hannah beckingham
Bio
A nurse, sister, daughter, auntie, sober alcoholic, recovering debtor, nomad-at-heart, preacher's kid, over-thinker, dog-lover, new-to-my-40s queer cis-woman, teacher, reader, writer and netflix-binger sharing some thoughts along the way.
Stories (6/0)
refuge: a thank you
The city lights, blurred by rain pounding the windscreen, mock my pounding head. Flashing reds and blues, greens and ambers, piercing whites, and a garish spectrum of neon signs create a crashing symphony of pain behind my eyes. Perhaps it was the heady perfume that filled the train carriage on my commute home, but it could well have been the storm itself that started it. Like some kind of torturous oracle, a migraine always portends heavy weather.
By hannah beckingham2 years ago in Poets
stowaway: a petrarchan sonnet
the whirr of the propeller on the nose of my fugitive flight to the mainland shook even my hand, waving to that island. my body: weightless as the plane that rose over the town, and the sea, and the girl, then into the brightness, high over the plains. and my eyes: wide, and full as my thumping veins. and my vow: to return, though not knowing when.
By hannah beckingham2 years ago in Poets
apples and oranges
You really have no idea how you’re going to react until it actually happens to you. I mean, you can think about it as much as you like. You can stay up nights, chain-smoking and drinking strong-as-fuck tea, and think it over and over and freak out on the inside and even cry a little until you are thoroughly convinced that you know exactly how you would feel if it happened to you, because you have “basically just put yourself there,” but I’m telling you now, all of that will not give you a fucking clue.
By hannah beckingham2 years ago in Longevity
