Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.