Kate Ryan

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.

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

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

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

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