Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.