Kate Ryan

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

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

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

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

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

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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