Welcome to Issue 5 of The Hoolet's Nook!

If you've just discovered THN, we're so glad you found us. And to those who have been with us along the way, thank you.

As we approach our second anniversary, we're reminded that none of this would be possible without your generosity, trust, and support. It means more than words can say.

Looking ahead, our commitment is simple: to keep sharing subtle, resonant microfiction and poetry. We hope you enjoy this latest issue. Happy reading!

Namaste,
​
G.R. LeBlanc
Founder & Managing Editor

If you’d like to be part of an upcoming issue, our current reading round is open until October 15. Guidelines are available here. 

​STORIES UP TO 110 WORDS

SOLIPSISM, by Chris Cochran
SLEEPOVER, by Lori Cramer
CRUISE SHIP BAR, by Michael C. Roberts
WHENEVER I FELT TUMMY-SICK ABOUT MONDAY MENTAL MATHS, by Chris Cottom
STILL LIFE OF WHITE TULIPS WITH HEARTBREAK CARD, by Karen Walker
TO MY RIVER-DAUGHTER, WITH ALL MY LOVE, MOTHER EARTH,
​by Clodagh O Connor

BUTTERFLY SCAR, by Elliott Fielding
DEAD MAN'S FLOAT, by Beth Sherman
SON, by Hallie Oakwood
THE SITCOM, by Kelleigh Cram
TENACITY OF WEEDS, by Kathryn Kulpa

A CANZONA FOR TIGERS, by Bonnie Demerjian
ALWAYS THREE DOTS, by Sarah Senft
THE POND IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, by John Grey
I WANT TO BE A DANCER, by Alyson Hagedorn
BECAUSE OF THE RED HOODIE, Leonard St-Aubin
EVERYONE WRITES ABOUT THE CICADAS, by Zoë Davis
CHILD'S EYES, by Eli Noel
UNFASTENING, by Leah Mueller
ONE BREATH POETRY #3, haiku and micropoetry by various poets

by Chris Cochran

An old man precariously balancing a six-foot ladder above his head walks the middle of the bike path ahead. “On your left,” I call. He turns, swinging the ladder in my direction. I brake hard and swerve into the wet grass. My road tire slips sideways. I overcorrect and topple.
 
The old man, unbothered, continues walking down the path, ladder high above his head. He never sees me or, more likely, doesn’t care. I lift my bike and change directions, promising myself that when I’m older, I’ll leave room for others to pass.

* * *

CHRIS COCHRAN is a high school English teacher whose stories keep getting shorter. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.

by Lori Cramer

Wide awake well into the night, the two tweens, side by side in glittery purple sleeping bags, giggle and gab about the careers they’ll pursue (choreography for one, cosmetology for the other), the guys they’ll date (rock stars and baseball players), and—most important—the friendship that will last forever.

* * *

LORI CRAMER’s prose has appeared in Fictive Dream, Flash Boulevard, Splonk, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction and Best of the Net.
Website: https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com.
X: @LCramer29. Bluesky: @loricramerwriter.bsky.social.

by Michael C. Roberts

Diligent drinkers at the cruise ship lounge, elbows cocked at right angles on the bar, butts conquering the stool with legs locked to the crossbar. With the bartender as their friend for the evening, the cruisers dedicate themselves to the gods of distilled spirits. They order double bourbons on the rocks, saying it saved their sanity through the pandemic and will save them during this turmoil. I didn’t ask if they meant the rocking and rolling of the ship or the chaotic world they’d temporarily left behind.

* * *

MICHAEL C. ROBERTS tries to capture the essence of the world through photography and writing. 

by Chris Cottom

or robbers stealing my rabbit, Mr Nibble, to sell him for vivisection, Mum would spray me with Worry Remover. She’d mix it herself with the squeeze of a lemon and ‘a teaspoon of love’, always kept a bottle handy. She sprayed Dad when he went for promotion as Deputy Foreman, sprayed herself before every appointment up at the General. At the end, I fetched her the bottle, misted her with magic when the nurses weren’t looking. I said I was proof that it worked, because I’d long stopped worrying about Mr Nibble.

* * *

CHRIS COTTOM is a recovering insurance copywriter with recent work in Banshee, Barrelhouse, Fictive Dream, matchbook, New Flash Fiction Review, New World Writing Quarterly, Orange Blossom Review, and The Broadkill Review. Catch him pedalling around Cheshire, UK, and at chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom.

by Karen Walker

The art gallery has rejected it.    
Feel was pacing, and I was napping when the thanks-snicker-but-no-thanks call finally came.
On the way to pick up our painting, Feel wants to talk.
I don't.  
Feel sniffles.
Of course there's no tissue left in the car. Of course Feel used the entire box on the way home after I broke up with John.
Our painting is of his flowers and his card. Says, "Love you. Please don't leave."  
Feel says it hurts.
"Am sure it does," I reply.
The gallery is on the third floor. I climb the stairs alone. Feel stays in the car. 

* * *

KAREN WALKER writes and draws and paints in Ontario, Canada. Her recent work is in or forthcoming in Does It Have Pockets, SoFloPoJo, Weird Lit, Hotch Potch, and Literary Garage. 

by Elliott Fielding

I was lying on the farmhouse kitchen floor surrounded by a family reunion’s worth of worried grownups. There was blood from a slice like an eye had opened in the middle of my calf, revealing something pink and streaked. 

“I think we should drive to town for stitches,” one aunt said. 

“It’s not that deep, a butterfly bandage would be enough,” my grandma countered.     
                                                                                                             
My leg was the center of everyone’s attention, but instead of embarrassed, I felt proud. I had after all been with the cool aunt, climbing a ladder—a metal one, sharp at the edges—to look at a black racer snake draped over the barn rafters. After the ladder tipped, I’d hobbled into the house with blood running down my leg, but no tears. 

My mom knelt down next to me. “Do you want stitches?” she asked. “You might have a scar, otherwise.” 

They were asking? I was old enough to be given a choice? The word “stitches” made my stomach contract and my scalp tingle. I was too surprised to speak so I answered with a shake of my head: no stitches. The bandages were found and Grandma pulled the eye closed, butterfly by butterfly, into a red-line squint. 
​
On the last day of the reunion, we all drove to the lake to swim. I was forbidden from the water until I pleaded “look, it’s all closed up” and Mom, to my surprise, let me go in. The August-warm water softened the scab and the eye popped open. I didn’t say anything, though; I knew if I did, I’d be stuck sitting on the hot, thorny sand watching my cousins play chicken fight. I didn’t care about any scar and they had asked, after all. It was my leg, my choice—my favorite scar.

* * *

ELLIOTT FIELDING is a Coloradoan who writes for the love of words and the challenge of creating stories from experience and imagination. Xyr short narratives have appeared or are forthcoming in ScribesMICRO, MoonPark Review, Examined Life, and Five Minutes. 

by Clodagh O Connor

How alive you were, born from me as clear water, burbling over small pebbles, curving around granite rocks, rushing down mountain slopes.

How you ignored my warnings, leapt down rock faces, not looking ahead until you found yourself trapped in man-made places.

How you were forced into channels, told what was expected of you, pushed underground.

How you were sullied by the foulness of that life, but you pushed on, found your strength, burst forth.

How you deepened and grew powerful, stopping for nothing until you embraced the wide, wild, open ocean.
​
* * *

CLODAGH O CONNOR lives in Dublin, Ireland, and is working on becoming a writer. She particularly enjoys the challenges of tiny fiction. She can be found on Bluesky at @iamagnat.bsky.social.​

by Beth Sherman

My father never wanted me to swim in case I drowned. At the beach, he hovered as I constructed elaborate sandcastles erased by the tide. The ocean glittered, snarling like a beast stalking its prey. Once, I tried a back float in the community pool, his hands cupping my body, lifting me clean out of the chlorine so I floated on air. Let go, I wanted to tell him, imagining the plunge to the bottom, cradled in blue. But I saw fear in his eyes and couldn’t even master the dog paddle. At sleep away camp, the counselors tried to teach me, following the usual progression—blow bubbles, turn head, windmill arms, flutter kick, let go of the edge. By then, I dreaded swimming as my father surely intended, hated that drowning sensation when water surged up my nose, the frantic struggle to breathe.

Decades later, dying of leukemia, he showed me a faded photo of his younger self with a woman who wasn’t my mother and a daughter who wasn’t me. Instantly I knew. That girl, a child with solemn eyes and postcard-perfect curls, had swum out too far one day, in a lake somewhere in Wisconsin where my father once lived. I pictured her drifting like a lost mermaid, fish wriggling through the sockets of her eyes. No, my father said, as I held a cup of ice chips to his lips. Car accident. He was driving. One careless moment: fumbling with the radio, taking his eyes off the road. A lifetime of regrets. Be safe, he whispered, although I think we both knew that was as likely as me gliding through rough waters, swimming straight and true.

* * *

BETH SHERMAN is the author of HOW TO GET THERE FROM HERE (Ad Hoc Fiction). She has had more than 250 stories published in literary journals and has also written five mystery novels. 

by Hallie Oakwood

Kim met him in a dark alleyway — his choice. She’d brought their family labrador, Figgy, tail thumping against his ripped jeans. Amidst rain spits, she took out a dog-eared brochure of carpentry training courses she’d been researching, ink smudging in the downpour. 

“Just something I saw by chance,” she said. He flicked pages without looking. In her other pocket, her fingers touched the smooth surface of the wooden jewellery box he’d made while at school. “Remember?” she handed it to him, keeping her voice steady. “Your teacher said you were talented, best in class. You could come home while you study.” He held the box on his palm, ran his chewed, grubby nails along the sanded edges, his eyes far away. Then he gave it back. 

“I made it for you Mom.” Under black clouds, they huddled in the doorway of a derelict restaurant, windows boarded. “Do you have it?” he said. 

Pavements were covered in pill bugs; rain had brought them out of hiding. They lurked in search of shelter and food. 

Figgy whimpered. From the depths of her pocket, Kim took out his faded passport.  He squatted and gently stroked Figgy’s damp fur before pulling Kim in for a hug. She held her arms tight around his torso that was reeking of damp and sweat. Then he took the passport and slipped back into shadows. 

* * *

HALLIE OAKWOOD is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ink Sweat & Tears, Micromance Magazine, 101 Words, Flash Phantoms, The Wise Owl and others.  

by Kelleigh Cram

Click.

Multi-colored light fills the room, waking me. This is the part when I get up, go about my day, facing trials and tribulations of the lighthearted variety for the amusement of strangers. It always starts the same, that music, upbeat with a moralistic tone. I can’t remember what happened between this moment and reading my name on the closing credits, but the dread of it clings to me, a reminder that none of this is real. I open the door as the song ends, delivering a perfectly timed one-liner. 

Pause.

My hand stops mid-air, reaching for the mug. During pause I am incapacitated yet fully aware, the closest my conscious mind gets to the in-between. The moment stretches on, locking me in place while pulling me apart like one of those medieval torture devices. Unable to move I am forced to remember the darkness, the nothing, the act of non-existence that is my life without an audience. 

Rewind.

A force yanks me backwards until the door closes in front of me. Once again I step out of my bedroom, delivering the punch line to an awaiting laugh track. I don’t know how they stand it, feigned amusement, just as happy hearing the joke for the thousandth time as the first. 

Mute.

I pour the coffee, no splash as the liquid hits ceramic. The cup steams in silence.

Unmute. 

I slurp, hot liquid searing my insides as the pain crawls up my ribcage. I cry out, but only half a scream.

Click.

* * *

KELLEIGH CRAM resides in a small town near Savannah Georgia. Her work has been featured in Bright Flash Literary Review, Bacopa Literary Review, and Right Hand Pointing.

by Kathryn Kulpa

Have you ever noticed the grass that grows in the cracks on the highway? Maybe it’s on the soft shoulder, the breakdown lane, the verge. Maybe it’s on the median strip. Maybe it’s on the old exit spur, no longer used. It’s not pretty spring grass. It’s brown December grass, and if drivers notice it at all they just wonder if the highway’s being kept up, but mostly they don’t notice because they are listening to directions or sneaking glances at a text on their phones or worrying about being late and losing the jobs they hate but can’t quit because they would lose their healthcare, because they live in America and their lives mean less than the scraggly-ass grass that grows where nobody planted it. It’s not a flower or a topiary or a heritage tree. Maybe it’s an invasive species, like Japanese stiltgrass or pepperweed, and if the highway department notices those unruly spikes breaking through asphalt they only want to poison it, but the grass mowed down in their weekly Roundup finds its way past poured concrete to re-cover the earth. It’s here, and it grows, and it doesn’t care if you don’t think it should be here.

* * *

KATHRYN KULPA lives in New England. Sometimes she writes poems on the side of the road. She would stay up all night reading if you let her. Find her writing in Best Microfiction, Flash Frontier, Ghost Parachute, Hot Flash Literary Review, trampset, and at kathrynkulpa.com.

by Bonnie Demerjian

Right there in the video, the man sings
to the tigers.
Two of them behind the gate, the perimeter bare where they have paced.
He sings in French and though they may be Bengalese
they understand and music’s magnet draws them nearer.
Haunches settle, one begins to moan, another
then the man, a trio now.
Great jaws agape, the fence no barrier— 
sound dissolves it—and the screen of species parts
for the length of a song
a glimpse of oneness til the twitching tail, the coda,
marks the ending.

* * *

BONNIE DEMERJIAN write from her island home in the Tongass National Forest, a place of mountains and ocean. Her poetry has appeared in Cirque Journal,  Artemis, The Alaska Literary Field Guide, and others. Her chapbook, Flotsam and Jetsam is newly released.

by Sarah Senft

He uses … in his emails
every one of them

familiar now
always three dots

I can almost hear him
speaking them

They leave space
to soften
what comes before

or after

comfort
gentle
like him

always …

* * *

Sarah is a writer living in Vancouver, Canada. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open, 50-Word Stories, Bending Genres, Ivo Review, Halfway down the Stairs, Fish Girl Collective, The Martello Journal, Interrobang Lit, Feel Lit Magazine, Orange Rose Lit mag, Maudlin House and others.

by John Grey

Box turtles bask on rocks.
Frogs bellow from below.
 
The lowest leaves
skirt the surface.
 
An occasional fish
breaks the water barrier,
leaps into the air
then splashes down.
 
A brown snake
lifts its black-capped head,
scans brackish water
for salamanders.
 
It’s the beginning of September.
While summer sun
is still the face of weather,
somewhere, just beyond the trees,
autumn takes a deep breath.

* * *

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.