Powerless Old Men
A chessboard, a park, two old men, memories of when power freed people
The old man, Ernest, craned and stared at a chessboard. Minutes passed. A soft breeze blew through the park. The bird above them heralded the development.
Rook move? Or the pawn? Like looking through googles underwater, the board, the best move, felt fuzzy. Decisions once felt clear, decisive, he recalls. But that was long ago.
"Move something, damn it." Patrick, perched across, was growing crankier by the day. "Hard to believe you ran a power outfit. Your electrons must have been the slowest in the industry."