Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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

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.

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

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

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