Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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.

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

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

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