Spencer Moseley

I had never seen so much snow. I struggled to avoid the drip of hot candle wax on my hands as we processed around the seminary grounds, re-living Mary and Joseph's search for an inn. I held a candle in one hand and the "Pidiendo Posada" song sheet in the other so I could join the choir singing verses like, Don’t be inhuman; Have mercy on us. The God of the heavens will reward you for it. As the song ended, we entered the seminary, lit only by candles. We said a prayer. A priest said, "Christ our King." Everyone responded, "Thy Kingdom Come." And the dining room burst with life. Waiters poured into the dining hall with platters stacked high with rack-of-lamb and pitchers brimming with strange, delicious drinks.  My dad sat across from me. We had flown in together for the "Christmas Program" where Middle School students could test out seminary life. After our flight landed, we had driven the rest of the way in a top-down Mustang, singing every ...

I ended Coldplay's Sky Full of Stars with a strong high note I was proud of.  "You already know you killed it," she told me as I walked past her from the karaoke stage.  "Haha, thank you!" I said, giving her a fist bump. Her dark hair drew me in. "I'm Spencer," I said.  "I'm Maya," she said. The dive bar was poppin', so I sauntered about with compliments like "I love your hair," or "You should be selling out concerts." Some scoffed but most talked.  "Blow it in my face," I told an older lady vaping. She told me she lived an hour away before she inhaled. Then she breathed coconut-strawberry goodness into my face, and I bought a round of lemon drops for the group. She gave me and Maya her number. She gave me fuck-me-eyes. "I doubt she'll remember I texted her," said Maya.  "Uh huh," I said. Every couple songs I would crack a joke with Maya, careful to include her male companion....

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, ...