Kate Ryan

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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.

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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