Kate Ryan

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.

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.