Kate Ryan

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

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.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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.

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.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."