Kate Ryan

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

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.