Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .