Kate Ryan

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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