Kate Ryan

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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

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

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

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

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