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.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

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

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

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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.