Ah, what shall I say of Othello?  What entices my soul?  This cauldron of reveling senses.  This arena without mercy, without stain.  I am immersed in a timeless journey, a privileged witness of eternal recreation.

The players shake hands.  The clock is ticking.  We dive into the clear blue opening sea.  Before our eyes, simple shapes form themselves, grow, then shift, melting away like gathering clouds.

Behold your opponent.  Your reflection.  Our destinies engraved within tiny black and white discs.

The board begins breathing, fusing minds, uniting two creators.  Energy explosion. Life thrives in the fertile green midgame.  The boundaries of our pocket universe are comprehended and explored, save the last great frontier: corners.  One can perceive a flicker of light, as when a bird passes before the sun.

Time slows, time stares.  Time shatters.  Ninety seconds left.

The endgame erupts with a violent shower of crimson sparks; an awesome conflagration ravaging each ignited corner of the board.  The game dies, heralding another breathless challenge.

Othello forever.

© Michael Handel
  spring/1995