Kate Ryan

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.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

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