It was the best Christmas break of my life. We spent most of it in her bed, but we did take the occasional trip off-campus. Under cover of darkness, lest anyone still lurking around after finals see us together, we’d sneak out to the store for ice cream; or to the gas station for the
A year ago today I took the photograph that changed my life and had an impact on the lives of others I could not have foreseen. It has changed the way I see my work, the city and myself. The image has appeared in newspapers and magazines, analogue and digital, on every continent. People applaud
His students argued that he should take the day off. Answering emails at 10 PM on a Saturday was unacceptable. Two students created a PowerPoint and presented it to him and the rest of the class—the theme–It was time for him to find a social life. Middle-age was not scary. They used the Toulmin Model
24 July 1964: 4:18 p.m. A man carrying a suitcase rushes down the stairs to the crowded Whites Only platformohannesburg train station. Looking straight ahead, he runs his hands through his floppy fringe and mops the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his tweed jacket. The man bends down, sets the shabby
I. The summer we found the skull was also the summer that Smith got stuck in the sluice gate and nearly drowned, and somehow those two events have been inextricably linked in my mind ever since. Looking back now, it is as if together they formed a threshold, a kind of boundary between the first
All is Numbered. -Pythagoras I have an unhealthy relationship with numbers, garden variety numbers; Numerophobia, maybe you’d call it. I place enormous importance on the information they contain, their overt and covert messages. And despite the fact that numbers inevitably let me down, like friends who betray me, still I return to them, looking for
Well Kev Harrison has done it again – another ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ read for me! He’s crafted a delightfully dark and mischievous tale of caving, or exploring and folklore – the Knockers are something I know about from my own research and was delighted to see them mentioned in this story. With prose that is quick and
Another evening, another livid sky. I’m gazing out my home-office window at the horizon again. Cornwall’s towering clouds dwarf the shiny cotton balls that scud across the sky in my native eastern North Carolina. Backlit with electric danger, these massive clouds — slate blue grey and limned around the edges by the setting sun —
The Underworld “Freedom has a price.” That’s what my old man used to tell me whenever I didn’t want to go to the mines. He’d say, “son, if you’re ever going to live the life you want, you better be willing to pay the piper.” I was a kid, of course. Try teaching a 10-year-old
Dwight hovered in front of the vending machine. Oversalted chips, over-sugared candy bars, or the caloric emptiness of gum. Why did the hospital offer such faux nutritional alternatives; wasn’t that a conflict of interest? When he was a kid, vending machines meant something exotic or exciting. The rare trips to Father’s workplace had always involved
