Kate Ryan

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.