Kate Ryan

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

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She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.