Kate Ryan

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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.

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.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

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.

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.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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