CHESS

The pawn on g2 has been waiting, his scoped Mosin-Nagant gliding on h6 like an angel in the shattered stained windows of the Church. The night bites at his nose and fingers as he burrows in the snow, his hot breath masked by the frosty winds that sweep over from the enemy camp. His mother considered him dead the day he left her for the front, he thinks about her often as the bombers pass over his head for Moscow. He thinks about her food and the fire.

A shadow flits across h6. He wakes from his hypnotized reverie as a dim light begins to work its way onto the dark square. This is not the night nor the wind nor the cloud; it is either a trap or an enemy.

He finds it in his sights quickly, and he shifts a fraction to the right to adjust for wind. His mind races as fast as the enemy had across the golden wheat fields and green grass of his home. He may be visible against a white square, but duty is duty. How did he, an Anthropologist, turn ruthless hitman. What would happen if he were caught.

As the light flickered, he realized this was no ordinary miserable soldier on his way to evacuate his bowels of the ever shortening rations and melted ice. No. This was someone big. The dark cross on his head came into view and he gasped when he realized who the enemy was. He steadied his quivering excited hands, held his breath, check his aim one last time, and fired.

It was not a yell as much as a sigh, and yet another life was lost amidst the cold snows. The large figure dropped mute, like a tree that has seen one too many a winter. The pawn crawled away into the shadows, where he lit a celebratory cigarette and gently tapped on the sturdy door of his King's quarters.

Written as a shitpost in frustration