Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.