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 . . .

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

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

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

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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