Hannah Moore
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Achievements (36)
Stories (276)
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The Singed Crown
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. That was how they came to find her so soon. The shepherdess had been incomprehensible, reverting to the old tongue in her distress, but there are languages beyond words, and Captain Silbourn had seen the fear in her eyes and followed her himself, delegating command of the main search to Tribian, and taking the Guard’s three best men with him. Now they stood on the bank of the little river, the shepherdess praying, he supposed, and the four men stood in metal plated uncertainty, swords hanging impotently along their thighs.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
Yes, YOU. Top Story - November 2024.
Dear Vocal community, I missed an appointment today. ECG. They rang me, and they sounded properly pissed off. I don’t blame them, what a waste, with waiting lists as they are. It’s not like me, though, to miss an appointment. Not the kind of thing I do. It’s just, it’s all felt a bit much lately. The other day, I tried to unlock the front door with the car key – not the key itself, the fob, the little button to unlock the car doors. Pointed it at the house and pressed away with mounting frustration. Didn’t even try the door mind you. Perhaps it worked. I wouldn’t know, I didn’t complete the necessary steps to facilitate ingress. I feel a bit like my brain exploded and the pieces are all in there, but rolling around like spilt marbles. I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t lost any, really.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Humans
Hazed
We promise ourselves Above sallow sickly cloud Skies are ever blue.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Poets
Night Shift. Runner-up in Spooky Micro Challenge.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Tricky, when you’re five, and scared, and your bed is wet again. It had been better, when Nana was alive. Then an amber glow crept around the door, and Kamali had listened to TV laughter and known that when she woke, her mum would be in the kitchen, fixing breakfast for Kamali, dinner for herself. Now it was always dark and cold and strange.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Horror
The Pink Shoes
I grew up in the eighties and nineties, a period in England, if not elsewhere, where the word “gay” was still bandied about as an insult at the beginning of my secondary schooling, alongside “poof” and “fag” and (gasp) “lesbian”. By the end of school however, a large proportion of my peers no longer considered “gay” to be an insult, or “poof” and “fag” to be acceptable at all. The jury remained firmly out on (whisper it) “lesbian”. Did the jury come back on that yet?
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Pride
Getting Serious Again
Am I going to make a habit of this? Well, maybe. Today is World Mental Health Day. Again. Again? Yes, again. You see, it doesn’t go away, does it? My kids wearing something yellow to school and paying a pound for the privilege doesn’t create the tidal wave that changes everything, more’s the shame. But it does create a trickle. A light drizzle. And once again, I am here to nudge a few droplets along their way.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Psyche
Befuddled
Well, I am trying to lay off Vocal at the moment, due to the return of an RSI problem that once saw me unable to drive for two years. Currently typing hurts, scrolling hurts, even picking up my phone hurts. Rest it, I tell myself, use it only for work. And maybe the next challenge. And maybe this and maybe that and then, then, then.... and here I am again. I thought I had missed Penny's part B (link at the bottom), but having realised I had not, well, just a teeny tiny little but of typing, no?
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Poets
