Kate Ryan

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

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

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.

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

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.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.