H.G. Nolan writes fiction that leans into the strange, the emotional, and the moments that are a bit of both. Her work has appeared in literary journals and in The Stoney Collection, an anthology of fiction and poetry. Her stories explore connection, discomfort, quiet transformation, and the things we leave unsaid.
The pieces below represent some of that work—stories that found a home and readers along the way.
We are at the edge of the woods. My brother is pacing the lip of the embankment where the gravelled fire road meets the forest floor. We wait, listening. It was unlike her to stray far—at least, not when she was with him.
I was praying for you to fall asleep. And now, seeing your stillness for days, I’m afraid I prayed too hard.
“Levi, how are you feeling?” I sit by your side on the bed, rubbing your back gently in an attempt to rouse you. But you’re so deep, lost, still thinking it’s night. And even if you woke, you might not know it’s day yet. The sun, like you, is refusing to peek over the horizon.
Your sisters are breathing out of sync—one taking a breath in as the other breathes out. The bed you share always feels smaller on summer nights, the warmth from your bodies crowding the spaces between you. You aren’t touching, but the sticky heat makes it feel like you are. The covers, two sleeping bags zipped together, have been kicked onto the floor. You have been staring at the ceiling since your parents left, but you can’t fall asleep. The room is stifling, so you slide out of the bed and out of the room. The house feels empty even though you know you are not alone.
