Kate Ryan

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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

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

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

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.

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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