Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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

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.

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