Kate Ryan

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.