Kate Ryan

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

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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.

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

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

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

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