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

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.

It’s difficult to devote your life to a family that will never embrace you fully. Especially when your newly acquired family, by law, constantly expects utter devotion. Such was the case for Mrs. Mary Louise Elmwood, a young woman from a highly respected family in northern Alabama. It was a fine match; a proper combination between two well-off esteemed families. Mr. Robert Elmwood, although barely thirty, had already established quite the reputation for himself as a steadfast lawyer in the newly exquisite courthouse in downtown Athens. He was a ruthless lawyer in the courtroom, who never let any criminal walk away without some legal punishment. Some said those reprimands extended outside of those halls, and into the streets of downtown Athens. But Mary Louise didn’t partake in such rumors.

“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

“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.

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 her own battle with cancer merely two weeks after his death, also became engulfed in the Downton Abbey world. It was our fantastical escape from the cruel reality of what our lives had become. Lady Mary, the English Countryside, and the glamourous early twentieth century beckoned to me. Hours upon hours were spent watching episodes until the early morning. I couldn’t allow my mind to focus on anything but this show. My reality was not allowed to interrupt for any other reason than if my Mother needed a back rub and pep talk before falling back asleep in the early morning hours.

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.

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, I was unable to find a good guy. I was at the end of my emotional love candle, with only a bit of wick left before complete burnout.

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.

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.

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 she ran her fingers down her hair, she almost gagged by how disgusting her greasy hair felt.

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 grab my fully charged and fully stocked IPOD while pacing myself for what’s next.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.