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I’ve never been back to prison since… Not that I’m, like, counting the days, I have better things to do with my time.

I turned 40 in prison. The big Four Oh no I’m forty! A watershed no matter where you are or what people might tell you to sweeten the pill. I lost a few pounds while incarcerated; mind you, I ate little. I looked fabulous, my dah-lings…

I’d been having a relationship with this guy. Knew he was married. Said he was ‘experiencing structural problems’ with the marriage. I mean, who uses that kind of language regarding affairs of the heart? Thought he was clever. He was. Smart. And gorgeous. Like a young Harrison Ford (from that film Working Girl). And damn it, I was in love with him, in love with him, damn it.

He fixed the ‘structural problems’, went back to his wife. One night, after I’d had way too much of this that and the other, I set about his ‘beloved’ Porsche Cayenne coupe with an intoxicating vengeance tasting sweeter than the elixir of life itself. The windscreen exploded into a million sparkling snowdrops; I put the devil’s claw to the pristine cobalt blue paintwork; and smashed the headlights and taillights so that they would never flash their amorous intentions again.

A twisted spiritual lifting it was.

I shouldn’t have sent a gazillion texts and email. I’m not proud of myself.

His name was Martin.

Prison taught me something I’m still in the process of learning. I realise I don’t have to rush things. Nor give in to the version of my (inner) voice that means me harm. Who came up with “‘tis better to give than receive” – his name was Platitude or something? Well, it’s a maxim suited to someone like me. Though, I avow, not so easy to sustain.

I’ve got people around me. Quite a few who support me. And they know who they are. Does it sound like I’m going into an Oscar acceptance speech?

Three years out of prison now, and I’m never going back.

Every day I offer gratitude. And receive love in return.

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Unsportsmanlike Conduct, by Alyce Clark

1/4/2022

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I look up at the fans, arm held high, acknowledging both Super Bowl teams and head for the field.

Who would have thought the scrawny, little kid the neighborhood bullies picked on would be an official ref in the NFL?

Certainly not the big kids targeting me at school and on the playground.

I remember it like it was yesterday. John Richards (the leader), constantly teasing, threatening, yelling.

“Don’t be such a loser,” he’d say with each passing shove.

And now I stand officiating in the big game. The youngest ref in NFL history. Just as excited as the players.

Opposing coaches nod at one another- preparing for battle. Teams in position. My whistle at the ready.

The players don’t disappoint. It’s a constant back and forth. Touch downs made. Field goals solid. Crowd’s ecstatic.

An unexpected fumble leads to an interception towards the end of the fourth quarter. The crowd on its feet, the would-be hero racing down the field. It all comes down to this.

Defense closing in, he stumbles near the end zone. A collective gasp. Is it a touch down? Or is he out of bounds?

A hush falls over the stadium as they wait for the call.

NFL darling, number 37, John Richards, stands and looks me dead in the eyes. Recognition. I can see his heart sinking- and I smile.

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A Gambling Man, by Deborah Robinson

1/4/2022

“What in the heck is he grinning about? That last call cost me some big bucks. There he stands looking like a big old doofus!”. Mack’s white knuckles held the railing as he sputtered to no one in particular. He was not happy about the smiling referee’s “incomplete pass” ruling in the end zone. Now Mack’s team had lost the game.
How was he going to tell Lois that he’d lost his wager at the football field? The bet was equal to exactly two house payments. Maybe he could try that quickie loan place to see if he could get just enough to keep this from his hard-working wife. Maybe Mack should look for a job. Naw, that was a bit extreme. Mack got his government check the first of every month and between his check and Lois’s job at the library, they could make ends meet. He’d been retired four months and had found an exciting new pastime! Mack spent hours each day studying the odds for the hockey, football and even chess games being played.
It had been pretty darned easy learning to place wagers on the outcomes of these games. After his first big win on the hockey game last month, he decided this was really easy money! The next couple of chess games he’d bet on weren’t quite so profitable, in fact he’d lost a couple hundred dollars on those. This football game was supposed to be about recovering some losses. The team he’d studied was favored to win. The odds were in his favor by a long shot.
“I bet those officials get paid off. Yup, they’re a bunch of crooked chumps! There should be a law against that kind of corruption. They’re probably lining their pockets with bribe money.” Some of the fans looked at Mack as his mumbling became louder. The final whistle was blowing as the winning team cheered and danced onto the field. Half of the bleachers cheered along with the victors while the other half left the stands in silence.
Mack took the long way home and circled his block twice before pulling into the driveway. Lois was already home from work and sitting on the porch with her feet up. She’d been mentioning lately that her feet were getting sorer after working a full shift. Smiling at her husband as he trudged up the stairs she chirped, “Hi Honey, how was your day? Do you feel okay? You look beat. Do you think we could go out for dinner tonight. I’m worn out from work today. My feet hurt.”
“Lois honey, I need to talk to you about something and we’d better eat at home tonight.”

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Zero Tolerance, by John M. Carlson

1/4/2022

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Another night, another nightmare. Or so I thought when I got up Friday morning.

In the nightmare, I was in my high school’s locker room, about to change clothes after PE. Suddenly, Al appeared by me. I had a sense of déjà vu, but I couldn’t say why. He gave me a hard shove. I stumbled, hit a locker, and crashed to the floor. A moment later, Al peed on me.

I’d had this nightmare several nights. Starting the night after Al assaulted me for real after 5th period PE.

Why did I have to have a nightmare that accurately replayed Al’s attack on me? I wondered. If I had to dream of school, why couldn’t I have a dream telling me what to study for the next test in history?

Speaking of which...it was time to get ready for another day of high school hell.
#
“It’s a veritable sea of blue and red clothing,” Jesse said, looking around our first period class. “You like ‘veritable?’ It’s my word of the day!”

“Prodigious word,” I said.

“I wonder how many are wearing red and blue because it’s spirit week? And how many just happened to grab something that fit today’s ‘wear red and blue’ theme?”

Good question. If I’d grabbed clothes at random, I’d have probably worn at least one of the colors. Instead, I’d carefully chosen my colors. After being attacked by Al, I’d lost any interest in showing any support of my high school.

“Maybe some teacher is giving extra credit for wearing red and blue,” Jesse said. “That would explain it, too. Mr. Brown was upset how few of us showed up without an article of inside out clothing yesterday.”

I opened my backpack to get out my notes. I saw the student handbook, which included the line: “There is zero tolerance for bullying.”

And yet, Al got away with bullying. He got away with it because he was the star of the football team. Everyone said he’d take the school football team to state for the first time in thirty years. The football team’s success gave the school prestige—and teachers and administration loved this prestige. Since Al was critical to the team, he could bully anyone he wanted, with no consequences.
#
“Did you hear the news about Al?” Jesse asked Monday morning, as we headed to first period. “Al is newsworthy—and not in the way the school wants.”

Could I dare to hope that karma had come to bite Al in the ass? I wondered.

“After the game,” Jesse said, “he attacked some guy on the opposing team in the parking lot. He was caught by a referee. I think those are the guys wearing black and white shirts. Al is off the team here. There is a zero tolerance policy for something like that—and there is no way this school can ignore this. Not with that referee catching Al.”

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Unfair Match, by Fliss Zakaszewska

31/3/2022

Young mum, Lucy, stood by the touchline, watching her brother-in-law Mike, play in his village football team, her baby son Sam, asleep in the pram, and husband Andrew, next to her.

Mike, badly tackled, hit the deck. “You dirty bastard,” Andrew shouted.

The ‘tackler’, short and with a face like a scrunched-up boxer-dog, stormed off the field. “You talking to me?” he snarled.

Nonplussed, Andrew nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, and seconds later, ‘boxer-dog’ landed him a punch on the nose, starting a Venetian-red waterfall cascading down his face, and...

…‘boxer-dog’ hit the dirt and lay there as the referee ran over, grabbing Andrew around the neck. Mike pelted off the pitch, flinging his arms around the referee, dragging him back, shouting, “Get off my little brother!” The rest of Mike’s team ran to back the brothers up, and, of course, the opposition team piled off the field to join in the fun. A rowdy free-for-all brawl ensued, but...

…nobody heard the ‘tackler’ squealing, “Get her off me!” as Lucy, knee firmly in groin, bunched her fist and thumped him repeatedly, screaming, “Don’t you hit my husband! Don’t you dare hit my husband!”

Sam, you’ll be happy to know, slept on peacefully throughout.

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The Travails of Dad, by David Dumouriez

31/3/2022

Initially we just called them Dad’s ‘phases’ …

Apparently, he’d read somewhere that wearing all black would make you look slimmer. I was always doubtful about this, based on the evidence of Mum’s hairdresser and the woman over the road. Anyway, he abandoned this particular notion. But not as quickly as you’d think.

Then he picked up the idea that it wasn’t blocks of colour. Or shades, if you prefer. It was stripes. This was the beginning of his stripy phase. This lasted for quite a while. The only problem was that he couldn’t decide whether the stripes should be vertical or horizontal. Just when he was sure it was vertical that narrowed you down, another source said it was horizontal. It all became rather perplexing.

Here, in the picture, we see him at the apex of his vertical period. In fact, he was so convinced that he even wore a striped hat for good measure. On the whole, the hat was probably more efficacious than the shirt.

The ‘downward spiral’, as it was later to become known, was when Dad began to obsess about the thickness of the stripes. By that stage, the relative merits of vertical and horizontal had gone out of the metaphorical window and it was clear that a course of action needed to be taken.

I’m pleased to report that the story does have a happy ending, of sorts. Dad did manage to lose weight. Indeed, you could almost say that he’s quite svelte now.

Oh, Dad! We miss having him around, that’s for sure. But we all agree that he’s much better off where he is.

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The End, by Padmini Krishnan

31/3/2022

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Dark skies cast their shadow on the trees, buildings and fields as a mild discomfort rose in Rob’s chest. He had just officiated the most difficult match of his career. A mild thunder shook the skies as a brand-new Ford zoomed into the parking lot of the football stadium. Rose, his wife of 10 years, got out of the passenger seat. She smiled happily and waved at him. Hope filled Rob’s heart. Had she changed her mind? His face fell as he saw a stack of papers in her hands. Rob had felt that love and companionship were good enough for a successful marriage, but she had different aspirations.

‘’I am sorry to come here, Rob. But we are leaving tonight and I need them signed.’’

He watched Rose as she hummed and signed the divorce papers.

‘’Here, your turn now.’’ She smiled and beckoned to him as if inviting a child to have his share of toffee.

She patted her belly, thanking God that Rob had finally agreed to end their ‘unproductive’ relationship. Rob signed wherever she pointed, the discomfort in his chest turning into an ache.

‘’We are free at last,’’ she said, looking fondly at her ‘new life’ waiting patiently for her in the shining Ford.

Rose carefully collected the papers. ‘’Rob, stay in touch, okay? Call me if you need anything.’’ She concluded without disclosing her new contact number or location. Rob smiled back patiently, waiting for her to leave. He wanted to return to the melancholy and loneliness that had become his life now. Anything better than her fake new self. He knew that he would never need her for anything anymore. Rose walked away, her heels clanking in his locker room, stamping his decade of love.

She opened the windows of the car and waved to him as the skies began to pour. Rob mustered a last grin that reached his eyes and waved back as his chest pain turned severe.

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Fault Line, by Bill Cox

30/3/2022

The strangest things stick in your mind. Sometimes it feels as if my memories were all thrown up in the air, big and important mixed with random and insignificant. I can’t tell which is which and those that I catch are the ones that will stay with me, the ones that will pop into my mind, unbidden, during the quiet moments in life.

So it was with him. The umpire. I don’t know who he was, beyond his role in the forthcoming game, but his face is as clear as day to me now. Some boisterous fans were catcalling him from the balcony, as you do, but he took it in good stead as he walked past. I can see his face lit up by a smile, open and genuine. He waves a closed fist in acknowledgement of the good-natured ribbing he was receiving. I can’t help but smile at the memory, at the agreeable camaraderie of it all. Yes, it was a football match, your team against mine, but we were all there to have a good time, to have some fun.

Fun. What a strange word to say now. When I was a kid, fun was all that I wanted to have. When you grow up, they persuade you that you can still have fun, but now you need other things to achieve it. Money, a job, expensive stuff, expensive holidays. When I was a kid, I could have fun with just my imagination and anything that was at hand. When I became an adult, fun just seemed to gradually recede from me, getting further and further away with each year. Now I can’t conceive of anything that I could do that could possibly be construed as fun.

They say that in life, there ends up being a before and after, an incident or a life event that is the demarcation of your understanding. Before, you were innocent, living in a state of grace. After, you achieve wisdom, but at the cost of your innocence. Like Adam, you take a bite out of that apple and you attain knowledge, but it’s only a sudden, shattering awareness of your own nakedness, your own inadequacy.

In my mind, the image of that umpire is the boundary, the fault line between my before and my after. My life before that day, with ideas like fun, like family, like friendship, hell, even ideas like humanity, recedes further and further into a past that I can never come near to experiencing again. Now, I have a greater knowledge and understanding of the universe I inhabit, but all it has brought me is fear and dread and pain.

I wonder what happened to that umpire, to those fans, after the sirens sounded that day? Did they survive? Are they, like me, stranded on the wrong side of that fault line, forever looking back over that yawning chasm, to a world that exists now only in the bittersweet shards of memory?

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Hey Ho, by David Milner

29/3/2022

Shuffle my ass into the driver’s seat, pull down the sun visor (come rain, come shine) kiss my index finger then plant it on the photograph I keep there.

“Hey Ho let’s go.”

I can’t remember when the photograph was taken. At the time it wasn’t significant. I don’t recognise the buildings behind him. No matter. Andy is always with me. In the photograph he’s wearing a black and white striped shirt, punching the air above him in the Hey Ho, Let’s Go pose made famous by The Ramones. Even though it was tres uncool among our contemporaries, Andy and me, man we were acolytes! Had a tribute band – The Sematary Pets – which was going some as neither of us could play an instrument, nor hold a note.

I turn the key in the ignition and the engine splutters, lurching the wheels forward into another day. Two vapor trails in a clear blue sky beckoning me to follow them. But I have a job to do. A job I’ve been telling myself to jack in, for… how long would that be Andy? He’s smiling, knows the answer.

I hate the phrase ‘brother from another mother’. I heard George Dubya Bush using it once when he was doing his regular Joe down home shtick. Yuk. Andy, though I was a year older, was the big brother I never had. He had this saintly glow about him. Made ordinary, I guess, with steadiness. Everyone agreed, he was a… A friend for life.

It’s gonna be a hot one the weather report said. Not yet 9am and I’m feeling sticky from the peak of my cap down. I pull onto the forecourt of the gaudily painted burger joint. The bald-headed guy with the dragon tattoo on his neck is hopping from foot to foot, agitated in the pitiless sun. He’s the manager at Papa Chow. Business isn’t so good right now.

“The rats are the size of… having babies all over the place.”

“I’ll get to that, Bud.”

“How long this take, man?”

Now, here’s a question I’m often asked and always swerve. I take a moment, look toward the clear blue sky, “Whaddaya say, big brother?”

“Who you talkin’ at? How long it take, man?”

Hey Ho, another day. You’re always with me, Andy.

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Winning, by Sandra James

28/3/2022

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‘Fantastic! What a win!’ He stood, raising his arm to the coach wearing matching colours, slowly making his way around the playing field, acknowledging the fans.

‘Umm… I don’t want to start an argument,’ frowned the man next to him, clad in opposition colours, who’d also raised a victorious salute into the air at the end of the game, ‘but if you look at the scoreboard, your team has only one goal beside its name while we have twenty-three.’

‘Ahh…’ said the first man, as they sat back in their seats while enthusiastic celebrations continued around them. ‘There’s winning and there’s winning.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Let me explain. See that man in the striped jersey? He’s our new coach. No one else wanted the job. We hadn’t won a game in years, didn’t even put a score on the board all last season. But he put his hand up, said he could make a difference.’

‘I guess one goal is something after a whole season without any,’ shrugged the second man.

‘Oh, yes, it is, but there’s so much more than that. Look around. Our fans equal yours in numbers, don’t you think?’

The second man glanced around the stands, then nodded.

‘The fans had deserted and our players were only the ones none of the other teams wanted. They’d all lost confidence. Hardly anyone turned up to the games; only a few of the players’ relatives and a couple of die-hards. Me, for one. It was depressing but our new coach said he’d make our football club fun again, bring out the true spirit of the game. He invited all the old fans to training nights, organised barbeques and let the kids join in. He had the older, experienced players mentor the younger players. The older guys were reborn and felt useful again and the young guys, who just needed some guidance, blossomed.

‘And now today, first game of the season and we’ve scored our first goal. That’s a win in my book. Look at the pride on the players’ faces. Look at the excited fans. United, proud and looking forward to the future. That’s what the game’s about. That’s winning.’

‘You could be right,’ said the second man. ‘I reckon you guys did win today.’

At season’s end, the team still hadn’t won a game but they’d come close several times and scored in every match, to the delight of their rapidly growing fan club.

Their efforts won more hearts and admiration than any other team in the league.

The two men found themselves sitting next to each other again at the awards night. As they chatted, the coach approached them.

‘Well done, mate,’ said the second man, and shook his hand. ‘You’ve done an amazing job.’

‘Thanks,’ said the coach. ‘I learned from someone who encouraged me all my life. I reckon I’ve just played it forward.

‘And… Dad’s still my number one fan,’ he grinned, as he put his arm around the first man’s shoulders.

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The Memory Collector, by Kim Favors

28/3/2022

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You’re shaking your heads. I didn’t think you’d been here before. Welcome to Dusty’s Dime N Dollar. I’m Dusty, been here since 1984 and pretty much know everyone in our small town.

Have a look around.

I’ve got a few new things. Most are secondhand. After the kids have outgrown them or their parents passed, families bring their things to me. Everything’s priced to sell. I’m not interested in making money. I consider this more of a public service.

And I enjoy talking and meeting new people — if you hadn’t figured that out already.

I can see that your mom doesn’t understand much of what I’m saying. If it’s okay, ask her what language you both speak — I might know a few words.

Ukrainian? Nope. But I know a gal who does. In fact, she’s starting up an English-Ukrainian language class at the church down the street. Before you leave today, if you’re interested, I’ll give you her information.

Are you or your mom looking for something in particular?

Photographs. Of people. Okay. Try searching through this box. Most are from old family photo albums. I don’t think we have any from other countries, just so you know.

While you’re looking, I’ll tell you a little about the two other Ukrainian families living here.

Uh oh, your mom’s crying. Did a photograph upset her? Let’s see. Why that’s Billy Simms, referee at the high school homecoming game about 20 years ago. Looks like the photo was taken from the bleachers.

Wonder what this photo reminds your mother of. Or who. I’m really sorry if … oh, the tears are stopping. That’s better.

You say the photo reminds her of a sad time in your homeland.

If I didn’t know already, I might look at this picture and describe it as a “game official in a striped shirt standing below the spectators.” Didn’t occur to me others might see something completely different in the same images.

Maybe the striped shirt reminds her of a prison guard. Something for me to think about.

Why don’t you take this photo — a gift from me to you. Do whatever you like with it. Burn it even, if you think that would help your mom feel better.

And let me find that information about my friend, Melinda, and her class. She knows the other Ukrainian families and I’m sure would be happy to introduce you.

They’ve already been to Dusty’s Dime N Dollar. Nice folks.

I’m so glad you came in today. You taught me about new ways of seeing things. Maybe next time your mom and I can talk a bit.

No reason I can't learn some Ukrainian. And she can practice her English. If she likes, we can look at photos together.

Now, don’t forget. And this is the most important. You always have a friend here at Dusty’s.

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What Happened to Bill? by Doug Bartlett

27/3/2022

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Bill and Ruth were inseparable. If you saw one, you saw both of them. They appeared to be devout Christians. Every Sunday they had the same routine. They would go to church and then to the football game. Their best friend, Andrew, would be officiating and he would always find them in the crowd before they game and give them a special wave. After the game they would then go to lunch at a nice restaurant and then for a long, leisurely ride in their car before returning home.

Everyone thought they were the perfect couple. But we all know how looks can be deceiving. Things were not as they appeared. You see, Ruth was an overbearing woman who was constantly on Bill’s case. She believed everything he did was wrong. In her mind he could do no right and she let him know it all the time. She was relentless. It got so bad that even when she wasn’t on Bill's case, which wasn’t often, he would anticipate that she was about to come down on him. The verbal abuse was tremendous. Mentally, he could not get away from her constant complaining and bickering, not even in his sleep. This was becoming intolerable for Bill.

The next Sunday they kept the same routine but their favorite team was playing an away game. They went to church, had a wonderful lunch at Ruth’s favorite restaurant where Bill heard nothing but Ruth’s constant nagging, pointing out all of his faults while he just sat there enduring it.

Having extra time as they had no game to attend they decided to drive up to the nearby mountains to Lover’s Lookout for their afternoon drive.

There they could park their car and walk down the path that was bordered by the most beautiful wildflowers they had ever seen. They meandered past the majestic waterfall to the cliff’s edge and looked out to what seemed to be forever. The view was breathtaking as you could see the patchwork of farms and ranches that stretched out on the valley floor below them which reminded them of a handmade quilt.

The following Sunday the people at church were curious as to what had happened to Bill. You see, he was such a nice and considerate person, but now he was ruthless.

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The Game-Changing Calls, by John Mara

27/3/2022

Somehow reawakened, a time-worn photo slides out of a dark crevice in my rolltop desk. Twenty years ago, the tattered glossy fell—no, I pushed it—into the hidden tabernacle, laying to rest an unearthly mystery that could never be solved. Until now.
###
Long ago, a Polaroid camera gave life to the glossy at the Grand Canyon, when I snapped a midnight photo of a star-dotted August sky. A Perseid meteorite streaked the heavens, as though the Polaroid’s ‘click’ signaled a supernatural event.
Andy stood beside me that night in cargo shorts and an XXXL T-shirt. Yet the damp glossy showed him on the other side of the overlook railing, where the meteorite had run its life’s course. In the glossy, Big Andy looked rugged in his striped referee’s jersey and cap. But shining through were the wry smile, thoughtful tilt of the head, and starry eyes that conveyed, ‘Love you, Mom.’ Raised skyward was the arm that wore his time keeper’s watch; the spirited referee in Andy was making a fateful call.
We flew home the next morning, and the phone rang in our San Diego apartment when the key’s ‘click’ opened the dead bolt lock.
“Who was it?” I said, the clothes washer loaded.
“My cardiologist.”
“Aaaand?”
“It’s never good news, Mom, when the cardiologist herself calls.”
###
I lean the photo against the phone on the rolltop desk and daydream in wonderment at the Grand Canyon mystery that has lain dormant for so long. Then, suddenly, the phone disturbs my reverie with a thunderous ring that rivals the blast of St. Gabriel’s trumpet. The furious vibrations thrum life back into the photo, each ring a heartbeat. The photo—can it be?—begins to transform with each ominous ring, as my heart pumps in time with the summons of St. Gabriel.
In the photo now, a worn woman I barely recognize settles into Andy’s brawny embrace. Atop her gray head he fashions the sweaty cap—the Big Man’s idea of a tiara. Marking the time, Andy checks his referee’s watch.
The phone’s blood-red call indicator flashes ‘Cardiologist,’ and its ringing courses through my veins. But why answer?
A tear blots the photo in my tremoring hand as a broken heart climbs into my throat. When a throbbing knot tightens in my chest, I lunge for the raging phone.
Yes, it’s time to settle up with Fate—and to answer the call. At last. As I reach across space and time, my fist tightens too and, like the two fists in the photo, rises triumphantly to the heavens.

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La Strega, by Ricky Monahan Brown

26/3/2022

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They say it’s one of the most studied photographs in history, though it looks like a casual snapshot. That’s the genius of it, I tell people. I had stood there for hours, clicking off hundreds of shots and scanning and checking the results in the little viewfinder screen until I got just the right one. You can see it in the perfectly spaced, not quite horizontal lines in the foreground. The friendly umpire almost bursting through them, having finished with the task of imposing order on the gridiron. The not quite vertical stripes of his shirt, human life not quite willing to be shoehorned into rationality. Yet people don’t study my career-defining photograph for the perfect composition or for the shot selection, but for clues to the identity of The Black-Shoed Man, and why on earth he did what he was about to do.

We must have dozed off, when I am woken by the doorbell. The soft soles of the mysterious Black-Shoed Man could not have made any noise as he approached along the gravel driveway.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ I tell him. Though, I didn’t expect him like this. He looks more kindly than his mythos would suggest. He shakes my hand and presents me with a tall, beautifully ornate bottle filled with a vibrant yellow drink.

‘Pour a couple of shots for yourself and your friend,’ the man tells me with a gentle smile. ‘Then tell him that if you share this drink with someone, you’re sure to meet again.’

I empty a tray of ice cubes into a shaker, add enough of the drink for three shots, and give it all a vigorous shake. Then I strain the drink into the three glasses I had saved in the freezer for the occasion. I had been expecting him, it was true.

‘Thank you,’ you say when I hand you your drink, as if you will look forward to meeting me again after we part, and I believe it. I turn to hand the third glass to our visitor, but he has departed as silently as he had arrived. I am surprised to find myself so disappointed. I had so many questions for him, questions that will fall away with time, forgotten until I see the Black-Shoed Man again. But I know that of course we will meet again and at last, all of my questions will be answered.

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Horses of Valor, by Peggy Gerber

26/3/2022

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Doug sat frozen to his seat as he listened to the poet describe how over a million horses and mules were killed or maimed during the American Civil War. A life long animal lover, he felt the bile rise in his throat as he pictured those majestic creatures lying in the mud, wounded and in pain after being shot. The fact that they had been called into action by humans, for human causes made him sick to his stomach.

As soon as the poetry reading was over, Doug jumped in his car and raced straight home to do research. His heart sank deeper and deeper as he learned it was not just the civil war, and not only America that used and abused horses. Millions died during World War I and World War II, transporting ammunition and doing the kind of jobs considered too dangerous for humans.

Doug slammed his computer shut and started frantically pacing the floor. His thoughts raced as he began devising a plan to honor the beautiful creatures that gave their lives for his freedom, and to help animals still suffering today. When he discovered April 26th was National Help a Horse Day he set a goal to make a difference in the lives of horses by that date.

As an author, Doug understood the power of words, and sat down to write the story, “Horses of Valor.” He quickly submitted it to his favorite publication. He then tweeted it, posted it to Instagram and Facebook and started a GoFundMe page for the ‘Horses of the World Sanctuary.’

By the next morning, Doug’s posts had gone viral and money was pouring in from all over the world. Doug had to keep raising his targeted goal higher and higher and pinched himself to make sure it was real.

For the next few days, Doug checked the GoFundMe page obsessively, and it was at his weekly football game that he discovered he had amassed over two million dollars for the sanctuary. He pumped his fist into the air and yelled out, “Yes!”

Later that night, Doug’s friends took him out to the pub for a celebratory drink. As they made a toast to two million dollars, a lump formed in Doug’s throat. He closed his eyes and clinked his glass in victory and gratitude that his faith in humanity had been restored.

6 Comments

Road Trippin’ on a Mission, by Dee Lorraine

25/3/2022

10 Comments

Genus and Species, two scouts from the planet Unbearable, had been traveling at warp speed for 20 years (except for pit stops) when they reached Earth in 2019. Their mission was to find a representative figure for their homeland.

Everything on Unbearable was black or white. Countless books, TV shows, and movies were banned, including “Fifty Shades of Grey,” “Grey’s Anatomy,” “The Hunt for Red October,” and “Orange Is the New Black.” Singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” was forbidden.

The planet’s Royal High Commander-in-Chief, A. Non-Folding Chessboard, ruled with unflinching rigidity. Previous scouts who failed to meet his stringent requirements paid dearly, but Genus and Species were determined to find the perfect specimen to symbolize the planet.

As their spacecraft approached a football stadium in Los Angeles, California, its auto-tracker announced, “Potential Specimen, five miles ahead.” The scouts slowed their spacecraft and raised its invisible-surround shield to avoid detection.

Hovering high above the 50-yard line, the two females surveyed the scene.

It was half-time, and the players and officials were leaving the field.

“That one by the stands looks like an excellent prospect, said Genus.

“True, G. He’s wearing the perfect outfit: Black shoes, pants, and a black and white striped shirt. And the shirt's imprinted with our national logo. He’s cute, too,” replied Species.

“Yes, yummy. The total package.”

“What does that hand gesture mean, G?”

Genus scanned her Earth History book. “Looks like he’s playing Rock, Paper, Scissors,” she responded.

“That makes sense. What about this crowd, though, G? Won’t they get suspicious if we snatch him?”

“I doubt it.” Genus scanned the spectators’ minds. “Most of them are drunk or high. They’ll think they’re hallucinating. And half the crowd wants him gone anyway. Let’s do it.”

Species opened the side door of the spacecraft, aimed the heavy-duty immobilization/levitation ray gun at the umpire, and held it steady. Genus flipped a switch.

The duo watched the umpire freeze, rise slowly, and float across the field toward their vehicle. As expected, half the crowd booed, and the other half cheered. Then, everyone gasped when the game official disappeared into the invisible spacecraft.

Species shut the door, and Genus took off.

“Yo, man, did you see that?” one guy yelled, almost spilling his third jumbo cup of beer.

“Yeah,” said his companion, about to take a toke. “Some coaches will do anything to win a game.”

*****
Back on Unbearable, Genus and Species presented their catch to Commander Chessboard.

“Nice try, ladies, but you’ll have to take him back.”

“But, Your Royal Persnicketyness, why?” the disappointed duo asked in unison.

“He looks great, but his personality is much too colorful.”

10 Comments

Offsides, by Jim Bartlett

25/3/2022

36 Comments

WINNER, SIDERIUS MEMORIAL PRIZE

Though I’ve not bothered to shower, and my civvies shirt is still untucked, I grab my jacket and shoot for the exit. A dark, angry cloud has descended upon the locker room, giving fair warning that a nasty storm is brewing. I have to get out.

Now.

The door seems to open itself, and I’m thrust through it, the resentful stares of my teammates pushing me from behind.

Gus, the security guard, stands in the corridor feigning surprise at my appearance. But his eyes tell all, and he gives his head a shake, tsk-tsking.

I race out the back, heading for the arched pedestrian bridge that crosses over to the parking structure. But my feet freeze to the concrete when I get there, as just below I see the line of Zebras making their way their way off the field, disappearing under the walkway one by one.

Last in line is Heartless Hawkeye. Of course.

Nothing gets by that guy. Nothing. And he makes his calls without the slightest note of emotion, a sort of Joe Friday, “Just the facts, ma’am.”

Most everyone calls him “Hawkeye,” but I added the Heartless. Just now, in fact.

I pull the bill of my cap down, flip up my jacket’s collar, and duck my head. Can’t let him see me. But as I start up the incline, he slows, then stops. He seems to take a long look into the crowd ahead of me, then his eyes light up, and he raises a hand.

The last time his hand went up like that, a yellow flag landed at my feet. “Offsides, number fifty-three,” he called out.

The flag might as well been a baseball bat; it knocked me to my knees. Though the Bucs had been marching down the field, eating the clock in the process, we’d finally stopped them at the forty, just outside their field goal kicker’s range.

There were four seconds left. We were up by two. They had no choice. They needed three points. So they lined up for the kick.

I knew the quarterback’s rhythm. I was sure of his count. At what I thought was the right moment, I jumped, determined to cut through and block that kick.

But I was off, and Heartless Hawkeye doesn’t miss a thing.

It’s only five yards. We’re still good, I told myself, despite my teammates’ glares.

The ball, uncaring of my dilemma, sailed through the goalposts, sending the Bucs to the Super Bowl.

Meanwhile, I’ll probably be traded to Buffalo.

I hate the snow.

A woman with light, straight-cut hair and a big smile, steps to the rail and waves enthusiastically. “Andrew!” she shouts.

So Hawkeye’s name is Andrew, eh?

“Hey, Mom,” he calls back, a boyish grin breaking across his face.

Which, of course, strips away my “Heartless” moniker.

I guess I was offsides yet again.

I drop my head even lower, if that be possible, and head for my car. Maybe I’ll get used to the snow...

36 Comments

Self Expectation, by Sankar Chatterjee

25/3/2022

Ravi was a ten years old street urchin in the “black hole of Calcutta”. During the day, he would solicit food from the local food stalls. At night he slept underneath a fly-over of a highway that spanned across the eastern part of the city. But his passion was playing football in a back alley with his friends. Without any training, Ravi was a natural striker who was able to dribble past several defenders, taking shots from acute angles to score for his team. In his dream-world, he would morph himself into Maradona of Argentina or Rossi of Italy.

One summer afternoon, Ravi’s team was playing against another team of orphans from a distant neighborhood. During the dying moment of the scoreless game, Ravi executed a sidewise flying kick that sailed past the diving goal-keeper, bringing a win for his team. While his teammates joyously surrounded him, he felt a congratulatory adult pat on his shoulder. It was Mr. Amit Sen, the football team coach-cum-referee for the nearby college. He immediately saw the potential in Ravi. After hearing his background, childless Mr. Sen and his wife decided to legally adopt Ravi and lead him through life’s journey.

Mr. Amit Sen was a legendary college football coach in Calcutta’s football scene. Many of his players went to play professional football in prestigious powerhouse clubs throughout India. Mr. Sen was a strict disciplinarian. He used to make sure that all the players under his wing, besides taking part in daily strenuous practice for long hours, followed exemplary life-styles to the junior players. Though for his higher studies, Ravi would join a different college in the city, Mr. Sen remained his mentor in developing football skills, often reminding him “A championship ring is nothing but a reminder that a human could achieve anything, if he or she decided to do so. But it also needed going beyond one’s own conception of what could be achieved.”

On graduation, Ravi was selected by Goa’s Gamma Club. He had a stellar season with highest number of goals, scored. At the end of the season, the team travelled to Calcutta to play against city’s pride East Bengal Club for the country’s best football team trophy. Both teams put forward their best efforts, heading towards a scoreless draw in regular time. That’s when the forwards of the Gamma Club developed a sudden coordinated attack at the top of the penalty box. The left winger sailed the ball in air towards Ravi. He was running late. Turning his back toward the goal-keeper, he lifted his body in the air and executed an exquisite bicycle kick, perfected over years of training. As he was landing on his back, he heard a whistle and saw the stunned goalkeeper untangling the ball from the net.

Then, he heard a second whistle from the stand. It was his joyously-teary, mischievously-smiling, and referee-uniformed dad muttering “Indeed, you went beyond your own self expectation.”

3 Comments

Family Reunion, by Andrea Damic

23/3/2022

Out of the blue an unfamiliar head pops up just above the hedge surrounding the backyard, half obscured by copious balloons dancing in the morning summer breeze. “I rang but no one answered” his voice crescendos against the background noise. She points to the house and gets up. “Who’d like to help me decorate?” The request is met with acquiescent polyphonic voices. Such a music to her ears. Organising family reunions has always been one of her favourite pastimes.

She glimpses at her son across the table and her face lights up. His favourite monochrome polo shirt outlines the muscular physique that seem to precede male generations in their family. A sense of pride comes over her. The whole family is here. They gathered in his honour, to celebrate his football scholarship. As if sensing his mother’s pride, he offers a quick smile before re-joining the conversation.

Minuscule timestamp flashes in the right bottom corner of the camera. Fifty years have passed in a blink of an eye. Her eyes tear up as she looks at the home movie in her dappled hands remembering this last moment of happiness, frozen forever. As time passes the memory of his face irrevocably fades and on days like this, she watches. Just another glimpse of his smile to sustain her for days to come, until they are reunited again.

3 Comments

A Glimpse and a Spark, by Angela Carlton

22/3/2022

13 Comments

You didn’t know you were my hero.

Mama used to drop me off at the soccer fields and there you were grinning, pumping your fist in the air to get us moving. Being able to take off, run wildly with the wind in my face, no sweat or worry was like magic spilling from a wand.

In the beginning, you reffed most of my games, and later, you slipped into the role of coach and mentor. You didn’t know, my Daddy was a drunk with a temper, after all, he never showed his face, not once, but I was glad. You didn’t know several days he made Mama sob for Daddy beat me up. I was his “rag doll” of a son, you see, my arms dangling, pretending I had a soft cushion, bean bag skin. Some nights, I would nab his “‘damn poison” take swigs for every single thing that sucked about Daddy until I passed out and entered a world of peace, color.

Yet, there were times, I did wake up to the stars shining hard, bright outside my bedroom window, a few twinkled, didn’t they?? It reminded me there was more, somewhere.

My senior year, my sorry Daddy drank himself into his own grave.

And, we were able to b-r-e-a-t-h-e.

In June, you came to my graduation in a crisp, blue blazer and sat with my lovely Mama. Her hair was fixed up nice, piled on top of her head, and she wore her pink lipstick again.

I got my diploma because of you and Mama. All those years, I placed my foot on the green grass, I ran with determination. I ran with that unfound strength. I ran with the strength you told me was pinned-up, buried inside.
I ran.

The truth is Coach, I never had me a Daddy, but you-you were a glimpse, the only spark of something real.

13 Comments

Message to Earthlings, by Jim Woessner

22/3/2022

2 Comments

We are sending this message and the accompanying likeness of one of your so-called astronauts via radiohypertachyonetry, which has been modified so that you can receive it on your primitive forms of “social media.” Earthman Warren arrived here with three others fifty-nine quintilations ago. In Earth time, that is approximately six revolutions of your planet. We are keeping them safe and under observation in our zoo for alien creatures. In the likeness, you can see Warren smiling and waving. He and the others are being treated well; however, we are finding it difficult to understand his purpose in visiting our planet. He keeps repeating one phrase, “Houston, we have a problem.” We don’t know what it means, but he says you will understand. Please let us know what to do with them. We assume you want them back. Or, did you send them here as a form of punishment? You can respond in the affirmative by broadcasting a rerun of “I Love Lucy.” Our favorite episode is the one where Lucy and Ethel get jobs in a chocolate factory. Or you can respond in the negative by broadcasting any rerun of “Queen for a Day.”
WoDu, Chief of the Zoromytherians

2 Comments

Robo Ref, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

22/3/2022

Pictured waving his fist at feisty fans, Robo Ref was the brainchild of entrepreneur Elon Musk who was the founder and CEO of Space X and Tesla motors.

With a net worth of 245 billion in 2022, Musk had all the resources needed to create an exemplary referee who operated solely on artificial intelligence.

And operate it did. With painstaking detail, Robo Ref’s inner workings were patterned after the common courtesies found in Judith Martin newspaper columns (Miss Manners), along with a quote from Jim Horning “Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment.”

However, there would be no bad judgment. At least theoretically, there was to be nothing but perfection. Whether it was those tough back of the end zone calls or fourth and short quarterback sneaks, Robo Ref would always get it right.

Season one: 33 critical calls/zero mistakes

Season two: 47 critical calls/zero mistakes

Season three: 43 critical calls/zero mistakes

Season four: 55 critical calls/ten mistakes

Following an unacceptable fourth season, with ten mistakes, Musk decided to sell Robo Ref and channel his energy into the Space X program. This left fans with two choices: an empty stadium, or perhaps, Mars.

4 Comments

The Baseball Cap, by Jennifer Duncan

20/3/2022

November was always the hardest. The short days and dank weather drove the chill deep into my bones. Hard liquor would heat my belly for a while, but it wasn't safe to drink too much. In spite of my circumstances, I didn't want to die.

I could play the guitar and sing quite well so I was able to busk and earn some money that way. Most people would have put their open guitar case on the ground to collect the money, but I always put down a baseball cap. It was my reminder of better days.

I never met anyone on the streets who expected to end up homeless. I certainly didn't. I was a construction worker and made good money. My apartment was comfortable and I'd bought myself a really nice truck. In the summer, I'd go camping with my buddies, and fish in the lakes up north. There were girlfriends but I never got around to getting married. Just as well since I got hooked on opioids after my workplace accident. It was shocking how quickly my life collapsed. I Iived outside for three years.

One night the shelter food truck came to my area. I gladly accepted the invitation to sit in the truck while I ate some hot stew. It was November again, and I didn't know if I could survive another winter. Jake, a worker from the shelter, was unusually quiet that evening. He kept looking at me in a troubled way. Maybe he sensed that I was fading fast.

"Ryan," he said, "you've got to come back to the shelter with me. I know you don't like to sleep there but please, for me, come tonight."

I hesitated but, honestly, I didn't have the energy to refuse so I went with him. He found me a bed near the door so that I could feel like I had a way to escape if I needed to.

That night I dreamt about you, my football coach, who always said I would succeed if I tried. Your determined optimism, work ethic, and the way you helped us all to play our best game filled my sleep. My mind replayed you giving me your baseball cap that I always cherished because you had cared, really cared.

The next morning, it seemed as though you were beside me, and when Jake asked if I would like to join a group to learn about getting off the streets. I agreed. I put my baseball cap on and promised myself that I would try with every ounce of my being to be the man that you knew I could be. It wasn't easy but I stuck with the program and got clean.

Tomorrow, I am starting a new job. I retrained as a customer service agent, and now I have a future because you always believed in me.

4 Comments

The Gym Referee, by F. Spencer Loomis

20/3/2022