Spencer Moseley

The court jester motioned at the princess: "I'd slap her pussy juice across the room with this hand!" The bells on his stupid hat jingled as he grabbed his wrist as if his hand was made of gold.  No one laughed. This joke had just followed a series of equally disappointing jokes about how he would bang the princess. So he resorted to a last effort: "The only problem with banging the princess is that I'm too gay!"  He rushed to a pre-set male in the crowd and proceeded to fake fuck him. But he had chosen a spot precariously close to the sharp edges of a wooden table and pelvic thrusted the poor bastard into a corner. It broke his tooth and split his lip and the poor guy howled in pain.  The jester blushed, rushed to the prince's table and said, "Please could we find someone to take him to the medicine man?" The prince just stared at him.  The jester awkwardly laughed and pointed at his plate, "Please save some of that lamb for me, if you wo...

I think I grew up with this sense that everything had its place. I had my place. My family had its place. My friends had their place. Everything was tidy, orderly, seasonal. God was up above and planned my future and had set me on this earth with a mission to be a priest who would inspire and save souls. I've spent a lot of time. A lot. Wondering why I feel less purpose now. But how would I not when I no longer believe in those things I mentioned. When you're living believing you're on the right path that's best for you and leave it, you're bound to feel some type of way. And now I feel lost sometimes. Sure, there's moments when I'm living my personal values where I feel excited and happy. I picked up acting again and it feels meaningful and fun, but it doesn't feel like THE path. It feels like A path I chose. And the fact that it's a path I chose may mean it's not the best possible path for me. I may be making a mistake. Maybe I should be doing...

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...