A Little Magic

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Magic 8 Ball Lyrics

I’ve got a horseshoe hanging right above my door
I had a black cat but she doesn’t live here anymore
I look for romance, I search for clues and
The mystery I want to solve is you

I cross my fingers every time that you walk by
(- that you walk by)
I put the whammy on you with my hypnotic eye
But you’re oblivious, don’t take me serious
So there’s one last thing that I can try

My magic 8 ball tells me just what I should do
(- what I should do)
I wanna ask it whether I should be in love with you
Will it tell me yes or no?
(- yes or no?)
Will it tell me stop or go?
I close my eyes, hold my breath and it says…

Decidedly so, decidedly so, decidedly so
Decidedly so, decidedly so, decidedly so
My four-leaf clover is going right into the trash
My rabbit’s foot my voodoo doll will follow fast
I’ll step on every crack, you know I won’t look back
Because now my lucky streak is gonna last

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Reading Challenge

I’m doing the 2019 Goodreads Challenge and of the 101 books I’ve

said I’m going to read, I’ve got 8 in so far and reading my ninth now.


Giordano Bruno: Philosopher/Heretic

In A Word


Today I went out and  on my walk and I looked for words-

Some words were obvious, some were abstract, some were in a jumble, some were colorful others looked like words but probably weren’t what they appeared to be.

Come to think about it, words are just like people.

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso


Phoro: A.M. Moscoso

Phoro: A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Splish Splash Bloonk


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

Attersee Gutav Klimt

Attersee Gutav Klimt

On the surface, things never look complicated.

Do you know why that is?

Because they’re not.

Things only get complicated when you pitch a stone or drop a dead body through that

smooth uncomplicated surface and mess it up.

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

A week or so ago, I sort of took myself off of Facebook. I kept the account open because my blog links go there automatically and I like the photo album set ups.

I was asked ‘why’ a lot.

My decisions wasn’t a complicated one- I’d rather have people like  something I created rather then like something I repeated.

Still, that one action on my part broke the seemingly smooth uncomplicated surface of the way we have all agreed to communicate.

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

So what is it about those smooth calm surfaces that brings out the Devil in us, that makes us drag that corpse to it’s edge or above it and drop it in.

Do we like the watching the splash? Do we like hearing that ‘ bloonk’ sound?

Is this a hard question to answer…

or a complicated one?


Lilly’s Funeral


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


” Cupcakes are a funny thing to serve at a Funeral. I mean I get serving them at the Wake, ” Tovia Sims said to her co-worker at View Ridge Lane Funeral Home and Cemetery Sheena Ainsley ” but during the Funeral itself?”

Sheena handed a cupcake to an elderly woman in a long fur trimmed coat,” Everyone is going to be munching on cupcakes and getting crumbs all over everything during the entire service. And do you know who is going to have to vacuum this all up?”

They handed more cupcakes out as the family and friends of the recently departed entered the chapel in a long somber line.

Tovia placed her empty box under the table where the guest book was was and she pulled out another. ” Uh. The Groundskeepers?”

” Guess again.”

” I did not go to Mortuary College to end up serving freaking cupcakes at a funeral and then having to hoover the mess up after the service. Jesus. Who’s idea was this anyway?”

” It was Lilly’s.” Sheena pointed to the portrait sitting on the table next to the guest book.

” She was warped.”

” She was rich. These cupcakes are trimmed with edible gold and I kid you not, and flavored with vanilla beans that only grow on one island in the entire world. These things are like a thousand dollars each. And they were baked by Lilly’s favorite baker in Lilly’s own kitchen which is also stocked with foods from the most remote places on the planet. People have died bringing fruits  to Lilly’s that ended up in her morning  bowl of oatmeal.”

” Thousand Dollar cupcakes.” Tovia pushed the last empty box under the table.

” Yep.”

When they heard the music in the chapel start, hey checked the doors, the halls and then quietly and carefully closed the doors to the chapel.

” She must have loved her family a lot to do this for them.” Tovia whispered. ” Feeding them thousand dollar cupcakes and probably leaving them a boat load of cash.”

” I heard she left it all to her cat.” Sheena said

” Oh sure. Like that’s going to happen. ”

” She really loved that cat. I saw it when  went to her house to do the removal. It’s the coolest cat you’v ever seen. It has two faces. It’s like 20  years old and she was offered millions for it, but she always turned it down.”

” I’ll bet they find a way to get that money and more cupcakes” Tovia shook her head.

Did I tell you her cat had it’s own Nanny? Her name is Mavis. She speaks three languages” Sheena whispered.

The two Funeral Directors stared at the picture of Lilly- it wasn’t an old picture. It was a new picture. Lilly was standing in front of a large shelf filled with bottles- they were in all shapes and if you looked very closely you could see what was inside of them.

” Hey. Look at these…” Sheena tapped on the picture.

The two women looked from the pictures to the cupcake boxes and then they practically knocked each other over as they ran and pulled the chapel doors open.

Lilly’s guests turned and with their mouths full of Lilly’s special cupcakes mixed with vanilla beans that only grow on one island in the entire world, decorated with edible gold and frosted with the finest purest butter cream frosting ever made by human hands and full arsenic from Lilly’s special little bottles.

Picture This


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Abstract by Jean Myers

Abstract by Jean Myers

When I was in Junior High School I took an art class.

I was always excited when we got new projects to work on- plus our art teacher was so cool that you actually liked going to class and it was fun to jump off that cliff of expression straight into the wild that raging river of creativity  running below it.

Of course, the only problem was I made a mess of all of my projects, I never got better then a “C” on my work. The “C” meant average, and that was with pity points because I showed up to class everyday and participated in discussions.

You’d never guess I came from a family where artists and great photographers ran all over our family tree like wild monkeys in an overloaded banana tree- but that was the case.

I guess I was like one of those baby monkeys that fell out of the tree and snapped it’s neck on the way down because friends, I was not as talented as the rest of my family.

Not by a long shot.

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

.Twice a week I had to bring my Telecaster Guitar to class because I had music lessons after school and no way was I going to leave it in my locker or in the Principal’s Office- it’s not that I couldn’t trust him, it’s just that if he wasn’t in his office the door was locked and I had a bus to catch so that wasn’t really an option.

Anyway my art teacher used to ask if he could play my guitar and I’d let him, and then I’d play a little.

He knew I was good at creative writing and sometimes he’d tell me my English teacher would show my work in the break room and how much he and the other teachers had enjoyed what I’d written.

” You’re a pretty talented cookie and you’re funny.” He said more then once.

These conversations of course took place over the mutilated remains of that weeks project. It wasn’t as awkward as you’d think.

Our teacher graded the projects on the spot. He never said the grade out loud. He’d just go over the technical aspects and ask you to tell a little story about the why of it all.

I used to enjoy that- I mean stories with pictures. What wasn’t to love?

Once I looked down at one of those sad little things I’d dragged DOA into the world and was getting ready to pitch it in the trash after I’d gotten my standard ” C ” grade. My teacher was about to walk to the next project and I’d sort of said, before I dropped it into the can ” I’m no artist. That’s for sure. “

My teacher turned back and said to me, with surprise ” Yes you are an artist Anita. Yes you are.”

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso


Something’s Gotta Give


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


When you write or paint or sing you’e supposed to draw this passion from inside of yourself and express it all over the place.

I’ve known some truly horrible, despicable humans in my life. I wouldn’t wish a few of them to Hell because I wouldn’t want to lower the real estate value.

So believe it or not, I refused to write anything about them. I didn’t want to track their sick into my stories where they would live forever.

As we all know, if you publish on line that’s exactly what happens.


The one time I did allow one of my ‘creepers’ into a story, it actually turned out to  a pretty great story.

Did I take heart from that?

I did not.

Some people never learn.

I  guess I am one of them.


I’ve never called my inability to write at times as ‘writer’s block’.

I have always called it ‘snakes on the brain’ or ” I can’t write because i have snakes on the brain.”

If  I say that, I don’t get a bunch of FYI’s about how to overcome something that I know darn well how to get over.

I only have problems when I don’t write what is the ‘truth’.

The biggest problem being when I walk around and around an idea or an image because I don’t want something creeping into my ‘art’ and nesting there like a colony of rats in a basement or a wall.


I’ve learned a lot of ‘truth’ lately.

I’ve seen people reach to some despicable lows to get what they wanted, I’ve watched people in my life turn on each other, betray each other and compromise their integrity.

How do I write about that, I wondered. Shouldn’t I let it go, forget it tell myself it was their circus, their clowns…walk away?

Or do I draw from it, write about it, give it a place to live?

Given that my silence is a creative killer and I’ve learned that lesson the hard way I’m thinking.