Kate Ryan

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

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

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.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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 . . .