She says she’s got Borderline Personality Disorder. That’s like the worst thing you can have, worse than Bipolar. I feel better being around her because suddenl...
This is the place I remember—with its pine branches, hung like lace canopies. There is the rock slab where they took turns, each first pounding his chest, then ...
“Do you want me to shoot myself?” My father asked me, thick metal in his thick hand—loaded, I knew. It was always loaded. After one or two drinks, the gun was d...
Ninety-one percent of domestic terrorists are white dudes, and they even manage to make up eleven percent of the jihadist terrorists overseas as well (yeah, whi...
Now, this gun, slung tight around my neck, is heavier than I thought it would be. And it’s loud. Louder than thoughts of home....
I thought about Columbine. About thirteen dead, two killers, and me, seventeen-year-old me, crouched on the floor of the cafeteria while two of my friends gunne...
“That’s his heart,” they said, needing no answer. It was warm in my hands, the pulsating memory still strong. I had never seen blood so red, not even my own.
But then, there was the boy’s life at stake and the man was obviously breaking the law. I realized I had shot him, that the whole problem had fallen into my la...
We are real people. We live in the aftermath of violence. We live with the consequences of too many guns and too few regulations. And the story doesn’t end the ...
