Kate Ryan

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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

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.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

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