Kate Ryan

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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

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

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.