Kate Ryan

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.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

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

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

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.