by Allison Renner

When my grandmother died, I went with her. I floated just behind, through the ceiling and over the roof. As she surged toward the sea, I took one last glance down at the lush treetops, wishing I could reach for her so she’d know she didn’t have to make this journey alone. I remember her arranging my tea set just so, completing puzzles with both our hands pushing down the final piece, me struggling to stay awake while she watched the late-night talk show, baking snickerdoodles while the rest of the family talked in the den. The silence of us reading together on the couch, side by side as we are now, waiting for the waves to wash our spirits away.

* * *

ALLISON RENNER is the author of Green Light: The Gatsby Cycle and Won’t Be By Your Side. Her fiction has appeared in Ghost Parachute, SoFloPoJo, Ink in Thirds, Gooseberry Pie, and others. She can be found at allisonrennerwrites.com.

by Claire Kroening

Today, burnt coffee clung 
to the back of 
my throat. A bitter 
epilogue of your 
sweetness.
Today, tears patter 
into empty china 
cups; moon-drenched 
lyrics shakily 
forgotten. Today is a 
reminder of our last.

* * *

CLAIRE KROENING is an award-winning writer and freelance editor/proofreader residing along the great lakes. Connect with them on Instagram @clairerosek. 

by Leonard St-Aubin

Beloved of the sky,
said Emily Carr,
these tall pines against blue sky
​—that will never be timber--
trunks slender, twisted 
where they bent to find the sun
through the shade of hardwood trees,
and dropped low branches
'til only their tops,
feathery, exposed, catch light.
Now, like northern palms,
they rise up above
the bare winter canopy,
only they are green,
illuminated 
by afternoon sun,
each cluster of fine needles 
a starburst, lit or backlit,
vibrates, imperceptibly
a hymn to the sky.

* * *

LEONARD ST-AUBIN divides his time between Ottawa and a summer home in PEI. His poems have been published in RED: The Island Story Book (November 2025), in Bywords.ca and in the Pownal Street Press collection FIONA.

by Suzie Pearson

Emptied.
Standing as a monument to
      every discount,
      every sale,
      every closing down event,
      “everything must go”.
Packets, unopened, aged with neglect.
Boxes remain sealed.
A forgotten moment of need.
Duplicates waiting in the depths of shelves.
A reminder of what was lost.

* * *

SUZIE PEARSON’s poetry has been published in Whispered Words (Writer Shed Press, 2024), as well various online magazines. She's also received a highly commended in Wolverhampton Literary Festival Poetry competition and appeared at WoLF 2025, and participated in both Ironbridge & Shrewsbury Poetry Slams 2025. Find her at @wordsfromanotebook  and www.wordsfromanotebook.com 

by Shama

Water chalked out marks on the apartment walls,
roping me in; the macaque screeched--
its toy lungs failing.

The rising brine strengthened
its noose. I swatted flies circling
the swollen coffee table.

The carpet's frayed hands
released their hold of Lego bricks,
from which you once made a house.

Mothballs rolled down and rattled
in the drain filter as I pulled the plug
and scavenged my leftover pieces

from your jetsam.

* * *

Shama has work featured in Gyroscope Review, ONE ART, The Pierian, and elsewhere. She writes from an old dusty corner of the earth and can sometimes be found on Bluesky @entangledrhyme.bsky.social and IG @entangledrhyme.

by Barbara Brooks

It tumbles like a torrent from the sky
soaking the ground. Drowns the newly
planted grass in a cloudburst.
 
I focus a prism on sorrow to see
if hope can be found.
 
But I can see none, only forests
razed to the ground, mountains
stripped of their tops. I notice
only the world being torn down,
dug up, burned.
 
Sorrow covers me with smog
and disease.  It forms its own glacier
that slides down to cover
my thoughts with soot and dust
from distant corners of the world.
 
In the lengthening days, I wait.
 
* * *

BARBARA BROOKS is a retired physical therapist and author of 3 chapbooks, The Catbird Sang, A Shell to Return to the Sea, Watercolors.  She is a member of PoetFools writing group. She lives in Hillsborough, NC with her dog.

by John Grey

As I nod off,
a white egret
occupies the edge of my eye— 
no sound, 
only the peace
of being stone-like
in the shade,
a body open to breeze,
but forgotten by daylight.
 
The bird moves
surreptitiously--
a flash of wing,
a flick of beak,
that tuning fork
for the hidden pulse
of fish and frog.
 
I’m busy with memory
so I miss the kill,
the sudden lunge,
the silver writhing
swallowed whole.
 
The egret pauses
for a moment to digest
then resumes its ritual
of stillness and motion.
 
What’s instinct for a bird
is my way of thinking.

* * *

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review and Trampoline.

by Bart Edelman

Hadn’t walked the plank
In a number of years.
Never planned on it again.
But when you showed up,
I dispensed with my shoes,
Feeling the smooth wood,
Cold beneath my feet,
Familiar step by step.
I was halfway across,
Before you called out--
Told me to abandon fate.
And I wavered, of course.
Didn’t know how to retreat.
Couldn’t envision the course.
Unsteady each moment.
Then I paced my way back,
Where you stood, open-handed,
Offering what still remained--
One pirate heart to another.

* * *

BART EDELMAN’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. 

rainy afternoon
i unburden myself to
a stranger

​
holiday tradition
that one aunt nobody
mentions

by Jahnavi Gogoi

the park empty
but for mosquitos
and lovers


Can I name
one of you mine,
Douglas Firs?

by Kaushal Suvarna

* * *
​

Welcome to this issue of The Hoolet’s Nook. Each piece gathered here reflects the spirit of what we hope the journal continues to be—a space for stories and poems that sparkle, resonate, and linger.

I'd like to officially welcome our newest contributing editor, Jessica Borgeaud, who has been helping behind the scenes for some time. Her thoughtful eye and love of literature make her a wonderful addition to the team, and we’re thrilled to have her aboard! Check out our Editorial Page to discover the perspective Jessica brings to THN.

To all our readers and contributors, thank you for being part of our little Nook family. Your kindness, support, and love of stories help make this space meaningful.​

Namaste,
G.R. LeBlanc
Managing Editor

Ready to share your words? Next submission round opens October 1st. Our guidelines can be viewed here. 

The Hoolet’s Nook is free to enjoy, with no submission fees. If our stories and poems bring a little joy to your day, we’d be so grateful if you consider supporting us on Ko-fi. Every bit helps keep this nook alive—and yes, the occasional chai latte is always appreciated! 💗🙏🏼🦉

Anne Marie Lyall

Seth placed his mother by the hearth. It had been her favourite spot. Until that night. When she’d stormed out. Swore never to set foot in his house again.

He supposed she’d kept her word.

Banjo whimpered as he sniffed the opaque jar. He had always been fond of mother. 

* * *

ANNE MARIE LYALL is from Scotland. She can almost see Loch Lomond on a clear day. She is published in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize Anthology, 101 Words, Cafe Lit and long listed in the Myslexia Flash Fiction Competition.  

by Lori Cramer

Dressed in a neon-pink sweatshirt, leopard-print leggings, and Reebok high-tops, Barbara pushes a grocery cart from one aisle to the next. Nearly every song on the supermarket’s retro playlist sparks a fond memory of her youth. Dances. Frat parties. Games in the quad. As she’s selecting a Lean Cuisine entrée for tonight’s dinner, a ballad comes on, stirring tender recollections of her first love, Barry. Over by the frozen pizzas, a man in khakis and a blue oxford like Barry used to wear catches her eye. He smiles. And, for just a moment, Barbara could swear that it’s 1987 again.

* * *

Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in Fictive Dream, Flash Boulevard, Scaffold, Splonk, Switch, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction. Links to her writing: https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com.
Bluesky: @loricramerwriter.bsky.social.

by Colleen M. Farrelly

He says do you have a lighter and I say no and he says can I borrow twenty bucks and I say no and he says I love you and I say okay and give him twenty bucks. He goes wherever he goes, and I promise I’ll say no tomorrow.

* * *

COLLEEN M. FARELLY is a mathematician and haibun poet from Miami, FL. She's trying dribbles and drabbles, which seem to fit well with haibun.

by Adele Gallogly

Why does Faye keep giving the same line to library staff asking, “How are you?” When they emphasize are, she pictures a single, careening letter R. 

“Oh I’m good, besides missing the old lump in my bed!” she says. Exactly. Breathlessly. Unfailingly. To the retiring director. To the teenage volunteer. To the brusque clerk returning one-word titles Ron was too confused to begin: Endurance, Unbroken, Atonement.
​
Near the exit, Faye starts to answer the janitor tipping a black wastebasket, but stops after “Oh.” She hears herself tucking her beloved husband into a soft mound of grief in her throat. 

Oh.

* * *

ADELE GALLOGLY is a writer and editor in Ontario, Canada. Her very short stories have been published in FlashFlood, Writers' Hour, Six-Sentences, and Paragraph Planet. You can follow her on BlueSky.