Hannah Moore
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Achievements (31)
Stories (267)
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One hundred years of solitude
Inside the cover of this book, a family tree should have bid me beware, but this “greatest novel” carried such accolades that I embarked heedlessly, since when I have been continuously confused by a dense meandering text- punctuated, yes, by paragraphs of brilliance- in which everyone carries the same name.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Critique
How the Mermaid got her Tale
At the back of beyond, and a little bit farther, in a time further back than memory, but nearer than lost, a woman with golden hair and a voice like a heart’s sigh lived in a small stone house, on a tussocked slope, just beyond reach of the storm spray which swept in from the sea on the worst winter’s night. The woman was married – is married – to a man who loved her in the calm, certain way in which she loved him, and they built the house together, when they recognised that they needed nothing more from the world beyond the bay in which it nestled. Each evening, the woman sat on a stool and brushed her hair with one hundred strokes, while the man checked his nets with salt toughened hands, inspecting the strings through eyes like the sea. When they had finished, they would lay down together in the bed, and entwine themselves, as tenderly and as inexorably as the roots of twinned trees.
By Hannah Moore2 years ago in Fiction
A Woman of Independent Means
Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 15th August, 1882, in which you declined my application for the position of saleswoman. I confess to feeling most disappointed at your response, as I have long held your establishment in the highest regard, and indeed have made several purchases with which I have been very pleased. I am aware that many of your girls arrive at your doors with little experience but with recommendations from gentlemen known to them, and that I carry no such recommendation with me, and it is this that has prompted me to write again in the hope that you might allow me to recommend myself.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in History
There's nothing to it
The thing that screwed us over, was Madonna. We was keeping a look out on the bench, Bill and Ben, the Flower Pot men, were doing their whole dodgy shoplifter routine, our job was to let Weed know when security were on their way so she could meet them. No one searches a posh looking white woman when two black men are behaving suspicious in the shop. Weed really is posh, but she got kicked out of boarding school for selling weed to the headmaster’s son and things went downhill from there. But she’s still got that authority, you know? Comes marching out the shop looking like she owns the place, “happens” to bump into security two doors down and reports the dicey looking “coloured chaps” in the shop. Throws in a little racism, somehow seems to convince them she’s not the sort to take what’s not hers. Bill and Ben, of course, got nothing on them. No previous either. Totally clean, lucky bastards. Anyway. Madonna came on the playlist, and me and Cal was voguing and so we forgot to give the signal. I mean, if you want to use kids to carry your shit, what do you expect?
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
