Spencer Moseley

He led her away from the basketball court to a patch of trees. It was hardly a good time for this, with the game about to start, but Jack wanted to remind himself what she meant to him. As they walked, he considered how fondling her felt easier than reaching out to hold her hand. He convinced himself he was avoiding that because of his ashy palms. But Becca grabbed his hand. She made no comment on his skin and laughed about something Jack did. Jack wasn't sure what she was laughing about because he was so caught up in how her sundress twirled. Her olive skin seemed to shimmer.  She careened ahead. She guided him behind a thin tree—no real shield from the eyes of his teammates. He psyched himself up through this embarrassment with the mantra, let them watch, as if he was Donald fucking Draper; and he kissed her. And her lips were so thick and he watched her shut her eyes and grin. He maneuvered up her shirt, hoping she would let him sneak under her bra. She stopped him but not ...

He could manage most emotions well enough to function. But anger. There wasn't much he could do about that. He felt a lot like Achilles. Perhaps that's why he often found himself at expensive cafés, nursing bitter cortados, reading The Iliad .  He remembered wanting to play in the NBA. He spent hours as far back as he could remember sinking buckets from all angles of the basketball court. He was no doubt the most skilled individual player in his school, but that's where it stopped. Dexter, the poor bastard, had never developed team-player skills. His parents had offered to put him in basketball leagues, but he didn't like being called a ball-hog (which he was) or working with others. On the rare occasion that he did join a pickup game, he felt a general confusion. He had no passing, rebounding, or stealing abilities. He'd never run plays or set picks or developed that intuitive sense that comes with regular, team practice. So while all admired him, none wanted him o...

"Hey—" "Hey, beautiful," I interrupted.  Sarah's line was mostly quiet except for her breathing. She cleared her throat in the way she did when she was trying to gain control of her emotions.  I pushed through my own emotional barrier and dared to repeat myself while clutching my chest. "Hey beautiful." "Stop." So I stopped. I could now hear Sarah quietly crying. I could picture her sniffling and holding the phone away from her face and maybe she was in the bathroom doing her makeup because I could almost hear that familiar, slight echoey sound.  I imagined her replying, "None of my other friends tell me this," or "Thank you I needed to hear this". And I think she knew I would've respond in my curt, dismissive way—the way I did when trying to suppress my discomfort— "Just calling it like it is." So instead she said nothing. But I wished she had said something. Because I had prepared to subvert her expectation...

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...