Kate Ryan

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.