Hannah Moore
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Stories (271)
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Shameless?
I have criticisms. You'll note the pleural. At the end of August, I joined a local writers group on a trial basis. A "dark fiction" group. I'm not fussy. I'd have given it a whirl if it was romantic fiction, fantasy fiction, historical fiction, erotic fiction, young adult fiction, any kind of fiction. Actually maybe not science fiction. I think I would find myself distressingly bogged down in the research and become frustrated by my failure to invent, for the purpose of a small scene in the opening sequence of my story, a plausible mechanism for teleportation. But this was a "dark fiction" group. I had to write a kind of audition piece and everything. I wasn't really sure where the bounds of dark fiction lie, so I tried to go dark, but nor was I really sure where the bounds of dark fiction lie, so I tried not to go too dark. I'm still not really sure where the bounds of dark fiction lie, but I worry less.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Writers
End of year report card: 2024
End of Year Report: 2024. 2024 had a positive start to the year and showed promise across several domains, with good behaviour and respectable results. Unfortunately, 2024 has struggled to maintain the performance we might expect based on early metrics, and will need to work hard to recover a strong position going into 2025. It is possible that 2024 took on too much and may benefit from concentrating on areas of weakness. In particular, 2024 would do well to pay attention to reducing loss and grief which can be distracting, and improving on physical health, which may in turn improve performance in mental health. Though it must be acknowledged that there have been barriers to 2024 thriving as fully as had been hoped, it would be lovely to see 2024 continue to step outside of restrictive comfort zones as far as possible as we move into 2025.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Motivation
Solid Walls
In the movies, December in England is beautiful. The sharp edges of dry stone walls built by men as hard as the stones that made them and tended by sons and grandsons and great grandsons as precisely fitted to the niches of generational inheritance as those same stones, are softened by gently undulating mounds of clean, fresh snow, smoothing over the fissures, an absolution in white. Cottages as lived in as the most comfortable jumper in your wardrobe chuff smoke from chimneys that might, once upon a time, have hidden a priest or two from discovery, and even in the cities, sky-strung fairy lights dance with falling flakes of wistful wonder, sprinkling the wool coat clad pedestrians as they make their way in pairs and laughing groups down streets peopled just heavily enough to saturate the cobbles with cheer, but never so much as to impede any who might wish to spin spontaneously in circles, scarf flying and snowflakes falling into a mouth opened to wonder at the bounty of love. In the movies, December in England tastes like warm cinnamoned pastry and cream, and the English perform a ritualistic battle with their cynicism, which they will win, of course, to suspend their disbelief for a few precious days as the light creeps imperceptibly back into the mid-afternoon sky, and for that interval in time, they will experience the transcendence of peace on earth and good will to all mankind. Even the French. Maybe not the French. It’s never featured in the movies.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Families
The Singed Crown
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. That was how they came to find her so soon. The shepherdess had been incomprehensible, reverting to the old tongue in her distress, but there are languages beyond words, and Captain Silbourn had seen the fear in her eyes and followed her himself, delegating command of the main search to Tribian, and taking the Guard’s three best men with him. Now they stood on the bank of the little river, the shepherdess praying, he supposed, and the four men stood in metal plated uncertainty, swords hanging impotently along their thighs.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
Yes, YOU. Top Story - November 2024.
Dear Vocal community, I missed an appointment today. ECG. They rang me, and they sounded properly pissed off. I don’t blame them, what a waste, with waiting lists as they are. It’s not like me, though, to miss an appointment. Not the kind of thing I do. It’s just, it’s all felt a bit much lately. The other day, I tried to unlock the front door with the car key – not the key itself, the fob, the little button to unlock the car doors. Pointed it at the house and pressed away with mounting frustration. Didn’t even try the door mind you. Perhaps it worked. I wouldn’t know, I didn’t complete the necessary steps to facilitate ingress. I feel a bit like my brain exploded and the pieces are all in there, but rolling around like spilt marbles. I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t lost any, really.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Humans
Hazed
We promise ourselves Above sallow sickly cloud Skies are ever blue.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Poets
Night Shift. Runner-up in Spooky Micro Challenge.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Tricky, when you’re five, and scared, and your bed is wet again. It had been better, when Nana was alive. Then an amber glow crept around the door, and Kamali had listened to TV laughter and known that when she woke, her mum would be in the kitchen, fixing breakfast for Kamali, dinner for herself. Now it was always dark and cold and strange.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Horror
