Make A Move
written by: Franciska Merrick
I know the exact spots I left them. Every piece placed just so with dedicated precision. I memorized the delineations, curves, corners, and boundaries; the area left beside the edge of every item in each drawer vaulted in the recesses of my remembrances. They are, as in every other instance, arranged according to shape, lined up by size. They lie in contiguous rest, abutting close enough to serve the purposes of the system. Not quite nestled, each piece skims the rim of the other, angled to allow easy retrieval. The sight of their careful placement habitually fills me with great satisfaction. The faintest disturbance will be instantly noticed.
Marble tops showcase fingerprints, attempted sabotage evident. Swirls and whorls are greasy trails to follow on sleek, white-veined espresso tops, leading to the offending scene. Each obsidian drawer face is an equidistant smidge away from completely shut, except one. A slim line of matte shadow screams of prior opening, a cavern crying for its lost treasures. The obscurity leads my anxious vision to what lies beneath. My babies have been disturbed. I find the slight protrusion offensive. A ripple of dissatisfaction makes its way to my chest.
Gingerly sliding the drawer closer by its chrome handle confirms my suspicions. Not one, but two have been taken. My pulse is a racehorse against reason. I’m quite sure they are gone forever, never to be seen again. Invariably, the thieves become more brazen, buoyed by previous success. It seems this most recent offense saw them employ more cunning than I have witnessed prior. All rows but the last lay perfectly undisturbed. Further planning on their part suggested they leave items in front to retain their original stations. If I were to coax the drawer out only so much, I would be none the wiser. It is only at the very back of the stash that I witness gaps left by their uncontrolled greed. So, they are learning. Maybe I should be proud.
Descending into the abyss of depravity that is the desire to possess valuable items, I resorted to the unthinkable to maintain my failing grip on the situation. A shadow move, a sleight of hand; I substituted the originals for duplicates. The horror of cheap imitations that oddly look much like their valuable counterparts, I hope to pass off as worthy. This is the price of dealing in valuables; you yourself become as cunning as the swindlers. My naive wish was to deter them, to thwart their efforts. But alas, even just a hint of delicious indulgence was temptation enough. They came, they saw, they carefully took.
I abhor to admit that time, and their careless tenacity, wore me down. After endless trials, and incessant failures, I gave in. They won. Little robbers with humongous egos, paired with gigantic wants rivaled only by their undiluted tenacity at pursuing their own satisfaction, got the better of every well-laid plan I could devise. Chaos descended, capitulation ensued.
Food storage areas were instantly raided, empty cereal boxes upended, half-full yogurt tubs left standing sentry on the TV console, sampled crisps scattered about like forgotten soldiers of war. A shoe was relieved of its mate, said compatriot, now dog fodder. Contents from the Lego box were strewn about like so much debris. A tugged ponytail, a blame shift, a scream. More chaos. I was at the end of my rational conflict-solving offerings. Out of sheer desperation, or temporary insanity, I reached for the one thing I knew they wanted more than all others. The holy grail.
The drawer had moved but an inch when the screaming stopped. Relenting the firm grip I have spent years honing, I carefully retrieved two bars, unwrapped them, and handed them over to two red-faced, apparently innocent, young tyrants. They had uncovered the loot. In reverence, they accepted. I mourn the loss. Two bars perfectly crafted by Swiss chocolatiers, made with precision, dedication, and reverence, gone.
Securing the remnants as they were, I carefully returned the drawer to its resting state.
“I don’t like this one,” screams the older one, the instigator. A small fat hand melds the bar to the dark countertop. Pursuing the shoe in the dog’s mouth in what can only be described as a scream of terror (from the dog), he leaves me to dutifully clear his leftovers. I shove the scrap into my mouth and decide I like chocolate more than children.
- Make A Move - October 1, 2026
- A Glimmer in Time - July 16, 2026
- Shut In - April 11, 2026
