Kate Ryan

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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