Kate Ryan

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

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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.

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

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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.