by Joseph E. Arechavala

I sat across the tree stump from Him, waiting. Waiting for Him to answer my plea. The songbirds softly chirped their last calls before sunset, and the evening mist was beginning to gather. "Do you fancy a game of chess?" He asked, in a quiet voice. 

I looked down to see the board. I honestly hadn't even noticed it sitting there. I was a bit surprised it wasn't harsh black and white Gothic, or sleekly modern walnut and maple. Instead, I saw white and green jade pieces, simply carved, resting on the white and green board, waiting. Like me.

"I suck at chess," I offered. "You'd win easily."

"Sometimes it's not about winning or losing. Sometimes, it's just about having a nice, quiet game to pass the time and talk."

"I didn't expect to have this much time with You. I figured You'd be busy collecting souls."

"It's my day off. There are many of us, you know. And even an Angel needs to recharge every once in a while." He gazed off, as though looking at some destination in the distance.

"Well?" I pressed.

"It's not your time." His hand paused above the board, then He chose, and moved a pawn. "We have rules to follow, you know." He looked up from from His move, light blond hair falling across one blue eye, an expectant expression on His face.

I sighed. 

"But I think we can bend them this once. Let's have a nice, quiet game though, first."

I looked down, chose a pawn, and moved it two spaces forward. "Let's.”

* * *

​Joseph E. Arechavala is a lifelong resident of NJ and graduate of Rutgers University who has had poems and stories published. He has a novel, Darkness Persists, available on Amazon and is working on an anthology.

by Morgan Chalfant

It hurts to see you still have no ability.
You can’t make decisions for yourself.
Individuality was torn out of reach,
hidden on someone else’s shelf.
 
You’re a doll, a marionette on strings,
a mannequin posed in place.
If you had the choice of what to look like,
you’d let someone else choose your face.
 
What do you call your personality,
when the ‘person’ you are isn’t you?
If I asked you what to bury you in,
you’d answer, “He told me I want blue.”

* * *

​Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novel, Ghosts of Glory.

by Beth Sherman

A memory. Me, age 11, in the backyard of a stranger’s house, watching a pileated woodpecker tap a sweet gum tree. Ack ack ack ack ack ack ack, the bird calls, in a shrill, urgent voice. My father is inside — this'll just take 10 minutes and then we'll get some ice cream. I can almost taste peanut butter swirls, almost smell toffee bits crumbled on top. I pluck a blade of grass, touch its slippery green to my cheek.

All the curtains in the house are drawn. Tilting my head, I see the woodpecker vacuuming ants down its beak. I don’t own a watch, but it’s been more than ten minutes, so long that I wonder if my father will ever come out or if the house has swallowed him whole.

Later, when my mother asks where we’ve been, I don’t mention the woodpecker or the curtain house or the strange look on my father’s face when he got in the car, like he’d been lost in the woods and just spotted a breadcrumb, or that the ice cream place was closed when we got there. We drove around, I say, which was partially, mostly true.

* * *

Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 100 literary journals, including 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, Tiny Molecules and Bending Genres. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and she can be reached @bsherm36 on Instagram, Blusky, or X.

by Katie Thorn

Mark watched his newest wife throw the bouquet over her shoulder. You’d think he’d be used to it: the bouquet toss, the party games, and drunk uncles. 

It set his teeth on edge.

Abbey was a safer bet than his previous wives. Laurel had impeded his plans. Roberta couldn’t keep up with him. Abbey, though—he’d known her since childhood. Heck, he’d dated her sister at university. 

Abbey would know how to keep him happy. And it didn’t hurt to have the sister waiting in the wings. He downed his champagne and stepped into the sun, clapping with the guests. 

* * *

Katie Thorn, currently studying creative writing online through Falmouth University, divides her time between writing, baking, and listening to odd musicals. Her stories have been published in Livina Press, Prompt Press, The Writer’s Workout, Magnolia Magazine, and Candlelit Chronicles.

by Mathieu Parsy

Once inseparable, jealousy over a boy caused a landslide that buried their friendship. Their chests turned into large crevices, overgrown with trees and foliage. Tectonic plates shifted in search of a mutual core, but the continents didn’t align. As new rock formations spanned the distance, the divide remained. Their magnetic fields wavered—drawn close, yet skewed off course.
 
And eruptions disturbed the stagnation, the magma of their discontent reshaping the landscape.
 
From the Atlantic ridge, Isadora can only glimpse the tip of a crag surrounded by murky waters, mist filling the air. Chirping warblers peck at her chest—out-of-tune memories. It aches. Her skin splits; warblers burrow into her heart. She cups the wound to contain the pain.
 
One day, Isadora splays her fingers to peek through the gap between her breasts. She sees the other side of the Eurasian plate, where her friend lives. Green hills and dense forests have grown there. And then she spots her friend—she bears a similar hole in her thorax. There’s no bird there. Only an abandoned nest.

* * *

Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera and now lives in Toronto, where he works in the travel industry. His writing has been featured in FEED, Panoply, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
Instagram: @mathieu_parsy.

by Lynn White

Do you scream in tune
in muted monochromes
flat and featureless,
or are your screams
discordant

stark

black and white.
No grey.
No doubt.

A kaleidoscope
of keys and tones
of terrifying sounds

which scream out to me.

* * *

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality.
​Blogspot: Lynn White Poetry
Facebook: Lynn White Poetry

by Liz deBeer

Mom’s quiet as we drive to the beach, not even complaining that my music’s too loud. Since summer’s over, the parking lot’s empty when I pull in. Holding onto Mom, we follow the path as memories flick: building sand castles, body surfing, kite flying, picnicking on peanut butter sandwiches. Kicking off my sandals, I step into the salty surf, ignoring its chill, then dive through waves, clutching Mom’s urn tightly. Her ashes cling to my wet skin when I shake them into rocking ripples that cradle me with calming consolation before I submerge myself and swim back, stroke by stroke.

* * *

Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her latest flash has appeared in Switch, Bending Genres, Sad Girls Diaries, Lucky Jefferson, Every Day Fiction, and Libre.
Liz's website is www.ldebeerwriter.com. 

by Nissa Harlow

She died. But her soul didn’t leave her body like it should have.

Maybe it figured the old graveyard, full yet forgotten, was a good place to spend eternity.

So it stayed, clothing her bones, keeping the flesh company as time melted it slowly away.

The camera lies abandoned at her side, images of headstones captured in pixels within. She didn’t take a photo of the stone that caught her heel, nor the one that now stands guard at her head, its age-blunted corner smeared with blood.

When they find her bones, someone will take a picture. It seems fitting.

* * *

​Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she dreams up strange stories and writes some of them down. Her short fiction has been published in Weird Lit Magazine and 50-Word Stories. You can find her online at nissaharlow.com.

by Bonnie Demerjian

His glinty eye,
alert for the shiny,
avid for the curious.
He’s a connoisseur of beauty
and feels no guilt.

I too am a collector— 
subjects for poems,
bright objects of delight
brought home to my nest, my desk
to sort and muse upon.

* * *

Bonnie Demerjian writes from her home in the Tongass National Forest, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes, Alaska Women Speak, Blue Heron Review and October Hill Magazine, among others.

by Diane Payne

On this particular morning, there was a light wind and plenty of sunshine, rare for early autumn. One by one, the neighbors carried their wet laundry out to hang on the clotheslines. Those that lived in upstairs apartments reeled in their clotheslines that hung above the street, singing the same song with their neighbors, harmonizing as they pinned their socks, bras, tablecloths, and underwear.

Those with small city yards engaged in lengthy conversations about what they were making for dinner, boysenberry jam recipes, and how to train your cat to do fabulous tricks.

One neighbor talked about a long-ago boyfriend who tossed his grandmother’s chamomile seeds in the garden that he later harvested for their morning tea. She lamented how she left him for the boyfriend who meticulously shaped bonsai plants, hovering over them for hours, while she knew he’d never trust her with anything, especially his bonsai, unlike the seed thrower who trusted her with everything.

“Yeah, we rarely pick the right one,” the neighbors on both sides of the lawn said while the sheets flapped in the wind simultaneously, and everyone breathed a bit more freely.

* * *

Some of Diane Payne’s most recent publications include:  Cutleaf Journal, Mukoli, Miracle Monacle, Hairstreak Butterfly, Invisible City,  Best of Microfiction 2022, Another Chicago Magazine, Whale Road Review, Fourth River, Tiny Spoon, and Bending Genres.   More can be found here: dianepayne.wordpress.com

by Jennifer Griffin

​I sit and watch the rivulets of rain as they slide down the window, dropping out of sight. The quiet of the room insulates us in our thoughts, you on the bed, me in the chair. It is our 17th wedding anniversary and we are in a private room overlooking the Hudson. The view is spectacular but no one envies us this setting.

The nurses of 6HN enter the room bearing cake and a candle. They have come to know us well over the past few months. Better even than family in our insulated isolation that only they can penetrate. 

They toast our marriage, our love, our devotion. But also, the specter that hangs over us. 

This is to be our last anniversary together. Soon the tumors that we have beat back again and again will finally take over, squeezing until there is no room left for you.

I can not say that I wish that anniversary back. And yet I can not wish it away either. The essence of marriage is in acceptance. And if I can not change what has happened, I accept it as part of our love.

I vow to hold your hand, to comfort you, to make you laugh, to anchor you, to keep you safe, to keep you close, to share the fear, to share the pain. And hardest of all, to let you go when staying is for my sake and not for yours. 

* * *

Jennifer Griffin (Gaul) is a musician. Writing entered late in her life after the death of her husband, jazz musician Scott Sherwood. She writes to process, explore, explain, and expound. She is happy if her words connect but primarily it’s the act of writing that keeps her at it.

by Morgan Chalfant

Everyone has baggage
Mine’s a backpack
Nothing snooty
Two straps and heavy
Nothing fancy
Filled with the norm:
A disappointed old man
Lost keys to the past
Friends I wish still were
And a little secret pocket of aspirations

* * *

Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novel, Ghosts of Glory.

by Michael Brockley

I ramble the noonday route through my neighborhood wearing new Keen hiking boots. When the small dogs on Berkeley bound across their lawn to greet me, I boast about their territorial imperative. The pleasures harmonized by their pacing the fence beside my joy. Along Lanewood, I inhale the fragrance from a pie someone is baking. Perhaps cherry crumb, a confection deliciously sweet and sour. When my left shoelace works loose, I tighten both shoes on a bench by the free library box. It is the day the last pear petals fall, the time before serviceberries ripen from pink to plum.

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and Gyroscope Review. Poems are forthcoming in Stormwash: Environmental Poems, Volume II and 912 Review. 

As 2024 draws to a close, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to all the talented contributors who’ve shared their work with us this year. Your creativity and passion have made The Hoolet’s Nook a special space, and we couldn’t be more grateful.

While we’re on holiday hiatus until January 6th, we invite you to explore the incredible stories and poems we’ve published so far. Whether you’re curling up with a warm drink or stealing a quiet moment during the holiday bustle, there’s plenty to enjoy in our archive.

Please note that we’re all caught up on submissions sent before November 23rd. If you sent something before this date and haven’t heard from us, please feel free to check in. We’re currently catching up on more recent submissions, so response times may be a bit slower.

Thank you for your patience—we’re excited to dive into your work and look forward to discovering more incredible voices in 2025!

Wishing you all a joyful holiday season and a bright start to the new year! ✨

—The Hoolet’s Nook Team

by Paul Lewthwaite

“This isn’t working." My words mix with the thrum of our car. You start to cry, fists pounding the steering wheel, ignoring the road.

Wheels skid on ice—we slide onto a mad helter-skelter of blurred tarmac, looming headlights, and adrenaline.

I come to, dangling upside down, hot petrol fumes thick in the air, the engine running.

Your eyes are shut. Blood trickles from your nose. Outside, distant shouts and the wail of sirens. Flames burst into life behind us.

I call your name. Your eyes flicker open.

I croak out the words I should have said. “Let’s try again.”

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. Occasional flashes of inspiration generate stories. To his continuing surprise, some get published. Paul's fledgling website can be found at Can I Call Myself a Writer?