Kate Ryan

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 . . .

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

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

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

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She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

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

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

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