Lightning provided the backdrop and the light by which they moved the pieces on the board. One after the other after the third. Barely had a piece smacked down on the board, louder than the streaks of fire and electricity burning through the sky than the other player smacked his onto the square for his next move. A line of pieces stood by the board, five, so far. Pieces that had been removed from the game. This line grew slower though. This game would not be their only chance. They had played thirty three games in the last seventy two hours. The first game had taken five hours, they had started on a beautiful Saturday evening, as the park slowly emptied, the last vestiges of piece on the blue sky slowly fading into the hues of the dying sun. the air had tasted fresh, and now was plagued with desire for the freshness it had in its heyday. Animals had chirped with the sighs of settling in for the night. The green in the park, the colors in the sky, the yellow of the lamps all around it, the brown of the trees, it was all very idyllic. The second game had taken six hours.

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Long before they rolled the die, they had been friends.

Twenty four summers to the day when they rolled the dice for the last time, two of them had been swinging on tires in a backyard. It had been a warm summer day. There was a phrase for it in a language the elder of the two would need three dozen years later. Dhoop sekhna. More delicate than just plain old basking in the sun. It meant to inhale the sunlight, have it glow from every pore of your skin, warm you better than a hot shower, better than a steam room. Make your cells sigh with delight, smell the rays of light with every inch of your body, take it all in. The tingling runs through your spine, in both directions, going down it relaxes your legs, goes all the way to your feet, the toes tingling. Going up, it enters your brain, goes through your bloodstream and back into your brain, ending in bliss. A cloud lounging in the sky, warm, at peace. Dhoop sekhna. More delicate than just plain old basking in the sun.

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The heat was intense, flickering, waving, the air shimmering nothing too solid. Eyes were prickling. The sun was covered by black smoke. The country was burning, the fire had started out as a forest fire, because of the arid area. It had quickly transformed, turning into a raging wildfire that resisted all efforts made by firefighters to contain it. No hose was big enough, no water cold enough. The fire scorched through any attempts to put it out - they continued regardless, the people had no other choice, except to leave their homes - and if any attempted to damp the flames, the inferno roared in anger and seemed to get larger. It was as if it were a wraith, a living entity made purely of anger, made to eat up all the oxygen in the air, and all the dirt on land. It was doing a pretty good job of it. It had been months. From a small forest fire in a national park, it had spread out to cover more than half of the country. It too, seemed to be restricted by man made borders, as if someone had colored fire on a map after not knowing what country it was, and wished for the country not to have existed. It was slowly being drenched in that wrath.

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He knew he shouldn’t. But it was compelling, this idea of convincing someone, without using force. Using just The File. he knew he probably wasn't the first. He probably wouldn't be the last. Brain control, hypnotism, they had nothing on this. He also knew that he was being directed. But he wanted to do this. Maybe that’s how they get you. That was what his instructions had said about his target.

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The man had a scar. It was raining. The scar started at his left eyebrow. It was as if Noah’s flood had come again. It went all the way down to his right knee. It felt as if everyone would drown.

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“Crime rates are rising throughout the world in historic numbers at never before seen speeds. We will bring you more on this as we-”

Smash, sputter.

Two things happened at once. The lights went out, the glass in the window shattered.

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Two men sat in a park playing chess. The tree over their heads provided enough shade that the hot moist air could not touch them. They were old, the one playing white with a lined, aged face and blue eyes, the one with black with a wrinkles and eyes that turned from green to blue to grey depending on the light. Both were focused, crinkles on their foreheads, eyes darting from one piece to another, envisioning multiple futures and outcomes of each move. They had come here to this park every Saturday to play a game for the last several decades. Before them, another pair sat in those very spots, and before them another pair, and so on and so forth until the day chess came to be discovered, not invented, by humans. And then there were pairs before that as well. Nature thrives on opposites. Stasis can not exist. Light must have darkness. Water must have fire. One side must have an opposite, an opponent.

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The pavement in this dreary gray city was glimmering as the star that lit up the morning sky shone hard on it. It would be hot and dry and dusty as it was for most of the year. But the rain from a week ago, as infrequent as it was, it only rained a couple dozen times a year in this town, had cleared up the area. The air was cool and fresh and tasted of salt but the nearest water mass was miles away. The birds fluttered as they mated and raced above. Trees sighed as they ate carbon dioxide.

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The rain was overwhelming. Falling in torrential outpours, as if angry at something, or someone. The sky was dark, cloudy, in the middle of the day, the absence of the cheery sun visible in the eyes and on the faces of the people hurrying along, downcast, looking down. Clutching their ponchos closer to their chests, protecting their most vital organ - subconsciously, even though any logical person would know that the rain could not penetrate the walls of skin, muscle, blood and bone surrounding the four atrium of the heart.

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The sun shone fast and hard. Birds had long since flown away, chattering excitedly. The smell of sweat, and that of something sour wrestled in the air. The grass fluttered, heavy with the anticipation of being watered. Something dark hovered over the air on this bright, warm, sunny day.

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The being sat on top of the throne, surrounded by darkness. He was aged beyond imagination, wizened beyond comprehension. The stars twinkled around him, a backdrop he had sat in for years. His face was shaped like an oval, his forehead massive, his eyes bright, searing. His chin was pointy. He was hairless, his skin was the brown of mud, and the black of the canvas of space. His eyes shone bright, another two stars in a vast universe. He smelled of nothing and of everything. Smell arose and died with him. Based on his mood, you could smell your favorite things, lavender, grass, chocolate, or the things that disgusted you, defecation, things that terrified you, or nothing at all. He did not have lips, nor a mouth. When he spoke, you heard his voice, deep, gravelly, primal, rumbling around in your head. He did not have a nose. His face was ever changing, shifting, not one thing for too long. The eyes remained. Twinkling. The forehead remained. Large. 

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The police had gotten there too late. It was suspected that they were in cahoots with the madman. That was not true. They were just incompetant. The media could be said to be in on the plan, advertise it as they did, live. But they only got there last minute, they too, insufferable as they were, were inefficient, incapable of doing their jobs properly. True, there was a man on the inside, but it was not a well thought out plan. It was just the accomplice’s idea to film the thing, and send it to the media later. That was how they got the whole video that they played, not saying that they filmed it, but not saying that they didn't. And it’s the things you don't say that really do get heard the most.

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The cackle rang through the cells, rattling the bars of each, the prisoners mumbling and groaning. Not complaining. They were terrified of the man who was cackling. They may be murderers and killers, rapists, drug dealers, but they were still human. And they were afraid of him. The guards too, they let him be. They had seen many strange things in this place that smelled of darkness and lives gone to waste. The lights were out, but for the fluorescent ones that let the guards patrol. The moon peeked in through the windows of those who were lucky enough to be in cells with windows. The cackle danced and cheered. People waited, ears perked, chills ringing down their spines, for what would come next. He had only been here for eleven days, but he had already established a habit, a tempo. He had no complained when he had been brought in. He was not fighting, as some of them did, in denial, not angry, as others were, spitting at, swearing at the guards. He was holding them by the shoulders as if they were friends that had grown up with him. And then too, he was laughing, head thrown back, long rockstar hair crawling down his back, laughing. The guards were too much in shock to say anything.

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She danced, alone in the woods, alone by the moonlight. The animals were asleep, all but the owls, yellow eyes unblinking as they watched this woman in a white wedding dress twirl and dance, her eyes closed, the most peaceful look on her face. The owls watched her, and the moon shone over her. The trees sighed, leaves fluttering, the wind whistled as it whipped past her dress, the tresses on it twirling with a life of their own. She was in her head, she was in the forest.

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He came home every night, the liquid on his tongue, the haze in his eyes, the alcohol for sweat. He came home every night, shirt untucked, open, unaware of his surroundings. Staggering, using anything and everything around him for support. His wife had had poles installed, heavy furniture placed around the entrance, and the hallway to the living room where his favorite maroon couch sat. 

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Chop, chop, chop.

The air reeked of death, and water, and he could smell the blood, no matter how faint. Or maybe it was stuck on him, and not the atmosphere. Ishfaq, his father had opened this shop twenty eight years ago, back when this area was still farmland, and when he saw people moving out to go into the city. He saw the opportunity, and by the grace of Allah, it worked out.

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The marketplace was crowded. It smelt of fish and rugs, and paint, and carpets, and sweat. The sweat was everywhere. In the pits of the men hawking their fares, less evident on the women walking around, hips swaying under their modest shalwaars, but it was omnipresent, like the god these people claimed to worship. The sounds, were repellant. Harsh, loud, repugnant. Everyone shouting, trying to outdo their neighbors, trying to attract the most attention, until it all became a cacophony of guttural sounds beyond language. The curse of humanity was strong in these throngs of market goers.

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Finding no resistance, the water had cleared the air, so to speak, the thunder roared a mighty roar. It would rage and dance through the night.

In the hut below, a little boy trembled. His father was in the next room. He closed his eyes so tight, they started to hurt, and he tried to think of what his father had told him about fear. He couldn't remember it. He opened his eyes, rubbed them, tentatively, the thunder growled gleefully, watching him jump.

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Rain trickled down the hut of the shack, each drop magnified, and loud in the howling of the night. As drops pattered down onto the thin steel sheets, the sheets, clunky, unwieldy, joined together with nothing but gravity and thin ropes, those steel sheets, rusted and browned, clanked upon one another. The sound inside was deafening. Almost enough to block out the sounds from within.

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When they called him a copycat, he got mad. So what, it was a coincidence. Her name wasnt Kitty, the lake was. Didnt mean that’s what he meant. By then, he had accepted what had happened. By then, he had wanted credit. Not to be known as a murderer.

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