Kate Ryan

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

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 . . .

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

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

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

“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.

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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