Kate Ryan

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

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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.

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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.