Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.