Spencer Moseley

Am I a good person? asked Cindy. She tugged on her braid which Alex noticed looked pretty oily. He thought about saying of course but felt like she might stop asking if he didn't say anything. He'd been noticing her breasts more than anything anyways. Their trip for boba tea had been pretty dull. Cindy had prattled on about her "friend" Molly: a red headed broad who had slighted Cindy in some way. Alex had nodded along mostly, trying not to choke on the tapioca balls in his brown sugar tea. God he needed to watch his sugar intake. Okay we're here, said Alex. Cindy hesitated long enough where Alex could tell she wanted him to kiss her and he obliged. Nice seeing you, he said. You too, said Cindy. Cindy didn't shut the door well so Alex waited 'til she was past her apartment gate to slam it shut.  I think I keep choosing dates like this for a shitty reason, he thought. But he had thought about this a lot and didn't feel like diving deep again only to en...

Her features were as sharp as her personality. Her nose like a hawk's, a black freckle midway down her cheek—the most perfect imperfection.  The karaoke bar swelled with visitors and Jasmine had her arm around me. I leaned against a pillar with my vodka soda (I'd told Jaz, "get me whatever you're having" and now regretted the algae-water flavor). We were listening to an off-key "Before He Cheats" from a brave karaoke star.  "Let's go outside. Carrie Underwood would be mortified." Jaz ignored my joke and said, "Sure." She maintained a determined face as she impolitely pushed past people.  "Hold on I gotta pee," I said. "Okay." "I mean you can go outside," I said, "I just gotta pee." "Oh I'm going outside," she said. I wanted to apologize for accidentally suggesting she should wait for me while I peed, but she was already plowing her way outside. By the time I found her on the ba...

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...