Hannah Moore
Bio
Achievements (8)
Stories (182/0)
- Top Story - May 2024
$#*£ ResilienceTop Story - May 2024
I was going to relax this evening. Tune out, hunker down, look after myself. I need it. I am exhausted. Thoroughly used up. And it's only Wednesday. Not even half way through the week. A week that in the UK, is Mental Health Awareness week. I don't know who decides these things, who gets to co-opt a day, a week, a month, and declare it a thing about a thing. But I do know a lot about mental health. I know a lot about mental health AND I know a lot about working for the UK's National Health Service. And so it was with interest that I clicked play on the below video, earlier today. By the time I finished, I was in tears.
By Hannah Mooreabout 19 hours ago in Psyche
Gay your life must be
“My Dad’s got itchy feet” I would say. I don’t know where I first heard this phrase, but I parroted it often as a child, a vague but sufficient explanation for the fragmented answers I offered to “where did you….” questions. The assumption was that we were a military family. When I went to Sixth Form College and completed the full two years without moving, I set a personal record for time spent at any one educational institution. But we were not a military family. We were a family governed by a restless soul, for better and worse, and now, well into my adulthood, I am the restless governor of a home loving family.
By Hannah Moore4 days ago in Wander
Man or Bear?
Until a couple of days ago, this had passed me by. Most things do, I am pretty slow on the uptake. I was only able to wear my shell suit once at the beginning of 1992 before, having only just put it on, being late to discard it too. "I dont get it", I said, showing my partner a meme I had seen more than once in which a flame haired maiden took tea with a bear.
By Hannah Moore7 days ago in Confessions
The Beamish Boy
The day dawned chill and pale, muted by the whispering mists that rose from the swampy woods lapping the hillsides, a foreboding sea of green and soupy grey. Down there, between the warped trunks and mossy loam, the fug was thronged with the slimed bodies of creatures that thrive in the murk, the plashes and scurries and screeches of their morning japing sending eddies of animation into the haze, loosening its grip on their world. Further into the forest, where swamp segued to bog, and tussocked fingers of dry land became stretches of solid ground, droplets of sunlight sequined the vapour, shimmying between the trees and into small clearings, a suggestion of something charmed that belied the doleful lamentations emanating from those darker, denser columns of fog moving in still air on the edges of the quagmire.
By Hannah Moore11 days ago in Fiction
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 Moore12 days ago in Fiction
the touch
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 Moore15 days 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 Moore16 days 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 Moore16 days ago in Writers