Kate Ryan

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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

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