Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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.

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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.