Asher Karahasan2 March 2018
You can remember when he used to sit there amongst the eucalyptus trees and the brown dirt. Coffee in that old white mug, words of some society or organisation faded from the ceramics and from your memory too. The air of your backyard entering his lungs becoming his heartbeat, slow and steady and sure.
Her eldest daughter picks up the cake tin and takes it inside. She puts her son down and he toddles after them. She passes her mother in the doorway. “Typical of him to leave it on the verandah like that.”
There is a village in Poland with a blue steepled church. It has a cobbled square surrounded by pastel buildings, with wrought iron lamp posts. There is a small café patronised solely by old men with greying moustaches and suspicious demeanours, and the busiest place is the Lidl just outside of the town centre. In the dead of winter, late January, it’s about zero degrees celsius on average. It’s so quiet it can’t be described as sleepy; more like comatose. They call it Oświęcim, but the Germans called it Auschwitz.
Otis Heffernan-Wooden wants blood
by Tilli Franks
This was the umpteenth time I’d had this conversation. I’d spent the last three weeks facing off against a faceless corporation who had come to embody all the frustrations of my metropolitan existence. You were forced to deal with an army of foot soldiers who had a perfect, practical defence of plausible deniability. They met my rage with phrases like “my hands are tied” or “I am on your side”.
Robert Kraft loves sports. Born and raised in Massachusetts, he played football for the Zeta Beta Tau fraternity at Columbia University and has been a New England Patriots season ticket holder since 1971. Kraft doesn’t just love sports though—he’s also in the business of them.
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