C.C. Moyer-Gardner
Bio
From short stories to screenplays, audio scripts to marketing copy, writing has always been a part of my life. With an unlikely brew of wild imaginings and whimsical wordplay, I'm blessed to continue humanity's tradition of storytelling.
Stories (5)
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Succession
Milo Hobbes hated hospitals. The cream-spackled hallways emanated filth, hoards of germs and bacteria tainted what was once white. Tungsten lights flickering faster than the eye can see served to disorient visitors of the ward. Dull headaches plagued guests, paling in comparison to the ails of those they came to visit. Each floor built like hotel rooms for the dying, half drunk on pain medications and slurring or crying or screaming until their lungs gave out. And yet, far worse than the pallor and distant sounds of soon-to-be corpses was the smell. A septic odor of shit and bleach that permeated from floor to ceiling with the faintest tinge of wet mold growing between skin folds of overweight patients and their dirty laundries. The smell hung stiff without central air, a convenience ill-fitted for a hospital full of contagion.
By C.C. Moyer-Gardner2 years ago in Fiction
Surrender the Witches
Being out in the garden always carried a bit of magic with it. Brushing back the rosemary for the sweet smell of it. The calming aroma of lavender and anise made the world take on soft purple hues that swirled into each other like a twilight sunset. Walking through the garden was stepping into an Autumn corn maze, head high and miles deep. But it wasn’t miles. It was footsteps. The same footsteps Mom used to take to pluck her posies and parsnips.
By C.C. Moyer-Gardner2 years ago in Fiction
Reunion
It’s Marty Pruitt’s ten year high school reunion. Well, not exactly hers. It’s Kearny High’s Class of 2005 high school reunion and everyone, even people who graduated in 2004 and 2006, are coming. At least according to the social media breakdown. All the invites have been digitally accepted, even Marty’s.
By C.C. Moyer-Gardner2 years ago in Fiction
Missus Carlyle's Ritual Room
The seamstress worked for three days on the hands alone. The gentle weaving of thread through viscous tissue, drawing lines and crosses into the decomposing cells with minimal visibility; it wasn’t good enough to just put the pieces back together. Like putting together a circuit board, each fiber had to be precise if the inferior materials were expected to work. To function like before.
By C.C. Moyer-Gardner2 years ago in Horror
Sacrifice
It took eleven days to build the thing. Hours upon hours of hauling. First lumber, then kindling to the top of the barren mount. Trucks would arrive at the end of the dirt path. Lily put fifty dollar bills in strangers’ pockets while we trudged the wood to the sacred place. Some of the newcomers stared with confusion as we threw heavy logs to the top of the overflowing bundle. Before long, we built the pulley system, elevating the logs up and placing them on the top of the massive structure. It was like a giant’s game of Jenga with only one purpose.
By C.C. Moyer-Gardner2 years ago in Horror
