Spencer Moseley

It wouldn't be accurate to say they ignored Tim. They called Tim. They talked to Tim. But there was some force field limit. A wall that couldn't be breached, not unlike that giant bubble in Star Wars Clone Wars that kept out the invaders with their red laser bullets.  "How's work going, Tim?" They'd ask him.  "Oh it's fine," he'd say. And perhaps he'd go into more detail. Perhaps he'd mention a coworker who'd given him trouble. Or a new project that was tiring him out. But then this limit would come up whenever it drifted toward why his days were heavy. Like someone quietly turning a dial down. Not hostile. Just… less room. His lack of Christian faith seemed to sit there between them. And so any conversation that ventured into why his life was difficult was nearly off-limits. Not because his sibs would fight him on it, but because they felt his issues would be non issues if he simply returned to Christ. He had tried talking about ...

His head was bald, except for some, what looked like 5 o'clock shadow beard stubble, on one part of his head. Like if you were to look at someone's head from above and divide it into four quadrants, that beard stubble would be covering one of those quadrants. The stubble looked like the rough side of Velcro. And then he had toilet paper wrapped around his head where a headband would normally sit. There was no blood or anything, so I wasn't sure if this was a fashion or religious choice. Like maybe his religion demanded some headwear, but he'd forgotten to put on his religious headwear that morning; and this was his only way of meeting that obligation.  None of that matters to this story. I'm not even sure if this is a story really. All that to say, this man was talking in broken English to a lady across from him. She was mostly dressed normally, all in black, and her English was equally broken. Well not broken. I think in order to speak in broken English, you would ...

Colorful ribbons connected the rooftops for the Dia de los Muertos celebration. Those lights you always see at bars with an outdoor patio were also strewn around. I liked that.  I grabbed a concha from a street vendor, not because I particularly liked them—they always drained the moisture out of my mouth—but because they reminded me of grandma. Anytime she was with us as kids she always had to buy us conchas or those empanadas with pumpkin.  I was by myself this year and had snagged a candle with a base to catch the wax. I walked around the courtyard and looked at the murals with skeletons. Some were playing instruments. And some were in ridiculous dance poses. But they were all happy.  I wasn't unhappy or happy this year. I was as indifferent as could be. And that felt worse. I wanted to feel SOMETHING. Especially with the death of my grandma having been so recent. I was SUPPOSED to feel something looking at these scenes. The only thing catching my eye were the gorgeous ...

Content note: This piece explores themes of depression and suicidal thoughts in a fictional context. Please take care while reading. "Things really took a turn when you dyed your hair jet black," I said. "They turned before that." "When?" I persisted. "This was always me."  I heard the shakiness in the voice. I could feel their anxiety so fully. How could I empathize this completely? Never mind that. I dug my heels in.  "You wrote poetry before." "I wasn't really a poet though. I was a wannabe poet." "I liked your poems." The shaking came next. The breaths grew shallow. Red flush to the face. "If you think I can just be that unstable loser I once was—" Wait.  The "I"... wasn't me...  Someone else was talking to me— Questioning me.

The clinks of silverware on plates. The sizzle of eggs frying in hot oil. The smiles of my waitresses, their soothing voices. It was almost too much in Houston's Avalon Diner. Not objectively too much. Just too much for me. You see, for me to not have anxiety, I need to be curled up with my dog watching TV and partially dissociating in a comfy bed. And outside of that experience, fear accompanies me in some small way.  "I'll umm, yeah umm. I'll umm have the, uhh, water and a coffee please." "Would you like to order food too?" (I think she said that, couldn't quite hear her so I assumed that's what she said).  "Oh, yes, umm, I'll also have the uhh, turkey, cheese—swiss cheese—and avocado omelet." "Yes sir," and she said it with an affectionate smile I didn't feel I deserved.  Jesus, dude, how many times you gonna say umm and uhh?? The wait for each item was perfect. I was able to finish a chapter of my book between each...

Person 1: Holy shit, there’s a person standing on top of that building. Person 2: Holy—damn, you’re not kidding. Except he or she… they? Looks weird. Person 1: Yeah. I see a face. Person 2: Same. And a giant heart underneath it. Person 1: Where’s the rest of his body? Person 2: Yep. Wait is it a him? Oh yeah it’s a him. I see it now. Person 1: He has no other body parts. Just a face and a heart. WTF. Person 2: Is he trying to jump? Person 1: He’s definitely looking down at us. He’s smiling. (beat) Now he’s panicking. Person 2: Oh god. I can see his heart pounding. Like… aggressively. What the fuck is this? Person 1: I just wanted to see the Empire State Building. Person 2: Should we call for help? Person 1: OH SHIT. HE’S JUMPING. Person 2: Wh—what the— Why is he falling in slow motion? Person 1: He’s not falling. He’s… hovering. Person 2: He’s fully freaking out. But also— He's... fine? Person 1: I don’t want to catch him. Person 2:  Ew gross. Why would we? P...

i don't wanna keep living in a world where we pretend the “Baskin Robbins” logo shouldn’t be a robin (the bird) “basking” in the sunlight. we simply have to be better as a species and make this happen. not for our sake— for posterity. would we really want aliens to visit us and NOT see that? that’s the real question. a superhero whose only power is that he has a detachable penis. now that’s a story i can get behind. he uses his own dick as a whip, swinging it by the shaft while the hairy balls knock out his foes. okayyyy, spencer. stfu. lately i’ve been feeling like a silly goose. not always in the good way. i think it’s cuz i let judgment get to me. like if i’m singing in a grocery store (not too loudly, i’m not a psycho) and people look at me unfavorably, i give fucks. i literally hand them a fuck. they open the fuck-letter and it reads: “i’m sorry for being me. you are entitled to this letter as emotional compensation for making you feel uncomfortable while you looked for ...

tell me a story, said my son. i tussled his hair. tussling is my thing. love a tussle. and i cracked open dr. seuss to page 40. just kidding. no dr. seuss book makes it past 3 pages, i’m pretty sure. GREEN EGGS AND HAM… then something about yams. idk. i lost the plot because i’d been selling bullshit all day and i was tired. but my son was fascinated. he was past the thumb-sucking age but now in the nail-picking stage, and he hung onto every word with this neutral expression, barely suppressing how excited he was that i was reading to him. i’m not sure what he got out of it. ok, just kidding again. he loved me. and i loved him. and reading to him connected us. and dr. seuss had enough rhyme scheme and a passable plot to keep his young brain engaged. i sipped my coffee. it had unsweetened almond milk and was an unsweet coffee. it had this fake flavor i could tolerate and slightly enjoy. chobani’s unsweet creamer was also weird. i guess all diet drinks are. he lulled into sleep at pa...

un. cer. tain. ty.  what a word. this encapsulates my whole life transition lately. i feel very much uncertain and anxious. i always have and i suppose i always will. i think on the positive side of this, i am very sensitive to others and myself. i can read people. i can see when i've taken a joke too far. i can tell when someone else has taken a joke too far. but the downside is a sickening anxious feeling in my stomach. i crave certainty. because to me certainty = safety. but safety also = boredom. so i've been trying to transition to seeing that sickening feeling as an opportunity for adventure. that sickening feeling is interesting for me. it can overwhelm my brain to where i can't process thoughts. it would be like driving and then all of a sudden a wall comes up in front of you on the highway and you crash. airbag deploys. driving halted abruptly. that's how waves of anxiety hit me. i can start to feel like taking my skin off. i pick at my nails to manage this fee...

I was in a sentimental place for my last post. and now i'm more somber. somber is a good word huh. feels like you're cuddling with that one bear from that movie with the kid and the bear. i remember he looked like a younger tarzan or something. wtf was that movie about anyway? had some remake with christopher waken? Walken? Walker? Johnnie Walker black on ice.  But anyway yeah i'm somber. how bout that weather huh? and them gas prices?  i put my hand to my heart now and that's my prayer. i imagine this cool jesus. partially the jesus from the bible. partially my imagination. and he's always chilled out and having a good time. how do some people always seem at peace and chillin', you know? like mannn there's shit out here to worry about how can you be all chillaxedddd.  i wanna go clubbing this weekend in a gandalf costume. and do some karaoke. and have those things that you crack and they light up neon green all over me. and wear light up shoes. that would b...

I'm feeling a lot of inner change lately. The kind that makes you think and rethink and come to grips. And loosen other grips. And then grip again. That gorilla grip grip gripping. I'm pretty sure this writing style is annoying. No actually — I’m gonna be confident in it and just roll with this. I've been practicing more confidence. Unleashing my inner self. That feels good. It feels aligned. I haven't trusted myself. Maybe ever. I've always felt a need to prove myself. And be something. To others. Someone people looked up to. Looked at. Admired. Loved. Needed. I want to be needed. Not really loved. I don't think I've ever craved a lot of love. Maybe that's ’cause I've always had love and taken it for granted — unlike some others less fortunate. I feel bad for them. But wanting to be needed perhaps comes from a deeper well of insecurity I'm uncovering lately. I feel like I'm digging things up. Unearthing things. And it's painfu...

There was an Indian man sitting at a 45 degree angle from me at the campfire. He wasn't handsome. He had those jowls that bulldogs have and a white scar that zig zagged from his nose to the corner of his lip. I didn't know his name. In fact I hadn't said a word to him. But he intrigued me. I also couldn't stop looking at him. He was mostly quiet, and people would say things to him, and his directness and lack of social skills eventually pushed them away. He just tended to the fire. I don't know if he liked doing it. But he never stopped. And he had this old fashioned lantern that he filled with some sort of bullshit from his knapsack. Yeah a knapsack—with those colorful leather strips hanging from it that I saw in Pocahontas or whatever. The fire crackled and burned and a part of me wondered if he was on this pilgrimage almost for some sort of revenge reasons. There was a slight anger in his expression underneath the stoic look. He also stayed awake long after every...

     We walked alone through the woods, and I listened to the crunch of autumn leaves beneath our boots. We wore frayed tunics with our cowls pulled over our necks and heads. With each breath, ice-cold oxygen stung my windpipe, and I could feel it all the way to my stomach. I hadn't eaten all day and half-wondered if the air itself was quenching my hunger.      "I'm depressed," I said suddenly, surprising myself. I felt shocked, as if the words had sprung from my mouth accidentally.       David said nothing, and his silence sent me into a panic. Had I infringed on his conversational comfort levels? Lord knows it wouldn't be the first time I'd done that to a friend.       Friend? Boyfriend? Friend? Boyfriend?      He pulled an apple from his satchel and handed it to me. Then he pulled another and started eating it. I tried to glean anything from his expression, but he looked like I hadn't said anything. ...

The parking lot was full, so I parked side street, hoping I was in a no-tow zone. It was in front of someone's house, not blocking the driveway, and I say this hoping my readers side with me.  Puebla's Mexican Kitchen, I read aloud in my car as I evaluated several spots on Google Maps. I saw they had chilaquiles and "jugos naturales," so I wanted to try them. My regular Mexican food spots were far (or further) from my work site, so I opted to try this new place.  I ensured I had my AirPods to rock out to my Ken Follett audiobook and walked through the entrance. A punk-rock-looking Mexican with gelled hair and a rough-shaven face motioned me to approach the front counter. I hoped I wasn't cutting other people in line since there was a small group crowding the front, but now that I think about it, this anxiety was not warranted—or else he wouldn't have called me.  He asked if I was alone, and I nodded quickly. Then he raised his eyebrows and pointed toward the e...

I craved a Colombian breakfast: two fried eggs, black refried beans, some protein, and a coffee.  I had been to Mi Pueblito before and knew I had to return. It was near the dumpy part of town (Gessner and Richmond). All the restaurants around here were good.  I parked in the strip mall. Mi Pueblito sat couched between some chicken restaurant and a nail salon. I panicked briefly since I had not reviewed the menu in my car with the AC. I hate making waiters wait after they ask me what I want—though their job title suggests this is what they do. As I reviewed the menu, I started to sweat. Houston is fucking hot, and Mi Pueblito has a large menu. Finally, I decided to order their iced coffee and the "Calentado con Carne". I walked through the entrance wearing my striped polo (untucked) and khakis. Maybe I imagined it, but the hostess and a waitress appeared to exchange a look that said, "he's cute." As my hostess walked me to my seat, I questioned if my perception w...

Jeffrey sat under the glaring yellow lights and applied foundation and black mascara. He added three sixes under both eyes and an upside-down cross on his forehead for the finishing touches. He had dyed his hair green a while back and was pleased to see that it was only just beginning to lose its integrity. He would be back to his normal jet-black hair by Thanksgiving.  He walked up to the third floor, but Houston was hot and stuffy, so he opened a giant window with some effort to allow airflow. He had decorated a lot of the room himself, though it was mostly in disarray since the Halloween guests had run through lots of the cobwebs, stepped on his Ouija board multiple times, and tracked plenty of dirt that he hadn't bothered to sweep up. It was the last night, he figured. He didn't need to go all out anymore. He reflected on how he had scared one smoking hot chick to where her titties bounced in the air as she screamed. He always liked to stand in the corner where the moonligh...

The most terrifying question: "Is everything okay?" What would I even say to that? That the wave of uncertainty stemming from my lack of purpose is devouring my soul day by day? Clouding my brain? Draining my motivation? Locking me into a routine of hope and disappointment? I've tried Jesus (the prescription for everything). I talk to him. But I know I'm just having an inner monologue. The "Jesus" I talk to just so happens to be a reflection of myself. When he tells me to "enjoy that Taco Bell," I've brought my shallow image of him to life: a reminder that "the Father and I are one." Someone might say: "But Jesus is completely real, and you have to connect with Bible Jesus rather than the version you've created in your head. Ah, the Bible. Perhaps that's true. But... If I believed he was literally real, as presented in the Bible, would he start speaking to me?  From past experience, he didn't. All quiet on the western...

"If your cat ever harmed my daughter, I'd drown your cat," said Martha jokingly. *Context: Martha's 2-year-old daughter had been pulling Dana's cat's hair and trying to ride her like a horse until the cat hissed in frustration.* Dana leaned back in her chair. She put her left hand under her right armpit. After some time, she replied with no venom: "When I was little, my family had a big cat named Lila. She was a good cat. And she was blessed with long white hair. I had a habit of pulling on this hair with all my might when I was little, and usually, my dad was there to tell me to stop when Lila hissed at me. But one day, he wasn't. And I ignored Lila's hisses until she bit my hand. I screamed in agony, and my dad ran over from the backyard. As he bandaged my hand, he said, 'Well, that's what happens when we pull a cat's hair like that.'" "Well, I was just joking," said Martha.  "Very nice," said Dana.

I had never told a priest certain sins. I thought sins had a statute of limitations. St. Ignatius did not agree. His spiritual exercises called for a general confession: where I would be expected to confess the sins from my entire life (even if I’d confessed them already). And I didn’t want to chicken out now. I’d written them down and whispered them aloud to myself several times to make sure I could get the words out.  I opened the creaky confessional door and saw a Hispanic priest behind the latticed screen and breathed easier. Maybe if I said my sins quickly he wouldn’t understand them.  I said my sins. The priest gasped audibly. Fuck. He understood.  I was shaking and sweating and got out of the confessional as quick as I could. I walked briskly up the driveway to the dormitory, feeling proud. I’d said my sins. I wouldn’t have to go to hell anymore.  Now to basque in a feeling of fulfillment, I thought. I walked past the Mary statue and into the locker room. I lo...

I looked at my car. No, through my car. My car burglar had kept it classy (silver lining). Only small fragments of glass littered my backseat. When sunlight caught them just right, they did resemble those diamonds Snow White's dwarves worked so greedily to collect. Heigh-Ho. Heigh-ho. It's work from home I go. 😏 My buyer greeted me as I entered the backroom with a pleasure I didn't share. I had arrived early. Which meant she would expect me to help offload the truck. With a smile I hoped looked genuine, I performed at a level of insincerity that surprised even me: "It's great to see you; It's been too long; Good thing I'm here early to help." After that, I reflected that a simple "Hey, how's it going?" would have sufficed.  She talked in a frenzied flurry of ADHD. At one point, she even hit me with a "What the French Toast," which made me feel like I needed to brush spiders off my arms. I met her changing conversation topics wi...