Kate Ryan

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

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

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.