Spencer Moseley

Grandpa stealthily motioned at me. I was only halfway done with my enchiladas but he was waving me to his truck. His beat up Silverado ("It can handle any terrain", he'd say) had two rifles peeking out the back. I excused myself from lunch and got in the passenger seat.  We listened to old Spanish hymns on the drive and he whistled along. Ollie was in the back panting gently. I rubbed her head and noticed he'd packed my camo gear in the backseat too. And hopefully that cooler just had snacks. "Where we headed?" I asked. "Roan." "Hm, solid drive." "Yeah," he said, with his usual grunting sound. "We'll just see what we can find out there today." The car hit a bump and I heard the clink of bottles. I didn't bother asking if he'd told anyone we were leaving. Because now I knew he hadn't. Grandpa's hat had those breathing holes in the sides and the tip of the bill was worn from use and lightly decorated ...

He sipped his coffee and tasted the grounds too much. Did his filter suck? Was he fucking up the coffee-water ratio. It didn't matter. Kathy wasn't home yet. She had gone out on a girls' night and that was fine. That's fine. It's not like Kathy would... I mean even if Aston showed up she could... Fuck. He didn't need coffee at 8 P.M., but he did need Family Guy. He flipped it on. Despite its dated jokes, he could sink his teeth into the material and just lay there on his couch. He checked his phone repeatedly for the message "OMW" which never came. So he stayed up 'til 2 A.M. And that's when he remembered he lived close to a run-down baseball field. And it was late Fall. And the bugs wouldn't... Okay it's time to go. He put on his hiking boots because his tennis shoes were too worn down, leashed his dog, and walked over to the baseball field. Thank God none of the lights were on. He put the leash under his butt as he lay down and stared...

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 ...