Something vexes me, Dixon.
Oh? What is that, Mason?
I tire of lines. They begin to seem so
arbitrary to me: straight here, jut there, run
this ridge. It’s become as a child’s game in
my estimation. We might as well be playing
tic-tac-toe with the Earth.
Say, you may be onto something, my
friend. I too have found this labor of ours to
be quite drab of late. We could use a bit of
fun to liven things up, eh?
That just might do the trick. Splendid then.
And you may have first scratch, Dixon.
Why thank you, Mason. Well then, it will
be upon venerable Tennesee that I make
my initial mark.
Solid. I shall follow with a mark upon
Hmm, yes. Then I shall take sun-ripened
Florida for my next play.
Then surely, you must know that the fertile
ground of Missouri is where I must mark
Yes, I am blocked. But take note of this
mark I now place in the forests of Carolina.
Note how I thwart you in the naval yards of
Good show. But not enough. I make my
last move in lush Arkansas and take
victory! There, see: three-in-a-row across
the mid-section of this great land. The game
I thank you most kindly.
‘Twas a most refreshing game indeed, and
I feel lighter as it is. Yet – one thing still
vexes me, Dixon.
And what might that be, Mason?
Truly your Xs are thrice in array and the
game has thus been won . . . but what
exactly has been won?
Well, I don’t think it rightly matters, my
Why do you say that?
For, you see, it is the meek that shall inherit
At last, Charlie Mason was once more
satisfied with life, and so he and Jeremiah
Dixon snuffed all the lamps and America fell
fast asleep to dream of bigger things . . . .
Copyright 2009 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.