Show's Over_Controlled Burns_It’s Only Business_Books for Swapping
Catalog Guide:
Show's Over
My coffee is too hot to drink. Across from me, Nadia unloads the contents of another sugar packet into her tea before tossing the wrapper onto the table, adding to a growing pile. She stirs her drink too fast and the spoon clanks against the edge of the glass in a way that makes my teeth hurt. Liquid slops out of the glass but she says nothing. I blow on my coffee. ‘We need to talk about what happened.’ I say.She nods. Silence is unusual for her, a woman who’s made a living with her voice. She can’t meet my gaze and her eyes are cast down onto the table. She stops stirring her tea and grabs on...
Controlled Burns
The window over the sink was larger than it needed to be, a seemingly frivolous luxury for the tiny kitchen. In a house that exuded pastoral simplicity, it seemed out of place. Maggie imagined the discussion they must have had during the construction. “Let’s put a big, nice window here.” “We don’t need anything like that.” “Yes, but wouldn’t it be nice to have but one thing that we want?” Freckled hills and hardwood forests filled the view. It could be a pretty view, she thought. She ran her fingers down around the window’s edges, feeling the draft sneaking in. Coat after coat of paint cover...
It’s Only Business
A Thanksgiving dinner at my home in Detroit in 1971 changed the course of my life forever. My name is Jack Short and I am the founder and CEO of Atomic Logistics, a company with a market cap of about $100 million and with about 1,000 employees. That particular dinner at home with my family served as the launching pad for my subsequnet career as a tech entrepreneur. Remarkably, I was only sixteen at the time and my path to success was rocky, certainly in those early days. I look bawww.onedoor.ccck on that particular night with mixed emotions. You need to also know that I was a bit of a wunderkind. Computers ...
Books for Swapping
He used to listen to Breakfast with Clive for an hour in the morning before flicking through the local paper, its corners speckled with sea spray and beginning to curl. Now he sits by the front door, waiting for the white and black to shoot through the letterbox and onto his stained cinnamon carpet. Sometimes thirty minutes, other times five. On days when the waves are tall and the windows leak, it may never arrive. A phantom rag. The analogue radio hasn’t moved. On the kitchen counter it chokes on dust, snug between the bread bin and the sugar, its round dial stiffening. Likewise the gramopho...