Kate Ryan

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.

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.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

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

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