Kate Ryan

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.