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.

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.

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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?

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

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