Published Short Stories, Essays, and Poetry
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Open Letter to Beachgoers: Congratulations on 50 Years of Ignoring Obvious Shark Warnings by Bruce the Shark (Yes, I have a name–it’s Bruce. Look it up.) – Weekly Humorist
Dear Squishy Humans, It’s been fifty years. Half a century since I gave summer blockbusters teeth. Since I launched a thousand therapy sessions and got slapped with the blame for every panicked pool noodle incident from Malibu to Miami. Since I dragged a man backwards off a sinking boat and became the poster fish for “Do Not Enter the Water.” And yet, every July, you gather in droves, slather yourselves in coconut-scented marinade, and fling yourselves into my dining room like it’s Shark Week: U…
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Those Who Scream: A Novel by 30 Writers
Molly Hammersmith, a woman seeking a serene change of pace, moves from Kentucky to southern Georgia to work as a cemetery groundskeeper. However, there are people (and things) that are not as welcoming of her arrival. How long will she remain here, and what may keep her in this mysterious corner of the world? That is, until she learns how to scream. Welcome to Scarlet Maple Cemetery. Written during the traditional NaNoWriMo period (the month of November), 30 writers were tasked to write a complete, unprompted story full of eccentric characters, unforeseen plot twists, and shuddering undertones. Bethany Bruno created…
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I Deserve to Celebrate Halloween Now Even Though my Life is Unraveling at the Seams
It’s August. Ninety-seven degrees with a heat index of hell itself. The sun is physically aggressive. My thighs are fused to the driver’s seat. The iced coffee in my cup holder has given up on being anything but warm beige sadness.And yet—I feel it.The pull.The whisper.The faint smell of cinnamon broomsticks drifting through the automatic doors of Michaels.Halloween has returned.Halloween has returned. Not in a normal way. Not in the way society agrees on.This is the feral, unhinged Halloween…
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I’m Hosting a Screen-Free, Bug-Friendly, Allergy-Aware, Historically Accurate Colonial Summer Camp
While the rest of you are tossing your children onto iPads and calling it “Camp Netflix,” I’ve decided to take the high road this summer.That’s right. I’m hosting my own fully immersive, emotionally sensitive, screen-free, historically accurate Colonial Summer Camp. Located right in our backyard, adjacent to our composting station and beneath the ethically sourced sun sail I purchased from a woman in Vermont who only works in hand-loomed flax.We’re calling it Camp Colonially Correct. You wouldn’…
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Jujyfruits
Do you remember those gummy candies called Jujyfruits? They came in a bright yellow carton. Bold, capitalized letters curved across the box like a thick, short snake. Inside were colorful, chewy jellies formed into a variety of shapes. The squares looked like squishy Legos, while the circles resembled the bumpy surface of a wisdom tooth. They were my go-to choice as a child. My father would grin and gesture toward the candy counter at the gas station. He would say, “Go-on, but don’t tell your mother.”
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Nibbles
Yuck! I’m so sick of these bland, grainy power bars. Yet I continue to gnaw away, bit by bit, hoping the flavor will somehow become tolerable. My best friend, Tiff, promises these are good for my tummy. Her smile beams down upon me whenever she comes home from the grocery store with the latest health food craze. Placebos disguised as crunch bars, which supposedly prolong my life. I’m a sucker for wanting to see Tiff happy, so I oblige her fountain of youth schemes. Tiff is the sweetest girl I know, which is ironic because her stepdad, Jack, is a…
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I Faked Going to the Gym to Escape my Family and Ended Up Spiritually Transformed
The lie left my mouth so smooth and casual, I nearly applauded myself. “I’m heading to the gym,” I said, tying my sneakers with the confidence of someone who once looked at a treadmill in 2017. My toddler was scaling the pantry like a gremlin in Velcro pull-ups. The baby was gnawing on the Roku remote like it was a turkey leg. My husband nodded without making eye contact. He knew better. I left the house like a woman on a mission. Plot twist: I drove straight to Chipotle. I didn’t even blink….
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Dreading Expectations
As soon as I return home from my first day back at the office, post-parental leave, my sleep-deprived husband hands me our wailing baby girl. She’s my mini-me, with thick brown hair and round chin. I take her, begrudgingly. Holding her, I can’t help but cry internally. Every scream, howl, or noise sends shocks of anxiety through my already fragile body. Since becoming a mother, I’ve discovered a truly shameful part of myself, a remorse that eats away at me every second that I hold my daughter.
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A Simple Order
The brightly lit glow of purple summons us in our post-liquored-up state of physical exhaustion from grinding and random make-outs with shadowy strangers on a packed dance floor. After piling into some girl’s beat-up van, in which there was no A/C and the driver’s side window is unable to roll down, we finally arrive at our craving’s terminus. Only to find a long, winding line of other weary passengers awaiting the finale to their taco-tastic night.
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MISSINGNO
Ahh, 1998. If you were a kid, this was a great year for popular toys and games. It was the time of Furbys, which were small, creepy, robotic creatures that randomly became chatty at three a.m. Beanie Babies, such as the iconic Princess Diana memorial purple bear, were stuffed toys that parents kept safe in a plastic casing. Oh, and Tamagotchis, computer generated pets with the lifespan of a fly. But the biggest kahuna of them all were the fantastical pocket monsters called Pokémon.
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Smeared
I wipe between my sticky thighs, finding bright red blood smeared across the toilet paper. “No, no, no,” I mutter in rapid succession, as if speaking words aloud will somehow make the blood disappear. Disappointment sweeps across me like a sudden burst of wind on a still, cloudless day. I bunch up more toilet paper and swipe once more. When I bring it up to my face to examine it, I shudder. There’s no denying the evidence of my failure this time. My face flushes with the rising heat of shame.
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Defeat, Denial, and Downton Abbey
It was supposed to be a good day. It should have been a nice, relaxing day of touring a museum dedicated to one of my favorite TV shows, Downton Abbey. The show had unknowingly been my saving grace that last year while I was grieving the untimely death of my father to cancer. Instead of running that film reel in my mind of my dad gasping for air one last time, I threw myself into the lives of the Crawley family and their luxurious lives of British aristocracy. My mother, who had not only lost her husband but also began…
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“Sometimes Dead is Better:” Exploring the First Line of Pet Sematary by Stephen King
The first sentence in Stephen King’s Pet Sematary seemingly doesn’t give any indication of the terrors that lie ahead. We’re told, simply, of Louis Creed’s newfound father figure after years of being without. But, beneath the unsuspecting sentence, is a clever setup of the power of dichotomy in this horror novel. Good and evil. Heaven and Hell. Life and death. It’s a frightening warning to all: not all things that are lost should be found.
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Pumpkin
She grips the black handle of the jagged butcher knife with her right hand while grasping the smooth skin of the chosen pumpkin. Her intended victim, the round bulbous vegetable, remains perfectly still as she slowly pierces its skin with the tip of the blade. Inch by agonizing inch. She begins sawing away at an incline. With each up and down motion of her hand, the blade glides through somewhat, but not without some resistance. The pumpkin’s screams with each push of the knife, resembling a sof
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A Confused Protestor in Front of Morton’s Steakhouse Slams ‘Carnivore’ Brett Kavanaugh | MrBullBull
A large crowd has gathered outside of the Morton’s Steakhouse in downtown D.C. Protesters, hell bent on disturbing the life of Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh. One man, with megaphone in hand, joins them to make his opinion on the pressing matter heard. Man with Megaphone (MM): Brothers and Sisters of the Revolution! Enough is enough with these corrupt politicians and their relentless bloodthirst! MM unzips his jacket, revealing a black and white t-shirt that reads “Abort the Court.” The c…
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Unopened Envelope
When a loud knock struck upon her bedroom door shortly before dawn, Maddy was already wide awake. She would be instructed by her mother, Julia, to deliver single unopened envelope hundreds of miles away. A mere twelve hours later, that same envelope rests upon Maddy’s passenger seat as she crosses the state line between Georgia and Alabama. As darkness rolls over the vast mountain peaks, Maddy begins to fade deeper into drowsiness. It was a long journey from South Florida to her Uncle Tim’s home, and a much-welcomed distraction.
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Buttered Popcorn & Attempted Assault
Walking into a concession area within a movie theater should stir excitement. You’re most likely eager to finally watch a film that’s taken forever to come out. There’s one essential piece to your movie-going experience: freshly popped buttered popcorn. It surrounds you, enticing you to come closer, like a delicious lit candle sending out an irresistible aroma. It’s a distinct smell, one that no microwavable bag at home can replicate. Yet, for me, it’s a tidal wave of nausea. One whiff invokes
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You’ll Love Daniel’s Nuptials
It’s been said that expectation is the root of all misery. We all have certain hopes of how our lives will play out as the years pass. For women, we’re fed the idea that our wedding day is the one day that all our romantic dreams come true. But, if a wedding is only one day in a string of several thousand within our lifetime, why do we have to put so much pressure on it being the “happiest day” of our lives?
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It’s-a-Me, Mario! I Found-a Coin in Joel Osteen’s Walls!
Me and my brother, Luigi, were driving on the rainbow bridge when we-a get the call. They say, “oh no! Our toilets are backed up. WA-HOO!” We go to their church and find it flooded. Ouch! Let’s-a go! There are bananas all over, be careful Luigi! We whip out our tool kits and get to work! That’s-a when I see the golden circular light. It’s everything we work for! Luigi and I smash through walls with our raised fists. Mario and Luigi already break through the wall behind the toilets and find
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Big Bird Here. If You Come to My Street Unvaccinated, You Will Catch These Hands- Not Covid
I’ve been in this game for over fifty years. Fifty. Long. Goddamn. Years. Yet, I don’t get even an ounce of appreciation from any of you. Who do you think was teaching you about numbers and shit when you were plopped down in front of the television? Don’t you dare say it was that Eggplant looking mother fucker, Barney. It was me, Big Bird, and my homies on Sesame Street. You think I wanted this job? Huh? Look at me!
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Pissing Contest
His unblinking green eyes spoke louder than any hiss or meow. His constant penetrating stare always felt like almond-shaped lasers that seared holes into my chest. My girlfriend, Sarah, and I were cuddling on the couch and watching some much-needed cheesy television. Instead of focusing on Uncle Jessie on Full House, I spent date night being watched by a small monster who despised me. Roscoe, Sarah’s cat, sat upon a silky plump rosy pillow on the opposite side of the couch.
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Crunchy Jeans
These days, post-untimely-death of my father, I tend to research the lives and unexpected deaths of pop culture icons. Not because I’m some sort of diehard fan of Prince, Karen Carpenter, or even James Dean, but because I don’t want their short yet influential lives to be forgotten by the world. Like my father’s death, their deaths were far too soon and left the world reveling in the stage of “what could have been” if only they had lived longer. I love to read about the people who knew these icons as they recount harrowing lessons and stories.
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Nightshade Ladies
I had been expecting this package for quite some time. Tugging at tape concealing opening, hands began to shake uncontrollably. Chambers of anxious heart began pumping rapidly Icy chips towards every nerve. Handfuls of Oleander petals softly fell towards feet pink and white flowers look harmless to untrained eye. petals act as forewarning venomous confetti My mother eternally nurtured her floral gardens, as if they were toy dogs in need of complete attention. all pretty and sweet-smelling buds, her “nightshade ladies.”
