Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

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 . . .

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

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.

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

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?