Hannah Moore
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Stories (282)
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Strutting
Ace, amazing, awesome. I am the dog’s bollocks. There’s nothing wrong in admitting what’s true. Confidence is sexy anyway. Not that I need help in that department. Look at me. Ha! You can’t NOT, can you? Look at me look at me look at me! You want a little side action? A little shimmy? Wait, check this out. Watching? I said are you watching? Oh yes. Did you see? I can do it again, watch. Yeah, it’s like I vibrate everything. I mean everything. You like that? You want to find out? Where are you going? Where are you…..
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
the touch. Runner-Up in Just a Minute Challenge.
I dropped my trousers, underwear too, and plonked my bottom over the loo. Sighing like it was the first sit down since breakfast, I propped my elbows on my knees and lifted my phone to my face. It was not the first sit down since breakfast. In fact, since breakfast, I had done little more than sit down, but there is something arduous about sitting for work purposes, and I had been working for well over three quarters of an hour.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Sixty Seconds
Matthew lay very, very still, and thought of his mother. He had anticipated being more out of it than this, less painfully aware. He had imagined some liminal space in which he would transcend the strictures which had both paralysed and lubricated his life to date. He had expected to mind less. Now he closed his eyes and tried not to focus on how he could feel every single thing. Instead, he thought of his mother, of the day she had yelled at him for treading water across the hall after he had run naked from the shower to fetch a forgotten towel. She hadn’t seemed to notice his nakedness, or his wet, goose pimpled skin, but she had noticed the watery footprints alright. Why that memory, of all the memories?
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Well that was a piece of crap.
Recently, I wrote a bad story. No, stop, there is no denying it, this piece was not up to snuff. And between you, me, and anyone who cares to look, it is not an isolated occurrence, either. Some of my worst stories are mercifully long. I say mercifully, because engagement with longer stories is always lower, thus saving possibly up to one or two collective man hours which might otherwise have been squandered on, just off the top of my head, a vague and clunky reimagining of Rip Van Winkle.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Writers
I'll get the next round.
Sometimes in life, things happen which are staggeringly undramatic. So numbingly mundane that it becomes hard to describe them without undue fanfare. Words like “absent” or “attend” seem a little too ornate, and phrases like “had to” or “did not” pack too much punch for the occasion. And so it is hard to begin this little indulgence in a sufficiently understated way. “I have done it again” I started, before Plath echoed down the decades and into my delete key. One year in every ten. Too dire by far. “Oops, I did it again”. Too snake wearingly flash. “I wasn’t here?” Not too hot, not too cold. Just right?
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Writers
Discriminate
Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Poets
