Kate Ryan

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.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

“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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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.