Hannah Moore
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Achievements (33)
Stories (273)
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Paracusia
This story is part of the Vocal + Assist on Facebook Unreliable Narrator Challenge. You can learn more about it here: I think there is a killer in my building. I never go out alone, anymore. Not with everything that’s happening. With all that’s happening, my fear is high all the way out and all the way home, but the chatter keeps up and keeps me going.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Roulette. Top Story - October 2023.
This is for Paul Stewart's Unnerve, Unsettle, and Scare Me Challenge, linked here: I was still a little drunk when I got off the bus, full of bottled confidence, bolstered by camaraderie. It had been a good night. We’d talked and laughed, danced a little, and sat shoulder to shoulder in the humid fug of the club, knowing ourselves to be radiant and ripe with power. I had promised I would get a taxi, but I knew I was going to walk. I wanted to walk, to feel the night and the strength in my legs. Plus, it was ridiculous to get a taxi for less than a mile. That dick on the bus wasn’t going to push me around, sitting there, staring at me. Touching himself under his coat I think. Fuck him. I should be able to walk where I want to walk. Shouldn’t have to be afraid.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Marrakesh
It was my third visit to Marrakesh, and I was not unfamiliar with the city, despite the quarter century which separated the first from the last of those visits. That’s the thing about ancient cities – they don’t change all that quickly, not in the parts that pull the tourists in, anyway. My first visit was part of a larger backpacking journey through Morocco. This was back when my back was strong of course. My best friend and I, at the dawn of our twenties, travelled the country by bus and train, carrying our worlds on our backs and relishing the soreness of our shoulders and the fatigue in our legs. I ate so much amazing food on that trip. My favourite, still my favourite, was a piping hot vegetable tagine, the oil still bubbling in the clay dish and the vegetables, alive with aromatic spices, as tender as a perfect pear. Or perhaps the fresh mint tea, served from high above the gold trimmed glasses in a steaming gurgle of water, the insane sweetness of the sugar lacing the improbable coolness of the mint. I have recreated this at home with several varieties of mint grown in pots in my garden, but in the same way that Mediterranean light lends everything a clarity more northern latitudes cannot emulate, the tea I brew at home falls flat in comparison.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Feast
Hypsacremia
Jolene stood by her gate post, studiously disinterested in the world around her as she trimmed a perfect rose. Mercy spotted her from the corner, and watched as Jolene paused, looked around her, and then slowly made the same cut an inch lower. She crossed the street, hoping to make it to her own front door unobserved.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
I come from a long line of cooks. In my own lifetime, my mother was a cook, and her mother before her, and I have learnt from much from them. Of course, I am defining “cook” as someone obligated to serve up meals in order to preserve life. For my grandmother the advent of the domestic freezer, and shops catering for its use, was a revolution in catering, and the addition of a microwave opened up brave new worlds! I well remember the stacks of frozen pizzas, ten packed cylindrically in a plastic sheath, with which she embraced international cuisine. Très sophistiqué, oui?
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Feast
Unspoken
Through the front windscreen, I can see my son on the pavement, head slightly dipped, shoulders tipped forward against the weight of his school work filled rucksack. He never looks my way, but navigates straight to me, opens the door, and slides in. The back door, not the front. The back seat.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Families
