Kate Ryan

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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