Author Archives: Ben Drevlow

STEPHEN EOANNOU

STEPHEN EOANNOU

BULL Interview by

I wanted to write a BIG book. I thought of all the novels I loved and kept coming back to two: Shoeless Joe, by WP Kinsella, and The Natural, by Bernard Malamud. I wanted to write a novel in their spirit. Both use rich language to tell bigger-than-life tales with a dash of magic thrown in like a spice. Both are also baseball books, and my mantra for writing Yesteryear became “Swing For The Fences.” This meant that nothing was off limits. No brush stroke could be too broad. No joke was taboo. No character could be too fantastical. I gave myself total creative freedom. Just swing away and see what happens.more

Always and Utter Bullshit

Always and Utter Bullshit

Fiction by

After ten minutes I was high and taking his keys and going out to his truck and doing donuts in the driveway before racing down to town. He looked scared because he was scared. I didn’t give a shit.more

At the Keg

At the Keg

Fiction by

Know your audience. Play Willie. Play Hank Williams. Play Patsy Cline. Play Springsteen and hum along. Cry into your drink. Try to feel happy. Talk to the bartender. Try not to look at yourself in the mirror behind the bar. Drink until you can’t feel the pain in your lower back. Drink until your cash is gone. Bring just enough cash so that you stay long enough, but not too long so people think you have a problem. Don’t get kicked out. I love you.more

Boy Meet Spaghetti

Boy Meet Spaghetti

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“I would hate me too, if I were you,” the boy said to the spaghetti. “Let’s pretend that this is all new, all fresh, that nothing bad has ever happened, that we are meeting just now for the first time.”more

Why-Because

Why-Because

Fiction by

It’s 1991 so the boy, Noah, sits in the front passenger seat. Back when that was still okay. He hears but the thing is he doesn’t know his father. Not really. A day and half every fourth or fifth weekend goes fast.more

The Rage of Silence

The Rage of Silence

Fiction by

One hundred T-bones a day, both cut and trimmed. Fifty ribeye, sixty Porterhouse, it didn’t matter over and over he thought of Tara’s face. He studied his boss’ actions. He learned the movements of his coworkers. It was out of habit to study people. He couldn’t help himself. He let them bust his balls often, even smiled, but he knew he could end every single one of them if he truly wanted to, but he never wanted to entertain the thought at the same time.more

Deeply Personal Vending Machine

Deeply Personal Vending Machine

Fiction by

The rumor has it there’s a vending machine on the corner of Kennedy and Main that lends an ear. Leona tells me it’s for real. Its buttons are the color of rust, she says, once possibly a brighter red. A tear sizzles down her cheeks as she squirms closer in bed. I once fed it a coin after my mother’s death and it gave me a quarter of her heart back.more

GOOD TIMES IN HERMOSILLO

GOOD TIMES IN HERMOSILLO

Fiction by

Arturo loves his motorbike. It’s good on gas. He’s always about town, popping in here and there, zip, zip, in and out of traffic, cutting corners, up on the sidewalk, he zigs and he zags, he zags and he zigs, he’s a bumblebee, big fat Arturo on his little motorbike, beep beep!more

Wilson Koewing

Wilson Koewing

BULL Interview by

I didn’t sit down with the intention of writing a dark book. My goal with this book was pretty simple, stark realism. These are the people that I know and that I meet, and these are the problems that I see or that I hear about or that I’ve had or that I’ve witnessed. And while yeah, it’s fucking dark, I feel like life is pretty dark.more

When the Cold Wind Comes to the Glass Yard

When the Cold Wind Comes to the Glass Yard

Fiction by

It brings with it roughnecks reckoning with reality they were warned against long before they laced up steel-toed boots and lit lights on their hard hats.  They know the dust cough. They know how the mine spits them out until the cold wind pushes them stumbling in the dark with their bottles to the glass yard.more