Ian Johnson

Listen to Ian read his story

The river hand turns. I have a ten, spades. A king of diamonds. I need a queen, any queen, for the straight.

Dealer peels an ace. I have nothing. King high. Nothing.

Skinny Nick grins. His gold tooth glints as he presses two jacks. I’ve lost everything – half an art school tuition, scraped together for Lucy. 

Lucy appears. She’s seven again. Her mother’s dead again. My girl climbs on the table and cries in a ball.

I wake, slick with sweat. 

I smell coffee and acrylic paint. In the kitchen, Lucy props a canvas – a neon New York skyline reflecting in the Hudson, where she’ll study amongst the greats. 

“Hey, Dad, you overslept! Did poker run late?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, we agreed to put a pin in it. Tournament restarts in an hour. It’s just me and another guy – a heads-up scenario, y’know?”

“Ah, okay, well… Columbia admissions called. They wanted to speak to you. Is everything alright?”

“Alright? My baby’s going to the Big City, it’s more than alright. Behold…”

I reach behind her ear. Magic up a twenty.

“…get us some pastrami from the deli.” 

I watch her leave from the bedroom window – that shimmer in her step, that head held high. I sniff around for my least grubby long-sleeve and jeans. Snatch my emergency shades from the counter. Anything to mask this feeling; this lead dread in my gut.

***

I have a ten, spades. A king of diamonds. I need a queen, any queen, for the straight.

The river waits. 

Skinny Nick eyeballs me from across the table, his pencil moustache twitching. The backroom is thick with cigar smoke and Nick’s fanboys, enraptured by this blow-in, hustling their three-time state champ.  

My gaze ricochets. I feel see-through. I slip on my shades. Steal one last look at my stinking hand. 

“I call, all in! All in!” Nick squeals.

My shades – mirrored aviators – clatter to the table. My lip quivers as the river hand turns. 

Dealer peels an ace. I have nothing. King high. Nothing. Skinny Nick grins. His gold tooth glints as he presses two jacks. 

“Pair of aces,” I spread. 

“What? No!” Pete squawks. “No! Bullshit! He… he had a king!”

“How do you know?”

“I… I…”

I’m already up and out –  into the alley – a tunnel of light. A lung full of crystal afternoon air. A duffle bag full of Lucy’s dreams, shimmering between the neon skyline and the Hudson, head high, amongst the greats. 

I slip the king of diamonds from my sleeve. Flick it at a dumpster. It sticks to some gunk on the side, perfectly framed for transient deadbeats. 

“Neat trick,” Nick creeps behind. His gold tooth glints, and his belt sheath, and his knife. “Don’t worry, I’m no welch. I’ll make sure your kin gets the kitty, but I can’t have big cats sayin’ I left a cheat hot and kickin’.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I grit, exposing my luckless heart. A flop. A dud.  

Ian’s prompts were: at a competitive event, an artist, nightmares

Ian Johnson is a writer from North East England. His words appear in such publications as Trash Cat Lit, Underbelly, Bull, 3:AM, Scaffold, and Free Flash Fiction. He is a BotN nominee.

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