In this poignant, personal essay, Tom sits with his terminally-ill uncle, Baz, and explores life, loss and laughter, right up to the end.
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“I had lost faith in novelly novels. In their fake plots, fake events, fake characters.” Jonny Aldridge talks autofiction, masculinity and Wes Brown.
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You’d never get to see his face, only squeals of alarm, and the sound of a motorcycle zooming away. A sound like a growl, even a menacing roar, over and ...
The train between Mexico City and Nuevo Laredo was called the Águila Azteca (Aztec Eagle). Within a year of this ride, this passenger train service – along with dozens upon dozens ...
We must recognize that painting is not all beauty and life is not always beautiful.
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Photo by Paola Rizzi
“The more resolutely you plumb the question, ‘Who or what am I?’ – the more unavoidable is the realisation that you are nothing…apart from everything else.”
-Alan W. ...
Why working in a dive bar is a superior education.
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Can you feel more at home in a foreign country that you own? Caitlin Stobie explores identity, crossed roots, non-places and Covid-19 in this touching non-fiction piece.
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Can face masks become liberating?
Podcast: Embed
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Then I stood and waited, silent, with my arms clasped behind me…I knew them by their smell, or the way they walked, or the cadence of their voice. ...
Having spent my entire life in a classroom, I finally graduated from university in 2015.
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Not that, at twelve, I believed in Saint Nick, but in my desperation I wasn’t above begging for a miracle.
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When he started walking, he would throw himself against walls.
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The charge of energy that keeps me alert – eyes open, mind going. Heart pumping. Dreams running. The quickening of the keys beneath my fingertips, an ethereal rainstorm pouring down ...
That’s what she’s doing now, on the train, for her boyfriend. You could come in on it if you want.
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I’m talking about a story that leaves a scar, an invisible scab that you return to weeks, months, and years after you’d read it.
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My grandma never spoke of the loneliness, never mentioned her loss. These unsaid things: these silences run in the family.
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As the Jeeps rush down the highway, the old man, 73-year-old artist Alvaro Enciso, asks Alicia the names of the dead migrants.
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We are, as writers, the solar collector, the hybrid engine: we take energy from what surrounds us or our remembering of surroundings
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I rocked back and forth, still holding onto the headrest, singing those lyrics, whether it was the chorus or verse or that freaky middle part with the wailing ...
