Kate Ryan

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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