Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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 . . .