Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."