Spencer Moseley

“Get out, get out,” she said, backing up far enough for his penis to exit her.  “What is it?” He asked. “I’m… not sure we should be doing this.” “What?” “It’s just. It’s November 26th. And I think Fr. Mike said something about two weeks after my period being an off time for sex... if we don't want...” “Ah,” he said. He quickly put on his underwear.  “I’ll check the catechism,” she said.  “No, stay here. I’ll go get it.” Chris Dunham found it on their creaky wooden bookshelf and brought it in. His wife had put on loose fitting PJs and they read the part about marriage and sex. But they couldn’t find anything covering post-period sex. They went to bed, groines aching, and agreed to go see Fr. Mike that Saturday after confession for clarity.  Fr. Mike left the confessional that next Saturday and saw them standing there in the empty chapel. It was Beth who broached the awkwardness and explained the situation.  "We can't afford another child right now," whispered Chr...

I wake up and open a note, folded nicely on my nightstand.  I'm Anna. You're 74 and I'm 80. We're married. These are the first three things I want you to remind me of when I enter your room at 9 A.M.. I have dementia so I need the reminders. The nurse will wheel me into your room after I've woken up. Can you hold out on eating so we can have breakfast together? -Anna Lee Hernandez I take and consume some pills from a sweet nurse. Anna shows up at 9 A.M. like she said she would with a nurse pushing her chair. I sit up in bed and read the note again and stutter through the reminders. I leave out the dementia part, of course. Anna nods, smiles and kisses me. I kiss her too and she tastes like toothpaste.  "I love you, Anna," I say.  "I love you too," she says. She helps me out of bed and calls me "silly", but it feels good to hear it from her. She makes my bed even though the nurse tries to do it. Anna just says, "wheel me when I ask ...

Before the altar I knelt and poured an elf's blood. It had curdled from sitting in the vial too long, so I had to tap the back of it.  The priest walked to the altar quickly, showing no emotion. He hovered over the altar and prayed a blessing or a curse. I could not say. It was his secret prayer. I saw his lips move, nothing more. And the stone temple, full of dancing light from torches in their sconces, still felt cold. It was a blessing. The elf's blood bubbled and a small flower bloomed in the center. I didn't know the purpose of these rituals. I was simply an acolyte in my roughspun tunic, trying to remain unmoving, kneeling on bruised knees. The priest plucked it from the small blood puddle and inspected it's gold petals, it's silver bud, it's delicate green stem, and his eyes looked greedy. He nodded at me dismissively, and I walked to the acolyte's quarters as quickly as possible. But something about his eyes had made me curious. So I hastened to the ...

It was the time of war.  Tiselda shoved her sword through another ghoula's heart.  "Mom!" the ghoula screamed as she died. Tiselda screeched in frustration. It was the time of war. But according to who? The grievances between ghouls and fairies had gone back so far that no one now living knew why they were fighting. Or who had started the fighting. Or what a victory for either side would even mean.  She danced into a pirouette and sliced the arm from a ghoul, a very thin arm, which spurted a torrent of black blood. The ghoul tried to grab at her with his other arm, but his reach was clumsy and she flew out of his way. But he kicked her friend, Primitzia, cruelly with his foot and stomped on her before Tiselda could open his throat.  She knelt by Primitzia and kissed her forehead. Primitzia gurgled blood and Tiselda forced her chin up when she tried to look down at her ruined torso.  Tiselda saw another ghoula making her way toward her and left Primitzia's side t...

"Breakfast is ready." Little Jason's mother put his plate of french toast, still sizzling, in front of him. The butter was melting in different directions from the warm, thick syrup. He slowly removed a chunk of it with a serrated knife, stabbed it, and put it in his mouth. He knew it was delicious, but it felt tasteless somehow. "No thank you ?" His face turned red. He felt his neck tense. He put the knife down, hoping she would leave. And she did with a dramatic sigh.  "I'm sorry, mom," he said.  She didn't respond or look away from the dishes she had started to wash. Perhaps he had waited too long to react.  "The food is really good," he tried again.  Still nothing. She seemed to get more noisy with the dishes, nearly throwing them into cabinets and drawers. He tried not to care, tried to keep eating, but his appetite was gone.  Little Jason brushed his teeth quickly, packed his homework in a folder, grabbed his books and waited by...

I grew up believing my whole existence was geared toward saving souls, bringing Jesus to others. I believed there was a divine plan so even if I couldn't see the future, I could believe that the future was bright and full of rainbows because it was in God's hands. Even if I had to "carry my cross", it was only temporary. Now I don't believe there is a divine plan for my life. I'm not sure if the future is bright and happy. I'm not sure if I will save any souls or if I am Christ-like. I wonder if I'm actually a bad person. So my choices feel less meaningful and special. Because I feel less meaningful and special. I'm not god's gift to humanity anymore.  There's a deep fear that will always exist too somewhere in my heart, no matter how ridiculous those beliefs seem now: What if, in spurning a belief in the divine plan, I somehow rejected a happy ending (no pun intended) for my life? What if God's plan for me did exist, and by rejecting t...

The fan spins, errk eek errk eek errk eek... The unknown tethered by a muse's fragile twine,  MLK subdued, no reason to care No reason to dream. We've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. Time is a construct,  Constructed by peasants on the road to decay, Trying to grow a broom stick with staw In rocky ground. What is truth? The stars dimmed, Unshining on a cloudless night. Hiding their light from the wise men and shepherds, Who yearn for hope. Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your front to me. The only lights, the lights of Babel, High on a pillar of irregular stone,  Crumbling at the slightest touch. Immediately rebuilt. May no one ever eat fruit from you again. The rulers who rule rule badly, While those in denial raise flags. And the rulers give speeches, visit dignitaries, And Atlas threatens to cave. Proud men don't like having to look up.