Dear Reader,

In this first official issue, we’ve gathered fiction and poetry that touch the heart and soul. We hope you’ll take your time with it—let each piece unfold and settle. In my experience, it’s often the quiet narratives that resonate most deeply.

Thank you again to all our contributors for sharing their work and bringing this issue to life.

If you’d like to be part of an upcoming issue, our current submission period is open until July 31st—we’d love to read your work!

G.R. LeBlanc
Managing Editor

The Hoolet’s Nook is free to enjoy, with no submission fees. If our stories and poems bring you a little joy, consider supporting us on Ko-fi. Every bit helps us keep THN free for everyone—and yes, the occasional chai latte is always appreciated! 💗🙏🏼🦉

by Angela Zimmerling

that was us

          spiked hair and black eye-liner
          plaid and chains
          our faces
          made pale with talc 

          no nukes
                     in acid rain                 
                     we raised the black flag 

         no future
         in the shadow
         of the bomb

         david bowie was our god

         we posed like dolls
         on street corners and on benches 

         searched
         for holes in the layers 
         of our sky
         while the rain-forests burned 

         wore our rage
         like broken hearts
         and cut ourselves
         on the shards
         of the earth
                             
​                      we lived
                      for the drums’ beat
                      a moment’s breath in the light
                     
         we lived to dance

* * *

ANGELA ZIMMERLING is a former journalist who works in poetry, fiction and illustration as well as in non-fiction.  She lives on a small subsistence farm with her husband and their beloved animals.

by Sara Etgen-Baker

* * *

​SARA ETGEN-BAKER has written a collection of memoir vignettes and narrative essays (Shoebox Stories), collection of poems (Kaleidoscopic Verses), and a novel (Secrets at Dillehay Crossing).  Her work has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines including Guideposts and Chicken Soup for the Soul. 

by Steven Bruce

We’ve learnt to carry it
like a sack of half-rotten potatoes,
the skin split,
the smell lingering behind us.

The days drag on,
each one more worn,
duller than the last.

There’s no choice
but to keep walking,
heavy footed,
eyes on the clouds.

With hope,
that somewhere ahead
we’ll find a place
to set it down.

* * * 

STEVEN BRUCE is a multiple award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master of Arts in Creative Writing. Born in England, Steven now resides in Poland.

by Mary Kipps

This is how it will always be:
that last light of a saffron sun
slipping down the medina wall;
the muezzin’s prayer running the maze
of cobblestone alleyways;
our blue-eyed cat stolidly watching
the rush of doves taking wing.
There’s a lot to be said
for leaving while still in love.

* * *

MARY KIPPS enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005. 

by Lori Cramer

Natasha greets me at the door. Once we’re settled on the sofa, I confide that Gavin has, once again, broken a promise to me. Though Natasha has had to listen to countless chronicles of Gavin’s disingenuous deeds, she kindly lets me vent without interruption. I wish she could tell me what I should do, but I must make up my own mind. So I decide: I’m going to break up with him. As soon as I’ve said the words aloud, I feel better. And, apparently, so does Natasha. She curls up into a ball, closes her eyes, and begins purring.

* * *

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:
​Wordpress: Lori Cramer Fiction 
Bluesky: @loricramerwriter.bsky.social.

by Kelleigh Cram

After driving for days, it’s the cows that do it.

A flock of them in a field, some standing, some grazing, some stealing a lazy nap in the afternoon sun. Activities that seem careless to us, performed with steadfast diligence.

 I slow down to watch them, these cows. Something is off. They have brown fur with white faces, like they are wearing their skulls inside out. Ghost cows. Are they real? I pull off on the side of the road and get out of the car. The gate is open, so I let myself in.

You call my name but I ignore you, walking up to one of the cows until we are standing face to face. I spread my fingers over its head, right between the eyes, the scratchy texture of cracked bone piercing my palm. So it is a skull, worn in reverse.
           
You run up from behind, your breath hot and rapid against my neck.
Wait, where were we going again?

When you grab my shoulder everything snaps into place: our bedroom, my feet sinking into the mattress, the cow painting looming over me.

“Why don’t you lie back down,” you say.

I yank my hand away as though it has betrayed me, revealing the portrait of a cow’s face. You guide me by the arm back to the car—or is it the bed? And once again we are on the highway, the ghost cows with their reversible skulls fading in the rearview mirror.

* * *

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

by Chris Tattersall

In days gone by, family meals were obscured by the smog of tobacco. Three generations dining together, with just a damp rasp from deep in the lungs of Pete’s father to break the silence. Everyone being passive to its significance.

In later years, Pete was exiled to the garden, whether it be the home or beer variety, to enjoy a cigarette and time with his own son.

Now head of the table, Pete was comforted by the three generations gathered. They ate in silence, only to be disturbed by his son’s cough, a damp rasp from deep inside his lungs.

* * *

CHRIS TATTERSALL is a Health Service Research Manager who lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

by Chris Cottom

​Go full mortgage on a fixer-upper in Forest Gate. Love the way Beth swears she can’t live with this prissy Laura Ashley shit, wrestles the wallpaper stripper like it’s a hissing serpent. Try different finishes in different rooms; go bold in the bedroom with Salsa Red or Jungle Ginger.
 
Watch Beth mark out a spare-room mural with puddleducks and beaky geese. Start with the ceiling, careless about speckling her raven curls with Haystack Gold. When she splodges you in Jersey Cow Brown, let her lead you to the shower to loofah it off.
 
Assemble mood boards for Beth’s new business: mid-tone caramels, indulgent ochres, earthy terracottas. Let her chatter about tonal contrast, about Crushed Aloe and Distressed Leather. Photograph her remodelled basements, her faux-marble bathrooms, her kiddies’ bedrooms.
 
In your kitchen awash with swatches of Lost Lake and Atlantic Surf, ask your seven-year wife if it’s time to redo the spare room in Classic White, turn it into an office. Dab her tears with a handy length of curtain lining. Hold her tight until she pushes away with a sad little nod.
 
Wait until her workshop in colour psychology; spread your dust sheets as the front door closes. Bid goodbye to the pigs and chicks, the carthorse and the collie, the tractor and the barn. Be sure to use low-tack masking tape. You don’t want anything to tear as you start to pull away.

* * *

CHRIS COTTOM lives near Macclesfield, UK. One of his stories was read aloud on the Esk Valley Railway between Middlesbrough and Whitby. In the early 1970s he lived next door to JRR Tolkien.
Bluesky: @chriscottom.bsky.social