Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.