Kate Ryan

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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 . . .

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.