Kate Ryan

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

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

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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.

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

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

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

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