Kate Ryan

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

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

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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.

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.

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

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