Morning Constitutionals

Fred was a big man who walked a little dog. Pepe, the Chihuahua, nearly jerked Fred's arm from its shoulder socket as he dashed ahead of his owner on the leash.

Mel Friedman walked Franz, his Great Dane. Clearly outweighed by the larger animal, Mel had to jerk Franz around the neighborhood, at the risk of dislocating his own shoulder.

Whenever the dog owners met on the sidewalk, Fred and Mel were upset, if not very sore. These morning constitutionals were murder on their bodies, if not mental states. Pepe and Franz, on the other hand, nodded to one another.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Her Sacred Space

Sammy was buried in the garden, behind a shed. Rose stepped daily over a trail meandering between overgrown shrubs to get there.

She told Sammy how dearly she missed him. How her life lacked happiness, excepting visits from grandchildren.

They would’ve delighted seeing him. But it was different for them. They lived elsewhere in town. Their lives filled with interests young people sought.

Only when Rose died did her grandchildren realize her loneliness. Close to the burial ground, hidden under debris, they uncovered a stash of cigarette ends.

Undoubtedly saturated with the tears she shed for her beloved Chihuahua, Sammy.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.