Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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.

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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?

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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