My first attempt at the infamous “second person perspective” writing style. It’s set in the same universe as my previous microfiction: “The Other White Meat.”
It’s a story of contests and stakes, simply titled:
The game has only just begun.
Roll the dice, the timer’s ticking. It’s your turn now, are you ready to play?
Your hand is sweaty; it drips into your cuts and makes them burn. You lick them quickly. It’s your good luck charm, and the taste of metal and salt are not going to stop you from using it.
You let the dice fly.
It’s a three. You swear loudly. The piece moves forward, inching across the massive board below you. All that separates you from the fall is a sheet of glass. Your vertigo makes you stumble. Your eyes are a camera and it wavers in and out of focus, while simultaneously zooming in at the pit below. You try not to vomit.
Your opponent takes his turn. You watch as the massive version of your opponent’s dice impacts their holding square, making the entire stadium rattle with their motion. They fly up in an arch, nearly escaping the box.
It’s a twelve. His piece moves two spaces away from your family; its blades already beginning to whirl. They stand cowering in the corner of the maze-like board. This your last chance. You look at the dice in your hand. An idea forms in a rush of blood to your head. You nearly stagger with the thought.
You don’t know it, but you will become famous for this move. Its name will be the same as yours, and it will change the game forever.
The mechanical arms pick up the dice, and hold it, mirroring your actions. You shake it a few times, and look down at your family; your mother gives you a pleading look. You just smile. The grin turns violent as you look at your opponent, sitting there suspended in his glass box. He’s fighting for the money, just like you. He’s fighting for the cure, and an escape from the Walled Zone. He turns to look at you just as you make the play.
With precise fury, you bring the dice down, spiking it as hard as you can on the ground. The massive analog follow suit, bouncing against the edge and breaking free from the container. It spirals in the air, and impacts your opponent’s cage, shattering the glass and dropping him nearly fifty feet. He doesn’t die from the fall, but the dice lands and finishes the job. His family scream as your piece jumps forward nearly twenty spaces and reduces them to pink mist.
The glass around you changes colors and displays your winnings: a home, medicine, and best of all, food. You decline them. Opting to play another round.
Because after all, the winner goes first, and the game has only just begun.
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