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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."