Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.