Kate Ryan

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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