Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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.

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

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