The Icelander

He had always been uncomfortable with card games. Everyone round the circle looked at you expectantly and, somehow – he never could do it himself – they all had worked out precisely which cards you were holding and they judged you harshly for your decision on which one to put down. Never mind if it was the best card, he was never sure if it was even permitted for that card to be played.

As he crawled into his tiny tent that night he was anxious. There was no water at tomorrow’s stopping point. That meant that if their support vehicle broke down on the track they might die. The desert is no place to survive without water.

The Icelander had won all the games of cards that night – as usual. Felix the German had lost of course. The Lithuanian had just laughed and smiled. The heat of the night had pressed in around them.

The Icelander – his name a mouthful of consonants like a volcano stopping air traffic – had, as usual, been ebullient and dominating as he continued to win and to regale them with stories of his deeds and opinions.

‘We had to rise at 6am for our devotions and I was completely unable to wake up. It went on for days. I was desperate to do the right thing. Eventually I prayed to God before I went to bed to wake me in time in the morning. The next morning I heard a mysterious tap, tap, tapping at my window. I got up, looked, and there was a huge, black, Icelandic raven tapping on the window.’

They were impressed. The Lithuanian smiled and laughed.

‘And then I went back to bed.’

They guffawed. The perfect ending.

Perhaps, tomorrow they would all come up trumps.


Barnaby McBryde

A Winter's Tale

"Who wants to learn to play Indian?" Pete announced.

The meal preparation momentarily ceased. It was mid-winter, the harshest in living memory. At Poolburn a group of friends had gathered for a rabbit hunt where the dam was frozen over.  Each member had agreed to supply one vegetable and harvest enough rabbit for a casserole. They spent the day as planned.

Back at the hut it was just on dark. They sorted the dogs, prepared the rabbits, lit the lanterns, and relaxed. The temperatures had plummeted outside, the huge coal range was stoked up. It cooked the casserole, and kept the hut very warm. A beer was opened by all.

Pete had pulled out a brand new pack of cards, shuffled them and dealt one to each pupil face down.

"Without looking at your card, stick it on your forehead, like this.”

 They followed. He then dealt another card, face up.

"Now! Base your bet, on the cards you can see,” he instructed.

 The game is a mixture of poker and blackjack.

Wardie pushed all his matches forward.

"I can beat you it doesn't matter what my forehead card is," he said.

"Wardie!!! You can't say that,” Pete replied.

“But I can,” he smirked.

The debate went backwards and forwards. Pete was irked, he transferred his attention to Cormac. The same thing happened. The supervision of the casserole had come to a halt. The chefs saw and knew all. Martin the third player followed suit. Pete was irritated. As he saw it, a lack of cooperation, from all.

Each player took his card off. BUT!!!! When Pete removed his, it was entirely blank. He was stumped and trumped! A lot of ribbing, laughter and another beer. The casserole was served. It certainly came up trumps. It was superb.

Grant Ward

Audrey

Audrey had been at St Michael’s Court for three weeks when I first visited.  Shuffling cards at a sun-drenched table set for four girls, jellybean jar within easy reach, she was in heaven. 

I kissed her then drew up a chair. Outside, two old men and a milk chocolate nun played croquet in summer-scented air. 

Audrey dealt, with the same wrist flick and furrowed brow I had watched a thousand times.

“This looks nice, Audrey.  Garden’s almost as good as yours.”  

She gathered up her hand and gave me a wink. “Seem to have come up trumps.”

“No trumps, is it?” One of the girls looked quizzically at her partner. Audrey snorted.

Between tricks she introduced me to Beth, Nissa and Lily, side-stepping the matter of where I fitted in her life.  Not a granddaughter or niece, an in-law or a former neighbour. No, Audrey and I were simply friends, ever since my teenage dalliance with her son 31 years earlier.  She taught me to drink gin, play 500 and deal fairly to those less blessed.

Whenever I was in town, I visited and played a hand or two. In between, we wrote. I sent photos of graduations and holidays. She shared news from the home - Nissa’s hip, Lily’s Requiem – and recommended inspirational authors.  She sent sweets for every birthday, mine and my daughters'. Her bird-like script became shakier but she never complained.

That last visit, Audrey was sitting alone.

“Everyone’s shuffling off,  dear. Going to God. I’ll be next.”

I began to object but she stroked my arm. “It’s alright. I’m ready.”  She gestured with a trembling hand. “Let’s play…”

I slid the cards from their box and passed them to her. A smile, contentment, joy, played across her face as the moving cards began to whisper.

Rosemary McBryde

February theme

Thanks to the six writers who braved the first theme of the year, with a delightful variety of offerings. Remember that stories must be 300 words or less and no-one will get away with more. The editor will exercise her prerogative to slash any overly-long stories back to the limit!

The self appointed Artistic Director of this venture, a non-contributor otherwise, has decided that the theme for February is Coming Up Trumps.  Do what you like with that one. All contributions emailed to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by Monday 29 February.

 Good luck.