Kate Ryan

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.