Kate Ryan

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

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

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

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