Hannah Moore
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Achievements (33)
Stories (273)
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My Superhero Origin Story By Hannah Moore. Top Story - August 2024.
This is a true story. What? Nobody said it had to be fiction. I’m a pretty ordinary person. An all-rounder, my teachers said. Shows potential. Well the thing about potential is it’s only possibility, and the thing about all-rounders is they excel at nothing. Don’t get me wrong, it makes life pretty…. adequate. I’m rarely terrified of losing my job, for example, because I believe I can secure another one before we starve, even if it wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s never my first choice.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
Early in the Morning
Nana scrunched her nose as she entered the “head”, and wondered at what point one should speak to a doctor about one’s bottom smells. She opened the porthole and reversed out of the room, faith in her bladder’s capacity to hold on a little longer re-invigorated. Crossing the cabin, she busied herself with the washing up, seeing as no one else was going to do it, humming the only sea shanty she knew, and pondering what “scuppers” might be and whether this boat had them. She could certainly think of a drunken sailor she would happily put there.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
Unprecedented
They say I am cresting the wave now. Maybe I am. You can’t tell until you’ve crested, I suppose, until you are firmly, assuredly, plummeting down the other side. From there, it’s a rolling push to the beach and dry land, cocktails at sunset and all that.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
Every Day, in Every Way
Cadence stood at the prow of the boat, her feet anchored to the planked deck, pink toenails framed by the strap of her sandals, and the hem of her white linen skirt plastered to her ankles, her outfit sailesque in both its brilliance and its billowing in the wind. About her head, her hair twisted and snapped in exuberant tendrils, her sunhat long since consigned to the galley where she had queasily passed platters of prepared sandwiches, cut to resemble wheaten clams, up the short laddered steps half an hour earlier. Now, with a passing attempt to remain coquettish whilst also keeping her footing, she took up her command, raising her voice to battle the wind.
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
All Our Yesterdays. Runner-up in L*pogram Challenge. Top Story - August 2024.
Count them out, the absent, the departed. Hear the smooth sound waves where once laughter laced the undulate larynxes of lovers, where gentle tones of care were heard before. Count them out. The numbers mount to those we do not comprehend, cannot comprehend, hope not to comprehend. We hope we understand a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand, as poorly as we understand the past. Count them out. The men and women who do not return, lost to a hunger for power, a struggle for a concept, a need for resource. Count them out, for they no longer take up the scythe, the spanner or the pen. They no longer take a seat at your table, hold your sadness or your joy between the muscles of fleshed arms, no longer touch you, palm to palm, or guard your heart as you rest. No longer breathe beneath the heavens. Count them out.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
The Opus. Top Story - July 2024.
My fervent dream, for as long as breath has expanded my lungs, has been to be the creator of works of rapturous resonance. My early work, rendered by means of the effluence of felt crowned tubes of coloured dye, offered no assurance that the avenue best matched to my talent would be the ocular arts. Rather than the tears of pathos my youthful heart yearned to see, those who gave themselves over to subsume personal responses to the world and apply themselves wholly to understand my own commentary through the lens offered by my art, would often express tears of humour that could not be countenanced by my thus wounded ego for long. By the age of eleven my pens, brushes and paper, as well as my many drawn works, were put away and my parents, made only too aware of my angst at the loss of my route to my expected elevated status of “great maker of art”, placed me before the church organ. Here, an elderly man named Mr Manners sat such that the shoulders of our polyester jumpers rubbed together as we reached for the keys, week upon week, as my lack of natural rhythm became an untenable blockage to the perusal of aural excellence.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
