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? 

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.