While we wait for his partner, George teaches us some U.S. history. How the “Indians weren’t doing much with their land anyway” and that today’s rednecks and hillbillies are the…
I was a man and when the time came for my shot, I pulled the trigger and painted the prairie with coyote blood. Glenn was right. Being eaten while alive was unacceptable; the coyotes had to die.
In her home in the quiet town of Ketchum, a "stone's throw" away from the infamous house where Hemingway took his own life, Eileen Shields considers the complex interplay of masculinity, guns, and suicide.
There was no getting around the fact that a writer had to know who he was in relation to guns. He had to pick them up or not pick them up, but if he was going to not pick them up, he had to all the way not pick them up.
Guns formed me—there’s no denying it. They worked on my body, bruising it in all the right places. Recoil and report learned they couldn’t scare me off. Each weapon wrote angry truth on me.
A cop without a beat. Not so unlike a writer without a story. He could only fantasize how he'd realize his deepest desire: to fire those weapons in a glorious blaze of noise and carnage.