Kate Ryan

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.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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

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

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.