Hannah Moore
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Achievements (33)
Stories (273)
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A Woman of Independent Means
Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 15th August, 1882, in which you declined my application for the position of saleswoman. I confess to feeling most disappointed at your response, as I have long held your establishment in the highest regard, and indeed have made several purchases with which I have been very pleased. I am aware that many of your girls arrive at your doors with little experience but with recommendations from gentlemen known to them, and that I carry no such recommendation with me, and it is this that has prompted me to write again in the hope that you might allow me to recommend myself.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in History
There's nothing to it
The thing that screwed us over, was Madonna. We was keeping a look out on the bench, Bill and Ben, the Flower Pot men, were doing their whole dodgy shoplifter routine, our job was to let Weed know when security were on their way so she could meet them. No one searches a posh looking white woman when two black men are behaving suspicious in the shop. Weed really is posh, but she got kicked out of boarding school for selling weed to the headmaster’s son and things went downhill from there. But she’s still got that authority, you know? Comes marching out the shop looking like she owns the place, “happens” to bump into security two doors down and reports the dicey looking “coloured chaps” in the shop. Throws in a little racism, somehow seems to convince them she’s not the sort to take what’s not hers. Bill and Ben, of course, got nothing on them. No previous either. Totally clean, lucky bastards. Anyway. Madonna came on the playlist, and me and Cal was voguing and so we forgot to give the signal. I mean, if you want to use kids to carry your shit, what do you expect?
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
God's work
God and I work hand in hand in the garden. I pile the leaves he rots to soil, I sow the seeds he blesses with life. I add the water, he the sun, and we wait together. While we wait, we turn to the dying. He lets me know who is ready to go, and I give things a little push. He slows things down, I speed it up. When the flowers bloom, we rejoice. Afterwards, I collect the seeds, and add the bodies to the compost heap he blesses with decay. In the winter, we stay busy, waiting.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
The Damsel
The princess didn't need rescuing, but the knight rescued her anyway. Her father wept as she entered the throne room, and her mother, overcome, swooned and was hastened to her chamber. The knight was smitten, and expected her hand. He pined for his love from the dark of the dungeon. For her part, she thought no more of him, as she plotted first her father’s poisoning, then the burning of the villages in neighbouring lands, and parties where she roasted deserters on the spit and served them to their regiments. The knight went on loving her in darkness.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
Grounding: five senses
I wrote this in answer to the Sensational challenge...but transatlantic timekeeping and life lead to a missed deadline. Never the less, I brought it here anyway, rough edged and open to critique. I based this on the five senses grounding exercise.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Poets
Cabin Pressure. Top Story - April 2023.
I could be a hero every day. Save the day, every day. Or most days. Many days. No one knows. Can you imagine? I am single. I have had relationships. Short relationships, which are initially fun and, later, leave me feeling worthless. I live alone. And I rarely see people, these days. But I have a mother, and a brother and cousin who was raised in my back yard. And even though my mother thinks I don’t try hard enough, and my brother thinks I’m lazy, and my cousin would rather watch TV alone that sit at the table and eat a family dinner, I love them, and they love me, and so four times a year, I fly across the country to see them. So here I am. Seat 17A, allocated at check in, hand luggage only.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
