Spencer Moseley

The parking lot was full, so I parked side street, hoping I was in a no-tow zone. It was in front of someone's house, not blocking the driveway, and I say this hoping my readers side with me.  Puebla's Mexican Kitchen, I read aloud in my car as I evaluated several spots on Google Maps. I saw they had chilaquiles and "jugos naturales," so I wanted to try them. My regular Mexican food spots were far (or further) from my work site, so I opted to try this new place.  I ensured I had my AirPods to rock out to my Ken Follett audiobook and walked through the entrance. A punk-rock-looking Mexican with gelled hair and a rough-shaven face motioned me to approach the front counter. I hoped I wasn't cutting other people in line since there was a small group crowding the front, but now that I think about it, this anxiety was not warranted—or else he wouldn't have called me.  He asked if I was alone, and I nodded quickly. Then he raised his eyebrows and pointed toward the e...

I craved a Colombian breakfast: two fried eggs, black refried beans, some protein, and a coffee.  I had been to Mi Pueblito before and knew I had to return. It was near the dumpy part of town (Gessner and Richmond). All the restaurants around here were good.  I parked in the strip mall. Mi Pueblito sat couched between some chicken restaurant and a nail salon. I panicked briefly since I had not reviewed the menu in my car with the AC. I hate making waiters wait after they ask me what I want—though their job title suggests this is what they do. As I reviewed the menu, I started to sweat. Houston is fucking hot, and Mi Pueblito has a large menu. Finally, I decided to order their iced coffee and the "Calentado con Carne". I walked through the entrance wearing my striped polo (untucked) and khakis. Maybe I imagined it, but the hostess and a waitress appeared to exchange a look that said, "he's cute." As my hostess walked me to my seat, I questioned if my perception w...

Jeffrey sat under the glaring yellow lights and applied foundation and black mascara. He added three sixes under both eyes and an upside-down cross on his forehead for the finishing touches. He had dyed his hair green a while back and was pleased to see that it was only just beginning to lose its integrity. He would be back to his normal jet-black hair by Thanksgiving.  He walked up to the third floor, but Houston was hot and stuffy, so he opened a giant window with some effort to allow airflow. He had decorated a lot of the room himself, though it was mostly in disarray since the Halloween guests had run through lots of the cobwebs, stepped on his Ouija board multiple times, and tracked plenty of dirt that he hadn't bothered to sweep up. It was the last night, he figured. He didn't need to go all out anymore. He reflected on how he had scared one smoking hot chick to where her titties bounced in the air as she screamed. He always liked to stand in the corner where the moonligh...

The most terrifying question: "Is everything okay?" What would I even say to that? That the wave of uncertainty stemming from my lack of purpose is devouring my soul day by day? Clouding my brain? Draining my motivation? Locking me into a routine of hope and disappointment? I've tried Jesus (the prescription for everything). I talk to him. But I know I'm just having an inner monologue. The "Jesus" I talk to just so happens to be a reflection of myself. When he tells me to "enjoy that Taco Bell," I've brought my shallow image of him to life: a reminder that "the Father and I are one." Someone might say: "But Jesus is completely real, and you have to connect with Bible Jesus rather than the version you've created in your head. Ah, the Bible. Perhaps that's true. But... If I believed he was literally real, as presented in the Bible, would he start speaking to me?  From past experience, he didn't. All quiet on the western...

"If your cat ever harmed my daughter, I'd drown your cat," said Martha jokingly. *Context: Martha's 2-year-old daughter had been pulling Dana's cat's hair and trying to ride her like a horse until the cat hissed in frustration.* Dana leaned back in her chair. She put her left hand under her right armpit. After some time, she replied with no venom: "When I was little, my family had a big cat named Lila. She was a good cat. And she was blessed with long white hair. I had a habit of pulling on this hair with all my might when I was little, and usually, my dad was there to tell me to stop when Lila hissed at me. But one day, he wasn't. And I ignored Lila's hisses until she bit my hand. I screamed in agony, and my dad ran over from the backyard. As he bandaged my hand, he said, 'Well, that's what happens when we pull a cat's hair like that.'" "Well, I was just joking," said Martha.  "Very nice," said Dana.

I had never told a priest certain sins. I thought sins had a statute of limitations. St. Ignatius did not agree. His spiritual exercises called for a general confession: where I would be expected to confess the sins from my entire life (even if I’d confessed them already). And I didn’t want to chicken out now. I’d written them down and whispered them aloud to myself several times to make sure I could get the words out.  I opened the creaky confessional door and saw a Hispanic priest behind the latticed screen and breathed easier. Maybe if I said my sins quickly he wouldn’t understand them.  I said my sins. The priest gasped audibly. Fuck. He understood.  I was shaking and sweating and got out of the confessional as quick as I could. I walked briskly up the driveway to the dormitory, feeling proud. I’d said my sins. I wouldn’t have to go to hell anymore.  Now to basque in a feeling of fulfillment, I thought. I walked past the Mary statue and into the locker room. I lo...