Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.