Kate Ryan

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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.

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

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

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

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.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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