Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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

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

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

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.

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