Kate Ryan

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.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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