Kate Ryan

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.