Grandmasters by Abdullah Mohammed

Seated are two grandmasters. One is a young man wearing a white shirt with his cinnamon blazer hanging on his chair. A puzzled look is evident on his face. The opponent, a finer gentleman with wrinkles, decked out in a navy blue suit and a striped tie. His body symbolises the calmality of a lion ready to pounce in the savannah grasslands. Age here is the deciding factor, the older man has seen many more games than the young prodigy. People believe the youthful mind is fresher and less worn out from the countless matches that make a grandmaster, but the lessons and experience gained from these matches far outweighs the benefits of an unworked mind.

On the expertly crafted oak table lies the game that will decide if there is a new world champion. The sixty four squares are occupied by just sixteen pieces, eight black and eight white. A queen, rook, bishop, four pawns and a king versus a queen, two rooks, four pawns and a king. The material balance is in favour of white. The auditorium is filled with silent thoughts on what the next move will be. Next to the board sits the clock, tick tick tick tick tick tick, interrupting the speechless environment. The glistening light from the several stage lamps create an intense focus on players from the spectators. Their chairs are of a dark colour, wrapped in a luxurious leather held on by pearl-white rivets.

The younger player sits with his elbows on the table and hands in his hair, trying to scramble an attack against white, while the older player sits with a more composed posture and looks to have already planned the rest of the game out in his head. Black reluctantly picks up a piece and loosely places it down, attempting to improve his position and records it on the notepad next to him. In contrast, white grips his piece confidently and moves it commandingly, then presses his clock while showing little emotion.

White offers a trade of rooks, but black rejects it, knowing it will weaken his control of the game. White responds by taking black’s pawn while black now develops an offensive by attacking white’s king with the rook. White’s king is forced to seek refuge under a pawn. Black’s queen moves down ready to end the game in the next move. Black’s assault is halted by white’s rook who checks black’s king on the back rank, forcing the king to run. The next move creates shock amongst spectators and the crowd gasps at the sacrifice made by white’s queen. Black captures the queen with his king, but it is too late. The rook comes up from behind. Checkmate.

Howard Next Door by Jonathan Crowther

You would have thought that nobody lived next door if it weren’t for the dusty clumps of cat hair and musty smells that somehow found their way through the raspy ventilation system. Howard, who lived next door, was a short man in his late 40s with a thick brown beard that somehow compensated for his height. He left early every morning, shuffling through the corridor, cowering beneath one of his many pastel sweaters and his favourite depressingly beige coat that frowned with creases. He returned late at night with a paper bag filled with vegetables and cans of beef liver pâté, whose stench when opened made it obvious that he was feeding his cats.

Every Sunday when my parents were gone, he used to invite me over for a cup of tea. The daylight struggled to reach the inside of his apartment, merely peeking through the holes in grimy sheets that hung from the windows. Instead, it was the yellow stained hanging bulbs that lit the centre of the room. Along every wall, hiding in the dark, were rows upon rows of dusty, umber books that were covered in cat hair. Howard would sit upright on the mushy emerald green couch, so exactly in the centre, I used to wonder if he had used a measuring tape to mark out where to sit beforehand. He would clasp his favourite brown mug filled with steaming tea and wave away Cheddar, one of his many cats, evicting her from my designated seat opposite Howard. Howard would talk for hours on end and I was happy to listen. He would go on about his cats as if they were his best friends and tell me about his days as a librarian. I sat, listened, sipped tea and wondered as he taught me a large proportion of what I know today. Mum and Dad didn’t like me going to see the ‘weirdo’ but as I sat and drank tea I realised that there is nothing wrong with being different.

Howard gave me many cups of tea.

And showed me it’s okay to always be yourself.

The Sounds of a Summer’s Evening by Connor Downey-Parish

As a summer gust enters my room, it brushes past the window’s dress, rustling it. It begins to whistle a tune, the mellifluous notes echoing off the walls. A cricket joins in, taking up an instrument of its own. Its violin legs create a harsh melody that contrasts with the beauteous flute that the wind holds. The rain, disliking the cricket's song, begins to patter down, extinguishing the cricket’s lullaby. Soon, it too can not resist the pull of the music. The rain becomes the constant pounding of a drum with the occasional cymbal of thunder. The rain dies down and an anthem of birds joins the chorus to take its place. The birds sing lyrics unknown to me, I can only discern their beauty. The song of the birds encourages the boundless music of the wild to surge into existence. Crickets, this time remaining in their place within the melody, once again begin to draw a bow across their legs. The wind, determined not to be outdone, doubles the volume of its whistling, setting the pace of the song. Trees, amazed by the display, shake their countless leaves, cheering like a crazed crowd during a concert. Under the instruction of the wind, the melody speeds up and slows down, imitating the intricacies of a piece by Mozart.

The constant droning and whirring of the washing machine can easily be heard through the thin walls - all of its attempts to silence the music fail. Not long after, it concedes, becoming a large bass in the symphony.

As the wind conducts the orchestra of the wild, creating an ineffable lullaby more stunning than anything a human could produce, I drift off to sleep.

The Cafe by Hunter Fowlie

I sit in the cafe on a nice firm couch as I wait for him. Ding! A man walks through the door. A beige overcoat, a large, tidy beard, a blue formal shirt, a lethargic posture. He walks to the counter and orders his breakfast. He finishes and walks over; a fast, long stepped stride that quickly narrows the distance to my table, his wooden-soled brown leather dress shoes clicking sharply along the floor.

He takes the seat across from me. He makes an effort to sit up straighter, a half head or so taller than me. His skin appears lightly tanned all over his arms as he struggles with his overcoat. Under the scent of the tea in front of me (a nice English Breakfast, ⅕ milk, no longer steaming), I smell an animal. I also notice black and white fur-like hairs coating his coat’s shoulders, making me think he owns a cat. I also smell his cheap cologne.

“Good morning.” He tries to put as much enthusiasm into his voice as possible, but continues to sound tired. Despite this, his voice is carefully controlled; not too loud, not too soft, not too deep, not too high. He’s obviously had this job for a while, and knows how to handle his customers. “I’m Barry, the consultant.”

“Okay,” I reply in the same controlled tone.

The conversation continues, his hands and facial expression accompanying each of his statements as he tries to convince me to expand the warranty. Eyebrows disappear into his hair-line as he becomes excited.

His breakfast arrives and he eagerly digs in. Small mouthfuls chewed and swallowed fast, and in between each a white-toothed smile ruined by a shred of whatever herb is on his eggs, maybe basil. Finally, the meal finishes.

“Well, I should probably be heading off. Don’t forget to ring me if you want to talk or arrange payments,” he cheerfully says with the same controlled, even voice.

He gets up off the table and exits, leaving me to pay the bill.

He goes out the door, and I notice his wallet still lying on the table.

Babushka by Tanyon Osborne

I sit on the thin, wooden seat of the bus stop, barely protected by a rotting shelter covered in rough etches and old graffiti. All around me snow lazily tumbles to the ground creating a view similar to that of a postcard. On the opposite end of the bench is Babushka. With her feet tucked under a small blanket bearing the Russian flag and her body uncontrollably shivering, she weakly shakes the rusted tin can clasped tightly in her hand. The sound of a single coin beating against its walls echoes through the empty streets covered in thick Russian ice.

A thin, fraying bandana is wrapped around her head and several split-ended silver hairs frame her face. She has a sweet appearance. Warm, brown eyes radiate love for her fellow man, and a small, crooked smile is never far from her face with her yellow teeth always making a guest appearance. Deep lines and wrinkles carve into her flesh, a testament to the hardships of her life - telling her story better than any story could.

The people around me say she was once a hospitable, charitable woman. Everything she had, she gave. Whether it be a loaf of bread or her favourite dress, anyone and everyone was welcome. However, when disaster struck and the Soviet Union dissolved, she was forced from her home. She left with nothing but the clothes on her back and her limited possessions in a brown, canvas duffle bag. Torn and faded, the same duffle bag is pressed to her chest. One lonely reminder of her past. One singular homage to a life that once was.

Now she sits here alone, in the bitter cold. The bus arrives, and I stand up. Before I leave, I remember to flick a coin into her rusted tin can. I turn around and catch one more fleeting glance at her as the words “thank you” escape her lips with a rasp.

She gave everything to others.

And now the world does not give it back.

Part of the Landscape by Conor McCormack

She doesn’t immediately catch your eye, but once you see her it’s hard not to stop and stare. She leans back on a tired old chair so old that it’s grown into its surroundings, as much a part of the landscape as the tree that grows beside it. With legs of different lengths, it wobbles side to side if she ever shifts her weight. One half-hearted whack away from disintegrating, it defiantly stays upright. Its scars tell the story of its owners long-gone, owners that nobody knows. Her clothes can barely be called clothes, rather tattered bits of cloth glued to her by years of sweat and mud. If they'd been washed in the last decade you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at them. Frayed and worn, each stain tells a story. Only she knows it.

She sits still in her tired chair and filthy clothes, so still you would think she is dead, or at least close to it. Her legs hang limp off the end, covered in cuts and scabs and multiple dark marks that could either be faded tattoos, or something else entirely. They occasionally swing back and forth, but it's hard to tell if it’s a conscious movement or if they're just blowing in the wind. But if you were to step closer to her, which nobody ever does, you may hear a raspy breath. If you were to put your thumb on her wrist and your ear on her chest, you would hear a heartbeat, feel a pulse, however faint. But you can't do that now. Instead, you lift your gaze to her face. A face carved through and through by wrinkles, shaped by decades of smiles and stained by years of tears. A face that tells a story. Just like her clothes, just like her chair. A story that ends with an old lady sitting in a chair. A story that nobody knows. Not anymore.