Problems Encountered by the Armchair Sports Fanatic

by Scott Derry The armchair sports fanatic has historically anticipated his young daughter’s birthdays with tremendous energy and enthusiasm. Regardless of their size, the parties held in her honour have included all of the customary fun associated with such events: a cake with the appropriate number of candles burning during its presentation in a darkened room, guests singing happy birthday to the too-excited-because-she’s-the-centre-of-attention birthday girl (which nobody begrudges at her tender age), an assortment of gifts of varying sizes, fun games like pass the parcel and musical statues, and all the laughter and noise of such an occasion. When an important sporting fixture has coincided with his daughter’s birthday (or the day of her party, which, for reasons of convenience, have all previous years been held on a Saturday and which thus have rendered clashes with important sporting fixtures unavoidable), it hasn’t been inconvenient for the armchair sports fanatic to watch su


by James M. Fajarito They have called me names, seeing saviors In optical illusions. They have thrown Stones at me, dismissing the shower Of petals as tall tales and manufactured Lies. But I cannot betray the woman Who has shown me compassion, giving Me hope in this world devoid of charity. She has even left me mementos of her And her family printed in flower petals, The shower of which I basked in while She conversed with me. No, I’m not after The official declaration of my experience As a miracle. I’m no politician or Businessman, so no interests will be Served by that pronouncement. Official Miracles provide a windfall, and this Shrine is better left unspoiled by restless Tourists who demand panacea from places Where the woman presumably appeared. The powers-that-be are too pragmatic To bother with genuine miracles, unless The same will fill up fast some deep pockets. Or make gold appear, like manna in the desert. Now, that is the miracle of infallibility. Amen.  

Flight Plan

by Richard To Maximo French's daughter remained nameless until she learned to speak. When she was born, his girlfriend named her Eleos, the goddess who personified clemency and compassion. She looked at her child so lovingly that he hoped she'd change her mind about leaving. She said this tiny being in her arms was the most amazing, beautiful thing she'd ever witnessed. A week later he watched her leave on a plane to Japan. They agreed not to stay in contact. She never existed. She was a figment of his imagination. Their last night was spent in a mortuary basement where they burned photos, gifts and anything that reminded them of themselves. She unfriended and unfollowed him, changed her status to single and marked his emails as spam. She even paid a service to erase all traces of him from her digital life. Because Maximo believed his daughter required regular sunlight, he took her for daily walks in parks and trails where strangers would compliment his daughter'