Kate Ryan

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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 . . .

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

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.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

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.