Jazz Hands


It was one of those little moments in time that I recall at the oddest times.

First off I should say that I have always thought that the French executing Marie Antoinette was not one of their finest moments.

As a rule, anytime you parade a condemned prisoner through the streets for the amusement of the public you’ve crossed the line into Psychoville where you are now the Mayor,  the entire city council and the worker who waters the hanging flower planters that line main street.

A waxwork of Marie molding the death mask of Marie Antoinette

So this moment happened a few years ago, I was super busy at work and one of my co-workers was walking by my desk. I looked up and  he said hello, I said hi and when I looked down I saw that some of the paperwork I had just processed were for an order of his that had been overnight  shipped to us- so it was a priority order.

I called out to him that I had his paperwork ready, I handed it up to him and as he turned to face me he did this  Miss America turn, complete it with jazz hands and with his chin in the air and his eyes closed, he said to me. ” My hand’s are full. ”

Then he did this showgirl flounce and walked away from me empty handed- unless you count the fact he was still doing Jazz Hands.

Madame Tussaud Chamber of Horrors

Like I said, I didn’t approve of what the French did to Marie Antoinette but I get it.

I really do.

You can only suffer  Jazz Hands and Spirit Fingers for so long before you snap.

One Of A Kind

WP Daily Prompt: Describe your life in an alternate universe.

A dust storm looms behind a car in the Texas Panhandle, March 1936.
Arthur Rothstein/Farm Security Administration via Library of Congress/Wikimedia Commons

There isn’t a veil that separates one reality from another that you can move aside on Halloween.  You can’t hop from state of existence to the next with the help of a computer and you can’t travel from one world to another by slathering yourself in herbs and oils and singing to a Goddess when  Mercury starts to spin backwards.


There’s a door at the  abandoned Greenwood Mercantile on Highway 164 two  miles from where I live, and if you walk through it at 11:05- AM or PM every single day of the week you will end up somewhere else.

Each world you end up in will be your world and sometimes the changes in you are little ones- you might have green eyes when your eyes used to be brown. You might be left handed instead of right handed. You might be able to sing and in your last world you couldn’t even hum a tune.

Some people never realize what’s happened, sometimes they think they’ve gone a little mad, or had a stroke and some people I think, know they’ve gone somewhere else and they just don’t care that their old life is gone.

Sometimes you will run into yourself and here is the funny thing- you won’t recognize your own face. You’ll just hear that voice and you will know-

that’s me.

Don’t get to comfortable with that idea of ‘me’.


After my last trip through the door at Greenwood, I ran into a woman standing inside the shop. She was standing next to dusty marble marble counter top where people used to sit on stools and drink milk shakes.

She stepped right in front of me.

” Who are you? ” her voice was shaking. ” What are you.? Why are you here? ”

I stepped around her. I pushed up the screen door  and walked  outside towards my car.

She followed me.

”  Why are you always here? ”

That got my attention.

I walked back to her.  The sky overhead was dark and the clouds gathering above us looked like bruises. I put my face close to  hers. I looked into her with our different colored but nonetheless identical eyes.

” I am a sad pale copy of you. I am a shade. I’m just a dream of what might have been ” I said trying to comfort her. I rested my hand lightly on her forearm.  ” I’m just passing through. I will only be here for a little while longer, just like you.”

She stepped back and as she did  I reached into my jacket. I pulled out my knife. I pulled her hair back and then I tore her throat open.

She fell at my feet and died like all of the other versions of me have done- the brighter versions. The versions that had families, that had friends, lovers, homes. They went to college and got their hair done. They had children and grandchildren and cats and dogs.

But none of them. Not a single one- is a killer like me.

In my own humble way, in an one Universe after another, I am one of a kind-

and so  is my victim.



Hamish and The Halloween Spirit


Halloween 2015
Photo A.M. Moscoso

Hamish Macbeth’s first ” Big Dog Halloween “

Hamish was about 14 months old during Halloween 2015  and he really enjoyed checking out the yard decorations. For some reason the only  one that freaked him out was hanging flat on a fence,  I have no idea why he didn’t like it. In fact on our walks he would come to a dead stop before we reached it and he refused to move, so I had to cross the street to avoid it

One of my dog walking friends didn’t think it was the decoration. He thought it was the fence because it smelled funny, which it did and that makes sense because Hamish really is a good tracking dog and he doesn’t like anything that interferes with his ability to take a ‘reading’ with his nose.

It’s Hamish’s own Halloween mystery.

Hamish Macbeth
Halloween 2015 Photo A.M. Moscoso

Hamish Macbeth
Halloween 2015
Photo A.M. Moscoso

Hamish Macbeth
Halloween 2015
Photo A.M. Moscoso

Hamish Macbeth
Halloween 2015
Photo A.M. Moscoso