Kate Ryan

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

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.