Hannah Moore
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Achievements (37)
Stories (277)
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All the Trappings
The car looked ridiculous parked next to the trolley store. Yellow, low slung, crimson leather seats open to the dreary sky, an engine that she hadn’t yet learnt to keep in check, revving in attention grabbing roars in traffic jams. She only hoped the supermarket’s cctv might discourage people from performing mischief upon it while she was in yoga.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Bloodied
There were already two orphans in school when Flissa started. Cody, who was doomed to die young like it was a family tradition, and Athena, who had seen her mum die in a housefire and everybody knew it. Flissa only got to know Cody a bit, because he lived up to expectations and expired from a bellyache by Halloween. Teachers cried openly with students, and Flissa felt unseen amidst the grief. She had been Cody’s best friend for a whole week, but no one seemed to think it counted for much. Athena got a lot of extra attention though, and when she scored 94% in Maths even though she was sad, the headmistress made a speech about strength of character in assembly.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
My Superhero Origin Story By Hannah Moore. Top Story - August 2024.
This is a true story. What? Nobody said it had to be fiction. I’m a pretty ordinary person. An all-rounder, my teachers said. Shows potential. Well the thing about potential is it’s only possibility, and the thing about all-rounders is they excel at nothing. Don’t get me wrong, it makes life pretty…. adequate. I’m rarely terrified of losing my job, for example, because I believe I can secure another one before we starve, even if it wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s never my first choice.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Early in the Morning
Nana scrunched her nose as she entered the “head”, and wondered at what point one should speak to a doctor about one’s bottom smells. She opened the porthole and reversed out of the room, faith in her bladder’s capacity to hold on a little longer re-invigorated. Crossing the cabin, she busied herself with the washing up, seeing as no one else was going to do it, humming the only sea shanty she knew, and pondering what “scuppers” might be and whether this boat had them. She could certainly think of a drunken sailor she would happily put there.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Unprecedented
They say I am cresting the wave now. Maybe I am. You can’t tell until you’ve crested, I suppose, until you are firmly, assuredly, plummeting down the other side. From there, it’s a rolling push to the beach and dry land, cocktails at sunset and all that.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Every Day, in Every Way
Cadence stood at the prow of the boat, her feet anchored to the planked deck, pink toenails framed by the strap of her sandals, and the hem of her white linen skirt plastered to her ankles, her outfit sailesque in both its brilliance and its billowing in the wind. About her head, her hair twisted and snapped in exuberant tendrils, her sunhat long since consigned to the galley where she had queasily passed platters of prepared sandwiches, cut to resemble wheaten clams, up the short laddered steps half an hour earlier. Now, with a passing attempt to remain coquettish whilst also keeping her footing, she took up her command, raising her voice to battle the wind.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
All Our Yesterdays. Runner-up in L*pogram Challenge. Top Story - August 2024.
Count them out, the absent, the departed. Hear the smooth sound waves where once laughter laced the undulate larynxes of lovers, where gentle tones of care were heard before. Count them out. The numbers mount to those we do not comprehend, cannot comprehend, hope not to comprehend. We hope we understand a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand, as poorly as we understand the past. Count them out. The men and women who do not return, lost to a hunger for power, a struggle for a concept, a need for resource. Count them out, for they no longer take up the scythe, the spanner or the pen. They no longer take a seat at your table, hold your sadness or your joy between the muscles of fleshed arms, no longer touch you, palm to palm, or guard your heart as you rest. No longer breathe beneath the heavens. Count them out.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
