poor delicate tiny scholarbaby

Autor finds himself floating this evening. He flails in the air, thinking he's falling, though he doesn't feel that pull on his stomach. After a while, he surrenders to it, lying on his back and putting his feet up.

A chair with broken legs sits empty in front of him, and a lighted chessboard--his side oriented to white--hovers in the air. He gasps, recognizing the set, and executes a graceful turn in the air in an attempt to get away from the zombies that he knows are coming.