Spencer Moseley

Abigail had stayed at this party long enough. Her lipstick had deteriorated into tiny pink splotches on her lips from kissing too many boys. One asshole had bit her bottom lip until it bled a little. She waited for her Uber. Henry smelled her blood. It smelled so sweet and boozy. He felt the pain of his canines growing at the scent and stretched his jaw and drew his collared cape over his mouth. He looked at this party girl, clearly drunk, as she stumbled into her Uber. Henry became a flock of bats as he followed the Uber, feeling ridiculous. He didn't want her blood, did he?  His bat self screeched as he dodged streetlights and power lines. He liked his bat self. His different thoughts and feelings were more parsed out in this state. That bat was hunger. That one was longing. He noticed his longing bat was furthest behind and hardly able to keep up with the pack. That was no surprise. His feelings of longing were the most intense and made him feel depressed and anxious. But what d...

I hear someone enter my apartment. But I'm rich so I know he'll have a lot of doors to open before he gets to my bedroom. Stupid fucks think they can come after me IN MY HOUSE.  I grab a flashlight and pretend my hand is a gun. This works in the movies, right? Intruders see that and get scared? I don't know. I hear him in my main bathroom and kick the door open and tell him to stick his hands up. He turns around and he's nearly 7 feet tall and built like Dave Bautista. He looks at me and laughs. He grabs my index finger and breaks it at the middle joint and I scream. I don't know how I'm managing with the pain and I start ugly breathing and feel my throat sucking in too much air which makes me cough. Bautista dude laughs. I swing wildly with my flashlight and he lets me hit him. I don't even see him wince when I break some of his bottom teeth. He grins savagely, notices the blood like a surprised accountant and walks toward me slowly, like he's trying to...

Do your homework, she told me. No, I said. And to be honest my production is negatively impacted by pressure. So I suggest you phrase your command in another way. My step-mom looked at me askance. Yes, that's the best word to describe her look. And she said, Well I'm just interested in results. Yeah, I said. But you won't get great RESULTS from me unless you start handling this differently. You see, I continued, humans are complex beings and aren't easily motivated by trite commands. Not even trying to get into college or get a job is enough to motivate me at the moment when I look at this x-y axis. I just don't give a fuck about any of it. Well that's not my problem, she said. Well, it kind of is if you want me to be a successful adult, I said. But the truth is, I expect too much of you. I need to realize that this is the best motivation you can offer. That triggered my step-mom and she went to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I saw her staring out the ...

I reminded Shelly that I was Scrooge and that she was Jacob Marley in the play we'd performed. Shelly was fucking drunk and teetering, able to stay standing by grabbing the light pole every few seconds or so. Her hair was greasy from the cigarette smoke (she smoked like a Frenchman) and she rambled a lot. But in her rambling I could still hear our performance from a couple nights before, still feel the effects of the crowd's applause. More of our troop were passed out drunk in the Jeep, still running in the cold weather. For whatever reason I still had a weird amount of energy. Suddenly Franco got out of the Jeep. I want to go home, he said. That was good news. This was his apartment complex that we were parked outside of. I told Shelly to get in the car, that I'd see her in a minute. She gave me her Jeep keys, I snagged Franco's apartment keys, I grabbed Franco's arm, and I led him to his apartment. Thank god it was on the first floor because he kept swaying and ...

In a horrified moment, I realized I'd accidentally knocked over this giant candle as the Pope was approaching the Church exit. Weren't these candles supposed to be practically bolted to the fucking floor? I picked it up, blushing (thankfully the carpet hadn't caught fire), and the Pope literally smiled at me and grabbed my arm and asked me to walk with him. He ignored the whole meet-and-greet-the-flock that deacons and priests and bishops and archbishops and monsignors and cardinals and popes typically do after mass. I'm Spencer, I said. And he said, I'm Pope Francis. I told him that it was nice to meet him and he told me to cut the shit. Was he some sort of Padre Pio? I'm not Catholic anymore. No shit, he said. That moment kind of opened me up and I explained my whole history and why I'd left. I felt a certain sting of a poor-me attitude. But Mr. Pope didn't judge me that way. I even told him that thought, blushing more than at the candle incident and ...

It wasn't just a deer. It was a snow white deer, with the most delicate antlers I had ever seen. Avor didn't have to hush me, and we were both frightened that we might make too much noise. I didn't realize how long I could hold my breath until now.  The snow fell gently around the deer whose eyes looked so old and lovely and fair. I looked at Avor and his eyes were shut and his lips moved in a prayer of some kind.  The deer ducked his head slightly and looked our way. He tilted his head as if curious, then skidded off.  "Ah, damn," I said. That woke Avor from his prayer and I could see his breath. He looked awestruck, and I'm sure I did too.  "We don't see many snowlords these days," he said.  "No," I agreed.  We both walked over to where the deer had stood and I saw a single sliver of silver hair in one of the deer tracks.  "Do you think I should?" I asked.  "Yes, yes, be careful, love." I slid it into my knapsack w...

Justin was disgustingly chewing gum. Barry leaned on a pillar-like thing holding up the gazebo and tried to focus on whatever some dude was talking about. Barry couldn't remember his name because his method of remembering names involved associating a name with some striking feature. And Mr. Nameless was the plainest looking white dude he'd ever seen: blonde hair cut at Great Clips, logo-less glasses, and a punchable frat boy face. Justin blew a bubble, and Barry wanted to scratch off the bit of gum struggling to hang onto his upper lip. Barry noticed Leila talking quickly to a group of girls in another corner. She smiled and looked as carefree as she always did. He was her plus one as of that morning. They'd had sex the night before. Or was that a one-night stand? Waking up to her "want to go to a wedding?" text was odd. She'd left her jacket in his apartment, but she hadn't said a word when he gave it to her on the car ride to the wedding. Their mutual fr...