He wanted us to love her, his black queen… but we were all loved out, and besides the white queen wouldn’t stop crying.
“Fey,” said Father, holding his lover up to the light, like a fine wine.
Weird, we thought, wriggling uncomfortably. But she was beautiful, and deeply loved… which seemed to render us less so.
Years later, after she’d made her final move, our father shambled unconsolably around the chequered residue of his life. He needed us to mourn her… so we respectfully dissembled our grief.
The black queen was gone.
And still the white queen wouldn’t stop crying.
Such a beautiful photograph today! Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers out on our Hallowe’en jaunt once again.