When Faggots Shoot
It takes two years before Bob shows his gun collection to me. The guns are in the corner closet of a room I’ve slept in over thirty times. He opens the slatted door with a key, and one by one, he pulls out latched wooden boxes, heavy velvet bags, and cardboard boxes of bullets
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I never thought I’d shoot a gun. But here I was, standing at the glass counter, looking down at an array of gleaming pistols laid out like deadly jewelry.

An Interview with Michelle Richmond