Hannah Moore
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Achievements (36)
Stories (277)
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The Fishbowl
I hover in pools of blue-green gloom, undulating light filtered through water, glass, vitreous humor thick with dreams of pure, clear, unimpeded sight, unimpeded knowledge, which way to turn, which A leads to what B, what C. How all paths lead to D, and then the terror of unimpeded knowledge, glimpsed in the glancing light, and the easy retreat, the siren call of the half-light again, in deep blues and greens, distorting edges and darker recesses. I hover. In the subaquatic gloaming I am cocooned, held, stasis-like by the endless lopping muffled soundtrack, an imagining of the composition an orchestra of squid might play for endless hours on the seabed to lull the passing whales to keep passing, and not look down. I am drowning. Air, or water, it does not matter, my blood is filled with oxygen, bright and red and capable of staining the blue a darker hue, but still, my brain is starving, my consciousness waning with every passing particle of time.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
The Fledgling
The clearing, ringed with spruce and birch and tussocked underfoot with coarse grasses, was tinged a murky yellow under the grey blanketing sky. A slow drizzle laced the air, the moisture neither falling nor rising, but coalescing on the little girl’s lashes, beading into bright gems around the darkness of each iris, one, deepest brown, the other unfathomable blue. She stood alone and quiet, in the centre of the clearing, the gaze of those wide, cloud-rimed eyes passing from shadow to shadow as she sought comprehension between the encircling trunks. She should have been cold, standing there, naked and wet in the cool air, but the water lay on her skin like it was obsidian, and the only movement in her small body were those probing eyes. She did not shiver or pimple, not from cold, and not from fear, as the gloom thickened above her and the wind whipped her black hair about her face. But in the valley, an ululation spread through the village setting cats and dogs alike to their crying, as the wise women watched the distant hillside and held their talismans tight to their breasts.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Fiction
Home
They say, when you walk into your home, you know. You can look at ten, twenty, thirty houses, and then, you pull up to one more, stand on another kerb, look up at another frontage, step through another front door…and recognise that you are home. It was like that the first time I saw you. The shelter had taken out a double page ad in the paper, it’s motley crew of furred friends-to-be arranged around the page, and you, meeting my eyes from the centrefold. I had been flicking through, taking a break, not looking for love, but there you were. I knew. I took the paper home, and I showed you to my mum. I knew that she knew too. I showed you to my dad.
By Hannah Moore3 years ago in Petlife
Passing Lights
The light was astonishing. He gasped, and screwed his eyes against the brilliance of it, the shock of it. He began to panic, flailing limply, crying out, desperately floundering, and failing, to take control of himself. A woman’s voice, bright and clear like colours under a mid day sun, but gentle, soothing, lulling…the train rocked and he drifted back into sleep.
By Hannah Moore4 years ago in Fiction
The circle
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Let’s cut to the chase here. Inside, there was a ghost. A spirit if you will. You know that already. The interesting thing here the what and the why. For this story, I want you to reach out and take my hand. You’re going to want to. I want you to. It’s dark beyond this circle of light. Here we are, like sitting ducks, bobbing in a little ring, while who knows what lurks in the depths beneath us. Which dark whorls are the swishing tail of something bigger and sleeker and faster than water? Which sudden cold creeping currents carry horrors and flailing limbs and gasping lungs and dwindling, dying, drowning light? The darkness behind your back is full of fear, don’t pretend it isn’t. The night is a time of dying and by morning the corpses are devoured. Just because you’re human doesn’t mean you won’t be taken. We are all just flesh and blood. Everyone serves a need here. That prickle in your spine is telling you something. The way your ears can hear so much more right now, that’s your brain, that raw, unevolved part of your brain, just trying to keep you safe. They always say listen to your gut. You know why? Because you know more than you want to, deep down. Keep facing inward, keep facing the light, don’t – no don’t – look behind, into the dark. Your body knows already what eyes might reflect the firelight from out there, in the dark. You’re gut feels already that you’re not so very safe. So let’s close the circle. Take my hand. Feel the press of our fingers against the bones and tendons and muscles of one another’s hands. Keep hold. Let’s go together.
By Hannah Moore4 years ago in Horror
A Tale of Two Speeches
I peer into the mirror, no trace of your face returning my searching look. There never was, and I know that won’t change now. Your legs, however, hold me up, your feet, your toes, your….actually you laid this floor, didn’t you? On your hand and knees, refusing to wear a mask, working late even when I grew fed up and impatient to stop the clatter and rest, knowing that tomorrow I wouldn’t thank you all that much, but that I would walk every day on this floor you laid and not even notice how thankful I should be. I look down. Black socked feet against the now tired laminate. There is a gap, where the door frame curves and the square cut edge does not meet its bending. It’s filled with a built up cloying grime I can’t seem to keep at bay.
By Hannah Moore4 years ago in Families
Just Right
My favourite summer food is chocolate. This is because my favourite food is chocolate. In the winter time, chocolate is warm hued riches, a gratifyingly fatty sparkle of the exotic, a hug tinged with eroticism even as it holds you safe like a loving parent. In the summer, chocolate is….the same. But also, a little sickly and prone to melting. Like me, chocolate was not made for hot climates, and I, alas, was not made for chocolate, every dose plunging me into hours of lying still in darkened rooms, my head splintering in ultra slow motion. This is not an optimal way to enjoy the bounty of summer, and so let me turn my attention to other foods, if not rivals, then other runners, worthy of note.
By Hannah Moore4 years ago in Feast
