Kate Ryan

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

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

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

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

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