Kate Ryan

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.

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

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

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.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.