Kate Ryan

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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