guns
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: The Kickback
After being assaulted, Jessie Rothwell starts taking self-defense classes and enters a new relationship, gaining both physical and sexual power.
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Guns and Relatives
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 descendants of prisoners dumped here to be the newfound nation’s…
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His Helmet Off, Raising It High
This was the most important moment of my life. I know it because after Number One died I started to realize I could kill myself too.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Coyotes and Roses
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.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: The Echo of Hemingway’s Shotgun
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.
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Sharpness
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…
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Instead of Crossing
I believe it started with a slug and three hundred pellets leaving my uncle’s yard and ending their journey two trailers down.
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Groupings
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.
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A Good Guy With a Gun, or The Frank Castle Doctrine, or The Punisher Applies For A New Job
I was always taught that if you have a gun, you better produce it.
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Colt 1911: A Partial Timeline
“Eli. The gun is in my bedroom. There are bullets in there, too. I don’t need to worry about you guys, do I?”
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Safe
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.
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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,…