Kate Ryan

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

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.

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

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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

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