On page one, a scratch of coastline
where the ocean rehearses its apologies.

On page two, the swamp’s green choir,
all throat, all patience,
all hunger held behind the lily pads.

On page three, a man selling boiled peanuts
from a cooler with a cracked latch.
He smiles at you as if he knows
what you buried under the seat.

On page four, a motel that promises VACANCY
in letters that buzz with insects.
Each room holds a thin towel,
a Bible,
and a mirror that refuses to flatter.

On page five, the road that splits the palmetto,
straight as a verdict.
Heat rises from the asphalt
and the horizon ripples
with the shape of something you want.

On page six, the citrus grove after frost.
Fruit drops in the dark
with the sound of a fist on a door.

On page seven, an alligator
beneath the surface film.
Only the eyes show,
two coins nobody can spend.

On page eight, a tourist boat
gliding over grass that pretends to be water.
The guide tells jokes.
The heron stands in judgment
and does not laugh.

On page nine, a sinkhole’s mouth.
The earth unhinges itself
and takes what it is offered:
a pool, a patio,
the wedding ring set down beside the soap.

On page ten, a church marquee:
GOD IS NOT LATE.
Someone has crossed out NOT
and driven away.

On page eleven, the hurricane map
with its thin cone of dread.
It points at your street
with a surgeon’s finger.

On page twelve, the grocery aisle
after the panic begins.
No bread, no batteries,
only the last jar of olives
and a woman staring at it
as if it contains a future.

On page thirteen, the back yard
where the kids draw chalk suns
and the rain erases them
without malice.

On page fourteen, the retention pond
behind the subdivision.
It holds golf balls,
a shopping cart,
and the moon laid down flat.

On page fifteen, your own address
written in your own hand.
You turn the page.
You turn the page.
The paper stays blank.
This is an atlas for what refuses to be held.
The land keeps sliding.
The water keeps coming.
You are left with a map full of openings
and a finger that cannot find the exit.

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. She won the 2026 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest and the 2026 Key West Art & Historical Society’s Tennessee Williams Short Story Contest. Learn more at www.bethanybrunowriter.com