Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.