Kate Ryan

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

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

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.

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

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.