Kate Ryan

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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.

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

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.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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