Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.