In The Pink


Photo by Nick Collins on


He is tall.

For this story to really come together you have to see it- he is tall and super skinny.

He always wears super skinny jeans that cut off at his ankles and he wears tight shirts

so that

you will

see he is, you know it, super skinny.


One day he got on the train and  he was wearing super skinny light colored jeans that

were just touched with a shade of pink

and he was wearing  a very nice pink shirt

and as he walked by me,

and my eyes worked  way up to his head,

I saw that where his hair is not quite

shaved completely off

was dyed pink.

Did I mention he had one of those little top knots?

That was dyed pink too.



His hair wasn’t just any shade of pink- it wasn’t shell pink, or blush or whatever other

names they give to light shades of pink.

It was flaming hot pink.


Pink is my favorite color, so you know I was into it.


But as he walked by me the thought popped into my head- and you need to know

I said to myself as

the image barged it’s way into my brain

Go away silly juvenile thought! Be Gone!

But it was no good.

The thought took root and bloomed.

The Super Skinny Tall Guy

looked like a super skinny walking condom.

A pink one.


I was intrigued.

It’s not like you wouldn’t  notice him- you were bound to have  some kind

of  reaction

and nothing is going to get someone’s attention like a condom running to catch the

train, right?


I wondered, if he died his hair blue  or light green or purple and he wore clothes to

match  his hair,

would he still look like a

tall super skinny condom?


I’m hoping that when I see him again his hair is a different color, because in a world

where the surprises that pop up from day to day can be horrific,

I am

curious and ready for this one  in a good way.


The Neighbor Dog

#13 Halloween Writing  Prompt

Jamie Wyeth

My wife hates the neighbor dog.

Tatiana- never call her Tat, or Ana- and when you say her name you better let it roll off of your tongue so that you sound like you’re  standing on a corner somewhere in Italy with marble statues of God and Goddesses on every corner because Tatiana hates fake things.

I guess that’s why Tatiana hates that dog much. It’s a designer dog, one of those dogs that are bred with a purebreds from two different breeds to come up with a dog with the desired attributes.

In my wife’s mind, that is as tasteless and tactless as Biscotti that has been baked in Vietnam  and shipped to the corner Mini Mart where you can get flavored cappuccino  whipped up in a flash from a cart out front with an Italian Flag same on the front.

So last night Tatiana zips up our driveway, I mean she’s coming in hot.

” Franklin!” I hear her screaming from the inside of her car before the engine is even off. ” Franking get the hell out here NOW!”

So of course I get out there and Tatiana is out of her car and looking at the front of her car. ” Fucking dog! That fucking dog got in my way and look at this, look at my baby Franklin!”

Tatiana’s baby was hurt alright, the bumper and her headlight were a twisted mess of blood and metal.

” Where?”

Tatiana points to the  end of the drive where the mailbox is. ” In the ditch. ”

I hold out my hand and my wife throws her keys at me and as I turn away from her and her baby- her darling Fulvia coupe Tatiana flies into a rage ” Where are you going?”

I walk back up to our garage, punch a button on the Fob and the garage door slides open. I go in and grab a shovel and some gardening gloves and a tarp.

” I’m going to clean up your baby’s mess.”

” It’s a dog Franklin! What the hell is the matter with you? Look at my car- oh and don’t worry. I’m fine. Franklin, it’ just a dog. Leave it. It’s just a dog. Let that low life piece of trash clean up his mutt. It’s just a mongrel you know. A mongrel with a fancy name.”

I ignore her and start walking towards the road.

Tatiana chases after me, which I do marvel at because Tatiana is short and has always worn heels high enough to give most people nosebleeds. ” It’s a mongrel ,  let the city clean it up.”

We are at the ditch.  I  look down and at first glance I thought half of it’s face was gone, but then I realized it was there, it was a pulpy mess but it was still there.

” It’s a mongrel Franklin. Let the city handle it, it’s what we pay our taxes for.”

Ever obedient, plus I think it’s hot when Tatiana throws her tantrums, I follow her back to the house.

The neighbor dog- other people called her Malaya McLeod – who was probably out on her nightly power walk to get her steps in, is dead in a ditch at the end of our driveway and I am sure that the city and their various departments will be visiting us soon, like Tatiana said to clean it up.