Kate Ryan

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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

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.