Eldritch Blast

Well look at that, I dug up an old assignment from uni. The first one I did for introduction to creative writing, even. A dusty relic, to be sure. Although given that it was the first piece I ever wrote in the second person perspective, and the first piece I ever tried to do at a professional level, well. Certainly interesting, looking back.

The thick scent of plastic, sweat, and sugar gently wafts into your lungs as you approach the arcade. Warm, glowing lights greet your face, and beckon you closer as if with a wink and a smile. A child stands agog at the concept of getting things, tangible objects, for playing games. His vacant eyes and gaping chasm of a mouth state that your passing by is not registered on any level. His face speaks to you of dollars hard-earned from tedious chores that can now be exchanged for something much, much grander: tickets. If life was meant to be lived, it was most certainly meant to be done so with novelty cigarette lighters, broken spud guns, and slightly used harmonicas.

Vaguely familiar tunes fill your ears as you leave the child behind, and continue down, further into the depths. You notice two young bucks competing in the ring. Their complete inebriation radiates around them, clearly stating that this is indeed a competition, not a game. A naive onlooker stares off into space, thrilled with the thoughts of how many seconds of adoration a dollar could buy. You slowly place a coin on top of the cabinet. All around observe your careful movements, your deliberate placing. This is your throwing down the gauntlet; you are next to fight. Tentatively, you stand in line, shuffling your fingers in-between themselves. The absolute concentration is too much pressure. The challenger fumbles. One clumsy slip and his place on the pedestal is lost for today. He is to return shamefully to his village with no boar for the feast. Of course, he has created his own problem by stepping up in the first place. He moves aside, tail tucked between his legs. You grip the joystick like an old friend’s hand. You cautiously touch the damaged buttons, ravaged in moments of fury. They relax a little.

A booming anthem bursts forth from the machine, announcing your arrival. Your faceless rival remains hidden on the other side of the screen for now. Bystanders watch in awe of your audacity. The other has been pitched in battle for an hour on the same coin. A commendable feat, there is no doubt, but neither of you are here to win. You meet to observe, to know the other player, to understand their every action. You feel the rush, the giddying high as you both dance to the rhythm of the fight. Each subtle move and counter brings you both closer together than small-talk or bagels. People watch, but they do not see. Their eyes stay fixed on the end result: who gets the applause? By this point, victory and defeat have become irrelevant. You have already found all there is to find. The match is over. You shift to the side, and come face to face with your competitor. Both of you know each other well enough now to smile, and appreciate that at least one other person is here for the right reason.

Tingles run down your fingers and light thoughts fill your mind as you get up to leave. Somebody taps you on the shoulder. You turn around, and see the other player from the fight. A fist is extended. It is subsequently bumped. His eyes lights up, and his expression tells you many tales of past battle fought, mighty foes felled, and times of great loss. You smile, and flick a coin to him as if to say “Next one’s on me.” He nods and heads back to the ring with a confident stride. Without looking back, you exit. The hard pavement meets your feet, and the cold air hits you in the face like a hard right-hook. The only noise is strangers walking away, and the only spectacle is watching the trees roll past on the dull train home.