Kate Ryan

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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.