Sarah On Life

Tom - On the Competition

Tom - On the Competition

Shocked? Yeah, I was shocked. Maybe even flabbergasted. Although, the idea of the competition certainly beat the alternative - going quietly - by miles, (or by kilometres for all those on the metric). So far, I could only see two really troubling flaws in the plan.

1.      A team needed exactly six team members to be entered into the competition.

2.      We had exactly five: Sarah, Lisa, Mitch, Mark and I.

There were other issues as well, of course. Sarah still didn't know how to play, for one, and none of us had been in an official competition for almost five months. The last competition we entered was in late October; the day of Mark Ubersmife's sixteenth birthday.

...

We were doing well. Really well. Mitch had already annihilated his first two opponents safely and with strategies totally devoid of any undue risk. I confused my own with creative, impulsive, maybe even suicidal moves, also winning against both. Lisa had won one of her own, in her own indescribable way; through the other was still in progress. The only issue right now was Mark. I turned to look at him.

There he was, only a few metres away. Dead silent, just... staring, relentlessly, at the board in front of him. A bead of sweat gathered at his forehead and started its slow, deadly passage down. His was battling it out with Gilbert, the most renowned player in the country, and things were not going well. I looked to my watch: 3.47pm. They had exactly 3 minutes to determine a winner, or they'd go to sudden death. Mark couldn't go to sudden death.

3.48pm.

3.49pm.

Mark moved his queen. Great move.

- But too late. A bell sounded. My phone vibrated. I pulled it out slowly, daring myself to look.

Lost the game. Henry now tied with Newton's: 6 games all.

"Shit." I muttered under my breath. So Mark needed this match for our school, Henry, to win; against our oldest rival, no less.

Both players stood, moving to the table to the left of them set up for just this type of occasion. A game sat, already half completed. Each player needed to find the least number of moves they could use to win.

"Checkmate in five", said Gilbert.

Mark looked to his opponent, swallowing his words. What?There was something in his eyes that I didn't... didn't recognise. He stood and an aura of power seemed to flow from him.

"One move." He said, somthing almost akin to a rasp, escaping his lips, "is all that's ever needed."

With that Mark raised his hand towards the heavens, a smug, arrogant and... tortured expression upon his face. A sword appeared, blinding in the dim lights of the dual purpose hall. With an unearthly grace, he swung the weapon in a wide arc, fire seeming to emanate from its blade. It purposely crashed upon the board; splintering it into an irreparable amount of pieces. Holding it to his face, the lights went out. Now the only light source was the blade, and the fire behind Mark's normally calm green-sea eyes. His clothes disappeared, replaced by...black full-plate armour? With an indiscernible depth and texture like velvet, each plate seemed to be made of darkness itself. A sneer formed on his lips, and Mark, my best friend, collapsed upon cold wooden floorboards.

"Mark no!" A disembodied voice shouted above the deafening silence. Mine. Something was wrong, (I mean, apart from the obvious). I ran to the side of my best friend. He couldn't be dead. I wouldn't allow it. He was too... passionate about life. There was no way I'd ever allow him to leave me so soon, especially with so many new questions to be answered. I checked for a pulse. It was faint, too faint.