Kate Ryan

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

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

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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

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

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

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

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