Loyd Moody
Bio
Stories (5/0)
Dancing On The Mirror
She welcomed the sting of winter’s zephyr upon her cheek as if it were a kiss from a long awaited lover. As she ventured further into the woods the crunch of the snow beneath her wellington boots filled her with the wanderlust of a scent hound. Rabbits were not her concern she was looking for something from a memory so long ago it could’ve been a dream.
By Loyd Moody 3 years ago in Horror
Transcender
“John, please.” The tired looking man said before finishing the last drop of his of fine Belgium beer still maintaining eye contact through the bottom of the distorted pint glass. Once he savoured his last drop and the bubbles settled he placed the glass down on the mat and John was less than pleased.
By Loyd Moody 3 years ago in Fiction
The Cherry Stone
Vince floated in from the garden and straight to the kitchen like hopping from one fluffy cloud to another, he placed the watering can on the floor and danced to the oven. The sweet scent of apples and buttery pastry lured him close, his nose in the air and mouth drooling. He looked through the clear glass panel and there it was sat, golden and crisp, an apple tart.
By Loyd Moody 3 years ago in Fiction
The Man-Made Rapture
The moon never came. The sun remained high in the sky in all its glory, all it’s fiery glory. It’s rays beat down on the Earth like the flaming swords of angels, scorching the land it once nurtured. No trees for the birds to sing in, no seas for the fish to swim, no wind, no rain, only sun. They lost all track of the days, months, years, time and for many even their minds. Ever since the day it had gone, the yin to the suns yang; all balance had been broken. The only thing the people of Earth knew was hell and that those responsible were away in the sky, somewhere out behind the blinding light. Heaven? Perhaps, they once called it Mars but to its new inhabitants it was home. To those who remained, it was irrelevant they knew where they were. No God did this, this was the work of man, the corrupt stink of humankind was all over it and only the innocent knew its stench.
By Loyd Moody 3 years ago in Fiction