Kate Ryan

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

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.

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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 . . .