Published Short Stories, Essays, and Poetry
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An Open Letter to Lin Manuel Miranda: We HAVE to Talk About Bruno
I’ve spent my life with a sense of immense pride over my last name. In fact, up until recently, I had never met another Bruno (family excluded, of course). And that’s saying A LOT, since I grew up in South Florida surrounded by Italians, specifically New York Italians. If there were a large herd of Bruno’s out there, I would’ve found them by now. The closest thing that came close was a Beanie Baby named “Bruno.” He sits upon my bookshelf to this day, only now his reign of name superiority is over.
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Stiff
The first dead body I ever saw was of a woman I didn’t know. 2004 was a rough year, as I had started my freshman year of high school that fall. We lived on the Treasure Coast of Florida, which is named in honor of the legend of Al Capone using our beaches as a reckless safety deposit box for all his stolen loot. People would come from all over with their metal detectors, but only ever found melanoma from constant sun exposure and hurricanes.
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Treasure Coast
The writers and artists whose work makes up Ruminate issue 60 probe the imagery and metaphor of being at sea. Whether it is being at sea in the waiting to find out if a beloved will survive, as in Devon Miller-Duggan’s poem, “Perhaps a Prayer for Surviving the Night,” in which, “All my landscapes end… only the blood of those I love / and an unstarred endlessness.” Or as in Peggy Shumaker’s “Gifts We Cannot Keep,” when speaking of a friend who “ran beyond where I could see. / I faced vast waters.
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Three Minutes
It was like any other typical Sunday at St. Carmichael’s Church. The pews were packed with followers trying to cleanse themselves of sin before the start of the new week ahead. Children, who were forced to wake up at the crack of dawn and put on itchy outfits, sat bored beside their mommas. If they even put one foot out of line, they would surely get a whack on the head. Reverend Samuel was up at the podium, sweating buckets as his black robe swayed side to side from his frantic hand gestures.
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Harry the Habit Breaker
In the fall of 1993, Sheridan Park Elementary in Hollywood, Florida, hastily created a mandatory in-school assembly on the dangers of drugs. This was shortly after Halloween when actor River Phoenix died from a drug overdose. His death threw a wrench into the druggie stereotype ingrained in our parents’ minds. If the hippie, non-meat-eating, squeaky-clean actor fell victim, then surely their prepubescent kid could too.
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Maybe They’re Home Now
Death is my greatest fear, bully, and teacher. He will appear suddenly or sometimes expectedly, like an angry hornet that flies into your open car window as you’re driving down an empty stretch of road. Hopefully, it will fly right back out with a gust of wind. But the reality, if you choose to accept it, is that you must prepare for the possibility of being stung. Death can knock my ass out with a single strike, thanks to his hacking down of the people around me.
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Jake Gyllenhaal Leaves Taylor Swift a Voicemail
This is Taylor’s phone. I’m not available at the moment. Please leave your message and contact information, and I will get back to you when I can. Thanks! Heyyyyyyyyy Taylor, how are you doing?…. Uh, so listen, I hope you don’t mind but I got your number through your publicist. I know you probably never ever want to see me again, pun intended, but I feel like I need to make things right here….. Alrighty, I’ll get right to it. I heard that you re-recorded that song again. The one about us? You
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We’ve Only Just Begun, Frankie
“We’ve only just begun to live, White lace and promises, A kiss for luck and we’re on our way…” “We’ve only begun,” I sang in a hushed declaration. I sat in an empty pew, staring at the water-stained carpet below me. Completely ignoring the horrific sight that stood guard before me, which was my father’s human remains now bounded within a large green urn I bought off of Amazon.com. The oblong container sat atop a white roman column, even though it was clearly made of Styrofoam, at the front of the half-empty room.
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Turd Mines
It’s time to suit up in my tight spandex yoga pants, which masterfully disguise my thunder thighs. I struggle to pull down my moisture repellent lavender shirt, to cover my love handles, as it slides down my already sweaty back. I sit on the edge of my bed and begin to roll my long white gym socks onto my legs, like an 18th century prostitute composing herself. These socks prevent my walking shoes from tearing apart the skin at my tender ankles. Throwing my hair up into a high ponytail, I look like a chubby version of Ariana Grande. I…
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The Final Girl
“Come out and show yourself, Krueger!” My eyes shoot open and my heart instantly thrusts its gears to full throttle, preparing me for the unthinkable sight I’m about to witness. As I look around frantically for the source, I find the culprit: my TV is illuminating the bedroom with the sights and sounds of the movie to A Nightmare on Elm Street. The final girl, Nancy Thompson, is in battle with her tormentor, Freddy Krueger. As Freddy raises his menacing knife-glove into the air, Nancy braces he
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Two Apples a Day, Keeps the Pounds Away
When I was seventeen, my daily food consumption consisted of two apples per day, nothing more and nothing less. Every single calorie that I ate was tracked, measured, and promptly exterminated like a nasty virus through rigorous exercise. Every aspect of my life revolved around numbers: calories in, calories out, how many minutes on the treadmill, the numeric size of my jeans, and how many days until I could eat “bad” foods once again.
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Grief, Anger, and the Conflicted Expression of “I’m Sorry for Your Loss”
If there’s one thing that my father’s late cancer diagnosis and eventual death taught me, it’s just how much I hate the phrase “I’m sorry for your loss.” After my father broke both arms in the span of three days, the doctors decided to run a full body scan. The bright spots scattered across the scan left no doubt: cancer had permeated his body. It was May 2016, and the doctors gave him one year to live. By November, he had died in my arms as he seized one final time.
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Pregnant, Gland Problem, or Just Fat?
If you’re a petite young woman, there is a certain truth that we all must accept. At some point, probably more than once, an older woman will come up to you and congratulate you on your pregnancy. The kicker is you’re definitely not pregnant and, thanks to the generosity of this exchange, you will become even more self-conscious about your body’s shape.
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Drawer of Diamonds
After collapsing onto the hairy chest of her boss Henry Peterson, Margaret Thompson felt all her stress slowly disappear with every heavy breath that she took in rapidly. Breathing through her gasping mouth, she tried to get the stench of sweat and sex away from her nose. As she rested her smooth cheek at the base of his scratchy throat, beads of sweat from her forehead began to soak into her thick black curls. She would have to take a long hot shower, complete with her pricey peach shampoo to wash away the stench that now covered her body. As…
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Guiding Light
Why do they all disappear? I’m always the pinprick, drawing a speckle of blood Which turns to a puddle by each dripping wound. I kill friendships because of lies With jealousy which presents itself to me in various forms. In the end, I’m always the one who is punished, hurt, grieving. I’ve created desolation one tiny puncture at a time.
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Baby Mama, Please No Drama
It had been such a dry summer. South Florida’s long June days burned fields of jagged-tipped grass into a withered crisp. The air felt stale along the Intracoastal of the Indian River. The beaches reeked of shriveled seaweed along the blazing sands of its shore. Withered was also the state of my love life, as I was again single and clueless as to why there was no man who wanted to give me the kind of love I craved. Whether it be in the nightclubs of downtown Clematis Street, or the doomed dates formed from the wasteland of online dating,…
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Spinning Into Oblivion
As I hold the sweaty hand of my brother Jim, Mother is praying loudly as the countdown creeps anxiously closer. The entire neighborhood stands inside of our home, waiting for the end. The feeling of helplessness flows through every fiber of my being as the earth spins faster with every tick of the grandfather clock in our living room. It’s funny though, how everyone has come together in these final moments. Prejudice, pride, and hate have now been replaced with fear, faith, and regret.
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Food Stamp Anxiety
Pulling into the Walgreen’s parking lot, my senses heighten and I can feel a sense of regret. I shouldn’t be doing this, especially after all the hard work I put into the gym the last week. But, I feel like shit today and just want to eat ice cream and drink my drug of choice, Diet Pepsi. I’m sick of everyone telling me to get off the stuff. I know it’s not the healthiest drink but it’s better than alcohol.
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Everyone’s Waiting…
I’m on autopilot. My dad is in front of me, laid out awkwardly on a hospital bed. He has a fever of 103 and I can feel the heat rise from his skin as I place my hand over his arm. The heat makes my hands unfreeze from his icy room. He feels like his insides have started a campfire and only his skin is holding back the flames.
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Normal, Please Return
Missing you Long days complete With certainty and grace. Grieving you And quiet nights filled with beautiful hope Of all the worthy things to come. Assurance Taken for granted normalcy As well as serenity of order. One day you shall return I achingly await With eagerness and conviction.
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Bruno Poetry
I’ve always loved the complexity of fall. Only one season makes me feel alive, one that allows my roots to entangle Into Earth’s soil. Winter, spring, and summer seasons drag on like an eternal ring of waiting. Curtains are pulled open from my dusty windows and the feeling of love and happiness overcomes me, like flames to a burning house. Coolness in the air, salty breeze from Matanzas Bay, and the hour of twilight that shines through thick Spanish moss. Ancient oak trees cover my s
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Mr. Sandman, Please Bring Me a Xanax
As the small wind-up clock ticks along with the slow decline of the afternoon sun, small bursts of anxiety begin to rise within me. Nighttime, three years after acquiring PTSD, bring only those aching realities of a life lost forever. I genuinely miss my daily Xanax, who was my call me no matter what time, day or night, and I’ll be there best friend. The tiny oblong shaped pill, once placed ever so gently under my tongue, would melt into a chalky paste before I swallowed.
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Rumors of Uncertainty
One day we’ll know It’s repercussions On which our body Is its prey. “I heard it prevents fertility” a rumor, amongst the sea of uncertainty “Chinese are never trustworthy” Whispers amongst the panicked herd.
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Grief in the Time of Corona”-Art in the Time of COVID-19
A portion of the profits from this e-book will be donated to Doctors Without Borders. We are grateful to the frontline workers who have sacrificed so much for our safety. “Art in the Time of COVID-19” is derived, inspired and animated by the global pandemic of 2020. The works created by writers and artists all over the world are sad, funny, profound, serious, and intensely human.