Kate Ryan

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

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.