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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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.