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.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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

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

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

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 . . .