Dammit.
"So...can't really say I pictured it like this at all," Skittery said, both eyebrows raised.
The figure in the black cloak across from him shrugged his thin, skeletal shoulders. When he spoke, his voice sounded as though it was coming from the eternal, black depths of some godforsaken, abandoned well, rattling with the sounds of thousands of souls, echoing with the screams of those long past dead.
"Who does?" He asked. "Your move."
Skittery studied the chessboard, eyes darting from one figure to the next, mapping out lines of movement and possible plans. His thin, ink flecked fingers paused, before reaching out and decisively snapping a pawn forwards one place.
"So..." He raised his eyes from the board to his partner. "What should I call you?"
The figure raised it's head, so Skittery could peer into the black depths of his hood. There were no shadows that might suggest the curves of a face, no glint to offer any hope of a set of eyes.
"I have not been asked that question in years," it replied, the voice echoing through Skittery's skull.
"Well...whaddo yer friends call you?" He asked.
"I have no friends!" The figure intoned imperiously.
"Mmm, okay, okay. So...will Death do?"
The figure paused. One robed arm came up, and from the hem peeked a set of yellowed, bone fingers. They disappeared into the depths of the hood, as though they were stroking an invisible chin.
"Death will do," the figure finally conceded. Skittery smiled politely, before motioning towards the board.
"Your move, Death," he told him.
Death seemed to take as much time deliberating as Skittery did. But who could blame him? The stakes were quite high. After a moment, the same hand reached out, and the fingers enveloped the bishop, sliding him diagonally across the board. Skittery placed the tips of his long fingers together and rested them under his chin, examining his options. It's true, he was a good chess player, but he never suspected he'd be in a situation like this. He thought he caught a good plan as he traced his pieces on the board, but a gasping, retching sound distracted him, and he peered down once more at the remnants of his own mutilated body. Skittery Norfeild lay beside the both of them, bloody and mangled, chest heaving up and down as he struggled to take in the air through the blood in his throat. Skittery wrinkled his brow.
"I don't look too good," he remarked.
"I've seen worse," Death assured him.
Skittery shrugged and moved his rook three places ahead.
Death immediately reached out and wrapped it's thin, skeleton fingers around it's queen. Victoriously, he slid her along the board just far enough to knock one of Skittery's unprotected bishops onto it's wooden side. It fell to the board with a clack that echoed through the alleyway.
"Owned!" Said Death triumphantly.
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Write a scene - yes, just a scene, no backstory called for - at the grave of a newsie. Any length, but remember... it's a scene. A snapshot, if you will.
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I know I updated rather quickly (twice in one day? Absolutely freaking unheard of!) But this suddenly struck me, and I started laughing too hard to breathe. I'm so going to make this into a movie.
Coin: Ha ha! Yes, Oh Dutchy. At first, I didn't even choose which newsie was going to be the pizza guy, but I realized that I never really write about Dutchy. He needs his fair share of cameos.
Omni: Ahh! You're so awesome. I think you're review got cut off, but that's alright, I
Shakesperean fool: Yeah...I just couldn't handle a real life only dialogue. My fetish for describing things would have been deeply...deterred. I don't like that. Not at all. I'm glad you liked it!