Hannah Moore
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Stories (267)
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The Contents Page. Top Story - November 2023.
Inspired by those who have gone before me (and helped a little, on the technical front!), I have created a contents page for my work on vocal, thus enabling the thousands who flock to my profile daily (or you six or seven, thank you so much for keeping my chin up!) to gain easy access to both the gems and the wormy potatoes. Some of these pieces look like somewhat peculiar choices without the context of the challenge they were written for (why the fuck has a box shown up on the doorstep? What's with the random chapter that goes nowhere? And where do these ideas for Haiku come from?) I have learnt a lesson there and more recently started using subtitles to remind me if I was writing the piece to a particular challenge.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Writers
Autoalgia
Shona had hoped, when she stepped onto the now cool sand, backed by blackness and the shushing waves, to walk off the indigestion laying across her belly like an over zealous bra. It had been a good meal, but too oily and too late and though she longed for sleep, she knew she would not be laying down anytime soon. Not least because that hotel bed was making her back twinge and her sciatica flare.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Paracusia
This story is part of the Vocal + Assist on Facebook Unreliable Narrator Challenge. You can learn more about it here: I think there is a killer in my building. I never go out alone, anymore. Not with everything that’s happening. With all that’s happening, my fear is high all the way out and all the way home, but the chatter keeps up and keeps me going.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Roulette. Top Story - October 2023.
This is for Paul Stewart's Unnerve, Unsettle, and Scare Me Challenge, linked here: I was still a little drunk when I got off the bus, full of bottled confidence, bolstered by camaraderie. It had been a good night. We’d talked and laughed, danced a little, and sat shoulder to shoulder in the humid fug of the club, knowing ourselves to be radiant and ripe with power. I had promised I would get a taxi, but I knew I was going to walk. I wanted to walk, to feel the night and the strength in my legs. Plus, it was ridiculous to get a taxi for less than a mile. That dick on the bus wasn’t going to push me around, sitting there, staring at me. Touching himself under his coat I think. Fuck him. I should be able to walk where I want to walk. Shouldn’t have to be afraid.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
Marrakesh
It was my third visit to Marrakesh, and I was not unfamiliar with the city, despite the quarter century which separated the first from the last of those visits. That’s the thing about ancient cities – they don’t change all that quickly, not in the parts that pull the tourists in, anyway. My first visit was part of a larger backpacking journey through Morocco. This was back when my back was strong of course. My best friend and I, at the dawn of our twenties, travelled the country by bus and train, carrying our worlds on our backs and relishing the soreness of our shoulders and the fatigue in our legs. I ate so much amazing food on that trip. My favourite, still my favourite, was a piping hot vegetable tagine, the oil still bubbling in the clay dish and the vegetables, alive with aromatic spices, as tender as a perfect pear. Or perhaps the fresh mint tea, served from high above the gold trimmed glasses in a steaming gurgle of water, the insane sweetness of the sugar lacing the improbable coolness of the mint. I have recreated this at home with several varieties of mint grown in pots in my garden, but in the same way that Mediterranean light lends everything a clarity more northern latitudes cannot emulate, the tea I brew at home falls flat in comparison.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Feast
