Kate Ryan

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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.

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 . . .

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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.