Kate Ryan

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

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

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

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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.

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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