Kate Ryan

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

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

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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?

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

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.