Kate Ryan

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

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

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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.