James Allen Hall

That first year of college, I frequented the library, the anonymous stacks where...
*
*
*
Telling you about my mother is like first cleaning then assembling her gun. In the end, she’s whole. She’s dangerous again. My mother’s gun was always loaded and well-hidden. I can’t remember how many times I’ve ransacked her room, looking for it so I could stop her from holding it to her head again, stop her from putting it in her open mouth.