A Boston Bulldog pulls right, then left against a taught leash in lower Manhattan. He searches for non-existent grass or bare earth on which to find relief. Soon, he drops his excrement on the sidewalk. A man at the other end of the leash bends to clean the walk while the dog scratches unyielding concrete in a futile attempt to cover his spoil. The man yanks the leash. “That’s enough of that, Bingo. We have to move on.”
A fly drops from the morning sky onto the mirror surface of a lake. Twitch, twitch, concentric ripples expand with each movement. She flips right, moves left, circles right, and dances left. A fish appears under the fly. He sucks water through torn lips. Each gulp brings the fly closer. He examines the fly only to swim past to deeper water. She wiggles and begins to lift from the pond. He returns, lingers, and swallows the fly.
About the Author
I write personal essays, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, and self-development articles from my home in Madison, Wisconsin.