Kate Ryan

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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

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

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.

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

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