Pulling Up Azaleas: A cheating husband in a failed marriage blames his wife for the gun pointed at him.

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.

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.

You’re not drinking enough water, you state, Taking a glug…glug from your Big Gulp. Squirming as your neck stretches, Ice water steering through the thicket of esophagus. Traveling down into the pit of your stomach, Shipwrecked upon stomach acid.

“But in my postpartum life on a rainy December evening, compassion flowed into the recesses of my soul.” Struggling with a newfound role, a mother ponders how giving life has awakened her empathy towards the suffering, and allowed a realization of what true love is… “Please don’t be dead,” I said, as I scampered towards the frail body resting by the side of the road. Having just swerved into a sharp U-turn, my tires squealed in protest as I slammed on the brakes. I hoped it wasn’t too late....

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."

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 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.

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.

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 the novel's plot and wrote the first chapter.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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.