Hannah Moore
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Achievements (33)
Stories (273)
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A Very Gallant Gentleman
The roaring wind pushed and pulled at the canvas of the tent where the four men lay, far from warm, in their reindeer hide sleeping bags. Two of the party were writing in the dim light that filtered through the canvas, accompanied by the soft snores of the third, but the fourth, with his back to the others, simply stared at the filthy fabric a few inches from his frozen nose. Stared, and wondered. Lawrence tried not to think about the pain, seeping through his body, creeping from toes and fingers like a poison towards his core. He tried not to imagine the blackened flesh he knew he would find beneath his stiff, stinking socks. He didn’t need to imagine the pain of a surgeon’s knife or the work of finding new ways to use his body to compensate for what was now missing. No, he did not imagine the horror on a nurse’s face as she unbandaged him in the clean, logical order of a medical room somewhere far away from here. He had no cause to imagine these things, as he did not think it would come to pass.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Ripples
This is for Jazzy Goncalves filthy haiku challenge, linked here, in which we are invited to write a haiku celebrating the joy of sex. I love the positivity of Jazzy's challenges, and I appreciate the encouragement to turn our gaze upon the good stuff, give it a bit of space in our thoughts, word it into being more solid, more accessible, more noticed, more witnessed.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Filthy
Eating with my fingers
This is my entry for the Vocal Social Society Challenge Haiku Honey. Perhaps it is about honey. Or perhaps it is about peach juice. Or thawing ice cream. It could be about meat sauce, or perhaps about gravy. Or it could be about something else. Most likely, it is about all of the things. It is about hedonism and abandonment to appetite. We don't need to sit down for this one, its quick and easy, at the sink, on the grass, wherever suits, but it will leave us sticky.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Poets
The Offering. Top Story - September 2023.
There appears, of late, to have been a bloom. A bright, beautiful blossoming of community challenges that taste like honey on my tongue and spark lightening flashes of curiosity in my mind. This is my submission for Matthew Fromm's High Fantasy Challenge.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Claddu yn fyw
I wrote this for Mother Combs' campfire challenge - but in a style typical of me, I cottoned on after the moment had passed, and only realised when I went to check the boundaries of the challenge. So I let myself have a few more words, and finished it anyway.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
A Drop in the Ocean
The tight walled labyrinth of brick terraces had loosened to stretches of bay windowed semis in magnolia, beige and cream, flashes of green glimpsed down side alleys, creeping into front gardens, and eventually garnishing horseshoe drives before taking over entirely, fading from the vivid hues of tended lawn to the dryly yellowing pallor of ripening wheat as the flat fields opened out on either side of the road. Lydia knew she was late without needing to glance at the clock on the car’s dashboard, but she did, as if casting time a stern look might stem its advance, allow her to catch up, feel less at its mercy. It was the same look she used when the children threatened to unravel her, and it didn’t work then, either. The morning had been a difficult one, and on her knotted shoulder, the blue cotton of her dress was still dark with Jack’s tears. Maybe his snot too. “It is what it is, I’m doing the best that I can”, she thought, and tuned the radio in search of some music she could sing too, re-set her mind.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Chapters
Turn away please, while I get naked.. Top Story - September 2023.
I’m low on juice this week, at a low ebb. Down in the dumps. A little overwhelmed by life and a little sad. I want to thank a few of my fellow creators (shall I name them? They know) for picking up on this oh so subtle blue tint that has appeared in my writing and checking I am ok. It was nice to be asked. And nice to feel that there is community here. Imperfect, variegated, but present. Unlike me. I have not been terribly present, and I forgive myself for that. Is there some way of filing for later stories I want to read but haven’t had capacity for? They’re landing like micro plastics in the ocean this week and I have the bandwidth of a maternity nurse 9 months after the war began.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Confessions
The Hair Cut
On the eve of starting high school, today, my 11 year old daughter has had a hair cut for the first time. Naturally, I am dealing with feelings by hiding in the garden where she cant see me cry and writing a poem to share with strangers, rather than let her see those nicks in the thinning umbilical chord the scissors made.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Poets
He's (probably) not the Messiah...
So here we come to the pivot, the point of before and after, the moment the world changed. Like Jesus before him, the arrival of my son marked a sea change of such significance that the ripples will be felt 2000 years later. Well, maybe that last bit is an overstatement. Maybe not. Its too soon to say. But a lot changed for me. And, unexpectedly, a lot did not change.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Chapters
