Kate Ryan

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.