conversion had kept her awake half the night. After giving up on their eventual cessation, she felt forced to buy that illusive ticket to Morpheus’ lands, or, if that wasn’t clear, she took a fistful of Valium. Feeling refreshed she took her turn and, befriending a lion, as virgins tend to do, had it lead her through the wilds of square two to square three.

The Virgin would have been wrong to assume from the noise nextsquare that a conversion hadn’t taken place, for, although the Valkyrie woke up that morning still a Valkyrie, cursing and downing large volumes of Aquafina, the Bishop who had entered the tent wearing a white robe, exited it wearing a black one. The Black Queen threw the keys for her Mercedes to one of her retinue and had him drive her to the square adjoining the White Queen’s, though they had to pull over in square two so she could throw-up out the window. “What are you going to do now, Kriemhild?” asked Brunhild. “If you move forward, you’ll be in my diagonal and I’ll be able to gut you with my spear.” Kriemhild replied, “I’ve sent word to my other Bishop that his brother succumbed to temptation. By now, your new lover should have succumbed to something else entirely.” “What’s that?” “Smoke inhalation from being burned at the stake.” Brunhild laughed, “That was indulgent and a waste of a turn.” “Yes,” smiled Kriemhild, “but such fun!”

“And what,” asked the White Queen, “could possibly be your inspired move, Brunhild?” In response to this the Black Queen, got out of her Mercedes and took from it’s back seat a good and noble hunting horn, upon which she blew a fanfare crisp and bright. In moments, a large black horse could be seen falling from high in the sky (falling, for it had jumped from Q.Kt’s 2nd), and landing, denting the roof and hood of the Mercedes, before ambling to the ground. “Good Sir Knight,” addressed the Black Queen of her patron, “Would you be so kind as to accept this richly band of gold and ruby in exchange for that dark courser upon which you so proudly dictate.” And then to Kriemhild, “Take that, bitch.”

The Virgin smiled, “I’m going to have to leave you now Brunhild, it will be hard not hearing your tender language, but I think I’ll manage.” “And where do you think you’re off to? You aren’t safe now. Remember, I can always get off this damnable beast.” The Virgin winked, “I’m going house hunting.” And sure enough to the White Queen’s forward-right diagonal was a black castle, open to her attack.

However, the Valkyrie wasn’t finished yet. It would still take the Virgin two turns to get to the end of the board, because there was a Black Pawn blocking her path that would have to be dealt with.

As the White Queen, ensconced in her new castle, coasted into the final row of the board, she felt giddy with victory and decided to write a letter of consolation to Brunhild as the loser, knowing it would particularly burn her up. She tied this note to the leg of a carrier pigeon and walked outside her castle to set it to the air. As she did so, she noticed the large black horse falling toward her from the sky. The Valkyrie had used her two turns to set up an attack on the winner, being just a horse’s jump away as the victor pulled into the finish line. The horse landed, squashing the White Queen beneath its hooves.

“Ah yes, Kriemhild,” sighed the Black Queen, “I suppose you are the superior woman for having won the contest, but who cares now that you’re dead?”

“No one really ever did,” said a Bishop dressed in White.

“I thought Kriemhild had you killed.”

“She tried to, but my brother didn’t listen to her. You see, we were both under orders from the White King. I took the turn that was meant to be my demise to line myself up for the final slaughter, yours. All the while you two were carrying on this charade, the Kings were each adding in an extra turn, each round, to move up the pawns they had fallen in love with.”

“You mean the Kings did fall in love, but not with each other?”

“That’s right. The Black King fell in love with Rapunzel and the White King with Cinderella and now, after this turn, they are free to move them into the final row of the board and crown them Queens.”

The Black Queen finished for him, “Which makes the contest between the true Queens, really nothing more than an altercation of pawns.”

A new poem

The Wingless Angel
or
Gertrude Baniszewski



I.



Many years ago,
When it was young,
An angel hid its wings.

And they languishéd
And shriveled up
And soon could not be seen.

For wings need the sun
And light of day
To strong and healthy stay.

But the angel shamed
for loss of wing
although they could return,

By unveiling them
Before the sun --
Wings can't be starved for good.

Embarrassment was
The chief concern
For the angel wingless;

And therefore it hid
From kin outdoors
Saw not the healing rays.

So its wings stayed stubbed,
It famishéd,
Alone in a dark cave.







II.



Lonely Dark Cave,
Miserable,
With nobody who cared.

The wingless angel
Decided there
To others to give birth.

They, like itself:
Without the sun,
And wings that'd never grow.

Was yet the angel
Miserable,
And more and more it seemed.

But at least it weren't
Alone, alone,
So more it had and took.

And all these born
In darkness
Had never seen the day,

Had never feasted
Upon the sun,
And so never had wings.

How evil it is
That angels live
That never have known wings.

And that is why their
Dam's called devil
And they the devil spawn.








III.



Then it came to pass,
An angel called
Upon the lonesome cave.

And the devil spawn
upon it looked:
They who'd never seen wings.

And they longed for it
And wanted it;
So inviting it in.

Just so the angel
Entered the cave,
Lonesome, dark, and evil.

And saw in the spawn
The roots of wings
That into flight could heal.

Then into the mother's
Presence she came,
And in her sight she quaked,

For here was the beast
Which could enforce
Fear of wholesome sunlight.

The devil looked down
The Angel t'ward
Which entered her domain,

And the sight of it
Offended so,
She made it hide its wings.

They were the wings that
she remembered
Upon her own broad back,

That then were large and
Glorious
Before they'd first been hid.


Now with only stubs
(Though fertile stubs)
She could not stand to see

The great and blinding
Expanse of white
Which burned her cave dark'd eyes.

And so the devil
to angel bid
“Cover those loathsome wings

“Which burn my eyes with
their unkempt state,
Those stained horrendous wings!”

“My wings are stained not,”
The angel said.
“They're white and bleached like clouds.

“And if they're not,
compare your spawn
Who don't have any 't all.”

“You wicked awful
angel to talk
about my loves like that.

“They haven't yet wings
because they've not
had chance to grow like you:

“Who mistreat them bad
And don't deserve
To keep those wings of God's!”

And so the devil
Took such offense
At seeing such bright wings,

She struck the angel
Upon the earth,
And bade her spawn hold fast.

She bade those wingless
angels who had
never yet seen a wing


To hold down the angel
onto the earth
Wh'le feathers she plucked at.

And when the feathers
Each one was torn,
That still was not enough.

And she bade her children
Hold tight until
She'd ripped into the wings.

With her foot unto
The angel's back
And clasping to their frame,

She rent the wings from
That angel's back;
And then the angel died.

For the devil was
offended to
recall she'd ever flown.




IV.



Selfishness and pride
More treacherous
Are once guilt's applied.

If only they'll bare
To let the world
Know that they ever had lacked,

Then wings are ready
To spring right fresh
and so to heaven fly.

Will any in that
Dark lonesome cave
Ever hence see the light?

Paul Jacobson Smith

Chris's synopsis.

Here is Chris's suggestion for a synopsis:

"The Soul Beast is a whole bunch of words that lead up to a single, devastating conclusion: some dude gets his testicles cut off.

F'in A, man. His freakin' balls.

There's also some sex and whipping and murder & stuff. So you should read it. I mean, I did."

Summary of The Soul Beast

I've written a summary of my novel which I think I will send around to publishers. Does it make you want to read it?


Aurilanus is an adolescent girl of the aristocracy whose birth mother, Criona, was executed during her daughter's childhood on charges of witchcraft. When Aurilanus's curiosity into her mother's death leads her to uncover a religious text once in Criona's possession, Aurilanus decides to keep and read the book, becoming attracted by its ideas. Upon her father's discovery of this, Aurilanus is sent away to a temple where her stepmother spent her formative years. At the temple, Aurilanus uncovers the connections between her mother's past, her father's plans for secession from the empire, and her stepmother's recent murder. As the plot is uncovered, Aurilanus feels an increasing dependency upon the source of the majority of her information, the fearsome, yet seductive, superior of the temple, Seraphina. Seraphina is also the leader of the cult which ensnared Criona, but Seraphina twists information so that Aurilanus is unable to see their responsibility in her mother's death. What is more, Seraphina fosters in Aurilanus mistrust of her father, and through desire and logic, she convinces Aurilanus to join with her. Aurilanus is groomed as the cult's messiah, and as she carries out their murderous agenda, she is able to mitigate her guilt by way of a feeling of impotency in her own fate. It is only through the efforts of unlikely friends that she is given the clarity to see that she has choices, and though this knowledge increases her sense of guilt to a nearly unbearable level, she does finally take responsibility for her actions, and chooses to make reparations rather than continue on her destructive path.
The Soul Beast is a 122,151 word fantasy of epic scope, with a decidedly Gothic feel. While its vistas reach from the snowy mountain peaks of Seraphina's temple, to the harsh desert surrounding the empire's capital, the novel maintains a constricting tension as Aurilanus is lead through its increasingly dark narrative, one which brings the adult Aurilanus finally face-to-face with Seraphina's master and the Devil himself. While its primary theme is on temptation and choice, in its explanations of the religion of the Coronites and the cult of the Chaotics, the novel also explores the foundation of religion, and religion's interface with spirituality.

A Few Thoughts on Ragnarok.

In the Norse prophecy of Ragnarok, the gods and all of humankind expire, the world drowns in fire and ice, and even the sun and moon will have been swallowed by Fenris. However, after the fires cool, the sun's daughter will take her mother's place and, born from Lif (Life) and Leifthrasir (Life-Yearner) two humans who hid away in a cave, new life will repopulate the Earth. (See the “Lay of Vafthrudnir”, and its summary in the “Gylfaginning”).
In Wagner's Gotterdammerung, he places Ragnarok in the context of the saga of Sigurd and the early Germanic people. In the opera, humanity doesn't die, but only the gods and all influence of the gods on earth, including Siegfried (Sigurd), whom he styles as the last of the Volsungs. This is significantly different from the legend, and, in fact, Wagner's vision before he began writing the opera, but it does still in corporate the idea of the rebirth in a modified form. Now, the gods dieing allows for men to live in a world free from their influence. And this allows the men to become gods themselves. In the absence of deities, they are now held self-accountable, man is finally responsible for his fate and there is much rejoicing. Think of this in the context of the world at the time. Nietzsche says God is dead (see, The Gay Science), and he tells us to mourn it (requiem aeternam deo), but Wagner says, delight, for only now can you reach your full potential.
Wagner, uses Ragnarok as a social allegory rather than a religious one. However, other writers are fascinated by it just the way it is. Among these are Tolkien, whose Middle Earth (Midgard) books actually take place on our earth in the distant past, with Ragnarok happening long after the events of his novels, yet still before modern times. Tolkien's overall timeline can be better examined in C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy, which shows God has this sort of rebirth happen time and again throughout the cosmos. The final book of that series, That Hideous Strength, takes place on Earth and references Numenor, Tolkien's Atlantis. (Incidentally, Lewis mentions that Merlin is that continent's last survivor, leading me to suspect, that, perhaps, Merlin and Gandalf were, at least at one time meant to be one in the same. Though Tolkien's essay on the Istari in Unfinished Tales doesn't mention Numenor in the context of Gandalf, so perhaps he changed his mind, or I am reading to much into it, or else it is simply meant to be vague.) The point being we see that Tolkien interprets Ragnarok not as a prophecy but as something that has already happened, and that we are the descendants of Lif and Leifthrasir (Noah and his wife).

Elysium

I sit on the shores of Limbo and I watch the men descend into Hades.
They are butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.
They are students and workers and elderly men.
They are mothers and fathers and babies unable to crawl.
Some men are happy and light about it.
They flit and coast their way from life.
Most men are scared.
They shuffle and tip toe their way in, only coming at all for their brothers urge them so.
Some men are starving for it.
They throw themselves down the staircase or plummet from the highest crag.

I sit on the shores of Limbo and I watch the men reach the bottom of their climb.
Some men proceed directly to Charon haply and energetic.
They give him their Obol and he readily accepts them on his passage.
Some men find they have no Obol and fretfully hang on the banks.
A few of these still approach Charon with courage and he accepts them evenly enough.
But most of these stay back and look on toward the boat guilty and longingly.
Many men do not notice Charon, upon arriving they look immediately away.
These congregate far away from the ferry and worry eternity away.

At my place on the shores of Limbo, I am often noted by Charon.
He extends a palm in my direction, for my Obol asking.
I have an Obol and I’ve made myself aware of Charon’s presence.
Yet, I turn the Obol in my hand, and do not give it him.

I sit on the shores of Limbo and I watch the men as each enters onto Charon’s skiff.
Charon accepts the man’s Obolus, if each has any, and motions him to sit.
The boatman positions himself behind the man and takes a clippers in his hand.
He shears the man’s hair and shaves his head.
Then he takes flint and steel and strikes them above the man’s clothes.
The sparks land upon the draperies and soon they are consumed.
Bald and naked as babes he ferries them across.
And only then do saints enter the fields, Elysium.

From where I sit on the shores of Limbo, I cannot easily see Elysium.
But sometimes, if I care to, I can wade out into dead Acheron.
And cold and wet I can make out the smallest part of the sunlit realm.
It is beauty.
The saints dance and sing and laugh.
I have never seen them bored or tired or irritable.
They are far happier than they were in life.
As butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.
As students and workers and elderly men.
As mothers and fathers and babies unable to crawl.
And I look at each in his bliss and I try to think
whether he was the butcher I saw entering.
Or the baker or the candlestick maker.
Or the student or the worker or the elderly man.
Or the mother or the father or the baby unable to crawl.
And I cannot tell.
All I can see is buttocks, belly and eye.
All I can see is head, hand and back.
All I can see is breast, penis and navel.
Where is the cleaver, the apron, and the wax?
Where is the bookbag, the overalls, and the cane?
Where is the rag, the belt, and the pram?
By which I had so easily identified them before.
And once I have finished looking, I return to again to the shore.

At my place on the shores of Limbo, I am often noted by Charon.
He extends a palm in my direction, for my Obol asking.
I have an Obol and I’ve made myself aware of Charon’s presence.
I am not ready to give up my clothes.
I know I will be happy, naked as a babe.
But will I still know me?
Wet and cold and dead,
I turn the Obol in my hand and I’ve yet to give it him.