Hannah Moore
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Achievements (33)
Stories (273)
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Questions with Rick Henry Christopher. Top Story - January 2024.
Thank you Rick Henry Christopher for this idea: 1. What type of writer do you feel you are? I’m a harlot. I’m anybody’s. That’s why I’m here. I’m an avid barn dancer; I love to dance but only when someone in a cowboy hat is calling the moves. In the freedom of the disco I will cling to the wall in the knowledge my moves are hopeless. Just give me the first foothold on the mountain, I will climb it, or have a go. With varying success. I have just attempted my first ever crime story, for example, which I would not have done without a little shove.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Interview
New beginnings.
All stories start small, and all start halfway through another, never really new beginnings so much as new developments. Even endings meld and merge into ongoings. Mine is no different. I was born afraid, as my ancestors learnt to be, and brave, as they needed to be, and one day I will die and leave a million ripples behind me. Some will reach a near shore, others will spread outwards, the peaks flattening until barely perceptible. None are likely to make waves, but I keep throwing out pebbles, searching for that little pushback, that lets me know that somewhere out there, my ripple came up against another thrower of pebbles. That no man is an island.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Why I would like to do a murder and other stories
Outside, the snow is falling steadily, gusting past at an angle closer to horizontal than perpendicular. A layer of white is accumulating on the wooden balustrade of the balcony, and tall pines stand stark against the white sky, hazy shadows of sloped roofed buildings with smatterings of lit windows reminding me I am not alone. I am sat now, tired limbs heavy in warm pyjamas, my children snug on the red and white covered sofa, later to become my bed, the fairy lights adding a mantle of cheer above their heads.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Confessions
Corrupted Youth
The body lay on the chaise in the white framed summer house, alabaster skin as smooth as the marble Venus who gazed unfeeling upon the woman’s beauty, her equal for now, though beneath that skin the cells had started to consume themselves. Supine, draped in a Chinese silk robe, and framed by palm and fig leaves, drooping in the heat, she could have been sleeping, but then a fly landed upon her cheek, and remained, unswatted, hopeful. Beyond the glass paned walls, the bees went about their business, humming steadily amidst the brazen red of poppies and the white lace parasols of hemlock along the footpath separating the garden from the meadow beyond, and the birds called across the browning lawn to their brethren, perched on the parapet of the house. It had been a quiet death, at the end, and only the dead woman had been perturbed by her passing.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Criminal
In the Bleak Midwinter. Top Story - December 2023.
A yellowed dusk is mellowing the day outside my window. Inside, fairy lights, like pin pricks of hope in red, yellow, blue, green and gold dot the lamp lit room, and a cat presses herself to my thigh, purring. For a moment, just a moment, all is calm, all is bright, and I am at rest.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Motivation
