Bethany Bruno
Bethany Bruno is a Floridian author whose fiction and nonfiction often explore history, place, and the strange beauty of Florida. She holds a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida.
Her work has appeared in more than a hundred literary journals and magazines, including The Threepenny Review, The Sun, McSweeney’s, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, and The Huffington Post.
Her honors include the 2026 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest and the Key West Art & Historical Society’s Tennessee Williams Short Story Contest.
She’s seeking representation for her two finished historical fiction novels.
Recent Publications
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Blue Tarp Season
The tarp snapped over the roof’s wound. Blue plastic pulled tight against a sky that had already done enough. A strip of bright blue plastic, nailed over the back slope, lifted at the corner and slapped down again, flat and impatient, as if the roof had started talking back. Blue tarps still stitched the neighborhood after Frances and Jeanne, nailed down over roofs that hadn’t stopped leaking. Wind off the St. Lucie River tugged at it, testing each nail head, each torn grommet, each weak point.
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No Swimming at Monsons
All Ruth saw was more attention. And when the wrong kind of attention showed up, people like her paid for it. The June heat shimmered off the sidewalks, rising in waves that blurred the edges of palm trunks and lampposts. Humidity pressed against Ruth’s skin as she stepped out of the motel’s back corridor, the scent of salt from Matanzas Bay mingling with the sweetness of blooming jasmine. Her uniform clung to her back, damp before she’d even begun her rounds.
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I Tell My Four Year Old ‘I Love You.’ She Has Never Once Said It Back.
My daughter Frankie doesn’t say my name. She knows it. I’ve heard her whisper it at night, curled up in her toddler bed, when the house is quiet and the shadows stretch across the floor. “Mommy,” she breathes, and for a second I believe I’ve dreamed it. At night, behind her door, she practices. Soft words slip out like secrets, as if she’s testing them before anyone can hear. Pressure shuts her down. But in the dark, when no one is watching, her voice feels safe. In the daylight, I try. I kneel. I call to her. She turns to…
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Volcano
It started with a palm frond. One of those thick, green giants that fan out over Florida yards like they own the place. My Uncle Bob ripped one clean off the tree, held it high over his head, and marched barefoot around the pool. Jimmy Buffett’s “Volcano” blared from the lanai speakers, steel drums skipping over sun-soaked chaos. Kids doing cannonballs, adults sloshing bourbon in plastic cups, and bathing suits doubling as dinner clothes. He said nothing. Just grinned and kept moving. We followed. Every one of us. Cousins dripping pool water, aunts in cover-ups, and the dogs trotting at…