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.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.