I had written this piece for the Flash Fiction contest at the Times Kala Ghoda Festival , Mumbai.
The Theme of the contest was Black Horse.

The battle
The atmosphere at the battlefront was electric - a powder keg ready to explode. I felt the tension screaming through my nerves. Hours of non-stop fighting had taken its toll on both armies. I moved a few paces forward and then sidestepped to avoid the enemy lines and then lay in wait. It was a slow, grueling push forward and I was running on pure adrenalin. The enemy was within striking distance and even death would have to wait. I could sense that the battle was reaching its final stretch and the pieces were finally falling into place for our final assault. I was perfectly aware of what had to be done. I had practiced it hundreds of times during the war games with my mates; my mates who were now martyrs in the name of war. I heard my foot soldiers move and take up forward positions on the frontline. My moment of reckoning was just round the corner. The final cog had to be fitted in to set the wheels of victory in motion. Years of pain, suffering and sacrifice had all funneled down to this very moment. If only I could slip around the corner unnoticed. It seemed like eternity and even time stood still with bated breath. My trembling body moved forward, driven by some unknown force, while the brain kept screaming-‘death’. I moved on all fours- two paces forward and then one pace sideways- and lay cowering on the white floor. Blood pounded in my ears and the eyes were shut tight in anticipation of pain – the pain of defeat, damnation and death. A voice suddenly boomed in the background, “Black Knight moves from e3 to c2; ‘Ne3 c2’, Checkmate!! Black Wins”