Rick Hoegberg

My brother John was always a bundle of troublesome energy in a hurry.  Born two months early and six years after I came along, I remember many of his milestones, such as his first steps across the living room.  Or years later, at fifteen, sneaking out our mom’s little red Renault and demolishing it.  Between […]

Our Boeing 997 is a slim white arrow shooting over the top of the world, destination, Spitzbergen International.  Behind us trails a long hydrogen flame, freezing into a rainbow of sparkly ice crystals arcing back to Whitehorse, the pot of gold I call home. Aboard the thirty-minute flight, everyone is chattering with each other— all

The question “Ow eez your late Americain?”  popped in a thick French accent by my shoulder like a champagne cork on New Year’s Eve. Being up to my skull in regressive correlates, the interruption startled me, and I dropped my AirMouse from pointing at a graph shimmering on the rear wall screen. Of course, the