Kate Ryan

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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

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

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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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