Spencer Moseley

I took quick steps to the break room, knowing one my coworker would catch up if I was too slow.  "Headin' to the fridge?" one asked as I opened the fridge door. "Yeah," I said, grabbing my lunchbox. The fridge smelled like deviled eggs and sandwich meats. I took my time, but my coworkers waited by the elevators. "Oh y'all could've gone down," I said.  "We wouldn't leave without you," they replied. I grimaced. All of our microwaves take three minutes. Three fucking minutes. Even with napkins I can't hardly touch my glass tupperware without burning a fingertip. Damn thin napkins. The lunch conversation dragged. I tried to pick it up with an off-color joke. It was met with discomfort, but I managed a pained smile. "But what do you guys think about Hiroshima?" a coworker asked.  I remained silent, my pained smile becoming more painful.  "I think it made the Japanese think twice," said another.  I piled my greas...

The streets looked so good from stage left, I'll miss the people.  I was more down to earth with them. What if this isn't fun? I bet it's not fun.  He crept out, crowd cheering. He said a joke or two, what a laugh. He longed for stage left. Wished he could run. His mind a blur, his heart in his head. But he went back out,  The crowd roared applause He charged stage left,  The manager indifferent. But he couldn't return— The streets, a shadow. Of the stage he now knew Knew intimately, not fully. Time will make me more comfortable, He hopes. But the streets look good too.

I saw her at brunch. I saw her and him and her and couldn't decide which I preferred. If I asked out one, I'd not ask out the rest, and I struggle with turning down options. So I ended up deciding on none and leaving with regret.  But I do this to myself, so this isn't exactly a cry for sympathy. It's how I've been living for a while, chasing but not deciding, running, but not crossing the finish line. Pining for the end result isn't the same as making that desire known.  And proposing, that act of courage, is where life happens. That moment when instead of looking at the lake, I bait and cast and wait.  So what holds me back? I ask myself while eating ice cream in a living room, my dog on my chest. What holds me back is always the same: fear. That fear that dims my light, that doubt that inspires inaction.  And I know there is no therapy that can bring me out of my shell. My therapist can't act for me. He can listen to me complain, sure. He can offer helpfu...

I thought I would pick up my weekly self-expression routine again. My hope will be to share my deepest self in a way that others can say, "Oh I feel/have felt that way too." I will continue my side projects where I try to entertain and share my inmost self more indirectly, but I believe this practice where I am more direct, on paper, for an audience, will also help me in my fantasy/novel/storytelling.  This week I've been congested and slept too much, to the point where I wake up with back pain. Friends have been there for me, but I've felt like I've reached out more than I've been reached out to. But I know I tend to exaggerate and see things a little one-sided.  I had a hard conversation with some podcast buddies about how I feel we've dwelt too much on the past in our discussions. I thought it might come off as an accusation, but, as with most things like this, they didn't take it that way and, in fact, agreed with me. Why is it we tend to think sta...

Cameron watched his dad mow the lawn on a hot Texas morning. The racket annoyed the neighbors, and his dad would curse when he mowed over a stick, launching shrapnel at speeds that would rival a Mariano Rivera pitch.  "It really dulls the mower blade when I hit these sticks, plus the debris could really hurt someone," his dad would say. "You need to move them out of my way,  Cameron."  Cameron —conflating disrespect with independence — would pick up sticks with an eye roll.  Cameron's reaction reminded his dad, Matthew, of moonlit racoon hunts with his own father, Gable.  Gable  would park his rusty pickup at the hunting grounds, whistle for his coonhounds, then  reverently remove his shotgun from the bed of the truck.  Gable  would ask Matthew  to wait in the hunter's lobby while he and the dogs chased coons in the woods. Matthew knew better than to show his dissatisfaction or  his father  might call him "ungrateful" or, ...

Father Clive finished helping with the last of the dinner-dishes, eying Javier with kindness. The boy had cut some corners and left some dinner plates slightly smeared with grease; but he was only 13. His hands shook, and his attention wandered—classic anxiety. Fr. Clive saw the boy grab a buttered roll, stuff it in a napkin, then into his pocket, but chose not to bother with it. The kid needs to eat , he thought. "Are you ready for night prayer?" Fr. Clive asked, scratching his shingle-ridden head. He'd been avoiding a doctor visit for too long. Javier nodded with exaggerated (but not sarcastic) obedience. Canter walked by, "I'll pray for your soul," he said to Javier.  That drew a smile from Javier, "You need it more than I do after dodgeball today." Canter laughed and the door from the cafeteria shut loudly behind him as he exited. Fr. Clive and Javier exchanged a glance, shrugged, and followed him close behind for night prayer. The snow was pil...

Candide Quotes Candide to his mentor, the optimistic Pangloss: “When you were hanged, dissected, whipped, and tugging at the oar, did you continue to think that everything in this world happens for the best?”  Pangloss: “I have always abided by my first opinion, for after all, I am a philosopher, and it would not become me to retract my sentiments.”