What I love about Gary Buller and his work is that you never know what you’re going to get. Each journey into his fabulously crafted stories and deranged mind, bring with it apprehension and dread, that the words you are going to read will taint you in some way, and for me, that is the
Sitting atop the hood of his broken-down Chevy Impala on a quiet desert road outside the town of Zeller, New Mexico, Hal Flannery saw the boy with the pale skin and cold, black eyes. The boy had to be around twelve years old. He was pedaling away from Zeller and toward Hal on a rusty
