Kate Ryan

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

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

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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.

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.