by Ed Ahern

Years ago, hunting deer in a forest, I stumbled onto an abandoned farmstead. There were no traces of roads or pathways into the site, no wood or glass or iron. Just the stone cairn of a chimney, and tumbled rock fences, strewn by trees. Connecticut is stoney soil, the clearing and stacking would have been the labor of years.

A chill, soft rain was falling, birds and animals were silent and still. The smell was of sodden leaves and the mold of rotted trees. As I moved cemetery-slowly through the grounds, I wanted to put a name to the ruined labor—the someone or other house, the something or other farm. But there were only age scattered rocks.

And there, where I thought a sitting room might have been, was a neatly stacked cairn, three feet high, that weathering could not have accomplished. A body perhaps, or a keepsake interred at the home it belonged to.

I propped my rifle against a sapling and lifted off the cap stone, intending to burrow down to discovery. And hesitated. And put it back. Undisturbed. What I imagined was more than I could discover, more than I could unearth.
​
I moved on, the farmstead undisturbed and unrecorded. And have long since forgotten its location.

* * *

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had about 500 stories and poems published so far, and ten books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he manages a posse of seven review editors, and as lead editor at Scribes Micro.

by Lori Cramer

Something about Marjorie intrigued us. Was it her hair color? Her sense of style? The way she walked?
 
We soon figured it out: She reminded us of us.
 
So we agreed we’d let her sit at our table. Lucky her! She lunched with us every day for a month.
 
But then she met Harry.
 
Now she eats her meals at his table. Watches doubleheaders with him instead of double features with us. Strolls right by as if she doesn’t even know us.
 
The nerve!
 
So we’ve made a decision: That’s the last time we befriend anyone in this retirement home.

* * *

Lori Cramer’s 100-word stories have appeared in The Drabble, The Meadowlark Review, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her work has been longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Microfiction. Find out more at https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. X: @LCramer29.

by Gabriella Brand

Melissa cut her hair, preemptively. The bathroom floor looked like two gray cats had been fighting, tearing out each other’s fur. The cut hair curled around the base of the toilet and stuck to the porcelain. She would clean it later. Or maybe not.

When she looked in the mirror, she told herself not to cry. It was better this way, rather than waiting for the portal, and the drip, and the nausea. 

When John came home, he stared at Melissa in the same way he had when she had told him she was pregnant, thirty years before. As if an asteroid had hit the earth. But, once again, he regained his composure and once again, he said, “Hmmm… that’s amazing.”

He did not tell her that she looked pretty, because she didn’t. And John was nothing if not honest. 

He did not tell her that it would grow back, as he had once told their toddler who had gotten adventurous with scissors.

He did not tell Melissa that he loved her just as she was, because she already knew.
​
But he said nothing of real comfort, either.

The person who made her feel a little better was an acquaintance in her book group.

“You look like Pema Chodron, you know, the nun?”

Melissa nodded and ran her fingers over her stubble, suddenly feeling more tender towards herself. More charitable. More inclined to breathe.

She wondered if Pema Chodron had ever been a mendicant, wandering around asking for alms. Probably not.

She had heard that the traditional Buddhist way to beg was to just wait. Not ask. Not plead. Not bargain. Not cajole. Not pray. Just wait.

So when no one was looking, she made the shape of a bowl with her fingers and began waiting.


* * *

Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publications as The Citron Review, Vita Poetica, Shiuli (India) and Room. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Gabriella teaches French and writing in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut. 

by Jeffery Johnson

I retired six years ago, and in a fit of perceived liberation, I discarded all my dress clothes. I’d live the rest of my days in jeans, shorts, and sandals. I was at a sartorial disadvantage, therefore, when I got the news.

Jonathan Francis Glidden’s wife, Danielle, called with the news that about five thousand steps into his daily stroll, he dropped over dead from a massive heart attack. “Oh, Denny, he was gone just like that,” she reported. “Would you do the eulogy? You’re the best talker in the group. It’ll be next Thursday.”   

​    ~*~

Johnny had led a pretty mundane and undistinguished life. I’m sure there must have been many things that deserved recognition but damned if I knew any of them. Oh, I had plenty of funny stories to tell, but this was problematic as well. Johnny was the constant butt of our collective jokes growing up. How could I tell any of the narratives immediately coming to mind without making him look like a fool or an idiot?

He never had a prestigious career, But being a father was his forte. His son and daughter flat-out adored him. They each recounted times when he had been loving, generous, and wise. So, I was able to come up with a fine little speech that paid tribute and even got a couple of good laughs.

Oh, lest I forget. I looked pretty damn good too. After a careful survey of my closet, it was clear that I needed to start from scratch. Dress shoes, shirts that really fit, and a lovely grey suit were in order. It was a thousand or so bucks well spent.

I kind of suspected that I’d reached that point in life where I’d need the ensemble again.

* * *

​Jeffery Johnson is a retired professor of philosophy and an aspiring mystery and short story writer.

by Joshene Bersales

She finds an old dress
in her closet
by accident.

Black
cheap cotton
a hole in one pocket
(she was proud of those pockets)
and two missing buttons.

“It’s all wrinkled up
like me,”
she says with a laugh.

He steps into her space.

"Still beautiful— 
that dress 
and you."

She doesn’t feel beautiful
most days.

But in that moment
with that wrinkled ol’ dress
in her arms
and she in his

she feels
the fairest
of them all.

* * *

Joshene Bersales is a writer, editor, and translator from the Philippines. She self-published her first digital short story collection, Box the Stars and other stories, in 2021. Connect with her via https://linktr.ee/joshenebersales.

by Paul Lewthwaite

She is envious of her shadow.

It flickers in and out of existence, oblivious of bills, bawling kids, screaming husband, and the toothache that’s bothered her for months.

Would she swap? Escape the noise and grind for grey-scale monotony? 
​
Perhaps not, but when life burns too bright, jealousy still lingers.

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. He’s always surprised when he can write a story. Some appear at Dark Moments, fiftywordstories.com, and 101words.org.

by Michael Brockley

My white German shepherd’s ghost sleeps in the passenger seat as I wrestle my road-weary Silverado onto the Ghost Road. We have survived half-resurrection and tombstone blues in magic cities. And practiced nighthawk songs with devils in blue dresses. Sadie barks as I shuffle through the biography of a phantom. As I grope for the name of Bluebeard’s first wife. Lady Blue or Black Cherry. Last night a blue angel serenaded us with a song coaxed from a rose drum. I’ll let Sadie sleep through the cross-dog hours. Through the three shades of dream. Even ghost dogs get the blues.

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Superpresent, and Dreams of Rust and Glass, Volume 2. Poems are forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal and confetti. 

by Daniel Rogers

autumn wind
the busker's guitar
out of tune


sunset
the fruit bowl
full of oranges

​
starry night
flicking through
an old diary
​
* * *

Born and raised in Lancashire, England, Daniel moved to Poland in 2015, where he now teaches English as a foreign language. When not divulging the finer points of English grammar, he likes to write.

by Chip Houser

We are the occupants of the village you created, the village you abandoned. We are here because of you, but we are not yours. We are not your property or your prisoners, your mistakes or your consequences, your problems or your solutions. We are all of these things, and not. We are here because of you, but we are not here for you.

We are the street cobbles, heel-polished and moss-ringed. We are the cats, languid wanderers, sprawling on sun-warmed stoops. We are the dry leaves skipping along empty streets.

We are the rocks cleared from surrounding fields, set into walls. We are the mice, eyes shining in the damp shadow of a broken terracotta pot. We are the grapevines climbing the tower, roots grasping plaster.

We are the brick archways, mortar receding like gums from the pocked teeth of our inverted smiles. We are the lizards, darting out of sight. We are the lichen blooming across clay roof tiles.

We are the empty windows, the sagging doors, the crumbling defensive walls. We are the wild boar, foraging for pomegranate and fig in overgrown gardens. We are the pines, stretching for more light.
​
We are not your village, we are ourselves, and we are all each other. We are the village now, together, and we have grown beyond your reach.

* * *

Chip Houser's short fiction has appeared in Pulp Literature, Bourbon Penn, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere. Red Bird Chapbooks published a collection of his very short fiction in 2023 called “Dark Morsels.” 

I’m delighted to announce that Vanesa L. Perillo and Kit Flynn are joining The Hoolet’s Nook as our new Editorial Consultants! With their passion and dedication for storytelling and the written word, Kit and Vanesa will be invaluable in helping curate a diverse and inspiring selection of poetry and prose.
​
Their insight and dedication align beautifully with The Hoolet’s Nook’s mission to nurture writers and showcase engaging, impactful work. I’m so excited to have them on this journey as we continue to grow our creative community.
​
To learn a bit more about Kit and Vanesa, feel free to visit our Editorial Team page. And please join me in giving them a warm welcome.  

We’d also like to extend a heartfelt thank you to all our contributors for your ongoing support and submissions--The Hoolet’s Nook is off to a wonderful start because of you!
​
For extra editorial notes and updates, be sure to follow us on Instagram @the_hoolets_nook. 

by Philippa Ramsden

As autumn settles, 
poppies continue to appear 
and bloom, albeit 
under a veil of raindrops.

* * *

Following a career in international development, Philippa Ramsden returned to Scotland somewhat adrift and has now settled in East Lothian. Her writing draws from life and work in Nepal, Mongolia, India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Rwanda and her Scottish surroundings.

by Elysia Rourke

I am born on a whisper of your breath. A sigh of wind volleys me skyward, the corners of your mouth in close pursuit.

Can you see all you’ve created, mirrored on my cellophane skin? The garden, masterpieces scrawled in colourful chalk, and two children with remnants of homemade raspberry jam sparkling from spring-kissed cheeks.

I settle on the grass, its blades dulled by winter. There is still time.
​
You lift your wand again. My siblings flutter from your lips. The children squeal, “You made a rainbow, Mummy!” You’ve made their smiles too.

Here, enough simple joy I could burst.

* * *

Elysia Rourke lives in Almonte, Ontario with her husband, two sons, and dog. She has a weakness for London fogs, Christmas morning, and a salty ocean breeze. Her writing can be found at www.elysiarourke.com.

by Linda M. Crate

let me change like autumn,
transform into my prettiest colors;
let everything dead fade
away into the sky;
bathe me in a golden sunset
that could heal every
broken thing in my soul. 

* * *

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: 
Facebook
Instagram
Twitter

by Natasha Mihell

Wraith; fearless. She inscribes a course over root, under branch, kicking up snow glitter with her leaping. Borne by shadow, she ignites. Relentless. The forest is noiseless no longer; she sings into its maw. It returns the favor. She smiles. She has known loneliness, and hers does not live here.

* * *

Natasha Mihell is an artist-at-heart living amidst the forests and urban decay of Canada’s West Coast. Her writing explores the reclamation of self-love, hope, and power, amidst systems and circumstances that threaten hearts and minds. Connect at natashamihell.com and @natashamihell on Instagram.