Pink Made Her See Red


Once Upon A Time

I hade a friend who hated the color


She ranted about it, went off when she saw it anywhere, she always ended her tirades about how pink made her see red.

She truly hated the color pink.

Especially at Halloween-she said it should be outlawed at Halloween. It made her ill to see it in the fall.


The problem is, I always have pink  somewhere on my person or around me. It’s my favorite color. I love pink.

Begs the question, doesn’t it?

Was it the color pink she REALLY hated?


Explore The Color Pink

and other colors and art




The Last Storm




Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

This is a story

 told in three pictures that I took on my way back to work today.

It’ s funny how you can walk by things everyday and  not really SEE what you’re looking at- and then one day you do.

Here’s the story  saw:

Fear this storm.

The last storm. 


Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso


The Knock On Maisie’s Door




Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

There was a knock on Maisie Grieves door late last night.

It thundered down the hallway to her sitting room and pounded against her ears and her chest with enough force to take her breath away.

She stood up from her chair, and walked towards her cold fireplace, her hands clutched to the front of her chest. ” Go away. Please go away.”

She heard it again.

And again.

And again.

” I can do this. I will do this. I will open the door and I will see who is there.”

Maisie walked slowly down the short dark hall to the front door.

 The knock became louder, more persistent, it insisted she move fast.

That she answer the door.

Maisie put her hand to the door, she lowered her head. ” Who is there?”

” It’s me. Where are you? ” she heard someone whisper. ” Are you there?”

Maisie nodded in the darkness.

” I’m here.”

Maisie Grieves reached for something leaning next to her door. And then she turned the knob with her free hand and the dark heavy door swung open and sunlight flooded the room behind her.

The room in front of her was a hospital room, the man on the bed looked through the people standing around his bed and he saw Maisie, scythe in her hand, her frame covered in her black shrouds, her face hidden in shadows.

 ” I’ve been waiting for you.” the man said from the bed. ” I’ve been waiting for you.”

The End



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I had a dream about the end of the world

when I was young, when I was just a girl.

The Sun was red

the sky was on fire

I woke up covered in sand

I was still alive.


Where was the air?

Where were the trees?

Why was I alone in a dead world

why was this my dream?


Or is


My Dream.

Corner Of My Eye

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Flashes of things I think I see

from the corner of my eye


Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

haunt me while I am awake

haunt me as I  sleep.

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Those flashes of things I think I can see

from the corner of my eye

twisted bits of reality

twisted bits off dreams


Prefontaine and Main



Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


Simone Bassi was waiting for the crosswalk light to change when he heard a woman say from behind him, ” I wonder what it feels like to kill someone.”

Prefontaine and Main Street was always busy at lunch time- what with the office people who were packed into the buildings that had blotted out the skyline years ago and the trains always pulled in at the Prefontaine Station at a quarter to noon every single day of the week.

Simone was going to ignore her, not even turn around. He figured if he did all he would see  would be someone on drugs or coming off of drugs or needing drugs.

“It’s not that I haven’t tried. I have. I just don’t feel much of anything when I do it. That’s why I’m asking.”

Simone turned around with the most annoyed expression he could muster.

The woman talking about killing people wasn’t the person Simone thought she was.

She was a lady.

Her hair was neatly coiled on top her head, her makeup was soft and artfully applied, her dress was simple and black.

“I’ve done so many wicked things-” she whispered, ”  the thing of it is, I’m just not good at it.”

The crosswalk light invited them to walk.

Simone was rooted to the spot. ” I’ve never tried to kill anyone before…

” Esme. My name is Esme Keavy.”

” I would’t do anything like that Esme Keavy.”

The cross light flashed red and then green and when it flashed red again Esme shoved  Simone Bassi from the curb and under a bus- the one of many buses that crowded the street at this time of the day.

Esme watched Simone pop open under the big black wheels and in the excitement that always follows a moment like this,  Esme reached down and found Simone Bassi”s wallet.

She took Simone’s ID from out of his wallet and dropped it into her purse. Then Esme flung his wallet over her shoulder and it sailed into a trash can that was painted bright blue with trees around the sides.

” I’m bad at what I do” she said to the ruined mess that had been Simone Bassi.

” I’m wicked bad”