Kate Ryan

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 . . .

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.