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? 

by CJ Erick

They came from the sky in shining, oblong ships.

When they came for our water, we gave them our last icebergs and sent them back to their home world with festivals.

When they came for our grain, our fruits, our sugar, we helped them harvest, gave them seed, and taught them to plant.

When they came for our children, we wept and begged them, and watched in anger as they lifted away, our homes and hearts emptier.

When they came for our wine and chocolate, we built jump-drive plasma ships and our suicide commanders burnt their world to ashes.
​
Amen.

* * *

CJ Erick has published with Brilliant Flash Fiction, Camden Park Press, and others. His short fiction received a Pushcart nomination and inclusion in The Best Small Fictions 2023 anthology. He writes in multiple genres, self-publishes a space fantasy series.

by Corey Mesler

On this day
when I need
to unlock
something
beautiful
the sky roars
like the
final horn
and here I am
alone again
with only these
careless keys.

* * *

COREY MESLER has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Lunch Ticket, Five Points, New Stories from the South. He has published over 45 books.  With his wife he owns Burke’s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis. 

by Thomas J. Misuraca

Footsteps upstairs. Reminding me of my old apartment living days.

The upstairs residence switched renters quicker than the leases allowed. No matter how well I knew my upstairs neighbors, I heard them more than I saw them. 

Edna, the little old French lady, woke up with the sun every morning and stomped over my head as if she were a charging rhino. She dropped things constantly, scaring the life out of me with the sudden crashing on my head.

Gil, the large Latino, had a softer step. Most days I heard nothing of him, but at night, he paced the floor endlessly. 

The one guy I never met was a night owl. I heard him running around his bedroom as I was about to fall asleep. Then a second set of footsteps joined him until they transformed into bed springs squeaking. 

Footsteps upstairs. A whole other life I could only imagine from their sound. 
​
Footsteps upstairs. I counted the days until I no longer had to hear them.

As I awake in my new home to the sound of thunderous footsteps, I remember…

Nobody lives above me. 

* * *

​Tom Misuraca has had over 150 short stories and two novels published. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. He’s also a multi-award winning playwright with over 150 short plays and 13 full-lengths produced globally.

by Gabriella Brand

Years ago, she would have screamed. Hit it with a rock, the edge of a hoe. Killed it, if she could have, because life hadn’t yet mellowed her.
​
Now she just stared at the young, coiled snake that had surprised her in the garden. She had lifted up a cinder block that had fallen off the fire pit—and there it was, pale khaki with thin blue-green stripes, like a military uniform.
​ 
She waited for it to slither away. But it didn’t. Fear glued it to the earth.

She stood there for a little while letting awe creep over her.

* * *

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 Rebecca Klassen

Harry comes home after work.

"Right where I left you both," he says. Shivering and tired, I swear at him while Lily's head jiggles at my breast.  

The streak of light is sudden like a gunshot from the wall. From its root, the tiny porthole above the mantlepiece, I see the diminishing day, swallowed up by baby.

When Harry peers through the hole, it casts a bright monocle around his eye. I press Lily to him, then retreat upstairs for shallow sleep until Lily needs me again.

   ~*~

Harry arrives home and asks about dinner, and I babble about initiative, swearing again. He calls me a prickly cow. More holes appear in the lounge walls, and Lily screams when Harry slams the door.

   ~*~

Lily teethes, and Harry and I jostle for position of most impressive martyr. The walls become more pocked, the holes weeping brickwork. What do I know about plastering? It’s probably impossible when you’re holding a baby.
​
   ~*~
​
Harry comes home and looks at the walls, the light freckled across his dark suit. Tears plop from my jaw onto Lily’s cottony body.

"Everything’s going to collapse," I say.

Harry sits next to me and strokes Lily’s head.

"She’s beautiful, like her mama."

I shake my head. "Now way; she looks like you."

He slips his arm around my shoulders as the light in the room fades. I hear the rattle of stones and catch the scent of disturbed dust.

"She looks so content," he says. "You’re doing an amazing job with her."

I rest my head on his chest, sleepy in the rapidly dimming light. "It can’t be easy, being away from her all day."

As Harry kisses my cheek, the room darkens, but I can still see his face as he rests his forehead against mine, Lily nestled between us.

* * *

Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare and a Best of the Net 2025 nominee. She won the London Independent Story Prize and was shortlisted for this year’s Alpine Fellowship. Her work has been performed on BBC radio.

by Terri Mullholland

"Imagine your ideal world," whispered The Weaver, "and I will make it come true."

On her loom, she began to weave a whole kingdom. By her hands, my dreams blossomed—a castle and forest of soft threads. 

All night she toiled. 

In the morning, she spread her silk-spun land on the barren earth outside her cottage—where nothing had grown for generations. 

Immediately, it sprouted and spread, sending forth a forest with a winding pathway. 

"It will grow as you walk to your castle. Follow it. Do not stop. Do not look back. I will meet you there. I promise."

* * *

Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer and researcher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies. She loves stories, cats, and tea. 

by Linda M. Crate

​when best friends
transition to
ghosts,
this aching heart
feels as if it will
ache forever;
i wish i could let her go
but she was my childhood— 
i still see the auburn and gold
of her hair in the summer sun
when i look at the childhood in my past,
how am i supposed to simply forget her
as she has me?
i hate living ghosts,
at least you know where to visit the dead. 

* * *

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

by Colette Coen

Our argument seemed trivial now, but as she approached, I wondered if she would stop or even say hello. I stood my ground, determined not to shrink into the detergents and tissues. I might not have noticed her slight hesitation if I had not been watching her so closely, but it was there. I could almost see her mouthing the words I had said to myself when I spotted her. She kept coming until she stood in front of me, our trolleys side by side, blocking the aisle.

"He’s dead, you know."

I nodded, smiling slightly. "Water under the bridge."

* * *

Colette Coen was a runner-up in Mslexia’s SS Competition 2023 and most recently published in Causeway/Cabshair. Her books are on Amazon. She lives near Glasgow where she runs Beech Editorial Services. She’ll swap a story for dark chocolate.