What follows is a truthful account...
“To the left!” “Copy that. Moving to the left. Five . . . four . . .”
Just after eleven o’clock on a bright spring morning...
As the ancient cogwheel train clawed its way up the dizzying incline...
Here’s the thing: the rest of it wouldn’t have happened if the train to Amsterdam hadn’t been crowded.
I had wanted to be a writer.
From below, the entire structure appears to be made of glass.
It’s like a drug. One hit of it and you’re under its spell, and then all you can think about is more.
On the day of the new president’s inauguration...
One of the reasons I chose to write about rural and remote doctors...
On 16 March 2017 I played my two hundred and seventy-ninth game for the Melbourne Storm.
‘Myself and Hugh,’ I say. ‘We’re taking a break.’
Maybe it won’t happen.
I didn’t dare look at the palm of my hand for fear of seeing the bruising arc pattern of fingernails from the clenching of my fist moments earlier.
It was the first day of my humiliation.
Jamie twists the dial on the radio up to full volume so we can hear the Stone Roses over the wind whistling past our ears.
When I was seven years old, I learned how important it is to cry at funerals.
On this hot August night, Tom Krupp parks his car – a leased Lexus – in the driveway of his handsome two-storey home.
‘There is no passion to be found playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.’
It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times.