Kate Ryan

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

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.

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.