Hannah Moore
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Achievements (37)
Stories (280)
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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 Moore3 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 Moore3 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 Moore3 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 Moore3 years ago in Chapters
Not gonna cry
I ain't no crybaby. Except when it comes to elephants. There is some kind of pathos with elephants which means I cry easily where elephants are involved. And my son recently suggested a put down a book which featured on its cover both the word "goodbye" and an image of a dog. He is wise.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Critique
The Catskills Sleeper
Once upon a time, Rip had been a happy man. Or so it had seemed to others as he strolled around the village. An unburdened soul, ready with a helping hand, and always there to while away an afternoon over beer and laughter and talk of summers past. The children on the village green would throng about him and beg him to invent new games, which he did. Women at their washing would peer from behind a billowing sheet and ask him to pass them another from the basket, which he did, and men in the tavern would raise a glass and ask him to sit, which he did. However all was not what it seemed on the surface, for Rip hid his heart well.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
The Writing Circle. Top Story - August 2023.
It seems we are called, of late, to self-reflection. The Vocal challenges on offer at present have created, for me, a kind of momentum. A natural progression perhaps, from reflecting on the work of others, through the impact of others’ work on our own lives, into consideration of what drives us to create our own work, and how that evolves. We each have our own reasons for being here, sharing pieces of ourselves. And I think mine become clear as I reflect on my writing journey.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Writers
Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things.
There are books in my library, such that it is, which have held within them excitement, knowledge, curiosity and anguish. There are books between whose covers I have found yearning, disgust, loyalty and contempt. There are many which have brought pleasure, a few with the strange gift of boredom, and some, just a handful, which have changed my life. Not in the way that all things do, each new experience making minor adjustments, but in the way that shows, decades later, in the makeup of my world. The first of these are lost to me. I am told I was besotted with a particular ABC, and the illustrations of Shirley Hughes continued throughout my own children’s early years, to resemble my idealised family life to a suspicious degree. The Maggie B, by Irene Haas may well underscore my concept of cosy, and I dare say the smallfolk I nearly glimpse beneath the trees in dappled sunlight have been seen first on a page, from the haven of my mother’s lap. One, likely some, of these early books has changed my life, turning me into a reader and lover of stories before I can remember otherwise. But I want to talk here about the first clear memory, the lucid revelation, of the world I build my life in.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in BookClub
