Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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