Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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.

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

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

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

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 . . .