
I’M JUST LIKE EVERY INSECURE WRITER: An Interview with Drew Buxton
There was this thing near San Antonio when I was in high school called the Elmendorf Beast that killed livestock. It turned out it was just a coyote with mange.

There was this thing near San Antonio when I was in high school called the Elmendorf Beast that killed livestock. It turned out it was just a coyote with mange.

Men. A constant desire, sometimes simmering, often burning. Never sated. And for him, I knew, it had been even longer.

There’s enough clogged hair to build a new human, one who believes in the plunger, the snake, the possibility that our channels will flow free.

I made this dangerous anomaly. I think I might have made it on purpose. I think maybe I asked for this interruption.

Her sandwich – mine now – is sloppily assembled, the melted cheddar thick with oil like a handsome man’s mucus. I eat without chewing much.

A year and three months ago a stray bullet caught Mina in the face, just grazing it. She has a scar that trails down her left eye, back to her left ear. The scar looks like one tear crying. Sometimes, lightning strikes twice.

In movies, the end of the world makes everyone care about the right things, right when the right things are about to be gone. Not me. I want my money.

It was cold on the floor, I confess, but I thought it was OK. Since he left, I wake up every morning and marvel at all the me-warmed space on the mattress.

Susan who choked to death loved the husband, loved his neighborliness. She loved him from her driveway and windows, front and back yards, day and night dreams.

In order to write, I needed the writing process to disappear. But without the writing process, obviously I wouldn’t be a writer.